Miss Understood- At Home Tennessee Article

Miss UnderstoodAt Home Tennessee columnist Mandi Gaskin tries to “Keep up with the Jones” only to find that being perfect is overrated.



We all know those people. The ones who wake up the roosters to get their daily run in, who bake pies because “they love the aroma of warmth in their house”, or wrap their Christmas gifts with handcrafted paper created by at-risk youth in after school programs. Not only do I know of these people, I am friends with them. And I can’t help but feeling like every time I buy store bought brownies or send my kid to school in something that is not monogrammed (gasp!) I am doing the world an injustice and falling short of my duties as mother and wife of the year. For instance, I watch my friend, let’s call her Stephanie*, as she works in the room of her house that is dedicated to Scrapbooking (!?!) and documents every breath of her child’s life- from the first haircut to the first time she stuffs an English Pea up her nose. When I proceed to tell her that I have yet to start a baby book for my little boy (he’s fifteen months… and in my defense, I have a steel trap for a mind) she looks at me like I just told her that I like to kick puppies and squander the dreams of little children. Then there is my friend Caroline* who, when she is not harvesting her own eggs to teach her children valuable lessons of where your food comes from, likes to make her own jam from local berry farms and packages them in cute berry jars (where do you even find those?) to give to her kids’ Sunday school teachers. She recently went on vacation with her family and came back with pictures that were straight out of a Pepperidge Farm commercial as they strolled through the countryside on bicycles adorned with vintage flower baskets and gobbled up ice cream from a local store they happened upon while chasing fireflies. This conjured up memories from my most recent family vacation where the heat index was about three degrees above the burning flames of hell and caused all of us to stare at each other in utter disgust. Too hot to yell, or be angry or even think clearly. At one point I felt sure that little Rinks was foaming at the mouth, but it just turned out to be sour milk. Perfect.
Motivated by my friend’s inspirational vacation, I decided that we would have delightful family outing as well, to show that we are the perfect American family. As we made our way to the countryside trails the next weekend, I guided Ashley to the rental bikes that were reminiscent of Pee Wee Herman’s Big Adventure, complete with a bell and a seat for Rinks. Ashley took one look and said, “You have lost your mind if you think I am getting on that. Who do I look like, Dick Van Dyke?” I proceeded to tell him that Dick Van Dyke was not only a legend of small proportions, but also made leisure biking look very hip and cool; and I hadn't even asked him to sing “Chim Chim Cheree” like I had originally planned! He wasn’t buying it.
On to Plan B. Since Ashley was not willing to assist me on my journey to Mother of the Year, I had to take matters into my own hands. And that meant one thing: A trip to Hobby Lobby. Granted, walking through the endless isles of paper, glitter, glue, and cute little wooden frogs that I had no idea what to do with made me a little dizzy, I was going to make Rinks a book he would never forget. So I began throwing items in my basket like I’m Naomi Campbell with her cell phone and at the end of my trip, I came home with… what, I am not sure… but I whatever it was, I was going to make it into a masterpiece. With Rinks being a rowdy 15 month old child, he wanted to help mommy make his book too. And of course letting my aspirations of the Perfect Mother get the best of me, I decided this was a good idea. This has since been labeled the Glue-In-The-Hair incident in our house, which resulted in Rinks having a spiffy baby mullet.
Exhausted, stressed, and now having a child that looks like he belongs in a Billy Ray Cyrus video, I decided to retire the dream. And now as I watch my perfect mom friends sew custom outfits for their children or feed the homeless with their gourmet leftover Risotto, I smile. Because tonight we are having chicken nuggets straight from the freezer, and according to Rinks and his undying love for chicken nuggets, that makes me Mother of the Year.

*Names have been changed to protect me from losing friends.

Mandi is a writer, a wife, and a mother. When she is not tending to her fresh herb garden, she is sitting on the couch letting the noodles burn on the stove because she is too busy watching “The Bachelor.”

**To all my readers, this will be my last article with "At Home TN" as I am focusing my efforts on an exciting new venture. Please stay tuned!!!

How to Seduce a Housewife

You know you want it. She knows you want it. You have no idea how to get it, until now. Listen closely boys, Mama is speaking now.

