March 31, 2005

41 Things About Me

1. My guilty pleasure is watching music videos on VH1 in the morning while I unload the dishwasher.

2. “Little House on the Prairie” re-runs make me cry, no matter what time of the month it is.

3. I was born and raised in Alabama.

4. I have a stellar sense of smell. That’s not always an advantage in a house full of males.

5. I got hepatitis C from a blood transfusion I received during surgery for scoliosis in the 80’s.

6. When one of my boys can’t find something and asks me for help, I always sing U2″s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” while I drag him through the house and show him it’s exactly where I told him it would be.

7. My husband and I do not have a TV in our bedroom. I’ve never seen “Law and Order” or “CSI.”

8. I would describe myself as a strong Christian and pretty liberal compared to most people in town.

9. I began practicing law in 1992. I got married in 1993. I had my first son in 1995. His twin brothers arrived in 1998.

10. I do not wish I had a girl.

11. I am well-organized and have a to-do list for every day. I alphabetize my spices. Lots of spices start with “C.”

12. When I gave birth to my first son and they handed him to me, I didn’t recognize him and he did not feel familiar. He was not cute. He was shriveled and red. I thought, “Dang, I can’t believe I went through all of this and I’m not even sure I LIKE this kid. Now I have to take care of him for 18 years unless he runs away.”

13. I love him and his two brothers like crazy, even when they make me so mad I could spit.

14. I clearly remember the first time I saw my husband. It was the fall of 1985 and I thought he was the hottest guy I had ever seen. I still do.

15. I got an iPod for Christmas and I love it. I have 3321 songs on it right now.

16. I have a thing for Jelly Bellies. Only the fruity kind, not the weird stuff like Buttered Popcorn.

17. My parents and my husband’s parents both got married on December 28, 1963. They both honeymooned in New Orleans. While they were there, New Orleans had a rare snowfall. Each couple visited Pat O’Brien’s, a local bar, and got a picture taken in the snowy courtyard. Odds are, they were there on the same night.

18. Public speaking does not bother me at all.

19. I am 5′4″. I have very small bosoms and very big feet.

20. I hated Eminem on principle until I listened to him. Then I decided that while he can be offensive, he is very talented.

21. I like to Jazzercise.

22. I am an apostrophe freak.

23. I always break chain letters and emails, even if I will die a violent death, miss out on a fortune, or ruin a child’s school project.

24. I have planned my funeral and marked it with a red sticky tab in my journal.

25. I have been known to exaggerate the truth for the sake of a good story.

26. Even though I have had lots of medical problems, from the outside, I look perfectly healthy.
27. If I had to pick the most beautiful piece of art in the world, I’d pick Michelangelo’s Pieta.

28. Other than that, however, I generally prefer modern art.

29. I usually assume I am smarter than most people.

30. In 5th grade, I wore glasses, braces and a back brace. This didn’t prevent the hottest guy in class from sending me a note that read: “Will you go with me? Check yes or no.” I was new to the school and didn’t know where he wanted to go. Being the cautious type, I checked “no.”

31. I am a big music fan. In contrast, my husband owned only one cassette tape when we got married, and someone had left it in the back of his car.

32. I read the local newspaper everyday and Time, US Weekly, The New Yorker and the Sunday New York Times every week.

33. I have two sisters. I don’t have any first cousins.

34. In January 2004 I went to NYC to have major spine surgery. I had developed “flatback” as a result of my first scoliosis surgery.

35. I drank my first beer in 8th grade at a Pat Benatar concert.

36. I don’t like beer.

37. I took my husband’s last name… on our tenth anniversary.

38. Most people who meet me for the first time ask, “So, do twins run in your family?” This used to drive me bonkers. Now I answer,”Yes, they do– I can’t get them to slow down!” and then I change the subject.

39. I am all for a bargain, but I believe name brand garbage bags are worth it.

40. I dress my boys in dark colors so the stains don’t show as much.

41. “Anne Glamore” is not my real name.

You can contact me at anneglamoreATgmailDOTcom

March 30, 2005

You Call That A Vacation?

There are some societies that still practice polygamy, and we tend to look down on them. After this week, however, I have reconsidered my position.

You may wonder why I have been thinking about polygamy. The time I spent last week with six other moms and seventeen children brought the topic to mind. I thought this post would be about wild adventures with the children. That’s what you’d expect, after all, given the setup. But instead, my time away from home made me realize that while our kids are growing up, we are, too.

