LuLu and Moxley

Best Answer to "How Was School Today?"

2011-11-11T13:01:00.000-08:00

Mommy who?

We are now two months into preschool and the girls run off into the building gleefully like I am yesterday's news. I have a long history of being treated like that by men, but my own children? I don't think so! I am a vengeful sort so I started plotting how to get back at them for disposing of me so easily. "If you can so callously be without me for 2 hours and 45 minutes," I thought, "then let's see how you do if I go back to work full time and you only see me two hours TOTAL per day! Maybe you'll miss me then!" Of course that would require me to actually work and we all know how against that I am. Alas, I am still scheming. Preferably I'll come upon a plan that punishes them but doesn't at all negatively impact me. I'm not even sure I'm still employable as I have trouble making pleasant conversation with other adults. Unpleasant, certainly. But from what I vaguely recall that doesn't fly in the workplace.

So every day I ask the same tired question I assume all mothers across the world ask: "How was school today?" Usually I get mish mash of toddler gossip like someone wet their pants or another bit an unsuspecting fellow pupil who dared to grab a purple crayon or similar. But one day. Ah, one day I got this courtesy of Lulu:

"I was afraid to ask the teacher for a tissue so I wiped boogers all over my dress."

I'm so against the word boogers that I didn't even know how to spell it. I had to look it up. So you can imagine if I don't like writing it how I felt about knowing my daughter's dress was covered in them.

In other news, my mother came to visit as she does quite often and we took a pleasant sojourn to the park where we overheard a father tell his daughter that if she didn't put on her shoes the police would come and take her away to jail. That was two months ago and my mother was so horrified she's still not over it. Whenever she calls, she'll ask, "Have you seen that no-good father who threatens his three-year-old with jail?" I got sick of saying no so last time she asked that question I said, why yes, in fact I saw social services hauling the kid away as she exclaimed happily, "Thank you for saving me from my awful mean father!" I think mom can now sleep at night.

During that same park excursion, there was some dumb kid sitting right under the monkey bars where he could get hit by swinging feet as his dumber mother stood there saying things like, "You have two choices. You can get out of the way or you can get hit in the head." After several minutes of this, I told Moxley she could go ahead and swing on over him and if he got a concussion so be it. Shortly thereafter, another dumb kid wouldn't give Lulu a turn on the slide and he just sat there blocking it. I told him to move it and he tried to give me an explanation, one that started with, "Well, I am waiting for my sister blah blah blah" to which I replied, "I don't care if you're waiting for God himself. Move it!" at which point my mother said to me: "You seem awfully angry. Why are you so angry?" My question is why did it take her 40+ years and a jaunt to a park filled with annoying children for her to notice this about my personality?

Speaking of God, my kids are beginning to ask questions about him. Except they think his name is Ga-Gon for some reason. "Why does Ga-Gon live in the clouds?" they asked. "Who?" I replied. "Ga-Gon. He is really nice and lives in the sky." "Oh," I said, "you mean God?" "No, Ga-Gon!" Then last night Lulu asked if Ga-Gon lived in a castle or if he got wet when it rained. Which, when you think about it, is actually a very good question.

I also have some deep thoughts on the CMAs: Did the country music powers that be think that by putting Lionel Richie up on stage with Darius Rucker thereby having the only two African American people in the entire room in one place under one roof it would debunk the theory that country music is racist? "Look here!" the producers must have said patting themselves on the back. "Two black performers on stage AT THE SAME TIME! Who are they calling racist???" Dancing on the ceiling indeed. And while we're discussing dancing, might I point out that Faith Hill has no rhythm? Did you see her hop around the stage to her new song as though there was an entirely DIFFERENT song being played? Sheesh. Ask Tim to cough up some money for dance lessons, sweetheart! And get a new hairdresser while you're at it.

One more thing: I just came from Traders Joe's which I normally delegate to my husband because making undesirable small talk with the cashiers deeply upsets me. I by far prefer the surly rudeness of the Jewel staff. But I think I finally figured out how the interview process works at Trader Joes. The first phase involves weeding out anyone who seems remotely normal. The second phase requires giving the applicant one simple command in the interview: "Tell us about yourself." If the person can talk nonstop for 30 minutes straight without coming up for air they get the job. Bonus points with a direct line to a managerial position if they somehow work in a story about their pet ferret.

I am going to start posting more. Really. This time I mean it.

The Preschool Blues

2011-09-10T07:22:00.000-07:00

We now have three days of preschool under our belts and each day my children acted like I was sending them off to slaughter at drop off time. Crying. Screaming. Holding onto me for dear life. And then, at the moment they know I must leave, pleading with me, "Mommy! Please don't go! I love you!" And then these heartbreaking words from Lulu: "Please take me home with you, Mommy! I promise I'll be good!" Like I am doing this to punish them for something. I don't have the mental constitution for this. I might be destined to become one of those home-schooling freaks.

In wardrobe news, we are going on seven months that Moxley has worn her beloved "flower pants." I am down to one pair of 4T's that don't have a hole in the knees. Target is now out of stock, thanks in large part to this household buying them in bulk. When this last pair is in tatters, I'm not sure what's going to go down. She may need to be medicated. Or possibly hospitalized. I was encouraged recently when she declared she wanted to wear a suit to school when her last pair of flower pants finally ripped. When I pointed out it would be hard to play in a suit she countered, and rightfully so, that Father Bear plays in his... My child's fashion muse is a middle-aged bear who wears a three-piece suit -- even to bed.

Our "flower pants problem" may rapidly turn into a "Chaz Bono problem." But wanting to dress like a boy (or even be one) isn't the upsetting part. The part that disturbed me is when she said she wanted to wear a bow tie in lieu of a regular tie. Ever meet that guy at work whose shtick is to wear a bow tie every day instead of a regular one? They're all weird, and there's usually one at every company. I would sit in meetings just staring at these oddballs trying to figure out their psyche and wondering what motivated them to unilaterally decide one day that their corporate identity would revolve around donning a bow tie day in and day out.

One evening, circa 2001, one such fellow approached me at a company happy hour and said something along the line of, "Would you like to grab dinner one night?" I was horrified. He must have mistaken my staring at him in the board room as romantic interest rather than a perverse need to know what motivates a grown man to buy 30 different bow ties so he never wore the same one all month. (I kept track.) This was my opportunity to get to the bottom of this. I ignored his advance and replied, not unkindly: "Let me ask you something. What's with the bow ties?" He turned on his heels and never spoke to me again unless it was absolutely necessary for work purposes. The bow-tied gentleman didn't even give me a chance to float my theory that he had a deep-seated emotional need to differentiate himself due to feeling invisible during his formative years.

In other news, we have a bunch of large insects with about a million legs running around our house. They freak me out. I usually attack them with a whole roll of paper towels so their guts don't seep through and possibly leak on me like they might if I used only one sheet. Yesterday one crawled by my bed and I had no paper towels handy and was too afraid to get off the bed so I dropped a book on it and then left the book in place for my husband to deal with when he returned from work. This seemed like a completely reasonable reaction on my part but he seemed perturbed by it. At first I thought he was annoyed by my choice of book (Sh-- My Dad Says) but upon further reflection I learned he didn't like to be greeted with a demand to remove a smashed insect carcass immediately after a hard day at the office. I stand by my actions. If I wanted to clean up murder scenes I'd work for one of those firms CSI calls in to mop up blood after all the fingerprints and DNA samples are taken.

So how many days until my kids stop going ballistic before school? I come home every day and cry for the 2 hours and half hours before I have to turn around and pick them up. It's highly unproductive.

Mid-Life Crisis

2011-08-03T09:17:00.000-07:00

I feel a mid-life crisis coming on. Oh, I've had them before. But the beauty of this one is I sense it's coming. Which means I can proactively plan how it will manifest itself. So much better than impulsively driving off the lot in a canary yellow 911 convertible Porsche one can't afford then regretfully looking back when the first bill arrives and telling one's husband, "Sorry, it's a mid-life crisis!" Or boinking the 24-year-old hot gardener ala Desperate Housewives. Luckily (for unsuspecting hot gardeners everywhere) we don't have a garden. And, truth be told, if I was going to impulsively buy a vehicle I can't afford it would be a 2011 black Audi Q7 with a fancy entertainment center so the girls would watch non-stop episodes of Dora and stop barking orders at me while I drive. Such a purchase doesn't scream MID-LIFE CRISIS! as much as it screams SOCCER MOM!

So the big decision is how will I choose to play out this particular mid-life crisis. I think I have an idea: I will become a vegan. Wait, stop. I know it's not very mid-life crisis-y. But it kind of is if you know me. Mid-life crises are supposed to be about engaging in uncharacteristic behaviors, right? Well, there is no group of humans I am more unlike than vegans. What is a vegan anyway? I suspect it's a vegetarian who no longer felt they were getting the proper accolades for selflessly saving the animals and decide to step up their annoying eating habits a notch. (Not fish, though. Fish are fair game for vegetarians. Why are cows worth saving when it comes to a species to slaughter for one's own consumption but not fish, one wonders?)

I don't see myself ever being friends with a vegan. What would we do? Where would we go out to eat? What would we talk about? Yoga? I bet vegans are too spiritually cleansed to watch the Bachelorette. They are probably munching on some tofu right now blissfully unaware that the worst Bachelorette in the history of the franchise chose boring JP over adorable Ben. Gwyneth Paltrow is a vegan. Need I say more?

If I fully commit to becoming a vegan I suppose I'll have to look up exactly what I'm not supposed to eat. I consume about one whole cow per week so instead of evolving into a vegan I might become one of those people who only eat what cavemen could eat. Cavemen liked cows, or at least the prehistoric version of cows. That might suit me better. That seems easier as before you put anything into your mouth you need only ponder, "Could a caveman have eaten this?" Take a Twinkie for example. I don't think Hostess was invented in the Paleozoic era so the answer would (sadly) be no. I'm not sure when pinot noir came about but I have to believe an ambitious caveman (or cavewoman, no sexism here) who was hulking about the region that is now Sonoma, California accidentally stomped on some grapes, brought them back to the cave and discovered the mixture went nicely on the palate with the beast they clubbed earlier that day. So red wine is in.

I am open to ideas about this midlife crisis by the way. My only criteria is it can't be bad for my family or children. So schmooping the gardener, if we in fact had a garden, would not pass the "no harm to the family" criteria. Running off to Italy for five months with a man I meet on the Internet to retrace Elizabeth Gilbert's tracks in Eat, Pray, Love is similarly disqualified. Plus I think women who aspire to do that are unoriginal harpies (the tracing of Gilbert's tracks part at least). I mean, really? The world is a big place -- make up your own damn itinerary, people!

On another note, I always thought my little crush on Daniel Craig was a joke. But when I learned he married Rachel Weisz I was actually ever-so-slightly disturbed. Not crying disturbed. More mildly irked. It was at that point, as I experienced my mild irk-ness, that I'd wished I had a therapist. What a great session that would be! I pictured myself sitting across from Gabriel Byrne from In Treatment (I totally would pick a therapist I slightly wanted to sleep with so he could diagnose that transference thing) and he would lean in, adorably engaged as I described my angst.

I'd play it up. In the session I wouldn't convey "mildly irked" but instead feign "extreme distress." He'd perhaps ask probing questions like, "Do you often have unrealistic fantasies about unattainable men you don't know?" I'd end the session bawling on the couch in a fetal position as Gabriel tried to talk me down while prescribing some anti-psychotic drugs. Oh, have I mentioned I don't believe in therapy? It's mainly because I think most therapists are even more f---ed up than the rest of us and they are simply trying to work out their own mental health issues ON OUR DIME. If you are a therapist reading this, no offense. But I'm right, right?

In conclusion, I am assuming if you are a vegan, a vegetarian, a therapist, a woman who wants to take an excursion to Italy, India and Bali in that order, or perhaps even a gardener, I've offended you. Why so sensitive!?!

Sh*t That PIsses Me Off

2011-06-30T10:57:00.000-07:00

See, this is the kind of crap that makes me crazy pissed off. The other day we go to this park that has some nifty water features and two benches in the shade for about 100 asses that would like to sit. So some entitled mother decides to take one of those two benches in the shade all for herself and her rotten kids, one of whom hit Moxley over the head with a bucket and when I told him he better stop the mom called him over and whispered something to him. Probably something like, "Don't mind that mean lady, she has nowhere to even sit!" followed by a maniacal laugh. Her Mark Shale bag apparently also needed to sit all day on this coveted bench space and her double stroller was conveniently parked right in front of part of the bench so if someone should have dared to sit on HER bench they would have had to move it.

These are the same types of people who fly Southwest and even on full flights leave their carry on in the middle seat hoping to deter someone -- ANOTHER PAYING PASSENGER -- from sitting there. They are also the type of people who get a wake-up call at a resort for 7:00 am so they can save eight chairs with towels for a family of four (beach bags need chairs too ya know!) and then mosey on down to the pool at 1:00 pm.

When I called my husband to bitch about this ad nauseam (I texted him the above photo as evidence), he calmly asked, "Why didn't you just move that blanket or towel or whatever it is and sit?" BECAUSE THAT MIGHT SOLVE THE PROBLEM AND LET'S FACE IT I'D RATHER POST PHOTOS AND BITCH ABOUT IN ONLINE. That's why.

If you are one of these people I am talking about, please know that others hate you. I mean really hate you. And feel free to explain to the rest of us why inanimate objects need their own seat. And please see below that my adorable daughter (who might get a sunburn unlike a Mark Shale bag) had to sit on the concrete in direct sunlight while you chased around your deranged son who thinks a bucket is a weapon.

The Redneck Riveria

2011-06-24T11:34:00.000-07:00

We love Destin, rednecks and all!

Has it really been two months? My life is so exciting who can keep track of time! I'd tell you what I've been working on but then I'd have to kill you. Or maybe just maim you. So we took a jaunt down to Destin, Florida, also apparently known as the "Redneck Riveria." Well, you know what people? Rednecks are smarter than you might imagine because the beach down there is awesome. Who knew! And there was no gong outside of our room or crustacean creatures on the attack which was a bonus.

I realize that not all southerners are rednecks and not all rednecks are southerners but for our purposes here today, where I have no desire to write a lengthy dissertation on the topic, let's use them interchangeably, shall we? Also, I'm going to talk in generalities here. I'm prone to do that. I'm a simple sort. If you don't like it, move along then or post a nasty comment down yonder. I can take it.

Here's the thing about Southern women: they come to the pool and beach in full-blown makeup. Like they are going to a wedding. Perhaps even a royal wedding. Where I come from, that's called "trying too hard." Also, the makeup doesn't seem to drip off their faces when immersed in water like my mascara from the night before does. Which means (I suppose) that they actually make the effort to buy water-proof makeup of every variety. Is there even such a thing as waterproof eye shadow? Apparently yes!

And who are these gorgeous, made up faces impressing*? Apparently not their beer-bellied, good old-boy husbands who sit nearby guzzling drinks all day with their buddies while the women folk tend to the young-uns. The whole scene struck me as kind of sexist, and believe you me I'm not the "I am woman hear me roar" kind of gal. But I can tell you if my husband thought he was just gonna sit ass on vacation consuming boat drinks while I took care of the twins solo looking like I just hit the cosmetics counter at Saks, HE'D HAVE ANOTHER THING COMING. Like D-I-V-O-R-C-E. Just like Tammy Wynette sang it. (I think she sang it.)

I wanted to lead a revolt right there at the Hilton Sandestin Beach Resort and Spa. "Women folk!" I would howl through a microphone I stole from the Mississippi Pharmacists Association hosting their annual convention. "Put down your children! Bring them to the hill-billy you created them with and repeat after me: 'THEY ARE YOUR KIDS TOO, DICKHEAD!'

I pictured some subsequent bra burning at a beach bonfire (or perhaps tankini top burning) followed by a march throughout the Florida Panhandle as we repeat the mantra "THEY ARE YOUR KIDS TOO DICKHEAD!" (Catchy, no?)

I'd be hailed as the Gloria Steinem of the Redneck Riveria minus a stint as an undercover Playboy Bunny. Alas, I did nothing but sit by, bare-faced save for the mascara streaking down my face and slightly in awe of the balls these men had while barking at my husband when he wasn't following orders to my liking. Perhaps as I was imagining my overthrowing of the redneck family dynamics my husband was plotting his own coup -- of northern, sarcastic, nagging wives.

Okay, so now after insulting anyone south of the Mason Dixon line, Puerto Rico and perhaps a few other people, let's move on.

So the girls start preschool in the fall. I'm not sure if Vegas is into this sort of thing, but I'd be willing to bet on the over-under of how long it takes them to be kicked out. Two days? The poor luckless sod who is to be their teacher is probably blissfully unaware, enjoying her summer having no clue what is to come in less than three short months. Bahaahahaha! It would be almost funny if they weren't my kids... And it will be even less funny when they do get kicked out and the nearly three hours I thought I would have to myself each day is ripped away and replaced with lollipop-demanding, flower-print wearing monsters.

Moxley has worn the same "flower pants" every single solitary day -- without exception, no exaggeration --since late March. They are from Target retailing at $4.50. At least she has the decency to have cheap taste. I just ordered three more pairs as to join the two we already own, now somewhat worse for the wear. Observe, they ARE kinda groovy:

My problem is not so much she wears the same thing every day as the fact I have to do laundry every day. Because you've never seen a more pissed-off pint-sized bitch than a Moxley whose flower pants are soiled. I have been known to go months without doing laundry so I'm slightly bitter that her pants disorder is messing with my no-laundry stance. Of course, and this probably goes without saying, I draw the line at doing grownup laundry. ("I can't FOLD laundry well so it doesn't make sense for me to DO laundry," I told me husband soon after holy matrimony and eight years later he still seems to be going for it.)

Moxley will remove the flower pants only for bed for which she must wear her blue button down "cozy Minnie Mouse jammies" (I am desperately trying to order more but Disney seems out of them; bite me Walt) and for soccer:

She has what will certainly manifest into full-blow OCD in a few years and the "flower pants problem" as I call it will seem like a harmless walk in the park, albeit a walk that requires an ample amount of Tide and undesirable domestic housework on my part.

I have other things to discuss including my problem with grown women who pump their elbows in a downward direction while exclaiming, "Yesssss!" in an enthusiastic manner but that will have to wait. I have some flower pants to wash.

*Has nobody told Southern gals you can stop being presentable about two years into marriage or whenever children enter the equation, whichever comes first? I shudder to think what goes on in a Southern bedroom? These poor women might still think they have to partake in a "marital" obligation of some sort!

Vacation 2011: The Ups, the Downs and the Iguanas

2011-04-21T10:25:00.000-07:00

There were many portents (yes, I am comparing my life to a Shakespearean tragedy) that our vacation in Puerto Rico might not meet my vision of the relaxing, fun-filled days of frolicking on the beach by day, watching the sunset by night as my two angels are on best behavior out of gratitude that their parents got them the hell out of this miserable Chicago weather. It became brutally clear to me that being a mother on vacation is eerily similar to being one every other day of the year. Except you are spending a lot more money causing a heightened level of annoyance when your children are not behaving and obsessing over whether they have enough sunscreen on. My children were deliciously delightful half the time during our sojourn, and complete miserable freaks the other half, leading me to believe they are Cybill with slightly fewer personalities.

Before this getaway even started, the following occurred:

Portent Number One: We were required to send a cashier's check via Priority US Mail to the condo we rented. Said check, per the USPS, arrived on a certain date, but the recipients confirmed it did not. I traced it, with the USPS insisting it had been delivered. It had, in fact, not. We cancelled the check, and I initiated an investigation with USPS. They said they would get back to me "within two business days." That was 47 business days ago.

Portent Number Two: We booked award tickets on United Airlines (a company which incidentally can bite me) but could not get a direct flight for our return. I reluctantly booked a connection through DC. Exactly three hours after booking it, the direct opened up. I called United but was told I'd be charged $150 per ticket ($600 total for the mathematically challenged out there) because it was a "change of route." How exactly does our changing the route using miles cost United ANYTHING let alone $600? And kindly don't get me started on their baggage fees. I'd make a Friendly Skies witticism here but it's probably already been done ad nauseam.

Portent Number Three: I have never had a spray tan, but because I could have potentially starred in Powder II, I decided to try it. The gal with the hose asked whether I'd like light, medium-light, medium-dark or dark. Having never had a spray tan, I left it up to her discretion, directing only, "Just don't make me look ridiculous." Let's just say "ridiculous" must be subjective because I emerged from my session looking like the love child of a female oompa loompa and C. Thomas Howell in Soul Man.

A few highlights of the trip:

There was a large, functional gong on each floor of the resort. This puzzled me deeply. It's as if the designer thought to himself (it wasn't a female I can tell you that), "Hmm... you know what's missing from this kid-infested venue? There simply isn't enough noise!" The gong just so happened to be right outside our door. What a pleasure it was for every passerby under the age of 14 to take a whack during all hours! So enjoyable was it I might go buy myself a gong as I miss the gonging disrupting my REM sleep on a regular basis since our return.

Puerto Rico might soon be taken over by iguanas in a mass revolt reminiscent of a B horror flick. The place is crawling (literally) with them: they are the size of large cats and seemingly have no fear of humans. I like an animal that is terrified of superior species as nature intended. But the iguana, in its ruthless quest for french fries and other food eaten by tiny tourists, JUMPED ONTO OUR LOUNGE CHAIR and perched itself atop our beach bag. (Interesting iguana trivia: they don't respond to the command "shoo shoo!" like a bird might.) The fact my husband missed that photo opp might be grounds for divorce. I wonder if anyone ever listed as the reason on a divorce decree "Iguana dove onto our bag and my now estranged husband missed the shot." He did manage to get this one of Moxley about to possibly lose a nose or other facial extremity:

Halfway through the trip, Lulu informed me she wants her name to henceforth be "Flower." This is troubling on many levels, least of which is that there are only three possible destinies for a person with an affinity for the name Flower: a dope-smoking slacker, a cult member, and worst of all, a tree hugger. I don't need some smart ass teenager lecturing me about my carbon footprint and pestering me to buy locally grown organic food while living rent free in my home. At least if they are dope smokers they will be too busy stuffing their faces with Pringles and onion dip in a fit of the munchies to bother me too much and a cult member probably won't be in touch at all, rendering them fairly low maintenance. The Flower thing may or may not be related to fact the girls now only want to wear clothing items besieged by flowers.

I used to think parents who stuck their children in the Kids Club on vacation were assholes. Now my first and foremost concern when planning our next getaway is that they have one, preferably one that operates all day every day.

I suppose I could write about our joyous moments as well, but if I wanted to write joyous crap I'd be published in one of those Chicken Soup books or similar. I'll let some photos speak for that side of the trip:

Self-Made Signage

2011-04-07T13:17:00.000-07:00

I went to the dentist today and took a potty break in the bathroom the dentist shares with other offices and found this sign hanging inside the stall. It made me almost miss the hijinks of working in an office. Like people putting notes on their lunch bags stored in the common fridge so food bandits won't steal it. Once at my last job I saw a yellow post-it note on a brown paper bag in the fridge that said, "This is MY lunch! Go make your own, it's not that hard!" The handwriting was that of a madman, a madman whose lovingly made peanut butter and jelly sandwich had been stolen one too many times. It had a "I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore" furious scribble to it that I appreciated. But the message itself was direct, succinct, even providing a thoughtful suggestion with encouragement that the task was perhaps not as difficult as the lunch bandit had imagined. Perhaps that lunch bandit did in fact start making his own lunch after encountering that note and thought after he put the top piece of bread with jelly onto the bottom piece slathered with peanut butter, "You know what? It ISN'T that hard!"

But this sign. This sign has not left my mind since departing the dentist's office. I can just picture the lady stomping back to her office, grabbing a piece of paper off the printer and furiously writing her outrage in, not polite cursive, but a very blunt print. Why does only Flush get the courtesy of filled in block letters? Do you think she did several rewrites before deciding on exactly three exclamation points after "Before you leave" but only two after "I don't want to do it for you?" Do you think she brought a roll of tape with her into the bathroom or assembled her sign with a small strip of tape in the isolation of her cubicle? I wonder if she displayed it proudly to co-workers as she made her way back to the bathroom with this message that seems to me will just tempt the non-flusher to continue not flushing. This is almost like an "I dare you" to a non-flusher I would imagine. It probably will spark a "whatchya gonna do about it" reaction in someone who doesn't flush their own waste.

I think I would have made my sign more official if I were so inclined to tape a message in the public restroom of my workplace. I might have made it in PowerPoint and put some letters in bold red and such. I might have implemented sarcasm: "As much as I enjoy viewing your excrement, my carpal tunnel syndrome is flaring up so for the time being would you mind flushing yourself?" Perhaps I might have signed it from "Management" so it had a veiled threat that the non-flusher could lose her job for further offenses. Perhaps I'd even add some design elements to match the restroom decor. I bet I'd spend an entire afternoon creating my sign rather than doing my work.

Speaking of work, I am taking pictures of bathroom signs that are none of my concern when I should in fact be working. But there is none of this fun sign-leaving business going on in my bedroom where I do my work. Maybe I'll leave a sign on the bathroom mirror for my husband to artificially create the camaraderie of the workplace....

If It's Okay for a Princess...

2011-04-01T13:48:00.000-07:00

At first glance, you might think the disturbing part of this photo is that my daughter is drinking out of a bowl. Really, that's the least of the problems depicted in this photo. First and foremost, it is WHAT she is drinking. Are you ready? Green bean juice. Or more accurately, the watery remnants of what canned Del Monte no salt green beans come packed in. (Good thing I keep "shit loads" on hand...) The girls recently decided they like their green beans "juicy" which means they don't want me to drain the watery crap out. These are the same girls who won't take a bite of hamburger or chicken nuggets or macaroni and cheese or anything else normal children actually eat. But green bean run-off? Yes please may I have another!

The second most disturbing part is that when I told her not to drink from the bowl (does one use a spoon to eat green bean water like a soup one wonders?), Lulu indignantly replied, "That's how Belle ate when she had dinner with the Beast!" Oh, well then, carry on.

