Survival Instincts

Recently, NPR broadcast a story about a Russian circus whose truck broke down as they traveled Siberia. Faced with brutal cold, the stars of the show did what any sensible mammal would do: they went into hibernation. I should probably mention that the stars of the show were four trained bears.

Now, I don't know about you, but if I were traveling across Siberia and my truck broke down, I'd be a bit freaked out. But of course my human instincts would kick in to save me, and I'd do something humans have been doing since the dawn of man: I'd post to Twitter. "Freezing to death! Nice knowing you!"

Having posted my final Tweet, perhaps more basic survival methods might come in to play. Scientifically speaking, I suppose I would experience the 'fight or flight' response to crisis- you know, that that marvelous surge of adrenaline that you feel just before you stain your shorts.

I have to say, I think I much prefer the bears' approach. Faced with mortal peril, they curled up and took a nap.

The only instinct that is stronger than survival is that of profit. Thus, feeling the 'show must go on' reflex, circus officials tried to wake the bears by the most brutal and aggressive means possible: they served them strong tea and chocolate.

Let us recap: Faced with crisis, key players responded by sleeping and their constituents showered them with sweets.

It's enough to make you want to join the circus. Or maybe Congress.

tlc

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas 2010

Some of you have inquired why there was no Christmas letter last year.

Frankly, it’s because we don’t like you.

No. Not really. We skipped the letter for the same reason that most people do: We went sledding right before Christmas. Sledding ordinarily involves snow, hot chocolate, and frostbite. Less typically it involves three broken ribs and a punctured lung.

Here are some things I learned from my hospital stay:

• Breathing is “not medically necessary” according to insurers.
• Hospitals accept all major credit cards. They do not, however, allow you to barter chickens- unless you are campaigning for the Senate.
• Nurses tell you to rest and then proceed to wake you up every hour. This is meant to remind you of your children in case you get homesick.

But I digress. The real reason for this missive is not to bore you with details of my sledding drama (too late!) but instead to bore you with Cummins trivia from 2010. Here are the highlights:

Tim started his own media sales company, thus trading Metro North for a home office. The words “home office” come from the Latin “homo officious” meaning, “annoyingly interruptive wife and children.” Within two months he rented space in the City and returned to commuting.

One of the benefits of owning your own business is inventing new national holidays, such as “Opening Day,” which is celebrated by drinking beer and guessing when in the season the Mets will collapse.

Thanks to Tim’s business we have a new family member, Bill The Accountant. Bill and I spend many hours discussing the finer nuances of the tax code:

Tara: “Is dog food a legitimate business expense?”

Bill: “Only if you want to go to jail.”

In September Steve Jobs stopped by to thank Tim for single-handedly contributing to the soaring value of Apple stock. We have more igadets than can possibly be healthy. I enjoy Angry Birds as much as the next guy but until someone comes up with an “ilaundry” app my app-reciation remains limited.

What Tim could design is the “iDad” app because he’s really good at it. He is fostering humor and a sense of civility in the children. This is a nice foil to my banshee screaming. We make a great team.

Patrick is an athlete and a scholar in his own, inimitable 8-year old way. He has dirty fingernails, wears Converse sneakers, and is constantly laughing. Somewhere between the fart jokes and the tushy dancing, he has moments of brilliance. In the interim, you will find him eating, talking, or playing sports.

Mademoiselle Maggie is a beam of sunshine and an avid reader. This is wonderful for her literacy, but tends to hinder productivity. One cannot effectively lace one’s sneakers whilst turning the pages of a tween novel. She sits perched on the edge of adolescence, as is evidenced by occasional eye rolling and heavy sighing. As we near that abyss, I will savor my sweet 10-year old girl who loves animals, BFF’s, sleepovers, and soccer.

I run a book group for both kids and do some cooking for a shelter but my civic volunteerism ends there. Tim has taken up the mantle of boards, committees and assistant coaching. I’ve opted to chair the Cummins Household Committee.

I remain a Knowledge Manager for Integro, which means I do a lot of research and writing, and some geeky data stuff. Having long ago embraced my inner geek, I’m quite content with it.