Since my return from spring break I have talked to several people: my mother, my secretary, my neighbor, each of whom expressed shock at the thought that seven mothers and seventeen kids might have had FUN together in one lake house. They clearly don’t believe me when I assure them that we had a fine time, and they appear to either question my sanity or think that I don’t get out enough.

Maybe I don’t get out enough. Maybe none of the seven of us do. But I don’t think that’s it. I have a theory as to why we had such an enjoyable week. First, the background.

From an organizational standpoint, it was pretty simple. We stuck all the six year old boys downstairs in the playroom, and the older boys in the adjoining room. The red headed boys slept on sleeping bags in the hall between those rooms and the bathroom. This was wonderful placement, as the downstairs bathroom smelled eerily like a gas station bathroom. I figured those ten boys would feel right at home. I did make a mental note to tell my dad that he needs to have the septic tank pumped.

Upstairs, the three girls slept with their mothers, one of whom also had a younger son who slept with her as well. Finally, the late arrival and her three sons slept in the master suite.

The food for such a crowd might seem daunting. We’ve done this trip before, so experience, coupled with my Type A behavior, made this part a breeze. I assigned each mother a night to be responsible for the adults’ dinner and a different night to fix the kids’ dinner. Someone brought lunch food for moms and someone else brought lunch food for kids. Others brought snacks, drinks, alcohol, etc.

We have a pretty good routine, too. We watched the kids during the day, taking turns breaking up fights or tending to wounds. When five o’clock came, someone headed to the bar and prepared cocktails while another mother started filling bathtubs. Children were stripped and bathed, drinks were sipped, Easy Mac was microwaved, and soon all children were settled downstairs for their nightly screening of The Incredibles. Then the moms ate wonderful meals: shrimp with spicy mango salsa, chicken in herbed cream sauce, a baked potato bar with every topping you can think of, all accompanied by plenty of wine.

Sure, there were some problems. The first two days were rainy and coldish to us here in the Deep South. (Those of you who are still shoveling snow would describe the weather as a balmy fifty-five degrees). We solved this by staging activities in different rooms: The Incredibles movie in the den, followed by gummy worm snacks in the kitchen, Shrek 2 in the playroom, popcorn in the kitchen, a Monopoly tournament in the big boys’ room and a thorough airing of the special features on The Incredibles DVD. When we were desperate, we let the kids play on the muddy beach, and then we stuck all their clothes in the washer, whites mixed with darks (in warm water as a compromise) and tumbled them dry.

Once the sun came out we had all kinds of things to do. The kids dug in the brown, gritty sand, chased the unsuspecting ducks that swam by, and paddled from the beach to the dock in the boat. They pretended their life jackets were bulletproof vests. They threw rocks at trees and shouted when they dislodged puffs of pollen from the leaves, as the moms groaned and wondered if they had enough Benadryl and Claritin. Perhaps best of all, the boys, at least, got to enjoy peeing into the lake whenever they felt like it, as long as they first gave bystanders fair warning.

There were some fights, which we refereed. There was occasional blood, treated with band-aids emblazoned with patriotic colors. Several kids got splinters. In the spirit of vacation, (and perhaps aided by the relaxing effects of my gin and tonics) I ignored my normally stringent rules on hygiene and elected to forego the usual needle, tweezers, alcohol and antibiotic cream treatment.

I replaced it with the “Ancient Turkish Splinter Removal Method.” This consists of sitting the child on the counter, rubbing the affected areas with olive oil (preferably extra virgin) and covering the area with a band-aid. The theory is that the oil coaxes out the splinters. I have no idea whether it works. They weren’t my kids. I haven’t received any calls of complaint. It certainly eliminated the cries of terror generally heard during more traditional splinter removals and contributed to the overall ambiance of the vacation.

There were also a few minor disagreements over mothering strategies.
Q: Even on vacation, is it beneficial to watch The Incredibles more than three times a day?
A: If it is still raining, yes.
Q: Is it appropriate to feed children brownies at 9:30 p.m., after they have brushed their teeth?
A: Absolutely not, even if it is spring break. And what are those bothersome wenches still doing up? Everyone must go to bed immediately! It is time for the women to have some grown up time!

And we’d put the kids to bed, clean up the kitchen, and settle in for grown up time. It was then that things really started happening. We circled our chairs outside, set up our iPods
and took turns playing DJ. We sat on the deck, overlooking the lake, and talked until our jaws ached.