CINDERELLA ATE MY DAUGHTER INDEED.

The Case of the Vacuum and Broken Lollipop

2011-03-11T06:06:00.000-08:00

I prefer not to make myself look pathetic on the World Wide Web, but I think this story deserves telling, if only to shame myself into being a more responsible member of my own household. I recently bribed the girls for doing something or other, I can't recall (one can't be expected to keep track of all forms of bribing when one's main parenting technique is bribing) and as a result we marched back home from the drug store with those obnoxious lollipops as big as one's head. As an aside, just out of curiosity, I read the "nutritional" information on the back and each lollipop is 550 calories of pure sugar. But a half thousand empty calories were fine with me if these two WOULD JUST SHUT UP. We were having a rough day.

So anyway, Moxley still had some plastic wrapper on her stick and was hemming and hawing about it and I was on the phone with my mother trying to explain that I could at any moment plunge my head into a vat of boiling oil and while I'm wondering aloud how one might obtain a firearm in Chicago I'm trying to get the damn wrapper clinging onto the lollipop stick off and I drop it and it shatters like glass all over the kitchen. It's like shrapnels of blue sugar attacking my floor and if I had wanted to shoot myself before this happened how do you think I felt afterward with 550 calories of blue sugar covering my floor and a three-year-old shrieking hysterically over a lost lolly while her twin gloats and licks her still-intact pink one? Right.

I calm Moxley down by offering her a piece of cake that she can decorate with blue icing ("The lolly was blue and the icing is blue!" I sang merrily and somewhat desperately.) I get the girls up at the table up to their eyeballs in cake and icing and look at the kitchen floor. I have absolutely no idea how to clean it and had I been in a better frame of mind I would have taken a photo for illustrative purposes. So I do what I normally do in such situations: I call my husband at work and start yelling at him.

Yes, I realize he was not there, did not drop the lollipop and in fact does not approve of the girls eating lollipops the size of a helium balloon. However, I could think of no other blameless person to yell at who might still talk to me later.

"Where's the f@#$ing dust pan!" I screamed. When I was informed we didn't own a dust pan (who doesn't own a dust pan???) I demanded to know how the hell I was expected to clean up this mess without a f@#$ing dust pan. "Get the vacuum cleaner," he calmly replied. His nonchalant demeanor only infuriated me more. I pictured him sitting in his office, only half listening to me, perhaps mocking me with obnoxious faces to his co-workers as I went nutso over a broken lollipop.

"Fine, where's the f@#$ing vacuum cleaner then???!!!" I demanded.

"In the downstairs closet where the water heater is," he replied pleasantly.

"F@#$ you!" I yelled and hung up. Just for the record, I did not yell this in front of the girls, who were happily drawing blue icing on each other and watching Wow! Wow! Wubzy! upstairs. So, as directed, I retrieved the vacuum cleaner and observed to myself that it is heavier than it looked. I briefly pondered leaving the mess for my husband to clean when he got home but that wasn't for four hours and I didn't think I could keep the girls out of the kitchen that long.

I dragged the vacuum upstairs and plugged it in. Then searched for the "on" button. I couldn't find it. I have very little pride, but enough not to call my husband back and ask where I might find the on switch to the vacuum cleaner. No, instead I turned to my three-year-old twins and asked them, given they like to help Daddy vacuum. They enthusiastically showed me how to turn it on.

And that's when it hit me. I've lived in my home more than six years AND HAD NO IDEA WHERE THE VACUUM WAS KEPT OR HOW IT WORKED. And HAD TO ASK MY THREE-YEAR-OLDS HOW TO TURN IT ON.

It was the first time the following thought ever crossed my mind: "Shit, I hope he (my husband) never leaves me." I'd be like one of those hoarder people found buried under a pile of their own rubble except I'd be buried in broken lollipops or similar. But the good news is I now know where in fact to find the vacuum cleaner and how in fact to turn it on. Hopefully, I can avoid doing so for another six years.

--Incidentally, blogger will not allow me to upload photos recently and I even had a nifty graphic of a vacuum cleaner with a line through it like "No vacuum cleaning." WHY CAN'T I UPLOAD PHOTOS?

A Sh** Load of Green Beans

2011-02-11T08:35:00.000-08:00

I haven't the energy to do a coherent post. Not that any of my posts are ever coherent. Here are snippets of my week:

--I was going to the grocery store the other day and asked my husband if there is anything he wanted. He thought for a second and then said, and I quote: "Yeah, get a shit load of green beans." This brings up all kinds of questions, none of which I bothered to ask. What constitutes a "shit load" of green beans? Why do we need a "shit load" of green beans and not just several cans? Or are several cans a "shit load?" Doesn't this strike you as something an unemployed man wearing a wife beater with a huge belly would say to his bitch? I mean, isn't there something vaguely demeaning about being asked to get a "shit load" of green beans at the store? In case you're curious, this was on Monday. I bought six cans. He hasn't had any. So I'm waiting to see if he's preparing some green bean extravaganza of a meal this weekend wherein the appetizer, main course and dessert include green beans.

--And I think weird requests before grocery runs must be genetic. I don't buy much at Whole Foods. Not only because of the prices, but also the checkout people think they're so cool and "green." Piercings don't make you an Earth-lover!! Anyway, I go to buy this Earth's Best stuff Lulu likes that I can't get at Jewel. So when I told the girls where I was going, Moxley says, "Can you get us Walden and Widget costumes while you're there? And make sure the Walden costume comes with glasses!" "Yes," I told them very earnestly. "I'll check if the grocery store carries Wow Wow Wubzy costumes and accessories."

--I'm back into my weird baking / making things from scratch phase. Worry not, it won't last long. This was precipitated by my worry that the girls aren't eating healthy enough. So I'm making our own popsicles and desserts like pumpkin bread cupcakes. I'm doing annoying things like substituting apple sauce for some of the butter and using half whole wheat flour and more brown sugar than white sugar. You know, sort of like what Jessica Seinfeld's chef does when making meals for Jerry's children and then Jessica tells Oprah she does it all herself. Everything tastes like crap by the way. Speaking of a "shit load" of something, I put a "shit load" of canned vanilla icing on mine when the girls aren't looking...

--So now that I'm back to baking, nothing amuses me more than those recipe sites where people try the recipe (like allrecipe.com) and then make comments about the recipe and how they changed it. "Well, instead of adding a teaspoon of nutmeg I used extra cinnamon and I don't like cloves so I skipped that altogether!" Really? You have that much time to find a recipe, not follow it and then post how you altered it online? And isn't it sort of inconsiderate to the person who invented the recipe in the first place? If I was the originator I'd reply, "I said use NUTMEG AND CLOVES dammit!" I substituted some applesauce for butter, but I didn't feel the need to inform the whole recipe-searching community that is in fact what I did. I guess I'm not a true baker at heart or I'd enjoy being regaled with tales of how pumpkin bread tastes minus the nutmeg. (And it's not lost on me that I have the time and inclination to take pictures and post them of the bread I baked and green beans I bought so I'm not one to make fun...)

--I am teaching an online PR course next month. I think I'll enjoy the relative anonymity of it and the fact I don't have to take a shower beforehand like I did when I taught in person. Maybe I'll even do it from bed. I need more opportunities where I can work from bed. That's my motto for 2011: "Willing to work from bed!" I should do a YouTube video of me from bed. Maybe it will get me all kinds of offers like that homeless Golden Voice guy who Dr. Phil made go to rehab.

--Moxley has been a real downer lately. She's like that person who can ruin a good party just by showing up. I think the potty training thing has hit her hard. She pees in the potty but then basically waits all day until I put on her night diaper to do her other business. This seems to put her in a foul mood every waking moment. She's been throwing temper tantrums about crazy shit, usually clothes. Then later she'll explain it to me very rationally: "Well, you know mama, it hurts my feelings when you don't let me wear purple." She's talking about an outfit consisting of purple pants with an ill-fitting blue-striped top with decorative crystals on it. She wants to wear the same thing every day. An ensemble, frankly, that is as mismatched as it is oversized. Also, mama don't like doing laundry every day, which makes it hard to wear the same thing day after day after day. I feel like I need to do something extreme about her fashion sense. Send her Priority Fed Ex to Anna Wintour's house for example. I bet Anna's good with kids. Here is the shirt but you can't see the pants that don't match. Yes, she's eating icing from the container. It was when we were stuck inside for 48 hours in a blizzard and we were making sugar cookies so bite me. (Did I mention I make my own healthy popsicles?)

--The girls have their three-year pediatrics appointment Saturday. If it goes anything like their second-year, I'm in for a really delightful afternoon. The doctor couldn't measure them, weigh them, examine them or even look at them. It was like the Diana Ross of two-year wellness visits.The nurses managed to stab them with the required vaccines while they were held down like wild animals. I had nightmares for weeks. We haven't been back since. My sister, who is a pediatric nurse, told me there is probably a note in our file marking us as "difficult." Difficult is putting it politely so that doesn't remotely bother me.

Anyway, if you know of any jobs where I can work from bed (aside, from you know working from bed -- ain't nobody gonna pay me for that the way I look these days) let me know.

Safe Haven

2011-02-07T12:23:00.000-08:00

Guess what my kids WON'T be getting next Christmas...

Here in Illinois, and I'm pretty sure every other state, we have a "safe haven" law which means you can drop a baby off, no questions asked and you won't be prosecuted for baby abandonment and you know the baby will be cared for. It's usually at a hospital or fire / police station. Depending on the law in your state, parents have to do this I think within the first month or so of birth.

I don't mean to make light of a law that has certainly saved the lives of many infants, but isn't it kind of restrictive? Just 30 days? What about when you realize you might not be able to care for a child after the one-month window has closed? Or JUST DON'T WANT TO? Something happened yesterday that makes me question whether I am in fact the right person to be raising my twins. Something I couldn't have possibly known 30 days in. Surely there is another mother out there who can deal with certain aspects of their personality (terrible, gut-wrenching, uncorrectable flaws) better than I. Embrace them even! Let me be clear: I just found out my children love John Mayer music.

When we travel by car, the girls dictate what we listen to on the radio, much like they dictate every other aspect of my life. Normally, we either listen to a country mix and they insist we listen to John Michael Montgomery (does that guy even still make music?) ad nauseam, and will only concede me one or two Keith Urban songs along the way. They are partial to Kenny Chesney's "We Went Out Last Night" and will tolerate "Outta Here" if I really beg. They've been known to request Alan Jackson's "It Must Be Love" 15 times in a row. Their country music taste is fairly sexist although Carrie Underwood is growing on them. I wonder what they would think of SugarLand but I'm pretty sure subjecting youngsters to that woman's god-awful twang is legally classified as felony child abuse.

So yesterday I couldn't get the country mix to work for some reason, and they began demanding LOUDLY while I'm trying to drive in the snow that I play "Grundee County Auction" (not one of John Michael Montgomery's finest) but it wouldn't go on so I turned on the radio and started searching around. I made it into a game where they could tell me to stop and we'd listen to any song they liked. Suddenly, without warning, they start howling for me to stop. "I love this song!" one shouted. "I want this song for Christmas!" the other added gleefully. It took me a moment to place it. Then the horror crept in. It was that number where John wants to "run through the halls of his high school" and he wants to "scream at the top of his lungs" and I knew exactly how he felt. Not the running through the high school thing but the screaming really loud thing BECAUSE MY CHILDREN LOVE JOHN MAYER.

I am about to research Illinois' safe haven law. Perhaps there is language in there specific to my situation. I wouldn't be surprised if it even mentions John Mayer by name. "You may leave an infant who is 30 days or younger or any child above that age with a known liking for John Mayer."

I will simply pin a note on the back of each of their shirts saying, "Likes John Mayer. Sorry, can't raise." I'm pretty sure the state will understand.

Pulling a Boner

2011-02-04T08:16:00.000-08:00

The guys in my high school had an expression for when you screwed someone over. "You really pulled a boner!" they would say, for example, if you promised to pick someone up for a party and forgot. I have no clue if that is a crude reference to an erection? I haven't thought about that saying since the late 80s, but the expression suddenly popped into my mind when the epic Chicago snowstorm hit and my husband was laid up in bed from an ill-timed surgery. "You really pulled a boner this time!" I wanted to scream at him. Who has surgery a few days before a snowstorm hits, making their spouse fully responsible for their children in time of crisis? Oh sure, he didn't know the third-biggest snow fall in history was heading toward Chicago, but still.

He was due at the hospital last Friday around 10:30 am and I was responsible for driving him, waiting for him and then taking his drugged-up ass home. Oh, and picking up his prescriptions and buying some nursing home food such as Jello and vanilla pudding. Notice how sick people always want to inconvenience everyone else? Sheesh, it's not my problem the guy has a bum ear. But anyway, I agreed to do it, because I'm fairly selfless like that. When I woke up that morning, I had a zit on my chin the size of Jennifer Lopez's ass. It wasn't pretty. I don't like to go out of the house when one of those sprouts up, it frightens innocent people.

"Can't you take a cab?" I asked as I delved into my coffee and bagel dripping with butter, offering him a bite. I knew he couldn't have any food or drink before surgery so I thought it'd be fun to rub it in. "You look fine," he said not completely convincingly. "Plus you won't have to talk to anyone beside the doctor."

Me: Is he hot?
Him: Who?
Me: The doctor!
Him: Is my doctor hot???
Me: Yeah, like am I going to have to have a conversation with a McDreamy or a McSteamy or even a George Clooney circa ER looking like this?
Him: (now slightly exasperated for reasons unbeknownst to me) He's like 60!

There are sad, disheartening times when you realize your mate doesn't really know you. I mean, really know you. This was one of those times. I didn't ask if the guy was OLD, I asked if he was HOT. I know my husband prior to this surgery was half deaf, but even a fully deaf person who lived with me would find it hard to escape the fact I'm in love with Jeff Bridges. And he's pushing 60.

Anyway, fast forward and I'm sitting in the waiting room and they have wireless Internet in the lobby and ginormous donuts dripping with glaze in the dining hall so I'm content. I settle into a comfy seat in the lounge where a bunch of other people are waiting for patients to get out of surgery. Most are yapping to each other. Why do strangers feel the need to make conversation with people they will never see again? It occurred to me that maybe some people are actually interested in what other humans have to say. It's fascinating, really. A harlot of a woman and some guy veer dangerously into flirting territory after debating Illinois politics for a while. "Rahm Emanuel MAILED SOMEONE A DEAD FISH!" the harpie yelled to draw attention to herself. "What kind of a person mails a DEAD FISH to another person*??! I'd slap him if I saw him!" (Rahm, consider yourself warned.) She was a Republican and he was a Democrat and it became evident after a while they wanted to find an abandoned broom closet and conceive an Independent. Or Libertarian. Or whatever offspring would be half-Democrat and half-Republican. Thank God the guy's wife was finally in post-op so they called him away before someone stuck their tongue down the other's throat.

The woman, defeated, set her sights on finding someone else to listen to her yammer on and began chatting up another guy, albeit she seemed to just want to chat, not fornicate. Suddenly on television comes a show that is so preposterously bad you can't believe it even exists. It's like a karaoke show where contestants win money for getting the words right and they put on a big performance like they are American Idol finalists. I'm pretty sure the host was Mark McGrath. I sunk lower and lower into my chair out of extreme embarrassment as one of the contestants began belting out "Don't You Want Me" by the Human League. Then, like out of a horror film, the woman who doesn't want a fish-mailing candidate for mayor BEGINS SINGING ALONG. "You better take me back or we will BOTH BE SORRY!" That was it. I slammed shut my computer and went back to the cafeteria where I ate another absurdly large donut (creme filled with chocolate icing) and began eavesdropping on some disgruntled nurses.

Today is one-week post-op. My husband is fine if a bit annoyingly gimpy. I'd give details on what he had done but really if he wants a place to whine about various ailments he can start his own damn blog. The good thing about this incident is I learned a few things:

--The Human League sucks.
--A person can gain 5 pounds in one day eating hospital cafeteria food.
--Mark McGrath's music career has evidently stalled.
--It's possible to pick somebody up in a hospital waiting room while both of your spouses are sedated.

*I never mailed a dead fish to anyone, but I almost left one in the jeep of the guy who lives behind me to let it swelter in the hot sun all day. This was the summer after giving birth to the girls -- I can't remember now what he did. It probably involved waking my babies up. I had a very serious conversation where I tried to talk my husband into it (why should I get arrested?) and he somehow convinced me we couldn't do it. Spoilsport! Postpartum manifests itself in various ways, one apparently, involves the desire to stink up a neighbor's car with rotting fillet of sole.

Amateur Hour at The Sag Awards: Ricky Gervais, I Missed you!

2011-01-31T11:35:00.000-08:00

This statue is about to get molested by Betty White... and like it.

Can the Screen Actors Guild not afford to hire a host? What's an award show if you don't have a host mocking the very people they are there to honor? The SAG Awards were so boring, however, it would have taken more than outing John Travolta to make it remotely entertaining. Here are my (equally boring) thoughts:

Hey you. Yeah you. The one who thought it would be a quirky unique little way to start the SAG Awards by having actors who looked pained in a manner like they were having an appendectomy with no anesthesia to give a cute anecdote about being an actor. Are you still employed? You might not be by 5:00 pm this evening. In my (vast) experience with termination etiquette, seems they always fire people at the end of the day. Clean out your desk and start downloading some secret files now just in case.

Do the SAG people think us normal people who just tune in to mock actors give a rat's ass about the power struggles and internal politics between their various professional societies? I mean, do I care if the Saggers merge with some other competing actor-y group and when and how and what that will mean? And who was that fat guy who informed us of this potential merger? Was that the white guy who lived upstairs from the Jeffersons?

Don't you think the Golden Globe executives are a bit miffed at Annette Bening? What does she have against the Golden Globes anyway? Why did she look like a cross between Ed Asner's character from Up and the wife from the Addams Family at the Golden Globes, and like a goddess at the SAGs? Whose that really old guy with her anyway?

Good chance Steve Buscemi will never receive an award again no matter how deserving. I mean, you're best actor and you can't get through two 1-minute speeches without making dumb excuses? "I didn't know Best Actor category was up first!" and then later "I wrote my notes for Best Ensemble Cast on my Best Actor note card!" And why didn't the ensemble cast people do a last-minute vote and rescind their offer to let Buscemi talk on their behalf after he messed up the first speech? Steve baby, you shouldn't have reminded us you even had notes guiding you through the first speech. Sheesh. How hard is it to accept a freakin' award? Not that I'd know...

I think the same person who had the bright idea for the opening montage was responsible for the Ernest "Ernie" Borgnine Lifetime Achievement Award. Didn't the guy (he's 94 for the love of God!) deserve a tribute that didn't look like it was strung together by some intern flunky? And on the off chance my place in hell isn't already etched into the reservations page, did you see Ernie's wife? I'll just leave it at that. If you saw it, you know what I'm talking about. If you didn't, words can't describe. And Tim Conway. You're awesome. But would it have killed you to wear some reading glasses so you could get through the script? Annette wasn't wearing hers, so I'm sure she would have let you borrow them.

Is Claire Danes really that big of a moron? I mean, really? Plus, I thought she was with that guy who left Mary Louise Parker high and dry seven months pregnant? When did they break up? And she has since gotten married? What the hell? People, keep me informed, would you?

Christian Bale. Still drunk. Still bearded. Still English. WHY CAN I NEVER REMEMBER THAT? But thanks for the lesson on how to get in the biz! I am endlessly fascinated by people too! Sign me up to star in a major feature film! Since I'm going to hell anyway, his wife is a bit too gummy for my taste. (Oh c'mon! She can take it! She's married to Christian Bale!)

Just in case I haven't been clear enough about this, I love love love Jeff Bridges. Love. And, I think it's best I go ahead and admit it: He's overtaken Daniel Craig as Number 1 on my list. Granted, I'd prefer it be from the Fabulous Baker Boys era. But that's not how the list works. You can't say, for example, "Warren Beatty, but before the chicken neck." No, there's not a time traveling element to the Top Five List. Take it as it is or leave it. And Jeff Bridges, I take it!

Why did it look like Nicole Kidman just got back from the gym and threw on an (ugly) outfit and then grabbed some (tacky) jewelry and sprung Keith Urban from the crate she keeps him in down in the basement and ordered him to put more gel in his hair and off they went? I'm not so sure Nicole and Keith have a marriage certificate or she has whatever paperwork one needs to prove a pet is indeed theirs.

Last night I decided I don't like Julianna Margulies. No reason in particular. Just don't.

I am actually quite upset Helena Bonham Carter wore matching shoes. Again, the Golden Globes people must be pissed. Why do celebs clean up so much more for the SAGS (besides Nicole Kidman)?

Don't you get the feeling Natalie Portman is a nerd. I mean, like a complete dork? And her way of trying to convince people she's not a geek is by using the word "asshole" during a television broadcast when she's about to give birth to god only knows whose baby? Nat, sweetheart, using a naughty word while knocked up doesn't make you cool. And by declaring you're never an asshole while in fact being an asshole is sort of being a a double asshole. (Isn't saying "asshole" on live network tv the definition of BEING an asshole?)

That's all I got. The whole thing left me uninspired.

An Important Announcement Part Duh

2011-01-25T19:10:00.000-08:00

Potty seats make interesting if unsanitary head gear.

When one announces one's children are potty trained, one's children should in fact be potty trained. Because soon after I pressed "publish post" with an air of mild smugness (the "mild" is because when children are over 3 and just getting potty trained perhaps immense smugness is overkill) Lulu announced she "had an accident" which was actually no accident because I caught her purposely squatting in a closet defecating in her Hello Kitty undies. I have no problems with the accident part of course. The part I have a problem with is my husband was out of town and normally when a task like scraping shit out of cotton undergarments arises, I delegate it to him.

Partially potty trained doesn't really work for me. I don't like uncertainty. The constant vaguely anxious feeling reminded me of having a partially monogamous boyfriend throughout college. Is he out sleeping around on me right this very moment? Will we be out in public and she'll crap her pants? See, the unease of both are similarly disquieting. Although at least my angst over the potty training lasted less then a week. Try four years of wondering if your alleged boyfriend was cheating, with the answer 9 times out of 10 being a big Hell Yes. My favorite was when he was humping his high school co-worker from TCBY. The Country's Best Yogurt indeed! I grew suspicious as she began interrogating me when I went in for a peanut butter shake on a day he wasn't working. He scoffed when I confronted him, noting that she was still in high school for Christ's sake! What kind of person did I think he was? Well, it turns out the kind who contracts crabs from an underage high school girl. (I feel the need to confirm here I was not infected, because by the grace of God he was too busy screwing jail bait on a frozen yogurt-making device to be intimate with me during this unfortunate time in my life).

And while I'm on the topic, I might as well mention this particular boyfriend lavaliered me for some reason still unbeknownst to me and proceeded to sleep with a freshman the night of my sorority candle light ceremony. (If you are unfamiliar with the antiquated customs of sorority life, consider yourself lucky.) And, because my best friend from high school thinks no conversation about this person is complete without the following anecdote, she came to visit me in college for a week during her school's spring break and he uttered exactly one word to her the entire time: "Cups." (Why that was the particular word he chose is not the point. The point is she was my best friend and he couldn't be bothered to say more than one word to her the entire week.)

What am I getting at? Good question. I think I was saying I prematurely announced the girls were potty trained and it's been a rough few days but they are in fact now potty trained. Pretty much. They still wear diapers at night but I don't particularly care if they do that until they leave for college, where hopefully they will have better taste in men than I.

PS -- I don't know the ethics (or good taste?) of combining a post on potty training with that of an STD-laden ex, but well, too late.

PPS -- You know the DUH in the title was purposeful and I don't think that's how two is spelled in French, right?

PPPS -- Speaking of French, I have mentioned that I took like 14 years of French and yet all I know how to say is "Centre de plounge" (spelling not so sure) which means scuba diving shop, correct?

PPPPS -- Okay, just one more thing. Really. I must say I have no hard feelings, actually I have fond ones, for my philandering college boyfriend. He meant well. He just liked the ladies. A lot. You might suspect as much, but I was no angel... Although I did keep my dalliances to those of the legal variety.

What's In a Name?

2011-01-21T10:16:00.000-08:00

So a very lovely woman asked me to do a guest post at a blog that specializes in baby names. That was back maybe in the fall and I just got around to it yesterday. Keep in mind that people go to that site LOOKING FOR A BABY NAME. You know that old expression -- know your audience? Well, if you went to a site looking for advice on baby names, would you want to be insulted by a bitch who thinks it's funny that she would have named her twins Lulu and Moxley if she was famous? Probably not. So after I submitted the piece (below), she very kindly told me perhaps this wasn't up their alley given that, among other things, 15,000 people named their daughters Madison last year and a large majority of women who visit the site meet my definition of "unstable." Well, I spent a whole 10 minutes on it so I didn't want to put it to waste. Here are some tips on naming your baby. Don't read this if you have a child named Madison. Or one named Buddy Bear Maurice Oliver for that matter. Or if you name your babies before they are even conceived and then accuse other people who have real, non-fictional babies of stealing YOUR baby name. Or if you are Nicole Kidman, Gwyneth Paltrow or ... you know what? Maybe nobody should read it.

Eight Tips on Picking Out a Name

I assume you are over here at (the blog's name) because you are expecting a bundle of joy and are debating monikers for your impending little one. Either that, or you are one of those unstable women who name their children years before said children are conceived and are here to see if other people are “stealing” your name. I say “women” because men almost never think up names for children that don’t exist. It’s the one and only way in which they are the superior gender.

So if you are in fact perusing for a name, I have some helpful tips for you:

1. It’s always a good idea to name a child after a cherished relative. Or better yet, a rich one. One of my twin daughters is named after my maternal grandmother, unfortunately not for the latter reason.

2. If you’re going to stick a child with a bizarre name, after a day of the week for example, give their siblings an equally tortuous name. This brings to mind Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban. Their first daughter is “Sunday.” They just had a second daughter born on Tuesday, December 28. Instead of naming her “Tuesday,” they chose “Faith.” Don’t they think someday Sunday is going to wonder why she got stuck with the weird name and her sister got off so easy?

