I joined some girlfriends for a facial at the day spa yesterday.  (They had gift cards which they offered to share with me, so keep your smarmy “Gosh, for an unemployed stay at home mom, you sure do live it up!” comments to yourself.)

And?  And while it’s always fun to spend time with these dear friends who-share-their-spa-giftcards-with-me, I’ve decided facials aren’t really my thing.

Here’s why…

First off, I shouldn’t have had the Del Taco bean burrito with green sauce before I headed over to the spa.  Why??  Because my stomach rumbled alarmingly through the entire treatment and I spent the whole time wondering if Kimberly, my sweet-as-pie aesthetician, could hear it over the annoying pan flute music being piped into the room.  (As a side note: Do spas actually think Zamfir doin’ his pan flute ‘thang’ is RELAXING?!  ‘Cause it’s not.)

Next, there’s a serious decision I need to make about my bra.  On?  Or off??  After Kimberly gives me the rundown on how to use my assigned wrap-top, she floats like an angel out of the room, discreetly giving me time to change.  It’s only after I make my bra decision (off) and put on the wrap-top, that it occurs to me the whole scenario now seems WAY too much like an OB/GYN visit, so I quickly have to take the wrap OFF and put the bra back ON!  The whole time I’m doing my panicked fumble-fingers schtick, I’m worried Kimberly will POP! back in unexpectedly and catch me in some sort of inadvertent seduction mode.

So I’m happy to be lying down on the table (bra ON but straps pushed down to my elbows with the wrap covering the entire glamor-don’t) by the time Kimberly returns.  Phew!  I just hope the erratic breathing resulting from the bra clusterbomb doesn’t make Kimberly think I was doing anything…er…inappropriate to celebrate the kick-off of my facial.

[“Morning in the springtime meadow” with piano AND pan flutes starts up in the background…] and Kimberly asks me if there’s any skin issue I’m worried about.  Yeah!  Someone replaced my dewy 20-year-old, East coast skin with that of a 45-year-old from Colorado!  Can ya help me, doc?!  Yuck – yuck – yuck!!  “Oh, no.  Just here for the fun of a facial.  But I did have this nose zit last week that was so painful.  Right there on my nose.  But on the inside.  But now it’s kinda outside.  So…well, just wanted to mention that”  [trailing off into silence….]

And so it begins.  I’m all cozy in my hospital bed covered by a warmed sheet and she begins to work her magic.  I note that we have a citrus scent theme going.  First it’s oranges.  Snnniiiiifff!  Ahhhh, refreshing!

Then it’s lime.  YUmmmmmm.  But I don’t think the around-the-eyes…SMOOSH in…around-the-eyes….SMOOOOOOSH in thing she’s doing (oddly in time to the Morning Meadow music) is helping the wrinkles.  Should I say something?  No.  No.  She’s the pro.  I’ll let her work her magic.

After the lime-y scented product, comes…MEN’S AFTERSHAVE FLAVOR?!?   gaaaAAACK!  Why did she have to choose THIS flavor to rub all over my shoulders and back TOO?!  Surely there are more citrus fruits we could’ve explored?!?  While I’m grossing myself out about the lotion flavor, Kimberly begins to pinch my nose shut, one nostril at a time, under the guise of working on my black-heads.  Turns out this is the “self discovery” portion of the event where I discover that I can only breathe out of ONE NOSTRIL!  How did I not know this until JUST NOW?!??  This discovery forces me to discreetly prop my mouth open for the remainder of my time here so that I can…uh…BREATHE!!!  But propped open just a little bit so that I can still live but so that I don’t get aftershave in my mouth!  

[“Sad summer day in July” begins to play.  ONLY piano this time; Thank Heaven we ditched the pan flute!…]  Kimberly has put some sort of steamer thing on my face so it actually DOES feel like a summer day.  In July.  In North Carolina where you SWEAT like a sumbitch.  In fact, the steamer is almost panic-inducingly oppressive with all the heat and humidity blasting out of it.