Our first observation was the one that I alluded to earlier. Polygamy has some definite advantages for the women. If a man has seven wives and seventeen children,
the wives can clean the kitchen together every night, which is much more entertaining than scrubbing pots alone. Or two wives can have fun doing the dishes, two can tuck kids in bed, and three can sit on the couch doing absolutely nothing!

And consider: if wife #4 feels like taking a nap, wife #6 can step in and watch her own kids and the red headed kids for a few hours. Then, while the husband beds down with one wife (or better yet, goes out for poker night with the guys), the wives can hang out and gab all night, until it’s time to start the whole Pop-Tart and orange juice thing again. Keeping
a house is not nearly as boring when there are six other people to share the load. But that was just one topic of conversation.

Every night we talked. We talked about the ups and downs of marriage. Fights over finances, how much sex is really enough. We dissected the divorces some had endured. We discussed infertility, drug addiction, homosexuality, caring for aging parents, caring for children with medical problems, having medical problems yourself. We gave each other honest opinions, even when they hurt.

We talked about dating after divorce, orthodontia (expensive) and how to deal with in-laws who never see their grandchildren, even though they live in the same town. (These grandparents recently sent my friend a formal email requesting her children for sleepovers on certain nights. They were perfectly aware, of course, that my friends already had plans on most of these days. Hooray! The grandparents got “credit” for “wanting” to see the grandchildren without actually having to follow through!).

We talked about faith. We’re a pretty faithful bunch. We laughed until we cried. Sometimes we did it backwards and cried until we had to laugh. That, or throw ourselves into the lake. It’s a wonder our tongues didn’t shrivel up and fall out.

I confessed to the group that I’ve been feeling extremely guilty lately. They immediately demanded details. Had I stolen? Lied? Committed adultery? No, no and NO!

Here’s my dirty little secret. I’ve been taking naps. Every afternoon, when the kids are home from school, and I have a little time before I have to fix dinner, I have a “sinking spell” when my back starts to ache, my head gets foggy, and I have to lie down. Sometimes I even sleep a little. Of course, this makes me feel incredibly ashamed. It’s as if I’m sleeping on the job.

My stalwart friends rose to my defense immediately.

“You have three boys on three different baseball teams,” Wife #2 pointed out.

“You drive Finn a long way to drum lessons every week,” Wife #1 said.

“And you’re working three days a week and trying to run the Liver Foundation at the same time.” Wife #4 commented. “That’s too much even for you.”

Wife #6 broke in, “You are all forgetting that she had big spine surgery a year ago.”

But Wife #5 had the best comment of all. “Screw all that,” she said. “I mean, it’s all true. Anne needs to learn to say no. But we all work ourselves silly cleaning and cooking and carpooling and we deserve a break and we should not feel guilty for sitting down or taking a nap or even spending the whole damn day in the bed every once in a while.”

We toasted to that, and then discussed the difficulties of dating when you are nearly 40.

Don’t get the wrong impression. It wasn’t an Oprah-fest the whole time. Sometimes it was more like Coffee Talk, from the old Saturday Night Live shows. We discussed the time my friend got caught impersonating her sister at an uptight beauty salon. (She’d missed the two appointments she’d made under her own name. The salon made it clear she wasn’t welcome at their chic establishment. Desperate to have her eyebrows dyed, she made a third appointment under her sister’s name, which she managed to keep. She was doing fine until she was loudly recognized by a former classmate who called her by her correct name while the receptionist snickered). And we had a marvelous time making fun of the lawyer in town who is famous for billing 28 hours out of every 24. (He masquerades as an evangelical Christian everywhere but on his time sheets).

With seven people talking, you do a lot of listening. And all that listening made me realize that we’re all struggling. I have to deal with my medical problems. My friends each have their own challenges. But you know what? We’re each dealing with them the best we can. And I don’t think any of us would trade our own problems for someone else’s.

So I think the reason we had such a wonderful week was because we essentially participated in a rare, much-needed group therapy session. All the ladies had a chance to air their dirty laundry, then fold it back up and take it home a little bit fresher.

March 20, 2005

Vacation’s All I Ever Wanted…

It’s not exactly what I’m getting, however. It’s spring break, and the boys and I are headed to my parents’ lake house. On Monday and Tuesday there will be five moms and 12 children. On Wednesday and Thursday there will be seven moms and 17 children. If I cannot get an entry out of this week, I really have no business having a blog.