2010 was a sobering year, between the economy and the vagaries that come with middle-aged suburbia. In a world that feels increasingly fractured and fragile, the bonds of family and friends are precious. We are grateful to count you among our blessings.

I wish you all apologetically belated tidings for the holidays. Peace, love, and joy be yours for 2011.

tlc

The Age of Maintenance

I type this evening with a green face in a pathetic attempt to revive my skin's "elasticity." Somehow, I am convinced that a face mask will instantly transform me from a middle-aged mother into Katy Perry.

Alas, the treatment doesn't work. Once the green goo is removed, I remain slightly sun-damaged, with crow's feet and dark circles under my eyes. All I've really accomplished is a brief interlude where the children compared me to Frankenstein, and I was unable to retort because my face was frozen.

So why do it?

The answer is simple: insurance doesn't cover Botox.

From my limited understanding, the only bona fide method of removing wrinkles is by injecting poison into your face. This is an attractive proposition if you are not afraid of death and you don't mind looking like Cher. But even then, there remains one drawback: Botox is expensive, and insurance doesn't cover it, no matter how hard Nancy Pelosi may lobby. But now that John Boehner will be Speaker of the House, perhaps I can get some tanning to hide my imperfections!

There was a time (long, long ago) when all I needed to look good was a scrunchie. My smooth skin glowed, my boobs stayed north, and my chestnut hair boasted natural highlights.

But then came motherhood, a period marked by puffy eyes, grey hair, and boobs the size of the Hindeburg. (Those boobs were a wasted opportunity really, because it's hard to be seductive when you are covered in baby vomit. And now they've disappeared, along with most of my brain cells. But I digress.)

I've found that my forties bring an opportunity for appearance redemption. Now that the children can dress and wipe themselves, I've picked up an extra ten minutes a day. But redemption is not easy. Roots must be dyed; eyebrows must be waxed, errant chin hairs must be plucked. Imperfections must be minimized with moisturizer, concealer, toner, exfoliant, etc. It's exhausting. I've already got two full-time jobs - working and motherhood- can I really tackle a third? The fight against aging is a war I'll never win, so I'm beginning to embrace the "Middle-Aged" me. My appearance is a reflection of a four decades of a life well-lived, so why not be proud?

I recently read about a group of Texas teens who started a 'no make-up' club. Once a week these girls go to high school in t-shirts bearing the slogan "Redefining Beauty One Girl At a Time." This a gutsy move for any female, and especially impressive for teens. It reinforces the conclusion that I am drawing as I reach the age of maintenance: we are all beautiful, with or without the window dressing.

TLC

How To Win My Vote

It's mid-term election season, which means I suddenly become a relevant statistic.

Funny, I don't feel empowered. I feel just like yesterday, but maybe with a slightly bigger headache because now I have to another item to the "to do" list: become an informed voter.

Frankly, it's pretty easy to grab my vote. All you need to do is tug at my motherhood heart strings. Mothers are accustomed to solidarity: misery loves company. I'd like to see an honest-to-goodness mother in office.

So, candidates with small children, listen up. Here's what you need to do to win my vote:

• Next time you are at a rally, take the microphone with your infant on your hip and explain that your sitter canceled at the last minute. Be sure to have a second child running around on stage and interrupting you every four minutes with a request for a snack, a declaration of boredom, or a need to visit the potty.

• Explain to your running mate that you will miss the next fund raiser because you have to chaperone a field trip. When asked about the scheduling conflict, confess that while you realize that this might cost you up to 10% of your constituency, you cannot stand to see any more tears due to your absence from school activities. On the trip, be sure to feel awkward and excluded because you cannot identify by first name anyone in the class besides your daughter. Try to check your blackberry surreptitiously because nobody will understand that they changed the time of the fundraiser AFTER you had volunteered and though you would love to take the blackberry and throw it down the nature center’s ravine, you need to keep your job because your adjustable mortgage just ballooned and your 401 K went down the toilet in the subprime shuffle of 2008.

