Do I Embarrass You? Hey, I'm Just Getting Warmed Up.

A week or so ago, I took my freshly minted middle schoolers to the mall. They've entered a whole new and wonderful world, where both clothes and boys matter more than they did back in fifth grade.

We came upon a shop full of skimpy club-style outfits. The place was packed with tight, revealing tops and perilously short skirts. Neon and animal prints were everywhere.

"Whoa," I said. "What a hootchie store."

"What?" asked The Deuce with an edge of disgust in her voice. "What are you talking about?"

"A hootchie store," I repeated. Mad Dog rolled her eyes.

"Really, Mom. You and your weird old-lady mom talk," she scoffed. "So weird."

"Hootchie is old lady talk?" I was stunned.

"Yeah, I don't even know what that is," said Mad Dog. "What's a hootchie?"

"You know, a hootchie," I explained. "A floosie or a tramp."

Again with the blank faces.

I stopped short of saying, "You know... a SLUT," and just dropped the whole thing.

The shook their heads and quickened their pace to walk ahead of me a little.

I find it funny that I'm now an embarrassment to my kids (the oldest ones anyway), without even meaning to be. I'm just being, well, me.

Just last Friday night, when picking up the twins from a local rec department event, I waived my keys and said, "Let's boogie," I was met with groans and eye-ball rolling.

"Mom, that's gross. Boogie? Like a booger? Really?"

They looked back at their friends apologetically. I was so very clueless. It was downright tragic.

Embarrassing, huh? I thought.

Do I embarrass you, my darlings? Just think how embarrassing I could be if I actually put a little effort into it.

Wouldn't it be embarrassing if I mistook that boy you like -- you know the one with the shaggy hairdo -- and told him (in front of you) how much his hair reminds me of the Dorothy Hamill wedge I sported in the 70s?

Now that'd be embarrassing.

Or how about the next time we're at the department store, I yank up the back of your shirt to check your bra size so we can get you what I'll call 'new foundation pieces.'*

Better still, I'll find the oldest, most chatty sales woman and ask her to come over and measure you for fit.

We'll discuss your recent growth spurt and how you're "blossoming into womanhood." (Emphasizing the word blossoming, of course.) And this won't be in the sanctuary of the fitting rooms.

Oh no.

We'll take care of business right here on the sales floor, across from cosmetics where we saw that popular girl from your homeroom.

If you think I embarrass you now, just you wait. You haven't seen embarrassment yet.

This could be a fun new hobby for me. You know, along with all my other embarrassing old lady hobbies.

Like breathing and walking around.



* I know from firsthand experience, that having your mom hoist up your shirt to check out your bra size in the middle of Kohl's Department Store is, in fact, the most embarrassing thing ever.