The Most Magical Place in the World!

No, Silly, I'm not talking about Disney World. I'm talking about your local beauty salon!

Where else can an unfortunate woman with a mustache and a uni-brow enter with a mane of grey hair and leave with golden locks and a face as smooth as a baby's bottom? Mickey Mouse can't perform that kind of magic!

However, there is a dark side to beauty salons. A beauty salon can also be a house of horror, as I well know. I have countless salon stories. Every woman does. Let me share one of my earlier experiences...

I have thick, straight, fine hair. In my youth, hygiene was not a priority so my mother never knew what to do about my greasy, tangled hair. I managed to lose gum, pens, and small toys in my hair on a somewhat regular basis. Since brushing hair took so much physical effort on my part, I often chose to just focus on other things like picking scabs, chewing my toenails, and being "charming" to my parents.

For reasons that are not clear to me, except that it was the early 1980s (and we know that was a time of amazing styles and trends), my mother decided my hair was best kept in a short permed state. Think little orphan Annie. Every three months or so I was forced to sit in the salon and get a perm. I will maintain (as I did then) that this is a disguised form of child abuse.

Since I have no idea how to post pictures to this blog (remember, I am not as smart as a 5th grader), you'll have to rely on the mental picture I am about to create. Picture this:

A young, prepubescent girl of about 11 years old sits frowning. The girl is 5'9" when she stands up straight, but she is typically slouched in an effort to be 5'4" (yes, she was a freakishly tall 6th grader who was taunted endlessly by cruel creatures known as "boys."). Every tooth in her mouth is wrapped with costly silver braces. Blessedly, no head gear is involved. There is not a single ounce of fat anywhere on her body including any breast tissue (much to her chagrin).

Her mousy colored hair is wrapped tightly around perm rollers, and she is pouting in hopes of making her mother sense how truly miserable she is. (To this day she believes the pouting had absolutely no impact whatsoever on her mother. However, she is convinced it led to fine lines on her 39-ish year old face.
 Kids - Pouting never pays!)

She sits begrudgingly in one of a dozen salon chairs. The other chairs are occupied by women in their late 80s. Blue and white hair represent the majority in this salon, a sure sign that other 11 year olds were not out getting perms. After seemingly days of sitting, the rollers are taken out to reveal the tightest of curls. They are pubic-like and not a single strand falls below her earlobes.

She stands and looks in the mirror. She doesn't think of movie stars or beauty queens. No, she knows with absolute certainty that she most closely resembles a toilet bowl brush. The mousy color of her hair sadly suggests that it is a rather filthy toilet bowl brush at that.

She leaves the salon with the same attitude as when she arrived (miserable and generally annoyed with her mother). Upon entering the car she reaches under the seat for the one item she hopes will finally signal her utter hate of permanents and beauty salons.

She pulls out the brown paper grocery bag and places it over her head in a sign of quiet protest. She's been planning this moment and had the forethought to cut out eye holes and a mouth so that basic comforts like seeing and breathing are not compromised.

With the brown bag securely on her head, she turns to look at her mother who exclaims,
"Oh, for Pete's sake! You're being ridiculous! Those curls will soften over the next few days."

This, of course, is not true. I have school pictures to prove it!

My Oscar Speech

They don't give Oscars to working moms who lack all talent and aren't in movies.

That's really too bad because I know I could win an Oscar for my role in my life.
I play a woman who appears occasionally organized, superficially competent, and mildly witty.
It's not reality. It's just a role I play.

However, on the off chance I need it, I've written my Oscar acceptance speech.
I can just imagine giving it...

I need to preface this with the fact that when my name is called, I will act completely shocked. Notice I said "act." In my heart, I am sure I deserve the award, but I don't want to be presumptuous by walking halfway to the stage before my name is announced.

As it is, I will wait until my name is called, feign shock, and then walk slowly to the stage. My slow pace will be based partly on my desire to drag out the applause and partly on the fact that I will have difficulty maneuvering in my dress.

I've chosen a dress by my favorite designer who also happens to be my daughter.
My budding fashion designer has literally countless years left of practice before anything she designs can make it anywhere near the red carpet. The dress is made out of feathers, glitter, and her favorite blue bed sheet. It's assembled using pins, yarn, and hot glue because who can be bothered threading a needle?
I look stunning. Well, stunningly ridiculous, but no one will have the nerve to say that to my face.
Why?
Because I'm an Oscar winner! Try to keep up with my rich fantasy life.

