While some sibling rivalry goes on in most families, our eight-year-old twin boys make face-offs like Duke vs. Carolina look like child’s play. Each one thinks that he has the home court advantage, and is out to beat his brother at just about everything. For my two little point guards, it’s not the game… it is simply about keeping score.

I think that their first “tip-off” happened at conception, and they’ve been squaring-up ever since. “I was the first twin, you know” I heard Jasper say trying to shoot down his identical womb-mate, “Your cells split off from me.” “Oh yeah,” Jared blocked, “well, I was born first.” “So what?” guarded Jasper, “I was bigger.” “But I’ll always be older,” Jared said, making a fast break.

You can be sure when there’s a home game, there will be plenty of personal fouls. When they’ve taken more than their fair share of free shots at each other, they’ll find themselves with timeouts on the sidelines for unsportsmanlike conduct. It is here where they explore the advantages of teamwork.

Just last week they came off the bench with some impressive double-teaming, as they tried to get out of trouble for double dribbling chocolate milk across our kitchen hardwoods.

These two can turn anything into a tournament. “My fever is higher then yours.” “Dude, I’ve got a fever AND a rash!” “Whatever. I got three stitches in my forehead.” “That’s nothin’; I had four stitches in my chin!” “My splinter is deeper than yours!” “Big deal, I can run faster than you!” “Who cares? I can run farther than you.” “Yeah, well I can catch a baseball better than you!” “Big Whoop—that’s only because I can throw one better than you.”

And one of my all time favorite shots: “I totally beat you in Monopoly last night” one bragged. “Well, I lost by more then you won, so I was actually the winner”… (Huh? Talk about a rebound!)

Occasionally I’ve been known to set up a self-serving scrimmage or two of my own. Putting on my best game face, I’ll goad, “You’re not gonna let your brother eat more broccoli than you, are you?” I’ll challenge, “Who can make their bed faster?” or “Who can rake up more leaves?” You’d think that they would have caught on to some of these plays from my game book by now.

But as the final buzzer sounds at the end of each day, I tuck my little MVPs into bed. After a night of hoop dreams, they’ll wake up ready to get back in the game. Once again I’’ll be their coach, their referee, and their head cheerleader, and they’ll always be my champions. Mark Madness indeed—Bring it on!

“Mom!” my daughter continues, “You know you’ve got a column to write and it’s due tomorrow!”

Sydney seems to be enjoying this ironic moment of role reversal as I roll my eyes, fold up my phone and hit delete on my laptop. With so many diversions at my fingertips, I’m fast to get flummoxed and lose focus on my task at hand.

A quick peek at my erratic Yahoo history log for the night and it’s clear why my sixth-grader was able to reconstruct the entire Reconstruction Period and solve for “X”, “Y” and “Z” faster than I’ve been able to come up with 550 words of “funny” for today’s column – and I don’t even have to check my math.

Somehow my life has become a case study of “adult-onset ADD”; with a series of unfinished projects piling up – this column being one of them. Lately, I’m so easily distracted, I’m convinced if God really wanted me to get anything done, he wouldn’t have invented rapid-response TV remote controls, cell phones with unlimited calling plans or computers with search engines determined to derail me from any long-term train of thought.

Which reminds me, is there even such a thing as “adult-onset ADD”? As long as I’m just sitting here at my computer, I think I’ll consult with my medical “colleagues” on WebMD.com. Hey, while I’m on the website, I might as well look up that weird rash…

Oh, look! I just got a text message on my cell phone from my friend Nancy, in New York. I’ll just type a little note to let her know that I can’t chat right now. I’ve got a column to write and it’s getting late. Anyway, that rumor she heard about Tom couldn’t possibly be true. Or could it? Okay, maybe I have time for some key details.

“You’ve got mail!” my computer shouts for attention. Oh…it’s from Stacey! Looks like another funny download. This might take a minute. While I’m waiting I think I’ll empty the dishwasher.

“Ding, Ding, Ding” – Dang, it’s the clothes dryer upstairs. I’ll just run up and pull out a few things before they get too wrinkled. Well, as long as I’m folding – I might as well catch the headline news on TV. Hmmm, it’s a commercial; I guess I’ll just flip around for a few seconds. Oh, that Discovery Channel show seems interesting – looks like it’s some new type of caffeinated liposuction. A little “chai for the thighs”, huh? I’ve got to remember to look that up on WebMD.com.

