Of Tiaras and Texas

As many of you may remember, last year's Fourth of July post detailed my family's hideous adventure at Kaboom Town. Well, fool me once, fireworks, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. This year, I chose instead to pay tribute to our nation's birthday in true Texas fashion -- with pomp, circumstance and hair extensions.

In other words ... the Miss Texas Pageant.

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It started, like so many things do nowadays, with a text. "Want to go to the Miss Texas pageant?" asked my neighbor Carrie, about a month ago.

"Sure," I said, because, really? Ball gowns, big hair, and batons ... how could I possibly say no?

I'll admit to watching my share of Miss America as a little girl...every year, Mom and I would make popcorn and hunker down in front of the TV for a night of sequins and swimsuits. I "may" have posed in front of the bathroom mirror and given an imaginary speech..which for some reason always started with "I'd like to thank the Academy" instead of, "my greatest wish is for world peace." Which is funny because I've avoided the stage since I was 10 and singing with my dad's band, forgot the words, ran offstage and hid in a ladies' room. But that, as they say, is another story.

As an adult, I hadn't watched a pageant in years. Until last night, during the Uber ride to the restaurant when Carrie brought up footage of Miss South Carolina's answer from the 2007 Miss Teen USA pageant. "Such as the Iraq" will forever hold a special place in my heart as the Best.Worst.Answer.Ever.

This pretty much set the tone for the night, which had begun with several giggly texts back and forth while getting dressed. I mean, obviously we had to chat about what to wear. Because duh. When one attends the Miss Texas pageant, one must dress accordingly.

After exclaiming over each others' dresses and shoes, Carrie asked her husband to take a picture of us for posterity. Because if there was ever a night for ridiculous late night selfies, this was going to be it - best to attempt a "normal" picture before the drinking started.



We ubered over to Jasper's. As we got out of the car, Carrie said, "I just hope there's at least one baton twirler tonight."

"Me, too," I replied.

"And puppets," she added.

"Oooh, do you think?" I asked, giddy with anticipation. "That would be amazing. And possibly a dramatic reading from Gone With the Wind. Because that would be epic."

Giggling, we made our way into the restaurant. As we took our seats, the waiter greeted us and asked how we were. Carrie asked him the same, to which he replied, "Actually, I'm sublime." Or maybe he said he was "supine." Or possibly "sub-prime." Basically, I've no real idea what he said.

He asked if we were celebrating anything. "Miss Texas!" Carrie said, and he looked surprised for maybe half a second, and then he recovered and said, "Rock on. Do you want to start with some Prosecco?"

I don't think I need to tell you what we said to that. Because the only acceptable answer when someone asks if you want Prosecco -- is yes.

As he walked away, I whispered, "did he say he was sublime?"

"I don't know, I couldn't understand him!" Carrie whispered back.

"I think he just made up a word!" I whispered.

And then we giggled. Again.

Our bubbly came and we ordered the blue cheese potato chips. Our waiter described several specials and something very complicated the chef was doing to a pork tenderloin that involved sous-vide and sauerkraut. I'm not really sure what all that was about, but it sounded very Iron Chef. Only German. And sauerkraut? Is so not pageant food.

We asked for a recommendation, since we wanted to split a salad and entree. (Hello, we were about to watch anorexic 20 year olds, we had to drink .. ahem, I mean "watch" our calories). He suggested the surf and turf, which was medium rare tuna and steak. I'm not a big fan of fish that hasn't been cooked, mainly because A) I grew up on beer batter and B) It's fish and C) I prefer my tuna in a can. But I do have to say -- everything was really good. Once I got past the fact that the tuna was purple.

We asked the waiter to take a picture. It looked hideous. We asked him to take another. Also hideous. But we thanked him anyway, and I said (still giggling), "I bet we're the most ridiculous customers you have all night."

To his credit he said, "Nah, you're just having a good time."
And yes. We were. We tried to take a selfie before we left, but the lighting was just all wrong. So, my restaurant review in a nutshell:

Jasper's has excellent service and food.
But terribly unflattering lighting for pictures.
You're welcome.

Dinner finished, we headed to the Eisemann Center, and discussed perfume with the uber driver on the way. Because of course we did.

And then we opened the door and entered a pink and blonde cloud of hair extensions, gowns and sparkles, the likes of which I doubt I'll ever experience again in my lifetime. Family members clutched giant photos of their contestants. Past Miss Texas winners walked the red carpet. And little girls wore giant, fluffy white dresses that looked like some bizarre quinceanera. For ten-year-olds.



"Wouldn't it be great if they had one of those things where we could stick our heads in it and have crowns?" Carrie asked, because if there was ever a place for a rhinestoned photo booth, this was it.

We headed straight for the bar. Obviously. And ordered champagne. "Would you like to purchase a commemorative Miss Texas champagne flute?"

Why, yes. Yes we would. As we sipped our champagne, we asked a man wearing a lovely plaid jacket to take our photo. "Full body shot?" he asked. I had to smile. You know you're in pageant country when the men wear Madras and ask about your photo preferences.

We raised our glasses and as I took another sip, I mused, "I wonder if they'd just sell us a bottle? And would it be wrong to take that back to our seats?" Because a night like this? Was not a one-glass event.



We, along with our commemorative flutes, made our way to our seats -- which, thanks to Carrie, were amazing. Box seats right in the middle of the balcony, for the perfect view of the pag-sanity that was about to begin. Lights dimmed. We "might" have squealed in excitement. And yes, obligatory opening ceremony selfies.





And so it began. Miss Texas 2015 took the stage, lit only in profile as she turned, struck a pose and then began to swivel back and forth. "OMG, interpretive dance!" I whispered, "this is AWESOME!" Then Demi Lovato's "Complicated" blasted out as a slew of red sequin-clad ladies strolled across the stage. They joined Miss Texas 2015 in a choregraphed dance involving lots of snapping fingers and wrists. Think, "talk to the hand" only it was more like "talk to my pageant-walking sequin-wearing fabulousness." Because the pageant walk? Was in full force. If you don't know what I'm talking about, might I suggest this helpful guide to perfecting your pageant strut.

Our host was Miss Texas 2012 and she regaled us with the glorious history of Miss Texas. She introduced us to the Lone Star princesses, those little girls in white I had spotted in the lobby. Because dressing prepubescent girls in sparkly wedding dresses and false eyelashes? Is not creepy. At. All.

Then she announced a very special guest -- Miss Texas 1966. A video tribute played, showcasing her evening gown competition walk and her talent.

Guess what her talent was?

A dramatic reading from ...wait for it ... Gone with the Wind.

"As God is mah witness, I'll never be hungry again."

I almost spilled my drink as Carrie and I high-fived. Because Scarlett O'Hara? Is one of my all-time favorite heroines. "I can't think about this now. I'll think about it tomorrow." That phrase can save your life.

Between GWTD and the Lone Star princesses, they announced the 12 semifinalists, we met the contestants and I went downstairs for another glass of champagne. Because the swimsuit competition was coming up, and clearly, that required ... nay, demanded, alcoholic accompaniment.

Each of the contestants pageant-strutted down the runway in a biniki and a teensy little wrap, which they whipped off dramatically so we could all see their cellulite-free thighs and derrieres. All I can say is there were a lot of ab crunches that went into those bodies. And not much food.

Then we had evening wear. The ladies were grouped by the color of their dresses, because apparently most of them went for black, blue, red or white. There was one yellow gown and one sort of blue with gold side panels. Don't worry, I'm not going to wax poetic about fashion. Because I love a good gown as much as anyone, but let's face it. We weren't here to see the dresses. We were here to see one thing.

The talent competition.

I won't describe all the talents -- but I feel compelled to share a few of the highlights. The 90-second speed painting of Elvis was a personal favorite. As were the batons, because yes, more than one lady brought her twirlers. Miss Plano, I believe, was the best of the bunch. Three batons, or was it four? I can't remember -- it was all a blur of sparkles and sticks flung high into the air.

There were dancers. A celloist. (Note: don't play the cello for your pageant talent. Just don't. Especially if you have to follow a baton twirler. They will crush you). And yes, there was a ventriloquist. Carrie got her puppets! Fancy, dancing and singing puppets, no less!

