I seriously doubt Barack Obama made a slip of any sort (Freudian or otherwise) when he was quoted as saying, “…you can put lipstick on a pig. But it’s still a pig.”

There was no hidden agenda there. No motive for maligning anyone. No code for slamming Vice Presidential candidate, Sarah Palin. Nope. Not a single one.

Senator Obama was merely trying to paint a clearer picture of the political landscape for the American public and to point out how completely divergent his view (i.e. It’s the ECONOMY, Stupid!) is from that of his opponent, John McCain.

Besides, what do the Republicans think—that they somehow own the lipstick-on-a-pig idiom?! That no one else is allowed to utter such a phrase now that Palin slathered her lipstick remark everywhere for all the world to see?!

That’s simply ludicrous. And it smacks of arrogance.

What’s next? An uproar ensuing over the use of the term “rat race” to describe this God-awful contest?! Because, of course, that would in effect be calling the opponents (as well as all contestants) a bunch of smarmy rodents.

Pigs are at least clean animals. So maybe Obama’s blurb wasn’t all that derogatory after all. Even if he was referring to Palin. Which he wasn’t.

Quite frankly, I’m growing tired of all the hoo-ha. Tired of the dirt. Tired of being literally consumed by all-that-is-political. And I’m sickened to death by the media, who has succeeded in joining the fracas yet again, muddying the waters by capitalizing on our inability to filter out the noise and by feeding our insatiable desire for entertainment. Those self-serving spin-factories are champions when it comes to making-something-of-nothing. Needless to say, I was not a happy camper on the day nothing (which is now officially something) lipstick-ish splashed across my television screen ad nauseam.

Most of my displeasure centered around the thoughtless nature (read: evil-spirited glee) with which newscasters delivered the juicy sound bites day and night, fueling the fire that would surely lead to mayhem in homes everywhere. Homes in which impressionable youths reside. The ones who would willingly (and oh-so-joyfully) embrace the notion of putting lipstick on a pig—or anything else, for that matter. As if my kids needed that gem of a seed planted firmly in their twisted little minds!

“A PIG! What a marvelous creature to festoon with lipstick!” they likely pondered upon hearing it, scheming and dreaming of how such a clever ploy might be acted upon.

Good grief. Those tactless twits may as well have suggested flushing a bar of soap down the toilet (like my brother did!), putting rocks in the dryer or hiding a gallon of milk in the bowels of a closet—all completely absurd (yet infinitely viable) possibilities that exist among the gamut of that-which-is-downright-naughty.

That being said, my heathens have painted nearly every surface imaginable with (among other things) lipstick. Pink and purplish hues, more specifically, harvested from a make-up kit that I (in a moment of great weakness) purchased for them. Thus far, hapless targets have included the dog, our cats, their dolls, bears and Beanie Babies “…to make them more beautiful, Mommy, so they can get married.”

Of course, I resisted the urge to inform, “A dab of lipstick does not a beautiful bride make,” tabling it for a later discussion. No doubt, at some point I’ll also be charged with explaining Palin’s infamous hockey-mom/pit bull commentary to my daughters as well as demystifying terms like glass ceilings and penis envy.

Joy.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

I’ve suffered the wrath of my children for a plethora of reasons—probably for more asinine things than I can possibly count. And most of the time, it has been because I missed something simple along the way—some crucial bit of insight or communiqué that might have taken much of the frustration and complexity out of childrearing. Something that would have made me less of an ogre and more of a compatriot.

That being said, I once made the dreadful mistake of trashing someone’s beloved “collection” that was lurking about in a despicable corner of our despicably organized garage. Said Shrine-to-Mother-Nature consisted of a hideous clump of wilted dandelions, a handful of slime-ridden leafy matter, a smattering of pebbles and a bunch of twigs I assumed had been left for dead—or at least for kindling. Silly me.