• Sit for your next media interview in a designer jacket that is covered in dog vomit, because just as the limo pulled up, the dog puked and the good-bye hug from your son included the paper towel that he used to help you clean the mess so that he unwittingly permanently stained the silk shantung masterpiece of fashion for which you have been paying, with interest, for almost a decade. Lament the loss of your only decent suit jacket and wonder when you will find the time to scour the racks at TJ Maxx for a replacement. The floor of the limo should be littered with crushed crumbs, shin guards, hair elastics, books, and the ipod shuffle that has been missing for 6 months.

• Have a bad hair day and a run in your stockings. Forget to shave your legs. Smudge your mascara. Show the world that your lunch consists of stale Triscuits and a cup of coffee. Write your next campaign speech with a crayon on the back of someone's homework.

Do that, and you've got my vote!

Where to Eat in Chinatown

Recently my mother, daughter and I found ourselves with a rare free Saturday. So we went to Chinatown.

I had great expectations for our day. We'd be three generations boldly exploring sights and smells unknown. I yearned for a culturally enriching experience that would broaden my occidental world view.

I'm not really sure if browned duck hanging in store windows qualifies as "culturally enriching" or if little ceramic cats waving a single paw will open my eyes beyond western traditions. Frankly, it's not clear to me what anyone in Chinatown actually does except sell things to tourists. In this respect, Chinatown is no different than any other designated area of New York City.

The coolest part of Chinatown was the Mahayana Bhuddist Temple, which sits right at the end of the Manhattan Bridge. This houses a statue of Bhudda that is about as large as an aircraft carrier. But much more colorful. One could not buy ducks, cats or chopsticks in the Temple, but for a dollar you could pick a fortune out of a bin. I can't get anything that cheap in my church. You haven't been able to purchase anything decent in western religions since indulgences.

After about an hour we thought it might be fun to stop for Dim Sum. I don't know literally what "Dim Sum" means, but in our experience Dim Sum means "your restaurant of choice is closed for a private function." Apparently the Lee Party had booked the "Golden Unicorn" for their nuptials so we were forced to seek sustenance elsewhere. And I am pleased to say that I can recommend to you a wonderful little place to eat if you are ever peckish in Chinatown.

It's called "Da Gennaro" and it's right up the block, off Mulberry. In Little Italy.

tlc

Men CAN Multitask

I was going to blog tonight about my trip yesterday to Chinatown. There's alot to be said about Chinatown.

As I sat down to type I noticed that my husband was watching the Redskins/Eagles football game, with the television muted. For a while I thought he was listening to the simulcast on his iphone until I heard the words "Sanchez pops it up into shallow center." Generally speaking, people don't 'pop things up' in football, especially to "shallow center.". So I asked him if he was listening to the football game. He told me no, he was listening to the Padres/Giants game. And he meant the San Francisco Giants, as in the baseball.

So, to clarify, my husband was watching a football game while listening to a baseball game.

I am hugely excited because this might just be the first documented instance of a man multitasking. Ordinarily my husband cannot do more than one thing at a time. For example, if the phone rings he must STOP whatever he is doing, find a comfy chair, put his feet up, and have a brief chat. There is no chance that he will ever wash dishes, do laundry, or mow the lawn while on the phone. I'll grant him that it would be awkward to chat on the riding mower, but there is no reason why he can't be folding his boxers while discussing the latest Mets failure.

So I stand corrected - men CAN multitask. I always new my husband was special.

Why The BP Disaster is My Fault

This afternoon I noticed that I was low on gas so I pulled into my local BP.

But then I remembered my promise. After the Deepwater Horizon disaster, I vowed never, ever to buy gas from BP again. I believed wholeheartedly that this personal boycott would teach Big Oil a lesson, possibly saving a future fish or two and ultimately making the world a greener place for my progeny. I would single-handedly combat global warming by changing gas brands. Greenpeace, here I come!

So I pulled out of BP and drove an extra self-righteous mile down the road to my local Mobil. But as I filled my tank with unleaded, the shoe dropped. Visions of Exxon Valdez flashed before me. Is there nowhere I can purchase gas without the pall of environmental malfeasance?

Watching the pump approach $50, I began to feel increasingly sheepish. You see, I drive an SUV.

On the scale of gas guzzlers, I’m somewhere in the middle. I’m no Hummer, but I ain’t no Prius either. With only two kids, clearly I could drive something smaller, but the fact of the matter is that I LOVE MY CAR. Outside of the hideous sound it makes when I put on the emergency brake, the thing drives like a dream.

