Confession: I am a despicable creature. Despicable in the sense that I failed to fulfill a promise to Random House—the folks who believed I could, at the very least, string a few coherent sentences together in support of Katherine Center’s first novel, The Bright Side of Disaster, within a timeframe that one would reasonably expect a one-armed Capuchin monkey to accomplish the same.

Let the flogging begin.

Needless to say, I’ve had said bookish wonder in my possession for 229 days (Gasp!) and until now have yet to utter so much as a syllable never mind an entire post regarding the worthiness of this extraordinary book.

Perhaps the monkey would have been a better bet.

Of course, I’ve been extremely busy harvesting all sorts of lame excuses to explain away my shameful behavior. The muse left me. Someone hid my thesaurus. The dog needed to be walked—some 700 times (a conservative estimate). I needed to buy some blue swirly stuff for the toilets (which I shall use one day soon). The children needed to be ferried to camp…to soccer…to dance…to swim lessons…to McDonald’s. Furthermore, 87 sidewalk chalk villages, 43 blanket forts and roughly a dozen worm cakes needed to be created.

You get the idea.

In any event, you need to buy this book. Immediately or sooner. Abandon your beloved computer this very instant, sprint to your local bookstore and demand that Center’s debut novel be placed within your hot little hands at once—lest you die not having savored this 225-page nugget of remarkableness. It is a positively scrumptious read, in every palpable, plausible and profoundly irresistible sense of the word. Indeed, I was smitten from Paragraph One till the bitter end and completely wooed for a host of reasons: I was charmed to death by its cast of characters, intrigued by the narrative’s wealth of unpredictability and awed by Center’s sheer brilliance as it relates to the telling of tales.

Perhaps more importantly, for a few delicious and utterly decadent moments solitude was mine. The harried pace and unrelenting hustle and bustle of my child-filled world faded to black as I sank deeper and deeper into the pages of this literary gem. There, in the glorious window of stillness just before my house began to stir, and in the quiet of night when day was done, I dissolved into the woodwork of life—having been transported beyond the realm of bickering matches and breakfast cereal dishes. I’d like to think I emerged as a better parent, or at least as one who is less likely to go ballistic upon discovering yet another unflushed toilet or yogurt surprise.

Truth be told, I was physically incapable of putting the silly thing down once I started, although I had to lock myself in a closet a few times in order to fend off the barrage of distractions (i.e. needy children and pets) that periodically rain down on me like a scourge. Hence, the delay in providing the blurbages here before you. Confession: I read Bright Side two sinfully indulgent times. Okay three. It was that good. I figured (as is the case with orgasms) why stop at one?

At the risk of sounding completely cliché, I felt as though I knew the fictional people that Center created. I could hear them saying whatever it was they said. I could imagine them doing the sorts of things she had them doing and by all accounts, the trip to Breastfeeding Hell she so vividly described made my toes curl. By the same token, her portrayal of the warm and wonderful kisses her knight-in-shining-armor so passionately planted made me melt. Okay, I was a puddle upon the floor. A veritable pile of mush incapable of rational thought.

Jenny, the central figure in Bright Side, was a wholesome and impossibly optimistic creature, yet at her very core a womanchild whose raw and perilous journey to the banks of motherhood made all who have ever ventured there both pity her plight and celebrate her triumphs and joys. I loved her unconditionally and wanted so desperately to whisper some advice into her ear. By contrast, Dean, that slothful, smarmy bit-of-slime that Center painted as her match-made-in-hell, made my blood boil. Like Jenny, I felt an overwhelming compulsion to light him on fire. Many times over. But of course, she made us peek through our fingers to see the good in him, the part that she fell in love with, the part that helped her picture the family unit they would ostensibly become. Later, I came to understand she had merely fallen in love with the idea of being in love. Dean was convenient, but a fucking train wreck nonetheless. Reading Chapter Five was like buying a first class ticket to that train wreck.

Then in Chapter Seven, she introduced us to Dean’s mother, that feculent and oh-so-haughty beast filled to the very brim with evil. I wanted so badly to choke her. To death. Or very near death, but perhaps not so close that she couldn’t crawl away to a far corner of the earth. Where she would rot.

And then there was Gardner. Earthy. Solid. Nurturing. Downright edible. If a movie is ever spun from this tale, Hugh Jackman must play his role—and he positively must wield a deck of playing cards and a beloved dog like Herman. Likewise, someone Mel Gibson-ish ought to be in the running for Jenny’s dad. In my less-than-professional opinion, it all makes perfect sense.

Needless to say, Center did a marvelous job letting us get to know all the colorful characters woven throughout her story. Jenny’s stylish yet sensible mother, her adoring and infinitely charming father, her thick-and-thin friend, Meredith, her sounding board, Claudia, her nemesis, Tara, the entire cast and crew of her Mommy Group, Dr. Hale, Herman, Dr. Blandon and, of course, Maxie.