When my crime was subsequently discovered, it was as if I had slaughtered Sponge Bob and his moronic sidekick, Patrick (not that I haven’t deliciously entertained the idea). At any rate, I was practically deported for having violated one of the tenets of Motherhood: “Thou shalt not dispose of foolish tripe without first obtaining the express written consent of all interested parties (i.e. the resident heathens who may or may not be able to read or write yet).” Since then, our mother-daughter relationship has improved, but I doubt I’ll ever be forgiven for such an atrocity.

Then there was the cardinal sin I committed just last month when I insisted the toad must go. The toad who lived on my coffee table for three days running, who drove me completely berserk with his relentless pawing and clawing of the wretched cage-like home to which he had been so unwillingly assigned. The toad who had been worshiped and glorified for his many talents (being warty, for one). The fist-sized blob of repugnance whom my little girls felt compelled to kiss and cuddle (till I became visibly ill—Gak!) during a teary-eyed and interminable farewell which will live in my guilt-ridden soul forever and ever. Amen.

Of course, I’m certain it was not unlike the dramatic performance of a lifetime I myself delivered in Disney World back in 1973—when I became thoroughly and hopelessly obsessed with the notion of obtaining a certain toy rifle I had seen; one that stole my heart from the moment I ogled its silken stock and genuine metal barrel. The fact that it came with a real ramrod and shot corks merely made me want it that much more. My mission: to convince my grandparents that I couldn’t possibly continue living without it. That I would surely shrivel up and die right then and there with Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck as witnesses unless and until they journeyed to the ends of the earth (read: the entire length of the park) and bought it for me. I still have that beloved prize, but sadly, not one cork.

As a parent, my popularity also waned the day I refused to let my charges wear their Crocs to Knoebel’s. Naturally, they grumbled and groused each time we happened upon a kid wearing those stupid shoes—the ones that ought to come with a box of Band-aids and a waiver. Waiting in line for the bumper cars, spinning around in those monstrous tea cups, crammed and jammed impossibly inside a bevy of bathroom stalls—where our worm’s-eye view spoke volumes. “See, that kid’s Mommy let her wear Crocs.” Everywhere, it seemed, I was reminded of what a horrible mother I was.

Likewise, there was the time I rearranged the refrigerator magnets (oh, the horror!). The time I forgot to tell the landscaping people not to disturb the “eagle’s nest” in our front yard (i.e. the massive heap of sticks that begged to be flung into oblivion). The time I insisted the bug cage must either be chucked out entirely or purged of the unsightly display of caterpillar carnage contained within. Or more recently, when I had the audacity to wash their bedding without first consulting she-who-would-freak (read: she who would be instantly launched into a stomping, shrieking fit of rage upon learning her stuffed animals had been moved). Next time (she demanded of me) I would photograph said animals properly, so the blasted things could more easily be returned to their rightful place in the Universe. It’s poetic justice, I suppose, for having lied about bedbugs in order to convince her that laundering was necessary at all.

Like I said—I’ve suffered plenty of wrath at the hands of my children. But the rage-inspired idiocy I am about to describe is beyond all imagining. While ferrying my brood over hill and dale, we passed what appeared to be a dead skunk along the roadside. The pungent aroma that filled our Jeep shortly thereafter, confirmed my astute suspicions. Ridiculously keen on witnessing dead things (as always), both kids craned their necks to see the furry beast who had met an untimely demise. But alas, they had no such luck—even after three tries and lots of helpful reminders like, “We’re about to pass the skunk…we’re passing the skunk…we just passed the skunk….” For a fleeting moment, I entertained the notion of pulling over to let them eyeball the ludicrous thing once and for all; but thankfully, that little gem of an idea went away.

Well, upon learning that we wouldn’t be returning home over the same well-traveled path (where the unfortunate skunk lay), one of my dandies decided to stage a protest. First, she whined and flopped her sorry self about in the seat, eventually feigning death or at least a healthy bout of unconsciousness. Naturally, I ignored such nonsense and kept driving to our 437th destination of the day. By the time we finished our errands and pulled into the garage, the silent treatment had begun in earnest—in fact, she wouldn’t even get out of the car. She just sat there, forever, arms crossed in defiance across her chest, jaw and brow cast in stone. She then proceeded to sear holes in the back of my front seat, positively stewing over my latest transgression. “Lovely,” I thought. “Just lovely!” It’s 9,000 degrees and my kid (who hates me) won’t get out of a sweltering car that’s sitting inside a sweltering garage—thanks to a stupid skunk who couldn’t cross a stupid road to save himself!” How pitifully ironic.

