The Rake Magazine

Yesterday, amid news of four ton satellites falling from the heavens and the pending departure of Minnesota's last sports superstar, a glimmering beacon of hope shone from our nation's capital. The House of Representatives, in one brief shining moment of accord, today put aside their rancor for a subject not involving burly men injecting illicit substances into their exquisitely toned buttocks. In our nation's time of need, our elected representatives have pieced together a package that will help ensure we all come through the lean times ahead with a smile and a shiny new iPod.

This nearly $150 billion package not only puts $600 in the hands of nearly every tax-paying, God-fearing citizen in the country, but also provides $300 for those too poor to pay income taxes. Yes, now even the homeless, wild-eyed mental patient wandering Nicollet Mall spraying rapid-fire racial epithets will be able to afford a Nano and still have money left over to load it up with Katt Williams and Michael Richards to freshen up his routine.

Of course, some may say it seems mighty strange that a tax rebate, usually one of the first moves during flush times when the Cristal flows like Champale, is the answer to the anguish caused by the subprime meltdown. But according to our redoubtable leaders in Washington, this is the exact mix of consumer rebates and business tax cuts our economy so desperately needs.

Never mind that it might appear that this bill is being fast tracked to help our elected leaders avoid the appearance of not being a dynamic force for the good of all Americans in an election year. It's not as if we'll be borrowing the money to pay for this package from China, and then immediately spending that money on consumer goods from China, thus dramatically widening the trade deficit and creating an ever-deepening and self-perpetuating spiral of debt and deficit that we'll pass to our grandchildren, who will curse our names and hock loogies at us whilst we tell tales of the good old days, before people were chosen by lottery to fight giant pandas in a grand arena for the amusement of the new Chinese aristocracy.

A friend forwarded this classified ad to me in an email:

OLDS 1999 Intrigue
Totally uncool parents who obviously don't love teenage son, selling his car. Only driven for 3 weeks before snoopy mom who needs to get a life found booze under front seat. $3,700/offer. Call meanest mom on the planet.

I thought for sure this was an urban myth making the cyber rounds. But after a quick Google search, I found a supporting article in the Iowa newspaper that carried the classified.

So, it’s real. The mother who wrote it, Jane Hambleton, is being lauded across the country by parents, emergency room personnel and the like for the outrageous vehicle sale.

I’ll admit it; I laughed when I read it. And because the ad is well written and this drama isn’t going on under my roof - it’s hilarious. Can’t you just hear this teen telling his mom to “get a life” and calling her the “meanest mom on the planet?” Those words coming back to haunt him is an instant classic for parents everywhere.

I plan to save the article and whip it out when my children become drivers. And for that reason alone, I’m glad she did it. But it’s a guilty pleasure.

One could easily argue that this meanest mom on the planet (it’s a shared title) could have sold the car without publicly humiliating her young college student. All this attention certainly can’t help the parent/child relationship in a family who must carry on long after the phone stops ringing.

But whether you agree with Hambleton’s methods or not, this dust-up has created buzz. As colleges are experiencing binge-drinking deaths with an alarming frequency, the timing is right on. (Minnesota Public Radio has recently completed an extensive series on the subject.)

It’s a double-edged sword, for sure. The best-case scenario is for Hambleton’s young pedestrian to escape an alcohol-related death, so he may enjoy a long life of pissiness over his public carjacking.

January is the month of cleaning and organizing, and how I found myself in the way back of my closet holding a silk maternity blouse.

I had gained a lot of weight for my second child - A LOT of weight. It was a complicated pregnancy and not once did anyone accuse me of glowing. 84 lbs can do that to a gal.

But to my surprise, my massive maternity became almost a disguise. Walking in the Minneapolis skyway, people no longer saw me as another yuppie on the way to work. I was more of a cartoon character. And as I paraded around as this living caricature of myself, people seemed to lose their ability to self-censor. They would say anything to me.

Sometimes it was a just a startled, “Oh my God!” as I unexpectedly rounded a corner. The inquisitive, “December baby?” to which I was forced to reply a pitiful, “next June.” Or the frank, “You are the biggest pregnant woman I’ve ever seen.” (Um, okay.) My personal favorite was from the large black woman with dreadlocks who stopped, put one hand on her hip and said, “Whooeee girlfriend!” I nodded and gave a weak smile - yes, whoo-eee indeed.

I clearly remember wearing the blouse. It’s adorned with a pattern of large, ripe fruit. (Take a moment to picture that.) Honestly, it looked really cute on the hanger, but on me it prompted the snide skyway comment by a young man, “Bringing juice to the meeting, huh?” And it hit me: I had become Violet, the girl from Willy Wonka blown up into a giant blueberry just waiting for the Umpa Lumpas - or Northstar building security - to roll me away.

I started brown bagging lunch and kept clear of the pedestrian pattern of downtown.

