I swore it was Easter.

A few short weeks ago, I saw a plethora of bunnies, colored eggs and chocolate everywhere I looked.  Everywhere but my mirror, that is.

While putting on my Easter finest to attend services, I looked in the mirror to give myself a final once over before stepping out the door.  A cursory glance at the outfit proved I was presentable.  The hair?  Not bad.  Face?  Passable.  When my eyes descended to my neck, however, I recoiled in horror.

The Thanksgiving turkey had deposited his wattle directly under my chin.

Back to Dictionary.com, where a wattle is described as "a fleshy lobe or appendage hanging down from the throat or chin of certain birds, as the domestic chicken or turkey.”  Lovely, huh?

To clarify, it’s not that I have anything against Thanksgiving turkeys.  In fact, Thanksgiving, being all about eating, is far and away my favorite holiday.  But it comes with certain built in buffers, for example, the fact that it’s in November, placed conveniently at a time when I can cover up any additional appendages, including my annually acquired winter time spare tire, with lots and lots of extra clothes.  Have I mentioned that scarves are my favorite accessory?

Further, despite their undeniable deliciousness, turkeys are really ugly birds.  If anyone gave bird makeovers, turkeys would be first on the list for a major redo. 

So having any part of a turkey as a part of me is rather offensive.  Perhaps I wouldn’t be so put out if, now adding insult to injury, my personal wattle wasn’t from a ninety year old turkey.  I might be more gracious in accepting the oddly placed Easter gift were the turkey it came from young and spry—the top of the turkey line, if you will.  But the turkey who decided to rest under my chin has clearly seen better and far younger days.   

While we’re on the subject of wildlife, how come I’ve a turkey under my chin while a sea lion has lay claim to my lower half?  My understanding has always been that there are very specific lines of demarcation between species.  Cross-pollination is only supposed to happen with plants.  And if I’ve got to resemble an animal, how about a cougar?  Wait, scratch that.

Anyway, the image of Tom Turkey staring back from my mirror has left me facing the no longer deniable truth that I am firmly a member of the "aging skin” set.  That would be the euphemism created by the marketing gurus intent on selling we women all manner of creams, oils and cure-alls for the inevitable march of time and its effects on our publicly visible parts.  (The publicly invisible parts are also an issue, but better left undiscussed.  Ever.  They are also better left invisible.  Always.)

I don’t like the term.  If you want to split hairs, everyone’s skin is aging, from the moment of birth.  Why are those of us with bird parts around our necks singled out?  Couldn’t they come up with something a bit gentler for our already bruised egos?  Maybe "goddess skin,” which could imply old—Venus has at least a couple thousand years under her belt, right?—without hitting us over the head.  Really guys (they have to be guys; no woman would come up with "aging skin”) if you want us to buy your lotions and potions, a spoonful of sugar would really help the medicine go down.

I know it’s all about maintaining the delusion, but I’m okay with that.  If I thought about my age in any real context, I’d pull the shades and buy a bunch of cats.  When I was young, I thought people my age were dead, so whatever it takes to keep me reasonably functional is just fine.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to check the Farmer’s Almanac in hopes that we’re in for a cool summer.  Just the weather for a scarf.

Mary Fran Bontempo is the author of Everyday Adventures or, As My Husband Says, "Lies, Lies and More Lies”.  Visit her at www.notreadyforgrannypanties.com and www.maryfranbontempo.com.

What else could he have possibly wanted?

Ladies, imagine yourselves hitched to George Clooney, he of the debonair good looks, the smooth demeanor, the sly, seductive smile, the world-wide cache, the multiple houses—including the villa in Italy—the apparent good guy persona, and of course, the big bucks that go along with the practically perfect package.

Now imagine yourself tossing Gorgeous George for the likes of, say, Dog the Bounty Hunter, from the A&E television show of the same name.  (For those of you fortunate enough to not know Dog, suffice it to say the guy resembles a tattooed wrestler on steroids, with a gravelly voice, stringy, bleached blond hair and a face that looks like he’s been taken to the mat one too many times.  My guess is that his biceps are larger than his bank account, too.)

Such is the only way I can think to describe what that stultifyingly stupid fool, Jesse James (Really, Jesse James?  Come on.), did to the glorious Sandra Bullock last week.  Or more accurately, for the last eleven or so months, if the tabloids are to be believed.

Jesse, like Dog, also tattooed and sporting a face with more than a few miles etched into it, has been partaking in some unseemly extra curricular activities behind his wife’s back.  His wife being Sandra Bullock.  Sandra Bullock.  America’s sweetheart.  Sunny, sweet, beautiful, talented and yes, very rich, Sandra Bullock.