So how do I reconcile my love for my car with my love for the Earth? I don’t. It’s one of those convenient blind spots. You know what I'm talking about. It’s the same one that lets you eat veal and shop at WalMart.

My husband says that owning a big car is a necessary evil in an age of distracted drivers. It's hard to argue with that logic. But the price of my safety (and let's face it, comfort) is a disappearing ozone layer, flash flooding, and the death of bottom-dwelling sea creatures.

While my conscience slowly gnaws at my blind spot, I’ll continue driving my car and try to forget oil rig explosions or aquatic birds covered in petroleum. But my denial is not unlike the gas in my car - it can only take me so far before it disappears and I have to face facts. Hopefully the Earth will hang in there until I do.

tlc

Ode to the Laundry

I think that I shall never see

my whites as white as they can be

Because I haven't time, you see

To use my bleach, or even pee.

I'm frightened of my laundry piles

It seems like they go on for miles

A jumbled load of many styles

A daunting mound of washing wiles

From pants to shirts to socks and hose

The laundry comes, the laundry goes

And every savvy mother knows

No matter what you do it grows

Alas, for laundry there's no cure

Like death and taxes, laundry's sure

To be the bane that I endure

As years go by and I mature.

tlc

Silent Sidelines

It is September and that means we are playing travel soccer. And I do mean “we” in its collective sense. Anyone pretending not to be caught up in their kids' sports is a bald-faced liar.

I try to remain neutral about it all because I really don’t want to be one of those people who live vicariously through my children. I have two jobs plus motherhood so my “personal fulfillment” cup pretty much runneth over. And my standards are pretty low. I consider it a grand personal achievement that both children have finally been taught to tie their own shoes.

Yet it is hard not to become invested in your child’s sports endeavors, or at least to hide it during game time. My husband told me last weekend that I MUST lower my voice on the sidelines. Apparently, what I intend as encouraging accolades came across as the officious tirades of a raving banshee! From now on, it’s silent sidelines for me!

I just want my kid to have fun. And to win. And to be better than everyone else. Just kidding. Well, sort of. Let’s face it: the thought of a scholarship is particularly compelling after the great investment toilet flush of 2008.

I’m not really sure what exactly the difference between “travel” soccer and “recreational” soccer is, except that one costs me nearly $1,000 and the other a mere $150. Travel involves thousands of e-mails and tournaments and rosters that must be handed to officials. And of course the monogrammed backpack for $40. (I drew the line at the $80 warm up suit. To me, warm up suits should never be seen outside of a nursing home, where they must always be velour. If my son gets chilly on the soccer field he can do some jumping jacks or put on his $10 sweats from Target.)

In Hypercompetitiveville where I live, we import our soccer coaches. Literally. Every year our soccer clinics are run by a group of attractive British twenty-somethings who share a flat and date the local au pairs. They are a great bunch of guys. I’m hoping they’ll teach my son how to sound like a gentleman, even if he never learns to behave like one.

In the future, as I sit quietly on the sidelines, I will remind myself that this is travel soccer, not the world cup, and that my son is an 8-year old third grader, not Landon Donovan. He is no different than the multitude of global 8 year olds who are playing soccer without fancy uniforms, without a turn field, and without professional coaches. And I will remind myself that there are a multitude of mothers who sit silently while it happens and I ought to be one of them.

Ode to a Pest

Oh, lady talking on your phone

Will you cease your endless drone?

And shut your loud, obnoxious trap

So I can take a little nap?

Grab a book or shut your eyes

Look out the window to the skies

Do that for which you are best suited

As long as it it's completely muted.

Will you please, at my behest

Turn off your phone so I can rest?

It's not an unreasonable request.

Nobody likes a Metro North Pest!

That Voo Doo That You Do...

The population of my town is comprised mostly of well-to-do Masters of the Universe. I live among the movers and the shakers. Since the only thing I move and shake is my cellulite, it's not clear to me how I fit in here. But here I am, nonetheless.

Neither my husband nor I qualify as Masters of the Universe. On our way to ruling the heavens we're stuck in the rungs of Jacob's ladder. And that's just fine, because between you and me, it's hard to find Masters of the Universe who aren't universal assholes.

