Hogan's Herald

Song of the Humpback Whale

2009-03-05T13:13:00.000-08:00

I drive a big truck. And when I say "big", I mean extended cab, long bed, lifted, biggie size french fries HUGE! This thing is so large it defies 99% of all parking lots and drive thru banking or eating establishments. Although I loathe driving my husband's monster truck in the preschool carpool there are some distinct advantages.

First and foremost is safety. Honestly, I've only been cut off one time in 4 years. And that's only because Senior Stinky in the toothpaste colored Geo Prism was performing the macarena at brain bleed volume and didn't notice my diesel destroyer nearly crush him.

And, parking Gigantor provides such an impressive upper body workout I've probably postponed those old lady "bat wing biceps" for a few years. (You know, the kind of arms your 2nd grade teacher flapped recklessly around as she wrote on the chalkboard?)

Finally, my hottie quotient has skyrocketed with rednecks, truckers and construction workers. I'm not proud of it, but there's some sick gratification for this nearly 40 year old housewife to get the occcasional cat call or lurid gesture while idling at intersections. Thanks guys!

But, manuevering this mass of twisted steel and hillbilly sex appeal isn't without it's drawbacks. It takes no less than 20 minutes and a 2nd mortgage to fill her up. And, I've maintained greater modesty at pap smears than the last time I tried to dismount the gray ghost at church while wearing a pencil skirt and high heels.

Surprisingly I've maintained a near flawless driving record and incurred nary a scratch on precious' pristine charcoal exterior. But a few days ago, all that quickly came to an end. While making the obligatory 5 point turn to back Big Mac into our garage I heard an unfamiliar groaning nose. Chalking it up to my tone deaf 4year old singing twins, I pressed forward,(well, backwards actually) but the same low frequency song of humpback whale noise persisted. So, I shushed the kids, turned off the radio and hit the gas one final disastrous time.

Just as the old synapses began firing again I looked in the rear view mirror to see my sweet hubby silently (windows up) although somewhat enthusiastically spewing obscenties while frantically waving his arms like an airline tarmac worker with a faulty flashlight.

Note to self: The mesmerizing "song of the humpback whale" can be duplicated by scraping the rear fender of a highly polished Ford truck down the entire rusty length of the white metal hand railing in our garage. Happy Birthday Honey!

Child's Play?

2009-02-08T05:56:00.000-08:00

Just when I thought we'd hit our household per capita of crap, my daughter was given some toys with a peculiar and disturbing theme. While many people receive gifts of fancy schmancy electronics, ripsticks and fine jewelry, our holidays and birthdays seem to be fraught with faux feces.

The potty parade commenced with "Baby Alive." Santa wisely vetoed this disturbing doll because her Bride of Chuckie eyes and marionette mouth gave him the willies. But Grandma, undoubtedly seeking revenge, presented pooping Penelope to my 4 year old for her birthday.

This little treasure blinks, giggles and speaks multiple annoying phrases. And her restroom resume goes well beyond the traditional wetting Betty. If you're feeling masochistic just shovel in some of her complimentary baby food. The disemboweled blonde bombshell almost immediately eeks out substances found only in state fair porta potties and sample jars at the gastroenterologist's office.

Sure you can aim Baby Alive at her tiny pink training toilet as instructed. But my little clan of crotch watchers found it much more educational to peer shamelessly up her not quite anatomically correct posterior as the nearly 5 lb rubber toddler did her business right down the front of their shirts...twice. Seriously, I haven't had this much fun since both of my one year old twins contracted the rota virus and I changed 45 eye burning diapers and tackled 6 loads of biohazardous laundry every day for a week.

To add insult to injury another in-law thoughtfully bestowed Bowel Movement Barbie on my daughter. Okay, it's not really the doll, but her blasted dog. The instructions for feeding old Fido (in English and 9 other languages) read as follows:

1) Lift tail to open mouth and raise ears.(Apparently that speeds digestion)
2) Place biscuit in dog's mouth. Release tail.
3) Push down the tail. Oh-Oh!!!

Yep, you guessed it. Just like the few minutes immediately following my last Macho Nacho platter from El Matador, el perrito shoots the just consumed "biscuits" right out his rear at lightening speed. Environmentally conscious and fashionably trashy Barbie, donning a pooper scooper, mini skirt and lace leggins, races in to capture the magnetic excrement and dispose of it in the trashcan.

