Soaring

Having been born with just enough sense to not stick my tongue in a working toaster, I made the decision early in my life to not take unnecessary risks....such as flying. Granted...5 billion satisfied customers a day can't be wrong, but the thought of sitting in a pressurized metal tube scudding at 500 miles per hour 45 000 feet in the air just don't sit well with Mrs. Chicken.

But alas, life being what it is, I found myself in a situation where I had to put my Big Girl Underpants on and take to the skies in order to see my sweet little niece tie the knot. And serve her written warning of what's to come once that minister stops snickering and sneaks out the back door of the church to "youtube" the video.

Being the diligent planner that I am, I asked my teenage son to recommend some TV documentaries to show me what to expect. Sitting down with my popcorn to the DVR menu he so lovingly prepared, I'm aghast at the multiple episodes of "Mayday" and "World's Deadliest Crashes" flashing before my eyes as the boys bust a gut laughing and imitate my pending panic attack at the airport. Chiding them for their insensitivity, I remind them that it's not nice to poke fun at scared people. And that my doctor gave me a bottle of special little pills...and that just one will put me off on an ozone expedition until we land.

Ignoring the youngest boy's frighteningly accurate impression of me being dragged onto the plane kicking and screaming, I grab my luggage and my husband and prepare to become one with the clouds.

Arriving at The Birthplace of Panic, I carefully circle the parking lot looking for that perfect spot to leave my car unattended for over a week. Rejecting the first 400 spaces for various infractions (including, but not limited to, the color of the lines on the pavement not matching my purse), my husband grabs the wheel and orders me to quit stalling, take a pill, and act like I don't know him once we get inside.

Not wanting to feel dopey, and needing to prove to my husband that I have at least as much courage as Scooby Doo when faced with a spook, I shove the pill bottle into my pocket and run through a windy downpour to the first desk in the terminal.

Trying to not sound like a wheeze that picked a fight with a broken flute, and looking like Cranko the Clown just survived a wind tunnel explosion, I bark out my name and scream at the nice lady to please just strap me into a seat and pour me something fermented. Smiling that plastic, "everything's OK because you don't know what really goes on here" smile, the nice lady explains to me that this is the airport security desk, and I'll be giving them a urine sample before I go one step closer to the planes.

Standing to the side watching me get frisked by some obvious X-Files fanatic with Moulder identity issues, my husband insists to the policeman that he has no idea who I am, or why I keep squeaking his name in a voice that sounds like a cricket with tonsillitis. Agreeing to take me off their hands for a free doughnut, my one-and-only steers me towards the gate and spiels his "suck it up, buttercup" speech under his breath.

Arriving at that nasty accordian thing that guides me in to the bowels of Battlestar Gallactica, I find myself digging my heels in to the carpet while bracing my arms against the passengers who are tragically standing in line next to me. Pushing me with surprising strength, the flight attendant pries my jaws open to retrieve our boarding passes, and shoves me into a decrepit fuselage that looks like it was built by some hostile ancient civilization. Listening to my husband spew his defensive "I only wanted to save us a few dollars", and "It isn't actually that old", I distract myself by trying to decipher the cave drawings on the overhead compartment.

Focusing on the safety instructions with the same intensity usually only seen when Bob Barker explains the rules for "Plinko", I memorize the escape routes, and pull my seat belt on tight enough to do my own appendectomy. Launching itself into the air at a speed that temporarily gives us all a facelift, the airplane starts to climb to a height that human beings have no business being subjected to. Listening to my husband marvel at the craftmanship of the vessel, and loudly remind us all that "just one loose bolt...just one...that's all it would take"....I try to loosen my grip on the seat in front of me just enough to cover his mouth.

Cruising at 45 000 feet above the rest of the planet, I feel myself giving way to my bleeding nerves. Trying his best to be the loving, supportive man that I married, my husband gently takes my hand and says, "What is so scary about this?". Grateful for the comfort, I whisper, "If I was to ever crash...I want to be on the ground when I do it"....to which he smirked and whispered, "Oh, you will be....".

Prying my seatbelt off, I yank myself from the seat and realize that I'm no longer safely contained. Pushing the button that will summon some poor, unsuspecting flight attendant, I anxiously explain that I need an escort to the bathroom. Giving me that plastic, "you gotta be kidding me honey" smile, she points to a door at the very back of the plane, and tells me to get moving. Gripping the head of each passenger unfortunate enough to be in between me and the back of the plane, I gingerly make my way to the bathroom to see if my bladder will please stop screaming at me.

Squeezing into what appears to be a metal test tube with a toilet in it, I seat myself on the geometric equivalent of a mosquito coil, and try to relax. Finally finding peace with my circumstance, I'm jolted back to reality when it appears that one of the clouds grew giant hands and has a hold of the plane shaking it like a can of spray paint....and I'm the little metal ball. Hanging on for dear life, I try to swiftly resume my somewhat respectable appearance, and somehow get back into a seatbelt like a bat out of hell. Hands shaking, I throttle the pull cord that will summon some poor, unsuspecting flight attendant, and tell her I need a seat right next to the bathroom to avoid crawling and sobbing back to the other end of the plane. Giving me that plastic, "your husband paid $39.99 for your seat, now crawl back to it" smile, she shoves me in the opposite direction and hides behind a curtain.