Most nights my hubby and I share tales from the day: we are each other's favorite soap opera. The cast of characters rivals day time drama: psychos, sluts, philanderers, nerds, jocks, ingenues- they're all there. We have yet to encounter evil twins, but we live in hope.

As I've watched corporate plot lines unfold through the years, I have come to truly understand what it is my husband does for a living. I could certainly never do his job, but I do appreciate what it is he is does all day long.

Interestingly, many of my friends cannot say the same. Though they are married to Captains of Industry they have no idea what ships those Captains are sailing. As first mates they qualify little more than Gilligan, albeit without the goofy hat and with much better shoes. I'm not sure why, but that seems to be the trend.

I have to wonder what it is that I'm missing. Should we be discussing deep philosophical questions instead of Bob's recent promotion? Instead of office politics should we tend to livestock on Farmville?

I don't judge my friends who live in ignorance of their husband's profession. It's none of my business. But I would think that a Master of the Universe would have some pretty interesting things to say, since the fortunes of the world ride on his shoulders. As for me and my husband, our corporate endeavors will never impact the economy, but they bring us closer, and that's good enough for me.

Go, Team!

Today my son played a soccer game against a town whose high school team is called "The Blue Wave." It's not a bad name, I suppose, for a beach town in California. But I live in Connecticut, which is known mostly for lockjaw and corduroy pants with tiny embroidered whales. "Wasps" might be a better mascot for our little corner of the world.

Our local high school team is not the Wasps, however. We are "The Warriors." I guess this is meant to conjure up visions of spear-wielding soldiers with matted hair, like the hordes in Braveheart. But it would be easier to picture our varsity squad in khakis. Instead of spears, they'll wield iphones.

Some teams have menacing animals for their mascots: the Bears, the Eagles, the Panthers. But in Fairfield County we just don't have that many ferocious beasts. If we need to go with something menacing we'll have to use our most fearsome pest: The Tick. Instead of ripping apart or maiming our enemies, our sports teams will have to threaten somehing more insidious. Beware, competition! We will make you really tired, with achy joints!

tlc

Fatigue

No matter the time or the date or the season

A mother is tired for many a reason

From tasks that are ceaseless from day to the night,

a mother is tired - too tired to write.

TLC

What I Learned At the Library Book Sale

For two hours today I volunteered as a cashier at the library's children's book sale.

There were four official cashiers during my shift, and I was the youngest by about 30 years.

Here are a few things I learned:

• Ball point pens were introduced in the mid 1940's at a cost of $26 per pen. You could shave $8 off that cost if you were purchasing them in the military.
• A good calculator in 1972 cost about $85.
• Everyone over the age of 70 moves at their own speed and they certainly DO NOT multitask.

Normally I'm not big on volunteering, principally because I hate meetings. But being a library cashier was a good gig. There was a definitive start and end time, and someone bought me an orange soda. Never once did my fellow cashiers interrupt me. They didn't bicker and they sat still for long periods of time without fidgeting. They didn't e-mail me, send "nastygrams", text me, phone me, or require my attendance at a brainstorming session. There was no laundry, no cooking, no vacuuming. Just some pleasant conversation, some addition, and the making of change.

I envied the pace of my septuagenarian colleagues. I am always looking forward, always "on task." Everything I do is in a hurry. But my friends at the library attended to their duties with care and calm, with focus on the now. I think I need to take a lesson from that. And maybe I'll find some time to revisit a children's book. There certainly are alot of them. And you can buy them cheap at the library book sale!

tlc

No Hope

This morning we had our introductory conference with Patrick’s teacher. She asked us to share our "hopes and dreams” for him.

It was really hard to answer, possibly because I have extremely low standards. Would it make the wrong impression to say that I hope he remembers to floss? Frankly, I'd consider it an educational miracle if she could teach him to put his dirty clothes in the laundry instead of on the floor. Typically, I am "hoping" that he will stop denting the garage with his soccer ball and that he will let me sleep past 6 a.m. on a Saturday.

