Thanks for clicking! Below you'll find the beginning of the first chapter of my book, MOMS ARE FROM MARS:
a savory blend of memories, opinions, advice and ridiculousness. If you like it, I strongly suggest you buy it -- and I have no reason to suggest that other than the fact that I'm the author. Anyway. here it is:
a savory blend of memories, opinions, advice and ridiculousness. If you like it, I strongly suggest you buy it -- and I have no reason to suggest that other than the fact that I'm the author. Anyway. here it is:
MOMS ARE FROM MARS:
A SAVORY BLEND OF MEMORIES, OPINIONS, ADVICER AND RIDICULOUSNESS
Chapter One:
Let there be abs
February 18th is a big day in history. In 1846, it marked the start of the Galician peasant revolt. More importantly, in 1930, Elm Farm Ollie became the first cow to fly in an airplane. Now that's progress. In 1968, Molly Ringwald was born. In 1974, Kiss released its first album. It’s also the day my first blog post was published. The year: 2010.
A lot led up to the launch of my website. From the time I was a tot, I loved to tell stories. I loved writing them, too, but didn't seriously put pen to paper until I was thirty-nine years old. I sent my first manuscript to five million literary agents. None showed any interest. The next book I wrote went to three gents. One took me on. I couldn't believe my luck.
"You need to build an audience," my agent said as he shopped my book around. "Why don't you start a blog?" Following instructions, I did. The guy dumped me three months later. Perhaps he wasn't a fan.
But don’t cry for me, Argentina. My motto is the same as my blood type: be positive (B+). I found I loved the blogging business. Plus people listened to me, something my kids had never done. I found my audience wasn't just teenaged girls, either, as I had originally intended. Still, when I sat down to write my first post, I did have a teen girl audience in mind. I knew I had to compose something special --something with heart, soul, tremendous insight…and abs.
You heard me. Rock hard abs. They always capture people's attention and, at the time, Taylor Lautner's were getting plenty. Armed with that knowledge, a laptop, and a dash of over-confidence, I wrote my first post.
EIGHT PACK VS. EIGHT TRACK
In an effort to explain strange mom behavior, I illustrated the differences between teen idols of yesterday and today. What prompted this? That November some friends and I had gone to see the latest Twilight movie, New Moon. The experience left me more than a little unsettled.
We'd gone to an 11 AM showing on a Friday afternoon. It had been a school day, so there were few teens in the crowd. The large majority had been moms like us, ones who shared a love for the vampire series. Imagine my horror when Taylor Lautner took off his shirt and half the middle-aged audience shrieked in delight. Sure, the boy was hot --beefcake at its finest -- but, jeez, he'd just turned eighteen!
Anyway, as we were leaving the theater my friends and I discussed the movie -- the plot, some key scenes and, of course, Jacob’s abs. “Man,” one said. “He didn’t have a six-pack. He had an eight-pack!” Indeed. Then another chimed in, “When we were growing up, we never had teen idols like that.”
And we didn’t. Oh, boy, we didn’t. I have to say I was a little jealous. In fact, I still am today. My teen idol growing up was Shaun Cassidy. I loved listening to his 8-track tapes (this was way before iPods) and didn’t miss one episode of The Hardy Boys TV show. As a matter of fact, one of my darkest moments involved a pink satin baseball jacket with Shaun's hot n' handsome image silk screened on the back. My mom said I couldn’t have it despite how beautiful it looked on the Sear's store mannequin. Tragic.
Now in typical teen idol fashion, Shaun Cassidy was totally gorgeous. But his bod was so skinny you could thread a needle with him. Other teen idols were like him, too -- Leif Garrett, Scott Baio, and Andy Gibb. All of them had dreamy
eyes, fabulous hair, and chests as flat as Brownie Girl Scouts.
So how do the teen idols of yesterday relate to the present day situation? I'm not sure, but if kids catch their moms gaping at a magazine spread of Taylor"Eight-Pack" Lautner in the check out aisle at the Piggly Wiggly, they should take pity on her. If, however, she squeals when teenaged actors take their shirts off in a movie, the kids have permission to disown her.