I won’t have access to the Internet, so tales of my adventures will have to wait until after Easter. Check back, and wish us luck.

March 19, 2005

The Glamorous Life

Last Saturday was opening day for baseball– for everyone else. I had far more important things to tend to. I was ready to make my debut as a supermodel for my friend Dee’s store, in a fashion show sponsored by the Chamber of Commerce.
I confess I was a little nervous, which is unusual for me. Dee had told me that I’d be modeling jeans with a long sleeved chiffony top, pink leopard knit pajama bottoms with a black camisole, and various accessories. The day before the show I had dashed by the shop and she just held the clothes up against me, as we were both in a hurry. I had to be at a meeting and she had to get the clothes moved to the site of the fashion show. This seemed to me to be a poor substitute for actually trying on the clothes, but she assured me that she had plenty of pins and everything would be fine. She told me to go to the salon, Meditation, with clean, dry hair two hours before the show.

So Saturday morning, after the boys left for opening ceremonies, I took a leisurely shower and shaved meticulously, even the tiny group of hairs on each big toe. I washed my hair with my fancy shampoo that pampers color treated hair, even though my color faded weeks ago and my roots are clearly visible. I dried it, but did not style it. I even remembered that I am anatomically unable to put on a black shirt without getting white deodorant streaks on it, so I omitted my deodorant and slathered on scented lotion to compensate. I packed up a nice assortment of bras and panties, got dressed, and drove to Meditation. My appointment wasn’t until 11:30, but I figured it was rare that I had a chance to sit in a salon and I resolved to make the most of it in case they were serving fresh orange juice or champagne.

They were putting out wind advisories for area lakes on the radio as I drove down the highway, rocking out to Garbage (who are playing soon in Atlanta!) but I didn’t realize how truly blustery it was until I parked in the lot at the salon. It was a bright sunny day, but the wind was ferocious. That seemed to be a good omen. From what I’ve read, photographers frequently employ a fan during photo shoots to imitate the wind-blown look, and it appeared that we’d have the look compliments of God.

At Meditation I met Pete at the front desk, who introduced me to Sharon. I told them I was with the fashion show, helped myself to a glass of raspberry tea, and settled onto a plush velvet couch. I tried to act nonchalant, like I got my hair and makeup professionally done most weekends, instead of, well… never.

After I sat down, the door opened again, and a pregnant girl walked in. She told Sharon she was with the fashion show, and had an 11:00 appointment. Then they had the timeworn pregnancy conversation, which is how I know that she was expecting her first child, she was twenty-three weeks along, and she did not know whether she was having a boy or a girl.

As she sat down, I heard Pete come from the back of the salon and whisper to Sharon, “After the two in the back, we can only do one more makeup, because the MAC artists have to be at SAKS in thirty minutes.”

Suddenly my day was not so relaxing anymore. I wondered whether Mrs. Preggers had heard Pete’s comment. Then I heard a voice call out, “Next for makeup!”

It took only a split second for me to decide who was more deserving of a professional makeup application and take the appropriate course of action. Mrs. Preggers had the next appointment, but I had arrived before she had. She was in the part of her pregnancy where she should be well past the nausea, yet she was not big as a house and did not appear uncomfortably swollen. Most important, she had no other kids, and presumably was only caring for herself and her husband, and thus had ample time and money to spend on her own appearance.

I jumped to my feet. “I’m next!” I hollered, and I hauled ass toward the makeup chair and got in. As I write it, this sounds callous, but at the time, and even now, to me, it felt incredibly right.

The makeup artist, Matthew, started with my eyes, which he covered with an interesting mixture of Mulch, Humid and Mylar. He swept my cheeks with Lovecrush and covered my lips with a thick purplish gloss called Greed. I was pretty sure I could not replicate the look at home but I sure looked fab for the time being. Then he sent me to Sean, the stylist, who said, “I am so glad big hair is back,” as he dried and curled and sprayed. He seemed to really like something by Redken called Vinyl Glam Shine Spray. He must have used half the bottle on me.

Most people would say I have short hair. In fact, a little over a year ago I cut it into a crew cut before my spine surgery because I knew I wouldn’t be capable of dealing with it for a while. Although it’s been growing since then, it’s not exactly flowing down my back. But when Sean got through, you would have sworn I’d flown in straight from Texas, or the 80’s. My hair was that big. It looked awesome.