And wait!  What??  What’s going on now?!?  Why is she taking my ARMS out of the sheet?  Am I being molested??  If she touches ANYTHING under my wrap, I’m gonna shout, “Stranger Danger!” and run.  Ok.  Settle down.  She’s just massaging my arms, dirty bird.  This is an upscale spa.  No molesting going on here.  But now I’m worried that somehow she’ll get arm-massage-cream on my bra straps because I pushed them down EXTRA far so I wouldn’t get aftershave scented face-neck-and-chest cream on them.  But now maybe I pushed them down TOO far?!?  G*&^%MN BRA!!!

[“Evening comes to the shady glen”, complete with crickets chirping and thrumming cicada noises, plays softly…] After Kimberly slips both my hands into plastic bags and then into heating-pad-hand-warmer devices, we bring the “I’m going to die in this hot, locked car because it’s 100 degrees out” feeling full circle.  At which point she begins to rub thick grass-scented stuff all over my face with a bristly brush.  Turns out grass actually isn’t bad in terms of a spa flavor.  And it’s really refreshing after being locked in that hot car.  But by the time I realize this, Kimberly has put wet cotton pads on my eyes, turned off the lights and slipped out of the room.  A nightlight has come on and I can see it out of the corner of my eye.  Yep, it’s still there.  Yep.  Still there.  Why do I keep looking at it?  It’s till there.  Stop looking at it.  It’s not gonna be relaxing if you keep looking at it.  It’s still there.

[“The noble rebel valiantly marches to his doom but in slow motion” is now playing.  Oh joy.  This time it’s piano AND violin….]  And I decide I’m going to press the cotton pad down so I can relax and not focus on the wack nightlight.  But when I lift my right hand-encased-in-a-heating-pad, my other hand comes with it because…my hands are TETHERED TOGETHER!!  WHY ARE MY HANDS TETHERED TOGETHER?!?  Ok.  Think about this.  It must be the heating pads.  They must be connected.  You can do this.  Just move BOTH HANDS at the same time.  You have an MBA.  FIGURE IT OUT!

By the time the Cotton Pad Mission is accomplished, the weird zit on my nose which I previously overdiscussed with Kimberly starts to itch like a mother and I’ve gotta do the locked-in-handcuffs routine AGAIN to itch it.  At that point something clatters to the floor.

$h*t!  $H*T!!!  Now she’s gonna know I was squirming around in here and not relaxing.  $H*T!!!  Then I get a weird feeling that maybe she already KNOWS I’m squirming around and not relaxing because she’s WATCHING ME ON A CLOSED-CIRCUIT TELEVISION IN THE BREAK ROOM!  And she’s pointing me out and laughing with all of her colleagues as they see how I react after I realize that my hands are tied together and that she’s STRAPPED ME DOWN TO THE TABLE!!

STRAPPED TO THE TABLE?!??  No.  NO!  STOP IT!!!  You are NOT strapped to the table.  That’s silly.  That’s a total violation of fire code, A.  They wouldn’t strap clients to the facial table, B.  WOULD THEY?!?  If they did, ’48 Hours’ would have busted this scam wide open already, right?  So that’s C.  And the bed might seem like a hospital bed, but I’m not IN the hospital – or a danger to myself – or a violent MENTAL PATIENT!!  So we’re up to reason D as to why I would NOT be strapped to the table.  But…what if I’M STRAPPED TO THE TABLE?!?? 

Unidentified crap has already fallen on the floor.  In for a penny, in for a pound.  So I start bucking around to confirm or deny that I am/am not strapped to the table.

Phew!  Not strapped.  [BIG SIGH through my partially opened mouth]  I was kinda panicking there, wasn’t I?  But I’m glad I confirmed that I’m NOT strapped to the table without actually having to take OFF my hand-cuffs.  I just hope Kimberly had her back turned to get something out of the microwave while I was lurching around and therefore missed that particular video feed from the spy camera in my treatment room.