Only then does the magical circle of digestion begin. My animal loving daughter was then instructed to unload the trashcan of dung right back into the now empty box of doggie "biscuits", just in time for poochie's next meal. What?!

Isn't this taking recycling a tad too far? Before PETA and the Humane Society could incite a riot, the hypocritical manufacturer tried to redeem themselves by saying "Make sure your pets always have fresh food and water." (I'm guessing they didn't mean out of the toilet, even though they didn't include a water bowl).

When our chocolate labrador puppy tried recycling her food, we called the vet, dialed up the zap collar, and sent her to canine counseling. But surprisingly, Mattel views this aberrant behavior more as children's entertainment than a medical diagnosis mandating shock therapy and antipsychotic meds. And apparently they were right since my in-laws weren't the only ones who bought it. The entire Barbie line grossed (and I mean gross) over $3 Billion in worldwide retail sales last year. That's a lot of poop eating puppies!

And why is it that only girls' toys are plagued with realistic bodily functions? (I realize there are plenty of Barbie totin' boys out there, but I'll reserve that tidbit for another post entirely.) Anyway, you gotta know G.I. Joe had a raging case of foot fungus from wearing combat boots in the swamp without socks. And, it would only be fair if Spiderman's crime fighting was postponed occasionally to battle the inevitable bouts of jock itch from wearing excessively snug spandex.

Yes, I understand the product pipeline runs a little dry after 50 years but couldn't Mattel come up with something a little less unsettling for a child's toy? What's next, "Menopause Barbie" sporting a Fu Manchu mustache and estrogen patch who sweats, sobs and swears when you push the button on her back? Or, her yapping puppy with the yeast infection, that drags her itchy hoo hoo all over the living room rug just as Barbie appears with her can of Resolve? Don't you think some things are better left OUT of a kid's imagination?

Did Someone Order the Pupu Platter?

2009-01-07T14:50:00.000-08:00

After a marathon holiday stint of Honey Baked Ham, Mormon potatoes and The Food Network, I decided to make parmesan chicken, sauteed gnocchi and steamed vegetables for dinner. My kids are pretty good eaters, but like most preschoolers their palates are finely honed to sponge bob fruit snacks, otter pops and Lucky Charms. Anything new elicits an immediate yuck response. But following multiple timeouts, various hostage negotiation techniques and peanut M&M bribes, they usually choke their way through most of my meals. This most recent dinner fiasco however will set us back a ways I'm sure.

Just as I'm sliding the parmesan poultry into the oven my 4 year old son says "Mom, I smell diarrhea."(Now there's one for his scrap book). Since the entire family spent a good portion of last week recovering from the dreaded Delhi Belly I immediately think he's had a relapse and cautiously approach the couch to survey the damage. I'm pleasantly surprised to find I won't be donning my HAZMAT suit or even busting out the shop vac for a quick once over. But by now I too am noticing a funky stank permeating the air so I crack the window and blanket the room with a generous layer of Oust spray. A few minutes later Mr. Congeniality sticks both index fingers up his nose, to the 2nd knuckle no less, and claims the stench is starting to "itch" his eyes. With my squinted eyes watering and nose running I desperately empty the garbage, jam a lemon down the roaring disposal and look under the fridge for rat corpses and a week old chile verde burrito.

When the stinging aroma approaches intolerable levels I hesitantly snap back his napping sister's britches with a tupperware tangerine peeler but find no green apple nasties lurking in there either. Only after removing the entree from the oven do I realize the stinking sewer smell is none other than...my dinner. Bon Appetit!

So, to all of you unfortunate recipients of my complimentary cooking, my deepest condolences.

All I want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth!

2008-12-20T02:32:00.000-08:00

Where have I been, you ask? (And when I say "you" I mean my lovely neighbor Jill who wasn't really concerned, just bored and needed some tripe and twaddle to read). So Jill, In addition to the obligatory holiday shin digs, shopping and other shtuff, my cup of crud runneth over. In keeping with the holiday spirit I've outlined my absenteeism excuses to the tune of a favorite Christmas carol. Keep in mind the items in parenthesis are for clarification only and should not be sung. Got it? Ok, big breath.

In the month of December my true love gave to me(and my family):
9 calls to comcast (slow high speed internet)
8 new prescriptions
7 doctor's visits
6 days of shoveling (me, not the hubby. See item #1)
F I V E G O L D E N S H E E T S.(bed-wedding woes. No, not me.)
4 sinus infections
3 refinances
2 kids' birthdays
AND A RUPTURED ACHILLES!

