Welcome to Mary Fran Bontempo's Website!

          I’m writing this as I take a break from building a website for my husband’s business.  Mind you, I know nothing about building websites; I’m just winging it.

          On Monday, I visited a trademark attorney with my son to help him with his business.  I know nothing about trademarks.  Or attorneys, for that matter.

           Yesterday, I investigated transfer requirements and procedures from one state university to another for my “I’m not sure I made the right college decision” daughter.  Yep, you guessed it; I know nothing about transfer requirements or procedures. 

           What I’m gleaning from all of this is just how little I know.  What unnerves me is just how much everyone expects me to know.

When my kids were small it was the usual.  “Mom!  Where are my spikes?  I need them for practice!”  “Mom!  I have to make the solar system out of Styrofoam balls.  Can you help?”  “Mom!  Can you review my spelling words with me for the test?”  From my husband, “Hey Hon, have you seen my car keys?”  (Actually, he still does that.)

The point is, that stuff was easy.  That I could do, all of it, without a second thought.  But building websites?  Trademark attorneys?  College transfer procedures?  Are you kidding me?  Where in the Wife/Mother Handbook does it say I have to know all of this stuff?   

   It’s my own fault, I know.  I was just too good at the whole wife/mother thing.  Or, to put it more accurately, I was too good at faking it.    

You see, in an effort to maintain control over the chaos and bedlam that has been my life for the past twenty-seven years, I pretended that I knew what I was doing.  After the “I do’s” and after the kids came along, I realized that I was missing the instruction book for my life.  So I faked it.

To the unschooled eyes of my children and husband, I marched through the days and nights with an aura of confidence that led everyone to believe that I was the Queen of our little universe.  I was in complete control.  Don’t ask questions.  Do it because I’m the mom and I say so.  This is my house.  I make the rules; you follow them and everything will be fine.

             All of which was just dandy when all I had to do was find lost shoes and paint a few Styrofoam balls.  But now, as they’ve grown, so has the complexity of the things they need to know.  What does this mean for me?  Now, just when stuff is really starting to get hard, they’re calling my bluff.  Now, they expect me to know really important stuff.  And I don’t!  And I’m not even sure that I want to.

             When there is a computer problem in our house or office, guess who they come to?  Wife/Mother—knower of all, fixer of everything.  Do you have any idea how many hours I have spent on the phone with someone in India trying to maintain the illusion that I am Master of Our Universe?  College applications, Federal Tax ID numbers, internet commerce, Master’s Degree programs…all of this, while fascinating, is stuff I do not want to know about, much less be in charge of.

             They say that as your brain ages, you have to continually challenge it to stave off dementia.  Learn something new; keep that mind active.  However, after twenty-seven years of knowing everything, or rather pretending to, I want to play a new game: Figure it out for yourself. 

            Because I’m really tired, and a nice case of dementia sounds pretty good right now.

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             I was wandering through the maze of department store aisles, searching unsuccessfully for the area which would surely change my mood from merely apprehensive to downright miserable.

             As I passed two saleswomen deep in conversation, I said, “Excuse me, do you know where the bathing suits are?”

             They stopped, turning to regard me with sympathetic looks.  “Take the escalator to the third floor.  They’re in the back near the parking lot entrance.”

             “Thanks,” I said, making my way toward the escalator.

             “Good luck,” called one, and from the other, “Do you have your martini with you?  They say a woman should always have a martini with her when she’s trying on bathing suits.”

             As I made my way up three levels and to the very back of the store, I questioned the marketing strategy behind hiding the seasonal swimsuits in a location it all but took a bloodhound to sniff out. 

             Then I saw them—at least half a dozen women stumbling around the department, clutching multiple hangers displaying teeny, tiny bits of stretchy material.  Every hapless soul there wore the expression of a person just awakened from a nightmare.  Unfortunately, their current circumstances were no dream, and I was about to willingly join them.

             Actually, “willingly” is far too positive a word.  It gives the impression that one welcomes the task at hand, even looks forward to it.

             There is no woman on earth who looks forward to bathing suit shopping.