At intermission, we both went downstairs. I headed for the ladies' room while Carrie held our drinks. When I finally pushed through the crowds to find Carrie (it was a pageant, for God's sake; of course there was a line for the ladies' room) I couldn't find her. Finally, I spied her near the doors, chatting with a cop. Who seemed really interested in knowing what she did. And where she worked. And where she lived. (Officer Stalker much?)

Then she spilled champagne on the floor and he joked, "Who's driving?" Ha ha ha, good one, Officer. Maybe you can give us a ride home after. Or ... maybe not.

As we left our new law enforcement friend, Carrie said, "did I really just spill champagne on the floor? In front of a police officer?"

"Yes, but I'm pretty sure he didn't care. I think he kind of liked you."

Giggle. Giggle.

Still snorting, we found our seats once again, this time for the interview portion of the night (AKA, Such as the Iraq). The first question was whether immigrants faced favoritism in this country. Or maybe it was racism. I couldn't really hear. All I know is the contestant used a word in her answer that I can think was meant to be "xenophobia" only it came out more like "funaphobia" which I'm pretty sure is not a real word. And if it is, how sad is that -- I mean, who has a phobia about fun?

Two different contestants were asked to "imagine you are moderating the first debate between Trump and Clinton, and what would you ask?" I believe it was Miss Park Cities who said she would ask Hillary Clinton about empowering women and how she was making history. That didn't sit well with the crowd, who booed and hissed, except for one person who cheered. Oh wait. That was me. Spoiler Alert: guess who didn't win Miss Texas?

Our mayor took the stage and talked about helping the contestants build houses. Or maybe they fed the homeless. IDK. They did something good for the community. I wasn't paying much attention at that point. My feet, in their 3-inch platform heels, were kind of hurting. Also? I was almost out of champagne.

Finally, the moment we'd all been waiting for arrived. The runners up were announced and then... drumroll ... Miss Plano was crowned Miss Texas 2016. She won a pretty small scholarship and the use of an Infiniti for a year. If you ask me, that's kind of a raw deal for years of starvation and hair extensions. She did get a standing ovation and a ginormous bouquet of yellow roses. So you know, there's that.



We decided it was too early to end the evening, so we walked over to the Renaissance Hotel for a drink. Where the bartender looked so young, I'm pretty sure I could have given birth to him. Which is kind of euww, so let's not do that math.

We both ordered the same wine. And apparently, they only had one glass left of that particular wine. But I think we scared him, so he wouldn't come back and tell us -- we had to flag down another bartender who broke the news. And looked nervous telling us. What did she think? We'd start a fight over cabernet? Then again, they had been hosting pageant moms all week so maybe they had reason to fear. I offered to have a different wine. Problem solved.

As we were drinking, a man in a sequined jacket (yes, you heard me right) leaned over the bar. Carrie complimented him on his jacket and he explained that he'd had it flown in from L.A. Then he introduced himself as the official pageant florist. That's right, people. We met a celebrity. Sort of. Not really at all, but whatever.

So of course, we had to tell him how much we loved the flowers and then he told us how he really wanted to do a more modern look but with the traditional nod to Texas via yellow roses, and we all agreed that baby's breath was so last century ... there was so much estrogen in that conversation, I'm pretty sure we could have reset the menstrual cycles of every woman within a 50-yard radius. He gave us his card. You know, for the next time we hold a pageant in our living room and need flowers.

We knew it was pretty much impossible to top the celeb florist encounter, so at this point we decided to call it a night. We ubered home, I took our commemorative glasses home to wash, and we giggled one more time over the evening.

Because yes, swimsuit competitions are insane.

So are beauty contests in general.

But nonstop giggling like you're twelve with a good friend and enjoying the spectacle of batons, speed-painting Elvis and yes, dramatic readings of Gone With the Wind?

Best.Mom's Night.Ever.

Cherokee

So this originally appeared in Appalachian Heritage, like a million years ago. Just a little story about a girl, a boy and a hubcap...

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At her cocktail parties, my mother could never resist telling everyone how I was conceived in the back seat of a '57 Chevy. "My little Katie is part Chevrolet," she'd say with that great laugh she's got.

This confused me when I was little and we were studying American Indians in school. When we learned about all the different tribes and their reservations, I got it in my head that Chevrolet was a tribe and the dealership where Daddy and Granddad worked was like the Chevrolet Reservation. My teacher said the Indians felt they had been cheated by the white people, and they spent a lot of time sitting around their reservations complaining. I'd been to the dealership enough to know that nearly everyone who came in there talked about being robbed blind, taken for all they were worth.
Sounded like the same thing to me.

My parents had no idea we were part of a tribe of car dealers until we took that vacation to Wilmington, North Carolina, when I was ten. To get there, you had to pass by Cherokee, a real tourist-trap of an Indian town a lot of people visit on their way to the beach or to the mountains for camping. I think Daddy would love to have camped, but you do not take Penny Fay Mullins to a place with no indoor plumbing, thank you very much. So we were on our way to Wrightsville Beach, where we had a house for two weeks.

It was a long drive. It took about twelve hours to get down there from Kentucky. Too short to make it a two-day trip, too long for a one-day trip to be pleasant. Momma and Daddy had started arguing somewhere near the Tennessee-North Carolina border, where 1-40 started whipping around the mountains and Daddy started racing semis.

Then I saw the signs for Cherokee and started begging. I figured this was my big chance to see what other reservations look liked.

“Daddy, we gotta stop! I want to see a gift shop. Pretty please with sugar on top!”

I was thinking these shops would be like the parts counter at the dealership back home. I loved that counter – all those shiny hubcaps and nuts and the cash register. I used to steal the little pads they wrote down orders on. I'd make my friends play Car Repair with me, which consisted of one girl scribbling down on the yellow pad of paper while the other (usually me) hopped up and down yelling, “You're takin' me to the damn cleaners!”

I don't think we would ever have stopped, if they hadn’t been so tired of hearing each other. Daddy sighed and said, "All right honey, but we can only stay for a half-hour. Your mother and I are tired from all this driving, and we'd like to get to the beach house."

"That's okay, Daddy." I answered. "You and Momma can sit in the chairs in the gift shop."

See, I knew they'd have chairs, just like in the dealership waiting area back home. Daddy kind of raised his eyebrow at my mother, but she just shrugged. She thought I was crazy from the day I was born.

We pulled off the highway and drove down the strip of Tee-Pee Hotels, Wampum Gas Stations and the Little Squaw Beauty Salon. It all looked enough like the Mobile stations, Burger Queens and muffler shops that surrounded Daddy's dealership. I figured I'd come to the right place.

Now, I got a little confused once we pulled in front of this store, because the fake log-cabin did not look like the clunky cement building where Daddy worked. But I was worldly enough to realize I couldn't expect everybody to do stuff exactly like they did back home. This was North Carolina, after all.

I was busting to get out of the car and jumped out the minute Daddy turned off the engine. I ran inside, where it was cool and dark and smelled like chewing tobacco. I saw shelves of dolls dressed as squaws, miniature tomahawks and plastic peace pipes hanging from the walls. But I didn't see plastic chairs, racks of spark plugs or bottled wax.

So I went up to the teenage boy behind the cash register, who was smoking a cigarette and fiddling with the knobs of a radio like there were no customers in his store. This was no big shocker to me. Daddy was real professional and would never sit down if there was a customer in the store, but the minute he was out in his office talking with Granddad, the other counter guys just sat around and drank Pepsi. You practically had to shout to get them to notice you if you wanted something.

"Excuse me, sir," I said to him. He flipped back his black bangs and looked at me with a blank stare. He had a white tank-top on and jeans, and around his neck hung a leather cord with a tiny silver cow skull. He looked at me like I was mud, like anything as small as me was just too much of a bother. When he raised his eyebrow, I saw a small light scar near his left eye.

He was the coolest guy I had ever seen.

"Um, I was just wonderin' where your parts are." I sounded so stupid! I couldn't talk to him like a normal person. Because he was so ... much more than normal.

"Parts?" He asked me, his eyebrow going up even higher. “What kinda parts?”

“Like, you know … car parts.”

He shook his head. “Car parts?” He nodded toward a door behind him. “Well, my uncle keeps some tires and stuff for his shop out back, don’t know if that’s what you’re looking for.”

I sucked in my breath and concentrated on not acting like a baby. "Yes. That is, in fact, exactly what I'm looking for."