[A single harpist is now playing what I call “Fairies descend from the heavens to guide the dead hero into the nightlands”…] and speaking of DEAD, I wish that nightlight would DIE ALREADY!  All the bucking and heaving has dislodged my cotton pad and I’m all focused on the nightlight again.  And also?  I may have to pee.  The large-sized soda that went with the bean burrito now seems like a bad idea…BAD, BAD idea.  Because I really might have to PEE!

But before I can downward spiral AGAIN, Kimberly’s back.  She’s lost her floaty angel persona and instead is in brisk nurse mode.

She clicks on the light.  Cleans the grass off my face.  Spreads pineapple scented lotion on (I KNEW there were more citrus flavors!).  Provides some product advice.  Tells me to change.  Indicates that she’ll meet me outside.  And she’s off again!  Hmmmm…maybe she DID see me on the camera and doesn’t want to be alone with me? 

As I do my quick change routine which is awfully reminiscent of my after-highschool-gym-class-locker-room-scramble, I head out the door.  Happy to be done.  ESPECIALLY since those humpbacked Kokopeli flute dudes have taken up where Zamfir left off.

And?  It’s confirmed.  I gotta PEE!

Somehow the Crochet Gods found out I put “Crocheter” on my business card, and they’ve begun sending me a daily email entitled “Hooked on Crochet.”  (hardy har har)

This email has single-handedly made me realize that I DON’T actually want “Crocheter” on my business card because them crochet chicks is wack.

Here is a selection of “much-loved crochet patterns” from my latest email.  Beside the name of each pattern, I have indicated for you if this is something anyone else in the world would EVER want to have crocheted and given to them as a gift:

1. Crochet Rain Boots – Seriously??!  NO.

2. Blueberry Pie Scarf – Possibly…but only if you can find the right yarn in those nice shades of deep, purple-y blue.  If you can’t, then skip it.

3. Gypsy Goddess Hat – AKA Dubai Turban.  With the subtitle, you can picture it now, right?  And remember, it’s CROCHETED.  In which case you’re agreeing with me that this is a total no.

4. My Luxury Scarf – It looks like a fringed scarf that was around the neck of a white stuffed reindeer my daughter got for Christmas one year.  That scarf looked and felt like it was made with scratchy pink tinsel.  And so does this one.  No. 

5. Mom’s Favorite Baby Blanket – It looks like everyone’s nightmare of a crocheted baby blanket…so, no.

6. Eliot Square – Total and complete crap.  This is the stuff that gives crochet a bad name.  Absa-frickin-lutely not.

7. Quickest Crochet Hat Ever – Well…this actually DOES have potential, especially with the jaunty little flower on it.  And it’s this type of stuff that keeps me coming back to crochet.  But I digress.  We must continue on with our brutally honest look at the rest of the list. 

8. African Flower Motif – Barf!  No.

9. Millionaire Bag – This looks like the exact OPPOSITE of a millionaire bag.  In fact, it’s actually a coupon bag.  If I see anyone with their coupons in this bag.  Ever.  I will jump them in the parking lot.

10. Chunky Braided Cowl – Chunky is the operative word here.  You will look that way if you wear this.  No.

11. Papillion Scarf – Ho hum.  Looks similar to the blueberry scarf ‘cept without the interesting blueberry color smooshed all over it.  Naw.

12. European Goddess Tunic – There is exactly one extremely petite Asian woman in the whole world who could pull off this concept (a crocheted TUNIC?!?).  So while the 1X, 2X, 3X upsizing on the pattern is super helpful – it’s completely unnecessary because if you have to upsize the pattern on this, you shouldn’t be wearing it.  Nope. 

13. Magnolia Afghan – This involves crocheting AND sewing.  No.

14. Waltzing Fans Shawl – This is the most droopy lookin’ Granny doily thing that some moron repurposed as a shawl.  NO!

15. Crochet Fall Headband – Again, this is the thing that makes me think I might be right back into wanting “Crocheter” on my business card.  So yes!  Yes to this one.