             It is a contender for the ultimate in female humiliation, vying for the top spot with the annual visit to the gynecologist.  And, we react accordingly, knowing full well that no good can come from such an enterprise.

             Our faces confirm our torment.  After cramming one’s body into swatches of fabric the size of cocktail napkins, then looking at the reflection in a three way mirror lighted with a fluorescent bulb, stark terror is pretty much the only reaction we can muster.

             Is it any wonder, then, that the marketing gurus try and squirrel us away like the nuts we are in the most forlorn corner of the store?  Seriously, we can’t be good for business.  We are depressed, surly and generally disgusted not only with ourselves, but with the world as we know it.  Prominently display the swimsuits at the front of the store and watch the potential customers run for cover once they catch a glimpse of the bitter, nasty bunch of us trolling the department, looking for something, anything that will camouflage our “assets”.

             However, they have to sell the things, and my friend the sympathetic saleswoman had the perfect solution.  Swimsuit department martini bars.  Just turn the whole thing into a tropical themed mini resort section, with counselors instead of bartenders, and watch the women flock to the store.

             We won’t be any happier about buying bathing suits, but martini sales will challenge those of any weekend hangout and inspire customer loyalty that will last well into September, when we can finally cover ourselves up again.  

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            Over the years, I’ve received samples of countless new products through the mail.  Delivered directly to my door, these surprises were like little gifts deposited to brighten my day.  (The fact that a new fabric softener can brighten my day speaks volumes, I know.)

            So, it was with pleasurable anticipation that I retrieved a package from the mail the other day.  It looked innocent enough—a small, rectangular box in a packing envelope with my name on it.  “Hhmmm,” I mused, “I wonder if this is some kind of new cereal?”  (Food samples are high on my favorites list.)

            I walked into the kitchen and tore open the envelope, reaching inside to reveal my prize.  As I read the label on the box, I realized, this was no gift.  This was a mean-spirited missive sent to me by some sadistic corporation intent on making money off of female misery.

            The package contained a menopause indicator test.

            I sat down hard on the kitchen chair, trying to catch my breath.  Who could be so heartless, so cruel, so, so…stupid?

            Turns out, the folks at a Pennsylvania company who are marketing a new product for women have decided that they want to be my go-to guys for diagnosing all things menopausal.  Their accompanying letter happily informs me that I can find out, in the privacy and comfort of my own home, whether or not I am, in fact, experiencing the joys of menopause.

            To help me decide, they’ve included a list of things I can look forward to, including hot flashes, mood swings, night sweats and insomnia, migraines, heart palpitations (which began when I saw their product), and a host of other delightful possibilities.

            Further, they have enclosed a coupon for $2.00 off an additional test purchased in case I’d like to share my good fortune with my friends.  A web page address included in their letter guides me to a site providing information on how to best manage the multiple pleasures of aging and menopause.

            Now, I’m not delusional.  I know it’s coming and I know it’s going to be ugly.  But the big question is, how did they know it’s coming?

            Remember, the envelope was addressed to me directly.  As far as I can recall, I haven’t been running around trumpeting the fact that I’m approaching menopause.  (Although, since, according to the brochure, loss of concentration is also a symptom of menopause, maybe I have been and I just forgot.)  Nonetheless, this is not news I want traveling through the United Stated mail service.

            It’s amazing that I can pay for my kids’ college educations, but I can’t ask any questions about their progress because of safeguards to their privacy.  Yet, some company that I’ve never heard of before knows I’m nearing menopause and has decided that they want to be my new best friends on the journey.

            Here’s a newsflash, folks:  despite your best intentions, despite the fact that you’ve signed your letter to me with “Very kind regards,” perhaps to soften the blow, I will not be buying your product.  If and when I need it, I’ll come and find you.  I know I’m getting older, but the fact that you have so ungraciously called it to my attention eliminates you from best friend contention.  And I’d have another look at the marketing department, if I were you. 

            I will get through this battleground as best as I can with my real friends, lots of chocolate and a huge helping of denial. 

            Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to turn down that thermostat.  It’s really hot in here.

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We were almost at the front of the ticket line for the movie when my husband started rummaging through his pockets.

