Hold the smokes

I screamed at our son in the wine department of an Orlando grocery store (thankfully, out of town). I was so embarrassed, I apologized to the fellow stocking the shelves.

And so my transformation into a white trash mom is nearly complete. All I need is the tube top, terry cloth shorts and jellie sandals. I'll skip the cigarette.

Please be seated

I'm a bit of a gernaphobe. Not the biggest fan of hotel rooms, locker rooms, etc. As a teen, I refused to touch doorknobs. Public bathrooms are some if my least favorite places. I squat or paper the seat. Sometimes both. And while I recognize that I'm a freak, I'm trying not to turn our daughter into one.

Three years old and using the potty like a big girl, I can't expect her to hold it or eschew fluids until we're home. So into the loo we go. I will paper the seat for her, to the tune of "why Mommy?," if it's warranted. Otherwise, I take a deep breath and plop her tush down on the seat.

Now, being in the stall with her, invariably, I have to go. So one recent day, I don't go into DEFCON 5 mode. I sit my bare butt down on the unprotected plastic. I lived to tell the tale, but had to shower when we reached home.

"The Weight" is over

It was mailed yesterday. Our annual holiday letter. What began as a postcard from me and my dog has morphed into a family newsletter –and my burden. I’m somewhat embarrassed to send it to our friends, as many find such letters boorish. I try not to make it a brag-fest, just recount the year’s news with as much self-deprecating humor as I can muster. The old people, my parents’ friends in particular, anticipate this newsletter. Some will even call to ask when it’s coming out. They talk amongst themselves too, wondering, when it’s not mailed until January for instance, if I’ve given up. I do persist, without too much whining, and publication ensues. Though each year I threaten to charge them a subscription fee.