But then the sidebar on the email catches my eye.  There’s a lady there modeling a Wonder Woman headband.  A CROCHETED Wonder Woman Headband.  Complete with a crocheted star which has been crocheted onto the crocheted crown-y type foreheadband.  And?  And I’m right back to…no.  No!  Get “Crocheter” OFF the business cards.

Why do I breathe such a sigh of relief when the kids leave the house in the morning??  Aren’t these the people I LIVE for afterall?!?

It’s not like I have a job outside the home or anything, so what else am I doing, if not LIVING for THEM?!!?  As a side note:  “A Job Outside the Home” is the euphemism that people use when they just want to ask if you have a “real job.”  I find that when they ask if you have “A Job Outside the Home” it’s best to reply, “No.  But thanks for bringing it up,” while giving them the stink eye.  This accomplishes two things: 1) it shuts ’em up and hurries ’em off while 2) making them think that you have a top-secret tale of death and destruction that can only be shared if they have the proper clearance level.  Which they don’t.  So move along.

Hey!  A little mystery never hurts.  And?  It’s WAAaaay better than the usual soft-shoe, “Well…ya see….I HAD a job…but then they TOOK it…I don’t say LOST it (heh heh heh)…because that makes it sound like I’ll find it eventually with last year’s Christmas decorations (heh heh heh)…blahbity blah BLAH!!!!”

Anywhooo.  Back to me and my sigh of relief.  When I think back to my OWN grade school mornings, I always picture my mother sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee.  We’re not even OUT of the house yet, and she already looks like the central figure in that painting by Edgar Degas called The Absinthe Drinker*.  [FYI, “L’Absinthe*” is the official title of the painting.  How do I know this?  In case I haven’t mentioned it before: I HAVE A BACHELOR’S DEGREE IN FRENCH SO HIRE ME ALREADY!!!  And part of getting said bachelor’s degree was to spend every day – for months on end – prowling the museums of Paris.  Every day.  For months.  Yeah – I know.  It was a tough job, but someone had to do it.]

‘Cept in my memory, my mother isn’t wearing the fancy hat and shoes that Madame Absinthe* is wearing.  She’s wearing a housecoat*.  And while Mom is WAY prettier than Madame A*, she does have that same exhausted look on her face*.  Oh – and?  The cup in front of Mom contained COFFEE*.  But I wouldn’t have blamed her if it WAS absinthe*!  She had FIVE kids to get out the door.  I only have TWO.  And living outside my body in the mornings for just TWO little people is utterly, utterly exhausting*.

[SIGH]  Well.  Now they’re gone until 3 p.m.  And me?  I gotta go get another cup ‘a coffee*.

 *Settle down, Sparky.  We all know is wasn’t absinthe in Mom’s coffee cup.  Please don’t even imply (or assume) it was absinthe.  Otherwise Mom won’t be able to show her face around her women’s golf group again now that her knee is feeling better.  So again – for the record – IT WAS NOT ABSINTHE IN HER COFFEE CUP.  IT WAS JUST COFFEE. [stink eye, stink eye]  Now move along.  There’s nothin’ to see here, Folks.

I have the WORST internal nose pimple of all time.  On the right outer nostril rim.  But inside.  But not ALL the way inside.  In other words, I can’t gitatit from OUTSIDE my nose.  And I can’t gitatit from INSIDE my nose.   It’s inside the outside of my nose.

TMI?!?  Naw!  It’s just us and you won’t tell anyone, right??

Anyway, it hurts sooo much that I have to keep feeling it to see if it still hurts.  Ouch.  Yep, still hurts.  Ouch, yep.  Ouch!  Yep, still hurts.  Ouch, yep.

And it’s become…unsightly.  Which has led me to draw my own conclusions about why Rudolph’s nose was bright red like that.  I had always suspected an overindulgence in peppermint schnapps was to blame – but it turns out his nose glowed because he probably had an internal nose pimple too.