Trekking back down the aisle steadying myself by grasping the hair of the poor unfortunates seated in between me and safety, I fling myself into the seat and tie the seatbelt into a triple-bow-weavel knot and dig into my pocket for that bottle of pills. Whimpering for my husband to help me undo the childproof cap, I notice with disgust that he not only fell asleep, he pinned a note to my seat saying, "Only take the peanuts if they're free".

Unsuccessfully choking the pill bottle trying to get it to open, those giant hands grasp the plane again, jostling us all like a washing machine on steroids and making my teeth rattle. Clutching the pill bottle like my husband on a ten dollar bill, the lid finally pops open, and several little special pills plummet into my husband's gaping, snoring mouth. Sputtering and cursing as he's heaved awake, he swallows the pills and commences with the "I can't leave you alone for a minute without a helmet on" rant.

Slowly relaxing from the chemical pacifier, he neatly tucks his thumb into his mouth as his eyes glaze over and curls into the fetal position to resume sleeping. Punching the button that will summon some poor, unsuspecting flight attendant, I explain that now that I've drugged my husband into oblivion, I need someone to reassure me that we're not all going to plunge to our deaths at any moment. Giving me that plastic, "sit still and be quiet or we'll tell customs you smuggled a baby giraffe in your bags" smile, she pleasantly tells me to quit ringing unless I set something on fire, and gives my peanuts to the guy behind me.

Bouncing violently while screaming my head off, I repeatedly elbow my husband to jar him awake. Jerking to a sitting position like a zombie in some B Movie that just smelled fresh brains, he climbs over the seat and instantly begins clumsily pawing at the face of the guy sitting behind me and shouting "I luff you!". Kicking the button that will summon some poor, unsuspecting flight attendant, I try to explain why my husband is now riding the drink cart up and down the aisle and trying to pick a fight with a personal floatation device. Giving me that plastic, "let me show you how to exit the plane now" smile, she snarls at me that she's calculating her odds with a jury of her peers, and the numbers are looking good.

Sulking in my seat, I ignore the stares of the other passengers as the crew duct-tapes my husband to his seat and announce we're landing. Now. Wherever we are.

Feeling tremendous relief as the plane taxis to a bumpy stop on some deserted highway, I gently push the button that will summon some poor, unsuspecting flight attendant and ask her how I safely disembark. Giving me that plastic, "I'll help you when hell not only freezes over but mass-produces its own brand of popsicles" smile, she flings the door open and propels us both down the blow-up slide. Rolling it back up as we skid onto the road, she gives me a solid "Get a dental infection" salute, and slams the door shut.

Helping my husband stagger to his feet, I brush the dust from our shirts and watch the plane take off from the highway amid loud whooping and cheering. Listening to my husband's Gaelic lament about the $79.98 in airfare now wasted, I proudly whip out the bag of peanuts I stole back from the guy sitting behind me while he was pawing at him. Checking our bearings as my husband tries to con a squirrel into buying the peanuts for $79.98, I stick my thumb out to a pick up truck full of chickens and sheep that pulls over with what appears to be the main character from "The Beverly Hillbillies vs Jackass" behind the wheel.

As I hoist my befuddled husband into the back of the truck beside the livestock, I take my place beside The Mother of All Angry Sheep and settle in for what will be the longest two day ride of my life.

Still. Beats. Flying.....

The Great Outdoors

Managing to keep my husband and offspring relatively intact in a house full of power tools, sports equipment, and heating sources is a full time job at best. So filing them in to a camper and depositing us all in the wilderness can be considered an attempt at reconnecting with Mother Nature, or a side effect of that head injury I incurred helping Tommy put the Christmas lights up last year.



I have extensive faith in my husband's mechanical abilities, so long as he limits himself to Leggo and two beers. Convincing him to buy a camper that folds down into a compact wind turbine to drag behind the van while crying at the cruel man who drew the map can only be blamed on a long night of watching "Bonanza" reruns while I was battling the flu and all jacked up on cough syrup.



Our adventure begins with my husband removing the suitcases from the van to make room for his beer cooler, emptying his bladder behind a tree to "show the boys what to expect in the wild", apologizing to the neighbor for the peep show, and doing a half-hearted head count as he climbs behind the wheel while begging the neighbor not to call the police. Again.



Pulling away with a frighteningly loud verse of "Wagons West", we marvel at how the camper is so lightweight we can barely tell we're pulling it. Quickly reversing to re-attach the camper that still sits in the driveway, we are welcomed by the relieved faces of the two kids standing beside it that got missed in the headcount.