Once on stage, I will smile down at Oscar and then clutch him tightly to my breast as I recite my speech:

"It's such an honor just to be nominated. So many amazing women in this category. The PTO president, the homeroom mom, the church choir director, and ...oh, I'm sorry, I'm so nervous I can't remember everyone.

"I want to thank my obscenely dependent family. I would not be standing here without them. If they were just marginally more organized, I wouldn't need to pretend to be. If they could learn to take care of themselves just once, I would never have even been nominated! I would also like to thank the woman who made this night possible...my manager. Wait. That's me! Well, needless to say, my manager is amazing! She's really the glue that keeps me and the rest of my family together."

At this point, I would look straight into the camera and say, "Somewhere out there a little girl is watching. She wonders if she can ever be an overwhelmed, stressed mother who lives in a fantasy world. A woman who wakes up each morning and totally acts like something she is not...balanced. To that little girl I say, Yes! Yes, this chaotic, outrageously cluttered life can be yours, too. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise."

Music will start playing and the crowd will cheer loudly. Oscar and I will exit stage left.

Once off stage, I will realize I forgot to thank my own mother.

Well, isn't that just typical! Even Oscar winners can't remember to thank their mothers!

Seth Meyers and I Spent the Night Together

That's right! I was out with Seth Meyers Friday night, and I had a fabulous time!
Yes, Seth Meyers from Saturday Night Live.
Yep, him! He is such a cutie pie.

OK, fine.
Ruin my fantasy, but technically I DID go out "with" him.
Him and several hundred other people who were watching his hilariously funny stand-up routine.
I wasn't actually "with with" him, but I was with him. You know what I mean?
(Oh, no. I feel myself channeling my junior high school self, and I seemingly have no control over it!)

I'm really not one of those women who pine after unattainable famous men. I just happen to have a rich fantasy life. I also have eclectic taste in my leading men. My favorites include, in no particular order: Seth Meyers, Matt Lauer, Tom Hanks, Jimmy Fallon, Denzel Washington, Ben Affleck, and Woody from Toy Story.

I carry no guilt regarding my fantasy crushes because I know my husband has a few of his own. Jennifer Aniston has been his television crush for over a decade, and I know he is drawn to Tina Fey, too. In fairness, Tina is on my crush list, too. That lady is funny hot!

As it turns out, Seth and my son have something in common. They both like fart jokes.
Only Seth's fart jokes are more high-brow, if there is such a thing as a "high brow fart joke."

Although I mean no offense to the delightfully funny, cute, smart Seth Meyers, I think he would make a lovely Polly Pocket doll. I just have the urge to keep him in my pocket. He's so tiny and cute! I could pull him out whenever I feel like I need a good laugh. He's such a cute, funny, little guy! Mattel could make a fortune off this idea!

Perhaps it was the pre-show cocktails, but I really felt like Seth and I had a connection Friday night.

No, I'm not a stalker. I perfected those skills in junior high but ultimately abandoned them in college. Young teenage girls really are very scary creatures, aren't they?

Well, Seth doesn't have to worry. I'm not going to show up unannounced at his place of work or anything wacky like that!

By the way, anyone want to take a trip to New York with me?
I hear it's lovely there in Spring.

Is the Tooth Fairy a Drunk?

I think it's a reasonable question.

How else can one explain why sometimes the Tooth Fairy will leave one child 50 cents for a tooth and down the street another child receives $20?

I've even heard stories about the Tooth Fairy "forgetting" to come at night or being too "busy" to stop. The poor child needs to wait an extra night for the cash. I'm looking for alternative explanations other than the Tooth Fairy's drunkenness, but none come to mind.

Santa never screws up like that, and he has to deliver gifts to ALL children on the SAME night. The Tooth Fairy would crumble under such pressure.

Perhaps the Tooth Fairy could learn a few things from Santa.

Here's an idea for the Tooth Fairy to endorse: Practice poor oral hygiene and the Tooth Fairy isn't coming. Why would a fairy want a smelly, yellow tooth? As it is, drunk Tooth Fairy takes whatever he gets. Even Santa knows that only good little boys and girls get presents. Naughty ones get nothing but coal.

Make it fair, fairy! Geez, even your name suggests you support fairness and equality! My own kids are appalled that sometimes they get 75 cents for a tooth and sometimes they get $1.75.

What is wrong with you that you just can't remember that $1 is adequate for a baby tooth?