Ugh.  Seriously.  I can feel the Beat of My Heart (Foreigner, 1988 – and it turns out there IS an 80’s song for every moment in life…including those moments when you have an internal nose pimple) in the TIP of my nose.  EVERY beat of my heart.  Buh-boom.  Ow.  Buh-boom.  Ow!

Also?  I look like that chick in all those Picasso paintings.  That chick who’s looking straight at you but her nose is shifted off to the side.  Yeah, that chick.

I’m glad SOMEBODY made it to the bigtime with their nose pimple.  It’s really hard to function with one (not only does it hurt, but it makes your eye water constantly – so that might explain her wonky lookin’ eye too) so kudos to her for being able to sit through the pain while Picasso painted her umpteem times.  Her AND her off-set nose.

Hey – speaking of NOSES!!!  Ow.  Yep, still hurts.  Ouch – yep!  Ooh!!  Yep.  Still hurts…

So…a friend and I were volunteering at a fundraising auction this week-end.  And as we were closing down the event, I found the auctioneer’s business card over by the checkout stations.  This is how it read:

Auctioneer.  Counselor.  Pastoral Care.  Singing Telegrams.

Wait!  What?!?

That is the most RANDOM collection of mad skillz I’ve ever seen on one business card.  But it makes a certain amount of cross-sell/up-sell business sense.  If people really like her work as a counselor, then perhaps she’ll be top-of-mind when a singing telegram need arises.  Brilliant!

What should I put on MY business card?!?

Blogger.  Stay at home mom.  Crocheter.  Singing Telegrams.

As for the singing telegrams, just to be clear: I don’t really do Broadway Show Tunes or anything.  Nor Barber Shop Quartet-y type stuff.   In fact, I don’t really do singing telegrams at all.  But if I did, I would specialize in Songs from the 80’s.  And I’d have to have a few beers first.

But the ‘Singing Telegrams’ thing is SUCH an eye-catcher, that I’m gonna put it on my business cards anyway.  And then I’m gonna have the business cards MADE.  And then I’m gonna find a place where I can hand them out (to MORE than just my kids, ’cause they pay piss-poor wages).  And then I’m gonna wait for the phone calls to roll in.  At which point I’ll notify the unemployment office that I don’t need them OR their sorry 18.2% benefit-reduction.

Ok.  Good plan.

But not yet, Unemployment Office!  Not quite yet!!  Don’t do anything with my benefits quite YET!!!

But the money’s coming soon, I can just tell.  “Do what you love, and the money will follow.”  That’s what my dear friend, Ohps*, always says.  And I’m embracing that concept like never before.  Don’t believe me?  Just take a look at my business cards.  I’m going places…and I’m singing the whole way there.

*Something you may not know about me is that Oprah Winfrey and I are dear friends.  In fact, I know Oprah so well that I call her Ohps.   Now that I think about it, though, I do have to say our friendship has been a bit one-sided in recent years.  I mean, if you asked her about me, she’d probably say she’s never heard of me.  But pay that no never mind.  She still had some insightful stuff to say for a billionaire.

I have received no less than three mailed letters informing me that, due to federal budget cuts on or after April 28, 2013*, my unemployment compensation will be reduced by 18.2%.

Uh…ok.  18.2%?  That’s pretty specific.  Methinks someone’s been feverishly doin’ some math in the back room.

In which case, here’s an open notice to the math wiz:  HOW ABOUT STOP SENDING STUPID EXPENSIVE LETTERS THROUGH THE MAIL AND KEEP MY UNEMPLOYMENT COMPENSATION THE SAME?!??

I mean, come on!!  It’s not MY responsibility to keep the U.S. Postal Service in business.  Survival of the fittest, I say!  Darwinian theory!  Free market trade!!  Laissez-faire economics and ALL THAT JAZZ!!!

Who’s with me?  Revolt!  REVOLT!!!  Let’s add a smidge of that olde-time competition into the U.S. Postal Service mix and see what happens as stamp prices drop and service improves.  After all, this concept is what our great country is founded on.  That – and having the unemployed on the dole.