Now that we've taken care of the housekeeping items, onto the reason I called this meeting. It has come to my attention that a hidden danger lurks in every unfinished basement. I'm not talking venomous hairy legged creatures, carbon monoxide poisoning or even toppling food storage shelves of Cap'n Crunch, cling peaches and canned corn. No, surprisingly I'm referring to the risks imposed by those simple white strings with the metal doohickeys knotted at the end used to turn on a bare light bulb.

You see I nearly inflicted on myself a smile akin to a Kentucky monster truck rally season ticket holder. In a rare and coveted 3 minutes to myself I foolishly retreated to the cold, cavernous concrete confines of our unfinished basement for gift wrapping. While some enjoy the mad cat screech of scotch tape dispensers and exercising the pre-requisite geometry skills needed to wrap, this chore for me ranks right up there with do it yourself bikini waxes, returning electronics to Wal-Mart, and fishing that rat's nest of damp hair out of the shower drain with my tweezerman tweezers.

Now back to the public service announcement. I recklessly stacked a gps thingy, pyrex storage containers, perfume and other assorted breakables in slippery boxes into a teetering tower of debt filled doom on the cement floor. As I overloaded my arms with the pyramid of presents I mistakenly heard my litter of preschoolers racing down the stairs. Terrified they'd discover my secret stash of Christmas joy, I panicked. With the grace and elegance of an overdue water buffalo I jumped up, grabbed the metal thingamabob with my mouth and hastily yanked off the bulb.

That one vigorous pull not only left me in the dark, but securely wedged the string between my two front teeth like equine gauge dental floss. The worst part was the metal thingy anchored the twine in place and kept knocking on the back of my teeth. Now had I been David Letterman, Goofy the dog or any of the Beverly Hillbillies, that thick piece of string would have slid on through like Crisco on a Christmas pig. But $2500 in orthodontia, flossing only on dental appointment days, and the generous gob of carmelcorn gunk for lunch created an impenetrable trap.

At that point I was nothing more than a dumb dog on a short leash. So I acted accordingly and scooted backwards, posterior protruding, and shook my head to dislodge the metal whatchamacallit all the while balancing the slippery stack of fragile packages.

Why didn't I just put the presents down and pull it out with my fingers? Well, short string plus short person = short on options. The safety code length string only allowed me to bend over slightly. And, while I do have freakishly long arms,(thanks to Mrs. Fitzgerald, my 3rd grade teacher, for pointing that out at recess), apparently this freak came up short again and I was unable to deposit the breakables on the floor.

I then tried disengaging the string by standing on my tippy toes to get some slack while scooching the metal grabber around with my tongue and teeth. No dice. If only I'd skipped A.P. History and practiced tying knots in maraschino cherry stems with the cool high school girls! Who knew that skill would prove useful outside of a dating resume?

So at this point my options are:
1)scream (or slobber and slur) for help from two 4 year olds and run the risk of exposing some of their gifts.

2)Wait hours in the dark until my husband gets home and endure a lifetime of clearly deserved incessant ridicule.

Before I can decide a tiny tickle in my nose turns into a sneeze even my Grandpa Berg couldn't beat. In a forceful spray of slobber and snot the string is finally blown out of my mouth.

EE-I-EE-I Uh Oh!

2008-11-06T15:17:00.000-08:00

My neighbors, the McDonalds, are neither old nor have a farm and I don't live on Barnum and Bailey Boulevard. However, my experiences with animals on my workout route make you wonder about the chemical content of the water around here.

It all started one morning with an attack on my neighbor (we'll call him Rodney) while he was riding his beach cruiser bike with the sassy front basket. Rodney's retired, walks with a cane, and has a hair style to rival an 80's rock band. Needless to say he's never lead the peloton through the French Alps of the subdivision, but hey, kudos to him for making an effort.

I spotted Rodney as he slowly criss-crossed his way up the hill I fondly call Everest, when out of a sparsely landscaped yard shot the ugliest black dog you've ever seen. This unsightly mongrel's shrunken head, minuscule ears, and shaggy tail made him look like the unfortunate by-product of canoodling between a border collie and a Halloween bat.

The callous canine concentrated his vicious assault on the strained ankle elastic of Rodney's 20 year old gray drawstring sweat pants. Poor Rodney began wobbling perilously, kicking his victimized leg, and shrieking at the dog. Wanting desperately to help, without compromising the chocolate chip granola bar in my pocket, I selfishly scaled back and bellowed repeatedly "GO RODNEY, GO! DON'T STOP!"