Gosh, I still have a lot of socks left to match up. Hey, in fifteen minutes “Celebrity Fit Club” is on VH-1. Wow, check that out! What’s the deal with Carnie Wilson? How much weight did she really put back on? Maybe she should consider that caffeinated liposuction. I think I’ll go back downstairs and see if there’s anything on the internet about her with my computer.

My computer? Yikes! It’s already half-passed midnight and I only got half the scoop from Nancy, the dishwasher is half-emptied, I’m missing half the socks, Carnie gained half a pound and yet my column is still completely unwritten.

I wonder if can get my daughter to write my editor a half-hearted medical excuse about “adult-onset ADD”? Let me just Google that…

There just haven’t been enough good chick flicks I can relate to. I’ve taken the liberty of doing a little rewriting and think that I may have some hit sequels for next summer.

Coming soon to a theater near you:

“MISSION IMPOSSIBLE 4″: In this nail-breaking thriller, a desperate housewife is on a mission, which she has no choice but to accept. She must tidy up her entire home before her picky mother-in-law arrives in four hours. With enormous piles of laundry blocking every door, she must beat the clock and clean while dangling from a vacuum cord suspended from the hallway air vents.

Tension mounts as she decides to change the filters while she’s up there.

“OMG, IT’S LIKE, THE DA VINCI CODE”: A mom threatens to shake the very foundation of a secret society called “Teen Angst” by cracking their closely guarded code of acronyms and emoticons used for instant messaging in cyberspace. She comes to realize that deciphering the Mona Lisa’s smile is a lot easier than reading her daughter’s e-mail messages.

OMG, u r going 2 lol, it’s 2 kewl, k?

“CLICKER”: A far-fetched fantasy film about a TV remote control that miraculously returns itself to its rightful place on the arm of the arm of the couch. This clever clicker never gets dropped, lost between sofa cushions or ends up in the refrigerator. Things get really crazy when the remote goes haywire and everyone starts agreeing on what to watch and how fast to flip through the channels.

Like I said, it’s a far-fetched fantasy.

“SUPERMOM RETURNS”: Our heroine, aka Mom of Steel, saves the world by returning all fashion faux pas hanging in the closets of Metropolis — past 30 days and without the receipts. She and her best gal-pal, Lois Lane, hit the malls for truth, justice and more shopping — isn’t that the American way?

“THE DEVIL WEARS ABERCROMBIE”: A normal and attractive woman finds out that she is actually just a frumpy, unfashionable mom as she tries to navigate her way through the ultraglamorous life of a preteen. She learns that, surprisingly, this highly coveted position of parenthood is not all it’s cracked up to be. At times her “boss” can be demeaning, demanding and downright grouchy.

To survive in this cutthroat environment, she must master the seemingly impossible task of driving, shopping and talking with her daughter without being seen or heard.

“CARPOOL”: A new animation sensation about a hotshot rookie mom who speeds through errands, racing for that primo front spot in the carpool line. You”ll cheer her on in this slow-paced mama-drama as she sits, waits and wonders why, if life is a journey, she is spending half of hers just waiting around in that dang minivan?

Co-staring Paul Newman and Owen Wilson — at least in her daydreams!

“THE FAST & THE FURIOUS; TOKYO DROPPED”: Hopped up on the exhilaration that comes from a night of not having to cook, tempered with some MSG from the Chinese take-out, a woman frantically chases after every last grain of rice that has fallen from her messy family’s dining table and is now covering her floor.

“THE LAKE HOUSE GUESTS”: A time-twisted tale of a woman who is still cleaning up after her houseguests, and waiting for their thank-you note to arrive, after their visit two years ago.

“NACHO LAUNDRY”: Cheese and salsa stains prove to be no match for the mother of a Mexican wrestler who thanklessly scrubs her fingers to the bone to keep her son’s snappy hooded wrestling costume clean and Downy fresh.

Now those are some films that even Mrs. Siskel and Mrs. Ebert would give these films two thumbs up!

Although I hate to admit that I’m much like my mother-in-law, I immediately realized that she had just unearthed some common ground! I, too, ride a dinosaur every day!