CRUSHED
Ah, boys. They played a huge role in my imaginary love life while I was growing up. I had my first crush while in the second grade. His name was Brian. He was tall and didn’t eat his boogers. Other than those two facts I knew very little about him, primarily because we never spoke. If he'd had a crazy obsession with Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers, I never knew. I'm glad. That would have been really gross.
I still remember the day my parents found one of the numerous love letters I had written to him. Of course, none had ever been sent. Outside of the obvious fear factor, I didn’t have cool personal stationary like every other girl in school whose parents loved them more than my parents loved me. How could I adequately express my love on a torn out
piece of notebook paper? Anyway, the letter started off with a bang. "Dear Brain,” it said. Yep, Brain instead of Brian. Go ahead and laugh. I never said I had been a good speller. In my defense, though, Brian was very smart. Dare I
say a brain? Still, when my parents read that opening salutation they chuckled, sending me into a rage. This was love! How dare they mock my tender feelings! Mike and Carol Brady would never have done that.
As with much young love, after the discovery of that letter, my feelings for Brian quickly faded. I couldn’t handle the humiliation. Instead, I focused my attention on spelling. Here is the result:
A lot led up to the launch of my website. From the time I was a tot, I loved to tell stories. I loved writing them, too, but didn't seriously put pen to paper until I was thirty-nine years old. I sent my first manuscript to five million literary agents. None showed any interest. The next book I wrote went to three gents. One took me on. I couldn't believe my luck.
"You need to build an audience," my agent said as he shopped my book around. "Why don't you start a blog?" Following instructions, I did. The guy dumped me three months later. Perhaps he wasn't a fan.
But don’t cry for me, Argentina. My motto is the same as my blood type: be positive (B+). I found I loved the blogging business. Plus people listened to me, something my kids had never done. I found my audience wasn't just teenaged girls, either, as I had originally intended. Still, when I sat down to write my first post, I did have a teen girl audience in mind. I knew I had to compose something special --something with heart, soul, tremendous insight…and abs.
You heard me. Rock hard abs. They always capture people's attention and, at the time, Taylor Lautner's were getting plenty. Armed with that knowledge, a laptop, and a dash of over-confidence, I wrote my first post.
EIGHT PACK VS. EIGHT TRACK
In an effort to explain strange mom behavior, I illustrated the differences between teen idols of yesterday and today. What prompted this? That November some friends and I had gone to see the latest Twilight movie, New Moon. The experience left me more than a little unsettled.
We'd gone to an 11 AM showing on a Friday afternoon. It had been a school day, so there were few teens in the crowd. The large majority had been moms like us, ones who shared a love for the vampire series. Imagine my horror when Taylor Lautner took off his shirt and half the middle-aged audience shrieked in delight. Sure, the boy was hot --beefcake at its finest -- but, jeez, he'd just turned eighteen!
Anyway, as we were leaving the theater my friends and I discussed the movie -- the plot, some key scenes and, of course, Jacob’s abs. “Man,” one said. “He didn’t have a six-pack. He had an eight-pack!” Indeed. Then another chimed in, “When we were growing up, we never had teen idols like that.”
And we didn’t. Oh, boy, we didn’t. I have to say I was a little jealous. In fact, I still am today. My teen idol growing up was Shaun Cassidy. I loved listening to his 8-track tapes (this was way before iPods) and didn’t miss one episode of The Hardy Boys TV show. As a matter of fact, one of my darkest moments involved a pink satin baseball jacket with Shaun's hot n' handsome image silk screened on the back. My mom said I couldn’t have it despite how beautiful it looked on the Sear's store mannequin. Tragic.
Now in typical teen idol fashion, Shaun Cassidy was totally gorgeous. But his bod was so skinny you could thread a needle with him. Other teen idols were like him, too -- Leif Garrett, Scott Baio, and Andy Gibb. All of them had dreamy
eyes, fabulous hair, and chests as flat as Brownie Girl Scouts.
So how do the teen idols of yesterday relate to the present day situation? I'm not sure, but if kids catch their moms gaping at a magazine spread of Taylor"Eight-Pack" Lautner in the check out aisle at the Piggly Wiggly, they should take pity on her. If, however, she squeals when teenaged actors take their shirts off in a movie, the kids have permission to disown her.