With Navy Seal strength and persistence he managed to shake the mangy varmint's hold all the while pedaling chaotically with his free leg. And, miraculously he didn't even spill the contents of his basket. Fortunately, the bruised flesh and slobbery sweats distracted the rabid bat-dog long enough for me to race by unscathed.

Mentally calculating the date of my last tetanus shot I then ran into Shadow, a Westminster caliber standard black poodle and the very antithesis of Rodney's canine nemesis. This pampered pup is better groomed than a Manhattan socialite during fashion week. And, having cared for Shadow when mummy and pap were on holiday I learned she covers herself with a blanket for sleeping, prefers pottying with privacy and has impeccable table manners. Sadly, that's more than I can say for most of my social circle.

As Shadow sashayed (say that fast three times) past me clad in Black Cherry Chutney toe nail polish and a rhinestone studded collar, I saw a young woman walking leisurely toward me. She cooed at and lovingly patted her baby who was swaddled (baby bjorn style) around her torso in a luxurious pashmina scarf. As I pedaled closer I quickly realized the "baby" was really a morbidly obese gray cat with demonic yellow eyes. And, the coddled cat had the gall to pin his hairy little ears back and greet me with a less than cordial throaty growl. I hate to pass judgment, but socially it's not looking too promising for kitty's mommy.

Deciding I didn't have the time to snag my camera or the chutzpah to ask the feline fanatic for a photo I decided to finish my ride. Bad call. As I cycled down the narrow sidewalk adjacent to a busy 4 lane highway I noticed a crazy eyed billy goat chained to a Goodyear all season radial. Wild Bill began thundering towards me, poised for battle through the knee deep weeds. He (gender assumed, not verified)quickly hit the end of the leash but not before slamming his head full speed into the chain link fence separating us, nearly pitching me into traffic.

And still, people ask why I carry pepper spray!

What Time Is It?

2008-11-01T04:18:00.001-07:00

When told the reasoning behind daylight savings time, a wise old Indian said "Only a fool would believe you could cut a foot off the top of a blanket, sew it to the bottom of the same blanket and have a longer blanket."

Time to change the clocks again!

Take On An Empty Stomach

2008-10-27T14:06:00.000-07:00

Fortunately I've never had to pay much attention to my weight, even after giving birth to Sonny and Cher. Well, that is until just recently. Now for those of you wanting to African witch slap me right now, simmer down. I'm not climbing Mount Ego I'm just saying we all fight different battles. And, if it makes you feel any better, I had a mustache at ten, crow's feet in high school and I'll be the only octogenarian with a pimple prescription.

Anyway, at the height of swimsuit season I noticed the scale consistently and incorrectly inflating my weight. So, I replaced the batteries, my jeans, and eventually the scale(twice actually: digital and analog) before reluctantly grasping reality. After ten new pounds in two weeks (that's a lot for a tiny troll) I revisited some of my favorite profanities and broke up with all three scales.

Like any bitter Betty I beefed to my friends who assured me I still looked fine and that it was probably nothing. But, one honest gal (while training for a triathlon) cited a study which found most women over 30 gain a pound a year due to sluggish metabolisms unless they significantly improve their diet and exercise regimens. (Isn't that just spit on your neck fantastic?)

When I unintentionally modeled my broken elastic britches at the doctor, she ran some tests and determined a dead beat thyroid was the likely perpetrator of my new belly goo, fatigue and exceptionally charming disposition.

Do you have any idea how liberating it is to be given a legitimate medical reason for weight gain and rudeness? And, the doctor wisely chose not to cheapen the moment by using the queen mother of all cuss words (diet) or it's ugly step-sister (exercise) in my remedy. Was it Christmas? I was smiling so hard my face cracked even more than normal.

After muttering side effect warnings of explosive diarrhea, arrhythmias and osteoporosis, the pharmacist said, and I quote "IF YOU LOSE MORE THAN TEN POUNDS IN A WEEK, CALL YOUR PHYSICIAN IMMEDIATELY TO ADJUST YOUR DOSE." Yeah, right. While I'm at it I'll return the free box of Botox, decline Matthew McConaughey's proposal and tell Ed McMahon to keep the clearinghouse cash.

