Who's got a question they want answered? Who's dying for solicited advice that was only solicited because I figured the answers would make for a good column? No pushing, people....form a single file line right here. Who's first?
Dear Aspiring Mama: Where have all my winter socks gone?
(May I call you Laina?)
Your socks have obviously run away and eloped with my missing winter socks, as is evidenced by the spectacular number of unmatched singles I currently have taunting me in the basket in my living room. I'm going to assume your next question to me will be "But why? Why did my socks leave me, Pauline? Did I not show them enough affection? Did I expect too much of them?" And to be perfectly frank, the answer is this: Your socks left you because of that weird I Don't Like Other People Touching My Feet Rule of yours that keeps you from getting a pedicure. Because really, do you want to hug a foot that hasn't been dipped in paraffin at least twice in the last four weeks?
Dear Aspiring Mama: I've always wanted to know-- How do I deal with that not so fresh feeling?
-- Saving for Someday
Always a tough one. Let me figure out how many licks it takes to get to the center of this Tootsie Pop and help Foreigner figure out what love is and then I promise I'll answer your question.
Dear Aspiring Mama: My boys are hitting puberty! Help! What do I do?
As the mother of a four-year-old girl who will eventually be dating, I am perfectly qualified to answer this question for you. Actually, I'm lying and in desperate need of advice on how far to run when my daughter realizes she has hormones. In fact, I've also been wondering if I'm totally doing this parenting thing wrong and if I should start funneling some of her college savings into a Future Therapy Slush Fund. Your thoughts?
Dear Aspiringmama: Sometimes I fantasize about going out for milk and moving to Como to search for George Clooney. Should I act?
I’d wait at least a few months. Give him a chance to get over the paranoia from my stalking…errr…Clooney search. I’d offer to drive with you but there’s the little matter of a restraining order...Send me a post card?
There ya have it, folks. Next time, I'm charging.