CRUSHED
Ah, boys. They played a huge role in my imaginary love life while I was growing up. I had my first crush while in the second grade. His name was Brian. He was tall and didn’t eat his boogers. Other than those two facts I knew very little about him, primarily because we never spoke. If he'd had a crazy obsession with Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers, I never knew. I'm glad. That would have been really gross.
I still remember the day my parents found one of the numerous love letters I had written to him. Of course, none had ever been sent. Outside of the obvious fear factor, I didn’t have cool personal stationary like every other girl in school whose parents loved them more than my parents loved me. How could I adequately express my love on a torn out
piece of notebook paper? Anyway, the letter started off with a bang. "Dear Brain,” it said. Yep, Brain instead of Brian. Go ahead and laugh. I never said I had been a good speller. In my defense, though, Brian was very smart. Dare I
say a brain? Still, when my parents read that opening salutation they chuckled, sending me into a rage. This was love! How dare they mock my tender feelings! Mike and Carol Brady would never have done that.
As with much young love, after the discovery of that letter, my feelings for Brian quickly faded. I couldn’t handle the humiliation. Instead, I focused my attention on spelling. Here is the result:
superkalafragalisticexpialidosius
That’s right, Mom and Dad. I learned to spell the melodious word from Mary Poppins. Bow at my greatness!
But enough bragging for now. Let’s move on to the more mature love of third grade. The victim target of my affection was this totally cute and groovy boy. My two best friends thought he was cute n' groovy, too. In class, we’d swoon loudly in unison. When he walked by us our giggles rose to a crescendo. We'd pass him more love notes than he could count. How did that nine year-old boy handle it? With the skill of a politician.
Yep. The boy remained unflappable, treating us all with equal kindness. When our notes asked him which girl he liked the best he always answered the same way: “You’re all great girls!” Thank goodness. If he had chosen one of us it would not have been nearly as much fun. I think he knew that, even if we didn’t. Mutual crushes: the super glue that binds young girls.
Of course, a few of my crushes were a tadolder than me. That’s right. I liked older men -- much older, in fact, like Henry Winkler, also known as The Fonz. He was a character from Happy Days, a TV show that ran from 1974 to 1984. His slicked back hair and brown leather jacket? Irresistible.
But enough bragging for now. Let’s move on to the more mature love of third grade. The victim target of my affection was this totally cute and groovy boy. My two best friends thought he was cute n' groovy, too. In class, we’d swoon loudly in unison. When he walked by us our giggles rose to a crescendo. We'd pass him more love notes than he could count. How did that nine year-old boy handle it? With the skill of a politician.
Yep. The boy remained unflappable, treating us all with equal kindness. When our notes asked him which girl he liked the best he always answered the same way: “You’re all great girls!” Thank goodness. If he had chosen one of us it would not have been nearly as much fun. I think he knew that, even if we didn’t. Mutual crushes: the super glue that binds young girls.
Of course, a few of my crushes were a tadolder than me. That’s right. I liked older men -- much older, in fact, like Henry Winkler, also known as The Fonz. He was a character from Happy Days, a TV show that ran from 1974 to 1984. His slicked back hair and brown leather jacket? Irresistible.
I still remember penning a fan letter to him as part of a fifth grade writing assignment. I went on about how cute I thought he was and how much I loved his signature phrase, "Sit on it." In retrospect, it has to be one of the lamest tag lines in existence. Yep, the Fonz was dreamy. I fantasized about him all the time. Unfortunately, the same year I wrote the letter I found out the actor who played him, Henry Winkler, was 33 years old.
33 YEARS OLD! Holy moly! He was almost as old as my father! If I’d been older when I found out, the revelation would have led to a Lifetime Channel shower scene with me trying to wash the shame off. But I was ten, so I just took a bath and wrote “SAY NO TO OLD FARTS” in the bubbles with my finger. I couldn’t believe that stupid Fonzie. Why did he have to be so cool, starting juke boxes with the pound of his fist? He was over three times my age! I knew I had to move on, and so I did. That is, until I hit another snag.
When I was twelve I had a major crush on a Monkee. No, not the cute, furry animal. I’m talking about one of The Monkees, a popular band from the late Sixties. Every afternoon I watched reruns of their show which featured Micky Dolenz, the funny one; Peter Tork, the shy one; Michael Nesmith, the one with the hat (don’t ask); and Davy Jones, the totally hot and groovy one.