Speaking of which…enough about our great country…back to me…

Here is an example of one of the three mailed letters I recently received.  I have not changed a single, solitary word:

NOTICE OF DECISION [Oh, ok.  I didn’t even know anything was being DISCUSSED!  So it comes as a bit of a shock that you’ve arrived at a DECISION already.  But nonetheless, I have a feeling in my bones that it’s going to be a good decision.  Because you ALWAYS make good, solid decisions.]

Section of Law Used:  Colorado Unemployment Security Act, Supp App Act 2008 T IV EUC PL 110-252 [Oh.  Ok.  In fact after reading THAT, I’m GLAD I didn’t know anything was being discussed ’cause I have NO idea what you just said.  Unless it was in Spanish?  In which case, I need to press numero uno to get someone English-speaking on the line.  How much are we paying for THAT nifty feature, I wonder?!]

Decision:  [Oh my goodness!  Oh my GOODNESS!  Here we go!  HERE WE GO!!!  This is gonna be good.  But first, what’s up with all the caps?!?  Don’t my peeps at the Department of Labor know that “all caps” conveys a shout-y tone of voice?  Which is kinda de-motivating in the way the teacher’s red pen marks on your test are de-motivating.  In fact, they should have just done their “all caps” in a nice bright red to get the horror out-of-the-way all at once.]  WE CAN STILL PAY YOU FEDERAL EXTENDED BENEFITS (ALSO CALLED EMERGENCY UNEMPLOYMENT COMPENSATION OR EUC).  BY LAW, WE HAD TO CHECK WETHER YOU NEED TO SWITCH TO A CLAIM FOR REGULAR BENEFITS.  WE CANNOT PAY YOU ON A NEW CLAIM BECAUSE YOU HAVE NOT GONE BACK TO WORK AND EARNED $2,000.  ONCE YOU RETURN TO WORK AND EARN $2,000, YOU MAY NEED TO SWITCH TO A CLAIM FOR REGULAR BENEFITS IF YOU ARE OUT OF WORK AGAIN.  AT THAT TIME, YOU MUST CALL US SO THAT WE CAN GO OVER YOUR CLAIM WITH YOU.  REMEMBER THAT YOU MUST MEET THE REQUIREMENTS OF THE LAW.

[What?!?  What.  The.  F^^^??!  Am I supposed to DO something??  Or just continue to sit here collecting the dole?!?  This is confusing.  Numero uno!  NUMERO UNO!!!!!!)

* What was happening BEFORE April 28, 2013?!?  Were most folks on the way to the post office doin’ the Charleston and singing, “We’re in the money!”??!

There’s this “thanks, but no thanks” letter I get from companies I’ve applied to.

These letters accomplish two things: 1) They convey in clear and concise language that I…uh…didn’t get the job.  [Yeah.  No sh%#, Sherlock!  If I HAD gotten the job, you wouldn’t have sent a rinkydink letter.  You would have sent a welcome team armed with flowers and balloons!]  And 2) They get the voices chattering in my head.  Despite the tinfoil hat I wear to block said voices, they still seem to come through loud and clear, particularly when one of these letters arrives.

[As a side note:  Screw the tinfoil!  SCREW IT!  It doesn’t work.  But I really wish it did.] 

So without further ado…I bring you the letter I frequently makes me sound like a loser, let’s just say I sometimes get from companies I apply to:

Dear You, [DEAR??  Let’s not pretend I’m “dear” anything to you.]

Thank you for expressing an interest in the XYZ position.  [uh…you’re…welcome?  But I have a bad feeling that I won’t be “welcoming” you much longer.]  We regret to inform you that [WHAT?!?  That someone’s DIED??  Give it to me straight, I can take it] after reviewing your application, we believe your skills and experiences [which skills and experiences would those be?!  My two bachelor’s degrees?  My MBA??  My 25 YEARS of progressive work experience complete with a dozen plus promotions, various awards and certifications??  THOSE SKILLS AND EXPERIENCES?!??] do not meet the job requirements.  [WHAT??!  Are you KIDDING me?!?  Are.  You.  KIDDING ME???  ‘Cause I kinda thought THEY DID!  THAT’S WHY I APPLIED FOR YOUR STUPID JOB!!!]