Finally on the road, I wait on pins and needles to hear what wonderful campground my husband reserved for us. Noticing his repentant expression, I realize with horror that we are once again at the mercy of whichever barely passable logging road we can find on a map.



After driving for 11 hours while listening to the boys engaging in combat in the back seat, Tommy spots what appears to be a walking trail for crippled squirrels and hangs a sharp left on to the "road". Travelling at a velocity that strips the foliage from the forest and forces a family of owls into stress leave, he hits a rut that dislodges the camper and deposits it at the border of a cliff and announces "We're here. Get out".



Abandoning their commitment to batter each other, the boys exit the van and check out their new home for the next week. Avoiding eye contact with their father when he begins hinting at help "hoisting" the camper, I remain composed when I see several vapor trails disappearing into the woods with mumbled excuses about making mosquito netting or finding a tree root that will cure their sudden onset of gout.



Shrugging the abandonment off, my husband digs around the many cases of beer in the back of the van and produces a "tool kit". Gone are the cumbersome wrenches and screwdrivers that would take up space otherwise reserved for the cooler, only to be replaced by a propane torch and duct tape. Unnerved by his bravado about "only really need the duct tape to put 'er up", I resign myself to the fact that the first aid kit will be christened long before campfire time.



Using the torch nozzle to crank up the tent parts of the camper (due to the fact that the actual cranks were fashioned into a skateboard ramp by the boys), Tommy is unconcerned by the mysterious absense of metal poles to sustain such a structure, and fashions "supports" out of tree branches and duct tape. Declaring "Chez Hawley" open for business, he wolf-whistles to lure the boys to their humble abode.



Watching them wander out of the forest, I can't tell if I'm more distracted by the middle son's facial twitching as he announces with a shaky voice that he can't find a Wi-Fi hookup anywhere in the woods, or the fact that my youngest is stark naked with an announcement that he's going by the name of "Wild Willy" from now on and dares any of us urbanites to challenge him.



Unpacking the hotdogs, I urge my husband to let me be the one to start the fire. Spooked by a scowl that is usually reserved for dress shopping with me or watching romantic comedies, I concede the task to a man who could be the poster child for the makers of sterile gauze, and send my little darlings back into the forest to find firewood.



Converting the camper into an infirmary in preparation for what's to come, I'm not encouraged by hearing "Wild Willy" mutter that he'd rather forage for berries or intimidate some woodland fairies into working for him.



Returning with the rough equivalent of a box of toothpicks, the boys declare themselves exhausted and head to the camper to wait for the weinie roast. Climbing onto the bunks, they lay down and mourn the loss of several days of X-Box Live. Piling up enough branches to build a wicker house, my husband proudly brandishes the propane torch and a BBQ lighter. Drowning out my warnings with a war cry, Tommy lights a bonfire that could signal the space shuttle, as the rotted branches and duct tape holding the camper up give way sending the boys sprawling over the mud and grass at warp speed.



Almost knocked down by "Wild Willy"s panicked break for the trees, I grab the extinguisher I so expertly hid in the cooler, and cover the campsite and the boys in a film of white dust. Realizing I also ruined the weiners, I reveal to the boys that all the other food was in the suitcases that were left at home, and we have to now hunt for squirrels.



Startled by the Park Ranger that suddenly emerged from the bushes, I'm horrified to learn that our fire initiated the Forest Emergency Response, and we'd better have a good reason for creating an inferno during forest fire season, littering the forest with the empty Doritos bags that the kids snuck with them, and displacing a family of owls.



Dismayed by the unfortunate timing of "Wild Willy" barrelling out of the trees wearing nothing but mud and screaming about the intentions of a mutant squirrel, I bearly get my Calm Down Yell working when Mr. Park Ranger launches himself out of the way, only to land on what's left of the camper.



Finally succumbing to the laws of physics, the camper teeters on the edge for one last bitter moment before crashing over the edge of the cliff, the noise drawing the pack of fire fighters and rangers searching for us to the site now referred to as "Apocalypse Ridge".

Trying to sneak into the brush without being associated with this bunch, I'm forced to witness my teenagers stealthily hijacking the Blackberry left on the dash of the rangers' truck, a firefighter trying in vain to pull a sobbing Tommy off the charred beer cooler, and "Wild Willy" challenging the interlopers to a duel with a sharpened pine cone.

I sure hope the makers of "Bonanza" don't watch CNN.....

Driving for Dummies

It's hard to imagine that sweet little face you adore from the moment of birth will be sneering at you through the windshield of a car while bearing down on your lawn ornaments someday....but alas, that is our destiny.

Being such a frugal (OK....broke) family, my husband and I thought it best if we passed on our own driving experience and knowledge to our boys instead of paying a complete stranger to guide them through this milestone. Kind of a passing of the torch as we fantasized about being driven from place to place by shiny, well mannered, considerate, Gosh-Gee-Golly kinds of young men. That being said, my husband still believes in the Easter Bunny, too.