3. Speaking of celebrities, unless you are one, don’t name your child after a fruit.

4. And even if you are a celebrity, have some compassion. I’m talkin’ to you Katie Price and Jermaine Jackson. No child deserves to be emblazoned with Princess Tiaamii Crystal Esther Andre or Jermajersty Jermaine Jackson.

4. People will not think you are creative if you spell your child’s name in a funky way. They will think you are illiterate. Think Jaycub instead of Jacob, Brittni instead of Brittany, Jourdynn instead of Jordan, and J’son instead of Jason. (Yes, people have done it.)

5. The name Madison should have remained nothing more than a mermaid in the movie Splash. Unfortunately, every elementary class in the United States is filled with them. On behalf of Darryl Hannah, don’t perpetuate the trend. She probably feels guilty enough as it is.

6. Consider how much money and power you have when naming a child. The more money and power, the more leeway you have with names. When the kid is teased on the playground, will he be able to retort, “My daddy can buy your daddy’s company and fire him!” and actually mean it? Well, then, knock yourself out and name your son something like Buddy Bear Maurice Oliver like that overrated famous chef Jamie Oliver did.

7. Be careful with nicknames. Oh sure, he may be your little “Mikey” when he’s three months old, but nicknames have a way of sticking. And a 23-year-old Mikey (or even an 8-year-old one) isn’t quite as cute.

8. Remember this is your child’s name. Forever! Give them a lovely name, a creative name if you must, but one that they will be proud of as a child AND an adult. I am no expert on names. I spent all of three seconds deciding what to call my girls. One is (Lulu's real name), after my awesome grandmother. The other is (Moxley's real name), just because I think the name is so pretty. It wasn’t until I noticed every third child on the playground is (Moxley's real name) that I realized it was so popular. But the name suits her perfectly and I wouldn’t change a thing. So go with your heart like I did and you can’t go wrong. Good luck!

No doubt this is not my best work, and as I said to the woman, I certainly don't want to offend her readers. But I don't mind insulting mine. Okay, I kind of do. I like the name Madison, okay? Mermaids are awesome. I like the name Ariel too. Got nothing against mermaids. Sorry to offend. Sheesh, why so touchy? And if it makes you feel any better Lulu's nickname is the same name as a famous movie star and everyone always asks if she was named after this movie star to which I diplomatically reply, "No, bite me."

PS -- I lost a follower yesterday. Perhaps they were upset I got the girls potty trained? If I lose some more today, I will assume they have a child named Madison. Or hate mermaids. No hard feelings.

PPS -- I want you to know that I'm going to sit here and pick worriedly at my cuticles hoping I didn't offend anyone. Mermaids, Madisons or otherwise.

An Important Announcement

2011-01-20T07:36:00.000-08:00

People, I think you might want to sit down for this. As you may know, I have many failings as a mother. My children still drink milk from a bottle. They still use pacis at night (and occasionally at other points in the day just so I can confuse them with inconsistent rules). They are still vegetarians in a very annoying Gwyneth Paltrow kind of way. They might even be vegans except I'm not sure what that means exactly. But THEY ARE NOW POTTY TRAINED. Well, sort of. Accidents are occurring (our couch now has the faint scent of cat urine and we don't own a cat but whatevs) but for the most part, they are using the potty.

This of course occurred BECAUSE of my failing as a mother. I accidentally ran out of diapers. I may write a potty training book. It will go something like this. "Wait until they are embarrassingly old to be crapping their pants. Forget to buy diapers. The End." It will be the shortest best-seller in the history of publishing. Oprah will beg me to come on her show, despite my having broken the publishing world's cardinal rule -- never bash The Opes! I will comply only if she promises -- in writing -- that Jenny McCarthy will not be on the same program. I will be hailed as an international potty training expert and parenting forums will pay me absurd amounts of money to give (very brief) talks on potty training which will consist of "Hello mothers and fathers out there. Forget to buy diapers! Thank you very much! I love you too!"

As seen above, my children are being rewarded with treats as big as their heads. This weekend we have to go pick out bikes. It's the middle of winter in Chicago so I have no idea where they'll ride them but we promised them bikes when they got potty trained. Perhaps I should add in a chapter about bribing in the book -- or better yet, I'll save that as my follow-up parenting masterpiece. So, I'm not sure if there is a Mother of the Year award floating around out there, but feel free to nominate me. My children are almost 39 months old and (pretty much) potty trained. Surely that should garner me something?

Just out of curiosity, when do they start wiping their own butts? When you answer, add on two years past the time most kids do it as that's when it's likely to happen around here.

2011 Golden Globes: The Scientologists Have a Hit Out on Ricky Gervais

2011-01-16T22:02:00.000-08:00

All day I kept saying I was excited to watch the Emmys. I'm not sure what the difference is, but it was the GOLDEN GLOBES, not the Emmys on tonight. But really, who cares? I just watch to see rich famous people make asses of themselves. And asses they did make. Yippee for me!

--Ricky Gervais is my new favorite person. He called Tom Cruise and John Travolta gay on national television. In front of all of their peers. Travolta has a new baby for crying out loud. One should wait at least two months before calling a closeted new father gay. It's just common courtesy.

--Christian Bale, what were you drinking? And / or smoking? Normally I want to immediately sleep with someone who has an English accent. I actually forgot he was English until he opened his (inebriated) mouth. I thought the British had a way with words, but at last count Bale used the word "fantastic" 2,342 times in a five-minute speech. A speech that was cut off by the guy who's in charge of putting on the music when drunk winners blather on too long. That said, who are we kidding. I still kind of want to sleep with him. Just not as much as I used to. Which was a lot.

--If you didn't know bald was beautiful, enter Bruce Willis. Dear God, from Bruce Willis to ASHTON KUTCHER? Do you think Demi Moore bashes her head into her bathroom mirror every night before she goes to bed ? No, probably not. That might knock some of her Botox out of place. But she wants to.

--Michelle Pfieffer, you will go straight to hell if you don't share with the rest of the world what you are doing to yourself. Botox? Fillers? Invasive surgery? A combination thereof? You don't have a whole lotta spunk left, so I wonder if David A. Kelley had you killed and stuffed like a prize deer. If so, that's one hell of a taxidermy job. I want to be you. Even if that means having to have sex with David A. Kelley, the idea of which doesn't appeal to me.

--Is it safe to say Justin Bieber has peaked? I don't like to encourage underage promiscuity, but he might want to start nailing everything that moves now. His options may wane and then completely peter out over the next few years.

--Jennifer Love Hewitt looks like the orange twin with a bouffant. She either needs to stop eating carrots or needs to find a new spray tanning facility. And whether or not she does either one of those things, she must never allow the same person to touch her hair again.

--Notice Angie laying on Brad at their table? I mean c'mon. Don't you get the feeling she does that just in case Jennifer Aniston is watching? Isn't stealing Jennifer's husband and having six children with him enough while Jen resorted to dating John Mayer? YOU WIN ANGIE! YOU WIN! Why does Angie always dress like shit? I wore a dress eerily similar to this for my final sorority rush party in college. I got dung from several sororities (eff you Delta Delta Delta) just because of that dress. (It couldn't have been my personality could it have?)

--Did you see Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban on the red carpet? Would it have killed her to wear flats? Poor Keith came off looking like her pet chihuahua.

--If you don't believe in aliens, rewind and look at Tilda Swanson. Human? Please.

--Did anyone tell Annette Bening she was going to an award show, a show that will be televised and she actually might win an award? Or did Warren Beatty steal the mail postmarked from The Golden Globes Nominating Committee and sprang the news on her last minute? Regardless, I'll say this about Annette Bening. She is secure aging without pesky little treatments. And she still looks beautiful. I just think she could have showered before the awards out of politeness for her table mates and lost the blind-old-man glasses which resembled the ones Ed Asner wore in Up.

--Speaking of table mates, have you ever seen an award ceremony where winners thank the people SITTING AT THEIR TABLE? ("Shout out to Table #149! You rock!") I mean, why not thank the Golden Globe seating chart committee while you're at it?

--Sandy... bangs? Whose idea was that? Fire them. (although I love you and hope the rumors about you and Ryan Reynolds are true. Yum.) BTW, did you watch that Celebrity Apprentice episode where Donald Trump said you "couldn't have married" him? I bet you actually could have. Not that you wanted to. Although your taste in men proved to be such that I can't really predict whom you might marry.

--Why does Robert Pattinson look better as a vampire than he does as a human? Maybe he could hire a personal makeup artist to make him look like a vampire every day?

--Me so very much likey that Hung guy. Whether he is or not.

--I love Alec Baldwin. He's hilarious. Except when he's calling his daughter a "rude, thoughtless little pig." He's pretty funny other than when he's doing that. But is he starting to look a bit like Liberace? Incidentally when I searched Google Images for a picture of Liberace a bunch of photos of Michael Douglas came up.

--I am currently so enamored with Jeff Bridges it's hard to put into words. Plus if I put it into words it might hurt Daniel Craig's feelings. If you can name someone hotter than Jeff Bridges (besides Daniel Craig) knock yourselves out. I'm all ears.

--Is it required that one give an amateur stand-up comedy routine when one is given a Golden Globe lifetime achievement award? Holy crap what was Robert DeNiro on / thinking / not thinking?

--Why did the top of Halle Berry's dress look like a one-piece swim suit? Don't get me wrong, she looked great. But she looked like she was wearing a bathing suit with a long cover-up skirt. Whatever. She procreated with the hottest man on Earth (other than Daniel Craig) so I'm not one to be critical. But was that a bathing suit? Weird. Not as weird as Robert DeNiro's stand-up comedy routine, but weird nonetheless.

--I've never seen Glee. Ever. And given I have no other New Years resolutions I think never seeing Glee will be mine. I hear it's good. I love that woman who plays Sue. I just have to resolve to do something this year and it might as well be to never see Glee.

That's it. I must now watch Big Love. I sort of forget who was burned alive, who was implanted with incestual embryos and why Bill's mother lopped off the arm of that man married to the cross-dresser. But I'm excited nonetheless. Plus, I heard they got rid of Teeny #2. Thank you Big Love powers that be!

Octomom on Opes

2011-01-14T11:03:00.000-08:00

I wrote a somewhat serious thing about the Suze Orman intervention on Octomom that aired on Oprah today. I was actually at the taping. Is it okay for one to call Oprah "Opes" and still have an opinion taken seriously one wonders? If you have any interest, go here. If not, carry on with your day as planned. No hard feelings...

We Are Unlikely To Be Friends If...

2011-01-05T19:12:00.000-08:00

This cat is more potty-trained than we are or ever will be...

You don't think my kids are cute. Or at least pretend to.

You breastfeed your six-year-old son. In fact, not only would we not be friends I might try to have you arrested.

You are a prescription drug addict. This is not a moral judgement on you. This is a moral judgement on me. You are more ambitious, creative and have a lot more money than I do. I can't even manage to find a way to get my hands on a non-addictive pill that eliminates water weight while you are probably rocking out on vicodin or xanax or a lovely combination thereof. Plus my husband notices when I spend $75. Something tells me if thousands in cash mysteriously disappeared he'd catch on. Before I even had a chance to get a buzz or two.

You inform me either verbally or in written form that you "work hard and play hard." If you say that, chances are you do neither. Plus, you're a moron.

You don't understand the genius that is Barry Manilow.

You are sleeping with Daniel Craig.

You are married to Keith Urban.

Or Tom Cruise for that matter, but for very different reasons.

You, without irony, use use the term "vis a vis."

You forward to me more than two unfunny e-mails that you preface with a note which includes the acronym "LOL!!!!!" If you write "LOL!!!!!!" I better in fact f***ing laugh out loud.

You do something on your iPhone more than three times during the course of dinner. Unless I am involved and dictating psychotic, threatening text messages to the guy who just dumped you.

You post unflattering photos of me on Facebook. (Note to Facebook friends: I find all photos of me unflattering.)

Four of us go out to lunch and you ask the waitress for four separate checks. The woman isn't a mathematician for the love of god. Plus, you're cheap.

You don't want to engage in discussions such as whether a boring person can in fact bore someone else to death. (I say yes, but unfortunately there is no conclusive test a coroner can conduct so we'll never know for sure.) Once I convince you that a person CAN be bored to death by another person, you're unwilling to discuss whether that person should be charged with first degree murder or a lesser charge.

So how are you peeps? (I should use the singular "peep" given one person -- my mother -- probably still reads this blog.) Happy New Year! I'd like to say I haven't posted in a month because I've been super productive and spent the time potty training and getting my THREE YEAR OLDS off the bottle but alas, no. We're still rolling with poop in our pants and bottles in our mouths. It's starting to get slightly embarrassing. Like when Lulu squatted in the middle of Little Gym class and screamed to me proudly from across the room, "I'm pooping Mommy! Did you bring the diaper bag!?" The thin, blonde bitchy nanny in there I can't stand (her charge hates her too) looked down at me smugly and I almost popped her one. But that would make me no better than Teresa Giudice. And everyone knows I am slightly better than Teresa Giudice.

"Why?" and the Case for Boarding School

2010-12-03T17:03:00.000-08:00

Just try to send us to boarding school...

I am intently curious who coined the term "the terrible twos." Did this person give their child up for adoption on the eve of their third birthday? Send it to boarding school for pre-schoolers? Because if this person let the kid stick around, they'd have found out the threes ain't no picnic. And the person who coined this phrase is guilty of leading all stressed out mothers of two-year-olds to believe that they only need survive until the kid's third birthday for things to get better. BAHABHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! The joke's on us, ladies! Because they don't get better at 3. They are just as big of a pain in the ass with the added bonus of an expanded vocabulary with which to torture you. And with the high twos and low threes comes the very bothersome "why" stage. Following is an excerpt from a recent discussion with Lulu:

Me: Lulu, what are you doing? (I asked this because I looked over to see her with her finger up her nose up to her knuckle while out in a public venue.)

Lulu: (matter of factly) Mommy I'm picking the boogers out of my nose.

Me: (wondering where she learned the word "booger" because I assure you I have never uttered that word.) Well... don't pick your nose. Do you want to blow your nose?

Lulu: Why?

Me: Because nobody wants to see you pick your nose.

Lulu: Why?

Me: Because it's not very polite.

Lulu: Why?

Me: Because it's yucky.

Lulu: Why?

Me: Because... (thinking of how to explain that nobody likes to see a kid digging for their own snot)

Moxley: Because you should use the blue thing when we get home. (the blue thing is that nose-suctioning device)

Me: (slightly annoyed a 3-year-old is smarter than me) Right! We should use the blue thing!

Lulu: Why? (as she goes to hand me her "boogers.")

Me: Because mommy doesn't like to be given boogers!!!! (annoyed she got me to say "boogers")

Lulu: Why?

The conversation about boogers actually continued for quite a bit longer and it occurred to me as I tried to explain my distaste for nasal residue being placed in my hand that I once routinely sat in meetings during which the strategic direction of a Fortune 500 company was discussed. I'm pretty sure I am exactly who Leslie Bennett had in mind when she wrote The Feminine Mistake... Leslie, I can assure you that I will never have to support my family alone because my husband would be too terrified of me to ever leave. Shoot himself in the head to put himself out of misery, sure. But leave me while he still has a pulse, no.

Oh, and isn't it lovely that aforementioned "blue thing" is a nose plunger / sometime lollipop holder? Very hygienic.

So speaking of boarding school, I used the think such a concept was the sinister making of morally bankrupt people who had way too much money on their hands and couldn't be bothered to take care of their own kids. I mean, what kind of mother outsources her parenting duties to the extent they don't even live at home? Everyone knows it's your responsibility as a parent to allow offspring to live at home until they reach 18 at which time you pray to God they get into college -- preferably one at least a two-hour drive away. Then you suffer through them coming home for Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks at which time they will barely acknowledge your annoying presence except when they want to borrow the car, which they'll probably crash at some point and not even apologize unless they happen to kill somebody. They will be non-rent-paying squatters at your home for the summer too, in between partying with their high school pals and making minimum wage in some useless job that will make them look like directionless losers on their resumes.

In the old days parents needed only suffer through this cycle for four years before their adult children limited their visits to the holidays with their own families in tow. Not anymore! College now can stretch on for YEARS. Graduating in four years is for overachievers only. And when they do finally graduate do you know where they expect to live? In their old bedrooms. Which they demand be in the exact state they left it four / eight / twelve years prior. And grandchildren? With the rampant arrested development epidemic not to mention fertility treatments you'll likely be senile and/or blind before your kids reproduce. Perhaps if your children are never permitted to live at home in the first place, they don't expect to return there to live as adults.

So my point here is: the rich who ship their kids off to boarding school at a young age aren't morally bankrupt. They are enlightened VISIONARIES. Alas, my children will attend Chicago Public Schools. And I didn't see a room and board option on the form.

Food Issues

2010-12-01T17:16:00.000-08:00

We like cake so what's your freakin' problem?

I quit a lucrative job to stay home when my twins were born because I was convinced my constant presence in their fragile little lives was of utmost importance. Looking back, perhaps it was in their best interest to ship them off to an orphanage upon birth and ask that they be returned when they turned 25, assuming Angelina Jolie didn't adopt them first. Add "proper nutrition" to my growing list of failures as a mother, which currently includes not potty trained, still drinking milk from a bottle, general menace to society.

But all of this isn't really my fault, right? RIGHT? It's clearly theirs. I've long suspected my children have devised a sinister plan to slowly drive me insane. So slowly that I wouldn't really be sure when in fact my mind reached the brink of a breakdown at which point some very big men in very white jackets would show up at my house and take me to an undisclosed location where my brain would be subjected to severe electrical jolts. Which might actually feel like a vacation right now. I would think of it as an all-inclusive Sandals-like resort for the mentally ill. With the added bonus of being paid for by insurance.

My girls' food issues about have me near that point. Men in white / travel agents? You know where to find me. My children will only eat a subset of foods which require a diabolical amount of work on my part.

--Raisin bread with the raisins picked out. This went on for months until I finally scoured The Jewel bread aisle wherein I found a cinnamon loaf that looks and tastes remarkably like raisin bread sans raisins. Lulu looked at it and had the balls to indignantly demand, "Where are all my raisins?!" "YOU HATE RAISINS IN YOUR RAISIN BREAD AND MAKE MOMMY PICK THEM OUT LIKE A DERANGED PSYCHOPATH!" I concede that perhaps I uttered this a decibel too loudly.

--Blueberries muffins minus the blueberries. Fellow coffee shop patrons don't seem to appreciate my decimating baked goods in their presence.

--Chocolate chips cookies without the chocolate chips. Do you see a pattern?

--And perhaps most problematic, bagels with the crust cut off. Have you ever tried to explain to a pre-schooler that bagels are in fact SURROUNDED BY CRUST?

They won't try any new foods unless it contains 99 percent sugar. The other 1 percent should be some kind of artificial coloring. While other mothers lament their kids will only eat mac-n-cheese and chicken fingers, I would throw an elaborate party to celebrate this breakthrough and gladly serve it every night. And I wouldn't get all Jessica Seinfeld-y about it and sneak in pureed cauliflower and such.

So today Moxley nonchalantly looked at me while I attempted to gut a bagel, and says "Will you put jelly on top please?" My child, who won't eat foods "touching" other foods, requested a condiment, if in fact jelly is a condiment. No matter what food group, the kid asked for jelly! Thank you Caillou, the slightly slow and more-than-slightly annoying Canadian kid who loves jelly sandwiches! See the evidence of some nibbling:

Strangely, while they won't try delicious treats like hamburgers, bacon or chocolate, these kids love squash. Love it like I love Daniel Craig. Except they get to lick the object of their affection. Even grosser (them, not me), they like to eat the cubes I freeze. A SQUASH POPSICLE. I'll wait while you regurgitate. This is what a gnawed cube squash popsicle looks like. And yes, there sits a side dish of banana split lollipops. Oh, please, like you don't consider that a serving of fruit...

I'm already worried about packing their lunches for kindergarten in 2013. I don't think I can send squash popsicles. Of course I can just send bags of Dum Dum lollipops and explain my theory that if the flavor has a fruit in the title (banana split, strawberry shortcake, coconut, tangerine...), it counts as a serving of fruit. Then see how many days it takes DCF to pay a visit.

PS -- Lest you be worried about my children's well-being, perhaps I should mention my kids also eat apples, carrots, sweet potatoes, peas, green beans and McDonald's french fries, a grossly under-appreciated member of the vegetable community.

New Blog and a Drug Run

2010-11-18T09:11:00.000-08:00

WHAT? Who would listen to my mother! She doesn't even comb my hair!

Someone was ~~delusional~~ forward-thinking enough to give me a place to spout advice about parenting in Chicago. Bahahahahahahahahaha! I left out small itsy bitsy details like my three-year olds are bottle-drinking, pants-crapping, human-hating monsters over whom I have no control whatsoever.

So the deal is I discuss our experiences at various venues, provide information on kid-friendly activities in Chicago and perhaps go on various tirades about my latest grievances. The really really exciting part is I had to use my real name (but not the girls, they'll always be Lulu and Moxley to thwart would-be kidnappers and Disney agents) so you can Google me and find out interesting things like my long arrest record. (The second degree murder charge was just an unfortunate misunderstanding.)

The blog is called Babble Chicago and it's hosted by the award-winning parenting web site Babble.com. (AWARD WINNING. Uh-huh. That's right. I would impress you further if I could name said awards but I can't...) I would be ever so grateful if you'd go to a post of your choosing and leave a comment so they think I actually have people who read my writing. Even something like, "Who the hell is dumb enough to give this lunatic a platform to spew off nonsense about parenting?!" Okay, you know what? Don't say that. Say something more like: "Oh heavens to Betsy! I've been waiting for a column to give me advice on what to do with my kids all winter in Chicago even though I live in Arizona!" As you'll see, I re-packaged my Disney post so it has some of the same stuff but is more informative. Something tells me you people don't come here to be informed by the likes of me.

The requirement is that I post over there at least several times per week. So here's another idea: you can leave me comments over there bitching about why I'm not posting much over here. Although I actually AM going to post more over here too. Seriously. This time I mean it.

Oh! In other news: several of my husband's co-workers read this blog because I occasionally mock him and then they use such information to ridicule him during important meetings. One such co-worker was particularly touched by the post wherein I discuss that I retain water like a buffalo (I'm pretty sure buffalos retain a lot of water, yes?) but am unable to obtain a prescription to alleviate said condition. So, out of the goodness of his heart and the fact that he probably has a wicked bad drug problem, he is going on a sojourn to Mexico where apparently there are no pesky regulations regarding what one may buy at the pharmacia. God bless our neighbors to the South! I gave this dear man / drug addict a bundle of cash and strict instructions not to return to our country without a year's supply of the anti-bloat pill. Yipppppeeeee! It'll be just my luck if the drug lords get him while he's down there. I would be quite devastated. Plus I'd be a little sad if he was beheaded or whatever too.

One more thing: I found out someone who is a blood relative of mine nominated me for a top mom blog (at my employer Babble.com no less) AND I CURRENTLY HAVE ONLY ONE VOTE. This is not an "it's an honor just to be nominated" situation. This is a "please remove my name with only one vote next to it" situation. I feel like I've been nominated for Homecoming Queen and the entire football team throws buckets of pig-blood all over me. (Reference: "Carrie," Sissy Spacek circa 1976.)

Would you please go press the "like" button (even if you don't) next to my blog's name so I don't look like a complete ass covered in pork plasma? Although I'm pretty accustomed to looking like an ass so if you don't feel like it no worries. Let's face it, I probably wouldn't do it for you either.

PS - Coming soon -- details on the girls' third birthday which includes a canceled party and lots of puking. Good times!

Mission Aborted. As Usual

2010-11-11T11:21:00.000-08:00

"Halloween is over when I say it is..."

I skipped happily into my girls room the other morning, much like I did on the day of their first hair cut with presents in tow and a chirpy voice one should only hear from that crazy bitch on Sprout who wears pigtails and a handkerchief around her neck. It was potty training day and these two kids were gonna poop in the potty whether they liked it or not. As was the case, not.

I presented them with Hello Kitty baskets full of brightly colored undies and promised them all kinds of big-time presents if they cooperated. Lulu seems intrigued and began pawing through the undies deciding which ones to put on (a pair that said "Wednesday" even though it was Saturday but I was going to pick my battles that morning). When Moxley realized what was going on she ducked under the covers screaming "NOT YET NOT YET NOT YET!" and hurled the basket of undergarments in the general direction of my head.

That set Lulu off and a second basket hit me in the shoulder and she too hid for cover. I stood in the middle of their room with Baby Gap underwear strewn about with no clue how to proceed. So I did what I've always done (getting them off the bottle, getting them to give up pacis, getting them to accept that other humans live on our planet) and immediately gave up. Mission aborted.

Lulu, who often serves as the official spokesperson on issues of grave concern, said they "were not ready yet." I asked when she thought they might be ready and after giving it some thought she answered, "Seven weeks and two days." I'm not sure how she came up with that interesting timetable, but it won't allow me to meet my self-imposed deadline of their third birthday, which is in exactly 5 days.

My revised goal is to have them potty-trained by next August when they start pre-school. The tactic then will be shame. "Nobody likes kids that crap their pants" perhaps I'll say as I hold my nose in disgust. But this goes to a larger problem with my parenting style: avoidance. I avoid the hard things, apparently, which makes our life day-to-day very pleasant and a barrel of laughs but perhaps I'm not preparing them to deal with the real world. They don't seem at all ready or willing to move on to next stages, and I just enable it.

Like they are still wearing their Halloween costumes every day and it's mid-November. I figure maybe by March they'll start wearing the little Christmas tree t-shirts I bought them at Target.

Plus, I see a glimpse into my future, and it's not very pleasant. They will be 35 sitting ass on my couch and when I inquire why they don't have a job they'll scream, "NOT YET NOT YET NOT YET!" and instead of kicking them out so I can fulfill my dream of dying in peace at The Villages, America's Friendliest Home Town, I will be 74 years old and supporting two no-good daughters who use up my entire Social Security check on Depends because they STILL crap their pants.