As you slowly make your way into the kitchen, gingerly give her a side glance with your sexiest smile. Then stroll over to the dishwasher, and gently caress it. Feel the smooth stainless steel with nimble fingertips and reach for the handle underneath. Now ease the door down and bend over to pick up a dish, let her eyes linger on you for a minute as she recovers from the initial shock of your picking up the dishes and putting them into the cabinet. After you have exhibited your manliness from lifting all of those dishes, saunter over to the pantry and gather the broom and dustpan. Her breath catches and her heart starts beating faster as you run your strong hands down the shaft of the broom, but do not acknowledge her reaction. Continue to sweep the entire kitchen floor, swaying the broom back and forth, back and forth and don't be afraid to put your hips into it. When she breaks out of her trance and attempts to grab the dustpan, gently stop her and say "No, I insist." Her knees will start to tremble as she touches the side of your face to see if you are running a high temperature. Then softly whisper into her ear, "Go rest, your favorite show is coming on now." She will softly gaze into your eyes- looking for any sign of her husband- only to give up and walk dizzily into the bedroom. Do not follow her. Continue on your Journey of Seduction by wiping down the counters and giving the kids a bath. After you have read the bedtime stories and tucked in the kids, congratulations, it's Business Time. As you wearily climb onto the bed, she presses her foot against your foot- a.k.a. the "greenlight"- and it's officially time for Business.
Well done, my friend, you have just seduced your Housewife. Only now, you are too exhausted to do anything but lay your head face down in the mattress from doing all the chores she does everynight before bed. And suddenly it dawns on you why she gives you "the finger" on any given night when you look up from your Fantasy Football scores and grunt at her as she walks by with no bra on and call it foreplay.



Consider yourself evolved.

You're welcome.

The Great Resolution Revolution- At Home TN December Article

The Great Resolution Revolution
Our At Home Tennessee columnist and fierce rebel, Mandi Gaskin, is taking no prisoners as she tells the New Year tradition who’s the boss.

It happens every year about this time. After all the presents have been opened and I am slowly coming down from the sugar high that I have been on for the last month, the dim reality of the New Year sets in. And the resolutions that I made from the previous year begin to mock me like a fat kid playing dodge ball as I come face to face with the broken promises of yesteryears. Last year I made a resolution not to worry so much, only to have to an anxiety attack two months later as a result of my cable going out and almost missed the Housewives Reunion. And then after making the I’m-going-to-work-out-more-to-become-the-next-Miss-Fitness-USA resolution for 10 straight years in a row, I am still sitting on 15 extra pounds and bribing myself with Snickers bars to take a walk around the block. But this year I am wising up and going rogue on the New Year’s traditions. Instead of making promises that will most likely last until St. Patrick’s Day, I am going to sit this year out- making no promises and setting myself free of grand expectations.
However, when talking to my best friend about this new state of mind she gave me a suggestion of a new spin on the tradition that she started two years ago. Instead of making specific negative goals for herself in the temporary (i.e. - no more cupcakes, Fatty!), she began creating positive themes for the coming year that she could stand behind the whole year through. In 2008, after being fed up with going along with whatever people suggested despite how she felt, she created the “Year of Truth” for herself. Throughout the year when someone would ask her to accompany them to an event she had no interest in or go to an obligatory dinner that she despised, she would remind herself of the “Year of Truth” and confidently tell them “no, thank you.” Coincidentally, that was also the year that I learned she hated my favorite boots as well as the casserole that I always prepared for her when she came to visit. “It’s about giving yourself back the power and the opportunity that enables you to differentiate the things you do for yourself and the things that you do for others. And it’s astounding how quickly that simple theme becomes a law in your life that allows you to prioritize yourself and what is important to you,” she says.
Intrigued by this notion, I began to inquire as to what my theme would be should I choose one. My first consideration was the “Year of Ambivalence”, prodded by my lack of motivation or general laziness to make any sort of change. But then I figured it should probably be something a little more positive so that I don’t spiral into an existence of all-around slacker with the excuse of my self-proclaimed theme. And so, dear readers, after careful deliberation I am declaring this next year to be the “Year of Acceptance;” for the acceptance of things that I cannot control, for flaws that I cannot correct, as a way of letting go to allow myself the freedom to breathe and grow without constantly fighting the reality of what is going on before me. Or in the words of Steve Winwood, I am going to “just roll with it baby.”
And so on this New Year’s Eve, as I am counting down one more year that has passed me by without meeting the ridiculous expectations that I set for myself; I know that I will be facing the year ahead with a willingness to just be me, and that is perfectly acceptable.