I was supposed to be at the “Model Changing Area” at 1:30, and I am always punctual. Consequently, I was the first one there. The changing area was actually the stock room of an oriental rug store augmented with a small mirror. It was filled with racks of clothes, and in the corner I saw the clothes for Dee’s store, and mine were grouped together with a card that said “ANNE.” My heart got a little fluttery. I tried not to get too excited, though, and reminded myself that my main goal was not to wipe out on the catwalk and end up as fashion roadkill.

Because I had a little privacy, I thought I’d take the opportunity to try on the clothes and see whether there were any problems. The pink leopard lounge pants were precious, and the black camisole fit fine. While I am not at all busty, I am quite nipply and I could see that was going to be a problem. I dug around in my bag until I found my well-padded strapless bra. After I put that on underneath, I admired my smooth silhouette.

Then I tried on the chiffon top, which was also cute and trendy. Dee had attached a note that said “Please leave bottom two buttons unbuttoned.” No problem. I wiggled out of the lounge pants and put on the jeans. Oops. My underwear was showing above the jeans a good two inches all around. I took off the jeans and my underwear, put on my pink thong, then buttoned the jeans again. No luck. The lacy sides of the thong showed on each hip.

You know how you go to the mall and see girls wearing low-cut jeans, and you think to yourself, “They cannot possibly make blue jeans any lower than that?” Apparently I was scheduled to model the jeans that took this thought as a challenge. I removed the jeans once more, took off the pink thong, put on my G-string, and looked at myself in the portable mirror again. I looked entirely presentable– if I was auditioning for Slutty Soccer Mom Magazine. Not only did the G-string show, so did my cross tattoo and the very top of my c-section scar. If I had truly appreciated the rise on the jeans, I would not have wasted my razor on my toe hair, but would have been shaving another area entirely.

I sighed. I undressed and redressed again, this time without any underwear at all. I arranged the blouse so that it covered my scar but let a little tattoo peek out. All in all, I looked pretty good. For a mature model. I checked my pile of clothes on the rack. There was also a pink tank top and a bright blue serving tray. I wasn’t sure what to do with these.

By this point other models started to trickle in. Several had long blond hair and two had long red hair. All were both thin and stacked, which I have never thought naturally possible. Nothing else about their appearances, including their tans, bright teeth, and impossibly blue eyes, made me rethink this conclusion.

There was a list posted on the door that showed all the segments of the show and the order in which we were to appear. I was Number 11 in Ladies, Number 5 in Sleepwear, and Number 7 in Accessories. Then Dee appeared, waving a clipboard around.

“Ladies, quiet down, please,” she called. “Some of you are listed on Accessories. For this segment you’ll wear jeans, bare feet, a pink tank top that should be in your pile, and you’ll need a serving tray, that should also be in your pile. As you get to the catwalk, I’ll place accessories on your tray. Hold the tray with one hand high in the air like a cocktail waitress as you walk back and forth.”

At this point I realized that the other models were merely human. Several of them were looking at Dee with terror. “What if I drop it?” one girl with outrageously white teeth asked.

“Don’t,” Dee said firmly.

I was cheering inwardly. I was going to rock at this part. I had actually waited tables and bartended in my past. Granted, I had never carried a tray on a catwalk, and I served drinks, not accessories, and I usually wore underwear and shoes, but I was confident I could pull this off. I decided that even if I failed at Ladies and Sleepwear, I would win Accessories in a landslide.

We lined up and the music started. Everything became a blur. Before I knew it, it was my turn to hit the catwalk in my chiffony top and low jeans. I barely had time to glance down at myself and tuck in a stray pubic hair before Dee was pushing me out, whispering, “Go on, girl. Work it.”

So I did. I walked to the top of the steps and posed, then turned and walked toward the right end of the catwalk. The wind was blowing in my face so that my hair spread out behind me. I felt sexy. I executed my turn and headed the opposite way. As I turned, the wind whipped my hair around, and I felt half of it catch with a glump into my MAC gloss while the rest blew into my eyes. I had not prepared for this, but since I could not smile with the gooey hair and Greed gloss stuck on my lips, and I couldn’t see with the rest of my hair in my eyes, I raised my arms and swept my hair back from my face in (what I hoped was) a grand gesture. As I reached the left end of the catwalk, I saw Bill and the boys in the front row, clapping. Bill mouthed, “LOVE the jeans,” as I turned again and stalked toward the stairs and went into the changing area.