You see, I drive an unevolved, oversized, and dying species that, in today’s economic climate, most certainly seems headed toward extinction. Yes, I’m the owner of an SUV. Scientifically, I believe that my gas-guzzling giant is known as an Expeditionsaurus Rex—the “Rex” being short for Really EXpensive to fill up! It has an insatiable appetite for the premium-priced fossil fuel that courses most expeditiously through its enormous bright red frame.

I feel like a real Dodo, doomed with rising gas prices and an odometer ticking faster than the national debt clock. Sure, I can load up my vehicle with the entire contents of my house, but at this point, I’m convinced that the only place that I can afford to drive is straight to Hades!

It seems that the higher petroleum prices peak, the lower my gas mileage gets! I’m thinking of going metric and having my control panel recalibrated to read out in “meters per gallon,” because in “miles per gallon” it just doesn’t compute. My newfangled navigation system could be replaced with an old fashioned abacus. I’d use it to figure out just how much it’s really costing me to drive around town—lost—in a desperate search for cheaper gas.

In my big red SUV, I used to feel like I owned the road. Now it just feels like I’m paying for it over and over again, each time I swipe my well-worn credit card at the pump. I remember when it was sheer exhilaration to take that running start toward my running boards. High up in my comfy Corinthian leather-clad captains chairs, I’d barely notice the strata of fossilized chicken nuggets, toys, and trash layered in the deep abyss of my cavernous cabin.

I would ride with pride, and perhaps a touch of altitude sickness, above the fray. I’d look down my nose at all those other pedestrian drivers well below me in their small sedans, station wagons, but most of all, those diminutive Minivans.

In fact, I believe that the rivalry between the drivers of SUVs and Minivans is akin to the most ruthless rage on the road. It’s a riff of almost biblical proportions, fueled with as much competition and animosity as Cain and Abel.

But here’s the honest truth; while I may not covet thy neighbor’s husband—I have to admit, I’m more than little jealous of her Minivan!

I’ve learned that you should not be fooled by that “Mini” moniker. Believe me, Minivan owners are living large. Their impressive cup holder counts notwithstanding, today’s Minivans are totally tricked out. They’ve got lazy Susans and seats so foldable that they can shame a La-Z-Boy. And for those who aren’t the least bit lazy, I hear that some Minivans are even equipped with workout rooms and walkout daylight basements.

With Minivans, of course, becoming a superior Soccer Mom and the ability to bake better cookies are features that always come standard.

Yes I want those sleek automatic side doors that swooosh open at the touch of a button. I’m sick of having to pull out a slide rule to work out a complicated physics problem every time I want to pull into a spot at the mall. I’m tired of the dirty looks and hearing the phrase “door ding” sneered by every car owner forced to park next to me in a lot.

Some people think that a car says a lot about its driver. I think that they also speak for themselves. SUV’s are large lumbering loners, while Minivans are friendly and have got spunk! Last week, I thought that I heard one yell out, “Hey, Girlfriend; cute capris!” as I walked by.

However, there can be one little drawback to the family Minivan; at some point, your male partner may be forced into the driver’s seat. Now, please don’t think I’m a female chauvinist. I maintain that a man only enhances his masculinity when he’s toting a tot in a baby Snugli, when he’s picking up puppy poop at the park, or even when he’s running out to the market at midnight to bring home some emergency feminine supplies. But when he peels out of the parking lot from behind the wheel of a Minivan—well, I’ve got to be frank here … it can make the most manly man look a little bit less macho. I suspect this may be why a concerned Arnold Schwarzenegger drives a Hummer.

Although my friends have heard me proclaim that I’d only drive a Minivan when Hell freezes over, the Ice Age is rapidly approaching and I’m afraid that my dear red dinosaur’s days are numbered! If I can find a caveman—I mean, buyer—for my SUV, I’m thinking of picking up a new Minivan from a dealer my mother-in-law told me about in Jurassic Park.

So, do any of you Minivan Moms out there have a good chocolate chip cookie recipe to share? I can hardly wait to start baking some for the soccer team!

Hey, holding out with hope for six months is a long time. Most people would have given up much sooner. But not me—I’ll always root for the underdog, even if she is thirty pounds overweight. I consider myself a fighter, but unfortunately, this year, I just wasn’t much of a contender when it came to the heavyweight battle of the bulge.