Mandi is a writer, a wife, and a mother; who keeps telling herself that she has it all figured out, but who is she kidding? You can follow her hilarious life lessons on www.freedingo.blogspot.com or right here at At Home Tennessee.

Put a Little Love in your Heart

To know me is to love me. I am a selfless giver, a person of sacrifice- a sort of Mother Teresa-type if you will. And if you believe this, then I also have an African elephant for sale in my back yard for the discounted price of thirty thousand dollars (cash only please).

I tease.

In reality I am more likened to Veronica Salt in “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” where you can hear me singing ‘I want it now!’ most days of the year and Christmas usually gives me just the platform I need to justify this behavior. But this year is different. Blame my maturity, or blame ABC’s Extreme Makeover Home Edition; but I feel like giving back this year and giving others a chance at a Christmas of their dreams. And so this year, in lieu of gift giving to each other, my family and I will be combining our normal Christmas funds to sponsor several underprivileged families and elderly in nursing homes that do not have family. Sure, I am giving up my chance at an IPad, or those ankle boots that I have been eyeing since September; but those things flew out of my mind once I hit the store in search of the perfect gift for the nine year old girl who simply asked for Jolly Ranchers and Fruit Snacks “because she didn’t want to make a list that would cost too much money and make her mom feel bad.”
And so, come this Christmas, when we go to deliver the gifts to the elderly as a family, or see the look on the kids’ faces as they believe that Santa really was listening; I have a feeling that they won’t be the only ones there who are having the Christmas they will never forget. I have discovered that there is no greater gift than giving of yourself to see the joy in others. And that my friends, is a Christmas miracle.

The Queen has arrived...

We have all heard the stories. The tragic cases of kids being bullied, many of them taking their lives from being tormented by their peers for being viewed as different. I find it heartbreaking and distressing that these bullies- these kids- have lost the ability to feel compassion and the awareness that their words have consequences.

But that is not what I want to talk about.

I want to talk about a special girl and a special high school in Tupelo, MS that is dispelling all the stories in the media today. Amanda Aldridge is a beautiful seventeen year old girl who happens to have Downs Syndrome. She attends Tupelo High School where she is the manager of the girls basketball team (to whom she is frequently referred to as "Coach Aldridge" and gives the pep talks before the game), a member of the thesbian theater group and the fellowship of Christian Athletes. She has loads of friends, not because they are patronizing, but because they see her as one of their peers- and they cannot deny her sweet spirit that is contagious to all who come in contact with her.
Tupelo High School has a student body of over 2000 students who are responsible for voting for the Homecoming Court maids. Once Amanda was nominated, the students started campaigning for her, many of those being the girls who were willing to give up their own seat so she could be the Homecoming Queen. When the day finally arrived, Amanda was voted by the students of Tupelo High School to be the 2010 Homecoming Queen. When she found out, her mother told me she looked at her and said, "See mom, I told you I was going to win!" The support didn't end there. That morning, Amanda received a bouquet of flowers from two other senior maids who were nominated and when she arrived at school, the basketball team threw her a surprise party that said, "Amanda is our Queen." And as for Amanda, she hasn't stopped smiling since.

And so when all of the news stories talk about the doom and gloom of the world, with all the negativity that makes headlines day in and day out, I wanted to shine a light on something that was worth being told- that in it's truest form, the human spirit is a wonderous beauty and has the capacity to love regardless of any differences we may have. And just like Amanda, that is something that deserves honor.

The Queen herself, looking beautiful as ever.

At Home TN Article- November

Home for the Holidaze
At Home Tennessee columnist Mandi Gaskin braves the battlefield where many visit but few survive: A Family Thanksgiving.