When I got back to my set of clothes I was panting and sweating. Other models were busy changing, and I hastily took off my blouse and put on the black camisole. I guess I should have been embarrassed when I took off my jeans and revealed my bare womanhood, but to be honest I was distracted by the disconcerting smell coming from my armpits. Then I remembered that I had purposely not worn deodorant. I put on some underwear, and the leopard pants, and pawed furiously through my bag, looking for the Secret I knew I had not packed.

I stood up and looked around. Across the room I saw a bottle of Dry Idea. I went over and said, “Anyone know whose this is?”

As luck would have it, the woman who, with difficulty, straightened up and said, “It’s mine - need some?” was, of course, Mrs. Preggers.

“I do,” I confessed. “I’m stinking up the whole room.”

“Help yourself,” she said.” She gave no indication that she recognized me. Apparently the Mulch, Humid and Vinyl Glam had transformed me into someone other than the woman who might have stolen her makeup appointment. I hurried anyway. No sense in risking a scene with a hot pregnant woman. I know they can be vicious, having been one myself.

“Thanks,” I said in an abnormally high pitched voice as I ducked my head and swiped my pits with the Dry Idea. I replaced the deoderant and scurried back over to my clothes.

I heard the music change, signaling the start of the sleepwear section. I was a lot more comfortable in the sleepwear. I could move in the leopard print pj’s without being afraid that I was going to flash the crowd. I knew my padded bra gave me solid A cup bosoms. And I got to walk in bare feet, as if I was going to exit the stage and crawl straight into my bed.

So this time I really had fun. I strutted and shook my hips to the music and did a flawless three point turn. I headed towards my boys, and I heard Drew say, “Daddy, why is Mom wearing her pajamas outside in front of all these people?”

What was most gratifying was that Bill was IGNORING Drew and had his eyes fixed on me. He had a silly grin on his face. I’ve seen that look before, when he gets to the part in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue where there’s a model wearing a tiny bikini bottom and some sand. I felt like a goddess. Bill whistled. For a split second I thought about turning and shaking my leopard clad booty in his face. It was a rare instance in which my practical side won out. First, I was afraid that movement might injure my newly fused spine, and second, I didn’t want to set a bad example for the boys. So instead I tried the sexy pout as I posed before Bill, and this time he didn’t laugh. He yelled, “You go, girl,” and waved his fist in the air. Finn looked at him like he was completely crazy.

This time I had to change quickly for the Accessories segment. I dashed back to my clothes and stripped off the smelly black cami, put on the pink tank, took off my lounge pants and underwear and put the jeans on again, grabbed my tray and went back to the entrance to the catwalk. Dee was there and placed a pair of stilettos on the tray as I went on.

This time I felt confident. I pulled the tank up on the right just enough to show my tattoo. I held the tray high with my left hand as I pranced down the right side of the catwalk. At the end, I turned and transferred the tray to the other hand. This time I did a little skip as I went down the left side. The tray held steady and the shoes never moved. This time Bill stood up and yelled and clapped. Finn and Drew joined in, while Porter watched with big eyes. As I prepared to exit, I handed my tray to the man waiting to escort me down the stairs, and I turned to face the crowd again. I blew kisses with both hands. Then my usually shy husband whistled loudly and shouted, “Sexy Mama!” as I made my final exit.

I got dressed into my regular clothes, and met Bill and the boys by the car. Bill hugged me. “That was hot!” he whispered in my ear. “How ’bout you get those pink pants and you and me go take a nap?”

“Well, I had to leave the pants, honey,” I said. “But we don’t really need those, now, do we?”

“Now that I think about it, they might just get in the way of a good nap,” he said.

So we all got in the car and drove home. On the way, Bill said, “Boys, your mom is sure a fine looking specimen.” I smiled and patted his thigh.

“Yep, I thought for sure I’d rather spend the day at the baseball field than at a fashion show, but I guess I didn’t know how sexy you were going to be,” he continued.

“I would rather be at the baseball field,” Finn remarked.

“Not me,” said Porter. “I’d rather be playing with my duct tape.”

“Well, I appreciate you coming to see me, honey,” I told Bill.

“Mom, can y’all stop making those googly eyes at each other? It makes me sick,” Drew said.

“No, we can’t,” Bill said. “When we get home, you boys need to clean up the basement while your mother and I take a nap. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” three voices whispered meekly.

And just like that, my career as a supermodel was over.

March 16, 2005

Merry Christmas - Let Me Bum You Out

I was browsing a funny website recently called Suburban Bliss and I saw a link to the author’s attempts to get a decent Christmas card picture of her children. (See the left margin of her main page).