I couldn't believe it. This was the real deal. All this toy stuff was just for dumb kids to look at while the adults settled down to the real business of buying parts. Out of the comer of my eye, I saw my mother at the jewelry case. I ran over to my father real quick.

"Daddy, remember when you said I could have my month's worth of allowance early, if I wanted to buy a souvenir? I need that right now."

"Well, honey, what do you want to buy with it? That's all the money you get to spend on this trip, you know."

I looked back at the cashier and smiled real cool, you know. Then I talked real low, 'cause I couldn't let this guy know I still got an allowance. "Daddy, I swear I'll never ask for anything again if you'll just give me twenty bucks."

"Twenty dollars is a lot of money, Katie Drew. Your allowance is only two dollars a week. You know that."

"Daddy, please! I will owe you for the rest. I'll rake the leaves, clean the house. I'll do anything. I just need that money!" I was in love and desperate.

Daddy looked at me kind of weird. But he was used to women weaseling money out of him, so he finally shrugged. "Like mother, like daughter. You can have your twenty dollars, but no allowance for the next couple months, then. And don't come cryin' to me next month when you want somethin' else this bad."

"Daddy, thank you, thank you. I won't!"

Then I marched the twenty-dollar bill back to the counter. "Sir, I'd like to see your parts."

He looked at me, all skeptical. "You sure your parents let you buy the parts?"

"Yes, sir. I'm pretty much in charge here. They're all wore out from drivin', so they let me take over."

"Okay," he shrugged, and motioned for me to come around the counter. "You can come out and look at 'em. And quit callin' me sir. My name's Tee-John."

Tee-John. It was the best name ever.

I stepped around and stood right next to Tee-John as he unlatched the screen door, smacked it open, then held it for me. I was so close to him, I could smell a big whiff of Old Spice, which is what Granddad wore. I didn't want to think about that, though. I didn't want anyone else in the world to smell like this now.

"Thank you, Tee-John," I said as I stepped out. Just saying his name gave me goose bumps. I hoped I sounded like Momma did when we'd leave the mall and some cute guy would hold the door for us and she'd thank him in that tone that didn’t sound like a mother.

"Careful of them steps!" he warned me, like a real gentleman. So I was careful going down the cracked, green-painted wooden steps that led into the backyard.

And what a backyard it was.

There was a huge wall around the whole yard, made out of tires stacked up just as high as you could see. And there was this old school bus painted purple, leaning on its side in the way back of the yard. All around the yard were rows of old engines and smack in the middle was the burnt-out shell of what had been an orange Camaro. Piled next to the Camaro, like stacks of giant coins, were shiny hubcaps, polished brighter than the gold bracelet Daddy gave Momma for their anniversary.

"Pretty cool, huh?" Tee-John asked me, his sullen eyes brightening for a moment.

"Yeah." I could barely even breathe. "Pretty cool."

Tee-John pointed to the school bus and announced, "That's my place. My uncle and me, we fixed up this yard, but the bus I did all myself."

Oh, I wish you could have seen that bus. He had the whole thing painted, like I said. And though there was kudzu all around, there was none covering the windows. I figured it was all clean in there. I swear it was like a big purple flower with green all around it, like you could live in there, and it would be all cool and quiet inside.

"Wow," was the only thing I could even say. I wanted to live there. I wanted to live in the bus with Tee-John. We'd run the store, and I'd get one of those cow-skull necklaces just like his. I didn't care if I ever saw my parents again. I had seen heaven and wanted it so bad. I wanted to dye my hair black just like his. I thought of my baby-blue and white room back home. It made me sick with shame. I wanted kudzu in my room. I wanted tires and a boy who looked like he didn't care about anything.

"Okay, let's get down to business," Tee-John declared. "I got used tires on special this month, a couple tailpipes dirt cheap, and spark plugs that are just like new."

"How much for one hubcap?" And even though I knew I could get me one used back home for ten, I was praying like crazy: Oh God, please God, don't let it be more than twenty. I know this is North Carolina. I know it's probably more expensive. But I swear, if you let me have it for twenty, I'll clean my room, I'll be nice to everyone, even stupid Kenny Kelly. Honest.

"I can give you a sweet deal on this one." Tee-John walked over to the Camaro and pulled out a slightly dented but sparkly cap. "From a Caddy that ran into a tree off the highway. I hear the people in it died."

"They died?" Oh, man … this was it.

"Yep. Worse'n that," Tee-John paused. "They were newlyweds."

"Oh, no," I cried, clutching the twenty I had somehow removed from my pocket and was holding like a charm.

"Yeah. They were on their way to their honeymoon in Wilmington."

"Oh my gosh, that's where we're going." I couldn't believe my luck.

If only I could afford it. I knew you just could not put a price on this type of tragedy, but I hoped like anything I could get this one for twenty.

"Well," Tee-John looked down at my fist, then looked away real quick. “I probably shouldn't sell it, being like a historical piece or whatnot." He narrowed his eyes and thought for a second. “Guess I could let it go for fifteen."

"Sold, Tee-John!" I was way beyond happy as I handed over the money. Tee-John polished the rim with the dirty hem of his tank top, then gave it to me. My hands touched his, and I felt the spark go through me, like when I accidentally stuck my finger in the outlet back home. I held that hubcap tight, letting its sun-drenched heat soak into my skin.

I couldn't wait to get in the car, just to run my fingers over where his shirt touched the rim.

"I gotta get back to the store. Now don't you tell anybody what you paid for that!" Tee-John looked right at me with his big brown eyes. I was touched he didn't want anyone to know what a sweet deal he had just given me. He felt down in his back pocket and brought up a dirty, tan plastic wallet, imprinted with the faded image of a motorcycle. He folded up my twenty and stuck it inside, then brought out a barely-green five­ dollar bill, which he smoothed-out with his thumbs and handed to me.

Then he turned and took the rotting stairs in one leap, with me right behind.

"Honey, are you ready to go?" Momma walked up to me, holding out her hand. "See what Daddy's getting me?"

She wiggled her fingers to show-off her new turquoise ring. "Now what did you get, Miss Katie Drew?"

I looked up at mother's flushed face. "Hubcap, Momma." Then I waved at Tee-John, who was at the cash register with my father. "Bye, Tee-John!"

And I swear, he winked at me.

I was outta there fast. I knew my parents wouldn't understand, and I didn't want to deal with a bunch of questions in the store. I waited by the car till my they came out, Momma saying something to Daddy and both of them looking at me with my hubcap. They thought I was crazy, but I didn’t even care.

"Now, what exactly did you buy?" Daddy asked me.

"You heard her, Bob," Momma answered, fanning herself with her hand. "She bought a hubcap. Now unlock this car and tum on the air, before we all die of heat."

She gave Daddy that we'll talk about this later look as we all got in the car, but I knew I'd never hear anything more about it. They'd talk about it to each other maybe, when we got to the beach house and they'd had a gin and tonic. It would give them something to worry about, beside themselves.

I just held that hubcap as we drove back onto the interstate, keeping my eyes peeled for where that accident might have happened.

Ratcopalypes Now: A true tale of one woman and the rats who destroyed her car ... along with her dignity

February 17

Last Friday, I noticed that all the warning signs in my car started flashing. Not a good sign, right? So I took it to a repair shop, who quickly called to tell me they'd no idea what the hell was wrong -- but it didn't bode well and I should drive it to the dealership ASAP.

So I did ... and the rest, as they say, is history. Or in this case, Ratstory.

I dropped off the car at Subaru of Plano. I didn't hear from them for a while, so I called them back in the afternoon -- figuring, eh, it's electrical stuff they probably had to run some computery codey type thing (yes, that's my version of tech speak). The nice service guy gets on the line. "Well, Mrs. Reedy, we're still running the codes (SEE??) but we did notice something. In the engine? There's evidence of rodents."

"Rats?" I think I might have squealed just a little. "Are you saying RATS have been in my car?"

"Well, we found some wiring that looks chewed..."

There was more squealing on my part, and an uncomfortable choking noise on his and then he explained very nicely that he would probably need to get back to me in the morning. And then he started laughing before realizing he hadn't yet hung up the phone.

So that was Monday.

Disgusted, I dealt with the news in the only reasonable way I could: wine and red carpet therapy. After all, the Grammys were on, and no rodent was going to keep me from tipsily posting nonsense about Johnny Depp.