I had overlooked the amount of actual work it would take to haul my haunches to the gym for a weight-shedding workout. Although, I did manage to watch several Pilates tapes at home in fast-forward while eating a Lean Cuisine (okay, ice cream—and maybe topped with a little fudge). I suppose that I had grossly miscalculated just how much I’d miss munching on handfuls of M&Ms, both plain and peanut, not to mention the more-than-occasional Big Mac.

I guess I had drastically underestimated the tenacious bond between my body fat and me; one that seemed to render us inseparable.

So now, as I do just about every year at this time, I’ve come to the conclusion that my ample thighs and doughy middle are joined at the hip like an old married couple. They’ve been together so long they can’t seem to remember life without each other, and they’re just too darned tired to even try.

I’ve come to see that wishful thinking and a wardrobe of black will only take you so far, and that deducting 10 pounds from the scale for a hair scrunchy is ultimately self-defeating. It is also now clear to me that, pound for pound, broken cookies do, in fact, have the same calorie count as those un-crumbled, even when eaten over the sink.

But this seasonal epiphany about my jiggle won’t shake my resolve. Just because I don’t feel comfortable hanging out in a string bikini, I shouldn’t have to feel completely strung out, like I’m dangling helplessly from a thread. Remember, there’s always hope even when you think that you are at the bitter end of your rope!

Here’s the skinny: This summer I’m going to cut myself some slack and stop stringing this bikini thingy along. In fact, I’m now calling 2006 The Year of the Modestly Cut Black One-Piece Maillot, With Full-Fanny Coverage & A Tightly-Tied Sarong!

Never underestimate the doggedness of the underdog—even if she is a little over her fighting weight! This summer you’ll find me poolside in my pareo, taking my victory lap!

Hmmmm. Surely, I thought, she’d simply misunderstood the light-hearted literary form that we were discussing. However, that hands-on-hips, twisted lips and look of general disgust on her face told me otherwise. I was just about to really lose my cool and send her to her room for that sassy sentiment, when I realized that she might, in fact, be right! Can you keep your “cool” once you have kids or do you immediately go from being a happening “It Girl” to a washed up “Was Woman” as soon as you give birth?

I suppose one could argue that you can’t exactly lose something that you never had in the first place. Maybe I wasn’t all that cool to start with. But before kids I had lived in NYC in the 80’s. I had big hair and boulder-sized shoulder pads in my dolman sleeved Norma Komali sweatshirts. My mullet maned mates & I even managed to get past the red velvet ropes at some of the city’s hottest clubs, on occasion. But, judging by my daughter’s gagging reflex from my scrapbook photos of this dance down memory lane I can see now, that even then, I was more than six degrees away from anything remotely registering as cool!

I guess today I’m getting even colder to cool. The only thing that I’ve purchased recently that says “Juicy”, comes in a 6 oz. square box and has very little to do with “Couture”.

Reality aside, at least Sydney used to think that I was a cool mom. Cool was as clincher when all it took was a song and dance with her and her little buddies to one of Barney’s brain boring songs. I’ve learned the hard way, that this tactic no longer cuts it. Today, if I’m caught humming or moving rhythmically in anyway to her ever-blasting boom box when her friends are around, she shoots me a panic-stricken look, as if I were convulsing with a grand mal seizure.

Syd used to play dress up for hours and hours, trying on all of my clothes and shoes. Now however, according to a recent inspection, she insists that everything in my closet must immediately be burned or buried. Those matching mother-daughter outfits at the mall are a thing of the past. Even admitting that we’re mother-daughter at the mall is a thing of the past.

In my defense, I grew up with an un-hip mom of my own. Shirley Partridge and Carol Brady were my only real “cool mom” role models. This may, in part, explain the cool conundrum that I find myself in right now! But today’s Hollywood moms make it look so easy. I wonder if Jamie Lee Curtis, Teri Hatcher and Madonna are ever be forced to follow a detailed doctrine of approved talking points when conversing their kid’s cliques, like me. Heck, it seems that Demi Moore’s daughters not only let her hang out with their friends, they even let her marry one!

“Certainly”, I pleaded with Sydney, “you can think of one mom who has held on and can still qualify as a ‘cool’?” “That’s easy,” she said pointing to my very own mother across the room, “Grandma!” I put my hands-on-hips, twisted my lips and, with a look of general disgust, replied, “Mark my words, my darling daughter, one day you may have children and become an oxymoron of your own – and guess who will be the cool Grandma then?” She about lost it. That was cool!