Money, Punks, and Karma
2006-07-11, 9:59 a.m.

Once upon a time, when Hubby and I were young and energetic and newly wed, we found ourselves in the dastardly predicament of perhaps being able to accumulate wealth.

�This must be prevented!� we cried. �Let�s have children!�

And so, we did. Hello, children. Goodbye, cash.

We were determined to be good parents. We made sure they had the basics, the important stuff. We fed them strained carrots and taught them why Kirk is better than Picard, how to write their names and say their ABCs and handle a lightsaber, not to eat Cheetos off the floor or stick beans up their nose and the dogs (and the cat) don�t like Tabasco sauce. In addition, I had one huge, ginormous, monumental motherly credo from day one: My children will have some creative freedom when it comes to clothing.

I had a fantastic childhood except for the part where they dressed me like Emily Litella. Even within the parameters of the private school dress code, other kids had cool stuff, and I had Old Lady Gear, which to this day I attribute not my being chosen as the Rainbow Fairy in fifth grade and instead being given the choice of either the unseen Narrator or Troll #3. (I chose Narrator.) I had nearly zero choice in the matter except for my later mulish refusal to wear anything other than jeans. Now that I am grown, my mother still chases me around the mall with Alfred Dunner. (That stuff may look fantastic on her 80-year-old cohorts, but she doesn�t understand my distaste for mint green elastic-waist acrylic.) My preferences, and my daughter�s, run to things a wee bit different. And so it was yesterday that I took her and one of her buddies to one of the big malls in Knoxville, one of them laden with birthday loot and the other with allowance money and a mother with a credit card. These are sensible girls who skirted right by the mainstream preppy stores with eight-foot-high photos of nearly naked cavorters selling bits of fabric by the inch fashioned into baby ho wear, or as the girls put it, �stripper gear��no, these girls wanted something stylish that covers their teenage flesh. Fancy that. Our destination? The Cubby of Angst. Mallrat goth/punk paradise.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::cue squee:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

They really did have some cute stuff in there, and better yet, there was a friendly and intelligent girl with 5 different hair colors who helped Daughter choose an outfit and accessories for school that shouldn�t put the administrators in apoplexy. We have saved all apoplectic fits for Hubby upon receipt of the credit card bill.

To finish him off in a blaze of glory, we found shoes.

So ready for school on August 3rd, in all her headbanging glory:

Is she happy?

What do you think? She spent our money on most of this instead of her allowance money. She rules! My kid�s smart.
She can also beat up your honor roll kid.

I love being a mom.

After a long day of teaching our child how to spend all of her daddy�s hard-earned money, what better than to settle down and watch a little tv? Thanks to that most wondrous gift from God, the dvr, we record everything to watch later when it�s convenient. We record the important pithy stuff, like Spongebob, The Fairly Oddparents, Stargate SG-1 and Atlantis, Doctor Who, Daughter�s list of several hundred anime shows, last night�s new addition PeeWee�s Playhouse (YAY), and another true delight, My Name Is Earl. I love Earl. Earl cracks me the hell up. You just can�t help but like Earl.

Wait.

There�s something awfully familiar.

Earl, age 11.

Hubby, age 11.

No freaking wonder he gets into so much trouble. If my man buys a lottery ticket and starts making a list, I�m outta here.

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