I was well past giddy as I skipped to the car and tore open the sack like a strung out junkie. Gearing up to gulp the magic fat melting meds and drop 5 lbs by dinner, one of the warning stickers stopped me cold. "TAKE ON AN EMPTY STOMACH." More specifically "Take one hour prior or two hours after a meal." When exactly is that? According to my watch it's half past snack time. The label may as well have read, "Take when your house is clean, you've shaved your legs, and there's peace in the middle east."

Needless to say it's 4 months later, my thyroid's normal but I'm still squeaking into my jeans by spraying Downey on the seams.

Do I Hear $20?

2008-10-13T11:56:00.000-07:00

While scrutinizing a pair of patent leather, peek toe (or is it "peep toe?") Mary Janes at the mall, I narrowly escaped physical assault by four elderly ladies, one wheelchair bound. As I assessed my ability to command the 3 1/2 inch heel, this gaggle of gals clad in polyester pant suits and far east fuchsia lipstick began hollering "Excuse me. Excuuuse me!"

Since I've been subjected to lifelong indoctrination regarding respect for my elders I approached the clan assuming they thought I was a salesperson. A most baffling conversation ensued when one of them bedazzled in rhinestones and reeking of menthol said "I really like your shirt, where did you get it?"

"Here," I casually replied "A couple of years ago."

Mincing no words she boldly inquired "How much was it?"

Curiosity dulled my flight instinct and I stupidly answered "It was $27.50 on clearance in the 2nd floor Junior's dept."

Without batting a false eyelash she shot back "I'll give you ten bucks for it." (Keep in mind Tijuana Tillie had me by 40 years, 80 lbs and at least 4 cup sizes).

Wanting to make the trek back to my car in something other than my drawers, I politely declined, avoided eye contact and started backing slowly away. Sadly this ploy only works on charging bulls, visiting in-laws and amorous elk during rut season.

Just when I thought I'd escaped, another one slurred "The shirt's ugly. It's the necklace I want."

What?! Overlooking the backhanded compliment my eyes darted nervously through the lingerie section for Ashton Kutcher, a hidden camera, and the rest of the "Punk'd" team. But before I could respond she aimed her gnarled arthritic finger just shy of my left eye and exclaimed "I'll give you fifteen dollars, period. That's all I have on me and I have to buy something now!"

At this point I'm thinking either:
a) They've secured the lead in the senior center sponsored scavenger hunt
or
b) The Golden Girls recently returned from a Mexican Riviera cruise and haven't resumed U.S. shopping etiquette.

Just then I noticed the smirking Clinique Cosmetics employee watching the fiasco and immediately kicked into Darwinian survival mode. Shamelessly pointing to the twenty something almost blond, I turned to the pack of bartering blue haired babes and said "I'm sure SHE has something to sell you."

Floral blouse $27.50, turquoise necklace $125. Leaving the mall with my clothes on...priceless.

"Just Because You Can, Doesn't Mean You Should"

2008-09-23T12:12:00.001-07:00

A physician shared some very prudent advice when he said
"JUST BECAUSE YOU CAN, DOESN'T MEAN YOU SHOULD."
At the time he was referring to his son's future in-laws who had managed to produce nearly one child per year during the vast majority of their reproductive life cycles.

Although Dr.J stole the saying from "Jurassic Park" its' utility spreads well beyond creating prehistoric carnivorous creatures or family planning for that matter. Many should consider employing this counsel before buying t-shirts emblazoned with "My Mommy's a hottie", hitting the nude beach (sans sunscreen no less), affixing a gold lightning bolt to a front tooth or pursuing competitive hot dog eating as a career path.

The embodiment of snubbing the "Just because you can, doesn't mean you should" guideline is Joyce Mckinney, a North Carolina woman I read about recently on the web. Apparently this former Miss Wyoming (there's your first clue) recently paid over $50,000 to have her pit bull,Booger,cloned not once but four times in South Korea. Apparently she felt the world would be significantly enriched with more Boogers barking, biting and marking their territory.

Sadly the canine cloning isn't the most newsworthy part of the story. Not surprisingly Miss Congeniality has a long history of dubious behavior. It began in 1977 when she allegedly abducted a Mormon missionary in Surrey, England. When he failed to reciprocate her affections she handcuffed him (mink linked I understand) to make him her love slave (That's one way to get a date to the prom). Fearing punishment, Joyce jumped bail and escaped back to the U.S. where she'd been living incognito until recently.

