Ready. Set. Roast!

Stand clear! It's Survivor: Suppertime.

Slide on over to Stage of Life and see what happens when the kitchen clock turns to TIME TO EAT in the Mullis house.

And feel free to let us know what sort of snack sets your stomach on SMILE when the weather turns sulky.

Thirteen (A Reminiscence at Graduation Time)

Having babies is rather like bringing home a carton of eggs. You find a safe, temperature-controlled environment for them and you handle them carefully for the first couple of weeks, but after that they lose their freshness, begin to smell and you just wish you’d gone to the Waffle House and let somebody else worry with the details. At the very least you should have invested in Egg Beaters instead, and you have that sinking feeling that neither of you will age gracefully.

My niece and I both have children who are given to food fights, who exist on a diet of cold cereal and Oreos, who run screaming through the house naked at bathtime, and who wear their favorite shirt until the animal logo withers and dies of old age. Her son is three years old. Mine is thirteen. Here is a child who went to bed with Ozzy Nelson’s personality on the last day he was twelve and woke up the next morning as Ozzy Ozborne. Our lives went straight from Happy Days to Survivor: Hormone Breakout. Whoever first said that thirteen is an unlucky number must have had a new teenager in the hut.

It’s not that I’m unaccustomed to teenagers. I’m perilously close to exhausting all reasonable excuses why my oldest child shouldn’t be allowed to operate a moving vehicle. Before long the state will license him to drive a car, which will terminate my rights as a citizen by turning my pursuit of happiness into the impossible dream.

I’ve grown accustomed to walking alone like an escapee from Happy Valley Farms when we go to the mall. I know not to wear clothing designed to draw attention to myself, such as jeans that come all the way to my waist or blouses that are large enough to camouflage my behind. I’ve been trained not throw my hand up in a friendly greeting or act like I’m a blood relative if I happen to see my child at a football game, and I know not to say the word potty in public.

At least with my older son, I was given fair warning. With Mutant Human 2, the transition was like Dr. Jekyll and Martha Stewart, the jailhouse years. At school he took it personally if asked to participate in undesirable group activities, such as lunch. Teachers who expected him to complete homework assignments EVERY day, and who indulged in summer reading lists that didn’t involve Japanese animation were trolls. When subjected to standardized testing, he hyperventilated, experienced Suddenly Sullen disease, and threatened to move to Montana and indulge in steer wrestling.

I don’t know if it’s his perpetual smirk or the 360-degree eye roll when I speak that barbecues my potato chips. Perhaps it’s the nagging idea that he managed to restructure my nervous system into an alternate design made from rolls of bubble wrap. And he’s popping all the bubbles.

I’m comforted by the rumors that there are parents, alive in captivity, who survived the teenage years. Sure, a great many of them now have facial tics and are given to muttering to themselves and staring blankly into space for long periods of time, but they’re alive, hold responsible jobs, and can open their own mail. I am personally acquainted with parents who know not to wear spandex at the beach or brown socks with Birkenstocks, who can successfully record the message for the answering machine, and who can figure out by themselves how to pay at the pump when they get gas for the car, providing they have chosen the gas option instead of saving their pension for retirement.

They say if I make it through the next ten years, I’m home free. They also say that the worst part of having a teenager is the bizarre Hulk-like mood swings. Of course, I’ve heard that with hormone therapy and proper rest, I’ll get over it.

But I have to wonder if there’s money to be made in steer wrestling.

Speed Trap

Don’t get me wrong. Some of my best friends are police officers. Well, maybe not my best friends, but I knew somebody once who was married to a police officer. And whenever a police officer calls trying to sell tickets to a circus or something, I always buy some. Well, if I have any money left after I get lottery tickets, and if my car insurance isn’t due. Also, I have fond memories of a considerate and sympathetic patrolman who let me off with a warning when I was beating a hasty path to what would be my Mom’s last Mother’s Day celebration. And that’s a fact.

But when it comes to speed traps, it’s Survivor: Blue Light. All alliances are off.

My husband and I were enjoying a Sunday afternoon drive, engaging earnestly in conversation, while I smacked bubble gum as fast as I talked. We had just left the preacher’s house and we were feeling pretty cocky about our future prospects. I favored paying the rent, while he was touting the benefits of blowing our money on groceries.

About that time we heard the one noise that’s worse than that gurgling sound that comes from your baby’s diaper during a pool party at the boss’s house. You couldn’t mistake this sound: a short blast from a police siren, close enough on our tail that it was apparent somebody in a position of authority wanted to chat with us.

We pulled over and waited, practicing our best law-abiding-citizen look. The officer, a graduate of the Rocky and Bullwinkle School of Beauty, apparently took advantage of the situation to check her hair and makeup, flip through her yearbook, and make reservations for her kindergarten reunion from military school before she approached our car.

“Hi.”

How can a person speak without separating their teeth?

“I’m officer Birddropping and I’ll be your public servant today. I couldn’t help but notice your haste to move through my jurisdiction and I have several interesting selections available for you this afternoon.”