Happiest Place on Earth Observations

2010-11-04T20:06:00.000-07:00

"Really, I would pretend to have fun if I knew my parents mortgaged the house to be here."

Can we agree that whomever deemed Disney World "the happiest place on Earth" never rode the monorail home filled with a gazillion screaming toddlers after a long day? Did you know that all Disney employees are called "cast members?" And that if you stay at a Disney resort every verbal exchange ends with "Have a magical day!" It's sort of tolerable the first 20 times and then you want to give the "cast member" a magical punch while smiling "Have a magical migraine!"

Here are a few tidbits from our trip. Let's start with the most horrendous part so the post gets more pleasant as we go:

--There is an abomination of an event called "The Princess Lunch." Perhaps you've heard of it? It's where little girls are first presented with the notion that a white horse with a rich, handsome prince will someday save them and take them to a castle where they will wear bejeweled crowns and learn to curtsy. And eat very bad food. Let me preface this by saying I'm not a "foodie." It is my wish to gather every person who defines themselves as a "foodie" into one room and make them eat Subway sandwiches and bags of pork rinds until they puke. My ideal meal would be a Bennigan's deep-fried Monte Cristo sandwich paired with The Bloomin' Onion from Outback Steakhouse. (Seriously, those two franchises should team up, merge or acquire each other in what would be the best chain restaurant coup since Dunkin' Donuts combined with Baskin Robbins.) I have never sent a meal back at a restaurant. I don't recall ever really complaining about bad food. I think whoever came up with the two cheeseburger meal deal at McDonalds should be given one of Obama's Czar positions. Maybe Czar of Pure Genius or similar. Get the picture? So when I was presented with the "baked chicken with risotto accompaniment" at the Princess Lunch (and I use the term "lunch" loosely) I thought, "How bad can it be?" despite the vaguely sock-like odor emanating from the plate. I dug in because being around royalty renders me ravished, and almost broke a tooth on the un-cooked rice in the risotto dish. Plus, my children, who swore they wanted to meet a bunch of princesses, cowered and whimpered and refused to get their photo taken. Granted, these princess bitches were scary, but still. Each adult entree was $35, $21 for kids and since my kids don't eat normal food, theirs sat untouched as well. But the special Tinker Bell punch was only $6.50 a pop and came with some Tinkerbell thingie that lit up. Well worth sitting at a depressing round table as my children hid under the table while Cinderella tried to lure them out. My sister, whose 7-year-old appreciated the princesses more than my 3-year-olds, told me to move some food around on my plate so the waitress didn't feel bad. Something tells me if you're serving food to a bunch of "little princesses" dressed in majestic garb you have bigger problems than how much one cranky-assed mother ate. (Note: Our kids did not wear princess clothes to this lunch, the photo above is from Mickey Mouse's Not-So-Scary Halloween Party wherein Lulu was a princess. I feel the need to make this known for reasons still unclear to me.)

--Oh no. I'm not done with the princess lunch yet. Not only were most kids dressed as their favorite princess with crowns, hair glitter and even makeup (my favorite was the toddler dressed as that mermaid princess with her belly bared and fins so tight she could barely waddle around), there was a couple there WITHOUT KIDS snapping pictures of the princesses like they were the paparazzi at Chateau Marmont. I so wanted to go tap them on the shoulder and whisper, "Pssst. They're not real princesses. Plus, you're weird.")

--I've never been a cost/benefit kind of gal. But the Dumbo ride made me think a bit more mathematically. Does it make any sense to wait for 63 minutes in line with two screaming toddlers for a ride that lasts exactly 90 seconds? Don't make me whip out a calculator but the percentage of pain versus pleasure doesn't work for me.

--Is it me or is there something disconcerting about grown men wearing Mickey Mouse sweatshirts?

--Mickey Mouse's Not-So-Scary Halloween Party is pretty much as billed: not scary, except of course for the price (about $60 pp). Lulu dressed up as a fairy princess, Moxley was a monster from Yo Gabba Gabba whose name currently escapes me and I went as a 40-something exhausted mother of twins. My costume was the most authentic and surely would have earned me first prize had there been a contest.

--We planned to, at the end of the week, allow the girls to each pick out one souvenir, or parting gift so to speak. Ah, but that clever Walt Disney had another plan in mind. See, Walt cleverly places gift shops in locales one cannot avoid. Going on Winnie the Pooh's Honey Pot ride? Well, great! Because you have to go through the Winnie the Pooh gift shop to get out. So here was gift number one (times 2 of course) and yes, Her Royal Highness was exhausted on the monorail home after the "Spook-tacular" fireworks show.

At Epcot, they threw a very public tantrum which I decided to placate with an undeserved present to reward bad behavior when they demanded these fashion-forward hats. They came with a bonus pair of sunglasses which broke several hours after purchase. If you've ever seen an uglier piece of head gear, please send photos:

Oh, and conveniently located near the only place we could get food at our hotel were these pajamas, for the low low price of $24.95 each. The enthusiasm for their new evening attire has long since waned:

Of course, the most fun they had was when doing free things, like burying each other's torsos in sand:

Despite the price (geez, I'm becoming one of those grumpy old cheap people who stock up on canned goods when they're on sale), we had a great time as evidenced by the following exchange the day after we arrived home:

Moxley: Why do we live in Chicago?

Me: Because daddy's job is here. You don't want to live in Chicago?

Lulu: No!

Me: Where do you want to live?

Moxley: I want to live on vacation.

You and me both, sister.

Snippets

2010-10-13T15:09:00.000-07:00

People, I awoke this morning as I would imagine a soldier might when he knows he'll be engaging in life-threatening, hand-to-hand combat. Except instead of doing push-ups and perhaps a few shots of tequila, I put on the most over-the-top, peppy, faux elation persona and burst into their room first thing singing like a lunatic what a SPECIAL SPECIAL SPECIAL day we were about to have! Here are your new SPECIAL Hello Kitty t-shirts made especially for first haircuts! Have whatever you want for breakfast! Halloween cookies? Excellent choice! What do you want for lunch? French fries and ice cream at McDonalds? Yes, ma'am would you like another!

All the while I kept reminding them there was a SPECIAL SPECIAL SPECIAL present awaiting them after they successfully got their hair cut. Really, it's best I don't star on a reality show like those other freaky moms of multiples -- I'd be committed to the nearest psychiatric facility or at the very least mocked to high heaven for the way I carried on today. At least nobody witnessed the idiocy except for a couple of 3-year-olds who kept looking at me all day like, "Calm the f@#$ down lady." And all the gifts and my manic antics (if you saw me today you might have suspected we won PowerBall) was all for nothing, given nobody was really protesting. The only voiced resistance to the proposed haircut was when Moxley said "Lulu has to go first." Conveniently, Lulu said she wanted to be first. I kept waiting for the terror to set in. The howls. The bat-shit crazy reaction that used to happen when strangers came too close. Nothing. I almost wanted to scream: "You bitches are getting YOUR HAIRCUT TODAY! BY A STRANGER! WITH SCISSORS! DON'T YOU GET IT!!!???"

But we calmly walked into Snippets and they were presented with lollipops and by God, my twins got their first hair cut and everyone, including the stylist, is alive. (It would have been so much of a better story if they went berserk and the stylist stormed out hysterically mid-cut and her body was later found in the Chicago River with a suicide note that simply said "TWINS!")

The outcome: New haircut and new sparkly shoes as promised.

On the down side, who knew two children's haircuts could be so expensive:

Actual haircuts including overtipping because I was so very joyful: $51

Hello Kitty t-shirts from Old Navy: $24

McDonalds lunch (I had a McFlurry and not one of those pansy-assed snack sizes either): $9.33

Cook and bake roll of sugar cookies plus two tubes of orange decorating frosting: $10.63

Lelli Kelli sneakers plus shipping: $147.94

Not having kids that have Heath Ledger hair: Priceless but slightly sad given Halloween is in 18 days and The Joker would have been funny

Total: $240.90

I'm pretty sure even JLo doesn't pay this much for a hair cut.

The Pumpkin Patch

2010-10-11T05:57:00.000-07:00

Can someone please explain to me what is not fun about a pumpkin patch for a three-year-old? You pick pumpkins, go on hayrides and pet ponies. If that's not a honkin' good time for a toddler, then I need a briefer on what is. Plus this place has a big huge jumpy thing, a giraffe (I doubt South Barrington, Ill. is the ideal habitat for a giraffe, but then again I'm not a zoologist) and tons of awesome Halloween decorations. Good old-fashioned fall fun! Plus, it was a beautiful weekend here.

And my kids bitched and whined and moaned. All. Weekend. Long. I warned them: "It's going to be freezing out soon and we'll be locked in the house like that movie where Jack Nicholson goes bonkers and you'll be so OUT OF YOUR MIND nuts you'll start howling 'Red Rum' over and over! Now it's 80 degrees in Chicago in October! Let's have fun or at least pretend like we are!"

They were not the least bit appreciative of our planning what we thought would be the perfect outing. Okay, they're three. But the problem is that by the time they do acknowledge all of the sacrifices their parents made for them -- if they're like me -- they'll be about 40. Which will make me 79 and most likely well into advanced dementia. Which means I will never get the full satisfaction of hearing them articulate their unbridled appreciation for my taking them to pumpkin patches at ungodly early hours to beat the crowds and having to eat $16 worth of tickets for a large inflatable pillow they decided last minute they didn't want to jump on and for the pony ride they didn't want to take for reasons still unclear to me.

And here is my real concern about this less-than-satisfactory outcome at the pumpkin patch: we are heading to Disney World on Saturday for a week. And if these two don't man up and love the freakin' crap out of that Mouse, I'm going to be one unhappy bitch at the happiest place on Earth. The good news is they are not yet three, so they're free. The bad news is my husband and I are not free. And by "not free" I mean we have to pay something like $60 each to go to Mickey Mouse's Not- So-Scary Halloween Party and something like $70 each to break bread with some fake princesses.

My best memory of Disney is the Haunted Mansion. I'm assuming that would be frightening for a couple of 3-year-olds. But maybe it can be used as a good scare tactic. Drag them on that ride the minute we arrive and tell them that's where they'll be staying all week at the first sign of a grumble. Wow, you know what? I was originally just kidding, but seeing it in writing makes it seem like a viable option. If you've used that approach yourself, please post a comment and let me know if it worked and if you had to enroll them in therapy sooner than originally planned.

Anyway, I've been doing an absurd amount of research on preschool-appropriate Disney activities, and received some very distressing information after we got our tickets: It's a Small World AND The Teacups are "closed for refurbishment" during our stay. I think we should get a discount for that. That's like going to Outback Steakhouse and after ordering drinks being told they are out of the Bloomin' Onion. Kind of important information to know up front.

Regardless, I will report back after the trip. I fear the report may start something like this: "Can someone please explain to me what is not fun about riding on a flying baby elephant named Dumbo for a three-year-old?"

PS -- I am aware their hair looks crazy. I am dragging them to Snippets this week and bribing them with the sparkly Lelli Kelli sneakers they keep pointing out and plan to tell them the princesses won't associate with girls who look like rag-a-muffins so we must get our hair cut before Disney trip if we want to hold court with royalty. Bribing and lying: my top two parenting tools.

PPS -- What are the chances they get the shoes but no haircut? Waffling / not following through on threats: my third top parenting tool.

PPPS -- Wendi Aarons, one of the funniest women alive, almost has me convinced to paint their faces like Heath Ledger as The Joker to make Mickey Mouse's Not-So-Scary Halloween party so frightening that everybody flees The Magic Kingdom and we'll have the place to ourselves for a couple of hours. Now, that would be worth the $120. I might have to forgo our Snippets appointment...

The Holy Grail: Chicago Park District Gymnastics

2010-09-23T09:03:00.000-07:00

Because my kids have such intense separation anxiety, I decided we'd wait for pre-school until next fall, and they'll still have a full two years of "socialization" before kindergarten. Also, if we started now they would probably get kicked out and we'd lose a year's worth of tuition. And I'm cheap like that. I mean, as of late I make banana muffins so I don't waste a few pieces of overly ripe fruit. WHO HAVE I BECOME?

So, I made a pact with myself that in this interim year I'd get them acclimated to structured activities, not just "open play" scenarios, so when they do go to preschool next year and are told to sit down or similar, they don't laugh in the teacher's face and throw a juice cup at her head and demand a lollipop or something. (Which is what they do to me, but all kids do that to their mothers, right? RIGHT??!!)

In keeping my pact, I signed them up for a gymnastics class through the Chicago Park District. Lest you think that sounds relatively simple -- signing one's children up for a class through the Chicago Park District -- let me assure you it's not. It entails sitting poised at your computer on registration day at 8:45 am logged into the CPD web site gazing at a timer counting down until 9:00 am when about 4 trillion mothers are vying for a minuscule number of spots for various relatively inexpensive activities to keep their children busy all winter. Some moms actually get babysitters that morning specifically so they won't be distracted with unimportant aspects of their child's well-being like feeding them -- if you wait even one second too long, you're screwed. The stress involved is sort of like if you are about to be electrocuted for a murder you didn't commit and the executioner is mindlessly counting down "10, 9, 8..." and you know BIG BIG things are going down in 7 seconds. Because being stuck inside with your children all winter in Chicago IS LIKE A DEATH SENTENCE. In fact, being electrocuted is probably more kind. Actually, the Park District should offer volunteers to come to your home and execute those moms who don't get their toddlers into one of the pre-school programs. It's the least they can do.

So anyway, there I was, beads of sweat rolling down my forehead, fingers ready on the keyboards to get the girls into a 45-minute gymnastics class and then the clock hit 0 and I spun into action quicker than Lindsay Lohan did a line of coke after being sprung from the clink. I've never typed the names of my kids so fast in my life, it was like I was vying for a $1 million a year slot in the typing pool. I entered Lulu in a frenzy, hit order and boom! We're in! I silently congratulated myself on being the kind of mother who gets important things accomplished. I type in Moxley and a message pops up -- the worst message a mother can receive within Chicago's city limits -- telling me the class is full. I start to feel light-headed and nauseous like I might possibly puke. Then clarity kicks in and I think: "These are reasonable people, they will let Moxley in the class since her IDENTICAL TWIN got in, right?" Riiiiggggghhhhhttttt.

August 16, 9:15 am: Approximately 10 minutes after receiving the news that the class was full, I high-tail it to the place this gymnastics class is going to go down and speak to a boy of about 12 behind the counter. I explain my predicament. I don't use words like "predicament" because I'm not sure 7th graders have had that vocabulary word yet. He listens. He seems sympathetic. He lets me talk for a good 10 minutes without saying a word. I stop talking. He stares. After an awkward silence I say, "Well, can I sign the other twin up for the class?" And he says, "What twin?" and I say, "My twin who didn't get into the class" and he says "What class?" and now I'm slightly agitated and yell "THE GYMNASTICS CLASS!" He then tells me he doesn't have the authority to sign students up for classes that are full and that the person who does is at lunch. I want to ask who goes to lunch at 9:25 am but I decide to sit on the bench quietly until this person with authority returns from her unconventional lunch hour. Or I should say "lunch hours" because I sat there for nearly two hours and she never came back. I leave to go grocery shopping.

August 16, 2:00 pm: Surely one doesn't lunch from 9:25 am to 2:00 pm, right? I mean, even government workers, right? That would be some lunch! The kid sees me coming and looks slightly scared. This gives me immense pleasure. "Remember me?" I ask. "Yup" he says. "Is she back?" I ask. "Nope," he says. "She likes lunch, huh?" "Yup." My sitter is leaving soon so I call it a day, and vow that WE WILL GET IN THAT CLASS. I implement that technique from The Secret wherein I believe my wish has already happened and picture my two girls, vaulting and cartwheeling and doing triple axles with twists at the end of their balance beam routines.

August 16, 2:30 pm: I call the office and get the voice mail of the lunch-loving lady. I leave a very pleasant message detailing my problem and ask for a call back. I am impressed with my ability to erase all signs of sarcasm when I say I hope she had a nice lunch.

August 20: Having not received a call back, I once again go to the office. There is another kid, albeit not the same kid, manning the desk. This one actually has an IQ that might be at or above the 25th percentile range. This pleases me. He gets out a list. He shakes his head solemnly. He writes my name down but tells me signing people into over-booked classes "is above his pay grade." No, the woman whose pay grade it's not above is not available. I'm beginning to think she's like the Wizard of Oz. I leave a note for her. A very pleasant note with my phone number and a smiley face. I feel a sense of resolve. I am getting Moxley into this class or I will die trying. If the latter, their father can explain their mother was a very brave woman of conviction who died for a noble cause. The cause of trying to get Moxley into a 45-minute gymnastic class for 18-month to 3-year-olds sponsored by the Chicago Park District. And if that's not worth dying for, really what is?

August 27: I have received no phone call. No returned messages. But I am not irritated. I am empowered. I saunter into the office and smile sweetly at the lady behind the counter. This one is old and I sense she is not Oz. I sense she is an underpaid, disgruntled, hardened grandmother who wishes she was retired but can't because her no-good ex-husband took off to Vegas with their retirement savings and a hooker. I spend 7 minutes (I timed it) explaining my desperate circumstances and reference "the list" on which I saw the young gentleman write down my name. Grandma is unaware such a list exists. Did I get the guy's name who wrote it down? I did not. She frowns at me with a look that calls me a liar. I don't take it personally -- poor woman is used to liars. Her husband ran off with a prostitute after all. I ask if the Grand Poobah of the Park District with unlimited powers is by chance in. She is not and I'm beginning to think I want this woman's job as I could get paid full time and still be a stay-at-home mom to my two kids. And get them into any Park District program I please. I'm told to check back next week when people may have canceled their registration thereby opening spots. Grandma knows as well as I do that NOBODY gets into a CPD class and cancels. Nobody. I don't let her know I'm onto her scam and leave peacefully. "I'll be back" I whisper sinisterly.

August 31: I leave another voicemail. I sound rather casual and sing-songy like this is all no big deal and I look forward to getting Moxley in the class with her sister so she's not forced to sit on the sidelines like a fourth-string reject on a football team. I hang up, satisfied with my non-confrontational tone. I am going to kill Oz with kindness. Literally, I hope.

September 3: I am starting to channel Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. "I will NOT BE IGNORED, PARK DISTRICT!" I do some breathing exercises wherein I try to picture butterflies but instead picture bunnies boiling on the burners of this thus-far faceless person. Perhaps she doesn't even exist, I begin to think. Weirder things have happened in Chicago. Dead people routinely vote here, so it'd be no big deal if someone was scamming an extra paycheck from a phantom government worker who was allegedly in charge of registration for the city-sponsored pre-school sports program. Maybe this is bigger than my gymnastics dilemma. Maybe I am destined to expose a giant corruption scandal that will bring down city government as we Chicagoans know it! At this point, we are on our way out of town for Labor Day Weekend and I have no time to go to the office. I leave a very loving message noting in a very non-accusatory manner that this is about the millionth time I called and won't someone please do me the courtesy of a return call? Please and thank you!

September 10: It dawns on me I actually might not get Moxley into this class. It dawns on me that I might be a failure as a mother. It dawns on me that I have become a deranged lunatic over a 45-minute, once-a-week class that given the age group will consist of somersault instruction. I have a defeated aura about me as I shuffle into the park office. There are about 14 people in front of me with varying issues (none as urgent as mine!) and then I notice an unfamiliar face behind the desk. Could it be? I feel like Dorothy when she finally laid eyes on the Wizard of Oz: unimpressed and duped. But I also feel hopeful. At least a decision maker is in my midst! I wait about 55 minutes and am sort of nervous, like I'm about to meet a rock star. Albeit an aging rock star wearing a pink hair scrunchy and nylon gym shorts. I introduce myself. No glimmer of recognition at the name. I wonder if perhaps she routinely gets 500 voicemails from the same mom every registration session so it's no big deal or if she simply deletes her voicemails without listening to them because she's too busy lunching during breakfast time to bother. I explain my situation. She gets out "the list." I see my name. She tells me several names are ahead of mine so there's nothing she can do. I admit defeat. I ask for a refund for Lulu and figure we'll join something more expensive like The Little Gym instead. No big whoop. And then she says: "You needed to ask for a refund two weeks before the start of the class." I feel a vein in my head explode and wonder if I'm going to die of an aneurysm right there in the Chicago Park District Office. I joked about dying to get my 3-year-old in gymnastics but I'm REALLY GOING TO DIE TRYING TO GET MY 3-YEAR-OLD IN GYMNASTICS. I sort of lose my mind and start spouting an unintelligible crazy rant I barely recall about how do I tell one twin she can't participate while the other twin is doing backflips and shit and how can they not give me a refund when I've been trying FOR WEEKS to get this resolved and who the hell eats lunch in the 9:00 morning hour anyway?!!!" She shows no emotion. She looks at me and says calmly, "We may be able to get you into the 11:30 am class instead of the 10:30 class. Would that work?" "Yes! Yes! For the love of God, yes!" I felt a flood of emotion one should only feel in therapy. Then she says: "I have to go over the list again, I can't promise anything." SHE SAYS SHE'LL CALL ME.

September 17: I have not received the promised phone call. I leave her a voicemail. I sound like a wounded, yelping dog on its deathbed. I think this woman could work magic at Gitmo. She is a master manipulator. I am ready to confess to anything to get into this class, including but not limited to that I, not Drew Peterson, murdered everyone he's ever been married to. I go to the office, she's not there. I leave her a hand-written note on scratch paper with a bitten, inch-long pencil provided to me by the kid -- the slightly more intelligent one -- working behind the counter. I briefly look at the note and realize it looks like it's written by a psychopath. Which it was. I fold it, press it into his palm and beg:"Give it to her, won't you?"

September 20: This class, in which only one of my twins is registered, starts in 48 hours. My feelings toward this woman have become so complex I wonder if we knew each other in a past life. I think about her more than I've ever thought before about someone I barely knew. (Except Daniel Craig, I guess that goes without saying.) I lay awake wondering why she wants to deny my children access to toddler gymnastics and thereby possibly someday the Olympics, why she hates me so much and if she is just a figment of my imagination, which would at least explain why she won't call me back. I get in my car. I slump in the drivers seat for way too long, wondering if this woman sits around thinking of ways to make me miserable while she eats lunch during breakfast-time and asking myself if she eats lunch at breakfast, when does she eat breakfast? After much internal debate I decide she must eat breakfast for dinner. I drag my tormented soul into the office. I wonder if I should have gotten a $100 bill out of the bank to bribe her. All city employees in Chicago take bribes -- why didn't I think of that before? Our eyes meet. I see a flicker of recognition in her eyes. Yet I have to explain AGAIN why I'm there and she replies "There is no movement" on the waiting lists for any of the pre-school gymnastics classes and reiterates that they can't refund the registration fee for the twin who did get in the class. I sigh, I am done. I give up. Keep my $50 City of Chicago! I no longer wish to serve as a pawn in your very twisted game! I turn to go and hear her voice call out: "Can you do the 9:30 class instead?" I whip back around. She wants to get my hopes up so she can tear me down, right? She continues: "I can switch Lulu into the 9:30 and sign up Moxley right now." I grab for my credit card before she changes her mind. I hear the machine accept payment and am handed a receipt. Lulu and Moxley are official students in 9:30 Chicago Park District Gymnastics! Victory! VIICCCCTTTTOOORRRRYYYY! I think of Mel Gibson in Braveheart. Russell Crowe in Gladiator. Daniel Craig in Casino Royale, not because he survived an epic battle but because I always think of him and that day was no different. I walk amongst heroes. We have faced tough battles and come out winners. I am one with greatness.

September 22: It is our first day of gymnastics class. I practically scream with glee when I go to get them in the morning: "WE HAVE GYMNASTICS TODAY!!!! ISN'T THAT EXCITTTTIIINNNNGGGG?" They are not quite as enthusiastic as I am. All morning I say things like, "We'll do cartwheels and balance beam and have soooo muucccchhhh fun!!!!" I wonder if someone slipped an Adderall in my coffee. We arrive early and head toward the gym. I pass other moms in the lobby and want to shout, "You bitches have no idea what I went through to be here!!!" There are 2 floor mats, one small bouncy thing, one pair of rings, one colorful wedge apparatus and two balance beams. The girls head for the rings and begin playing. Okay, this is fun. I take several pictures. It's now 9:25 and we're walking on the low beam. At about 9:28, the entire toddler population of Chicago storms the gym, sort of like a reenactment of Spain's Running with the Bulls but far more dangerous. The ratio of kids to equipment is approximately 4 million to 1. We wait in long lines to roll down the wedge apparatus which has several holes with foam sticking out. An understandably frustrated child charges the rings knocking into Lulu. It's 9:45 and the moms start wondering where the teacher is. One mom takes charge and goes to the desk. Oz appears wearing her trademark gym shorts but really mixing it up with a purple striped scrunchy and informs us THERE IS NO TEACHER. "This is a caregiver-led gymnastics experience," she snorts condescendingly.

Doesn't the word "class" imply it is in fact TAUGHT by a TEACHER? To summarize a very convoluted and long-winded post, I LOST SLEEP and more importantly MY MIND over getting my kids into a "caregiver-led gymnastics experience" during which after 20 minutes my children informed me they "think it smells poopy in here" and "never want to come back." Mommy doesn't want to come back either, I told them.

PS -- Anyone ever do Little Gym? We have a free trial class on Tuesday. Five minutes after I registered for it online, a very nice woman called asking if I have any questions, what to expect during class and other welcoming niceties. BITE ME CHICAGO PARK DISTRICT.

PPS -- Just in case you think I'm exaggerating, which I'm prone to do, the Chicago Tribune reported that some CPD class spots fill up within "less than half a second" online.

Tweet Me

2010-08-25T05:54:00.000-07:00

Hell hath frozen over. I now have an iPhone (albeit a hand-me-down because my husband wanted the new one) and A TWITTER ACCOUNT. Just call me Ashton. I will send the first person to comment on this post my address so they can have the pleasure of shooting me. I swore I would never ever use Twitter. I'm long-winded after all. Why say something in less than 140 characters when you can ramble on for pages about it? Alas, it became a job requirement for my Famecrawler blogging gig, so I was sort of forced into the technological revolution, kicking, screaming and cursing Ashton Kutcher the entire way. (I know he didn't invent Twitter, but I like to blame him.)