Again, thank you for taking the time to pursue this opportunity.  [Which I’m now TOTALLY glad I didn’t get because I can tell that it would have been horrible to work for you.  HORRIBLE!  You can just take your self-important death notice letter and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine!]  

We encourage you to visit our website where we have more jobs to explore within our company [Oh?  MORE jobs??  Ones that would be perfect for UNEMPLOYED BLOGGERS, perhaps?!?  If I applied to THOSE jobs, would I still get a total crap letter from you?  Maybe you just LIKE sending crap letters, is that it?  Maybe you’ve made your whole CAREER outa sending crap letters, you crappity crap crapper!]

We wish you the very best in your career endeavors [Yeah, yeah.  Puh-lease!  I’ve heard it all before.  You can just ZIP IT with your wishes ’cause there ain’t no one wishing harder than me!  That’s for DARN sure!!]

Sincerely,

ABC Recruitment Team [Don’t you actually mean “Recruitment Team for JOB HOBOS from WHACKADOODLE TOWN”?!??  Isn’t that what you REALLY mean?  ISN’T IT?!??!  So just say it already.  SAY IT!!!!  SAY!  IT!!!]

So….do you see why I really, really, REALLY wish the tinfoil hat worked?  These letters [VOICES] are exhausting.

Remember that old riddle about a boy and his father who get into a car accident.  The boy is rushed to the hospital in great need of an operation but the doctor who attends him says, “I can’t operate on this boy; He’s my son!”

But how can that be?!?

I posed this riddle to my kids last week, secure in the knowledge that we’ve come a long way baby.  And surely THIS generation would be able to spot the clear answer!

Sissy: Uh…blink blink, blink blink….uh…Hey!  I’ve got it!!  It was the boy’s STEPFATHER, right??

Me: No.

Sonny:  Uh….blink blink, blink blink…uh…Hey!  How about the boy was adopted and the real father was the doctor??!

Me: No.

Ok.  Let’s pause right here.  You know the answer to the riddle, right?  I even hinted at it above (point, point).  The doctor is the boy’s MOTHER!!!  D’oh!

Let’s pause further while I state that I’m ALLLLLL about girl power (surprised much?).  And I’ve taught my children to be allllll about girl power.  And I’ve even told my husband that he’s all about girl power and he agrees he is.  (He does everything I tell him to do except for take out the garbage.  He makes me nag him until he does THAT.  Ahhhhh – the joys of girl power!).

So why – oh, WHY – in this day and age – did my children NOT make the connection that the doctor was the boy’s MOTHER?!?  Why were they so willing to come up with a dozen cockamamie answers about the FATHER?!?

I have been puzzled by it ever since.  Their pediatrician is a woman, MY doctor is a woman, we have women FRIENDS who are doctors, their AUNT is a doctor (no…not THAT kind of doctor…but still…), my daughter even wants to BE a doctor (an animal one, but that counts).  WHAT.  IS.  THE DISCONNECT???

Plus??!  All their lives I’ve been telling both my kids that they can grow up to be whatever they want to be.  (Here’s where girl power morphs into self-fulfillment power.  Just go with it.)  You don’t have to be limited by some gender-licious, societal-norm definition of what you can be.  You wanna be a motorcycle guy who sings opera and has an iron claw?!?  Go for it!  You wanna be a mother AND a vet?  Rock on!

You wanna be an unemployed blogger with an MBA?!?  Boo-ya!  ‘Cause, honey?!  You are my Shining Star!  Don’t you go away!  (No-ho-ho-ho, Baby!)  Wanna be right here where you are.  ‘Til my dyin’ day*.

*Double Boo-ya:  Manhattans, Shining Star, released 1980…and the “80’s song for every moment in life” theory rears its glorious head yet again.