Strapping himself into the seatbelt, my oldest barely registers my directions to familiarize himself with all the dials and gadgets as he throws the car into gear, mashes the gas pedal to the floor, and launches me into the back seat. Fighting the G-force as I claw my way back into the front seat and struggle to get the seatbelt to fit over all the cheesecake I've been sampling, I frantically wave my arms to catch his attention and try to drown out his "Yeeeeeeeee Haaaawwww"s with my Hail Marys.

Colliding with him on a hairpin turn that was preceded by him shouting "Put your seatbelt on tighter...I wanna try something!", I'm not at all comforted by his declaration that it worked better when he did it on Nintendo.

Having no idea that a red light could be interpreted as a friendly suggestion, I hang on for dear life as my body is subjected to the amount of force usually reserved for a particle accelerator, and pray for the police, or army, or Ninja Turtles to command him to pull over.

Being fully equipped with that magic radar that alerts them to the presence of pretty girls, my son locks up the brakes and comes to a screeching halt at the next crosswalk. Preening his eyebrows as he gives her the "Whatyoudoin" nod, he's unaware of my pawing at the door locks while trying to breathe normally now that my uterus is permanently lodged in my chest cavity.

Accelerating at a rate that would shame a rocket scientist, and ignoring the groceries bouncing off the windshield from the elderly lady trying in vain to reach the safety of the curb, my son decides that now would be a great time to call all his buddies and let them know he's a man.

Ducking the various garbage cans, pylons, and bushes that thump off the hood and threaten to come through the glass as he uses both hands to dial, I'm astounded to hear him saying, "No, really, I'm legal this time...she's actually with me". Snatching the phone and begging his buddy to call 911, I'm disturbed to hear his friend yell "Cool...he's telling the truth! She just said stuff to me!"

Cutting across a once-manicured lawn, my firstborn lays on the horn as he whoops and whistles for his buddies to come outside and bask in his manhood. Leaving a trail of jealous teenagers and dead lawn gnomes, he slams the gas pedal down again and announces that we're heading to the mall.

Still dialing and texting his buddies, he weaves around the cars that are going the right way down this one-way street we find ourselves on, and laments to his buddies about the "idiot old people on the roads".

Turning the radio up to a volume that makes the car doors ripple and peel, he warns me to duck under the dash when we get to the mall so none of his friends can see me and slingshots around a telephone pole.

Slamming on the brakes when his girl radar goes off again, I have no choice but to duck under the dash as I'm catapulted there by the same gravitational pull that keeps the moon afloat. Complaining to his buddy on his cell phone that it was a "false alarm...waaaayyyy over 30...", he engages the overdrive again to create another picture perfect vapor trail.

Speeding into the parking lot, he's completely unconcerned with the hoardes of people barely escaping the clutches of my hood ornament, and eagerly seeks out the faces of Those Too Young To Drive Yet as we go airborne over the speed bumps.

My arm straining against the laws of physics, I manage to force my hand through the time warp ripping open in between us, and pull the keys from the ignition. Ignoring the "JEEZ MOM! YOU WANNA CAUSE AN ACCIDENT OR SOMETHING?!", I realize that the doors are too crumpled to open any more, and slither out of the car where my window used to be.

Gasping for air while I kiss the stationary pavement, I'm hardly aware of the high-fives and "You rock, man!"s coming from the crowds of Those Too Young To Drive kids who have come to worship the man who will be their BFF whenever they need a lift.

Standing on legs that feel like wet noodles, I try to ignore the whimpering and horrified stare of my insurance agent parked next to us as I hail a cab and grab my son's cell phone to call a tow truck.

Safely home, and with shaking hands, I thumb through the Yellow Pages and try to decide which driving school instructor I hate most and will therefore give my business to, wave to the neighbors as they systematically reinforce their fence, and contemplate legally changing my son's name to Ricky-Bobby.

His first car needs to be a horse....

Gym is a Four-Letter Word

Santa should have thought this through. Aligning his jolly name with cookies and chocolate has lasting ramifications...for the women responsible to actually do the fat man's job.

I'm all for loading up a plate of cookies for Saint Nick with a love note from the kids, I'm just sour that it ends with those jeans I bought on sale in September threatening to give me an appendectomy every time I sneeze or bend over. OK....maybe me lobbying that the reindeer are magic and eat chocolate and Pringles instead of hay and carrots needs to be filed in the "Good Idea at the Time" file, but I feel I'm being unfairly treated by the earth's gravitational pull.

Resigning myself to the fact that I can't squint and pretend I just spilled cottage cheese on my thighs anymore , I present my jiggly self to the goon at the front desk of "Jim's Gym".

I appreciate the kindly look on his face until I notice him repeatedly pushing a red panic button under the desk. Realizing the beads of sweat on his face have nothing to do with the stairmaster parked behind him, I turn just in time to see his colleague trying to fit into the broom closet while sucking back on a puffer.