“Dave, I have the gift card the kids gave us for the tickets.  You don’t need cash.”

“I wasn’t looking for that,” he said as we walked up to the window.

“Two for the 3:15 show, please,” I said.

“Wait, can I get a discount with this?” Dave asked the cashier.

“What’s that?” I asked in horror as I stared at the white and red card my husband had plunked down on the counter.

“That’s only good after 4:00 PM,” the cashier answered.

“Maybe we should wait until the later show,” Dave said.

“What is wrong with you?” I hissed as I snatched the card from the counter.  “Don’t pay any attention to him,” I said.  “We’ll go with the 3:15 show.”  I grabbed the tickets and sprinted away from the window.

“What’s the matter?” Dave asked as he hurried after me.

“What’s the matter?  What was that…that…thing you put on the counter?”

“It was my AARP card.  What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is that you have an AARP card.  Where did it come from?”

“I sent away for it.  In fact, I couldn’t wait to get it.  I’ve had my check ready for two years to get this card, but I couldn’t get in until the big 5-0.”

“Couldn’t get in?  Are you out of your mind?  You do know what AARP stands for, right?”

“Yeah, the American Association of Retired Persons.  I still don’t see what the problem is.”

“The problem is that the AARP is for, let me be politically correct here, older people.  I am not now nor will I be any time soon, ready to be a member of the AARP.”

“Well, that’s too bad, because spouses are automatically included.  You’re in, baby.”

“I don’t want to be in!  What reason could you possibly have for wanting to be a card-carrying member of the AARP?”

“There are a million reasons to be a member.  I get discounts on car insurance and life insurance.  I get monthly bulletins and magazines with information about Medicare and Social Security….”

            “We don’t need information about Medicare and Social Security, yet!”

“It’s never too soon to be informed.  Membership only costs $12.50 a year, which comes out to less than five cents a day.  People don’t realize what a great deal this is.  We over fifty-types are a force to be reckoned with.  You have no idea of the power we wield.  AARP gives us a voice.  We’re loud and we’re proud.”

 “We’re also nowhere near ready for retirement!” I yelped.  “I’m not ready to be married to an AARP member!”

 “Listen, you’d better get used to it.  Thirty-nine million of us have cards.  In fact, I have two cards—one for David M. Bontempo and one for Dave Bontempo.”

  “Why do you have two cards?”

 “I forgot that I ordered the first one.”

 “Well, then maybe you are ready for an AARP card, after all.”

  “Hey, there’s no stopping the march of time, so I figure I might as well enjoy it.”

 “I know there’s no stopping it, but do you have to speed it up?  Next you’ll be telling me we’re going out for the early bird dinner special at 4:30.”

 “You know, if I use my card, with the discount we could get Raisinettes and popcorn for the movie.”

 I hesitated, but only for a moment.  “Fine, use the darn card.  Just don’t let anyone see you!”

 Raisinettes and popcorn.  Even I have my price.

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            Do you have any idea how small a single one quart-sized, plastic bag is?  Well, I’ll tell you:  It’s all of eight inches wide by seven and one-half inches deep.

             Do you have any idea how large my make-up bag is?  Well, I’ll tell you:  It’s about a foot and a half wide by two feet deep.

             Okay, I’m joking about the make-up bag, but not by much.  The truth is, if my daughters and I had to put all of our beautifying potions, lotions and magic wands in a single make-up bag, it would probably be the size of a forty gallon fish aquarium, and it would have to be on wheels.

             The sudden obsession with quart-sized plastic bags revolves around the growing angst of the female Bontempo family members as we contemplate packing for an upcoming vacation.  Now, I’ve managed many a family vacation in the past, with, I must say, the precision of a four-star general planning a major attack.  With itemized lists created for each member of the traveling party, pre-packing inspections held and gear stowed with military exactness, past travels have gone pretty much without a hitch.

             But that was before the advent of new airline baggage restrictions and the introduction of the now infamous quart-sized, see-through, plastic bag rule.