Then on Tuesday afternoon, the dealer called me back. Here's how that conversation went:

Subaru dealer: I have some news on your car
Me: Oh great, were you able to fix it?
Subaru: Well, ma'am... we've found evidence of multiple rats. All over the car.
Me: Please tell me you are kidding.
Subaru. No ma'am. they've been IN your car. Under floor mats, under the driver's side foot pads
Me: (Feeling violated). Oh. My.God.
Subaru: We need to take apart the entire interior of your car to determine the extent of the wiring damage and repair it.
Me: So ...how much does something like that cost?
Subaru: Well, ma'am, I can tell you there's a comma. I just can't say for sure what the number is before it.

I had this conversation at work, mind you, and I sit in a cubicle so when I called back the dealer and said, "Hi, this is Deirdre Reedy, you know, the one with the rat car?" everyone heard me. And laughed. I don't blame them.

I then made the mistake of asking the dealer, "so, like, when you said they were IN my car, exactly how IN are we talking?" When he told me they'd been all over the floor and the center console, that's when I really lost it and dissolved into hysterical laughter/crying. Because my kids drop food on the floor of my car and then pick it back up and eat it. All the time. The pediatrician said my oldest had bronchitis, but now I wasn't so sure. I'm no history buff, but if memory serves me right, rats are sorta famous for spreading around a little disease, maybe you've heard of it? BLACK PLAGUE, anyone??

And the center console is where I stash my nail polish. Because of course the only opportunity I have to do my nails is sitting in the car, in the school parking lot after I drop off the kids at school and before driving to the office. The minute I attempt to polish my nails while my kids are around, someone needs their shoes tied, something fished out of a backpack, or a Playstation remote has been lost in the couch cushions and requires surgical retrieval.

But now, that sacred, private enclave for quickie manicures had been invaded. By rats. Chewing through wires was bad enough, but nail polish? Was nothing sacred? I pictured a rat trying to apply Suzy Loves Cowboys to its tiny claws. Chilling.

So then I called my husband to ask him to call the insurance company and see if we were covered for RODENT DAMAGE. He didn't believe me. "If you want to call them back and ask for the detailed, disgusting explanation, you are MORE than welcome," I said. "But as for me, I believe."

Because really, who would make up something like car-chewing rats? OK, maybe a lot of people. But, determined to prove the veracity of this horrible claim, I posted about it on Facebook. (Because obviously that's the most reliable source of information about rodents that eat Subarus).

All night, people responded -- many of them with equally horrific tales of rat-car woe. Many more of them just laughing. Again, don't blame them. Hysterical giggling had become my norm.

And, it should be noted, I live in an area currently beseiged by bobcats and I found it particularly cruel that while other people had posted heartbreaking tales of pets being carted off by these critters, I apparently had an all night buffet in my garage, but nary a bobcat to be found. I was beginning to entertain wild thoughts of the entire hood's rat population using my car as a de facto rat refugee camp. Did rats organize? Did they tweet cunning messages like, "Safe house in the Subaru. #fleethebobcats?"

Thankfully, between hysteria and Facebook, there was one moment of sanity. My lovely insurance company (seriously, if I could kiss Geico, I would) did agree to cover the damages and set me up with a rental. The Enterprise guy asked me how long I would need the car. I said, "I don't know. They have to take the whole interior of my Subaru apart."

"What happened?" he asked.

"Rats ate my car."

The look on his face was priceless. The upgrade was not. But, he did give me a deal on a brand new Hyundai something.

Because rats. Trump. Everything.

He showed me the car. It was nice. Shiny, new, with only 25 miles on it. I scribbled my signature on a bunch of forms and declined the optional extra insurance, which made him nervous. "You can always call back and add it on," he said several times. Obviously he was rethinking the wisdom of letting me take a pretty new car into the Garage That Rats Ate.

It was too late. My son had already decided he loved the new car and it's pretty hard to turn down a cute kid and his desperate rat-crazed mom. So the nice Enterprise guy had no choice but to finish up the forms. Only slightly reluctantly, he handed over the keys. "Before you go, let's just take a quick look around the car to inspect it."

"Let me save you the trouble," I said. "I only have one question."

With a look that suggested he was already regretting this entire transaction, he asked, "What do you want to know?"

I smiled.

"Does it come with rats?"

February 22 ... AKA Ratpocalypse, Day 7

For the next few days, the high of driving something 100% rodent-free kept me relatively sane. The exterminator came out Thursday and insisted he saw no signs of rats, but refilled the bait boxes anyway. I started to think maybe I was crazy, maybe the rats were coming from someplace else? Maybe this was all just a terribly hideous nightmare.

And then, as I walked into work on Friday, Alex from Subaru called with this update:

Alex: Hi, we pulled up the flooring in your car and ... it's bad.

Me: How bad? (stupid, stupid question)

Alex: At least 2 major wiring harnesses have been chewed through. The carpets are ruined, they've eaten through the padding underneath and when we pulled it up, there were rat droppings everywhere.

Me: Euwwwww

Alex: So the insurance adjuster's coming out today, but I just wanted to give you a heads and prepare you ... because your car may be totaled.

Me: Oh.My.God.

Alex: I have to tell you, your car was sitting in the shop last night and when I opened the doors this morning? I don't have a weak stomach but it just about made me sick.

Me: (thank you for that visual, Alex) So... you're telling me rats LITERALLY ate my car.

Alex: Yes. Yes, rats LITERALLY ate your car.

That was Friday.

On Saturday, after an 8 am trip to the dentist for emergency retainer repair (because of course my son pulled his expensive retainer out of place, why not add to the joy of Rat Week??), I pulled into the garage and noticed little, black bits of what looked like paper or rubber on the floor beneath where my car would have been parked. Like what you might expect to find, if, say, something was CHEWING on the undercarriage of one's car.

As I stomped into the house and pointed out this evidence to my husband, the bank called. To verify recent purchases.

That I had not made.

Yes. The rats had now infiltrated Bank of America and were clearly out to destroy me.

This.Was.War.

There are few places on earth I loathe more than Home Depot, so the irony was not lost on me, that the rats drove me to this:

Before anyone goes all PETA on me, no I did not buy glue traps. Or any kind of traps because OH MY GOD DEAD RATS??? No. Just. No. Plus I knew we already had bait boxes full of poison, so I augmented those with plug-in sonar devices that supposedly scared away rodents, plus loads of mothballs which I stashed in several corners of the garage, plus all over the ground beneath both cars.

I may have gone slightly overboard with the mothballs, because by Sunday morning the entire house smelled like my Grandma's closet. Glass half full? Didn't smell like rats.

With all signs pointing to an imminent Rodent Rapture, I knew I should get the kids organized for church, but frankly, I just could not get my act together. So instead, I left them with my husband and headed for the gym, hoping a few laps might restore some speck of sanity.

All week I'd had to use my phone number to check in since my gym tag was still dangling on the key chain of the Ratmobile. But when I informed the not-usual-Sunday gym guy that I didn't have my tag, he smirked. "Sorry, you can't work out." I glared at him. "Just kidding!" he snarked. I stopped myself from telling him about the rats in my car, and instead attempted to read the novel tattooed on his arms while he checked me in.

Then, in the pool, there was a gentleman engaged in this elaborate, almost violent poolside stretching routine. For about 10 minutes this went on. It was mesmerizing and confusing at the same time. After the stretching, he then stood there and fiddled with the strings on his swimsuit - for, I kid you not - 5 minutes. (And yes, of course, it was a Speedo. Men of the world, I implore you, just say no to Speedo).

After he'd finished with the drawstring, he got into the water and sat in this sort of zen like pose for another 5 minutes.

THEN he finally started to swim.

For five minutes.

After which, he got back out of the pool and left.

I'll be honest, I was let down -- I expected an Olympic event after all that. But, people in rat cars shouldn't throw stones. Or judge other people's swim techniques. As finished up my laps, the man in the lane next to me told me how impressed he was that my hair had stayed dry (I had it all bunched up on top of my head) and that he had been watching to see if it was going to get wet. Um. Okay.

"Look,"I told him, "I paid good money to color my hair, I'm not dunking it in the pool at LA Fitness." This led to another discussion about hair color and the effects of chlorine vs salt water, and ... I don't really know what we were talking about, because at this point, I became completely convinced I was trapped in my own reality TV show. (The Real Ratwives of Richardson?)