Any more than $1 leads to extreme hardship on the parents. Have you ever taken a child with $5 into a dollar store? You practically need to bring an overnight bag. The experience is laborious. How is a child expected to choose a one dollar item in that store when there are literally 1.7 million options. (Yes, I counted! What else is a reasonable adult suppose to do in that store for four and a half hours?)

I see only one solution to this problem.

Unless the Tooth Fairy is going to consider rehab (and my sources tell me this is unlikely), parents need to unite and demand that the Tooth Fairy set reasonable price caps on the value of our children's teeth.

Since we cannot count on the Tooth Fairy to be fair and consistent, I vote for $1 per tooth unless, of course, it's a canine. Those bad boys should fetch at least $1.25.

We must reign in the drunk Tooth Fairy! Are you with me?

'Tis the Season for Politicians to Sell Their Souls

I'm making a HUGE assumption here.

Yes, I'm assuming politicians have souls to sell.
If they do, I cannot imagine they would net much, but power is everything to some.

So I thought we could have a little fun and play a game of "Which Politician Said It?"

I'm going to offer the quote and you can guess which inarticulate politician uttered it. In the spirit of bi-partisanship, both parties are represented.

Before we begin, let me just say how remarkably easy it is to find stupid politician quotes. These people are amazing. If they could produce solutions to our economic woes with the same ease as they produce moronic quotes, this nation would be flourishing!

Ok. Are you ready?

"If combat means living in a ditch, females have biological problems staying in a ditch for 30 days because they get infections."

I love this one! It's an oldie but a goody. Clearly it was uttered by a male politician and clearly he failed health education in high school. Any woman will tell you that those monthly infections can ruin a good time, but the reason I don't serve in the military is because I'm a sissy not because of my bloody infection! Thanks, Mr. Gingrich, for being so absolutely clueless.

"Today is a big day in America. Only 36,000 people lost their jobs today."

Only 36,000 and I bet not one single politician in the bunch. That's a shame. Mr. Harry Reid, you really have your finger on the pulse of this country.

"Don't blame Wall Street, don't blame the big banks, if you don't have a job and you're not rich, blame yourself."

In all fairness, I would rather blame the philandering pizza guy. Mr. Cain, do you blame yourself for your fall from grace or all those "lying" women who told those "ridiculous" tales about your infidelity and sexual advances?

As long as we are busy blaming ourselves for our lack of wealth, let's take it one step further:

"Our nation needs to stop doing for people what they can and should do for themselves. Self-reliance means, if you will not work, neither should you eat."

Hmmm? Starvation for those who are unemployed? That's remarkably sympathetic of the politician. Guess we won't ever run into Ms. Bachmann volunteering at a local food pantry.

"We have a lot of kids who don't know what work means. They think work is a four letter word."

I'd like to point out that food is also a four-letter word. No work. No food. Simple! Perhaps Ms. Clinton should brush up on her elementary spelling skills.

"I should tell my story. I'm also unemployed."

An unemployed politician? Scandalous! Well, if he's unemployed perhaps he should stop eating. Poor Mr. Romney! He's unemployed. How will he ever be able to pay his taxes?

"I've now been in 57 states - I think one left to go."

Oh, goodie! The USA is growing! If we could nominate places we want added to the US, I would like to nominate Bahamas, Belize and Bermuda. Pretty much any tropical location even if it doesn't start with a "B." I'm willing to consider selling Texas to Mexico if we need collateral. Mr. President, are you hoping to add a few more states? Was your last campaign trail so long that you actually thought additional states were added while you were busy campaigning?

"I love the smell of emissions."

And I just love politicians who support pollution. Pollution has really taken a bad rap over the past few years. I'm glad pollution has a supporter in Ms. Palin. Take a deep breath and smell the crap coming out of politicians' mouths. MmmmMmmm.

Now here is a another rather shocking quote:

"I mean, you got the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and nice-looking guy. I mean, that's a storybook, man."

Are you kidding me? Mr. Vice President, unfreakingbelievable!

"Isn't that the ultimate homeland security, standing up and defending marriage?"

Marriage is under attack by terrorists? Who is attacking marriage?
Oh, wait.
Is this politician actually trying to say homosexuals are terrorists? Really?!
As defined by Webster's dictionary, terrorism is "the systematic use of terror especially as a means of coercion." Coercion? Hmmmm. Mr. Santorum, are you a terrorist?