             In order to be as up to date as possible and not encounter any snags on travel day, I consulted the United States Transportation Security Administration’s website (www.tsa.gov) for accurate information regarding what items are and are not permitted in both checked and carry on baggage.

             In case you were wondering, you should leave your dynamite at home.  Dynamite is a no-no, as are hand grenades.  You can’t carry them on, nor can you stow them in checked baggage.  Same goes for gasoline, blasting caps, fireworks, flares or plastic explosives.

             However, you can bring along your billy clubs, black jacks, brass knuckles, stun guns, Chinese throwing stars and nunchakus (yes, that is how you spell what I always thought was numchucks—I checked).  But, no fun on the plane.  They must be stowed  with your bags.

             You may also transport your meat cleavers, sabers, swords, axes and ice picks.  Again, though, bring a book.  You can’t play with these items during the flight as they must be packed with your luggage.      

             But back to the plastic bag.  The TSA advises following a 3-1-1 rule.  No more than three ounces per item in a one quart plastic bag with one bag allowed per traveler.  They even have a picture of a sample bag to help you out.  Guess how many items are in the bag?  Seven.  My girls and I use seven products on our eyebrows alone.  What are we supposed to do about lip glosses, skin lotions, blush and perfume?  And I haven’t even started on shampoo, conditioner, hair mousse, gel and spray, let alone things like toothpaste.

             Don’t even think of suggesting that we pack our essentials in our checked bags.  No woman on earth will travel separated from her cosmetics.  If you really want to see mayhem at the airport, try losing the luggage of a woman who has packed all of her makeup in her checked baggage.

             After much consternation and hand-wringing, I have arrived at a solution, though my husband and son aren’t going to like it. 

             When the Bontempo family vacations this summer, all family members will carry a one-quart sized plastic bag full of cosmetics.  They won’t hold all of our stuff, but we might manage to carry on the real essentials.

             Just don’t make fun of my husband if you happen to spot him carrying mascara.

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            The candy and flowers will be lovely, as will the home-cooked breakfast presented for my enjoyment.  (I’ll be scraping pancake batter off of the stove for the next week, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?)  They’ll even remember cards,   complete with hastily scrawled messages from the kids which I’m sure will be written under the threatening eye of their father.

             Yes, it will be wonderful, and I’m grateful, really I am, but if anyone’s asking, I know what I really want for Mother’s Day. 

             I want to be punished.

             You heard me.  I want to be punished, grounded, sent into solitary confinement.  I want someone (my own mother will do, in an interesting twist) to send me to my room.  I want to be told that I am to have no contact with the outside world for at least a weekend.

             Think of it.  A mother—doer of all, fixer of everything, taxi driver, referee, maid, waitress, doctor, social secretary, cook, and so on—ordered into solitude for an entire weekend, with no human contact other than that provided by the television.  (Hey, even in prison they have TV.)

             And that means no contact.  All whining, squabbling, demanding and decisions to be handled by some other authority.  And no questions or knocking on the door while mom is in dispose, which translates to uninterrupted time in the bathroom.  I could easily spend half of my mini vacation in the bathroom, taking long, hot showers and playing with the make-up I’ve collected that’s been discarded by my teenage daughters, since I have no time or money to buy any of my own.

             I would have the time to leisurely plow through the three foot high pile of reading material next to my bed.  I could read more than just the headlines of the newspaper.  (They would, of course, have to confiscate any scissors or sharp objects in the room.  Not because I’d be tempted to do myself harm, but because I might be tempted to clip coupons, and that’s definitely off limits.)  I might even get to the next chapter in the book I’ve been reading for the last six months, or, more correctly, the two pages I’ve been reading continuously as I can’t remember where I left off, or what the heck is going on.

             I don’t even think I’d actually watch the television.  It would be enough to simply have control of the remote and scan through the channels, stopping at each one to see what was on before I moved to the next one.

             I could organize my closet and dresser, discarding the ratty sweaters I’ve been wearing since college and making room for my new wardrobe, which I’ve just selected from the pages of a trendy woman’s magazine.  And I could try on shoes, exposing to the light of day the cute heels I bought a year ago which have remained in my closet as they don’t match my sweats. 