My "handle" (I think that's what it's called?) is luluandmoxley. I'd send you a link to my page IF I COULD FIGURE OUT HOW TO DO SO. Of course, I haven't said much of anything and might remain a silent Tweeter ... Interestingly, I currently have five followers, one of which is CVS Pharmacy. Were they so threatened by my quest for off-the-books prescriptions that they want to follow my every move to ensure I don't stray into the dark foray of online meds? I feel like I'm being stalked by my pharmacist. Can you take out a restraining order on a corporation?

Other things going on in my life probably not worth mentioning but I'm hard up for material:

--Moxley has informed me she is a boy and she is going to "be a daddy when she gets big." Listen, I am open-minded and will unconditionally love my children for exactly who they are. But I'd be lying if I didn't tell you I woke up this morning with a disturbing image of Chaz Bono in my brain.

--I am going to be interviewing Molly Ringwald next month. Please submit questions as right now all I can think of is: 1) Did anyone ever steal your panties in real life as proof they had sex with you? 2) Do Judd Nelson's nostrils look that big in real life? 3) Is Andrew McCarthy as bad of a kisser as one might imagine? 4) Do you call your kids the "brat pack" and then laugh like a hyena to yourself? I might add this interview is a means to an end really. Once you interview one celebrity, you gain some "street cred" and other celebrities might let you interview them. I think you know where I'm going with this. First Molly Ringwald, then maybe one of the Real Housewives then DANIEL CRAIG. My first (and probably last) question for him will be this: "Can I stick my tongue in your ear?"

--Speaking of the Real Housewives, I have an idea so grand, so innovative, so ground-breaking I may soon be brought onto Bravo as their Chief Creative Genius. I am proposing that the Real Housewives of New York and the Real Housewives of New Jersey be combined into one trashtastic program. If you're into the Real Housewives, read about it here. (And if you're not into Real Housewives, might I ask why? I don't like people who have lives of their own...)

--I am becoming the mother I always hated: I booked a party venue for the girls' third birthday. Which isn't for three months. And they have no friends. But they've been invited to parties and I'm afraid they'll wonder why they didn't have one once their birthday gets here. And let's face it, what's a couple hundred dollars compared to having a bunch of screaming preschoolers messing up your house? Plus, what would I do to entertain them all? I don't juggle and hiring a magician or similar must be at least $300 so I'm actually saving money.

Peace out. I have to go think of something to Tweet. If you simply tweet "shoot me" every day do the authorities eventually show up?

NoPrescriptionNeeded.com

2010-08-19T06:58:00.000-07:00

Go ahead, admit it. As soon as you saw the title of this post you thought, "Mmm hmm, I knew it! This lady has a prescription drug problem! Clearly that's why her kids still drink milk from a bottle and they are nearly three and not potty trained! That's why she hasn't posted in a month! She's too busy snorting vicodin!"

Well, no. I'm not even sure if you can snort vicodin. I was once given a prescription for vicodin after a surgery and as I repeatedly hurled stomach acid into the toilet (maybe you're not supposed to take it on an empty stomach?) I wondered how the hell all the celeb types who are hooked on it film movies while simultaneously throwing up.

There is a prescription I desperately want (if desperate means Googling "medication without a prescription" and giggling with glee when NoPrescriptionNeeded.com magically appears) but I don't think any doctor will give it to me. Not that I've asked, mind you. I don't like doctors to think I'm any crazier than need be.

Thing is (beware: TMI), since giving birth, my time of the month has become excruciating. I used to think all that PMS talk was a good excuse to call off of work or get out of a date or blame eating a whole basket of cheese fries on. I didn't understand what women went through who suffered from it because it never affected me. Until. Until I had two babies, now toddlers, to contend with. Um, God? It would have been kinder the other way around, just for future reference. When I was a carefree singleton I could have dealt better with the mind-blowing cramps because I could have just stayed in bed all day. Try explaining to two kids that mommy doesn't feel like cursing out other moms at the park because her tummy hurts. Doesn't go over well.

But the cramps aside, I also retain enough water to fill a swimming pool that could cool off every child within the city limits of Chicago. Which is where the prescription thing comes in. There's a glorious, magical pill for high blood pressure that eliminates water retention called hydrothiazide (or something like that). Its creation is on par with men flying to the moon. It's that awesome. Here's the problem: I don't have high blood pressure. As a matter of fact, my blood pressure is on the low side. So I'm assuming no doctor in their right mind would give me any, even though I just want to take one pill five days of every month.

I'm innovative, however, so why let a pesky little roadblock like a doctor stop me? Hence, yesterday I am on NoPrescriptionNeeded.com and I find the prescription I want and am faced with some decisions that are probably beyond my medical expertise. Do I want 25 mg or 50 mg? People, I think you know what I chose. Why get rid of a little bloat when you can bomb the f@#$ out it? Right, 50 mg. Then I had to decide how many pills I wanted. 30? 60? 400? Well, one never knows when the feds might catch up with NoPrescriptionNeeded.com so I opted for 400 which were rather reasonably priced at 16 cents per pill. Hell, I would have paid $1 per pill so now I'm thrilled and wondering if I should do overnight shipping which would mean the very next day my bloat would be washed away or be more economical and do regular delivery. Hell, I've already SAVED money by choosing to buy in bulk so I choose 2-day delivery as a compromise.

I'm feeling pretty good about myself at this point. Why does nobody know about this site? Why does my friend who is desperate for Adderall for weight loss not go here instead of faking an ADD problem? Why are all those idiots "doctor shopping," wasting time going from doctor to doctor to get their valium or whatnot? I wonder if Lindsay Lohan knows about this site and if I should get a Twitter account for the sole purpose of telling her about it.

So I click "buy" and am informed I need a membership to execute the transaction. Okay, I'm mildly perturbed but these lovely people are giving me DRUGS. WITHOUT A PRESCRIPTION! Who am I to complain? I am now faced with a decision: do I want the monthly, quarterly or yearly subscription. I do the math. The yearly option is a much better deal. Sure, I'm ordering enough pills to last me well into menopause when I will presumably no longer need menstruation relief, but hell -- who knows what else I might need! I can do away with doctors altogether by self-diagnosing via Google! That's probably how doctors these days diagnose anyway! Why pay them for something I can do myself for free! I click the yearly option, and am asked for my credit card information so they can charge the $79 fee. I'm feeling slightly less smug, but still grateful.

I use a Visa Gift Card I was given because something tells me my husband, who gets all hung up on silly legalities and such, might ask some questions if he sees a charge from NoPrescriptionNeeded.com on our credit card statement. He's the type who might turn them into law enforcement, thereby cutting off my supplier.

I'm asked to come up with a user name (in case I want to chat online with a community of drug addicts, I wonder?) and briefly consider BloatedMama to turn off any online sexual predators. I fill in a bunch of other info that strikes me as wholly unnecessary (just send my pills, f@#$ers!) and finally am now an official member of what must an elite club at NoPrescriptionsNeeded.com.

Finally! I set my order for 400 magic pills and press the "submit" button at which time the following note appears: "You need a valid prescription to order this medication" with an address where I can mail the prescription.

THE WEB SITE IS CALLED NOPRESCRIPTIONNEEDED.COM for crying out loud! And they now have $79 from me from a gift card. Can you even get a refund on a gift card? I am incensed and bloated. Not a good combination.

I call the 800 number. I decide I am going to be calm, rational and diplomatic about this because a) these people are drug dealers, and b) they have my address.

Guy on Phone: How can I help you?

Me: Right, well, I just joined NoPrescriptionsNeeded.com so I could order some medication without a prescription (I'm now feeling slightly dirty saying this out loud) and well, I went to purchase the medication and it wouldn't let me and said I needed a valid prescription.

Guy on Phone: (In very slow, condescending tone) Yes, ma'am, you need a valid prescription for prescription medication. It's illegal to dispense medication in the United States without a valid prescription.

Me: (Forgetting I vowed to stay congenial): How lovely you are up on federal drug statutes. Let me ask you this: Do you think it's a bit strange your web site is named NO PRESCRIPTION NEEDED.COM when you in fact NEED a prescription to order drugs from there???!!!

Guy on Phone: How can I help you ma'am?

Me: You can refund my membership fee which I won't need because the only reason I joined was so I could ORDER MEDICINE WITHOUT A PRESCRIPTION as your website so clearly implies can be done.

Guy on Phone: So you want to cancel your membership?

Me: Um, yes, doesn't everyone once they learn they can't order medicine without a prescription from NOPRESCRIPTIONNEEDED.COM!!!"

Guy on Phone: Can I assume you will dispute the charges if we don't issue a refund? (clearly he's seen this line of complaint before...)

Me: You bet your sweet ass you can!

Guy on Phone: Please hold.

I am now put on hold for a stretch of time that the geniuses behind NoPrescriptionNeeded.com determined that most prescription drug addicts are not willing to wait. But, alas, I am not a prescription drug addict! I am a bloated mother of twins who wants her $79 back so she can buy some junk at Target!

Guy on Phone: (Sounding somewhat surprised I am still there) Ma'am, we will issue a refund within 48 hours.

Me: (click)

What are the chances they are really going to refund me? 10 percent? 5 percent? 0 percent? My guess is they figure drug addicts won't even remember the whole chain of events and just get their credit card bill and forget if they scored drugs from there or not. Not me! I have a note on my calendar to call them back (I hope I get the same guy, we bonded) in exactly 48 hours from the time of the conversation if that money doesn't reappear on the gift card.

Lesson? 1) Periods get worse after having kids. 2) It's really time-consuming and expensive, I would imagine, to be a prescription drug addict. 3) Never give up -- I need to Google "faking high blood pressure" asap.

"Take a Picture of the F#$%ING Paw!"

2010-07-21T21:04:00.000-07:00

I have not one coherent thought today, so instead I will share random crap that's happening in my neck of the woods. Don't you hate that expression? "My neck of the woods." Who made that shit up? Only Al Rocker can get away with it. And only because he started using it when he weighed about 500 pounds. Nobody wants to hear a skinny weather man say that crap.

--The girls, as depicted above, like to sit in boxes and are still drinking milk from a bottle. I think bribery is the key to effective parenting, so I've been waiting for them to really really want something so I can nonchalantly, like I don't really care if they accept my offer say, "Oh really? Well Mommy will get you that when you start drinking milk from a cup like a big girl." Then casually go about discussing something else, like if Kipper the Dog's British accent is upper crust or working class. We were at the park when our neighbor who is six went flying by on her new bike. "I want a bike! A big pink bike with feathers!" declared Lulu. Why feathers? We don't know and that's not the point. Moxley concurred except she wants hers to be blue with a big horn so "people get out the way." Here was my chance. In the same casual, I couldn't-care-less tone I used to muster when a guy was breaking up with me, I told them I'd be happy to oblige if we got rid of their bottles. They looked at me, looked at each other and Lulu said: "I love my scooter" followed by "cups of milk are stinky" and scootered off.

--Please note the Christmas pjs. In July. At least we're off the Halloween kick. I figure around Thanksgiving they'll become obsessed with Easter.

--Facebook is a funny thing. I'm not very good at it. I don't know the basic rules, like how to hide my profile and pictures from the world. How to tell everyone I "like" something and why I'd even want to. Recently, I wrote an unremarkable post over at FameCrawler about Gene Simmons going to see his son Nick play at some bar. I made an unfunny comment using a Kiss lyric. It wasn't my finest work. Then I saw someone said they "liked it" via Facebook. So I wanted to see who it could be. Only Gene Simmons or Nick Simmons or the owner of the bar I mentioned could have possibly wanted to share that post with their Facebook friends. So I clicked on the little Facebook logo only to find out now I had a note ON MY Facebook page that I liked it. Except I didn't. Then I had to figure out how to delete the fact I supposedly liked it (which, again, I didn't) deleting several other things at the same time. Hence, I need to a) quit Facebook but I'd never figure out how; or b) get a tutorial so I can be a meaningful participant on Facebook or c) get a tutorial and hope it includes how to delete your own Facebook page.

--So speaking of Facebook, I received an apology via FB from a boy (now man) I dated circa 1983. In case you're not good with numbers, that's 27 YEARS AGO. More than half of the time I've been on this Earth and then some. The relationship, if one could call it such, was a very innocent infatuation and we never went further than kissing. Then my family moved to a new town, we wrote for a while and then he found another girlfriend. Who can blame him? Well, he could I guess. He wrote to me to tell me he "could have handled things better" and it's one of his biggest regrets. Robbing a liquor store and haphazardly shooting someone is a life regret. Dumping a girl when you're 16 who moved two hours away is not. Then I started wondering if this a craze or fad hitting the United States and we're all supposed to make amends with anyone we ever wronged, no matter how slight. I'm a busy person, and if I have to apologize to every single person I offended since the mid-80s, I'm not going to be blogging again for a while. Maybe ever.

--I was just lugging groceries up our back steps and heard one of the hippies screaming to another: "Take a picture of his f@#$ing paw!" I'm assuming he's speaking of the dog. Why do they need a photo of the paw? Why not the whole dog? This mystery might have me up all night. What also has me perplexed: why are these hippies so mean? What happened to put them in terminally bad moods? Granted, they live in an illegally parked rv with a dog on the dashboard. I get it -- life hasn't been kind. But these are the most pissed off people you've ever seen. I'd broach the topic with them but I fear they'd murder me and feed me to the dog. I saw some rather big bones in front of the trailer one day. They might have been human.

--After all my bitching about pre-school, I decided to wait a year. Perhaps they're not ready. Perhaps I'm not ready. Or perhaps the "Going on a life journey? Come fly with us! No baggage fees!" turned me off to the whole thing. Regardless, they will still have two years of pre-school before kindergarten if they start next year and if that ruins their life? Well, they can add it to the list.

Ghetto

2010-07-14T21:33:00.000-07:00

Kim Kardashian recently got blasted (by Demi Moore of all people) via a Twitter war about using the term "ghetto." But I think that's because Kim used it like it was cool, like "that party was all ghetto" as if "ghetto" is cool rather than a stark, sad reality in many of our country's largest cities.

So if you're reading, Demi, and let's face it, you seem to spend an inordinate amount of time on electronic technology so you just might be, I mean it in the real sense of the word. The girls wanted to have a picnic, but they didn't want to go to the park. They didn't want to have one on our deck overlooking the squatter hippies (and who can blame them?) and they didn't want to have one at our friend's house who is fortunate enough to have a back yard.

Hence, off to the sidewalk in front of our condo we went. Which just struck me as sort of low rent. Like we're just one step (barely) above the aforementioned surly hippie squatters. (Oh, someone asked why we don't call the police. The police, alderman, Humane Society, ASPCA and a host of other authorities have been alerted to no avail. A woman in the neighborhood with some connections -- unlike me -- is leading the charge and I'm pretty sure she's working up the channels and Obama himself will soon be alerted to the situation. She is actually a radio personality and said she's doing a piece on it soon. If there is a tape of it, I will certainly link as she's hilarious about the whole situation).

But back to our unfortunate picnic. There is a new, somewhat popular restaurant that opened next to us with outdoor seating. I kept feeling the clientele looking at us pitifully, like "Look at those poor children relegated to sitting on the hard sidewalk eating graham crackers for dinner!" I almost wanted to start begging them for bites of their entrees or if they could spare a french fry for the girls for effect.

Speaking of which, I've decided the only snacks I will bring to the park are fruits and vegetables. No more crackers! No more yogurt melts! No more heroin! (Um, can't you take a joke?) So now I get the Spanish Inquisition every time they want a snack:

Them: I want a snack.

Me: Okay, I have carrots, banana and green beans.

Them: Do you have a cereal bar?

Me: No, I have carrots, banana and green beans.

Them: Do you have graham crackers?

Me: No, I have carrots, banana and green beans.

Them: Do you have Elmo crackers?

Me: No, I have carrots, banana and green beans.

Them: Do you have animal crackers?

Me: No, I have carrots, banana and green beans.

Them: Do you have cookies?

Me: No, I have carrots, banana and green beans.

Them: Do you have pretzels?

Me: No, I have carrots, banana and green beans.

Okay, I think you get the point.

This could go on anywhere between 10 minutes to an hour. Yesterday after quizzing me for about 30 minutes, Lulu looked at me and said: "Is this a funny game?" and I said, "No, I have carrots, banana and green beans."

Then she asked to search my bag "just in case" there were crackers in there. Would you believe she f@#$ing found an old squashed-up Earth's Best Strawberry Cereal Bar in some random pocket of the bag I forgot existed which has escalated the whole freaking process because now she never believes when I say I don't have a certain snack item?

Anyway, my point here is: Is it time I pack it up and move to the suburbs so my kids are not destined to having picnics on our city sidewalks while onlookers look at them with sympathy? I hate to admit it, but I might miss our terminally high, illegally parked neighbors and their alley-mates who like to set off an explosive or two. Or at least the idea of them. You won't find that in Naperville, Ill., I'm pretty sure.

Partying Like It's 1776

2010-07-05T21:13:00.000-07:00

Independence Day is now my least favorite holiday. It used to be St. Patty's Day. (Do you wear kelly green and look too eager? Not wear green at all and be accused of being a a kill-joy? Why dye a perfectly tasty beer green?)

My hippie neighbors, the ones squatting in an illegally parked Winnebago in the alley behind our condo, usually party like it's 1966. Well, this weekend they partied like it was 1776. I swear, whatever they were setting off couldn't have been fireworks. No, I think they rented a cannon from an outfit that does Civil War reenactments -- because I'm pretty sure they were setting off cannons, not firecrackers. My other theory is that they are time travelers and their RV is one big travel machine and the dog living on the dashboard is the pilot. They didn't have to rent the cannon, they simply showed up at the Battle of Gettysburg and shoved some ammunition into their RV and poof -- back to 2010!

I knew things were going to be ugly when I heard one of them say to another at 3:00 pm on the Fourth -- as their the empty Bud Light cans edged out the dog's nook in the front window -- "ya git the lighter fluid or what?" I thought he was talking about cooking on the grill but now I realize he was referring to fuel for the explosives.

Flash forward seven hours and I'm on the floor in a sleeping bag trying to calm my daughters' nerves as World War III raged outside our window. While, by the way, our dinner guests are having a very lovely evening (without me) eating grilled delicacies. SHOOT ME.

The celebration lasted well into July 5, with me waking up with two toddlers on top of me asking for lollipops for breakfast at 5:00 am. SHOOT ME AGAIN. Because we were out of the Strawberry Shortcake and Banana Spit variety. I lasted as long as possible (7:00 am) until I went storming into my bedroom where their father peacefully slept and hollered as loud as humanly possible, hoping to wake up not only my husband but also the hippies, "YOUR F#$%ING TURN!"

Deliriously, I fell into bed and I later learned the girls were placed in their crib and slept until noon. I am already planning my vacation for July 2010 -- it will be in a country that is not supportive of America's victory (England? France? Iraq?). ANYWHERE will be better than here. I thought of Cancun (how expensive could Mexico be in July?) but I think people who vacation there in the summer are just looking for excuses to blow shit up.

So after naps today (mine and theirs) we had a perfectly lovely afternoon downtown near our old haunt where we lived when our place was flooded by our liquored up neighbor who decided to take a tub at midnight after five bottles of wine but passed out before she had the pleasure. I only add the last part about our Cleaver-esque family time because I think it's sort of an uplifting note on which to end for those readers who think I only complain.

PS -- This is the first time ever I slept with my children. It confirms my theory that parents who co-sleep are: a) mentally unstable; b) masochists; c) unspeakably lonely.

PPS -- The last time I slept in a sleeping bag was 1990 when my college boyfriend of several years took the opportunity to tell me on a camping trip that I was getting fat. That was really fun compared to this.

PPPS -- Oh, our neighbors who I verbally assaulted last year? Nothing. They must have had a family meeting (there are like 98 of them in that apartment, enough for a full-blown debate) and voted, deciding to take the safe route in case the lady who lives behind them is as potentially criminally insane as she seems.

An Open Letter

2010-07-03T13:07:00.000-07:00

Dear Fellow Citizens of the United States of America:

I'd like to begin on a positive note: Kudos on your enthusiasm in commemorating the independence of our great nation as evidenced by your early start! We are indeed on the cusp of the 234th birthday of the Unites States, and dare I say George Washington, Ben Franklin and all of those other guys would be thrilled at the glee with which you are celebrating! So thank you for that. It's nice to know I'm surrounded by neighbors who love these United States as much as I!

However -- and please know I don't mean to damper your spirits or love of country -- might I ask you a few thought-provoking questions weighing heavily on my mind as I was awoken repeatedly last night by nerve-wracking explosions, blaring Ted Nugent music and a peculiar "Whoop! Whoop!" sound? (And also one of those vuvuzela things, but I'll take that up separately with the World Soccer Association.) I checked my calendar, just to be sure, and last night was JULY 2, a full two days before Independence Day. Which makes me wonder if you regale all occasions in such a pre-mature manner. For example:

--Do you open Christmas presents on the morning of the Eve of Christmas Eve?

--Hide your kids Easter basket on Good Friday?

--Leave money under your child's pillow when their tooth is merely loose?

--Bang pots and pans and clink champagne at midnight on December 29?

--Eat a big turkey dinner the third Tuesday of every November?

--Throw a wedding reception 48 hours before marrying?

No? Then lay off the f@#%ing fireworks and associated revelry until THE ACTUAL HOLIDAY.

I would guess, if I had the means or the inclination to do a study in which I gathered the offending parties in one room and asked them a simple question: "What is the significance of the Fourth of July?" the answers would range from "Boston threw a tea party for the Queen of England" to "The South officially seceded from the Union" to "Metallic put out its first album."

An occasional "whoop whoop!" between now and tomorrow I can tolerate. Because I've become a better person since last year. And despite the fact that explosives ARE ILLEGAL IN ILLINOIS I'm willing to look the other way instead of going off on a profanity-laced tirade when your children attempt to blow their appendages off tomorrow. But, until then, in the name of our Founding Fathers, can you keep it the f@#$ down?

PS -- If you don't cooperate, I'm going to force you into my living room at gunpoint in the middle of the night and insist you watch Caillou 40 times with toddler twins when the repeated popping scares the bejesus out of them. And, trust me, watching Caillou 40 times at 1:00 am is slightly less fun than a bottle rocket exploding in your face.

The Rules

2010-07-02T10:02:00.000-07:00

In the span of about a week, Lulu went from a borderline recluse to a social butterfly. Not just a social butterfly, but one of those annoying people who are too eager to be your friend. Remember those girls? They might have been okay and maybe you would have hung out with them if they didn't seem so, well, desperate?

When I say this metamorphosis happened over the course of seven days I'm not exaggerating. It started last week with "Mommy, what's that little girl's name?" and when I told her to ask the girl she insisted, "You ask Mommy!" and then bashfully hid behind me while I struck up conversation with a four-year-old. Then I served as her go-between wherein I'd ask pertinent questions as instructed ("Do you like ice cream little girl?") and relay the information back and forth, all while Lulu buried her head shyly into my legs.

This gradually progressed throughout the week until the other day when Lulu went storming up to a girl at the park and said: "Hi little girl. What's your name? I'm Lulu. Do you wear big girl underpants and poop on the potty? I love you!" This was pledged in one long sentence without giving the girl (Hannah, age 5, who we later learned does poop on the potty but still wears pull-ups at night) time to answer or breathe. Then Lulu moved in for the kill, hugging the girl tightly and begging, "Please play with me!" It was slightly pathetic.

Listen, in my experience aloof plays better than needy any day, but how do you explain that to a two-year-old? I don't think she's old enough for a copy of The Rules, which in some ways can apply to friendships as well as romances. This unbridled affection, by the way, is only saved for a certain subset of park-goers. Only girls between the ages of 4 and 7. If you are a boy, or are not in the coveted age demographic, she'll have nothing to do with you, possibly even stating very forthrightly, looking you straight in the eye: "I don't like you!" and then for good measure, even if nobody is touching her scooter, yell "Get your own scooter!"

As Lulu indiscriminately invites every girl in her preferred age range to our home ("Want to come to my house little girl? But I love you!") Moxley cowers, and screams, "No little girl come to my house! No No No!" It's like an unfunny Abbott and Costello routine.

Luckily, if Moxley keeps insisting on wearing empty tampon boxes as hats, I don't think I have to worry about anyone actually showing up at our house for a play date. And when a "little girl" denies Lulu's aggressive advances, this is how she reacts:

Lulu is also obsessed with grandmas, routinely and loudly pointing them out as if she's being helpful in identifying the grandma species, "That little girl with her grandma!" she screams proudly. Unfortunately, I fear she's a bit young to explain that thanks to modern infertility technology, oftentimes these are mothers of "advanced maternal age" as my fertility specialist so eloquently called it, not grandmothers. Her own mother (moi) would probably look more like a grandma too if not for the sacred inventions of Botox and bleach. It's terribly embarrassing as she hollers, pointing "GRANDMA!" as I try to usher her away saying, "Yes, we'll go see Grandma soon!" in the hopes the poor haggard mother doesn't understand Lulu thinks she look like a member of the AARP.

She is also starting to notice, shall we say, the size variances in individuals. And while the girls thankfully don't know the word "fat," Lulu will call out, "That's a BIG BIG BIG little girl!" while pointing, just to make sure I see who she's referring to. I die just a bit inside when I see an obese kid coming our way (and there are a lot in Chicago), anticipating that Lulu might feel the need to point it out for my benefit. I try to tell her it's not nice to say that but she doesn't get it. On that note, a friend's son recently said to a larger guest in their home, "Will I have a big belly like you when I growed up?" Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if this was said to a guy, but alas it was a young woman. And then he KEPT innocently pestering her with that line of questioning while his mother (I presume) disappeared into the kitchen to do some tequila shots to take the edge off.

Is there a muzzle on the market for toddlers? If so, and I make Lulu wear one to the park, will Child Services pay a visit?