Feeling the financial pinch from the doggie duplicates Miss McKinney again resorted to a life of crime. As opposed to a home equity line of credit or pawning a puppy, she coerced a 15 year old boy to burglarize a home for cash to purchase a prosthetic for her 3 legged horse. At least she'll always have an advocate in PETA if they're willing to overlook the brazen use of mink fur.

Joyce's dream began circling the drain when fame fogged her judgment and she paraded Boogers two through six all over the international media. Despite a very concerted effort at letting herself go, many people, including the British authorities began to recognize this crackpot 30 years later. This quirky cloud has a silver lining however since Joyce has been touting herself as a budding filmmaker. So, when she gets out of the pokey I'm thinking autobiography for her first project. But remember Joyce "Just because you can, doesn't mean you should."

Thanks to dailymail.co.uk for the "before" picture of Joyce.

Was That My Out Loud Voice?

2008-09-16T13:01:00.000-07:00

Nerves do funny things to people. Some giggle, some sweat, some blush. Other nervous Nellies are beleaguered with nail biting, stuttering or are lucky enough to escape with hives. Me? I turn in to the blooper audition from "Last Comic Standing." Honestly, I want to stop (well, most of the time) and I have tried, but with limited success.

I used to think the lack of social interaction affiliated with motherhood caused my mouth to stream perpetual one-liners, but according to friends and family this is not an exclusively post-partum phenomenon. Admittedly even as a small child I had sarcastic comments and other socially marginal observations rattling around in my twisted head. But my recent inability to keep from saying them in my "out loud" voice is starting to take its' toll.

Surprisingly I've never been fired, expelled, divorced or physically removed from a restaurant, movie theatre or other public venue based on my verbal diarrhea. But I am the one who looked at my husband and whispered in a not so quiet voice "I see dead people" when a woman speaking in church sounded hauntingly like Haley Joel Osment in "The Sixth Sense." And, when strangers persistently inquire if my boy/girl twins are identical, I frequently reply "Just until you pull their pants down."

The latest verbal eruption occurred at a bridal shower at my home. I was in fine form that afternoon and had it been the traditional mix of attendees I would have simply been dismissed as the kooky cousin or even better, politely ignored. But the guest list for this little soiree included no less than four women sporting PhD's in psychology and I rose to the occasion by performing at a near manic level. Like most addicts, my recollection of events is hazy at best. But I do vaguely recall saying a neck brace is a hard look to pull off, even in a strapless wedding gown, when the bride discussed a post grad skydiving excursion. Unfortunately that was probably one of the more sedate remarks I spewed during my sorbet and Costco cookie induced tirade.

Based on my errant behavior I'm fairly certain all four shrinks were psychoanalyzing me in the car on their way home. I figure the best case scenario is they've pinned me with low self esteem and an unhealthy need to be the center of attention. Worst case ranges from Tourette's Syndrome to some sort of destructive personality disorder requiring shock therapy and pills whose side effects make shingles look like a spa treatment. On the upside, the food was terrific and I'll probably get a comprehensive diagnosis at the wedding in a few days. That is if I'm still invited.

Look Ma, No Hands!

2008-09-02T09:15:00.000-07:00

Since Gilligan and Mary Ann graduated from big wheels to training wheels, keeping up with them in my beaded flip flops proves out of the question. So, I hopped on my new mountain bike (used Specialized Hardrock for those of you keeping score) and tried to pull the old "Look Ma, no hands" trick while straightening my $12 sunglasses. Within milliseconds the handlebars spun around like the possessed girl's head from "The Exorcist."

Cursing the bitter divorcee that sold me the whirling death trap, I blamed equipment malfunction and did the obvious assessments: tire pressure OK, handlebars tightened, field sobriety, check. I gave it another go only after scanning the newly constructed road for railroad spikes, discarded hubcaps and rabid livestock. Horrified, I cleared the original time trial by just a hair. Only after the third rib splitting attempt did I reluctantly admit it might not be the bike.

As a kid I rode hands free for miles, turned corners and cleared the driveway lip while juggling my vat of Mountain Dew flavored Slurpee and a tin of shredded beef jerky. WHAT HAPPENED? Did I spend too much time peering into the microwave or sniff my brother's model glue one time too many? I'd like to blame it on birthing a litter of babies, but truthfully I had a c section and snapped back pretty well after that one despite a teeny encounter with congestive heart failure. And, many friends who've never been pregnant (male and female) have experienced the same cool sapping phenomenon.