So I guess that leaves "dreams." I'd like to see him write in cursive, I suppose, and perhaps cut his flank steak without incurring bodily injury. The dreams that I have for him really transcend his education: things like a happy marriage and a 401(K) that is not derailed by a national financial crisis. Patrick's teacher may be fantastic, but I'm not sure that spousal bliss and a well-balanced portfolio are part of the third grade curriculum.

If I stop to think about it, I hope that Patrick grows up to be intelligent, healthy, self-sufficient, hard-working, compassionate, and funny. I hope he learns to respect his fellow man and the earth, and to follow the Golden Rule. And I hope he has a son just like him.

tlc

To Remember An Affair

Every year, Time Magazine announces its "Person of the Year." The distinction is not based on achievement, but influence on society and events.

Occasionally the magazine will go with a conceptual winner like “The Whistleblowers” (2002- think Enron) or “You” (2006 – think YouTube) or “Gangsta Rappers” (not really.)

The choice this year is obvious. You know who I’m talking about. Introducing: “The Unfaithful Man.”

Can’t you just picture the cover? Bikini-clad Elin Nordegren christens her new yacht, "Infidelity,” while Tiger Woods, Jesse James, and John Edwards huddle in a lifeboat. Rub-a-dub-dub, three losers in a tub!

Just why do the unfaithful jeopardize committed relationships for a quickie? Stupidity seems the obvious answer, but I’d like to think that there is something more compelling.

Nope. Wishful thinking.

But I digress. What is most interesting to me is not the why of affairs, but the how.

For most of us, free time is like Haley’s Comet: it comes about once a century. Our days are consumed by an endless list of Sisyphean chores: office work, housework, kids and laundry. Lather, rinse, repeat.

At what point in this cycle does one jet down to the Motel Hi-Ho for an afternoon delight?

I don’t know about you, but if I don’t write it down in my calendar, it doesn’t happen. So, for me, I’d have to schedule in an affair:

2:00: Conference Call

3:00: Kids to orthodontist

4:00: Wild monkey sex

5:00: Kids to soccer

6:00: School recital

7:00: Etc, etc…

Exactly what is the appropriate way to schedule the affair on the iphone? Is there an app for that? What ring tone do you use for the reminder? Barry White?

You really have to hand it to the unfaithful: they take multi-tasking to a whole new level. You have to admire someone who can hold down a job and family and still have time to wine, dine, and snog a mistress.

As for me, I’m going to take my Time Magazine and read it while I fold more laundry.

Now Where Did I Put Those Papers?

The state of Arizona recently decided it had a problem with a certain portion of its population. To fix the problem, they passed a law requiring policeman to stop and question anyone who looks like an illegal immigrant.

Although Jan Brewer, the Governor of Arizona, could not enumerate what an illegal immigrant actually looks like, we can surmise that the description does not include aging females in sensible suits with matronly hairdos. So Sonya Sotomayor should feel free to visit the Grand Canyon. Also, the entire Girl Scout National Council.

Failure to produce proof of citizenship may result in fines and jail time. If the officer is having a particularly rough afternoon, suspects may be water boarded. (It's in a little known clause tucked into the end of the bill, titled, "We Don't Torture.")

Presumably, the bill was passed because illegal immigrants are doing something much more nefarious than, say, loitering, and Arizona has a pressing need to stop whatever evil is lurking. If these people would just act like law-abiding, productive American non-illegal immigrants, then the bill would not be necessary. I suggest creating complicated derivative instruments with bad debt and selling them to pensioners. Or they could do God's work. According to Lloyd Blankfein its the same thing!

To me, this bill exemplifies the concept that underlies all government action since the Declaration of Independence. You know what I'm talking about. At the heart of important bills like this lies the cornerstone of our democracy: Paperwork.

I am so glad I don't live in Arizona because, looking nothing like Jan Brewer, I might get stopped. The situation would go something like this:

Arizona Officer: "Ma'am. May I see your paperwork?"

Me: "Kids, please stop bickering! Mommy can't hear the nice police officer!"

Arizona Officer: "Ma'am. Please show me your paperwork."

Me: "QUIET! Or I will flush your Nintendo down the toilet!

Arizona Officer: "Ma'am. I need your papers."

Me: "What papers? SHUT UP OR YOU WILL BE GROUNDED FOR A DECADE!"