Chicken Soup

2010-07-01T19:44:00.000-07:00

An observant, anonymous reader kindly noted recently that I "find fault in everything and complain a lot." And you know what? She's right. And it got me thinking: what am I so damned pissed off about? My life is pretty good and I'm crazy about my girls. My family is healthy. The girls are happy (usually). So I think I'm going to change my tune, my blog, my life. I am going to become a positive person, be grateful for what I have and stop, as the saying goes "sweating the small stuff." I'm going to stop being so negative and start blogging about the spiritual, positive aspects of my life. I am going to have new mottos, oldies but goodies: "live and let live" and "free to be you and me." Readers, welcome to my revamped blog: Chicken Soup for the Twin Mom's Soul.

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA! Seriously, no movie line ever resonated with me so completely as when Shirley Maclaine (or was it Olympia Dekakis?) said in Steel Magnolias "If you don't have anything nice to say, come sit by me." Well, that and "Nobody puts baby in the corner" by the late great Patrick Swayze and "I get a lot of compliments on this, besides it's not a man purse it's a satchel; Indiana Jones carries one" from The Hangover but those are less relevant here.

Okay, so on that note here are my top gripes for the day:

1) Independence Day: July 4 will be here in exactly 3 days. While I like to celebrate the birth of our great nation as much as the next guy, now having kids it only means one thing: they will be awakened repeatedly over the weekend by idiots setting off fireworks WHICH ARE ILLEGAL IN THE STATE OF ILLINOIS. Last year, I went ballistic (a bit embarrassingly over the top) on our neighbors (I haven't been able to make eye contact since) and wonder if my excessive over-reaction will a) make them not set off fireworks this year or b) set off about 10 times as many just to prove a point. And something tells me the hippie squatters behind us won't pass up the opportunity to make a little noise this weekend. After all, what could be more fun than mixing pot and explosives?

2) The Ice Cream-Eating Nanny: We pretty much go to the same park after naptime very day which has the unfortunate location of being across the street from a Dairy Queen. Which wasn't a problem until recently, when a nanny starting showing up at the park like clockwork every day around 5:00 pm eating a ginormous sundae, and occasionally when she desired candy with her ice cream, a Blizzard. Her charge is only an infant so doesn't really get the ice cream thing yet. But all the other kids do and you hear a dull roar resonate throughout the park of kids demanding ice cream. Listen, I get it's a public place and you can whatever you damn please there. But really? You need to taunt children with ice cream during the dinner hour? Kind of like the mom who sat in a sandbox sucking on a lollipop at 9:00 am. Really?

3) The Jet-Setting Neighbors: Our neighbors who own the comparable unit in our condo building are going into foreclosure. Who would have known they were broke and not able to pay their mortgage when they were going on lavish vacations and recently bought a fancy new car! What suckers we are to be driving a 2004 model and skipping vacations so we could continue to afford ours after I quit working! And because they put no money down, they don't care what price they sell it at -- because they're not getting any of their non-existent down payment back anyway! So guess who is screwed if we want to sell our place because theirs is going for way below market value? Not them! They also have a dog who recently overdosed on Prozac and had to be rushed to the doggy emergency room. I bet that cost a pretty penny... And, no, I swear on my life I'm not kidding.

4) Ali the Bachelorette: And just when I thought I couldn't hate a Bachelorette more than Jillian, Ali exclaims "Bring on the boys!" And it's been downhill since then. Who could have foreseen that a professional wrestler who goes by the stage name "Rated R" might be up to no good? And what's with the guy Cape Cod Chris who has his late mother's signature tattooed on his chest? You get that creepy piece of information and you don't even wait for the next rose ceremony to chuck him.

5) The Chatty, Pretentious Lady at the Park: People, do I seem like I want to make friends to you? Some woman is hell bent on being pals and, quite frankly, I'm more open to Lisa Rinna becoming my BFF --and we know how I feel about her. She uses "summer" as a verb. She says things like she "doesn't shop at big box stores" and brags that she and her husband (who must have been a serial murderer in his past life and this is payback) take their kids to "fine dining establishments" because "that's why we live in the city after all -- for the culture." She's never been in a Jewel (is that a "big box store" one wonders?) only Whole Foods and "Trader Joes only when absolutely necessary." Whatevs. I try not to respond beyond what's completely necessary so as not to encourage further interaction but I am curious why going into Trade Joes would ever be "absolutely necessary." Asking that question, however, might present the false impression I care. She also goes "on holiday," not vacation and no, she's not European.

Thing is, this woman tries to act like she's wealthy but I'm pretty sure if she summers somewhere it's at a Motel 6 right near a major interstate. So anyway, my mom was visiting and after a joint encounter with this woman my mom said, "You were so cold to her!" I was so happy because that's the exact demeanor I was going for. I actually thought I was being sort of too nice. But if you give this lady an inch, she'll never leave. Anyway, this woman just announced she is selling her house and moving to a new neighborhood and she must have wondered what was up because I practically hugged her in glee. She probably didn't know I had teeth before that moment because I'd never before smiled in her presence. BTW, later in the week after we encountered this woman again and she cornered my mom she understood why I give this lady one-word answers. It's not "cold" it's "self-preservation." Oh, and don't get me started on her kid who is like a mini-me and one day asked me if the bananas the girls were eating were organic. She's like four or five years old! When I said no, she yelled, "Ewww!"Again, I'M NOT KIDDING. I didn't know what to say so in a juvenile move I said, "Ewww yourself." I don't know what that means exactly but it's all I could come up with at the time. I was pissed all night I didn't come up with a better retort. I was out-witted by a pre-schooler.

Listen, I don't have a lot of readers, so to keep Anonymous happy I am going to think of an uplifting topic to write about. As soon as I can think of something. Don't hold your breath though -- it might take a while.

PS -- Does anyone else encounter these situations at the park or is it just me? Maybe park-goers are like dogs -- they migrate toward the least friendly people in a bid to win them over and I should be over-the-top hyper friendly and see if that turns people off and they leave us alone?

PPS -- I just thought this photo was a fairly bizarre one from the park and went with it...

PPPS -- Do you think the person who didn't like that I used PSS instead of PPS is happy I switched purely for her sake?

Scooters and Socialism: A Rant

2010-06-30T20:30:00.000-07:00

My girls received scooters as a surprise present from their father. I took one look at said present and declared it ridiculous: whose 2-1/2 year-olds can ride scooters? Well, as it turns out, mine. They are obsessed and really quite good, soliciting comments at the park ranging from "How old are those girls?" to "My son is an uncoordinated wimp compared to them" to "What f@#*ing mother doesn't make her kids wear helmets?"

Um, me. I don't remember ever wearing a helmet and I'm fine, thanks. Okay, maybe not fine, but not dead either.

But these scooters, these seemingly unproblematic vehicles, are giving me a migraine and might land me in prison. Because every kid at the park wants to try them. WITHOUT OUR PERMISSION.

My husband, a staunch conservative (don't hold it against me) has labeled the forced sharing at our parks as "socialism bordering on communism." I'm a bit more moderate in my political views, but still, I'm starting to agree with him on the communal sharing mentality that permeates city parks. Hey, here's a thought: You want my kids to share their cool new scooters -- bring something equally as cool and maybe they'll be willing to swap for a while.

Because here's the thing: I lug a bunch of shit via a double stroller everywhere I go. I look like the damn Sanford and Son pick-up truck coming ("Ya big dummy!"). I have two kids, two scooters, two helmets (that go unworn but I bring just for show), a soccer ball, a basketball and various little accessories I need not name. Tons of these moms saunter into the park, towing their kid, a Starbucks and nothing else. DO YOU WANT TO SHARE YOUR SKINNY VANILLA LATTE WITH ME, BITCH?

Probably not. And then we get stalked. And these moms, these people I swear I might kill one day, sip on their coffee which I don't have the luxury of having because my cup-holders are filled with lollipops and matchbox cars their kids want to steal, and they let their children maul us.

One such mom who wasn't wearing a bra, probably because she is banging her gardner, loudly announced to her friend for my benefit: "If you don't want to share, you shouldn't bring it to a public park." Says the person who brought nothing but silicone, caffeine and a toddler with her. Then she went back to her iPhone where she changed her Facebook status to "Looking like a whore while ignoring my kid at the park."

We shouldn't bring our stuff to the park if we didn't want to share... Except. Except we live in a city, and don't have a backyard. So if my kids can't ride their scooter at the park in peace, where will they ride it? (I have one suggestion that isn't polite and it's between the enormous crevasse on the chest of that women's poorly done breast implant surgery.)

So, listen, I get that you should share chalk at the park. But are my kids required to share their scooters or are other kids required to share high ticket items like bikes? It's becoming a major problem and I'm becoming a major ass about it. One girl of about 5 followed us around today (we finally left to go elsewhere) telling me, "I WILL take a turn on that scooter!" I told her while I admire her pertinacity it wasn't happening. (I borrowed that line from Dave Barry's literary agent who turned down a manuscript of mine years ago. Who knew rejection would come in so handy?)

Am I crazy? Am I right in thinking my girls have a right to decline advances on their stuff in a public venue with people we don't know AND DON'T WANT TO KNOW? Honestly, I don't like being accosted by kids while parents stand by in oblivion.

My sister and her kids came to visit recently. They had cool children's (but real) digital cameras and one mom let her daughter take the cameras FROM OUR STROLLER and use up the entire disk. The mom not only encouraged the child to take the cameras, she showed her HOW TO USE THEM. When my sister confiscated them from these people we didn't know, the 4-year-old said with hostility: "Why don't you want to share?" Like my sister had done something wrong! As the mom gave us a dirty look!

Seriously, I've had strange children rifle through my diaper bag for snacks while her mother looked on, had toys grabbed right from our hands as the father cooed "Buddy, let's give back their Thomas the Train" but let his kid run around with it for 10 minutes and had a mom allow her son snatch a banana from my child's hands, eat half, then coax him into giving it back with a "c'mon baby, let's share the snack" all without apology. When her son wouldn't oblige, this woman then returned the chomped on banana saying in a little kid's voice, "Thank you for sharing!"Except we didn't share. He stole it. I'm thinking of walking into a 7-11, making myself a Slurpy, eating half and handing it to the clerk with a cheerful, "Thanks for sharing!" and see how that plays out.

To put this in perspective for mothers: Suppose you and I are on a plane. You had the foresight to buy the current issue of Us Weekly to see who Jennifer Aniston is screwing and if she's pregnant. I, on the other hand, dawdled, showed up late and didn't have time to stop at the newsstand. Mid-flight, I get bored of reading the plastic-coated emergency evacuation procedures. I grab your magazine and start reading it. "WHY DON'T YOU WANT TO SHARE??!!!" I protest when you ask for it back, making you feel like YOU did something wrong. See my point?

Is it just Chicago??? I am not a disciplinarian. Lord knows. But I don't let my girls' touch other people's stuff, steal shit and pester other kids. Advice? Counsel? Promises to visit me in prison when I snap?

PS -- Whenever we break out a camera these days, the girls immediately put their hands in their mouth and scream "Funny face!" I have no idea whatsoever where this originated. It was funny like the first 50 times. When as adults they ask why there are no photos of them from age 2 to 16, I plan on screaming at them, "Funny face!"

PPS - Remind me to tell you about the nanny who shows up at the park every day at dinner time with a Dairy Queen sundae to taunt the children. Tomorrow I plan to tell her to DQ Something Different.

Dum Dum

2010-06-25T06:36:00.000-07:00

If the man who introduced my children to lollipops is reading this: RUN AND HIDE, because I will kill you. It happened innocently enough. We were leaving a parking garage downtown, one of those annoying ones where they take your keys and bring the car to you expecting a tip on top of the $25 you are already paying for the pleasure of parking there. As we waited, the guy working in the office offered the girls one of those little Dum Dum lollipops. Their faces, I imagine, were like the face of a future addict who first tries crack cocaine. Similarly, they were hooked on their first try.

Thereafter, whenever we parked at this garage, which we often did because one of their favorite playrooms was housed there, they expected lollipops for the ride home. But sometimes the garage people didn't have them, blissfully unaware, I'm sure, that they were causing me a very unpleasant 15-minute ride home where the word LOLLIPOP was screamed 2 million times in a high-pitched, screeching manner. To avoid this, which sooner or later would have made me drive off the road into Lake Michigan, I bought a bag and would offer them one of our own. I'm a classic enabler. Sort of like Dina Lohan but with a slightly better hair dye job.

I'm not against sugar so it would have been fine. Except. Except at some point they decided they only liked certain flavors of these Dum Dum lollipops. Lulu (I might as well call them by the names of the blog. For future reference, Lulu is Twin A aka Orange, Skinny Twin; Moxley is Slightly Chubby OCD Twin) only likes the pink ones. But only the Strawberry Shortcake flavor, not the Bubble Gum kind. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT try to trick her on this account should you run out of the Strawberry Shortcake flavor. Trust me. Moxley only likes the Banana Split variety. This produces a conundrum. Because each bag of Dum Dum lollipops only contains maybe two of each of those flavors. Apparently, the rest of the flavors like strawberry, cherry, watermelon, coconut and grape taste like ass. Because they take one lick and carry on like I just served them one that lists Rat Turds as the flavor on the wrapper or similar. (Ever notice they have a purple wrapper that is a "surprise" flavor? Who wants to be surprised by what lollipop flavor awaits them?)

So now I have bag upon bag upon bag of Dum Dum lollipops with about 4 lollipops missing out of each bag. What does one do with enough lollipops for Angelina Jolie to give out to each orphan she meets on her good-will missions? I could save them for Halloween but we're in a condo and get very few trick or treaters -- plus nobody wants Dum Dum lollipops, they want good crap like Three Musketeers bars and such.

I told my husband to take them to work, because nothing screams professional like a grown man offering Dum Dum lollipops out of a big bowl sitting on his desk to colleagues visiting his office. (I once had a boss who kept an awesome bowl of candy for public consumption in his office, but with the really good stuff like Twix, Skittles and Milk Duds. I think it kept him from getting fired for a good two years after he should have because the head of HR was this rotund guy with a sweet tooth who came and raided the bowl every afternoon around 3 pm. Eventually the HR guy was fired and replaced by a small skinny woman who ate black coffee for every meal and he was canned shortly thereafter. Coincidence? I don't think so.)

I might call the Dum Dum people and see if I can order custom-made bags of JUST strawberry shortcake and banana split. Even if there was a surcharge it would probably be more cost-effective than paying $2.50 per bag for four edible lollipops.

If you're wondering why I also have some Trader Joe's (organic!) lollipops, it's because I was hit with the news unexpectedly that they stopped giving out balloons (moms complained they were dangerous -- bite me) after promising the girls they would get balloons if we went there to get some milk. Imagine the scene in the check-out line when I received this piece of unfortunate information. I had to get out of line and scramble around the store for a suitable replacement and came upon these. What makes a lollipop organic one wonders? Anyway, Lulu only liked the orange and Moxley only liked the pink so now I'm stuck with some fancy organic lollipops as well.

As an aside, ever notice the Trader Joe's checkout people are really nice. Like too nice? Like they want to tell you about the time they had a dinner party and served the exact cheese you're buying and what crackers go really well with it and shit like that while the mob in back of you starts getting restless? I'm not a chatty person, so I prefer the snotty, tattooed Whole Foods people who kind of snarl at your groceries while discussing the tofu they had for lunch with the grocery bagger whose hair is dyed an unnatural shade of black and whose face piercings look slightly painful.

Anyway, we are having a small dinner party Saturday night and I'm thinking of serving lollipops with the wine and cheese, sort of like Kelly Bensimon served jelly beans to Luann and Sonja when they came by for appetizers before dinner. And then maybe we'll have lollipops for dessert as well with gift bags filled with lollipops for everyone to take home. And as they leave for the evening, I will scream "Satchels of Gold!" at everyone out the window and anyone who doesn't get it will never be invited to my home again. Because if you don't watch Real Housewives of New York City, you frankly have no business being a guest in my home.

PS -- It's come to my attention that one of my three readers doesn't like the "PSS" I use, neither appreciating its incorrect grammatical form nor finding it funny. Hereon, should I feel the need for a post-script, I will adhere to the correct post-script abbreviation of PPS.

PPS -- I just wanted to show I was serious about that, because let's face it, sometimes I lie.

PPPS -- I realize this post was not amusing and rambling and long and in some places makes no sense. Maybe I have more in common with Kelly Bensimon than I care to admit. Zip it.

I Found Hell -- It's in Glenview, Illinois

2010-06-21T08:14:00.000-07:00

I've always suspected that if there is a hell, there is a sense of humor and a sense of justice in the whole thing. Hell isn't just an inferno of cages, we're not all just thrown in a pit where the devil comes to periodically visit with serpents and there is constant wailing of suffering 24 hours per day. I think it's customized, our own personal hell, if you will. Until today, I pictured mine as being stuck for eternity in a small, windowless cave with John Mayer, Kendra Wilkinson and perhaps a Kardashian sister (doesn't matter which one). Dire Straits music would be piped in 23 hours per day. John Mayer would sing live the remaining hour.

That was until last week. Last week I had the opportunity to visit the Kohl's Children Museum in Glenview, Illinois. Friends with pre-schoolers have told me great things about this museum, and I plan to use this as an excuse to break off all contact with them. Because truth be told I don't really like any of my friends with kids anyway.

Apparently the city officials of Glenview don't believe in limiting the number of humans a facility can pack into a certain amount of square footage. Perhaps my first tip-off would have been the fact there was only one space left (two minutes after the place opened) in a parking lot that was the size of 100 football fields.

The high-pitched, frenetic screaming that greeted us as we entered might have been the next tip-off. But I'm not one to take hints. Instead, as a mob of sweaty, ill-behaved children surrounded us like hungry wolves, I paid my $21 and decided to head upstairs where surely it was more quiet. Except there's not an upstairs. So we headed into a fake grocery store that made the Jewel on Ashland on a Sunday night feel like the library. I don't like REAL grocery stores, filled mainly with adults, so I certainly don't like fake ones, jam-packed with toddlers stealing items out of each other's carts and then screaming bloody murder.

A kid about four whose name I later learned was Thomas (pronounced TOW-MAH, which I think is the fancy French pronunciation but his mother spoke native Chicago), roughly grabbed a plastic tomato right out of one of the girls' hands while the mother looked on and continued to text her boyfriend (her eyes were gleaming and she was giggling -- she was NOT texting her husband or work). I grabbed said vegetable (or is a tomato a fruit?) back and told him not to do it again. He cowered and she gave me a dirty look, but soon went back to facebooking or tweeting or whatever it is about 80 percent of the adults were doing when they should have been watching their kids maul unsuspecting victims. (Prediction: a new psychological disorder will present itself in teenagers in about 10 years -- it will be directly linked to a sense of inferiority because their parents pay more attention to their iPhones than to them.)

Ironically, at this hellish museum that day, there was a Smokey the Bear exhibit (isn't that the fire prevention animal?), and I thought it would make a good headline in the newspaper: Scores of Families Die During Smokey the Bear Exhibit in Fire Code Violation at Children's Museum.

I didn't want to be a statistic so I got us the out of there before we all smothered. So if God is reading my blog (and why wouldn't He?) and is looking for a suitable punishment for me in the hereafter, now He knows: Me. 4 million toddlers. Inattentive caregivers. A Smokey the Bear exhibit. A faux shopping environment. A threat of spontaneous combustion. Glenview, Illinois.

Someone else will have to listen to Kendra cackle as John Mayer talks about Jessica Simpson's boobs while sitting next to a signature Kardashian caboose with Money for Nothing in the background.

PS -- Below is the girls after the debacle -- I wanted a survival photo as I'm pretty sure we were four extra toddlers away from death. I put them in their new tutu bathing suits (Old Navy, $10), gave them lollipops as rewards for surviving the ordeal and went to the water park. Where a new set of children and parents continued to annoy me.

I am building a list of grievances we've suffered at the park for another post. It is lengthy, including an incident where a kid came at the girls WITH A SHARP STICK and the mother soothingly said, "No stick, honey, no stick." And when the kid wouldn't drop the stick she said, "Ooohh, honey, be gentle with the stick" AS HE CONTINUED TO WAVE IT IN MY GIRLS' FACES. Be gentle! With a stick! I grabbed the stick, broke it in half and tossed in on the ground while the mother watched in horror.

PSS -- I've been writing a bit over at the blog that surprisingly pays me about Joran Van Der Sloot and whether his mother might have seen signs that he had psychological problems when he was a child. Scarily, right after I wrote that, one of the girls left me this present (?) before nap time. And I wondered if this is a sign akin to torturing small animals:

It's one of those nose plunger things with a half-eaten lollipop stuck inside. She left it right on the tv stand where I couldn't miss it after telling me she "doesn't HAVE TO nap!!!" It looks like a sinister gesture to me... Like she hasn't learned how to give the finger yet but this is pretty darn close. I'm slightly worried...

PSSS -- Last one, sorry. Does anyone know who designed the Kohls Children's Museum logo? Because might I suggest he or she add about 3,999,999 more hands to the design to give a more accurate feel to the place's ambiance?

Finally ... The Dog Living on the Dashboard Photo

2010-06-13T09:16:00.001-07:00

Dear God, it's been over a month! You probably think given the slightly veiled suicide threats in an earlier post that I was involuntarily locked in the loony bin with no access to high speed Internet service. You'd be wrong, plus I'm pretty sure they let you surf the web in the mental ward. I have been on a journey of self discovery, if you will, and have learned very very important, deep lessons over the course of the last month. Now that I am fully enlightened, I feel it crucial that I now share my life lessons with you, my faithful readers, if I still have any of those left:

Not all hippies are nice. The squatters living in a mobile home (trailer?) illegally in the alley behind my home brought the clothes, the weed and the music from the 60s, but left the peace, love and understanding part from whence they came. John Lennon would not approve. (Incidentally, I tried to get the above photo for over a month but couldn't. So I sent my husband out to do my dirty work, thinking if someone's going to get their ass kicked by a hippie hopped up on Bud Light, it might as well be him.) It's become quite the neighborhood drama with police and the Humane Society having made several visits. (I guess the Human Society believes dogs were not meant to live on the dash board of RVs. Who knew?) Alas, the hippies are still here, partying like it's 1969 so perhaps these neighbors are here to stay and I should send over a welcoming casserole and be done with it.

Swallowing Prozac that expired over five years ago will not kill you. At least it didn't kill me. Don't sue me if you try the same and wake up on the other side. It will, however, cause acute insomnia. So you might be slightly less depressed, but you will be wide awake 24 hours a day. I'd rather be deeply depressed and asleep than moderately depressed and awake. Needless to say, I am off the expired Prozac.

I make up psychological disorders. I floated the idea by my physician that I had "delayed post-partum depression" to which she looked at me and said she'd never heard of it. Whatever. I still think that's what it was. In her defense, she wrote out a fresh RX for Prozac before I could explain my theory in full. I have not filled it. I like to sleep.

I am beautiful...or not. I was minding my own business walking into Jewel on a feverish search for Yogurt Melts, when a fairly normal looking fellow stopped me and said: "Excuse me. I'm sorry to bother you but you are so beautiful I can't help myself." In my younger days I would have kept walking without acknowledging this person's presence because they were clearly insane. But I am 42, with twins, and the only person who tells me I'm beautiful does so under the looming threat of divorce. "I play piano downtown and would love you to come see me play sometime," my new admirer continued. A musician! Thinks I'm beautiful! Aw shucks, blush, blush, blush. He hands me his card with the name of some piano bar on it. I am just about to tell him that while I'm flattered, I think my toddlers may have a problem with it later in life if I ran off with a piano player. But before I had a chance (wait for it...) he says he's "really embarrassed" but "could he borrow $20" because his car got towed -- with his wallet in it! -- and he needs to get a cab to the pound downtown and he'll pay me back when I come to see him play. BAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Which made me realize, I look so desperate for attention that I am now a target for con men. And I can't spot a fake business card. This did not help my depression or self-esteem.

The Real Housewives of New York should win a Pulitzer Prize. Or Emmy. Or official accolades of some kind. WHY DID NOBODY ALERT ME TO THIS DELICIOUS TREAT? It's like when my mother never informed me of the delicacy called a "Twinkie" and I had to discover its sinful pleasure when visiting a friend's house. I think several associates alluded to the fact I would find kindred spirits among the RHONY cast, but nothing short of showing up at my house, setting my TIVO and making me watch it was enough effort for such a life-altering, spiritual experience. I seriously think if Bravo makes Real Housewives of Chicago I should be considered. While I may not be exactly what the producers look for (my class status is such that hippies in an rv with a dog on the dashboard basically live in my back yard) but I do get Botox and that should count for something.

So, I think it's pretty obvious I've grown as a person over the last month. I am so much deeper, so much more in tune with what's important in life, like who I hate more, Jill Zarin or Kelly Bensimon. I now spend an inordinate amount of time trying to pinpoint exactly what surgical enhancements this crew has undergone. Ramona says she's had none. Maybe pinot grigio is a natural aging elixir with a side effect of bulging eyes?

Thankfully, my self-imposed pity party has subsided. And maybe I was never depressed in the first place. Remember that line from Steel Magnolia's when Shirley Maclaine says something like, "I'm not depressed, I've just be in a bad mood for 40 years." That could be me. But actually, things are swell. The girls and I are having an awesome summer although I am wondering where to hide the bodies of all the parents and nannies I plan to bludgeon at the park. (Perhaps my hate-fest with all adults at the park will be a separate post. I may be the first female serial killer whose sole motive is annoyance with poor park etiquette. I'm banking on the fact a jury of my peers won't buy the prosecution's weak but real motive and I'll get off scot-free.)

PS -- I blog here more than I crock pot. Enough said on that note. But I do plan to write more from now on. I also plan to go to spinning tomorrow, though, and we know that's not happening.

Mother's Day

2010-05-10T11:26:00.000-07:00

I have to believe the original and true meaning of Mother's Day has been lost. Sort of like Christmas and Easter. How do you go from the resurrection of our Lord and Savior to a large rabbit hopping from house to house delivering chocolate in a wicker basket? Not only does he deliver it, he has to find a good place to hide it. At least that was the custom in our house. Do you know how long that would take? At least Santa had the good sense to employ some reindeer to make the trip around the world slightly more speedy.