Then again it was ironic to think that carrion could possess the least bit of charm.

Ultimately, my rebel child conceded defeat and dragged herself inside; but her sullen mood continued for quite some time—punctuated with commentary like, “I just wanted to see the skunk, Mom. I never saw a dead one before,” as if it were some sort of exotic thrill.

Apparently I failed to grasp the simplicity of the situation yet again, as well as the allure of roadkill.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

A Sunday School Teacher I Am Not

I admire the folks who volunteer their time as Sunday school teachers. They inspire hope, nurture faith and tie shoes if need be, guiding our impressionable youth along life’s uncertain path. It’s a thankless job at times, I imagine, yet one that is rich with pockets of priceless commentary. Commentary that spills forth without censorship. Without tact. Without shame.

Kids are a trip. That’s a given. And no where on earth could that truth be more evident than Sunday school—a venue where openness is welcomed and children are encouraged to ponder the great mysteries of the world and to dig deep for answers—inviting equal doses of wonder and hilarity. Yet despite its wealth of undeniable high points, I cannot bring myself to become a Sunday school teacher.

Not now. Not ever.

For starters, it’s highly probable I’d swear like a sailor if I stubbed my toe during class or suddenly realized I left my damned windows down in the pouring rain. I can’t pronounce three-quarters of the stinking names in the Bible and I couldn’t say which books are located in the Old Testament (as opposed to the New Testament) to save my soul. Forever, it seems, I’ve wrestled with understanding the whole church calendar thing and I’ve struggled mightily with both geography and the subject of history since the dawn of time. So it’s no surprise that I’d find the B.C./A.D. thing infinitely challenging (if not impossible!) to impart to anyone—let alone swarming masses of grade-schoolers.

But mostly, my doubts stem from knowing that I stink to high Heaven when it comes to fielding the many and varied questions that routinely tumble from the mouths of my seven-year-old charges, Thing One and Thing Two. Like the time one of them earnestly whispered in my ear upon finishing the Lord’s Prayer one Sunday, “When I get all these things memorized, I get to drink the wine, right, Mom?” I was rendered speechless with that little gem, eventually muttering something about it being her father’s turn to respond to such foolishness. But the most recent religion-related Q & A session to which I was a party (i.e. my pitiful attempt to answer the unanswerable) unfolded thusly while taxiing the pair hither and yon:

Thing One: “Mom, where did the oceans come from? Was there a big flood or something?”

Me, chugging along on fumes after another fun-filled (read: horrendously exhausting) day of summer vacation home with the heathens: “I don’t know. God made the oceans, I guess,” I offered, half yawning, half wishing my husband had been there to address that one. At least he’d have come up with something reasonable on short notice—something suitably stated, if not flawlessly delivered. Out of guilt and necessity, I snapped out of my mid-afternoon lethargy and continued, “Yes, God made the oceans and there was a big flood, but that happened waaaaay after the fact.”

Thing One (ostensibly less than satisfied with my response): “But where did the oceans really come from?”

Me: “Where does anything come from?” I tossed back with bravado, in a rhetorical-yet-challenging fashion, utterly convinced she’d be stumped, and completely pleased with myself for having rallied with confidence, despite my limited arsenal of knowledge as it relates to creationism.

After a deliciously long pause during which I imagined great weeping and gnashing of teeth, Thing Two offered up the unexpected, “Milk comes from cows.”

Then I began the terrible weeping and gnashing of teeth, gripping my steering wheel in frustration, wondering how the tables had turned so quickly and how she had totally missed my pitifully argued point. The pressure was on to perform. To provide guidance and assurance.

To save face.

“Yes, milk does come from cows,” I groused through clenched teeth, wondering if and when she’d begin quoting Animal Planet purely for my benefit.