Christmas cards with beautiful pictures of children dressed in fancy outfits are very popular here. Unfortunately, I have never been able to get my boys to pose for a picture that is remotely acceptable. I only tried one year - the year the twins were born and therefore were not mobile. After that, I decided to ditch the idea of a fantasy portrait of immaculately dressed, well behaved children. Instead, I have chosen a theme each year and surrounded the text with photos that show my children more realistically.

For example, in 2001, I produced the “Glamore Family Year End Report” which read as follows:

I am happy to report that 2001 has been a wonderful year for the Glamores. We have no plans for further expansion of the Company, as we are presently operating at peak capacity. Our Productivity this year was above expectations; we now average 5 gallons of milk and 10 loads of laundry per week. Our Chief Financial Officer, Bill, continues to practice law, and recently added rollerblading to his list of accomplishments. In my role as Chief Operating Officer, I oversaw all domestic operations, which included mothering, carpooling, cooking, cleaning, first aid, and practicing law.

Members of the Board excelled as well. Finn started kindergarten and enjoys karate and music. He heads up our Defense and Entertainment divisions. He turns 6 this month and promises to be a strong member of our team in the future. Drew and Porter turned 3 in August. They can be credited with our drastic decrease in Gross Output this year, as they are now completely potty trained. As a result, we were able to discard a number of diapers, thus reducing our overall Inventory. Medical Expenses were down, as we suffered only 1 set of stitches, 1 dog bite (not by Sherlock), 2 bouts of croup and 1 ambulance ride (with twin patients). I celebrated 1 full year of remission from hepatitis C. Have a Happy 2002! Love, Anne, Bill, Finn, Porter and Drew
PS- Sherlock, 13, remains active in the Company. I failed to mention him last year and shareholders were outraged.

I surrounded the text with a picture of Porter wearing sunglasses holding Naked Baby, Finn in his karate uniform, Porter and Drew walking to the bathtub naked holding hands (shot from the back), Bill rollerblading, Finn in the garden eating dirt, Drew crying with snot dripping from his nose, etc.

I have done this each year, using a new theme each year, so the recipients of my Christmas cards have come to expect something witty and out of the ordinary from me. Or at least they should, if they have been paying attention. Apparently some people have not.

This year I chose a Lemony Snicket theme. I understood full well that some people may not have read the books, read the many articles about the author, and may also have managed to miss the publicity surrounding the movie starring Jim Carrey based on the books. That is why I put a note on the bottom of the sheet that read “With Apologies to Lemony Snicket” so that people who were unsure of the theme could at least google the name and figure out the joke.

Anyway, my card read as follows:

If you opened this envelope hoping for cheerful holiday wishes and uplifting photos, sorry. The Glamores’ Ghastly Year is a melancholy tale, and the pictures are every bit as depressing. Anne had spine surgery in January, which was just as bloody and gruesome as you might imagine. While she looks good and stands straight now, we all know that will not last, as cruel Mother Nature will undoubtedly focus on her as she nears 40. I expect that next year I shall have to report that her face is as wrinkled as a pug’s.

Drew and Porter started kindergarten and both started losing teeth. Finn is in 3rd grade. This year it was revealed that he is the unfortunate recipient of some of his parents’ less attractive genes, as he got braces and glasses. Can acne and B.O. be far behind? Thus all 3 Glamore boys have grown, continuing their inevitable passage to maturity (I hope) and the unavoidable journey to their grave.

Finn is also playing drums, and the deluded Glamore family has hopes of starting a band, which is certain to be a failure, as no one can carry a tune, and their “music” can only be described as an exercise in dissonance, without any redeeming qualities whatsoever. You will not be surprised to hear that they have not been hired for any gigs as yet, although they have vacuumed the minivan in anticipation of such engagements, and have decreed that Porter is barred from removing his shoes in the van lest the whole family be rendered unconscious by his devastating foot odor. Porter continues to putter (a word which here means “mess around”) about with odd objects, especially vacuum cleaner hoses, fashioning creations that are of absolutely no use, such as the “Hat That Lets You Blow In Your Own Ear.” Drew is taking karate and has progressed to a purple belt. He imagines himself to be quite menacing, but in fact his ashen skin, white hair and white uniform all blend together, giving him the look of a small, blue-eyed ghost who is not intimidating at all.