Deploying my sweetest "Don't hurt me and I won't hurt you" smile, I bravely ask for directions to the change room. After eventually clarifying what his garbled sobs meant, I finally find myself in that room where control top panties come to die.

Digging through my bag, I extract a pair of gym pants made from some space-age material that I was assured would cover all my assets while allowing the material to "breathe". Pulling them over my cottage-cheese ridden thighs, I realize with horror that that's as far up as they're gonna go. Not wanting to shame myself or interrupt the front desk goons wailing the rosary, I pull my husband's favorite beer shirt down until it covers my knees and venture to the main gym.

Although offended by the horrified stares of the gym staff, I actually feel sorry for the smallest of them for getting shoved and locked out of the office while the others pulled the blinds and killed the lights. Introducing himself in a voice that sounds like a baby mouse whistling, I give "Matt" a firm handshake and stride to The Cardio Room.

Surveying what once must have been the cockpit of the space shuttle, I decide that the "Ellipse" machine is the least threatening, and climb aboard. Wanting to prove to all the skinny wenches in the room that Old Mother Hubbard can still kick their asses, I ignore Matt's warnings to start on Level 1 and crank the machine up to its highest volume.

Gripping the handlebars for dear life as my knee becomes airborne and connects with Matt's chin and sends him sprawling, I frantically push the "level down" button in the hopes that all my parts are still connected when it screeches to a halt. I calmly adjust my t-shirt in the giant mirror that some sadist put right in front of the machine as I wait for Matt to regain consciousness, and decide that maybe a good old-fashioned treadmill is just what I need.

Reassured that Matt can finally tell how many fingers I'm holding up, I secure the safety string to my shirt and commence strolling. Congratulating myself for my athletic prowess, I realize that this gym stuff's not so bad. I walk all the time around the house, and this is exactly like that. Except my pants only come to mid-thigh, I don't usually wheeze like this, and there's some poor guy standing beside me with his eyes rolling back in his head.

Accidentally hitting the "speed up" button as he passed out again, Matt is temporarily deposited belly-first on the treadmill with me until it catapults itself to 14 miles per hour, launching Matt backwards onto some skinny chick on a stationary bike while I find myself again hanging on for dear life.

Thinking I'm gonna be OK as my legs pinwheel like a Sylvester the Cat lawn ornament, I realize with dismay that my thigh-length space pants are squeezing their way down towards my ankles...and that the material on the space pants is the only thing on my body capable of breathing right now. Letting go of the hand grips, I press my hands against my thighs as hard as I can while duck-waddling at 14 miles per hour and trying to scream for help.

Encouraged by the moans I hear from Matt behind me, I remember with glee the safety string I so smartly attached to me before turning this beast on. Bravely letting myself roll backwards until the string elicits that sweet emergency stopping mechanism, I'm only partly aware the back of my head colliding with the front of Matt's as he bravely came from behind to save me.

Once again adjusting my shirt while waiting for Matt to rejoin the world, I admit to myself that maybe a little cottage cheese never hurt no one. Helping Matt to his feet, I thank him for his assistance, but sadly explain that I won't be coming back.

With the exertion of opening the door amplifying my wheeze to a level that almost completely drowns out Matt's tearful "THANK YOU LORD JESUS"s, I try to regain some dignity by reaching under my t-shirt and hauling my space pants back to thigh level. Finally caving under the stress, the surprisingly elastic material snaps away from my body, and delivers the mother of all towel-whips to Matt's hoo-hoo's.

Abandoning my hopes of making a graceful exit, I tippy-toe past the front desk goons that I can still see despite their attempts to camouflage themselves with the decorative fake plants, disregard the fact that I look like I'm dressed in a Heineken nightgown, and gratefully slip behind the wheel of my car.

First stop....Laura Secord....

Deck the Halls With Colleen Hawley

Maybe I'm over optimistic, but I'm sure that there's some Christmas Angel somewhere up there that's assigned to my house specifically to keep it from imploding over the Holidays. While others get to witness good will towards men, experience the joy from the spirit of giving, and lose themselves in the sounds of the carols....I get to witness my cheap-ass husband doing all his shopping at Good Will, experience him flipping the bird to the Spirit of Christmas Future, and lose my hearing in the wail of the sirens.

Case in point, decorating the house. Although I took some sort of oath as a psychiatric nurse to "only use my powers for good" or something like that, I'm in touch with the fact that I'm married to the genetic composite of the Grinch and Homer Simpson. After two weeks of him faking a seizure every time I mentioned this wondrous chore to him, on Christmas Eve I casually mention that the neighbors' property is looking so festive that they'll probably win the local paper's decorating contest, and won't it be nice to have this pointed out to him every time he goes out to shovel the driveway?

Not appreciating the muttered curse words....I'm relieved to see that glint of "You Ain't Gettin One Up On Me" returning to his eyes...and do a mental cartwheel when I see him digging in the garage for the ladder. Stepping over his blueprints several hours later, I'm pleased to see a delivery truck unloading about 100 000 Christmas lights, complete with one giant electric Santa. Could this be THE year? Could we make the newspaper on a page that doesn't involve pictures of emergency personnel and court notes?