“But where do cows come from?” I countered, praying the circus would soon end. And after another lengthy gap in the conversation, she enlightened me with a blurb for which I had no sage advice. My supply of snappy comebacks had been all but depleted for the afternoon.

“From their mothers. Cows come from their mothers, Mom,” she stated as if she were telling me the sky was blue and that ducks sometimes quack.

That being said, I’m no candidate for teaching Sunday school. The future doesn’t look all that promising either—unless and until I can outwit a seven-year-old.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

Although my seven-year-old wonders worship the ground upon which worms slither, I never envisioned the possibility they might actually become worms—bookworms, more specifically. Granted, my heathens still routinely climb trees, dig in the dirt and festoon our hapless dog with lipstick; but I’d surmise they’ve spent nearly as much time with the likes of Roald Dahl, Barbara Park, Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume this summer—devouring their works as if each word were laced with licorice and coated with caramel.

Okay—maybe rainbow sprinkles and S’mores are more their speed. Nevertheless, I am astonished by the recent turn of events as it relates directly to my children’s obsession with and addiction to reading. Quite frankly, I am baffled by the power said literary entities apparently have over them. It’s as if my kids are under some sort of twisted spell from the moment they crack open a book and disappear into its pages—totally disconnected from the world. All that remains is a stoic shell with grass-stained knees, a smattering of Band-Aids and a glassy-eyed gaze that states the obvious: Out to Lunch. Seemingly nothing else on the planet matters except for the narrative unfolding before them.

If only they could be so engaged while pouring milk!

Now and again, bursts of chortles and animated nonsense erupt from behind those well-worn paperbacks—intended for no one, broadcast to everyone, making me insane with curiosity and envious of those in the know. Once in a great while someone will tap me for the meaning or pronunciation of a word. Naturally, I oblige, but aside from that I have virtually no function—except maybe to keep the damn bookshelves well stocked.

For whatever reason (their teachers’ ability to instill a passion for reading so great it’s inconceivable, the motivating force of the Summer Reading Programs orchestrated by the James V. Brown Library and the Crosscutters Baseball Organization or the bevy of simply scrumptious titles available at area bookstores, Borders and Otto’s chief among them), my charges have been hopelessly smitten with all-that-is-bookish this summer.

And that’s a good thing. I think. For a time, anyway, the din subsides and the circus all but leaves town, affording me the opportunity to reclaim my sanity. Mom probably relished much the same as I trekked off into the woods, The Secret Garden or something Mark Twain-ish firmly tucked under an arm. Although, truly, it drives me berserk to try and communicate with creatures so consumed by a piece of literature it’s obscene. Needless to say, in those instances I feel the compelling urge to shriek, “Snap out of it, you little dweebs! Don’t you know there are cats to torment and mud pies to bake?!” I could tell them their hair was on fire and they wouldn’t care. That ponies await them in the yard. That baths would be banished forevermore and pillow fights would reign supreme if only they would humor me by mouthing a response to any one of my infinitely insignificant (read: silly ass) questions.

Still, I get nothing. Nothing that even remotely resembles a suitable reply. Instead, I am shushed, and scolded and ordered back into the hole from whence I came. “Mom, can’t you see I’m trying to READ?! I can’t concentrate with all that talking you’re doing.” By all accounts, I have become an annoyance to my children. I’m the mosquito in their ear. The rain on their parade. The pebble in their beloved Crocs. The pit in their peach. All the same, they ignore my incessant yammerings—or retreat to a more secluded location.

To date, I’ve found my unlikely scholars poring over books while perched atop the coffee table, buried beneath their covers, hunched under the kitchen table, holed up in the bathroom, planted under an oak tree and sprawled out on the living room floor. They’ve also been known to crawl inside the dog’s crate (to read to him, of course), to savor chapter upon chapter while being taxied hither and yon and to whine about being deprived of a gripping novel while parked in a public restroom.

It’s true.