One would think the original plan for Mother's Day was to give mothers all around the world a break from their children, not a whole day of spending it with them. That's not called "Mother's Day." That's called "Every Day." My theory is the brunch people got together with the greeting card people and put a new spin on the holiday for financial gain soon after it was founded. Have you ever seen a man out to brunch with his children without the mother present? Exactly. The brunch folks pitched this idea that "wouldn't it be nice to take mommy to brunch for Mother's Day" and everyone fell for it. And what can you say as a mom that wouldn't make you look like a complete asshole after being awoken with that nice card (that's where the greeting card people came into the scam) and then refusing to go eat some overpriced pancakes with your family to celebrate.

Taking my kids to a restaurant is about as much fun as taking a staple gun to the forehead (I just saw The Wrestler) so we took the girls to the Nature Museum, the zoo and for a walk around a pond. We came across an uppity eating establishment and it was filled to the brim with Mother's Day brunchers. Right there in the window was a mom sitting there looking frazzled cutting up some french toast or some shit on one of her three children's plates while the dad looked cool as a cucumber sipping a mimosa. HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY INDEED!

Next time someone asks you what you want for Mother's Day I suggest answering in one of the following three ways: 1) Plastic surgery; 2) A weekend at that spa in Arizona that Oprah always yaps about; 3) To be left alone. Chances are they will pick number 3, being the cheapest option. And that's okay. They'll feel like they got off easy, and nothing pleases me more than tricking men into thinking something was really their idea.

Happy (belated) Mother's Day.

PS - There was not a cloud in the sky on Sunday but my kids insisted on wearing their new rain boats and rain coats, as they now do every day. OCD, alive and well in my household.

Um It's Been a While...

2010-05-07T20:55:00.000-07:00

Okay, seriously, I had no idea it had been almost a month, I was afraid to come here and check how long it had been. Although my aunt tells my mother to bug me to post something and then I am reminded pretty much every day that I've abandoned the thing I love to do most.

You know that commercial for some kind of feel-good medicine (Prozac, Wellbutrin, Xanax?) that is a cartoon where the girl is walking around with an umbrella and there is a rain cloud following her around? And nobody else? That cloud jumped out of my tv set and is stalking me. I would call in a restraining order but I'm already trying to get one for the men who live in the alley behind my house in an illegal RV hooked up to an abandoned building, and I bet the police get suspicious of people trying to get more than one restraining order at a time.

A huge mutt lives on the dashboard of the RV and I would feel sorry for it if it wasn't let out to roam around free and scare the sh#$ out of toddlers and their mothers (meaning me). I don't think these people are dangerous (minus the dog) because they look like the RV was on its way to Woodstock in the 60s and the whole lot of them seem confused that it's 2010. Sort of like on LOST when they get transported back in time, except unfortunately none of the RV inhabitants look like Sawyer. Besides, everybody knows hippies aren't violent. (Was Charles Manson a hippie? If so disregard and I will go lock my doors.)

I have suggested (very politely) they keep their dog on a leash since it's so big and scary and all. This was met by a very direct statement that seemed hard to argue with on a moment's notice: "The dog isn't leash-trained." I didn't know there was a big training process to get a dog on a leash. I thought you bought a dog a collar, then bought a leash and hooked up the little circle thing on the collar to the little hook on the leash and that was that. But what do I know? I don't own a dog. Also, the guy was drinking a Bud Light out of a can at 11:00 am and I learned many moons ago not to mess with a man drinking Bud Light before noon. (This reminds me -- I will take a photo of said RV tomorrow with dog lounging on the dash and post asap. I bet you don't believe me...)

Cooking update: I have not crock-potted in months. That's okay. I pretended to like it more than I really did. I sort of felt like the girls did when they peed on the potty. Okay, I can do this! I proved it! Now give me back my diapers (read here give me back my take-out menus).

In other news, I set out a plastic bag full of diapers on our deck one night until I had a chance to drop them off in our dumpster. I bet you didn't know this, but rats like toddler dung. This was news to those of us who believed the movie Ratatouille was somewhat realistic. Imagine my surprise when after the girls fell asleep I went out to dispose of the bag and IT WAS MOVING. And a rat popped out. One's love of the city is truly tested when one is faced with a rat gnawing on fresh baby feces. Alas, we didn't move to the suburbs yet. Although -- and I just thought of this -- maybe I should leave the next one on the RV doorstep as a "message." Sort of like the bloody horse head in the bed in The Godfather but this will be easier to obtain albeit perhaps less intimidating. Not to mention I like horses.

I've been so afraid nobody will read this anymore because I am now completely unreliable, and, well, there's been nothing to read. (I did lose two followers in the interim -- QUITTERS!!!) I used to lay awake and think of tons of things I wanted to write about -- and would get up before I forgot, loving every minute. I used to find everyday things that happened hilarious. Sadly, I couldn't even find humor in Kate Gosselin walking around the DWTS dance floor as though Judge Carrie had shot her ass up with horse tranquilizers and trying to pass it off as a cha-cha. (Seriously, I imagined Kate as a war hostage, knowing you were going to die a horrible death and begging the guard on duty to shoot you in the head and save you additional misery. Thank god the voters took mercy.) Although I did snicker when Pam Anderson (who looked like she was starring in that movie where the kid pretends to be African American so he could get into college -- when will they fire the DWTS spray tanning team?) was voted off prematurely; nothing pleases me more than a slut being brought down a notch or two. Unless it's me.

Thank you for your comments and e-mails -- I haven't checked my blog e-mails in a while because the thought I'm not writing scares the hell out of me. If you will forgive me while I try to remember how to do this (but might not be funny at it) I promise to post at least once per week. Plus, did you see the new Bachelorette starts later this month? If that doesn't make me get my sense of humor back, nothing will. (Ed and Jillian are still dating. Can you believe that? They live in my city and there have been sightings. I know where they hang out. If I had something to wear I might show up and ask them what the hell is going on and get Jillian so drunk -- which she would probably already be -- that she'd give me Reid's phone number.)

Cheers people!

PS -- I have some Prozac samples that expired in 2005 (don't ask why although you should know that I don't think you should ever say no to drug samples when offered) that I am thinking of popping. I mean, do meds really expire? And what does that mean exactly? Expire like you might die right then and there upon swallowing one? Expire like it might not work? (Big deal, you're no worse off.) Or expire meaning the drug company didn't want to get sued should a mom in her 40s who suddenly lost her sense of humor decide to take 5 instead of 2 just in case the potency died down over the five years its been sitting idly under a counter? This is hypothetical --- please don't send an ambulance to my house if you know me. That will just piss me off even more.

PSS -- My "PS" was not a cry for help. If I take any, it will be only one. Two tops. I mean, maybe three but nobody died from taking three expired pills. Relax.

PSSS -- Did I used to use so many parentheses? God, I'm annoying. Also, the font looks different -- I DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO WORK MY OWN BLOG ANYMORE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!!!!!

I'm a Mouthy Housewife! And Who Stole My Sense of Humor...

2010-04-09T05:34:00.000-07:00

The bitch stole my mojo. Does anyone have Tom Cruise's cell phone number?

The Mouthy Housewives were kind enough to ask me to be a guest advice columnist this week. Nobody informed them I lost my sense of humor AND know nothing about Twitter. Because the question I was given and instructed to provide sage advice on was on the subject of Tweeting. I faked my way through it as I do most things in life. (Speaking of Twitter, how about Jim Carrey and Jenny McCarthy announcing their breakup via this astounding social media invention? Don't get me started on how un-funny I think she is. Which is I would do in a very funny way if I myself was remotely funny anymore.)

Speaking of losing my sense of humor: I'm pretty sure it was stolen and I know the culprit. Suri Cruise. I'm serious. Due to this Famecrawler gig, which was restructured and now requires a lot more of my time, I am eating, breathing (and hating) Suri Cruise. And, really, I owe her something for all I've written (and not very entertainingly) about her. Her fuzzy pig slippers, her bunny ears, her New York City dining habits, her mother's unfortunate ensembles, her father who seems to be missing in action. So she swiped my sense of humor, the little well-dressed brat. Seems fair when you think about it. Whereas she's probably regaling her parents with witty blog posts of her own, I may resort to turning my blog into a regurgitated knock-knock joke haven, or maybe a site for bad dizzy blond jokes.

God help me. I PROMISE to think of something funny to write soon. I'm thinking of going to an overnight Buddhist retreat to get my soul back into alignment. You probably think I'm kidding but I'm not. There's one right around the corner from me, which appeals to my lazy side. Are Buddhists supposed to be funny? Let's hope so.

PS -- My children are monsters. I've lost any semblance of control in my own household. There are demands for lollipops at breakfast, closet-emptying antics at naptime, furniture destroyed all in the name of "building a boat for Arnold" (the little pig from Kipper), tantrums if I don't let them don Halloween-themed outfits every day. I officially give up. Look for me (looking like a deranged mental patient) on a future episode of Nanny 911 when said nanny admits for the first time some children are beyond help. If you want to volunteer to put me out of my misery, let me know and I'll forward my address.

Lost Item

2010-04-03T05:53:00.000-07:00

People, I seem to have lost my sense of humor. Sort of like one might lose a wallet, it just suddenly disappeared, never to be heard from again. I wonder if someone is using it, like one would use the credit cards and money from the wallet. Maybe my sense of humor is on a hilarious spending spree of sorts. Laughing its way across the country, stopping at random comedy clubs, giddy to be rid of me. If you see it, tell it I said hello. And that I miss it.

So, anyway, it's park season here in Chicago as the weather has been unusually balmy (yay global warming!). This is both good (we get to go outside every day) and bad (other people also go outside every day.) And it reminds me that parents and their children didn't get less annoying over the winter, just older.

The girls are obsessed with their cars so I have to push them all over the greater Chicago area as they beep merrily away and yell at passerbys "Out of da way!" The other day we arrive at a school nearby where if we do public they will attend K through 8 and I park the vehicles in a hidden corner away from the playground so no kids will f@#$ with them. The girls do not like other kids f@#$ing with their cars.

On the way there, I let the girls suck on lollipops because they obliged me by sitting on the potty, unsuccessfully, but they sat nonetheless and wanted their reward. I told them they had to put the lolly away when we got to the park because it was dangerous to run around with it in their mouths. We decided to stick them in the car's cup holder and they could resume sucking on our journey home.

At one point I go to retrieve chalk from the little storage trunk in the cars. Standing there is a dad and his daughter and they are playing with the cars. No big deal, my kids did the same thing before they had the cars. But I decided to warn him about the lollipops that were out in plain site in the cup holder.

Him: Oh, are these yours?

Me: Yeah, but that's fine, she can play with them.

Him: Thanks.

Me: Oh, but just so you know there are lollipops in the cup holders in case she tries to grab them.

Him: Right, I tossed those out since she can't have lollipops.

Say what? I just stared at him blankly. He stared back at me blankly. He thew away OUR lollipops because his kid can't have them. Well they weren't hers to have! I was so stunned I walked away without another word.

Later I heard this thief telling his buddy he was going out to watch the basketball tournament. I decided I would follow him to his neighborhood sports bar and belly up next to him at the bar. When he went to the bathroom, I would take his beer and dump it out. Upon his return, I would announce: "I threw out your beer. My friend who is joining me isn't allowed to have beer and I didn't want her to drink it so I got rid of it." Then I would stare blankly at him and not apologize. Perhaps then he'd get the point?

Okay, I'm going on a thorough search to retrieve my sense of humor and plan to bring it back, perhaps kicking and screaming like a teenage runaway who left to marry her creepy 26-year-old boyfriend.

Oh, one more thing. Speaking of creepy. Is anyone watching Dancing With the Stars? Is what they are putting Buzz Aldrin through a form of elder abuse? Why is Pamela Anderson the color of clay? Is anyone else tempted to wear a full body condom during her routines just in case STDs can be transferred across television waves? Did Shannon Doherty look like her face had been cut in half and then glued back together a bit askew or is that just me? And what was wrong with her teeth? Does 90210 and Charmed not pay residuals so one might afford a dentist? Do you think Jon Gosselin is getting liquored up every Monday and Tuesday night with his 16-year-old girlfriends and laughing his fat ass off? Dear god, that show will keep me going until The Bachelorette kick off.

The Diabolical Laugh

2010-03-22T13:18:00.000-07:00

I have been busy working on a project. No, I don't like it anymore than you do, but alas they are paying me. In the meantime, please enjoy a short film that prove my children are insane. Oh, and me too. Can money be made from the talent of laughing manically on demand? Please advise. I will go back to posting on a regular basis pronto.

The Fireman and the Princess

2010-03-14T16:53:00.000-07:00

My girls are identical twins, but unless a stranger reminds me of that or I am thinking up ways to monetize their very adorable existence, I usually forget they are identical let alone twins. I have never referred to them as "the twins." They are always "the girls" or their names. Not that I think there is something wrong with calling twins "the twins," I just never have. I've always just thought of them as sisters around the same age, and am literally dumbfounded -- as I was today and it happens at least once a week --when a person says, "Identical twins! Wow!" I always then take a good look at my daughters -- and they appear, seem and feel just so different to me that I am taken aback when a stranger sees them as identical.

I recently read a memoir called "One and the Same" about identical twins and part of it really jolted me. Identical twins apparently can feel "interchangeable" like it doesn't matter to family or friends who is who. To me, my girls are so unique, so individual, so equally special but in different ways that it would break my heart if they someday felt they were interchangeable to me or anyone else.

Today we went to a playroom and Twin B went running for the fireman outfit. She is tough and tomboy-ish and I think she'll be like Sporty Spice except without the bad grill and tattoos.

Twin A is all girl, she delicately tiptoes right for the tutus and the crowns and will be like Posh Spice, minus the anorexia, aggressive plastic surgery and overall alien demeanor.

Okay, they will be nothing like the Spice Girls (God willing) but you get my point. (And yes, I know Victoria Beckham no longer looks like that but I like to pretend she does. Deal with it.)

Anyway, today at this playroom was a dad, he's there a lot on the weekends solo with his daughter who is probably about 4. He always looks unclean, unkempt and unenthused, not necessarily in that order. I always picture that his wife scolds him that he works all week and the least he can do is take his daughter to a fun activity on the weekend so she can have a break or cook dinner in peace or screw the neighbor. Who knows. She apparently doesn't give him a chance to bathe before she kicks them both out the door. You've never seen a more miserable man on dad duty in your life and it makes me feel sick for the little girl. He alternately reads a magazine, texts on his cell phone and checks out the moms, again, not necessarily in that order. I want to helpfully suggest if he's there to get laid he might want to shower beforehand. Sheesh. Not that I do -- always shower that is -- but I'm not there trolling for sex plus I play with my kids. So there.

Okay, so this post was kind of rambling and not particularly amusing but I did make fun of Victoria Beckham and that always kind of makes me happy.

Oh, and Happy St. Patrick's Day. A couple was drunkenly fornicating in the alley behind my house last night. So if you are a mom who wonders why you moved to the suburbs -- that's why.

Bath Time and Bribery

2010-03-11T19:48:00.001-08:00

Bath time makes me want to slit my wrists. I always envisioned bath time as a blissful little bonding period where children splashed merrily about and I cheerily washed their hair without issue. HELLO.

Oh, sure, she looks perfectly pleasant here but only because I promised we'd go upstairs and have a treat if she was good in the bath. And by good I mean just screamed for half the time instead of the whole thing. Are baths that unpleasant? In the summer I demand a bath nightly, because, well, I don't like pungent odors. In the winter I compromise with every other night and they act like I'm water boarding them.

I always brace myself before announcing it's bath time. (Breathe in and then faux exuberance): "Girls! Let's go have fun in the bath!" Lately the response is such: "How bout Friday?" Whenever they don't want to do something, they suggest we reschedule for Friday. Why Friday? I don't know -- why the hell not? They're crazy, that's why. My favorite is when they use this argument on Friday and I feel an inexplicable sense of superiority. "It is Friday," I inform them condescendingly.

When we finally get out of the bath, they go ballistic that they're freezing, even though I have a (probably illegal and dangerous) space heater blaring at 90 degrees and I'm sweating like a pig who was forced to do a spin class during summertime at the zoo. They yell "I cold!" over and over as if I sent them to Antarctica naked to sit on an emperor penguin egg. Sheesh.

So my answer to this has been, of course, bribery -- my favorite and most effective parenting tool to date. They received new (VERY WARM) Pottery Barn animal towels (above, which I will dock from their lunch money come grade school), lollipops and Dora coloring books with nifty little sparkly stickers. I'm thinking of buying them each a Ferrari and calling it a day.

Or I may just let them be filthy and pretty soon maybe they'll realize the human population will recoil in their presence. Oh, right, they'll like that because they hate humans. And speaking of which, the skinny, orange one just asked for a dog. She said, "I want puppy RIGHT NOW" so I gave her the pink stuffed one she got for Valentine's Day. She threw it back at me and yelled, "No, I want real puppy RIGHT NOW!" Because I think my kids are adults I asked, "Who will walk it and clean up its poop?" to which she informed me that Mommy would. Right, and Suri Cruise is coming to your third birthday party. Beat it.

Is it 2026 yet? Because I think that's when they leave for college.

Oscar Night Thoughts

2010-03-08T16:46:00.001-08:00

I am the perfect person to give an analysis of the Oscars because:

1) I didn't see any of the nominated films, and

b) I pretty much fast forwarded through all of the acceptance speeches.

So that leaves me completely impartial and unmarred by pre-conceived notions based on the quality of movies themselves or my opinions of people's outfits clouded by rags-to-riches sob-stories by weeping winners.

Some observations:

I realize being married to James Cameron can't be easy, but is it so completely demoralizing that Suzy Amis won't eat, refuses to cut her hair (unless her next role is as Rapunzel, in which case forgive me) and ages at quadruple the rate of a president?

Suzy might want to talk to Demi Moore.

What the f@#$ is she doing? I want to know the name of the doctor and a complete list of procedures. Not that I can afford it, but I would show up at his clinic, hold him at gunpoint and make him perform whatever those procedures are immediately. I figure I could claim delayed post-partum depression and be out of the clink in three years (looking fabulous). The bonus would be my girls would be entering kindergarten upon my release from prison so I would skip the rest of these hard years and saunter back in as the hot PTA mom when my kids would be in school all day.

Did you see the tribute to John Hughes? I cried. Not out of nostalgia but because all those people peaked in high school and that seems kind of sad. The only ones that should ever show themselves in public again are Matthew Broderick and that guy who played Ducky who is now on Two and a Half Men. In particular, what happened to Ally Sheady and why? And Judd Nelson? Where did he get those glasses? And, at the risk of repeating myself: WHY?

What was on the back of Sarah Jessica Parker's head? Could she not get a babysitter for her twins so she decided to wrap them up and pin them in her hair? That doesn't seem very motherly.

What the hell was Monique talking about? Is her husband is little controlling or what? Regardless it was nice of him to let her off the leash to go up and accept her award.

What was with George Clooney's scowl all night? And that Italian bitch he was with? Did someone not tell her she is at the ACADEMY AWARDS with GEORGE CLOONEY. Cheer up! Sheesh. And I will go on the record now that I don't find Clooney remotely attractive. I'm serious.

What happens to Hollywood soundtracks when Randy Newman dies? Has there ever been a year he hasn't been nominated? And I think this year he was double-nominated. (Don't quote me on that, I was TIVO-ing around like nobody's business.)

The blogosphere was abuzz that John Travolta showed up at the Academy Awards wearing jeans.

People, his son died a year ago. You're lucky he didn't show up in pajamas. Give the guy a break! Really!

I love Steve Martin. Love him. I think we could have really had something. I also love Sandra Bullock and must confess I'm confused by her husband. Which reminds me of when he was on Celebrity Apprentice and Donald Trump's yes-man said Jesse James must be something special because Sandra Bullock could have married anyone and she married him. And deadpan Donald replied: "She couldn't have married me."

Why was Tina Fey dressed as Bam Bam?

I am the only person on the planet who doesn't like Tina Fey. I certainly understand that subconsciously I might be jealous, but I don't think that's it. I think I just don't like her.

That's all I got. I hope Suzy Amis isn't sick and I'm going straight to hell for criticizing her appearance. Although I'm probably going straight to hell anyway.

No Baggage Fees

2010-03-06T10:14:00.000-08:00

The Reaction Upon Learning She's Been Accepted Into Pre-School

I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is the girls got into the pre-school of our choice (that being the only pre-school we applied to). I saw a big, fat envelope in the mail addressed to moi from the church and figured the same rules still apply that applied with college applications over two decades ago:

Big envelope = Welcome aboard!

Slim envelope = You suck!

Well, apparently we don't suck. I'd like to report this acceptance is directly related to my children's intelligence and good manners. But I think it has more to do with the $20 bill my husband sticks in an envelop every other Sunday. (Twice per month isn't bad for someone who hasn't been to church since 1998.)

I happened to drive by the church the other day and was wondering when we'd hear. It was then I noticed a large banner waving in the wind attached to the side of the building:

"Going on a life journey? Come fly with us. No baggage fees."

Really? I mean, really? Is this the national Catholic recruitment campaign or just a misguided local one? But while going on a life journey with them has no baggage fees, attending the school does. So here comes the bad news. They need a deposit by the end of the month of $1000, $400 of which is non-refundable. And, frankly, I don't think the girls will be ready by August.

So here are my choices:

a) Send in the deposit and hope the girls are potty-trained, off the bottle and generally less mentally insane by the time school starts. And if not we've lost $400. (And let's face it, in my wilder days I probably spent that much out carousing on a weekend.)

b) Decide to defer until the next school year when they will be going on 4. They will still have two full years of pre-school before kindergarten, but may be behind other children who started formal schooling in the womb.

c) One of the above and make sure either way I am appointed to the church marketing committee to lead the charge on a new campaign slogan.

Do we need that extra year of pre-school (they will be three in November)? Keep in mind my kids are "quirky" if we are being polite and "psychopaths" if we are being honest. As of now, they have a strong dislike of people, freak if I leave the house without them and think dropping to all fours and acting like a dog in public is completely normal.

Help!

Bedtime Shenanigans II

2010-03-02T20:17:00.000-08:00

Game on, people. It's war. Via the monitor, I heard the girls softly conspiring and egging each other on: "Get out of crib.... right now!" one demanded of the other. ("Right now" is currently their favorite expression. It's cute when they're not climbing out of their cribs "right now.") I'm pretty sure I know which one is the instigator (Twin A aka The Orange Skinny One, on the right) and I plan on punishing her in a passive aggressive way when she's a teenager so that she can tell her therapist she has no idea why I'm so angry or even if I'm angry.

By the time I got down there, they had moved their bedtime necessities (blankies and pacis) along with themselves into the laundry room where they pretended to be asleep when I entered. Then laughed like hyenas because apparently they think they're the female incarnation of The Smothers Brothers.

I a) took a photo, then b) placed them back in their cribs with nary a word. I read somewhere that negative reinforcement is even worse than snapping a photo so you should say nothing at all. I am currently sitting in my kitchen giving myself a pep talk and anxiously awaiting Round 2. They might win a battle here and there but they will not win this war. I am going to go watch a few episodes of Band of Brothers to psyche myself up for what may be a long, somber series of sleepless nights. Not to diminish the importance of World War II, but in my cushy little world I might as well be General Patton drawing up the strategy for storming the beach at Normandy. (If this analogy is historically incorrect, I don't want to know. If I wanted a history lesson I would have attended class in college.)

People, my sanity is already hanging from a proverbial thread. I will, however, blog from the loony bin provided they don't put me in a straight jacket or hook me up to some machine that renders me like Jack Nicholson at the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

Pray for me. If you're into that sort of thing.

Bedtime Shenanigans

2010-03-01T12:01:00.000-08:00

The Emergency Room is calling my name. This is what I found upon racing into my daughters' room the other day during what was supposed to be nap time. In case it's not evident, they both climbed in the same crib that offers access to a ledge where they continued to inch over and at some point would have been dangling from it without the crib as a safety net had I not lunged downstairs thanks to our video monitor, which before buying I predicted was about as necessary as a wipes warmer.

Of course, as discussed previously, it's hard to convince a toddler what they've just done is wrong if mommy whips out her cell phone to photograph the evidence for the amusement of strangers.

These girls, who have been excellent at slumber just like their mother up until this point, now have a million excuses why they can't nap or retire to their cribs in the evening or what my own mother used to refer to as "bedtime shenanigans."

The Direct Approach: "I not tired."

The Antagonistic Approach: "I NOT TIRED!"

The Thou Protest Too Much Approach: "No night night! No night night! No niiiigggghhhtttt niiiigggghhhhhtttt!"

The Starving-On-the-Verge-of-Death Approach: "I hungry! Hungry hungry hungry. Cookies? Lollipop? Ice cream?" When that doesn't work they start listing more healthy food choices: "Apple? Carrot? Squash?"

The Mirage-Inducing Thirst Approach: "I thirsty! Water! Water! Water!" (This is followed by them being provided with a cup of water they sip gingerly at their leisure, very slowly, until it's all gone, about an hour later.)

The Wet / We Confuse Our Pronouns Approach: "I wet! Change you!"

The Scared Approach: "I scared! Too dark!" In order of self-reporting, they are afraid of the following: thunder, lightning, a choo choo chugging through their room and a rather rotund child named Charles we happen upon from time to time.

The What-Are-Ya-Gonna-Do-About-It Approach: Climbing out of the crib, opening their bedroom door, climbing up the stairs to find me and announcing nonchalantly: "Hi."

The I'm Gonna Break My Leg Approach: As illustrated above.

We're veering into big girl bed territory. I was hoping to stave that off until age 5. Sigh.

Hand-Held Mirrors and Other Bad Inventions

2010-02-26T05:43:00.000-08:00

Let's Get Physical?

My daughter either plans to single-handedly bring back the early 80s by channeling Olivia Newton-John:

Or she's trying to subtly suggest that her mother should begin working out again. While neither is a particularly attractive option, I fear it's the latter. I made the grave mistake of looking at my bare ass in the mirror the other day. Why I have no idea. I think there's a reason God puts our asses back there where we can't readily see them: to keep middle aged women from viewing their own asses and subsequently ending their own lives.