It is no fun being a Glamore. You may notice that the boys are arrayed in a variety of clothing in these pictures; they have tried heroically to transform themselves so that they can blend into any other family: the Hillbilly Hip-Hop family, perhaps, or the Nomads Who Wear Bandannas and Vests, but every morning they wake in their own beds and face the arduous task of surviving another day. Some days Bill is so despondent over his situation that he rips off his business attire in despair. So far his legal practice has not been affected. Sherlock lives on, although he has grown quite deaf and his breath has the fetid stench of a rotten rodent. He has been joined by a new mutt, Elvis, who has no positive attributes. All in all, I regret to report that the Glamores’ year was a sordid one, and I doubt that 2005 will be any better. I hope that you will fare better than the Glamores.

The pictures on the card were quite funny. We were smiling in all of them. There was pale Drew in his karate uniform, and the boys dressed up in a combination of fake hillbilly teeth and hip-hop jewelry, sent from their aunt. There was a picture of Porter wearing an aviator hat with a vacuum cleaner hose coming out the ear hole, with the other end in his mouth. He actually COULD blow in his own ear, and he was damn proud of it.

In one picture, Bill was ripping off his dress shirt — a very old one that had frayed along the seam so much that it had started to fall apart by itself, but I grabbed the camera and we decided to make an event of it. There were NO pictures of me in the hospital or in a wheelchair. In fact, I was perky and well-dressed in both photos of me on the sheet. In one, I was hugging Drew and laughing, and in the other Bill and I were standing together.

The reviews came quickly. My friend the Voice of Reason called and was laughing so hard she had to hang up. I got several voice mails telling me that this was the best Christmas card yet. Friends from far away emailed to say they had taken the card to the office and shared it with their friends.

However, other recipients were stunned. My mom called the next day to talk about Christmas dinner. Then she said, “Well, I got your Christmas card.”

“So what did you think?” I asked,

“You must have been in a bad mood when you wrote that,” she said. “Did you send that to any of my friends?”

I sighed. She doesn’t google, and I doubted Lemony Snicket had been in Vanity Fair or Travel and Leisure, so it probably was nowhere near her radar screen.

Then I received a card from a friend in another state. We don’t keep in constant contact; we just exchange cards each year. At the bottom of her card, she had handwritten: “I am so sorry to hear about your year. I will be praying for you!”

And so it went for the next couple of weeks. For every person who called delirious with laughter, I heard of someone who could not believe that our year had sucked so bad, or that I would share the details with the world. I made a mental note to use a more basic theme next year.

Now it’s March. Christmas cards should be the last thing on my mind. However, two things happened that got me thinking about them. First, the boys recently saw an exhibit about King Tut. They went with my mother-in-law and spent three hours learning about mummies and pyramids. They were fascinated. When Bill and I got home, the boys started telling Bill all about it. Then I heard Porter yell, “Wait! I have an idea!” and I heard a lot of running and scraping.

I ventured into the den to investigate. Bill was standing up straight, and Porter was on the step stool in front of him and Finn and Drew were on either side of him. They each had a roll of toilet paper and were wrapping the rolls around and around him so that he looked like a mummy. The boys were jumping up and down with excitement.

“See, mommy!” Porter said. “This is what a real mummy looks like, but dead!”

“”Whoa,” I said, and I went over and touched the toilet paper, just to see whether they were using their cheap, scratchy Costco brand toilet paper, or whether they had gotten into my soft, expensive Cottonelle which is strictly off limits. Bill was a scratchy mummy.

“I’m having trouble breathing,” Bill said from underneath the layers of tissue.

“Hold it right there,” I commanded. “This has Christmas card potential.”

So I snapped a number of shots before I let him burst out of the toilet paper, and already I was thinking that I had a great picture for the Christmas card.

The second thing that happened was that a friend of mine went out of town on business and saw some friends who moved away several years ago. They asked how we were doing, and my friend reported that we were all doing great.

“What a relief,” the wife said. “That was the most depressing Christmas card I have ever seen. I just did not know what to do when I got it. It sounded like they really were having a bad year, but I figured that if they were so depressed that they’d put all that in a Christmas card, I didn’t want to risk calling them and hearing about it on the phone. But I just cannot get them out of my head. I feel like I should send flowers or something.”

So you see, here I am in March, still bumming people out with my cheery Christmas card. Thanks a lot, Lemony Snicket .
(Go ahead! Click his name if you are among the bummed out recipients of my hilarious Christmas card!)