After my lively swim hair convo, I topped things off with a trip to Tom Thumb, because I ran out of coffee filters (how? There are only a million in those packages. I have never run out of them in my life. And yet. This morning. Yes. Blamed the rats).

While I was at the store, I decided to pick up another pound of turkey because out of nowhere, my son was obsessed with honey turkey. And he'd eaten through half the pound I'd bought the day before. As any picky eater parent knows, if you find something remotely healthy they will eat, you buy ridiculous amounts of it until they get sick of it.

The same deli guy who had waited on me yesterday when I bought the first pound of honey turkey, was behind the counter again. He looked totally confused -- the expression on his face clearly said, wait, I've done this before. But instead of saying, "hey, weren't you just here?" he asked me, "How's your day going? I mean ... have you even done anything yet today?" I looked at him and thought, you have no idea, Deli Man.

He shook his head and tried again. "No, wait, I mean, how long have you been up this morning?" He was clearly thrown by the deli deja-vous. I just smiled and waited for my meat. Because sometimes, that's all you can do.

Lesson learned: Next Sunday, go to church.

Next Saturday: buy 2 pounds of turkey.

Sunday evening, I pulled out all the stops in an effort to have a nice, relaxing evening. I had prosecco while the kids played video games (note: ALWAYS have Prosecco when there are video games being played. Nothing dulls the annoying throb of Minecraft like sparkling wine). I put them to bed early and made pasta. Then went back upstairs to get them back to bed.

And again.

And again.

By now the soothing effects of Prosecco had worn off. There may have been some screeching on my part. FINALLY they were in bed for good. And my husband turned on Downton Abbey. Because obviously if you're going to chase away the rat blues, a period piece in England with fabulous costumes and elegant manners is the only choice.

For a while, it worked. Dinner was delicious, Downton was delightful and I was beginning to relax.

And then? A loud rustling noise came from the bushes. My husband made fun of me for jumping, but he couldn't figure out the source of the sound, either. Because of course Facebook has been my sounding board, I had to post something about this (which my husband also made fun of me for doing) and a friend suggested I get a python for my garage.

A Burmese python.

You know? Those horrible, thick, disgusting snakes that plague the Everglades and have been known to crush small children?

Because just when you think things can't get worse, you imagine adding a loathesome predatory snake to the mix of rats frolicking through your garage.

And that is when you realize.

Things can definitely get worse.


Ratpocalypse, Day 11

I went to see my car. My husband thought me insane. You may, too, but some sick impulse compelled me to see the damage the rats had wreaked on my Tribeca. The insurance adjuster had not yet made a decision, and I'm not very good with ambiguity so I decided to take matters into my own hands and see it in the flesh, so to speak.

Warning: don't view these photos while eating.

Because you can't un-see this.



Yeah. That's the back of my car, with the seats and carpet pulled up. Here's another view, a bit closer to the front.



What's that, you say? You'd like to see what the carpet pad looks like? Sure, why not? We're all sickened in this together by this point.



So yes, I can now say with complete confidence: Rats ate my Subaru. And apparently had a small war while they were at it, or the world's biggest rat kegger because the smell? Oh. Dear.Lord.

Subaru Alex said the guys in the auto shop wear gloves and masks while dealing with my car. Oh, insurance adjuster, please make this end. No one should have to work on this - this is a bubonic plague epidemic in the making. Ebola? Please. This kind of rot and despair eats Ebola for breakfast.

Before I left, I did peek into the rotting carcass that used to transport my children to see what I might salvage. One soccer ball, one basketball, one jacket that I promptly threw into the wash along with everything I wore into the dealership as soon as I got home. And then, two small cosmetic bags.

As Subaru Alex was walking me back to the front, I rummaged through the bags. He gave me a funny look, probably wondering why I'd want those after I'd just told him to trash the booster seats. I found what I was looking for -- a small, spray bottle of Mystere cologne, which has been discontinued for like 20 years, and I bought on eBay.

Because they ate my car, they cost thousands of dollars worth of damage, and the sight is still making my skin crawl.

But steal my French perfume? I don't think so, rats. You picked the wrong girl to mess with.

Ratcopalypse Day 13, AKA Leap Day

Geico Shonda called me with an update. She wants Subaru Alex to confirm if the engine's damaged. Subaru Alex says he can't tell anything more unless they fix the car.

Which, deep down, nobody really wants to do.

I feel like a cage match is coming on. My money's on the rats.

Later that night, I am alone in bed and notice some rather disturbingly odd noises. I post this on Facebook: Does anyone have a perfectly logical and reasonable explanation for random house noises that sound like someone is walking around when you know that no one is there? Because I'd really like to know.

The following are some of the answers friends posted. Because I just can't make this stuff up.

Pam: Rats.... (Is it too soon, it's too soon)

Indy-Rae: Rats

Kymberlei: Rats

Jacki: Definitely rats. Cure? Vote for Bernie Sanders tomorrow. He'll eradicate them from your house as well as the White House.

Me: Sorry, I already voted for Hillary. You should have told me about Bernie Sanders' magical rat powers earlier.

Jaymi: Hate to say this...but you might want to see if you have varmints in your walls and/or attic.

Me: Noooooo

Richman: Possums, Coons, Squirrels, Bob Cats?

Me: If there's a bobcat in my house, I wonder if I could pay it to patrol my garage for rats

Niki: Spirits! I know someone that can clear that up for you!

Shelley: Why, ghosts, darling.

Ashley: Temp changes in exterior environment causing expansion of construction materials. Creaks and squeeks.

Shelley: You are no fun, Ashley.

Me: But what explains the noises like footsteps ? Those aren't creaks and squeaks. They are thumps and bumps.

Shelley: Ghosts, I tell ya!

Ashley: Running the hot water? If not properly secured to studs, the expansion from hot water passing through both copper or pvc pipes can cause the pipes to bounce against framing... thumps and bumps...

Shelley: Has ruined ghost stories for you?

Me: I'm not running hot water. But I am giggling and the dog looks like she thinks I'm nuts.

Shelley: It could be a thing...Facebook ghost stories..

Me: I would totally read those! I would like to put in a request for a better ghost, though.

Me (again): And -- it should be noted -- since we started talking about these noises they have stopped. Like they know we are talking about them.

Shelley: Smart little bastards.

Me: With my luck it's probably the ghost...of a rat. Ugh. Dear spirit world, please send me the ghost of something better.

Jason: Old friend. I'm so sorry.You have rats in your house. I don't want to rub it in, but there is at least one spot in your attic that looks like under the carpet in your car.

Me: I hate Leap Day.

Ratcopalypse Day 15
NBC-5 broadcasts a story about rats chewing through wiring. I immediately show this to everyone I know, as proof that I am not insane. Also, I go on the message boards and find a link to a truly horrifying site with all kinds of stories about chewed-up cars, including one that exploded. Is there anything that could possibly be more horrifying than exploding rats? I don't think so.

Ratpocalypse Day 16
Geico Shonda calls me with bad news. Because there is no way to determine engine damage without repairing the rat-damaged wiring harnesses, she has authorized Subaru Alex to repair them. There's a chance this will reveal further damage, but at this point, my car is not totaled.

I, on the other hand, am.

Ratcopalypse Day 17
No more news from Geico Shonda or Subaru Alex, but the NBC-5 message board is chock full of folks who seem to think rats eating cars is perfectly normal and somehow, the fault of the car owner. All except for a guy who is part of the class action suit against Honda and totally gets it. I'm slightly envious, however, because his car was eaten by bunnies, not rats.You have to wonder about the world when cute little rabbits are devouring cars.

Ratcopalypse Day 18
I watch the Republican Debates and something becomes crystal clear. Donald Trump is responsible for the rats in my car. It's the only logical explanation.

Ratcopaylypse Day 20
At last -- a bright spot in the rodent-littered horizon. We go on spring break and drive to Austin on a sunny, rat-free day. Of course, that does not stop everyone I know from posting rat references on all of my Facebook posts (which, by the way, according to my husband, have gotten out of control).

The first day we take in a Baylor basketball game in Waco, drive down to Austin and have one of those rare, blissfully peaceful nights, thanks to the magic that is Green Mesquite BBQ and the outdoor, heated pool.