Arizona Officer: "You are going to die in prison."

As you can see, paperwork is not my strong point.

One might assume that like all non-illegal immigrants, I keep my documentation in a special, obvious place where it can be accessed at a moment's notice. Like a Safe Deposit Box.

One would be wrong.

Possibly, it is crammed in one of the moldy boxes in the attic. I can't be sure. What I do know for certain is that I no longer have the Safe Deposit Box key and the mice made Christmas dinner out of most of the boxes in the attic.

While the left and the right shout rhetoric about liberty and racial profiling and the constitution, the mothers of Arizona will be rifling through boxes of paperwork. Myself, I will begin the search for the Safe Deposit Key and pray that the mice did not shred my birth certificate. And at Halloween this year I'll be sure to dress as Jan Brewer and not Che Guevera.

God Bless America!

Sally Sells Sea Shells....And Cookware...And Candles...

For most married women, a small stash of “fun money” is necessary for those purchases that cannot withstand male scrutiny, but which are essential to a fulfilling existence. Shoes, for example.

Enterprising women therefore have found a way to turn profit from the greatest asset they have: their friends. Thus begins the time-honored tradition of direct home sales. You know what I’m talking about.

The game begins with a simple e-mail: “It’s been far too long since we have all gotten together, so please save the date for a Ladies’ Night Out!!!!!”

There are always exclamation points. Suburban women have a five exclamation point minimum in all e-mail communications.

The possibility of a child-free evening is enticing. A whole evening of uninterrupted conversation, with adults? A chance to wear lipstick? Count me in!

Inevitably, the outing is set to commence one hour before your children’s bedtime. It will therefore be necessary to convince your husband to leave work early. If resistance is encountered, suggest to him that your evening out may increase his chances of getting laid. Once those synapses fire up, your freedom is guaranteed.

Child care assured, you RSVP: “Sounds great!!!” “Can’t Wait!!” Your e-mails must be done on a "reply all" basis. Don’t forget the five exclamation points. Emoticons are optional.

You will spend perhaps a day or two daydreaming about witty, uninterrupted conversation with your girlfriends. At this point, you're so happy that you might even hum.

Cue the preprinted post card. This is the index card that morphs your evening out into one of Dante’s Circles of Hell. Instantly your Ladies Night Out is transformed into an Obligation to Buy. You have been duped – yet again – and it’s too late to turn back.

You know the rest. Certain items will be on sale throughout the evening. Your hostess will, of course, repeat endlessly that this is just a chance to “catch up!” (as long as catching up involves your checkbook and a friend or two with theirs.)

The “don’t feel obligated to buy” monologue is a bald-faced lie, especially if the invitation is from someone who attended on of your parties. If Sally bought a saucepan at your recent at-home soiree, you must now purchase foundation at hers or suffer the social consequences. At home parties are nothing more than an endless loop of payback guilt that has subsidized pocket money since the first cavewoman sold her friends bear skin rugs. The only thing with memory longer than an elephant is an experienced at-home hostess.

I’ve hosted my share of parties, luring good friends with the promise of chardonnay and "no obligation to buy." Each time the cost of the liquor far outweighed whatever free items or discount were derived from my “total sales.” I ended up purchasing more than I could possibly afford, none of which I've used to date. And the hangover lasted for days. Whether it was induced by guilt or the alcohol I'll never know.

After a certain number of years, at-home parties begin to wane. I’m not sure if we get busier or broke, or we’ve just bought everything available. Once you've bough the vice-grip apple peeler, you know you've jumped the shark.

In my first decade in suburbia, I attended parties featuring the following products for purchase:


Candles

Stamps

Cookware

Clothing

Make Up

Pocketbooks

Scrapbooks

Food storage

Jewelry

Vibrators (Really! I’m not kidding!)

I’d like to see men take up this trend. Imagine the useless things your husband would buy under the guise of a “Man’s Night Out.” Lawnmowers. Spark plugs. Golf Equipment. Porn. The list is endless. But until men get collectively organized enough for invitations and exclamation points, the Obligation to Buy will remain the purview of the suburban mother trying to sustain her shoe budget.

Long live the at-home party!