I LOVED DAVY.
He was soooo cute and, boy, could he rock the tambourine. I would spend hours daydreaming about him, envisioning us slow dancing to "I Wanna Be Free" in a flowery meadow while the sun’s rays danced in our hair. So magical.
Well, guess what? A few months into our fake relationship I discovered Davy Jones was only 5’3”. 5’3”!! I was already 5’5” with no signs of shrinking and, as much as I loved him, visions of his head resting on my shoulder didn’t have quite the same affect on me. I was devastated.
As I got older, and taller, my celebrity fantasies continued to suffer. Tom Cruise? 5’8”. Johnny Depp? 5’10”. Oh, the humanity! And not all of my celebrity crushes were ones to be proud of. The worst was Gopher from the The Love Boat. You heard me. I had a crush on a TV character named after a buck-toothed rodent. Don’t judge me. He got me through many dateless Saturday nights in high school. Who needed a real boyfriend? Of course, the answer was I did. I was a teenaged girl. A boyfriend meant validation. A girl could be dull and dim-witted with a face that made kittens cry, but if she had a boyfriend she was cool.
I didn’t date too seriously until my senior year of high school. Before then, it was more of a date here/dance there kind of thing. I hated it. One date did stand out, though, because during it I experienced TOTAL HUMILIATION.
THE TALE OF DICKLESS DONALD
This horror story took place during my sophomore year. Please note that Donald wasn’t his real name. I’ve changed it to protect his innocence. Also note, he wasn’t dickless -- at least I don’t think he was. That kind of news spreads fast. In fact, Donald was not only good-looking, funny and sweet, he was two years older than me. Talk about a huge score! What he ever saw in me, I’ll never know.
We had flirted with each other for months. One night he worked up the nerve to come over to my house. Unfortunately, that had been a big mistake because my parents were gone at the time. But that's great, you say. A boy in your house without parents! You don't understand. That meant my brother could roam about unguarded.
My stupid, smart-mouthed brother.
The evening started off okay. Donald had called beforehand, so I’d been able to prime my siblings. I asked my sister to kindly stay upstairs then told my brother, “Keep your bony butt away from us!” By the time my date arrived, I had both siblings tucked away into their corners. My brother didn't stay in his.
So there we were, Donald and I, sitting on the family room couch engaged in awkward conversation. My brother, Jim, walks in, armed with a barbed tongue and a goofy grin. He looked at Donald and said, “Who are you?”
“I’m Donald,” my brother's target replied.
“Donald?" Jim said. "With a 'd' as in ‘dickless’?”
Donald just raised his eyebrows in surprise. Jim poked him with another verbal stick. “I hear you’re on the golf team, Donald. Is that even a real high school sport? It sounds kind of pussy.”
That’s when I interrupted him with the sharp words of a mature older sister. “Knock it off, you stupid jerk!”
I shooed Jim from the scene. Still, the stage had been set for total humiliation. What? You thought the bit about my brother calling Donald dickless was the bad part? Oh, no. That was yet to come.
It was delivered by the hands -- no, make that paws -- of our sweet, silly dog, Buffy. No sooner had Jim left then Buffy entered the room, tail wagging with a smile in her eyes. She had something in her mouth. What the... It couldn’t be.
Oh my God, it was.
Buffy had a maxi pad in her mouth. It wasn't a small one, either. It was HUGE! A ferret could have used it as a raft. I wanted to die. Immediately ripping it from her mouth, I stuffed it under the couch. Still, the damage had been done.
I was mortified. Donald was mortified. As for my brother? When he found out he was thrilled. Though Donald and I did go on a real date the next day, the mojo was no longer there. My attempt at a love life had been foiled by my idiot brother ...and Kotex.
33 YEARS OLD! Holy moly! He was almost as old as my father! If I’d been older when I found out, the revelation would have led to a Lifetime Channel shower scene with me trying to wash the shame off. But I was ten, so I just took a bath and wrote “SAY NO TO OLD FARTS” in the bubbles with my finger. I couldn’t believe that stupid Fonzie. Why did he have to be so cool, starting juke boxes with the pound of his fist? He was over three times my age! I knew I had to move on, and so I did. That is, until I hit another snag.