Upon hearing, “Sheez, I wish I had a book, Mom,” drift over the bathroom stall at Rivals recently, I thanked God no one else was there to witness such a mortifying disclosure—unless that someone happened to be a librarian. He or she, no doubt, would have cheered the notion and praised me for instilling within my child the burning desire to read—even while camped on the loo.

So maybe I have made significant strides in nurturing a love of books, never mind that it smacks of weirdness and flies in the face of convention. That being said, perhaps the most rewarding byproduct of the whole affair has been the wealth of conversations we’ve shared in the wake of impassioned page flipping—conversations sparked by clever plots, vivid characters and a common fascination with the telling of tales. Something I’ve longed for as a parent and have finally realized.

Then again, digging in the dirt with the crew is loads of fun, too—worms or no worms.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

PREPARATION TIME: Significantly longer than it takes to prepare entrée without a feline helper—or without assistance from children drunk with amusement over said feline and his asinine antics

SERVES: As many poor souls who dare to partake—despite knowing all the facts

INGREDIENTS:

1 cup dry Aunt Jemima Pancake Mix

¾ cup milk

1 T oil

    1 egg

    Dash of saliva, eau de pussycat

    Tuft or twenty of black fur (see above)

    Trace of cat breath (don’t ask)

INSTRUCTIONS: Combine dry pancake mix and milk in a bowl. Set aside on counter. Instruct children not to blow on flour-like heap or to stir clumps of milky mixture with their fingers—no matter how tempting that might be. Search high and low for oil and fresh egg, employing great care not to trip over children or ravenous cat in the process. Set egg and oil on counter and begin search for measuring spoon. Warn children (hand on hip and finger wagging is optional) not to spin or juggle egg—no matter how tempting that might be.

Become thoroughly engrossed in some inane activity like talking on the phone (with husband who SHOULD be home helping with dinner), checking e-mail or responding to 324th child-generated question of the day. Set table. End activities and return to pancake disaster-in-the-making. Work self into frenzy upon sighting cat on counter with head totally immersed in bowl. Throw both hands up in the air and then on top of head (hair pulling is optional) while giving children patented incredulous how-could-you-NOT-tell-me-he-was-in-the-batter!! type of look.

Really go ballistic when eye-contact is made with little black bastard, now abundantly bedecked from nose to tip of whiskers with flour/milk mixture. Begin fuming profusely from the ears when cat nonchalantly blinks and licks his lips as if to say, “Simply marrrrrrvelous.” Bolt in the direction of furry four-legged miscreant, screaming louder than when he shattered favorite butter dish and shredded children’s school calendar—just because. Chase wily little shit around the house like a madwoman bent on thrashing his sorry patutie, while simultaneously launching a lengthy and colorful tirade, recounting each and every misdeed for which he was responsible and all that could have possibly been WRONG with the decision to adopt said cat. Kick self repeatedly for having caved-in to kids’ begging and whining, for becoming attached to his fuzzy little face in the first place and for ever thinking his ridiculous pranks were cute.

Catch breath and regain composure while dismissing feelings of utter rage and loathing. Give up on locating cat for the time being. Vow to thrash him next time. Accept the fact that THERE WILL BE A NEXT TIME. Return to kitchen. Reassure ashen-faced children that you haven’t killed their pretty new kitty. Instruct them not to repeat the words Mommy shouldn’t have said—no matter how exciting that might be during Show and Tell.

Warm griddle or fry pan to medium-high heat or until a few drops of water sizzle upon contact—with pan or with brow. Remove tufts of fur from flour/milk mixture. Add remaining ingredients to bowl. Mix well. Convincingly explain that all the silly cat germs now housed in the batter will surely be killed once we “…put it on the stove and cook the BeJesus out of it.” Pour batter onto heated surface (in desired shapes and sizes), ignoring children’s request to “Make him one, Mommy!”

SERVE & ENJOY: Resist the urge to noticeably inspect pancakes for traces of fur, etc and deny all claims that “Mr. Binks helped us make pancakes, Mommy! I think I can smell his breath in here!”

Heaven forbid you give him that kind of satisfaction.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2006 Melinda L. Wentzel