It's Time to Kick Some Asteroid

Update!

Following my rediscovery of what I now refer to as the "Hippie Mary Photo," I confronted my mother and demanded an explanation. She conceded that the mustard yellow turtleneck and matching bell bottoms were, in fact, part of my regular wardrobe ("They were hand-me-downs from the neighbors," she said. Sure, play the "we didn't have much money" card.)

"But what about the hat?" I asked. Her response? "You did that yourself!"

"What?" I replied. "Look at the jaunty angle--a toddler can't capture that jaunty angle!"

"I'm sure you did it yourself," Mom said. "I wouldn't have taken the time to do that!"

As for the furry shawl-slash-curtain-tassel, the only thing I discovered was my grandmother made it for my mom as a gift--thus cementing the family lore that "Grandma gives weird-ass gifts." (e.g., the Burt Bacharach box set I received for Christmas. I was 15 at the time.)

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I Am Apparently a Heartless Automaton

A Facebook friend always asks questions as her status updates. Today's was, "What makes you smile?" I responded this morning, and have been receiving other responses throughout the day--responses that make me feel about as loving as Mr. Burns. Their answers? Children, grandchildren, pets, nature, etc. My answer? The movie Dodgeball. I mean, come on, people--what's your beloved offspring compared to grown men getting pegged in the groin with a rubber ball? Am I right?

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Premiering after "Mother, May I Sleep with Danger?"

It's hot as Hades here. Yesterday, in order to preserve my sanity and my Scotch-Irish skin, I caught the commuter train a station earlier than I normally would, just so I could wait inside. Hooray for self-preservation! The flaw in the plan? This necessitated me getting on the red line. Now, I'm not the type of girl that expects men to open the door for me or let me pass first, but is it too much to ask that you not shove me??? After a mere two stops I was clenching my fists in a strained effort not to kill someone with my bare hands.

Crisis was somehow averted, but Jeremy, having seen the state in which I arrived home yesterday, forbade me from riding the red line today. Still, as the thermometer creeps up throughout July and August, how long can I hold out in the Sophie's Choice of "skin cancer vs. commuter violence"? I fear I'm only one pushy commuter encounter away from having my own special on the Lifetime Movie Network.

Tonight at 9 pm: Homicide on the Red Line: the Mary Barron Story.
Tagline: 'This commute's a real bitch.'
Starring Meredith Baxter Birney, Lisa Rinna, and Mr. T.

Hay HAY Hay!

Can we discuss this photo for a moment? One might take a quick glance and think, "Oh, surely she's playing dress up!" That knit beret? It lived in our "dress-up drawer" for many a year. And that fringy shawl thing can't actually be an article of clothing, can it?

However, as my loving husband pointed out—those plaid bellbottoms and that mustard yellow turtleneck actually fit. I’m not playing; I'm merely a toddler in the late 1970s. Meaning…my mother did this to me. How could this ever have been considered OK—even on a child as adorable as I was? Was she taking me to audition for What's Happening?

Occasionally I'll hear stories from my parents that seem completely out of whack with who they are today. For example, my Dad recently told me about how he used to feed the family dog beer at parties. I can only HOPE that this outfit is one such incident—ill-advised, out-of-character, and merely a "snafu" on the path to respectability.

But for God's sake, Mom…MUSTARD YELLOW???