Forget the Avian Flu this coordination destroying plague is reaching pandemic proportions. While admiring a family member's award winning road rash, she feebly explained "pogo stick mishap." One friend sideswiped the gas pump twice while nursing her diet coke. Fortunately, it was a company car, two separate gas stations, and she failed to escape since the pump was still firmly tethered to her SUV both times.

Still another pal broke her collarbone running to 1st base during a corporate softball game and later busted her wrist while busting a move to MC Hammer's "Can't Touch This" on the President's Club trip. (Yes, she got the promotion but it was contingent upon her promise to forego company athletic events).

Now before you go blaming gender don't forget the 30 something Dad who insisted on test driving his son's new motorized scooter Christmas morning. He made it 5 houses wearing his new sheepskin lined moccasin slippers before laying that bad boy down to the horror of the entire pajama clad neighborhood. He chose a red and green cast.

Advancing age (I'm pushing 40) and lousy genetics are my likely perpetrators considering one brother managed 5 broken arms before he was twelve and another one pureed his hand hang gliding. If a tainted family tree really is the culprit it's not looking too promising for my kids. Not too long ago both of their Grandmas fell into their respective window wells within a few days of each other. One was hauling a roll of carpet and the other one, well it doesn't really matter now does it?

What's In a Name?

2008-08-22T12:46:00.001-07:00

For the past 15 years I've navigated the suburbs on my brother's old mountain bike. My riding partner bought a brand new ride so I decided to upgrade mine to keep up with the Jones's (or in this case the Christenson's).

On line shopping has left me amused and perplexed by mountain bike names. Most are descriptively appropriate like the "Rock Hopper", "Boulder", and the "Stump Jumper". Considering my riding aptitude, others seem a tad sadistic like the "Scream", "Slayer" "Stab" and if you've stopped your meds cold turkey, try the "Stab Deluxe." There's nothing like hitting the trails on your "Azonic Eliminator" or the neighborhood friendly "Assault". These labels sound more like Vin Diesel's weapons of mass destruction during an apocalyptic temper tantrum than a way to return overdue library books. I doubt I'd feel comfortable traversing the cul-de-sac or installing a kickstand on any one of these criminally punishable offenses.

Some manufacturers clearly enlist the help of inebriated frat boys during rush week to determine their new model names. Take, for instance, the Salsa "El Mariachi", "Loco Moto" and the "Hoss". None of them conjure up images of strength and athleticism in my pointed little head.

One bike maker, Gary Fisher, proudly brings us the "Mullet", "PhD" and "Opie" (now there's an interesting dinner party). My personal favorite, the "Hoo Koo E Koo", sounds more like a Polynesian mating ritual for exotic birds than a bicycle. What exactly is a Hoo Koo E Koo and do I really want to sit on it while wearing spandex? My guess is Gary came up with the much more benign "Level Betty" following a stint in rehab and a reproving look from his mother.

I thought fate had intervened when I happened upon the Kona "Four Lisa". It's aptly titled considering there's only four Lisa's on earth who'd be willing to shell out $1349 for a not so lightly used mountain bike.

Even more unsettling than the bike names are the people selling them and the ads they place. One recent asylum escapee offered to trade his Kona "Kikapu" for FIREARMS (I'm not making this up)! Shouldn't we all be afraid he'll Kikapu out of some unsuspecting schmuck if he's packing heat instead of a bike? Adding to my concern is the surprisingly counter intuitive biking lingo. Some of the most hyped-up, costly bikes have been simply marketed as "Sicko bike, won't last." Some thing's sicko all right, but I don't think it's the bike.

True, Kind and Necessary

2008-08-11T07:13:00.000-07:00

In an effort to keep biting, fires and professional counseling to a minimum, a family member of mine has adopted the "True, Kind and Necessary Rule." Essentially it forbids you from speaking anything that is not true, kind AND necessary. No folks we're not buying doughnuts here. There's no picking and choosing from the rules, you're required to abide by all three guidelines at the same time.

Obviously it's a remarkable, but lofty goal and exceptional parenting. But really, is there anything left? It's the verbal equivalent to Oprah's dietary cleanse where you're prohibited from consuming red meat, fish, poultry, dairy, caffeine, alcohol, carbonation, sugar, white flour, gluten and pretty much anything else remotely palatable.

So, before you jump on the True, Kind and Necessary bus, consider this.