I love this time of year. A chill takes hold of the air, pumpkins are being carved and turkeys are running for their lives. It’s a time of peace and thankfulness; that is until you arrive at your family Thanksgiving. And if your family is anything like mine, you need a stiff drink and a visit to your therapist to refill your meds by the time dessert is served. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family in small doses, but when all 57 of them come together it’s like a full moon on Friday the 13th that causes all of them to get crazy-eyed and act out in a way that is neither normal nor appropriate. You see, I come from a musical family. And by that I mean every single person in my family thinks they can sing better than the person beside them. And therefore every holiday get together turns into an American Idol audition, except with middle aged participants belting out gospel hymns or Broadway tunes. It always starts out innocently enough. When my aunt invariably hops on the piano for a family friendly sing-a-long and starts singing “When the Roll is called up Yonder.” But by the second verse you can’t hear yourself think over the competing roars of vibrato. I remember one Thanksgiving when I was 10 years old I decided to join in on the chorus and started singing harmony with the others, and suddenly my mother looks at me and says, “Get off my part.” It is every man for himself amongst such fierce competition. The first time I brought my husband home for the holidays I watched as my aunt sauntered over to the piano and I broke out into a sweat, knowing exactly what was about to happen. When the voices reached into octaves that only dogs can hear I saw my husband sitting there with his mouth hanging open, staring in disbelief. I just mouthed, “I’m sorry. Don’t leave me.” He hasn’t. Yet.
I know that I am not the only one that feels this way about their family. A friend of mine once told me that he doesn’t even consider it Thanksgiving until at least two rolls have been thrown across the dinner table and someone is crying in the bathroom. “I wouldn’t change it for anything though,” he mused, “it’s free entertainment. Sort of like dinner and a movie, and every year I like to try to guess the ending.” I know exactly what he means, my holiday doesn’t officially kick off until I have been insulted by both my mother (“Did you mean to wear your hair like that?”) and my grandmother (“That baby weight is not going to lose itself you know.”).
My sister doesn’t fair much better at these functions. She is single and in her 30’s which my family translates as desperately alone and needy. And to resolve this they bring pictures of a “nice boy from church with an unfortunate case of acne” as potential suitors to fulfill her void. She keeps a bottle of wine in her car for such emergencies. But this year will be different for her as she has met “the one” and will be bringing him home for the first time to be sacrificed at our family Thanksgiving. I don’t know what I am looking forward to more, my uncle asking him how much money he makes or my mother asking him if he and my sister have consummated their relationship.
But the truth is, no matter how much I complain or get embarrassed by this group of lunatics that are my family, looking back over the decades that we have spent together, I can honestly say that I wouldn’t change anything about them. Yes they are loud and wildly inappropriate, but they love each other fiercely and are passionate about a bond that makes a family. And much to my chagrin, they are responsible for the person that I am today and for that I will always have the utmost love and respect for them. And speaking of respect, that reminds me, I need to start practicing my Aretha Franklin solo for this year’s Thanksgiving dinner.

Mandi Gaskin is a mother, wife, and writer. She would like to formally apologize to her family, who has blacklisted her from Thanksgiving this year for making fun of them.

Ho's in the front, Bro's in the back

Last weekend we were invited to go to a dinner event in Kentucky with friends. And since we have fancy friends, there was a limo rented to take us to the event and back. As soon as the limo arrived, the couples climbed in and immediately segregated like it was 1952 in Mississippi, with girls in the front and boys in the back. This wasn't anything unusual as it happens most of the time when we go out with other married couples but I never paid much attention to it until then. And so I got curious and started observing the two groups- and soon discovered the answer to this social phenomenon.
The girls were sitting in front with their wine in stemware while exchanging feelings on aging and the general consensus of public school and where it is going in the future. There was talk about the newest diets we've tried, the stress of balancing work and home, and even shed a few tears when the conversation turned to the tender moments of motherhood and the hardships of keeping the romance alive after years of marriage.

And then I turned around to look at the guys- who were blaring the Marshall Tucker Band, drinking god knows what from flower pots they found while looking up dirty words on the UrbanDictionary.com and giggling like 10 year old school girls when one of them screamed out the definition for "Douche Rocket."

The girls just looked back with a quiet resignation and understanding that boys will always be stuck in the 5th grade, and we will just have to drink more.

Point: Made.
Case: Closed.