All of these ridiculous quotes led me on a mission to find one reasonable one.
The following quote from President Abraham Lincoln rings so true its frightening:

"America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves."

Enjoy Presidents' Day before we destroy ourselves.

Cupid, Bring Me More Chocolate Wine

A small boy in diapers is going to shoot me in the ass with an arrow and I'm going to fall in love?

Was some pervert drinking when he thought this up?

If he was drinking, I hope he was sipping a lovely glass of chocolate wine.
Yes, chocolate wine.

Just when you think life has beaten you down and there is nothing pleasurable in your life, your Facebook friend casually mentions that she's drinking chocolate wine.

Yeah, I assumed she was drunk. Perhaps she was. That's when I do some of my best Facebooking.

I thought she meant she was drinking wine and eating chocolate. Turns out she is my new heroine for introducing me to chocolate wine. What's next, cupcake vodka?

I was a chocolate wine virgin, but that ended Monday night. Well, Monday late afternoon, but don't judge me.

Chocolate wine takes two perfect items and blends them into perfection. Remember those fabulous Reece Peanut Butter Cup commercials where a girl is walking with an open jar of peanut butter and a silly boy with a chocolate bar runs into her? Two great tastes that taste great together!

Well, I'm no advertiser, but I think I know the perfect commercial for chocolate wine.

A woman sits alone at a bar drinking a glass of wine. George Clooney comes in with chocolate syrup and squirts some into her glass. The camera zooms in and the woman sips the wine and smiles demurely. Cupid steps out from behind the bar and shoots George Clooney in the ass with an arrow. Camera zooms in closer to reveal that I am the woman at the bar.
The end.

Geez, this is good wine.

Cupid? Hey, little naked winged boy, bring me more chocolate wine, please.

Happy Valentine's Day!

My Son is Sort of Bilingual

I don't like to brag.

Well, actually, maybe I do. I just never have bragging rights to anything.
However, my son is sort of bilingual so I feel I've earned the right to sort of brag.

He is fluent in English and something I refer to as Gamingspeak.
He is entirely self-taught. He has had no formal training, but he has devoted an exorbitant amount of time towards learning this new and strange language.
He is a natural!

He has friends who are also fluent in Gamingspeak. This gives him an avenue to practice this mysterious language since clearly I have no idea what he is saying.

Gamingspeak is similar to English but it includes a mix of words that are totally foreign.

The other day he very animatedly said, "I must get to the eight worlds in mushroom kingdom without seeing cheep-cheeps blooper by air or I power up to avoid lakitu. I usually use yoshi. The last time I lost levels because of goomba koopa troopas and koopa paratroopa. Gotta avoid giant ice bros and giant goombas. Wet dry world and shallows and skies world has a giant bomb. Phew!"

Or something like that.  I was confused as soon as he mentioned a mushroom kingdom.
I think somebody was enjoying entirely too much mushroom kingdom when he developed these games.  Of course, that man is no doubt loaded since these games are so darn expensive!

The fact that we are somehow supporting a rich person's mushroom kingdom habit does not seem to weigh heavily on my son. Just let him play as looooooooooooooooooong as possible.  I believe blood pouring from his corneas would not deter his determination to fight goomba koopa troopas. (My spell check is lighting up this page!)

I'm trying to convince my son that when he is older he could design and develop these games. Of course this would require turning the game off and doing something in its place like...hmm...what's the word I'm thinking of? Oh, right...studying (gasp)!

When our country is taken over by the fierce, cartoonish goomba koopa troopas, I will be confident that at least one member of our family will be able to communicate with those evil creatures.

When this invasion occurs, I just hope my son is not 35, living in my basement, growing his own mushroom kingdom.

You Call it a Water Park; I Call It A Bio-Hazard Experiment

My family recently returned from an overnight trip to a water park.

I am waiting to see what types of fungi sprout on our feet.

We arrived at the hotel on a Saturday afternoon and immediately made a beeline for the water park. It was a cold, drizzly February day outside, but inside the water park it was a humid 87 degrees. Ripe for growing all sorts of fungal goodness.

The smell of chlorine and the sound of screaming children filled the air.
We spent hours, and hours, and hours frolicking in the lazy river and climbing 10 flights of stairs so we could hurl ourselves down wet and wild slides. Oh what fun we had!

My fun started to wane as an algebra problem formed in my mind. Leave it to math to ruin my day.

Remember the following equation: if a = b; b = c; then c = a ?