             Of course, they’ll have to feed me, and if past efforts are any indication, the food will be sub-par, at best.  No matter.  I won’t have to prepare it, and I won’t have to clean it up.  Besides, I’ll just supplement it with the secret stash of chocolate that I keep hidden in an old handbag for emergencies.

             So, moms, I say we all request solitary confinement for Mother’s Day.  Forget the cards, gifts, etc.  We’ll just take some good old fashioned peace and quiet. 

 Of course, you know it’ll never happen.  A weekend without mothers?

             The world as we know it would cease to exist.  Happy Mother’s Day!

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            I sat in one of my most un-favorite places—the tire store.  At least, that’s what I call it.  It’s one of those car places which men frequent for fun and I enter only because my car has refused, for one reason or another, to take me where I want to go.

            On this particular day, I perched myself on the edge of a chair provided in the waiting room while the car guys repaired a tire and replaced it on my daughter’s car.  I say “perched” because the chairs provided appeared to have had interesting histories, if their spotted upholstery was any indication.  I figured balancing tenuously on the edge was my best bet to keep the “history” on the chairs and not on my posterior.

            I imagine the scene around me was typical of tire stores—around ten well-used chairs, an assortment of magazines, all sporting cover photos of things with gleaming engines and, of course, tires, and a small television which I watched, horrified, as some apparently unbalanced youth raced his motorbike up a ramp, sailed off the ramp’s end and landed unceremoniously on his back, the bike crashing beside him in the process.  I gasped.  The young man sharing the waiting room with me barely looked up.

            In short, I found myself drowning in testosterone.

            At that point, another woman entered the bastion of male-ness.  She approached the counter.  “I need a tire,” she said.  “I have my husband’s car and I think the tire has a slow leak.  I just want it replaced.”

            “Sure,” the tire guy responded.  And then, “Do you know what size the tire is?”

            The woman simply stared at him.  I did the same thing from my perch on the chair.

             Size?  I didn’t know tires had a size.  Yes, I know that trucks have bigger tires than cars, but these were the only two subdivisions as far as I was concerned.  I realized this could be an entirely new world of information.  And then I realized something else:  I don’t care.  I don’t care if tires come in sizes any more than I care why the hardware store stocks 873 different kinds of nails.  I also don’t care why the lawn mower won’t start or why the red engine light keeps flashing in the car.  I don’t care.  I just want it fixed.

             Apparently, the woman didn’t care either, as she continued to stare mutely.

             “Right,” he said, suddenly realizing the absurdity of his question.  “Let’s take a look.”

             Had my life depended on it, I couldn’t have answered his question.  Then again, it’s not my territory and I don’t care what the answer is.  That’s a guy problem.

             Now before you men go crowing in satisfaction, let me ask you a few questions.

             What’s the name of your daughter’s best friend?

             Which kid has soccer practice on Monday evening and who has a piano lesson on Thursday afternoon?

             When is your son’s project on the solar system is due?

             Do you know when the kids need to have dental check-ups?

             And finally, do these shoes match this outfit?

             Ha!  I thought as much.  Not only do you not know, you really don’t care, do you?

             So for future reference, even if we happen to be in some guy sanctuary like a tire store, when we tell you something is broken, especially something that’s noisy, spews smoke and is made of metal, don’t ask us questions; just fix it.

             In return, we’ll try and refrain from asking you what shoes match our pants.

             Because if the truth be told, we know that you just don’t care.

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 It all starts at the curbside.

             There’s the dandelion forest overwhelming the front lawn, abutting the currently vacant former flower bed, now bare and brown (and looking eerily like a large burial plot) but for a few spare weeds. The front porch offers parched and weathered rockers along with a beat-up old bench, all practically screaming for the relief offered by a thirst quenching coat of fresh paint.

             Open the front door and come face to face with a nicked, knocked and scraped up entry hall and staircase wall, anointed with fingerprints, scuff marks and more than a few cast-off dried water droplets from the coat of one very messy dog.  Woodwork?  In need of a cleaning and paint.  Floors?  Crying out for a spa treatment combining a good scrubbing, waxing and buffing.  Rugs?  Dirty.  Lampshades?   Dusty.  Wall art?  Begging for Windex.