Sunday night, after more BBQ and swimming, once again everyone in my family goes to sleep. Except me. And so I'm the only one up reading when the couple next door launches what can only be described as the Viagra Olympics. After about an hour, this takes a riveting detour into domestic violence that I think may have arisen over an argument over certain paid services. I can't be sure, but between the tossing of furniture I did hear quite a bit of yelling about a "bitch" and "money."

I call the front desk. I call them again. I give up. At 430 am, the entire thing starts up again. Needless to say, I get little sleep. That sets the tone for the rest of the trip, which, while action-packed, is less than relaxing.

On the last day, I take the boys swimming and learn from another Dallas vacationer that tornadoes are stirring up trouble back home and there's an expected lull during the afternoon before the bad weather starts back up again. I tell my husband we'd better get going, and he suggests I take the boys down for breakfast while he gets ready. As we head into the lobby for the overpriced buffet to supplement the overpriced froot loops they've already consumed poolside, I notice something strange.

The lobby is jam-packed with men. Which on the surface is not weird because -- a conference, right? Except usually conferences are not all guys. And I'm not seeing the suits or the khaki/polo-clad business casual crowd. More like the heavily tattooed, pierced and denim-clad crowd. And as I walk through the crowd milling around tables set up with pamphlets and strange machines that some of the guys are breathing into, I'm suddenly conscious of the fact that everyone is staring at me and the kids. A man who appears to be in charge starts yelling, "Everybody back in the room, NOW!" That's kind of bossy for a meeting, I think.

But, we continue on our way and hit the buffet where naturally, no one eats anything. Then we head back through the lobby, where my husband has asked us to bring up a luggage cart. "We" get a cart ... and by that I mean, I push the cart while the combined 110 pounds of my boys take a joyride. I somehow manage to get us onto the elevator.

When the doors open on the 14th floor, a woman in a headset is angrily explaining to someone on the phone that, "I have hundreds of men here ready to take drug tests, what do you mean you aren't coming?"

I shove the cart past Drug Test Lady and as I round the corner, I see we've a slight problem. You know that hallway in high school where all the cool kids hung out and it was slightly intimidating to walk through? Well, sub in "sketchy guys" for "cool kids" and sub in "hotel" for "high school" and you get the picture. I'll give the guys credit, though. They only slightly heckle me as my kids totally ignore my requests for help with the cart. Thanks, boys.

We finally make it into the room, load up the cart, pass back through the hall of shame and hit the road. My youngest son demonstrates the power of 3 solid days of root beer consumption and goes completely bonkers the entire drive home. I won't lie. There was cursing (me), smacking of legs (me) and hysterical screeching laughter (kids).

There was also a stop at the Buc-ee's in Temple, Texas, where my kids beg for soccer balls imprinted with Buc-ee the beaver and I beg for a metal rooster that looks just like a tiny cousin to Beyonce the chicken (from the best blog post of all times, and if you haven't read it, please do so right here).

Alas, I say no to the beaver balls (snicker) and my husband says no to the chicken.

We make it home.

The kids go to bed very early because Mommy? Is done.

My husband goes out with the guys because he? Is also done.

Ratcopalypse Day 24
Three days after we return home, something magical happens. Geico Shonda calls me. Apparently the carpet in my car has been discontinued and nobody makes it anymore. Which means....MY CAR IS TOTALED!!!!!!!!!!

I rejoice in the only way befitting such a ridiculous spectacle -- by posting my fabulous news on Facebook. I feel like we've all come on this journey together, after all. My husband makes fun of me (again) because I make a last minute dash out for flowers and a Starbucks gift card for Geico Shonda, and cookies/brownies for Subaru Alex and all the guys unlucky enough to touch my car. I mean, it's the least I can do.

We meet Shonda and give her the title. She gives me a check. I get my husband to take a photo.



Ten minutes later, we are at Subaru of Plano, going through our car one more time. They've put the seats back in and vacuumed, which is really a shame because now my husband does not get the full picture of grotesque rat revelry. But, Subaru Alex does show him the wiring and at last, he believes. I think.

I want to take a photo with Subaru Alex but I sense my husband's patience is waning. Also, he looked pretty disgusted when I made him take a picture of me and Geico Shonda, so I'm not pushing my luck. We say goodbye to the car that took us from NYC to Texas and that drove my second child home from the hospital. My husband says, "Lot of memories in that car."

Somehow, I can't get sentimental as I point out. "Lot of rats in that car, too."

Since our fabulously kind neighbor has taken the kids to a movie, we decide to try test-driving a couple of cars while we're out. The Toyota Highlander is nice, though the dealer seems shaken when my husband asks if they offer any kind of rat protection.

The Acura MDX is nicer. But the touch screen confuses me. The salesman misinterprets just how tech-stupid I am, however, by pointing out the plus and minus signs for the temperature control. "See," he says helpfully, "you push the plus sign when you want it hotter. You push the minus sign to make it cooler."

Honestly. I'm not an idiot.

Or maybe I am.

Because after the test drive, I'm sitting with the sales guy and he's pointing out some warranty something and I'm nodding and then I look down at my shirt.

Which has come unbuttoned. Like, halfway-down-my-chest unbuttoned.

There is no way to be discreet here. He sees it, I see it. I just have to turn around and button back up and pretend like nothing happened. But at that point, this visit is pretty much shot.

I hold it together long enough to get out of the dealership. But as we get back into the rental car, I start to giggle. My husband gives me a look that can only be described as pained. I explain that I just inadvertently flashed the sales guy.

"Hey, way to get us a discount," is his chivalrous reply.

I mean. It's not enough they destroyed my car; now the rats have taken my dignity.

But, glass half full -- I will be getting a rodent-free car out of this mess. And I feel like this journey has given me a new perspective on life.

Because the next time you're having a bad day, remember this:

At least rats haven't eaten your car.

And at least you haven't flashed your bra to a 50 year old Acura salesman.

New Year's Resolutions

I'm late with my resolutions this year, but it's never to late to resolve to do a bunch of things that may or may not happen.

I didn't achieve all of last year's and I can tell already you one thing I won't be making a goal this year: a juice fast.

But I'm a sucker for goals, so here goes..

1. I will finish the novel I am working on. I'm pretty sure this has been on my list for, like, three years in a row. This time, I mean it. Actually I only have about 20 more pages of revisions to work through, and then there's that little matter of the final chapter which I didn't really write yet. Minor detail.

2. Join the polar bear club. When I first started writing these at the end of December, this was going to be my "easy" one because I'd already registered for the swim. I thought this was pretty clever because I'd automatically start off the New Year already having achieved a goal. WIN!

Unfortunately, on Dec. 31 my son developed a sudden, raging ear infection. Which I did not realize until the evening, at which point, it was too late to take him to the pediatrician and I thought the urgent care place would be a drunken, germy two-hour purgatory.

And then the infection got much, much worse. So I guess the lesson here is go to PrimaCare early on New Year's Eve if your kid has even the slightest thing wrong, because at 7 am on Jan 1, nothing else was open and instead of starting my new year by jumping into a freezing pool, I started my new year by forking over a nice, fat ER copay. Who's clever now?

I'm keeping it on the list anyway - because maybe I'll just randomly jump into our pool this winter. It could happen. I did it last year to amuse the kids. And then a certain spouse posted it to Youtube and Facebook and I looked ridiculous.

Really, this one just needs to go, doesn't it? Plus, why am I trying to imitate polar bears anyway? They eat people.

3. I will learn how to use Uber. I know, I know. Everyone else is already using it. Here's the thing: months ago, I installed the app on my phone and accidentally requested a ride and the guy on the phone was super aggressive and all "I'm cheaper than a taxi!" and I tried to explain that while I totally believed him, I did not actually need a ride just then, and then he seemed to get angry at me, and the whole experience was entirely too stressful. Then, of course, there was the infamous driver here in Dallas who assaulted a woman and all I could think was, maybe that was the same guy.

I mean, clearly he had an anger management issue, maybe he was a rapist, too. Or maybe he just really, really wanted me to know about his cheap fares. But no matter, this year I will conquer my uber-phobia.

(Note to everyone: if I end up chopped to pieces by a psychopathic Uber driver someday, this is what they call "foreshadowing" and you can FB it to everyone with lots of comments like "eerie" and "OMG that is SO creepy" as an example of what NOT to choose for a New Year's resolution).