I hold back my tears of pride for my man as I invite my darling little boys to bake cookies with me to reward their Dad for creating such a winter wonderland right on our own roof. Ignoring the occasional loud swearing and the kitchen lights flickering, I'm only slightly prepared to see Tommy flailing helplessly as he drops past the patio doors on to the back lawn. Although grateful that the lawnmower he never bothered to put away broke his fall, he curses the hedging shears that only slightly missed thrusting him into a gender identity crisis.

Rushing outside, and closing the door to hide the gales of laughter coming from the boys, I lean down to hear him whisper what I fear may be his last words....."Do I have more up there than that yahoo next door?". Reassured that the lights are dimming all over the neighborhood and the power meter is spinning so fast I'm fearful it'll take flight, he nods the OK to move him on to the couch.

Unable to move this portable hernia by myself, I strategically place beer cans in between his twisted form and the back door and cheer him on as he follows the beacons and crawls to safety. Encouraging him to just ignore the "6.0" signs that the kids are holding up, I tuck him in on the couch and break in to my reserve of ice packs and Aspirin.

Shooing the kids to bed before the real Santa makes an appearance, I fan the smoke to stop the screeching of the smoke alarms, scrape the black lumps that should have been cookies onto a plate, and present my humble offering to the man who risked his life to shut me up.

Realizing I'd placed three too many beer within reach, I cover his polluted, sleeping body with a blanket, and hunker down in bed by myself to await Christmas morning. As dreams of Visa bills disappearing fill my head, I fail to hear the kids sneaking into the living room in the dark to see if they can catch Santa....and likely mug him.

As they look expectantly out the picture window for that magical sleigh, they hear a rumbling from the roof. Could it be eight tiny reindeer bringing Saint Nick to our home? Or could it be Saint Nick himself being blown off the roof as the screws that were only half nailed in before Tommy came crashing down crumbled under the weight of a 350 pound animatronic fat guy waving his arms and dancing?

Being awoken by the screams of the kids as they watched jolly old Saint Nick swing like a pendulum by a string of lights and blink off and on in front of the picture window, Tommy jumps to his feet and yells in that special way that only someone heavily intoxicated and covered in soft tissue injuries can. Turning their attention from the psychotic Santa to the big lump struggling loudly under a blanket in the dark, the kids abandon their quest for toys and switch to survival mode. Planting one foot squarely in Tommy's man-bits, the oldest leads his brothers to safety under my bed.

Waking to what I believe is the sound of Michael Jackson singing something about a "can of whoop-ass", I stumble in the dark to the living room to see what's the matter. Although I'm sadly not at all surprised to see my new strobe-light-Santa flapping in the wind, I'm puzzled to see Tommy rolling on the floor clutching his privates and sucking his thumb. Hearing the boys warming up their war-cry, I sigh and order Tommy to stop crying, and to disconnect the power to the roof before the insurance guy who's been posted in the van across the street ever since Tommy installed the windows takes a picture.

Forgetting the likelihood that Tommy will electrocute himself digging for an electrical cord in the snow, I turn my attention to the boys' snarling threats from my room at the boogeyman who dared to invade their loot-fest. I wish I would have had the patience to calmly explore solutions to this skirmish....I wish I would have sent someone sober to do the unplugging... and I wish I would have known that the boys closed and locked my bedroom door!

Bouncing face-first off the door I thought was left open, I'm trying to deduce whether my head injury or the fact that the transformers all blew when Tommy stuck the cord into the snowbank is responsible for the complete blackness I find myself plunged into. Feeling my way down the hall following the sounds of Tommy's moans, I have only the occasional flash of the insurance guy's camera to guide me to the spot on the front lawn where Tommy lays.

Again unable to lift him, and out of beer cans, I ease myself into a sitting position beside my broken-up, charred man and look alarmingly at the kids in the window brandishing spears that they fashioned out of coat hangers and my curling iron. Ignoring Tommy's pleas to find a sharp piece of ice and give him a vasectomy for Christmas, I give him the one Christmas present that will restore his faith in this glorious season....I grab hold of the electrical cord coming from our neighbor's roof, and yank every freaking one of his lights onto a broken heap on his lawn.

As Tommy professes his love for me while one single tear courses down his singed and swollen face, I comfort myself with the knowledge that I've brought unity to my neighborhood...by evoking the largest mass-911 call in our town's history.

Hope Santa brings me a new lawyer......

They're Not Wrinkles...You're Just Hallucinating

There comes a time in every middle-aged woman's life when she has to surrender her loyalty for "going natural" to the makers of Crack-Fill-For-Your-Face and other such wonders. Having been offered the chance to ring in the New Year surrounded by intoxicated people in a dance hall in lieu of peeling cheese nachos off the sofa after the kids fell asleep seemed like one of those "good idea at the time" kind of deals.