Well, then follow this logic:

Daughter takes strand of her own wet hair and places it in her mouth.
Mom looks out across crowded water park full of children.
Mom reflects on how utterly void of children the restrooms seem to be.
Mom realizes (duh!) the water park's lazy river is actually the world's largest urinal.
Mom looks at daughter and knows with absolute certainty that daughter is sucking other children's urine out of her hair.

I suppress the urge to shriek, "Out! Out! Everyone out of here NOW!"
Instead, I look at my tween and calmly say, "Oh, Honey, don't suck your hair. Other kids may be peeing in the water which means your hair is dirty."

My tween looks at me like I am clueless.
She continues to suck on her urine-rich hair.

I throw up in my mouth, but I swallow it (vs. throwing up in the water so my daughter can later suck it up via her hair straws). That's love, people.

How much urine and other bodily fluids can one water park contain before no amount of chlorine can keep the water clear blue and mask the smell? I honestly think they are performing some sort of science experiment!

Meanwhile, hubby approaches coughing and claims the chlorine in the air is burning his eyes and scratching his throat. He continues coughing. My son approaches from another direction. He has slipped and his elbow is bleeding. I am certain this will result in an infection from the mixture of urine and bacteria that must exist on every surface. He will likely lose his arm as a result of the impending infection. On the plus side, it's his left elbow that's injured and he is right handed. I take comfort in this.

Of course, I say none of this to anyone because I don't want to induce panic.
I am, however, happy to be out of the water park petri dish experiment.

My kids cannot wait to go back!

Super Super Bowl Stomach

Ahhh...Super Bowl Sunday.

This is the only day other than Thanksgiving when I can eat all the food imaginable without it counting towards a single Weight Watcher point.

Glorious, glorious Super Bowl Sunday!

For that reason alone it's a holiday, and I resent that we don't have the following Monday off. I need time to digest all of the high-caloric carbohydrates I will consume. My stomach literally becomes its own super bowl filled with an assortment of high caloric dips and chips.

Let me take a moment to share my Super Bowl menu. We will serve the following: wings, nachos, stuffed potato skins, artichoke dip, Doritos, cheesy fries, mozzarella sticks and....hmmm...I'm forgetting something. I'm sure it contains cheese.

No, we are not having a party. Our children are not invited to join us either.
My husband and I sequester ourselves in a room where he will watch football, and I will eat like I've not eaten since last year's Super Bowl.

Super Bowl Sunday is the one glorious day of the year when the world seemingly tilts on its axis. I eat every appetizer known to man, and I look forward to the commercials.

I eat with a fury that is actually frightening. Sadly, I'm usually bloated and stuffed 47 seconds after kickoff.

I fight to stay awake as the carb coma slowly tries to drag me into unconsciousness. My Super Bowl resolution today is to hold off on the quesadillas (that's what I forgot!) until the start of the second quarter. Not sure I can do it.

As for which team I want to see win? Who's playing?
I'm cheering for the commercials!

I'm a big supporter of commercials featuring athletic horses, singing dogs, or darling children doing darling things. Any commercial featuring Betty White will also work. If a commercial comes on that isn't funny or thought provoking, I risk slipping back into a food coma.

Really, any commercial other than the Big Daddy commercials are acceptable.
What's up with those soft porn commercials? I want the women to keep their shirts on and I don't want the commercial to include any references to farts or other bodily functions. I hear enough about that in my daily life.

Those belching and farting commercials have the potential to upset my very delicate stomach.
And I will have none of that!

Go Patriots!
(My hubby made me write that.)

Not Your Mother's Tupperware Party

**Warning: If you are nun or a Puritan do not read any further. This will embarrass you, and you will lose all respect for me in the process. I love the respect of nuns and Puritans so please stop reading.**


The rest of you, dirtbags, are curious about what kind of vulgarness I'm about to unleash, right? Well, here goes...


I attended my first sex toy party. I am 39-ish and I've been married for over 15 years.
I have never attended a sex toy party (gasp!). When invited, I thought I could go for "research" purposes.

Well, apparently I was raised by a Puritan nun.
I, myself, am as pure and clean as newly fallen snow on a winter's morn.
This was NOT your mother's Tupperware party!

My pupils are still dilated and my cheeks remain blushed. It's been days since the party.