It had been the first day I wore the expensive blouse and I never wore it again. And when I looked at it today, still perfectly new, I bypassed the Goodwill bin and dumped it directly into the garbage. I don’t want anyone else to get juiced.

I’m feeling very married these days. More than when I stood in front of the judge, more than when I opened a joint checking or co-signed a mortgage. And even more than when I drove away from the hospital with our first child.

While my marriage has seen its share of compromise, we’re on the brink of its biggest conciliation to date. We’re moving for my husband’s career – to Duluth.

It’s a good opportunity; it really is. But I’ve been so deep in mourning I’ve had a hard time hearing all the good reasons. My husband had to all but don sock puppets (speaking loudly & slowly) to help me to follow the logic of the career potential, the insurance benefits (we currently buy our own) and the beauty of moving to a less inflated housing market. It’s all good; I know, but we’ll be moving for his great adventure and I’ll be the tag-along – the little woman, the Stepford wife.

So I’ve been in ostrich mode lately and decided to cope by not. I ordered all six seasons of Sex and the City (SATC) from hclib.org and have been watching them on my Mac laptop - propped up on the kids’ bathroom stool - where I can see it while in a hot bath drinking a glass of wine. This is a good place to be while waiting for your bed’s electric blanket to heat up.

And while I was deep into my media therapy session watching the writer commentary, she said it. Some fancy screenwriter was commenting that SATC had to be in New York because it is so alive, so vibrant…and because (and I paraphrase here,) “Who would watch a series called Sex and Duluth?”

NO SHOUT OUTS TO THE SAD WOMAN IN THE BATHTUB!

This got me thinking that it’s NOT the time to invite me to a bridal shower. I’ve long held the belief that one should be wary of any life event that requires a “shower.” Those of us who have done said event, like the married women who typically throw these gatherings, can't bring ourselves to tell the bride the cold truth about her future institution, so we just buy her a Cuisinart instead.

I’m afraid if I attended in my present state, I would lose my head and leap up and start shaking the bride. “Don’t you know that what this party means? One day you could be unexpectedly plucked from the beige rambler of your dreams - the one with the open floor plan, first floor laundry and solid school district – and cast out of the Cities to a place that is the butt of screenwriter jokes!” I’d then have to straighten myself up, smooth out the bride and excuse myself to the restroom where I’d climb out the window.

Of course, it is not like I’m leaving the Twin Cities forever. I’ll be back for overnights probably twice a month to retain some writing clients here and stay with my fabulous mother-in-law.

And there are moments, when I’m clear-eyed and possess a willing spirit, when I can actually see where my husband is coming from. It really is a great opportunity for our family and Duluth does have a tempting lifestyle. But I’m not putting everything I own into a truck for job or a big lake. I’m doing it because I love my husband and want to support him in his career as he has supported me in mine. Because you see, I’m married.

A young family moved in on a nearby street and we’re determined to give them a warmer welcome than what we got. It’s not like folks were mean upon our arrival, but there is more than one house on the block with a lawn service, drawn curtains and a dark porch light on Halloween. Either they’re in the Witness Protection Program or they’re dead.

So we decided to host a neighborhood New Year’s get together to show-off the new people, kid-friendly of course. The invitations were met with enthusiasm, and by that I mean A LOT of enthusiasm. We’d causally mention the event and people wanted in – and to bring friends. Then I got a phone call from another friend who heard about it. And could they bring some other kids they were watching? You get the picture. Plus, it got to be a real rush to extend invites to such happy recipients.

Now, let’s be clear. This has VERY LITTLE to do with us as hosts and EVERYTHING to do with the nature of the holiday. While Christmas is the epitome of child fare – everyone wants to see the kiddies around the tree, New Year’s Eve is its polar opposite. And since you can’t pack your babies up with the Christmas décor, it’s simply a non-event for parents.

I’ll be honest here; it did get a little wild. The party topped out at about 34 guests, nearly half being kids – and keep in mind we didn’t even invite our core friend group. At points, I was holding babies whose names I didn’t even know and passing them off to adults (no backsies!) while I tried to keep up with the all the food people generously brought.

We fired up the inflatable jumpy house in our rec room (an impulse purchase that helped me through a very dark week last winter – don’t judge me) threw a movie on the TV and 60 mini-corns in the oven. And at 8:00 p.m. we lined up pots and pans, gave each kid a spoon and brought in 2008 with a ruckus. It was the New Year somewhere, right?

The party broke up around 9:20 (we’re in our 30’s and have little kids – don’t judge us.) On the door stoop, people thanked us like we had given them a kidney. They put their kids and their crock-pots back onto their sleds and shuffled off into the dark, cold night.

Two dishwasher cycles and a Hefty bag later, our house was nearly back to order. It was definitely worth the effort; but then again, public service usually is.

Read more essays by Lucie B. Amundsen.