The first order of business was a new dress. Not just any new dress....one that had to make my husband weak in the knees (and not from the price tag), and bring the room to total silence when I crossed the dance floor, and make the band immediately stop what they're playing and break into "You Look Wonderful Tonight". *sigh*...

Flying to the mall to begin this magical adventure armed to the teeth with my husband's credit cards, I find myself in a clothing store heavily populated and staffed by young women who look like the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders' evil twins. Ignoring the "What the hell are you doing in here?" looks dripping from the faces of the masses, I grab an armload of fabric from the counter and defiantly march to the dressing room.

Not having had the opportunity to try on new clothes that didn't have holes for breastfeeding in them for quite some time, I'm a little surprised at the firm hug the fabric is giving me once I squeeze into it. Ignoring the snickers from the staff on the other side of the curtain, I suck my gut in 'till my spine cracks and saunter out to gaze at my newest frock in the full length mirror.

Congratulating myself for maintaining my figure after three kids and 20-odd years of reality TV and Doritos, I pretend I'm deaf when the salesclerk announces "That's the drycleaning bag for our Big and Tall Menswear section".

Enjoying the sounds of the cheerleaders coughing on the vapor trail I left running out of the store, I head to the nearest outlet that sells clothes from the line of whatever used-to-be-skinny celebrity who's cashing in on every housewife's cross to bear.

Now that I've found suitable couture that doesn't involve a hunting shirt, I decide that maybe updating my look wouldn't hurt. Surely there's someone in this mall that can undo this mullet-married-to-a-beehive hairdo that I've been sporting in order to use up all those hairspray samples that keep coming in the mail.

Sliding into the beautician's chair at our local Cut and Curl, I fail to see the humor in the hairdressers doing "Rock, Paper, Scissors" right in front of me to see who has to earn their paycheck today. With a sickening sweet smile, this bimbo with a name tag reading "Feather" (can't possibly be her real name), directs me to "the back room"....both for privacy and so that no one else in the mall sees me sitting there in a drycleaning bag.

Dipping my head into a vat of water that's one degree shy of lava in order to melt the hairspray, "Feather" tells me that she needs to "take a few stray hairs" from my eyebrows..and upper lip..and chin. Pouring hot wax in copious amounts on my tender skin, I am sorely unprepared for the first four layers of my head being ripped off while "Feather" calls me Hagrid under her breath. Although horrified to see the wooly mammoth that used to be my right eyebrow stuck to the little strip of cloth on the counter, I cooly excuse myself from the back room. OK...maybe it was more like "Touch me again and I'll pluck you"...but I manage to gingerly feel my way out of the door as my right eye swells shut.

Perched on a stool in front of a mirror with enough lights on it to signal the mother ship, I let "Feather"s assistant assess what's left of the skin on my face and start erasing the years. Pressed for time, I ask her to please stop whimpering, and reassure her she can go ahead and quit right after we're done.

Spinning me around to face a mirror that magnifies my face until it looks like a Google Earth close up of Death Valley, I hear her ask "Feather" to "Find some drywall compound while I distract her with shiny objects". Mesmerized by the paper clips and keys, I hardly notice as she pastes my face with the cosmetic equivalent of Spackle.

Snapped out of my reverie by the wail of the fire alarm, I'm knocked to the floor by the wind shear left by "Feather" and her friend as they abandon ship. Staggering to the hallway, I realize I can't ask for directions to the nearest exit as my face has turned into a concrete block as it dried.

I'm only vaguely aware of the horrified stares from the other shoppers as I stumble to the parking lot with my face cemented into a one-eyed, (and one-eye browed) grimace, with my wet, sticky hair plastered to my face, and "Big and Tall...We Fit Them All" plastered across my ass...and search in vain for car keys in an empty drycleaning bag.

Lurching to a group of teenagers who are eyeing me like all those warnings about marijuana have finally come true, I ask to use a cell phone in a voice that sounds like a muffled scream because my lips are encased in asphalt. Snatching a phone from the hands of one of the teens taking pictures that will surely make me an internet sensation by dinnertime, I dial the number for Roadside Assitance and make muffled screaming noises at the man on the other end of the line until he hangs up on me.

Whirled around by a big police officer who watched me "acquire" a phone, I squawk muffled protests and feel both relieved and alarmed as he gets a good look at me and takes a few steps backwards. Cuffed and in the back of the police cruiser, I'm grieving the loss of what would have been my shining moment on the dance floor...and dreading explaining this one to the hubby.

As the police officer speaks right into my face in a very loud and deliberately slow manner to explain the fingerprinting process, I make a mental note to get in on the bets I'm hearing that my mugshot will make YouTube history. Handing me a phone, he dials the number for a government issed lawyer and gives it to me.

Making muffled noises into the mouthpiece until the lawyer growls about the cops prank calling him again, I hang my head as the "on hold" music begins......"You look wonderful tonight....."