             No, this is not some vacant tenement up for sheriff’s sale.  Nor is it a run down residence on one of those fix-it-up and sell it for three times what you paid programs on television. 

             This is my home, or at least what my home looks like to me now that we’re on “Countdown to Graduation Party” time.

             Any time one invites guests into one’s home, a flurry of cleansing and sanitizing inevitably takes place.  In fact, sometimes guests provide the necessary excuse to execute a much needed purging of the cast-off effects of daily life.  (I have one friend whose children immediately get suspicious when she grabs a bucket and mop.  “Who’s coming over?” they ask.)  But there’s something about a graduation party which brings out the burly, bald-headed, earring-wearing Mr. Clean in me.

             No surface avoids scrutiny, no corner or crevice remains unnoticed.  It may have something to do with the fact that graduation parties generally take place in the spring and often during the day, when bright sunshine illuminates every glaring imperfection, real or imagined.

             So about a month prior to the dreaded…er…highly anticipated soiree, I begin critiquing.  It’s a long and lonely process, made more so by the fact that no other member of my immediate family notices anything wrong with anything, especially anything they may be called upon to fix, clean or replace.  I, on the other hand, notice something wrong with just about everything.  Thus ensue the negotiations—my list of what I want done vs. the family’s list of what they can get away with.

             My wish list goes something like this:  1. Re-sod entire front and back lawn.  2. Excavate front flower bed; add five inches of topsoil; drop half a mortgage payment at local nursery for expensive plants and shrubs; cover new flower bed with twenty bags of stinky mulch.  3. Strip, re-glue, sand and paint (with two coats plus a varnish finish coat), front porch furniture.  4. Spackle, sand and paint every wall on the first floor, plus upstairs hallway.  5. Remove, sand, paint and reinstall all household woodwork.  6. Power vacuum and steam clean all household surfaces, including all upholstered furniture, draperies, air vents and duct work.  7. Make sure fireplace is in good working order.  (You never know; it could get cold in June.)  8. Strip, stain and refinish all wood flooring.  9. Replace carpet in entire house.  10. Sanitize all bedrooms and bathrooms.  11. Replace all household light fixtures and switches.  And so on.

             My family’s response to my wish list goes something like this.  1. Run mower over weeds two days before the party.  2. Pick up stuff from the floor so that no one falls over it and sues us.

             I’ve only got a few weeks left and we’re at a stalemate.

             Arbitration, anyone?

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             Ah, the joys and pleasures of the Christmas season. 

 I know, I know, last week I said I wasn’t going to partake in any of the madness, but who are we kidding here?  I’m the mom, and despite the fact that my son is in every way legally a man at twenty-one, and my daughters are nineteen and sixteen, if I don’t reenact every stupid tradition I ever started, if the house isn’t decorated with enough Christmas junk to compete with the Griswold's, if I don’t burn at least several dozen cookies, and if there are no packages under the tree wrapped in multiple papers because I don’t have enough of any one pattern, they’re going to make my life miserable.  Not, of course, that it won’t be miserable if I do all of the above, but I’ll risk it to avoid whining kids of any age. 

 To make the entire enterprise a bit more bearable, I’ve come up with my own version of the venerable holiday favorite “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”  Sing along if you dare.

             On the first day of the season, a thought occurred to me: I’m stepping headlong into misery.

             On day two of the season, a thought occurred to me: This mall is really crowded, and I’m stepping headlong into misery.

             On day three of the season, a thought occurred to me:  I’ve addressed a hundred cards, this mall is really crowded, and I’m stepping headlong into misery.

             On day four of the season, a thought occurred to me:  The tree lights just went out, I’ve addressed a hundred cards, this mall is really crowded, and I’m stepping headlong into misery. 

             On day five of the season, a thought occurred to me:  I HATE BAKING COOKIES!  The tree lights just went out, I’ve addressed a hundred cards, this mall is really crowded, and I’m stepping headlong into misery.