And just who has bested our adorable Sandy for her chivalrous husband’s heart?  One Michelle (Bombshell) McGee, who single-handedly bears more tattoos than both Dog the Bounty Hunter and Jesse the Idiot combined.

Which brings me back to the opening question:  What else could he have possibly wanted?

Not only is Sandra Bullock one of the most beautiful, well-known, successful women on the planet, by all reports, she appears to have a pretty big heart as well.  How else to explain the fact that she’s fully embraced her role as stepmother to James’ three kids, to the point where this past November, she, along with her errant hubby, initiated a custody suit regarding James’ youngest child, Sunny, his daughter with an adult film star just released from prison for tax evasion?

Let’s take another look here:  One former partner, a porn star, ex-con with parenting issues.  One recent mistress, a tattoo and "fetish” (don’t even want to know what that means) model.  One Oscar winning movie star, known for her role as Miss Congeniality both on and off screen, who took on James’ unconventional life as well as his kids.  Like the Sesame Street songs says, "One of these things is not like the other….”

So, Jesse, what exactly are you looking for?  Far be it from me to be judgmental, but by all appearances, you had perfect and maybe that was the problem.  Maybe perfect was too much for you to handle, so you did a 180 and went with, well, not so perfect.  Now, from the looks of things, you’ve got nothing, except a mortified wife and children who are likely left wondering, "What next?”

What is it about us humans?  Why do we always think there’s something better around the corner than what we’ve got right in front of us?  Frankly, if anyone were going to stray in that relationship, I’d have guessed it would be Bullock.  Let’s face it; she’s the one with something to offer.  Jesse James?  A reality TV star (?) with a penchant for bad relationships?  Not so much.

Sandra Bullock may currently reign as America’s Sweetheart.  But a former title-holder, in the form of the fictitious Dorothy Gale from 1939’s The Wizard of Oz may have the words Mr. James needs to hear.  "If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own back yard. Because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with! Is that right?”

That’s right Dorothy.  As for you, Jesse, I have a feeling the lovely lady you kicked to the curb with your stupidity is once again over the rainbow and out of your reach.  For her sake, at least, I hope so.

Mary Fran Bontempo is the author of Everyday Adventures or As My Husband Says, "Lies, Lies and More Lies”.  Visit her at www.notreadyforgrannypanties.com and www.maryfranbontempo.com.

           "Oh no, I forgot my phone!” I exclaimed as my husband and I drove to a local restaurant.  "I must have left it on the table.”

            "Do you want to go back and get it?” Dave asked.

            "I guess not.  Before we left, I tracked down each kid and made sure they were all okay and where they were supposed to be.  Hopefully, I won’t need it.  But just in case, did you bring your phone?”  I said.

            "Well, yeah, it’s here in the car, but I wasn’t planning on taking it in the restaurant,” Dave said.

            "Of course you weren’t.  But I forgot mine, so we’re bringing it in,” I countered.

            "I know.  You’ll want it on the table during dinner,” he sighed.

            "Wait a minute.  Let’s clarify something.  I don’t want it sitting on the table while we’re out at a restaurant.  I feel compelled to have it in case the kids need something,” I said. 

            Meryl Streep agrees with me.  At least her character, Jane, from the hit movie It’s Complicated, does.  If you haven’t seen the film, Streep’s character embarks on an ill-fated affair with, of all people, her ex-husband, father of her children, who has married a much younger woman and recently decided he "never really knew how to live without” his first wife—the now fifty-something Jane. 

            In many ways, the movie is a vindication for all those of us who have crossed over into the realm of comfortable clothes and one-piece bathing suits.  Younger isn’t always better.  And in other ways, it’s affirmation that no matter what our ages, once you’re a mother, everything else gets behind that fact in line, whether we want it to or not.

            During a soon to be steamy liaison, Jane’s ex, Jake, has paid her a visit in her fabulous home.  (Another reason I loved the movie—Jane is living a dream with a fulfilling business and a fabulous house, providing it for herself, sans a man.  A complete fantasy, of course, but who hasn’t had one of those?)  The telephone rings and lusty-eyed Jake murmurs, "Don’t answer it,” while attempting to corner his former wife. 

            Jane snorts.  "I always answer it.  I have three kids.”  Sure enough, the caller is one of the pair’s offspring and Jane gives Jake a knowing look as if to say, "I told you the kids might need me.”  The incident underlines the assumption that mom must be perennially on call. 

