Super Maxi's and Super Stepmom

I swear rational thinking just isn't for the masses. Late night television convinces me that our country must suffer from a buttload of mental midgets. Political conventions also bring out Those Who Lack A Complete DNA Helix and certainly could answer the anthropologist's quest for the missing link. I guess it is not very nice to point fingers; occasionally, I have been known to have a temporary lapse of my own normal Einsteinian logic. It is surely a result of my having raised four daughters, and the newly assumed stepmothering role of two teenagers. Must be some kind of cosmic joke: "Let's experiment on Pattie with massive doses of stress". I feel like some Greek deity's secret science fair project. Too bad I didn't take a lesson from Cronus and swallow all my children, which obviously are the result of too much Dionysos worshipping. Earth mothers don't do that, of course - swallow their children. (Southern Earth Mothers have been known, however, to permanently maim their offspring with a smothering of maternal protection and shoulder-crushing doses of heavy guilt.)

A month ago, while shopping at Sam's Warehouse, the Mecca of Overabundance, I made the badly flawed judgement call of purchasing mass quantities of feminine hygiene products. Quite assured of my ability to be the Always Prepared Mom, I was jumping into the stepmother role headfirst. Not my first parenting rodeo, nosiree. Imagine my surprise when the step-teen requested money for a trip to the local grocery store to buy just said items. Puzzled, I checked the bathroom cabinet: there lay the bounty of my shopping, unopened and untouched. Also, unwanted I might add. Seems the brand I chose, which according to late night television is guaranteed to stem a leak at the Hoover Dam, "just don't stick right". Well, I'll be damned, too.

Chalk this all up to a severe loss of rational thinking. I did not inquire beforehand about any "wing adhesion" preference, so I suppose this is just one in a long series of hard lessons in stepmothering. Lesson number one: Never assume shit. (This lesson is always in the first chapter of Life, but one I seem doomed to flunk and thus insure my place in line with all the other aforementioned mental midgets.)

Now, I must call upon my superior home decorating skills and crafting magic. I am the original, quintessential Trash to Treasure Queen, and can turn even the wartiest sow's ear into a beeyoutiful silk evening clutch. Heartwrenchingly, my normal creative juices have refused to flow when contemplating what to do with 1000 super maxi-pads. And, of course you know, wallpaper is out because they "just don't stick right".

Damn, a padded room would be just the ticket for Super Stepmom.