First of all, did you know they make waterproof, electric sex toys?
That's got to be a safety risk. These toys resemble power tools except they are brightly colored and have clever names like "Mr. Dependable," "Thumbs-Up" and "Disco Stick." One even glowed in the dark. They cannot possibly be safe to take into the water.

I couldn't risk that type of purchase because the image of the newspaper headline announcing my death haunts me:

"MOM OF 2 DIES IN A FREAK DILDO ACCIDENT AFTER BATHING FOR 6 HOURS"

My other fear is that my nosy curious children would find one of these industrial sized toys rendering me shamed and speechless.

I suppose I could swing it around and convince them it's a light saber.
After all, it lights up, glows, and makes a strange humming sound.
'Show and Tell' would never be the same if one of these accidentally found its way to school via a child's book bag. The only way I could recover from such an incident would be to change my name and move out of state. Of course, I would have to take Mr. Dependable with me. He really is a sight to... um... behold.

Have you ever wanted a Merkin? Do you even know what I'm talking about?
A Merkin is basically a toupee for a cleanly shaved pubic area. These were not sold at the party which was really disappointing to me because I was hoping to see one. A Merkin can be made out of feathers, fabric, fur, or get this...someone else's pubic hair.

Again, I was obviously raised in a convent. Who would shave their nethermost parts and then glue someone else's pubic hairs to them? Who does this? I'm 99% sure my husband would pass out if my who-ha hairs were replaced by brightly colored peacock feathers. I know this because my husband was also raised by a Puritan nun.

I will confess that the edible body glitter caught my attention. Most of the lotions, creams, and glitter products were all flavored and edible. I wonder how many Weight Watcher points those are?

Now there's a marketing strategy they should explore further.
"Item is appropriate for use on nipples, genitalia, or as a lite dressing or marinade because it's only 1 calorie per serving."
Mmmm, nothing like a salad served with a side of "Nympho Niagra" lubricant.
No, I'm not making up these names. "Nympho Niagra" exists for all you nymph-o-wannabes out there. I am not one, of course, because I am married.

(sigh)
Whatever happened to good, old-fashioned sex?

Must I appear covered in body glitter, wearing edible undies, brandishing a whip, a fist-full of anal balls, and a small arsenal of electric toys varying from pocket-sized to jumbo-tron-sized? Is that really necessary? Do I really need handcuffs, a swing contraption that looks like a future insurance claim, and a costume in order to be sexy? If that's not enough, I then need to shave every single hair from my vajayjay and glue someone else's pubic hair to my who-who?

Is this absurd or am I just a total prude? Don't answer that question.

I think I was at the wrong party because what I really need is a plastic container that comes with an airtight lid. I'll take 4 of those, please.

Germ Magnets

There isn't enough hand sanitizer in the world to keep me from getting sick every year around this time. I faithfully subject myself to an annual flu shot in hopes of warding off the inevitable.

I blame my children. My inevitable winter illness rests on their shoulders.

Every single day my children come home from school coated in snot. I'm not even sure the snot is entirely their own. I know my house is slathered in invisible, evil germs all trying to make contact with my fragile immune system.

Their own immune systems are enviable. They coat themselves in germs and neglect any form of personal hygiene. They have a total aversion to proper hand hygiene and on at least one occasion they tried to convince me they were allergic to soap (and cleaning their rooms, but that's another story!)

They literally sit around the house sucking on their own fingers, toes, and hair. Then they delight in touching everything that belongs to me. They touch my face, hair, food, doorknobs, computer, pillows.
They DISGUST me, but I love them so much!

We have a box of kleenex in nearly every room of our house, but do they use them?
Nooooo! Why use a perfectly clean tissue when your dirty shirt sleeve is so convenient?
Or perhaps you can reach for your mother's sleeve? She just loves that!

Is it wrong to greet them each day after school in a hazmat suit?
Is it wrong to want to douce them with antiseptic before hugging them?
Is it wrong to send them away to boarding school until flu season passes?

My children have the grave misfortune of perfect health. Those kids are desperate to be sick! A slight fever leads to ginger ale, an abundance of attention, and a fair dose of sympathy. They crave a virus! If their germs don't kill me, the irony certainly will!

Life is full of injustices. The fact that my children literally cocoon themselves in crud and remain perfectly healthy during the height of flu season while I drown in my own mucus is just one.

Gesundheit!

(A note from the Author: She is just superstitious enough to believe that she is cursing her children with a string of illnesses this winter. Please take a moment to knock on wood. Your spouse's head will work fine.)