Scenario #1
You run into a friend from college whose baby of questionable gender has ear hair, webbed feet and squeals like a pig in a chipper. Using the True, Kind and Necessary rule, what do you say to her?
"Oh how cute. How old is he/she?"
Kind? Yes.
Necessary? Probably.
True? Not even close. Strike One.

I would personally go with "Hey, now that's a big baby! Wow, look at all that hair" (location omitted). Weak, I know, but it gets me over all 3 hurdles.

Scenario #2
Your pre-teen, preparing for her first middle school dance, emerges from her room looking like the love child of Heath Ledger as the Joker and the 1986 Mary Kay pink Cadillac recipient. Since it's her first foray into cosmetics and mixed gender social interactions, your concerns are justified. Your relationship has been tenuous at best lately due to the rollercoaser of hormones (hers pubescent and yours menopausal). At the risk of imposing Gregorian monk silence for the next decade, do you say "Hey Lolita, how about scraping some of that spackle off so you don't get tagged for soliciting?"
True? Oh yes.
Kind? Only in the long run.
Necessary? Legally and socially.

Scenario #3
Your husband returns from an exhausting day at work to find you've disfigured his highly polished, gas guzzling urban assault vehicle while almost squeaking through the drive up at Arctic Circle. His face clearly contorted with repressed rage, what can he say in accordance with the True, Kind and Necessary decree?
"It's okay darling, we can buff it out, AGAIN."
True? Oh no. This one's going to require bondo and professional intervention.
Kind? Very.
Necessary? Only if you'd like to stay married.

Needless to say there's a plethora of family, social and professional situations that make the True, Kind and Necessary mantra a very slippery slope. And even when you can perform the verbal gymnastics required to hit all three targets, are the results really what the founder intended?

Myths and Facts About Social Security

2008-08-04T10:19:00.000-07:00

As part of my mortgage business I try to share pertinent financial/mortgage info I come across. This one dispelling Social Security myths caught my attention.

Myth: Social Security is on the verge of going broke.

Fact: Even if Congress takes no action, full benefits can continue to be paid until 2041, according to the latest report by the trustees of Social Security. Given the importance of Social Security for so many Americans, it is reasonable to assume that Congress will act before the system runs out of money.

Myth: Your Social Security benefit is based on your income in your last five working years.

Fact: Your benefit is actually based on your income during the 35 years in which you earned the most. Your earnings are first indexed to account for changes in average wages since the year in which you earned the money. Then a formula is applied to calculate your basic benefit or "primary insurance amount" (PIA). If you don't have 35 years of earnings, some years with no earnings will be used to determine the average amount.

Myth: Everyone's normal retirement age is 65.
Fact: For those born in 1937 or earlier, the normal (or full) retirement age is still 65. But it is gradually increasing for workers born after 1937. To learn yours, visit the Social Security Administration's Website, www.ssa.gov. You may elect to begin receiving benefits before you reach your full retirement age, but your monthly payments will be reduced.

Finally, the article indicated that your tax-deferred 401(k) savings will probably be your single largest source of income in retirement, so try to take full advantage of your plan.

2008 SmartMoney, The Wall Street Journal Magazine. Prepared by Custom Solutions from SmartMoney.

Grandma who?

2008-07-31T13:27:00.000-07:00

Back by popular demand, one of my most embarrassing moments.

Last spring at an appointment for my kids, a chatty receptionist in her late twenties asked the question that will forever mark me like an ugly tattoo. Overlooking my smattering of adolescent acne, she said "So, are you the mom or the grandma?"

Do you think I had quick, clever, retort? Nope! My feeble reply in a crackling granny voice was some unintelligible gibberish about finishing college and marrying late.

To make matters worse, I'd invested some time in my appearance that day with my hair styled, makeup applied and a somewhat stylish ensemble. There was no sign of an elastic waistband, white orthopedic shoe or plastic rain hat anywhere in my possession.

She desperately tried to quell the irreparable damage with futile compliments about my kids and clothes, then bam! She delivered the final crushing blow. While admiring my hairstyle she said "That color does a great job of covering your gray." (Apparently not!)

I should've seen this day coming. During my first prenatal visit at age 34 I was given a fistful of precautionary brochures entitled "Geriatric Gestation" and "What Were You Thinking You Old Goat?" Okay, it was "Pregnancy at an Advanced Maternal Age", but the ensuing damage was the same.

So, before you ask someone "When is your baby due?" or "Why'd you bring your dad to the dance?", consider the consequences.