Grigio got behind the wheel, Pinot jumped in beside him yelling, "Shot gun," and pointed for Contessa to hop in the back.

As if. If the bag of month-old dirty laundry wasn't enough to keep me out of the back seat, the take-out boxes marked "Hunan's Wok Surpeme" did. Since when did Chinese restaurants serve cottage cheese?

"Besides, we're adults now," Pinot said.

"Yeah, does that mean you're paying the bill?"

Pinot climbed into the back seat.

Up shot a hand from the back.

"Um, what's your joke, Contessa?"

"What's more frightening to identical twins than coming home from college for the summer and finding the locks changed?"

"Coming home from college for the summer, finding the locks changed AND job applications with their names on them."

Funny, identical twins even cry the same.

Last week she gave homemade cornbread a shot. Yummy aromas filled the kitchen and it looked delicious. Well, it looked normal, except for that brown spot that fit right under a dollop of Country Crock Shed Spread. All right, it was edible.

Not.

Contessa's cornbread tasted like cardboard and was a tad dry. Okay, cotton-in-your-mouth dry, just not as tasty.

How did The Big Guy handle his disappointment? With gentle finesse. He scooped up the leftovers and lined the bench on our deck, as a treat for the squirrels. Our yard is overrun with the little buggers. They love ears of corn so The Big Guy figured they'd chow down on my cornbread wonders. Funny little creatures. One scooped up a mound of 'meal, stuffed it in his mouth and keeled over. I thought only possums played dead.

The little critters must be hibernating, too stuffed to move. I haven't seen a single one ever since The Big Guy put out the cornbread treats. Hmm, haven't seen our outdoor cats, The Yard Rats, either.

No problem. I could bring a few bottles of red and white and demonstrate useful stuff like the safe handling of corkscrews or learning how to swill without choking. She nixed that, too. What's the big deal? It wasn't as if I was going to use the teacher's waste basket to dump wine.

So, I relied on my backup career as an author. This was going to one tough gig. How do I help these kids sort out their direction in life AND entertain them at the same time. Writing words on paper is just one step up on the interest scale from putting numbers on a form. To make it worse, some of the classes actually got to listen to a zoo employee. Not only did she wear a snappy brown uniform with a cool jungle hat but she brought a snake with her. Last time I checked the want ads, there wasn't a huge market for snake handlers but I'll not be judgemental. Actually, it was a smart animal to hang around your neck if you wanted to keep from being stampeded by a couple hundred adolescents. You'd be dead meat if you walked in cuddling a Koala bear. Monkeys weren't an option. If they wandered into the crowd of kids, you'd never find them.

Nervous about my presentation, I grabbed copies of my book and newspaper columns and moaned to Cat, "How can I compete with the zoo?"

"You can't. Get over it." What a loving child. "Well, you have one advantage," she added. Oh, a glimmer of hope the little darling will come through with support.

"At least you won't poop all over the place." I wouldn't take that to the bank.

When I got to the school I was greeted by a student escort. Santiago. Actually, he was my own personal assistant. Santiago was great. He handed out my writers' notepads and pens to the kids, carried my books and even tried to carry my coffee cup. Hands off, Santi baby, no one touches my mug. Truth be told, I didn't want him to get a whiff of my "additive." Did I mention I was nervous?

Kids were exposed to a nice variety of careers. There was the editor of a local weekly newspaper, a pilot in uniform, a woman from NASA, a personal chef, a cop, a woman firefighter who tried selling me a girdle that's guaranteed to drop me three sizes, a professor, a Baptist youth minister (who tried bribing them with cool t-shirts), the snake handler from the zoo and me, the author.

Most of us shared something in common, which may or may not have been revealed to the kids. We don't make any money in our careers. Except for that firefighter selling girdles on the side.