I have a fair complexion. I don’t tan, just freckle in a cute but never sexy way. When I blush, my cheeks go flaming red instantly as well as the tip of my nose. (Which also goes red when I cry, when I drink and when it’s cold outside. Call me Rudolph.)

I spend a lot of money on my skin. Piercing it, scratching indelible ink into it, buying sunscreen and special soaps to protect it. I wouldn’t want to add up the money I have spent on MAC makeup to look pretty or the drugstore lotions I invest in to ward off wrinkles.

Needless to say, my husband works his darling little ass off to pay for the investment I have made in my skin. After all, I’m kinda stuck in my skin, so why not make the most of it?

I am generally very comfortable within my skin. After all, it is a perfect fit. But like everybody else in this world, I had to struggle and grow to finally truly accept my skin, and all it contains. Flaws and all.

I like to think that I have finally become thick-skinned. It takes a lot to make me blush with embarrassment or shame.

Like a chameleon and it’s skin, I can change to fit with my surroundings. I can be the soccer mom when I need to be, the military mom when pushed, the sanctimommy occasionally, and I have been THAT mom on more than one occasion.

I’m highly evolved.

Until yesterday. When my daughter came home to tell me that several of her friends have discovered my web site. The same website where I talk freely of having sex with my husband (if not myself.) Amongst other not-for-people-under-the-age-of-18-or-with-a-signed-note-of-parental-consent type of posts.

When I asked just how her friends discovered my secret identity, she was quick to pass the buck.

“It was my cousin. She heard you talk about it with auntie and she looked at it and now she’s showing all of our friends.”

While I may or may not believe her, the damage is done. You can’t pour the spilled milk back into the bottle. (I always forget about little ears. Or how they overhear what they aren’t supposed to. And pass it along to other little children who apparently can’t keep their noses in their own damn business. Buggers.) So, in for a penny, in for a pound I asked “So what do they think of it?”

(Why yes, that is a kick-me sign on my back. Thank you for noticing.)

“They think you’re kinda geeky. And you are, like, way inappropriate.”

“What? They actually called me inappropriate? Geeekeee?” I squawk in a high, somewhat geeky voice. Sooo not the reaction I was expecting. Visions of being labelled the cool mom at prom instantly dissolved into a puff of smoke. “Who do you hang around with? Grannies?”

“Well, that’s what their parents and the teachers said after all of my friends showed them. It was very embarrassing. Thanks a lot Mom.” And then she huffed her way into her bedroom, leaving me to pick my jaw up off the floor by myself.

Great. Just fucking great.

Did I mention there is a school concert tonight with compulsory attendance for my daughter? A concert filled with small town teachers and parents.

I know there is a lesson in this somewhere. I can hear my husband ‘tut tutting’ in my conscience. But I’m still stuck on the fact that the kids think I’m geeky. What does a woman have to do to be cool around these parts? Sheesh!

So tonight, I may be the red-faced momma, blushing with embarrassment, hiding behind the bleachers while hoping no one makes direct eye contact with me and praying that my children don’t sell me down the river and point me out to the angry parental mob, but I am a COOL red-faced momma.

Like I said, I’m highly evolved. And a little delusional.