The Mammogram

Turning 40 is not without its pratfalls. Couple the constant vigil to slather every inch of my skin with SPF 250 to prevent being cast as a "Warrior Extra" in "The Mummy Returns" with the horrible realization that cheesecake is fleeting...but cellulite lives forever, and it becomes obvious how ill-prepared I was to enter my twilight years.

With the new quadruple assault on the decades behind me, I was also hit with the realization that my body could just up and quit at any time. And has threatened to during many exercise regimes. So, enter the "Preventative Health Phase".

Yes, I know that regular check ups are important....and doing the yearly "woman things" at the doctor's office is a fact of life.....but is it really necessary to try and mimic childbirth from the waist up to remind us that we're too old now for anyone to care what our girls look like?

Not knowing what to expect, I piled myself into the car...sans deodorant as per the info sheet my doctor gave me....and prepared to look some x-ray technician in the eye and pretend he/she wasn't man-handling my boobs.

Arriving at the hospital, I instantly knew where the mammogram department was by watching the hordes of women running for the parking lot clutching their chests and begging for ice packs. Not one to be easily intimidated, I looked the receptionist square in the eye and said, "I'm Colleen Hawley and I'm here for an x-ray of my foot".

Cursing the hospital policy that gives the receptionist access to what the doctor ordered, I sulk around back and wait for my turn in the masher. Ignoring the yelping of the woman ahead of me, I convince myself that they couldn't possibly be filming a slasher movie in there and bravely take my johnny shirt and psych myself up for game day.

Entering the room to meet the technician who will be my tour guide to old-womanhood, I stop and swoon at what I'm seeing. Imagine if Brad Pitt and George Clooney were blended in to one man...with the physique of Mr. Universe.....and the hair of a Greek God....and you have the perfect man to help someone as shy as me get through this rite of passage. I feel like I'm in a dream state as he gently puts his hand under my chin, expecting him to remark something like "My God, you're magnificent!".....only to have him push my mouth closed and mutter "You're drooling on my lab coat".

Painfully aware of how many children I breastfed...and how many times I went bra-less doing housework...I curse the cruelty of the earth's gravitational field and follow Mr. Perfect to his contraption. Passing me two metal BB pellets, he instructs me to tape them to my nipples while he warms up the machine that will know me in ways only my husband did after our fourth date.

Giggling as I coyly give him the "This is not a date" joke, I'm instantly shut up as he shoves me chest-first into a plastic vice that was surely invented by some one-eyed sociopath who locked himself in a laboratory with a three-headed assistant for a hundred years. Gauging the severity of my whiplash injury, I'm hardly aware that Mr. Perfect has grabbed one of my girls and laid it on an ice cold slab of some material that must have been pirated from Area 57.

Giving me his generic "This won't hurt" spiel as he dives for cover behind a lead wall, I notice that something is happening....the walls are closing in! Escape is futile as those metal BB pellets seem to be attracted to the magnets in the MRI lab next door, and I'm cemented to the masher. Still trying to maintain some composure and appear like a voluptuous-if-not-aging dignitary, I break out in a sweat that would shame a lava flow as my boob is compressed into a diamond...but I do not cry out...I do not show fear....I do not BELIEVE that I wasn't allowed to wear deodorant!

Hearing Mr. Perfect rounding the corner again, I try to fan and dry my upper body with my good arm and put on a "That didn't hurt a bit, you silly" kind of face. Watching Mr. Perfect grimace and smear menthol under his nose, I switch instead to Plan B...beg for morphine or a nerve block.

The relief I felt as the masher surrendered its death grip on me was instantly replaced with the awful realization that God gave me two boobs. Sensing my intent to bolt for the parking lot and beg for an ice-pack, Mr. Perfect whipped out a magnet and cemented me to the masher again. Bracing for the pending alteration in my cellular carbon, I pray that Mr. Perfect reaches the age where he'll need a prostate exam real soon.

Not caring anymore that I smell like a dead goat's ass, or that my hair resembles Phyllis Diller in her drinking days, I use the scoop provided by Mr. Perfect to scrape my boobs off the masher and rearrange them into a bra that will never fit right again.

Giving me his most professional "Now that wasn't so bad, was it?" smile, I ask for my clothes with a voice usually reserved for frightening ghosts away and actually enjoy his startled expression as he realizes I'm calculating my odds with a jury of my peers.

Throwing my clothes back on, I ignore his "But Mrs. Hawley"s and storm out of the room and head for the parking lot to stick my chest into a snowbank. Marching by the MRI lab, I instantly regret not waiting for his final instructions as the machine whirs to life and drags me to the door by the BB pellets that I neglected to remove before storming out.

Ripping the tape that was surely originally marketed to keep the space arm attached to the latest Nassau shuttle, I am pleasantly surprised by the amount of Gaelic curse words I remember from my high school days. Throwing Mr. Perfect one more "Get a Colonoscopy" look, I abandon my quest to find one last shred of dignity as I stagger to the parking lot.

Can't wait to turn 50........