Not surprisingly, I fantasize about being holed up in a forgotten corner of a bookstore, swallowed by a cozy chair and forced to read 200 pages of literary goodness like the aforementioned in one sitting. That being said, the notion of consuming something Wally Lamb-ish, curled up like a cat on my couch is unthinkable. Okay, intoxicating. I can now add Katherine Center’s material to my list of that which makes me drunk with joy. Then again, chocolate is equally redeeming.

In sum, books like Center’s are my refuge from the torrents of parenthood, an intimate retreat from my inundated-with-Legos sort of existence and a source of pure salvation not unlike becoming one with my iPod, bathing in the sweet silence of prayer and journeying to the far shores of slumber—where the din cannot follow, the day’s tensions are erased and the unruly beasts within are stilled.

Perhaps the bright side of disaster here (pun intended) is that I’ve redeemed myself somewhat in the eyes of Random House. There’s a modicum of hope anyway that they will be kind and compassionate enough to overlook my ineptitude as a blogger and zip me a copy of Center’s soon-to-be-released second novel, Everyone is Beautiful.

Hint. Hint.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (sometimes hiding from my children deep within the bowels of a closet, devouring books, of course). Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

My youngest children recently informed me they weren’t at all interested in being cute, cuddly or even remotely adorable this Halloween. Instead, they’ve opted for the embodiment of all that is wicked, evil and downright horrifying. Forget the plump pumpkins, whiskered kitties, floppy-eared puppies and the most endearing little lumberjacks I ever saw—the ones my husband and I painstakingly adorned with pointillism-inspired beards (read: charcoal eyeliner) and then hauled from porch to porch in his red, wooden wagon, its rugged wheels rumbling over hill and dale, filling the night air with a symphony of sound.

Apparently those days are over. My charges have turned the proverbial page as worldly second graders. They’ve gone from charming to chilling, from harmless to haunting from droll to dark. Seemingly overnight. Indeed, they would rather terrorize the neighborhood as a green-faced, broom-wielding witch (“…because witches are scary, Mom!”) and her vicious beast-of-a-pet cat (“…because that would really creep people out, Mom!”). A black cat, of course. With a rubbery and decidedly dead rat dangling from its maw.

It could be worse, I suppose. I could have caved to their incessant pleas for costumes that made my skin crawl (read: the vat of horribleness that featured bloodstained fangs, impaled heads and severed limbs). I drew the line at gruesome this year, knowing full well I will lose that battle someday. My concession was agreeing to the purchase of black lipstick and nail polish. I figured I could tolerate at least that much macabre nonsense—as long as they promised not to go goth on me as teens.

Yeah right. That’s a promise they’ll soon forget.

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

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

I love the fact that my kids have graduated to that stage where they can (and will) go outside and blow the stink off them. Without me. I can vegetate here at my computer, blissfully typing all the meaningless drivel I yearn to share with you (and I will…I promise), while watching them run and jump and climb and twirl and whatever else it is that kids do to entertain themselves in the great outdoors—to include “squishing only the bad bugs, Mommy.”

So now to the task of sharing meaningless drivel…what shall I tell you about? Well, perhaps I should reveal my current (and mildly immobilizing) preoccupation—that of being thoroughly convinced that the plumbers “…who came to fix the sink” (neither of whom was named Joe, incidentally) had every opportunity to install one of those hidden camera doodads in our shower. For crying out loud, they trudged up and down and up and down our stairs and into and out of our master bath at least 600 times! Unsupervised! What was I thinking?!!

Logically it follows that they did, in fact, install something sinister. Something unspeakably evil. Something horribly invasive. The whole thing just creeps me out—in a Sharon Stone Sliver sort of way.

Of course, this proves I am completely insane—never mind hopelessly paranoid and utterly irrational. Good God.

But this is how my mind works. Or doesn’t. I get something entirely stupid like this solidly wedged in my head and I. Can’t. Let. It. Go. I’m shampooing and lathering and warbling (at best) some silly ass song while in the shower—the one that those wonderful plumbers so expertly repaired—while secretly wondering, “How do I look? Is this freaking thing recording in color or Psycho-ish black and white? Have the fools been kind enough to put tape over my eyes and to erase 20 or 30 pounds? Is that even possible?!!”

Paranoia is a strange and crippling thing. Perhaps I need shower therapy.

But I won’t be calling the plumber—even Joe, the plumber.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (not so lucid at times). But you can still visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com. And while you’re there, check out my Zazzle-fied virtual store. I’ve got some OUTRAGEOUSLY FUNNY “Joe the Plumber T-shirts!”

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

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