            The question is, are we on call because we have to be or because we want to be?  From the time we cart our little parcels home from the hospital, we mothers have an ear eternally cocked in the direction of our kids.  What are they doing?  Are they safe?  Are they getting into trouble?  During the night, any movement instantly jolts us awake.  Are they sick?  Is someone just going to the bathroom?  Should I get up and check?

            Maybe we don’t actually have a choice.  Two of my kids are in their twenties and my eyes still pop open when I hear them moving around the house in the middle of the night.  I don’t want to wake up; I just do, like a Pavlovian dog.

            "Maybe I’ll just leave the phone in the car this time,” I huffed.

            "And make us both crazy while you sit there and wonder what’s going on?”

            "Fine.  I’ll bring it.  I just want it known that it’s not for my sake.  They probably won’t call anyway.  They won’t bother us unless it’s something important,” I said, tucking the phone into my purse.

            Sure enough, a half hour later, Dave’s ring tone cut through dinner.  I glanced at the screen and saw our son’s name.  "See, I told you.  David needs us.”  Smugly, I answered the call.  "Hi honey.  Is everything okay?”

            "Hey Mom.  Where are you guys?”

            "At Taormina’s.  Do you need something?” I asked.

            "Yeah.  If you don’t mind, I need you to bring me home a cheese steak.  With mayo, please,” David said.

            Like I said, I have to be available.  Because they wouldn’t call unless it were really important.

Mary Fran Bontempo is the author of Everyday Adventures or As My Husband Says, "Lies, Lies and More Lies”.  Visit her at www.maryfranbontempo.com. 

           Just in case you and your family haven’t had enough of sacrifice in the past several years, Lent is again upon us, to make sure you really get the idea.

            For we Catholics, Lent is the forty day period leading up to the resurrection of Jesus Christ at Easter.  During the Lenten season, we take stock of our lives and forgo things near and dear to us in an effort to discover what’s really important and prepare ourselves spiritually for the passion, death and resurrection of Christ.

            As kids in Catholic grade school, we knew of the Church’s teachings, but boiled down to its most elementary form, Lent was really about giving up stuff.  And most of the time, it was sweets.

            It may not sound like much, but we approached the sacrifice of our recess candy with a fervor that really did make us feel better about ourselves.  We may not have been happy about passing on the Jolly Ranchers, but somehow, the deprivation, instead of making us cranky and mean, made us kinder to each other.  "Giving it up for Lent” became our battle cry and we were pretty good spiritual soldiers.

            Now, however, most of us are way beyond recess candy (even though we wish we weren’t) so in recent years I’ve taken to compiling some suggestions for Lenten sacrifice which might serve the greater good for Catholics and non-Catholics alike.  In fact, if we could mandate some of this stuff, the world would be a kinder, gentler and less trash-strewn place for sure.

            For starters, we should give up all forms of inane communication.  That would immediately necessitate a halt to texting, Tweeting and about ninety percent of cell phone conversations.  I really don’t need to know what you’re doing right now.  In fact, I really don’t care, any more than you care to know when I’m sitting in traffic or waiting to pick up my kids or standing in line to buy a really overpriced cup of coffee.  And I don’t want to hear one end of a phone conversation about your boyfriend, mother-in-law, etc.  Spare me the pointless details and I’ll happily return the favor.

            While we’re at it, let’s throw in a ban on Facebook, MySpace and any other idiotic internet platform which encourages people to post inappropriate pictures and intimate info on the web for the entire world to see.  How about we adopt the "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” mantra and keep things—here’s a new concept—private?  By all means, share your details and pictures with your friends, but when you plaster your life on the internet, lots of people, who are definitely not your friends, will see it, too.    

            And while I, too, am in awe of the miracle of birth, can we please forgo posting ultrasound images of unborn babies on the internet?  Talk about an invasion of privacy.  Did anyone ask the baby if he/she wants people looking in there?  I doubt it.  Save the snapshots for after the birth.  Let the kid have some peace and quiet, please.  That goes for the rest of us, too.

            While we’re on the subject of people watching things they have no business seeing, I propose a Lenten ban on all reality television viewing.  All we need to do is recall the carnage that was Jon and Kate Plus Eight to know that no good comes of having cameras and microphones follow some family around while the rest of us gawk and gape at their fights and foibles.  The "stars” and their lives always implode and we’re guilty of causing the destruction through sheer voyeurism.  Of course, I’ll still watch Cake Boss, but anything that’s about food and cake can’t be a sin, right?