That's it. Those are all my resolutions.

Sure, I could aim for exercising more, yelling less and cutting out wine, but why?

I signed up for a half marathon in March because I am an idiot, so I'm already exercising more.

Plus, I'm realistic about my maternal skills and ability to remain calm amid the inescapable chaos of my house.

Patience, particularly when dealing with math homework, is best served with Chardonnay.

All I want for Christmas

Dear Santa,

You probably don't remember me, but I'm the one who keeps threatening that you won't come if my kids don't stop trying to kill each other. Yeah, I know. Me and every other parent. Doesn't really work, either -- they seem to have an unstoppable magnetic force that makes them shove each other into furniture. Oh and they've already written you pages full of stuff they want. Spoiler alert: there's a lot of Pokemon this year. Sorry elves, those cards look like a real pain -- what the hell is a Charzon anyway?

If you've got a second, I've written in a few requests of my own. I think I've been mostly good this year -- and by "mostly" I mean not exactly bad. Like I'm not a saint or anything, but I'm not ISIS. (PS -- those guys are your naughty list. Period. I just saved you an entire season of wasting your time watching billions of kids. You're welcome).

So these are totally just suggestions, but I thought maybe if you're looking to jazz up your repertoire, you could take a crack at one or two ...

1. A new job for our Elf on the Shelf. He was cute for like a week. But lately he just doesn't want to move and he never turned in one of those cute "doctor notes" so my kids expect something exciting! And New! Every! Day! Some people's elves are really, really good at it - you know who I mean, they're hilarious yet whimsical, like magical fairies spun from irony and Pinterest. Alex, our elf, is more chill. He likes to hang out in the living room, reading. And contrary to what I had hoped, his choice in reading material did not, in fact, spark my children's interest in Harry Potter. I feel like Alex is ready for new challenges -- maybe next year Alex joins the Peace Corps or goes to find himself in Tibet. I hear Brad Pitt took seven years -- and I'm cool with that.

2. A magical glass that gives every sip of wine the nutritional equivalent of zero-calorie vitamin water. Before you laugh, hear me out. The ability to turn anything into water is a genius idea with life-saving potential. I mean, if you could make booze as healthy as water, you could change the world, one wine glass at a time. The fact that it will greatly reduce the impact of my cheezit-chardonnay consumption on the fit of my jeans is just an added bonus. Also, Santa? I hear someone else who's big this time of year could turn water into wine. I don't know you tight you are with JC, but can you say Best.Prank.Ever???

3. My car cleaned. And I mean really cleaned. Not like Car Spa clean, where they're always like, yeah lady we can get your car detailed and then they start looking at all the milk shake stains and the crushed Cheetos and three hours later they are still laughing at me. I want elf-magic clean. I want the seats to actually repel the crackers and the Gatorade back into my kids' hands. I want the smell of old french fries banished, to be replaced by the soft scent of lavender, primeval pine and unrealized dreams. Think Enya meets Pitbull meets Jo Malone.

4. About three more years worth of sleep. Real sleep, not the kind where a six-year-old is kicking your back. Sleep in a bed without children. Or the dog scratching or walking around, sighing - and what does a golden retriever even have to sigh about, anyway? Is she regretting the entire steak she devoured raw off the kitchen counter? Somehow, I doubt it.

5. Also along those lines, could you fix my phone which on some mornings wakes me at 4:45 am even though I deleted that alarm from my phone like three times? Really, if you look at my phone settings, that alarm does not exist. And yet. Every Monday, some Tuesdays, most Wednesdays and the occasional Thursday - there it is. Maybe it was set by ghosts. In which case -- well played, malicious spirits. But seriously, knock it off.

6. Magic laundry fairies. I'm good at getting the laundry into the washing machine. My husband is good at getting it into the dryer. Where we both are lacking is in the folding and -- especially -- putting away of the kids' clothes part. Yeah, I know, I should have trained my children to put away their own clothing by now. It's just that when I try that, I notice those clothes mostly end up shoved in their closet, which leads to 7:30 am meltdowns because I CAN'T FIND MY SHORTS MOM. NO NOT THAT PAIR, THE OTHER ONES! NO OF COURSE I CAN'T WEAR ANY OTHER PAIR! THERE IS ONLY ONE PAIR IN THE ENTIRE WORLD THAT MATCHES MY ORANGE UNDER ARMOR SHIRT AND I NEEEEEEEEEED IT NOOOOOOWWWW!!!! So just saying, a little laundry help would be much appreciated.

7. This last one is not just for me -- it's for all the ladies in my office. We want the name of that guy at work who looks like Prince Harry so we can prove to everyone who hasn't seen him that he really exists. Really, the resemblance is uncanny. And when he gets into an elevator all the women dissolve into giggles. Now I realize this is all sounding ridiculous, but Santa, have you ever been in a corporate office building? It's ... well, not the most exciting environment. So when something -- anything -- causes a group of otherwise rational women to act like we're twelve again -- well, it is greatness. But here's the thing -- there are other women we work with who have never, ever seen him. He's like a unicorn, Santa, and only those who have seen him believe. If we could just pin down his name, we could pass it around to all the other ladies in my office so they could org-chart stalk him.

This is such a tiny thing, but it would bring joy to so many. And really, isn't that what Christmas is all about?

(Not) Good at Math

I'm tired of third grade math. I just am. I'm tired of attempting to decipher the questions my son doesn't understand (or, doesn't care to try to understand). Tired of alternating a "tough approach" (hey, pal, you got it wrong, redo it. No, neatly. No, still wrong) with an "encouraging" approach (fake smile + wine = Mommy is going to act like this math is FUN). Tired of looking at a diagram with numbers and words that bear no resemblance to any math I've had to do or would actually need to do ... like EVER. I'm tired of trying to explain concepts that I don't really get.

But mostly, I'm tired of having to say again and again, "No, you're not bad at math." This one really wears me out for two reasons. One is that math used to be easy for him, and if the drawings he does of elaborate football plays are any indication, he seems to have a pretty good grasp of numbers.

But the second reason is that every time he says "I'm not good at math," I remember second grade.

When I was in second grade, we had "tracked" classes. Meaning, you didn't just study all your subjects with your homeroom - you studied with kids of similar academic abilities. The kids in our grade were divided into three groups - for fun, the teachers suggested we pick soda names. The 7-Ups, the Sprites and the Mello-Yellos. But we knew what they really meant.

For the first week of school, much to my relief, I was a 7-Up in reading and math.The second week, I was in 7-Up math, when the teacher abruptly told me I was in the wrong class. I was confused, but she said to return my math book to the pile at the front of the class. Then she walked me and another kid across the hall.

To the Sprite math class.

I was horrified. A month away from turning seven and already I was mediocre. Taking my new seat, I was too embarrassed to concentrate on anything the teacher said. The real kicker was that up until then, I'd actually thought I was smart. But clearly I wasn't. I mean, the teacher herself said I was in the wrong class. She was the teacher, for God's sake. She knew.

Then I wondered if my friends, all of whom were 7-Ups, would even want to be friends with me anymore. After all, they were smart and apparently I was not. All these awful thoughts swirled in my brain, and when the new teacher called on me, I didn't have an answer. I didn't even know what the question was. He made some sarcastic remark and somebody snickered. I'd heard that noise before -- well, directed at me in PE, but mostly at other kids during reading. The kids who stumbled over syllables and paused in the wrong places. The kids I'd always felt sorry for when somebody laughed. And now? That was me.

It only got worse from there. I remember the teacher holding up a clock, and calling on students to tell time, which even now, when I think of it, makes me sweat. The first time he did this, I watched as another kid counted fives to come up with the correct answer. The teacher said, "good idea" and I thought hey, I can do this. I know my fives. So when it was my turn, I studied the clock and carefully began, "five, ten, fifteen, twenty ..." but I didn't know when to stop. So I just kept going till I reached the twelve, hoping the right answer would magically pop out of my mouth. It didn't. Another sarcastic crack from the teacher and mercifully, he moved on to someone else.

God, I thought, no wonder I'm in Sprite math. Any minute now, it's Mello-Yelloville. That fear did not come true; I stayed in Sprite math the rest of the year. I don't remember learning anything, except that telling time by counting fives only worked if you actually understood how to read a clock. Mostly I sat in the back and drew pictures, prompting the teacher to constantly call me out for messy work. I didn't care -- I mean, at least I was good at drawing, which was more than I could say for math.