When I was twelve I had a major crush on a Monkee. No, not the cute, furry animal. I’m talking about one of The Monkees, a popular band from the late Sixties. Every afternoon I watched reruns of their show which featured Micky Dolenz, the funny one; Peter Tork, the shy one; Michael Nesmith, the one with the hat (don’t ask); and Davy Jones, the totally hot and groovy one.
I LOVED DAVY.
He was soooo cute and, boy, could he rock the tambourine. I would spend hours daydreaming about him, envisioning us slow dancing to "I Wanna Be Free" in a flowery meadow while the sun’s rays danced in our hair. So magical.
Well, guess what? A few months into our fake relationship I discovered Davy Jones was only 5’3”. 5’3”!! I was already 5’5” with no signs of shrinking and, as much as I loved him, visions of his head resting on my shoulder didn’t have quite the same affect on me. I was devastated.
As I got older, and taller, my celebrity fantasies continued to suffer. Tom Cruise? 5’8”. Johnny Depp? 5’10”. Oh, the humanity! And not all of my celebrity crushes were ones to be proud of. The worst was Gopher from the The Love Boat. You heard me. I had a crush on a TV character named after a buck-toothed rodent. Don’t judge me. He got me through many dateless Saturday nights in high school. Who needed a real boyfriend? Of course, the answer was I did. I was a teenaged girl. A boyfriend meant validation. A girl could be dull and dim-witted with a face that made kittens cry, but if she had a boyfriend she was cool.
I didn’t date too seriously until my senior year of high school. Before then, it was more of a date here/dance there kind of thing. I hated it. One date did stand out, though, because during it I experienced TOTAL HUMILIATION.
THE TALE OF DICKLESS DONALD
This horror story took place during my sophomore year. Please note that Donald wasn’t his real name. I’ve changed it to protect his innocence. Also note, he wasn’t dickless -- at least I don’t think he was. That kind of news spreads fast. In fact, Donald was not only good-looking, funny and sweet, he was two years older than me. Talk about a huge score! What he ever saw in me, I’ll never know.
We had flirted with each other for months. One night he worked up the nerve to come over to my house. Unfortunately, that had been a big mistake because my parents were gone at the time. But that's great, you say. A boy in your house without parents! You don't understand. That meant my brother could roam about unguarded.
My stupid, smart-mouthed brother.
The evening started off okay. Donald had called beforehand, so I’d been able to prime my siblings. I asked my sister to kindly stay upstairs then told my brother, “Keep your bony butt away from us!” By the time my date arrived, I had both siblings tucked away into their corners. My brother didn't stay in his.
So there we were, Donald and I, sitting on the family room couch engaged in awkward conversation. My brother, Jim, walks in, armed with a barbed tongue and a goofy grin. He looked at Donald and said, “Who are you?”
“I’m Donald,” my brother's target replied.
“Donald?" Jim said. "With a 'd' as in ‘dickless’?”
Donald just raised his eyebrows in surprise. Jim poked him with another verbal stick. “I hear you’re on the golf team, Donald. Is that even a real high school sport? It sounds kind of pussy.”
That’s when I interrupted him with the sharp words of a mature older sister. “Knock it off, you stupid jerk!”
I shooed Jim from the scene. Still, the stage had been set for total humiliation. What? You thought the bit about my brother calling Donald dickless was the bad part? Oh, no. That was yet to come.
It was delivered by the hands -- no, make that paws -- of our sweet, silly dog, Buffy. No sooner had Jim left then Buffy entered the room, tail wagging with a smile in her eyes. She had something in her mouth. What the... It couldn’t be.
Oh my God, it was.
Buffy had a maxi pad in her mouth. It wasn't a small one, either. It was HUGE! A ferret could have used it as a raft. I wanted to die. Immediately ripping it from her mouth, I stuffed it under the couch. Still, the damage had been done.
I was mortified. Donald was mortified. As for my brother? When he found out he was thrilled. Though Donald and I did go on a real date the next day, the mojo was no longer there. My attempt at a love life had been foiled by my idiot brother ...and Kotex.
Buffy the Romance Slayer