             On day six of the season, a thought occurred to me:  I’ve overspent my credit, I HATE BAKING COOKIES!  The tree lights just went out, I’ve addressed a hundred cards, this mall is really crowded, and I’m stepping headlong into misery.

             On day seven of the season, a thought occurred to me:  Where are those *#%! boxes?  I’ve overspent my credit, I HATE BAKING COOKIES!  The tree lights just went out, I’ve addressed a hundred cards, this mall is really crowded, and I’m stepping headlong into misery.

             On day eight of the season, a thought occurred to me:  There’s no more wrapping paper, where are those *#%! boxes?  I’ve overspent my credit, I HATE BAKING COOKIES!  The tree lights just went out….

              On day nine of the season, a thought occurred to me:  I’m sick of Christmas carols, there’s no more wrapping paper, where are those *#%! boxes?  I’ve overspent my credit….

             On day ten of the season, a thought occurred to me:  Whose idea was eggnog?  I’m sick of Christmas carols, there’s no more wrapping paper, where are those *#%! boxes?….

             On day eleven of the season, a thought occurred to me:  The dog just ate the manger, whose idea was eggnog?  I’m sick of Christmas carols, there’s no more wrapping paper….

             On day twelve of the season, a thought occurred to me:  I’ve gained seven pounds, the dog just ate the manger, whose idea was eggnog?  I’m sick of Christmas carols, there’s no more wrapping paper, where are those *#%! boxes?  I’ve overspent my credit, I HATE BAKING COOKIES!  The tree lights just went out, I’ve addressed a hundred cards, this mall is really crowded… AND I’M STEPPING HEADLONG INTO MISERY!!!!!

             Misery loves company.  Care to join me?

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            It starts so innocently.

             The telephone rings.  I check the caller ID and find the number of an old friend.  With pleasurable anticipation I lift the receiver; it will be lovely to catch up.

             I say, “Hello” and hear in response, “Hi, Mrs. B.  This is (Fill in the name of any college-age son or daughter of a friend).  I just got a new job and I was wondering if you could help me out.”

             My hands tremble.  My breathing turns shallow.  I get lightheaded.  I am suddenly clammy with cold sweat.

 The kid has a summer job and needs my help.  Perhaps he’s directing a movie and needs me to star in place of currently plump Angelina Jolie.  Maybe he’s started his own cleaning company and wants to hone his skills by cleaning my entire house top to bottom.  Or he’s opening a restaurant and wants to try out his recipes by cooking my dinner every night for the entire summer. 

             But I delude myself.  He needs help with none of those things.  He continues his pitch.  “I’m working for (fill in the name of any annoying company which employs college kids to do the following…) and I have to book some demonstrations so I can practice my presentation.”

             He continues, but I’m no longer listening.  Rather, I am frantically trying to manufacture plausible excuses.  I could try, “I’m sorry, (fill in the blank), but I’m having root canal every day until—When did you say you’re going back to school?—right, until then.”  Or, “I’m sorry, but I’ve just joined the Peace Corps and I’m leaving immediately.”  Or maybe, “Unfortunately, my mob connections are catching up to me and I’m about to enter the witness protection program.  Forget you ever knew me.”

             Instead, I say, “Sure, (fill in the blank), when do you want to come over?”  as I futilely bang my head against the side of the refrigerator.

             The dreaded demonstration will follow a specific format. 

             First and foremost, these kids aren’t demonstrating anything, despite the pitch, which they are reading from the company’s sales manual.  They are trying to sell you something, usually outrageously expensive knives, or a security system, or something else you don’t need.  They will arrive on your doorstep fresh-faced and eager, along with a massive demonstration kit containing their products, which they again swear they aren’t trying to sell you, but merely want to show you.

             After sitting through their interminable two hour demonstration, during which they will cut pennies in half, saw through wood or perform some other bizarre feat demonstrating their product, the innocents will ask, “Well, what did you think?”  You will answer, “Good job!”  They will respond, “Would any of these products interest you?”