From that point forward, I was not good in math. I don't mean my actual grades -- I was paranoid about grades early on and if I didn't understand something, by God, I'd memorize it. But in my head, I was bad at math. Every grade and new math concept I approached with dread, assuming I wouldn't do well.

Algebra came as a surprise in 9th grade. It actually made sense. I assumed this was some sort of mistake. Because, again, not smart in math.

10th grade - geometry, yup, not real smart. In 11th grade I moved out of state, to a giant school where I didn't know anyone. Math was much harder there, but, I realized, even the kids I could clearly tell were "math-smart" struggled. So I studied harder. And harder.

The next year, when I moved back home again, math was suddenly easy. The teacher complimented me. But, deep down I knew I wasn't really good -- it's just that a lot of what we covered I'd already learned the year before. When she gave me the advanced math medal at the senior award ceremony, I felt a little bit like a fraud.

In college, I tested out of the basic math requirement. Which means = I never had to take math again. And I've managed to survive fairly well on that high school knowledge. Somehow, without crazy tables and place value diagrams, I've been able to balance checkbooks and pay bills. So until recently, I was kinda thinking maybe I'm OK at math.

Then this third grade nonsense hit. With crazy word problems and splitting numbers into bars and questions like "what is the relationship between these two numbers?" I told my son, I don't know, maybe they're dating?

The teacher tells me she thinks he just isn't interested. I think -- why would he be? It's hard to get and it's easy to give up. (And, I must confess, I think things like: who the hell needs to know this stuff? Maybe he won't need this crazy math. Maybe he'll be a writer and will later laugh when he thinks of this math hell).

I also email the teacher to let her know when he's struggling - not that I have to, she can tell. But she's told me to tell her if he clearly doesn't understand the homework and I do. A couple weeks ago I started my note with, "I have to be honest, I didn't understand this" -- and then I hesitated. Why tell her that? It would just make me sound stupid. She already knows he's having problems, and I pictured her reading my email and thinking, "well the apple doesn't fall far from that tree."

But thing is, I can't be afraid to ask questions that make me look dumb because how does that help my son? So I sent the email. Since then, he's tanked another test. I made him redo the wrong answers. It was painful. But amid the yelling (from both of us) because he didn't want to do it, I told him it was important to redo the answers he got wrong.

He shook his head."Why does it even matter?"

Because, I said. You can do this.

You're good at math.

All I ever needed to know about business I learned from a Billy Idol concert

Spoiler alert: the headline is somewhat of an exaggeration. I’m sure I learned something about business in college. Except that I majored in art, which is more about learning to starve. Or, I could credit the advertising world with what little business savvy I have. But that would be an entirely different article, probably inappropriate for this venue. Instead, I’m taking my cues from a recent night at the House of Blues. Because the same tactics that work at the office are on full display at a Billy Idol concert. Take away the incense and it’s practically Marketing 101.

1. Always Leave ‘Em with White Wedding – AKA, know your audience

That Billy is no fool. The house was packed. There were overpriced t-shirts and tote bags printed with his face. (Because if there’s one thing that marks your fan base as suburban parents, it’s tote bags). Clearly, he knows his way around the soccer mom crowd. The set actually started on time. He knew what we wanted to hear, but he saved it for the encore. He played new songs first, capitalizing on the enthusiasm of middle-aged people who were, frankly, just excited to be out of the house. By 9 p.m., he was playing all the classics, and by 10, he’d played “White Wedding” and was out the door. Pretty genius when half your audience has to get home in time to pay the sitter.

Bottom line: if you give the people what they want – they will gladly shell out $50 for a ticket and $30 for a tote bag. Which is totally carrying juice boxes to three soccer games next weekend.

2. You Don’t Need a Gun – AKA, be polite and persistent to get what you want

Sometimes you need to get people on your side to get things done. Sure, you can try to bully or bribe, but that’s sort of frowned on nowadays, and it’s a lot of work. Call me old-fashioned or lazy, but I’ve found that if you’re just polite and persistent, you can often persuade people to do all kinds of things. This works whether you are trying to tame a tricky client, or get the hosts in the Foundation Room to seat you at a “reserved” table, which for some silly reason they are saving for “members only” (note to House of Blues: you’re a bar, not a country club).

Bottom line: you can accomplish a lot with moxie and manners.

3. All of us were once Sweet Sixteen – AKA, nostalgia sells

They say it takes a village to raise a child. It takes a lot more than that to get me out of the house after 8. Why stand for hours in a crowd when I could sit at home and watch Downton Abbey, where the couch is comfy and the wine is free?

I’ll tell you why.

Because the first chords of Eyes Without a Face take me back in junior high, rushing off the school bus to meet my best friend, who was bringing her special picture disc single, imported from England. You may not remember picture discs, but they were records (yes, actual records) that had a picture imprinted on them and you had to special order them from an actual record store (Because? The internet? Did not exist?). Once you had it, you could only play it a limited number of times or it would warp or the picture would fade away or something would explode, IDK. What I do know is that we raced into the house, took out the record and stared at it reverentially for maybe ten minutes. And then, finally, she put it on the turntable and we turned the volume knob as loud as it would go until the old German lady across the street asked us to please turn that down. Which we did (politely, of course – see #2). And then we put the record away. Because you could only listen to once.

And Rebel Yell takes me back to the first Christmas after my parents divorced. It was awkward and quiet and didn’t really feel like Christmas. Until we opened presents and I got my very own Sony Walkman with the Rebel Yell cassette tape. After that, nothing else mattered. The uncomfortable silence was filled by the sounds of Billy Idol, in my ears. All.Day.Long. Seriously, I don’t think the headphones came off until dinner.

You can’t download those memories from Netflix. But you can sell me a ticket to see someone who loomed larger than life at a time when I needed it the most.

Bottom line: you can’t go wrong selling people their childhood.

4. Don’t be afraid to Dance with yourself – aka, don’t worry about looking like an idiot

Lots of perfectly good ideas start out sounding ridiculous and stupid to someone (hello, talking pictures?). You can’t be afraid to suggest them, just because you’re afraid someone in a meeting will think you’re an idiot. If they do, they’re the idiot. Tell them Billy said so.

In the same vein, don’t be afraid to jump and down and scream because OMG! He? Just? Came? Out? OnStage!!! Even if one of your friends is using her phone to capture the moment on video. And then puts it on Facebook. And you sound like you’re singing while simultaneously being strangled and having an asthma attack. Who cares? If you get hit by a bus, are you going to regret all the stupid stuff you tried? Of course not. Unless, of course, one of them was playing chicken with a bus. Which is definitely a stupid idea, so don’t try that one – you don’t want to look like an idiot.

Bottom line: don’t worry so much about what other people think of your ideas that you never voice them.

5. Remember, we’re all in this Rat Race together – aka, keep a sense of perspective

Sometimes new ideas are great, sometimes not so much. The Chevy Nova comes to mind, although my mom had one and honestly, it drove just fine. But the point is that in business, as in life, some things will succeed and some will fail. Sometimes it seems like the world just ended because a brochure is late. It hasn’t. The world’s still going, with or without your marketing collateral. Of course, try to do your best, but a sense of perspective goes a long way to preserving your sanity. It’s not rocket science. Unless you work for NASA, in which case, don’t you have more important things to do than read this post?

Let’s say, for example, you go to a concert and have a wonderful time. And after that concert, you’re woken up at 3 am by your dog barking at the life-size mummy on your front porch because your family is way into Halloween. And then you try to calm down the dog, but the wind sets off the motion detectors on the cackling witch, and the googly eyes start flashing in the bushes. Pretty soon you’re stumbling around in the dark trying to find the “off” switches because your entire front yard is like the Spirit Halloween store and the dog is freaking out. Do you lose your mind and declare the entire evening a disaster?

No. You slip the dog salami, go back to bed and wake up two hours later for work. Where you’ll juggle meetings and articles, and something will probably slip through the cracks, despite your best (sleep-deprived) intentions.

Bottom line: we’re all in this together. Do your best, and don’t freak out. Unless, of course, there’s a life-sized mummy on your front porch. Or Billy Idol. In which case?

Call me.