She flipped open a well-worn notebook. “We’re offering a lovely $89 speeding ticket. It comes with a side order of four points off your license. There is also a $176 citation with a side of two points. Our special today, which you qualified for by neglecting to sign the back of your registration card like an uneducated baboon, is the $170 ticket for reckless operation of a vehicle. Had you deciphered the fine print on the back of your card and had you offered a DNA sample and cash alternative, you would not be eligible for this offer. This is your lucky day.”

We opted for the special.

“Excellent choice. May I also recommend the court date? You’ll be sorry if you don’t go for that opportunity. We’ll all meet there and make a day of it.”

Nothing says law and order like a little public humiliation.

Although the idea of spending the day in a two-bit courthouse with Officer Sunshine and Hanging Judge Judy sounded about as much fun as hand cleaning the cheese grater, we agreed to set the date. The officer presented us with our written invitation and leaned down to make eye contact.

“Slow down for me, now.” Which is legal talk for, “Take another spin through here real soon. You look like you have a bond that needs cashing.”

We thanked the officer politely and deftly chose the opposite direction as we left the parking lot. My beloved eyed me suspiciously.

“Congratulations. I remember the days when you would have hopped out of the car to go bra to badge with any chick with an attitude like hers. Today I didn’t have to bail you out of jail or pick pincurls out of your teeth.”

“I like to think I’m beyond all that.”

“Then what are you grinning about?” my husband asked, stroking his wallet consolingly.

“Officer Sunshine seemed to value the importance of DNA. So when she stomped past my window,” I said, slowly peeling the wrapper off a fresh piece of gum, “I left her a sample.”

Survivor: College Loans

“I’m desperate,” Laudy insisted, knocking back black coffee the way a Cadillac guzzles premium unleaded. “I’ve got one kid in college and one scattering and smothering at the Waffle House to pay back student loans. I have two more who think the Tuition Fairy is going to pick up the tab for collegiate aerobics classes. It’s time for drastic measures.”
Laudy took a close-up look at the American dream and found out the silver lining is made of promissory notes. A savvy mother of four, she surveyed the situation, consulted her checkbook, and collapsed in a state of cardiac arrest. Recovering quickly, she realized the obvious. She would either have to come across a pair of spare Hannah Montana tickets to sell on e-Bay or win some quick money. Since our family’s luck doesn’t tend toward surprise acquisitions of valuable property, Sis decided she would grab some easy money from one of the reality shows on T.V.
“You would have to eat something live and squiggly,” I winced.
“Have you ever eaten french fries off a toddler’s plate?” she patted my hand. “Caterpillars are nothing after that.”
She had a point. I have two boys. I’ve palmed chewed gum in church and plunged my fingers into slimy mouths to chase semi-digested cigarette butts.
“You have to form secret partnerships to outwit the others playing the game,” I reminded her.
“Easy enough. I’ve orchestrated surprise birthday parties that actually turned out to be surprises, and supervised four children on Christmas shopping trips where nobody found out what the others bought.”
I whistled. “How did you manage that? I can’t buy control top pantyhose without my two revealing the size and color to everybody on the Eastern seaboard. Usually if they’re talking to strangers, they throw in my age and weight for free.”
Laudy nodded and patted my hand. “All I know is that after raising one child that ate only baked beans and pizza, one that ate potato skins and ranch dip, one that ate the chicken out of her sandwich and rolled the bread into dough balls, and one that survived for ten years on a diet of macaroni and cheese and Fruit Loops, Survivor would have to be as easy as scraping egg off the ceiling.”
“That easy, huh?”
“It’s all in knowing how to do things the simplest way. Like spraying the ceiling with no stick-spray. Besides, I’ve been practicing.”
“How do you practice surviving on a deserted island?” My idea of roughing it is buying salad by the head.
“I’ve been foraging for food. Just yesterday I cut up a chicken. I bought corn with the hair still on. And I’ve been cooking on the grill instead of in the microwave. It’s just like cooking over an open fire.”
“How did it go?”
“Great. I didn’t realize what a quick response time we had with the fire department around here. Did you know that you don’t need lighter fluid if you use propane?”
“Okay, you’ve got mealtime covered. What about laundry? Ready to beat your clothes clean on river rocks?”
“Well, I’m still using that old washing machine Mama gave me when I got married. It doesn’t spin by itself any more. You have to grab the tub and whirl it around like one of those little merry-go-rounds at the park. I lose weight every time I do the wash.”
“Sounds like you’ve got what it takes all right,” I said, edging toward the door. There’s just one thing that could get in the way of success.”
“What’s that?”
It was cruel, but I’m her sister. I had to let her know. “On Survivor, they don’t have toilets.”
She looked at me with innocent doe eyes. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. It’s just you in the outback becoming one with nature.”
“You know, there’s something honest and noble about working for a living.”
“Yep.”
“Well, that’s a lesson these kids will just have to learn.”