             You can say, “No,” but they will then call their manager on your phone to report on the results of the demonstration, and the manager will proceed to ask them questions intended to make both you and the kid squirm.  The kid will stammer and become red-faced as he is shamed by the manager for his ineptitude.  You will then be mortified for the kid and will buy something anyway, so just give in and save the aggravation when he asks the first time.  (Hopefully, this demonstration will take place after your summer vacation, as you won’t be able to afford a vacation after it anyway.)

              Finally, the demonstration concludes, the young entrepreneur leaves clutching your vacation check and you go upstairs to sleep off your migraine.  (You don’t even get the lousy knives; they have to order them!)

             There is one more thing, a small but effective way to save some money.  The kid’s parents, your friends?  They won’t be getting a Christmas card this year.

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            Despite the temptation, most days, I just can’t be bothered.  In the morning rush, it’s all I can do to wash my face, brush my teeth, and put on two shoes that match, let alone hunt through the bottles in my medicine cabinet to select a perfume which promises to compliment my mood and guarantees me a better day. 

             Like most women, I possess a number of pricey bottles of perfume purchased with delusions of becoming someone else.  They reside there because also like most women, I fell victim to not only the aromatic fragrances, but to the allure of the promises made if only I would dab the intoxicating liquids behind my ears.

             With names like Rapture, Allure, Romance and Beautiful, the packages swear that just a spray will transform the wearer.  “Suddenly you’re sophisticated, dramatic, sensual.  When you wear [our perfume] you’ll be sexier than you ever dreamed possible.” 

             I always figured it was worth a shot, and though I never discovered anything sophisticated, dramatic or sensual about myself before or after spritzing on any perfume, I continued to indulge, hoping that someday, something would fulfill the marketers’ vows and that miraculous transformation would take place.

             Let’s be honest; it ain’t gonna happen.  Today’s woman, regardless of what’s in her bathroom cabinet, can hardly relate to sophisticated, dramatic and sensual, at least while she’s awake.  However, I’ve come up with a few heady scents of my own, which, while hardly the stuff dreams are made of, more accurately reflect our reality.

 Eau de Sweatsock (or sweatpants, or sweatshirt, whichever you prefer).  This perfume calls to mind the 268 sweat-soaked garments mothers are called upon to launder each week.  While wearing this potent fragrance, women are “overcome” with thoughts of children, husbands and laundry rooms.

             Aroma of Cleaning Product.  Strongly reminiscent of the smell of undiluted bleach, women often douse themselves in this liquid to counterbalance the alluring, yet frequently overpowering Eau de Sweatsock. 

             Bouquet of Raging Hormones. This perfume is particularly apropos for the woman experiencing nature’s rhythms in all their glory and screaming intensity.  Suitable for women in all stages of life, the odor is especially robust during adolescence, pregnancy and menopause.  The scent generates a different reaction in each wearer, but common characteristics include mood-swings, tears and occasional rantings.  This fragrance is accompanied by a warning to men to stay away anytime the scent reaches their nostrils.  Because of its combustive properties, it is also advisable to keep it away from teenage boys at all costs.

 Scent of Wet Dog (or Wet Kid).  An “outdoorsy” fragrance brought indoors by Fido (or a wet kid) hiding under the bed after a day spent playing in the rain and mud.  This scent tends to be accompanied by wrinkled noses, sniffing and the questions, “Do you smell that?  Where is that darn dog?”  Or kid.

 Essence of Mini-Van.  A blended scent, this perfume mixes elements of Eau de Sweatsock, Scent of Wet Dog, and Fragrance of Raging Hormones with the tempting smell of greasy fast food.  While wearing this perfume, women can usually be found behind the wheel of a mini-van, white knuckled, with multiple kids, sports equipment, dry cleaning and groceries crowding the auto’s interior.  All women wearing Essence of Mini-Van consequently sport crazed facial expressions and clenched jaws.  Other females detecting this scent will frequently offer sympathetic nods and the occasional flask to their sisters in motherhood. 

 Yep, that’s our reality.  But I hardly expect my ideas to overwhelm the marketplace in popularity.  Given the choice, we’ll take a chance on sophisticated, dramatic and sensual every time.

 Now where did I put that bottle of Rapture?

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