            Another thing we could all easily eliminate?  Email forwards.  I’ve yet to receive the financial windfall promised by every single email I sent on against my better judgment.  And I’m still walking around, so I haven’t been struck dead because occasionally I engaged in some discretion and didn’t forward something.  As far as God being annoyed with me because I neglected to send on a prayer to all of my contacts, while I’ll admit the content is more positive than most of the junk I’m asked to pass along, I don’t think God’s keeping a scorecard on email forwards.  Somehow I think He/She’s got other stuff on His/Her mind. 

            Odd as it may sound, Lent allows us to better ourselves through deprivation.  If we can deprive ourselves of inane communication, inappropriate internet content, reality television and email forwards, we just may find that sacrifice offers far more than it takes away.          

Mary Fran Bontempo is the author of Everyday Adventures or As My Husband Says, "Lies, Lies and More Lies”.  Visit her at www.maryfranbontempo.com.

I want to see some documentation.

MTV's Jersey Shore has been renewed for a second season. For those of you who've been living under a rock, or perhaps been much more discriminating television viewers than the five million voyeurs who tune into the program every week, Jersey Shore depicts the misadventures of a cast of young adults(?) thrown together for a summer of debauchery and drunkenness in Seaside Heights, NJ. Well, they were in Seaside Heights, but the town doesn't want the cast of misfits anymore. So far, neither does any other town in NJ.

The fact that an entire state is refusing the boatloads of money and publicity that a television show could add to its coffers should give you some idea of just how awful this program is. And it is awful. But in truth, the series isn't much more outrageous than MTV's other programs depicting young people behaving badly.

There's irresponsible sex, in-fighting, drunkenness, swearing, narcissism, zero personal responsibility—in other words, it's a classic MTV reality show. (Just how "real” any of this junk is, is open to debate, of course.) The Jersey Shore kids may have lowered the bar a bit, but for the record, you'd have to be an earthworm to crawl under MTV's programming standards anyway.

So what's the fuss about? The biggest beef surrounding Jersey Shore is that all of the cast members are Italian-Americans and proud of it. At least they say they're Italian-Americans. Crowing about their heritage as "Guidos and Guidettes,” this ship of fools won't let anyone mistake their cultural background, much to the chagrin of Italian-Americans across the country.

Which is why I want to see some documentation. I am an Italian-American. I know lots of Italian-Americans, both old and young. None of us, not one, would ever behave the way those nitwits do on national television. Our mothers wouldn't let us.

So here's my position: Unless their mothers have all moved on to the great beyond (R.I.P. if so), those kids couldn't possibly be Italian. Their mothers, brandishing wooden spoons, shoes, newspapers, or anything else handy, would chase those ne'r-do-wells down, grab a handful of their hair and drag them home, moms yelling at the top of their lungs and whaling away at the kids' backsides all the while.

For Italians, it's all about respect. You don't mess up the family name by acting like a jackass in public. Witness The Godfather movies—not so far off the mark, those. Better yet, for a reality show example, just turn on TLC's The Cake Boss, seen Monday nights at 9 P.M.

Buddy Valastro and family—mia famiglia, as Buddy says—are the real Jersey deal. The Hoboken, NJ pastry shop owner and his crew of workers are as Italian-American as you can get. The entire enterprise is staffed by members of the Valastro family, with a few outsiders thrown in for diversity's sake. There's lots of yelling, strictly G-rated gesticulating and commotion. But despite Buddy's "Cake Boss” title, make no mistake; Mama Mary Valastro pilots this plane.

On one episode, Buddy was asked to make a risqué cake for a bachelorette party. Mother Mary, upon catching sight of the anatomically correct confectionary figures meant to adorn the cake, threw an Italian mama fit. Corralling son Buddy and cohorts in the bakery, Mrs. Valastro let the men have it.

"I told you we're not doing that kind of cake in this bakery! You're the Cake Boss? Who signs the paychecks? I'm the boss! You fix that cake. Now go!” For me, the funniest scene of the season was the aftermath of that speech, when Buddy and his staff, all brothers-in-law or relatives, lumbered away from Buddy's fuming mother, their heads hung low and tails between their legs like whipped puppies.

If you want to see a real, flesh and blood Italian on the Jersey Shore, sign up Mama Valastro for a season. She'll have those pseudo Italian poseurs whipped into shape faster than you can say, "tiramisu.” And maybe they'll learn a little about respect, for themselves and everyone else, in the process.

Mary Fran Bontempo is the author of Everyday Adventures or, As My Husband Says, "Lies, Lies and More Lies”. Visit her at http://www.maryfranbontempo.com/.