Up until recently, I didn't have a real hand-held mirror. If I for some reason needed to see the back of my head or similar I used my compact. But that broke recently and I got the crazy idea to buy one of those big hand-held jobbers with one side that hugely magnifies every imperfection. My imperfections are best kept in real size, if not minimized, but certainly not maximized.

So anyway, it suddenly occurred to me after stepping out of the shower that I haven't gotten a good gander at my backside in quite some time. HOLYMOTHEROFGOD. I'd make a reference here to cottage cheese except I see no reason to insult an entire industry that really has done nothing bad to me personally.

I used to have a fairly consistent routine of going to spin class several times per week. But when my house flooded and we moved downtown for a spell I seemed to reason that my gym was too far away (errrr, 15 minutes instead of 5) and simply never went back. That was in August. I'm not sayin' my ass was great before, but if I knew in six short months it would turn into that monstrosity in the mirror, I might have kept going.

People, this is a long-winded way of saying that I am going to start working out again. Soon.

And here's the most depressing part. It's not like I have a bunch of weight to lose. If I could delude myself into thinking, "Well, after losing 15 pounds my ass will look like Jennifer Aniston's ass" that would be most satisfactory. Unfortunately, if I lost 15 pounds my ass would probably still look like my ass only slightly smaller. Like maybe if you had a bowl of cottage cheese and ate some of it.

No, my condition is much more dire and incurable: I'm old.

PS -- If "Let's Get Physical" isn't the world's most embarrassing video ever created, do regale me with what is.

There's an App For That!

2010-02-22T11:13:00.000-08:00

Allow me to be the first to announce that I am NOT a tech-y. Let me be the second to announce that I AM married to one. If there is an app, no matter how nonsensical, he thinks it's the greatest thing since, well, the last app he downloaded. He has a not-so-secret crush on Steve Jobs. When Apple has its annual conference where they announce all of their new-fangled products like a phone as big as a bite-sized Snickers bar, my husband salivates and sort of silently begs me to let him buy whatever it is. Um, no. If I'm not sitting ass in the Caribbean for two weeks this winter, then we can't afford a flying, talking, voice-sensitive gadget that alerts us that the neighbor didn't curb his dog's crap or similar.

You know how some women get a "push present" for giving birth like a diamond bracelet or something sparkly from Tiffany's? I got a Mac laptop. Well, it was sort of presented as a "thanks for giving birth to the twins, happy 40th birthday and I'll prove to you Apple is the best company on the planet once and for all" gift. That said, I do love it. But if I said I wanted an iPhone he'd die in peace right there and then. (And don't think I haven't considered it -- we do have a nice life insurance policy...) But frankly, I want a phone that is just that -- A PHONE! Sure, I take photos of the girls eating their feet at dinner every now and then, but I don't need a phone that can "name that tune" in five bars or less (yes, there is an app for that) or that let's me announce a friend's name and automatically dials the number (surely that gets people into trouble -- how is one supposed to gossip with an app like that floating in one's pocket?)

So the dilly of all apps came to my attention the other day when I handed my husband the grocery list and he sat at his phone for TWO HOURS doing something or other before leaving to do said grocery shopping. He got home and had the balls to say, "Wow. That iPhone grocery app made it a lot quicker!" This was said without a drop of irony. I guess he wasn't counting the two hours and six minutes (I timed him) it took to ENTER THE GROCERY LIST into his phone before trotting off to the store. Steve Jobs, are you f@#$ing with me? This app arranges your grocery list BY AISLE for easy grocery shopping? Because grocery shopping is so darned complicated? I mean, really? Why not just high-tail it down each aisle and grab what you need?

When told about this glorious technical breakthrough, I said nothing. I'll let my husband think this app is the piece de resistance of all apps if that will make him happy. Besides I hear there is a crockpot recipe app so I may have to get one of those thingamajigs myself here soon.

BTW -- Is there an app for making your husband turn into Daniel Craig?

Rudeness

2010-02-17T19:23:00.001-08:00

Almost as tasty as my mother's sweet potatoes!

Umm. Yes. This is my daughter sucking on her toes during dinner AT THE TABLE. Of course she may have not understood the seriousness of this offense given her mother ran for her cell phone and snapped a photo before gently suggesting eating feet at mealtime is a no-no.

The irony of this is right before the above occurred I was smugly lamenting all of the ill-mannered children I'd come across at Pump It Up Party today. One little brat about 4 years of age yelled at me, "Lady, get out of the way!" because she was trying to jump off of a slide the wrong way and I was obstructing her path. First of all, I don't appreciate being called a "lady." Second, her tacky-ass mother was not two feet away and clearly heard her pint-sized tyrant ordering this lady around. And said nothing. Of course she had hoop earrings so big they grazed her shoulders so maybe her hearing was impaired. I kind of hissed at the girl and she sort of slunk away. It's a really fine moment when you make snake-like sounds at a pre-school-aged child and feel proud of yourself for doing so.

So bad manners run in the family I suppose. And, hey, at least the toe-eater is flexible. Her fatty-fatty-boom-boom twin sister (I will delete that by the time she can read so she doesn't develop an eating disorder and blame it on me) probably couldn't get her toe in her mouth even if I coated it in a hot fudge sundae.

Snowed In (and Out)

2010-02-15T06:23:00.001-08:00

Have I ever mentioned how much I hate the cold? Well, I do. I've never understood that people pay thousands of dollars for a ski vacation when they could be sitting ass on the beach somewhere sipping margaritas. I've been dragged skiing several times in my life and after one turn down the bunny hill, my skiing companions knew they could find me in the lodge, feet up by the fire with hot chocolate laced with Baileys. Then I could say, I can't possibly come back out skiing! I've been drinking! It's dangerous!

I was actually physically assaulted by the metal bar on the bunny hill you are supposed to hold onto. My (not hot -- aren't they supposed to be hot?) ski instructor said he'd never quite seen it before. I was hanging onto the bar for dear life and it was pulling me up the hill. I lost my footing and then just kind of kneeled there. Waiting. Waiting apparently for the next bar to come whack me on the head. Paramedics swarmed and it caused a bit of a ruckus and, well, it was humiliating as I watched 3-year-olds pass me by holding on with one hand and waving to their parents with the other. That's when I decided no more skiing. Ever. Unless Daniel Craig begs me to accompany him to the Swiss Alps. Other than that, no way.

But with the recent snow blanketing our fine city, I knew I couldn't keep the girls from trying out snow balls and freezing their asses off and such. I was hoping they'd hate it as much as me, we'd be out for two minutes and we could make some cocoa and call it a bust. Unfortunately, they loved it. I'm blaming a recent episode of Kipper the Dog where a bunch of animals with English accents all made snow angels and made it look like a lot more fun than it really is. Everything's more fun with an English accent I would imagine.

After the girls realized the temperature was not fit for humans and playing in an alley behind our house was a bit low brow (we live in a condo so we don't have a yard), we high-tailed it inside. And they amused themselves this way:

That's exactly what it looks like. They moved their chairs and little strollers into our shower and begged me to turn on the water. "Shower like Mommy!" they yelled. Right, except Mommy takes off her jammies and doesn't bring her chairs and strollers with her. When I finally talked them out of the shower, they proceeded to tear labels off of every canned good in the pantry. Of course I didn't have the foresight to label the cans with marker so now it's a nice surprise every time I open a can of something or other. Usually other.

Please, God! Make the summer come early!!!

Okay, Seriously I Need a New Topic...

2010-02-11T18:22:00.000-08:00

Parenting 101: Give Your Child the Bribe Whether She Performs Required Task ...Or Not

Dear Lord, if I knew my blog was going to turn into Crockpotting and Potty Training Central, I might have just joined a Mommy and Me group, abandoned what was left of my sense of humor and called it a day.

That said, I have a potty update. Aren't you riveted? Twin B apparently DOES read my blog, because shortly after publicly accusing her of Jan Brady Syndrome, she promptly peed on the potty. The first thing she said as I clapped manically and pranced around their bathroom like one of those Gymboree instructors that freak me out was: "Show Daddy!" She didn't want me to pour the urine in the toilet and flush it -- she wanted to save it for approximately 9 hours until her father returned home from work. Probably not normal. But that's okay! I have two little girls who have peed on the potty!

Now here's the bad news -- they refuse to repeat this amazing feat. This may have something to do with the fact that when their mother sees bodily waste in the potty she acts like Amy Winehouse discovering that the fuzz forgot a kilo of heroin in the previous night's drug bust. Perhaps I need to tone down my celebratory antics a bit.

So it's bribe time. I told them they would get stickers if they both went and sat on the potty. They zoomed into the bathroom diaper-less and before I had a chance to get there I heard the potties burst into music, meaning presumably, if you own the Fisher Price Musical Princess Potties like I do, they relieved themselves adequately. I felt smug. Who says bribes don't work? I walked in and found the potties upside down and the girls repeatedly pressing a button underneath that triggers the music. They are either diabolical geniuses or had such a negative first potty experience that I'll be forced to send them off to college with a case of Depends.

I moved from stickers to lollipops. The deal was they could only suck on their lollipop while on the potty. See the photo above? Does it look like she's on the potty to you? That's my parenting style in a nutshell: Always give in and send mixed messages whenever possible. Some people have a college fund. I have a therapy fund.

Jan Brady Syndrome

2010-02-08T14:25:00.001-08:00

Don't blame me - I got the lazy gene from my mother.

I have an important announcement -- the skinny, orange twin has been reading my blog. There is no other explanation that she suddenly decided she was going to pee on the potty other than the fact I implied via the World Wide Web that she couldn't. The other twin (above) either can't read yet or doesn't give a crap what you or me or anybody else thinks and a diaper suits her just fine thankyouverymuch. (Who lazes around Pump It Party like this? Shouldn't she be jumping up and down like a deranged monkey or similar?)

So as I was getting them dressed the other morning, Twin A (she was born first, she crawled first, she walked first, she talked first and now she used the potty first -- NOBODY LIKES A SHOW OFF!) said very matter-of-factly "I want to tinkle on the potty." So off to the potty we marched (which I've now placed in the bathroom and I ran the water thanks to a reader's advice) and she sat down and suddenly music started blaring and she looked up quite smugly and said "Clean it mommy." Whether it was her butt or the potty she was referring to I'm not sure, but sitting there was a pool of urine and you would have thought it was a winning PowerBall ticket I was so excited. I clapped and laughed and did a little jig sort of like the one that Ashlee Simpson did after getting busted for lip synching on SNL.

And then I looked over at Twin B, poor Twin B, who surely has Jan Brady Syndrome by now (MARSHA MARSHA MARSHA!), and felt terrible. I congratulated her too and gave them both stickers specifically designed for rewarding potty progress. I see major therapy bills in my future, when as a teenager Twin B will recall feeling like the second banana her whole life. I will sit with her in family therapy and explain defensively that I gave her a sticker too that day and the therapist will bill us $500 for telling me what a rotten mother I am.

McDonalds, Corner of Broadway and Belmont

2010-02-04T18:17:00.000-08:00

"You'll eat me and you'll like me."

Yes, I'm still crockpotting like a deranged 1950s housewife. Yesterday morning, as I gathered up the ingredients for my latest (DELICIOUS) creation, my husband casually asked, "What are we having for dinner?" In retrospect, I wished I'd used that Elizabeth Perkins line from About Last Night when her one-night stand asks what she's making for breakfast: "McDonalds, corner of Broadway and Belmont." That corner is actually near us so it wouldn't have been that far-fetched.

Instead, I answered truthfully and without sarcasm. Beef pot roast slow-cooked in condensed tomato soup and onions.

"Oh... hmmm," he answered. I should have stopped right there. I should have ignored the "hmmm." In my experience, hmms should always be ignored. My husband's and everybody else's. But that's not in my nature -- ignoring hmms and other things that bug the shit out of me, that is. I spun around on my broom stick in mid-air and yelled, "HMM WHAT???!!!"

"Nothing..." he said hesitantly. I knew he had something to say and I was going to gut it out of him if need be, and I just might have given I was conveniently chopping onions at the time.

"Well... umm... that just doesn't sound very good," he finally admitted.

I slammed down an onion, threw the can of tomato soup at his head (I unfortunately missed) and calmly asked what it is His Majesty would prefer for dinner. Like the moron all men are, he actually answered instead of saying, "Dead cow smothered in Campbell's tomato soup sounds practically gourmet, dear. Carry on!" Have I mentioned lately that all men are idiots?

Here's what he dared to say instead: "Why don't you Google 'Alton Brown crock pot recipes' and see if something better comes up?'" Oh, I don't know. Same reason you don't go stick a rod up your ass and go for a trail ride. It'll be a big pain in the ass.

See, this episode just validates my theory that stretching one's self, going above and beyond if you will, just isn't worth it. Pretty soon things are expected. Things like becoming a Food Network recipe-hunting psychopath. Things like having to make a dinner that has more than three ingredients. Things like maintaining a Brazilian wax no matter how painful the process. (Okay, the last one isn't related but probably deserves its own post.)

Learn from my mistakes! If you don't currently cook, don't start! You're welcome.

Potty Training

2010-02-02T15:11:00.001-08:00

The potties are still sitting in the same place... unused.

A common theme I've had in my head since the girls were born is: "Stupid people do this all of the time -- how hard can it be?" Um, pretty freaking hard. I think dumb people maybe don't dwell on the fact they could single-handedly ruin their children's lives by making one innocent but well-intentioned mis-step. Not letting them cry it out so they become troubled sleepers for the rest of their lives (thanks Dr. Weissbluth!) or letting them cry it out and growing up with a lifelong acute sense of abandonment (thanks Dr. Sears!). See, dumb people probably didn't read those books. Making homemade organic baby food or letting Gerber do its goddamn job as the baby food-making experts. See, dumb people (and very very smart people) probably just bought some freakin' jar food and called it a day. Forcing the potty training issue shortly after age 2 or letting them decide around 3 that it's embarrassing to crap your own pants. See, dumb people (and maybe really smart people?) probably just let them crap their pants.

The last issue is where I am right now. Santa was kind enough to bring two pink, musical potties* (that also turn into step stools!) to our home for which he garnered some burnt chocolate chip cookies in return. The girls tore off the bows, yelled "Potty!" and demanded I take their diapers off immediately. "Really?" I muttered to myself. "It can't be this easy..." And it wasn't.

They sat there, bare-butted, pretending to go potty and then demanded I put their diapers back on and have never sat on them again. They always announce when they have to go at which time I gently suggest they go sit on the potty. In response they basically tell me in toddler-speak to go f#$% myself.

Along with their potties they received two potty-themed books about creepy-looking little girls named Hannah and Ashley who have learned to go on the potty which we read every night. The OCD twin even sits on the book pretending she is sitting on Ashley's potty. She tried to jump into the book the other night because dumb-ass Dora did that on a recent episode. My point here is I'm having about as much luck getting them potty trained (in real life, not pretending to in books) as I am getting them to drink milk out of a cup.

I have SEVEN months to get this accomplished because the pre-school we BETTER GET INTO requires the kids be potty trained. I don't like deadlines. Deadlines make me nervous. Especially deadlines that if not met might seem to suggest I am a failure as a mother.

*If potties that light up and burst into song when excrement hits the bottom don't cause a generation of shy bowel syndrome sufferers, I don't know what will.

Pre-School Applications

2010-02-02T09:50:00.000-08:00

Hell, yes, we're ready for pre-school! Can we bring our bottles and our mommy?

It's been so long you probably thought I mistakenly crockpotted myself and my family unwittingly ate me for dinner. No, the last 10 days have been much worse than being slow roasted while drowning in barbecue sauce.

Here in the greater Chicago metro area it is pre-school application time. Whereas I don't think Chicago is as ridiculous or competitive as stories you hear about Manhattan, it's a pain in the ass nonetheless. Especially when the deadline for the school you want your children to attend is February 1 and you go to pick up the application on February 1 and learn you have a snowball's chance in hell unless you join the affiliated church (pun intended!!!). Plus, I just don't like forms. Forms upset me. Back when I worked I'd wait months to hand in expense accounts just because a form was involved. Who invented forms? Let's kill them.

I called my husband as I bit my nails sitting on the school steps. What if I go over to the rectory and they grill me, like asking what the meaning of Easter is (the meaning that has nothing to do with candy-touting bunnies), how Jesus turned water into wine (I wish I knew!) and whether in fact I've technically been confirmed (I have not, not even untechnically). I was also not married in the church, instead choosing this man to marry me (NO I AM NOT THE BRIDE IN THE PHOTO) after finding his web site rentarev.com rather clever. Something tells me the church wouldn't find it as entertaining as I do.

Plus, don't you think the church people compare data with the school people and get a little suspicious when one joins the church ON THE SAME EXACT DAY the school applications are due? If I were on the admissions committee (first order of business -- designing a much more thorough school application with questions like "How many tv theme songs can your children recite?") I'd be on to people like me.

But I do love this pre-school, and everyone we know whose kids attend are fun, nice and normal. Fun, nice and normal go a long way with me. And, perhaps most important, it's the only program that will allow children to start in the fall if they turn 3 after September 1, which my kids do. And people, I ain't waitin' til 2011 to rid myself of them two days a week for a couple of hours.

So over to the church I marched, filled out a very straightforward form with not even one trick question and I guess I'm currently the proud member of a church. Now we just have to wait for a month to hear if the girls got in. I'm guessing if not, it has little to do with our church affiliation and more to do with my answers on the application.

What should we know about your children? The skinny orange twin thinks carrots are crack cocaine. The chubby one will gnaw off your arm for a bite of ice cream. Also, they still drink milk from a bottle, insist I hold it and I don't see that changing in the next 8 months. Are bottles and mommies allowed to come to school with them?

Why do you want your children to attend this school? It's really close and I'm really lazy.

Okay, I didn't really say that. They did ask if we applied to other schools. I said no, partly because we didn't and partly because I hope they take pity on us for being so naive as to apply to only one pre-school.

In all seriousness, it's been a rough couple of weeks. The girls have been sick, I was sick, and this cold weather is killing me. I feel like Jack Nicholson in that movie where the creepy kid keeps screaming "Red Rum!" over and over and co-stars that Olive Oil chick. Please God I hope the groundhog saw his shadow or whatever means spring is coming. I've lost my sense of humor and I think only good weather can bring it back. That or a good romp with Daniel Craig. (Can I still say things like that now that I am an official church member?)

PS -- After reading this I realize I came across as a complete heathen. We were planning on joining this church at some point. The pre-school deal just made it that much more urgent... (Read here I'm afraid someone on the admissions committee reads my blog.)

Call Me Julia

2010-01-24T08:15:00.001-08:00

We're having hairy foot of squid for dinner, dear!

People, I have been too busy crock-potting the shit out of anything that moves to blog. I think we had the postman for dinner last night. If it has meat on it, I throw it in that crockpot, bury it in some sauce and voila! Did the person who invented the crockpot (I'm assuming it's Betty Crocker until someone proves me wrong) win some kind of nobel peace prize? Well, they should have.

To explain to someone who doesn't know me what a true miracle from God it is that I'm cooking is impossible. But if you're truly interested I suppose I could give you my mother's phone number and she could explain how I can't even make a bed so my making a brown-sugar-and-dijon-mustard-smothered pork roast is akin to Moses walking on water (it was Moses, right?). But hang up on her as soon as she starts getting on your nerves. Probably two minutes into the conversation.

The thing is, I'm now truly interested in this cooking thing. I want to try new recipes, I rummage through food magazines and scour online cooking sites. I don't even know who I am anymore. It's entirely possible I may wake up tomorrow, shave my head and join the Hare Krishna*. Because if I can find a love of cooking I can become a bald beggar at airports who helpfully informs people they will be going to hell. Really, it's that bizarre of a life change.

Even though crockpotting (is it a verb? it should be) is easy, per everything in my life, I at first had to make it hard. I would throw all the stuff in, press the button to cook it on "slow" and then sit there and watch it throughout the day. I'd marvel to the girls, "Can you believe this thing is COOKING OUR DINNER FOR US??? Have you EVER SEEN ANYTHING SO AMAZING???" And they would say something like "Caillou has a big red ball. Dora and Boots go night-night." So clearly they understand the importance of our new family member, our chef, our modern incarnation of Alice, The Crockpot. I almost feel guilty not paying it the going rate of $15 an hour for household help in the greater Chicago metro area.

My still one-reservation I have of my new passion is handling raw meat. I like my meat to arrive cooked (medium please) and prefer not to think of its origins on a farm or jungle or side of the road or similar. So I just kind of close my eyes, unwrap it and plunk it into the crockpot really quick while humming a pleasant song to divert my urge to vomit. My technique would probably make a good YouTube video if I was so inclined to let someone film me. Which I'm not.

So now that I've mastered cooking, I feel like I could do anything. Run a marathon. Solve world peace. Write a book. Too bad that damn Julie & Julia bitch took my idea.

*I know nothing about these people. I actually thought it was "Harry" Krishna before I Googled it, and wondered who Harry was and why he wanted bald followers. I'm not even sure they believe in hell. As a matter of fact, I know very little about religion in general, exemplified by the "D" I got in World Religions my junior year of college. If you are a Hare Krishna and I offended you, I will be happy to share a nice crockpot recipe to make amends. Except I don't think you eat meat. And I haven't gotten to the vegetarian section of my new crockpot cookbook yet...

Co-Conspirators

2010-01-16T13:02:00.000-08:00

It was Miss Orange and Miss White with a Calendar in the Babies' Room

I think my children are trying to kill me. When they get in their cribs at night, and we finish up a ridiculously long bedtime routine, I think they get out a calendar and start conspiring. "When should we get sick?" one asks the other. "Well, Daddy will be out of town next week. That seems like a good time." The other then thinks about it. "Yeah, the next holiday weekend isn't for a while... I suppose we should get scary high fevers the minute he leaves and then pull something big the Sunday of Memorial Day Weekend like we did last year." The other one nods. "I agree. The Emergency Room is so much more drama than the regular old doctor's office. Plus maybe someone who looks like George Clooney will be there."

WHAT THE F@#$???? Tragedies only occur around here when my husband is out of town (water pouring into my home displacing us for months anyone?) or it's a holiday weekend and our pediatrician is closed. And by "tragedy" I mean I am forced to be up all night. If you knew me in the real world you would know this is indeed a tragedy. People, I LOVE SLEEP.

So rocking a toddler last night from 2:00 am to 6:30 am was not my idea of fun. She had a fever and was not remotely tired. She wanted to chat. "Saw butterflies. Went down bumpy slide. Barney is purple. I like ice cream."

Umm, fantastic. Now go to sleep. "Don't like medicine. Want cherry lollipop. Watch Caillou!"

Right. Shoot me.

Still, as I sat there and rocked her, it occurred to me (like at hour three when I started feeling philosophically delirious) that that's sort of what motherhood is. Being there when they can't sleep but you're dying to. Singing "Jingle Bell Rock" 75 times in a row even though the holiday season has passed and you try to explain this but they don't get it so you are forced to belt out Christmas tunes well into January.

It's not always fun. It's probably not SUPPOSED TO BE always fun. And even though in the middle of the night as I prayed for sleep* and it didn't seem like a good time, I look back on it today and see that it sort of was. Getting to snuggle with her for hours while she rambled every thought she had in her little head. After all, I've had worse Friday nights. They usually consisted of a guy asking me if I planned to pay for half the dinner tab. And if he said things like "Butterflies pretty," it would have been a conversational upgrade.

That said, they better not pull that crap tonight. I need sleep. And to plan a girls weekend for Memorial Day so I'm out of town. I'm pretty sure my kids are scheduling something unpleasant.

*God's answering service must wonder why I only pray about sleep. ("Please God, let them nap today. If they nap today I will (fill in the blank with something I have no intention of doing.)" Just once I might confuse them and pray for world peace. Or maybe a new toaster.

PS-- Yes, the one twin is still orange. What can I say? The girl loves herself some carrots.

Babbling Stuff

2010-01-13T17:03:00.000-08:00

I know I've finally made it because Lulu and Moxley's Mom is writing about me!

A concerned reader sent me an e-mail asking if I'd been fired from FameCrawler. Thank you for the vote of confidence. No, I'm still posting over there, I just haven't been promoting it over here. (I know it's surprising, but I've never been fired. I hear it adds character. Which is perhaps why I have none. Although I'm just remembering I was almost fired by a crazy octogenarian widow named Mrs. Baer but perhaps I'll discuss that in a separate post.)

If you're into celebrity gossip, head over to FameCrawler. I know not everyone is. Just so you know, I'm not overly snarky over there. (Note to publishers: I can adjust my tone!) Here are links to a few recent sample posts. Feel free to comment, people.

Find The Bachelor a train wreck? Read out about that Rozlyn Papa scandal and the (MARRIED) fired producer involved in Bachelor-Gate here and here. I even did some investigative reporting of my own and hunted down his Twitter account. Hello, NY Times, I'm available! (As an aside, why were the other contestants CRYING when Rozlyn got kicked off??? I would have been doing the "Ding Dong the Hot Girl is Dead" dance. I mean, the most gorgeous contestant is leaving! Is this not cause for celebration? It's like the non-Tonya Harding skaters pretending they were upset when Nancy Kerrigan got her knees knocked out. C'mon, secretly they were happy...)

Think there is no such thing as too skinny? Me too. Until now. Click here and here. And I was nice enough to not even mention Rachel Zoe's unfortunate face.

Want proof that Angelina Jolie HAS BEEN REJECTED in her life? Sadly, this story didn't make me feel better about myself.

Do you know who Tamra Barney is? Me neither, but if you're into the Real Housewives of Orange County, you might be interested in this. Or you might not.

Okay, enough of that. I guess I just wanted to prove I hadn't been fired. Although that could happen... I'll let you know when it does.

Coming soon: My promised list of "authentic moms" and a report on the dinner I am about to eat (umm, that I made) that doesn't look like it might kill a person. But it might.

Beef Pot Roast a La Moi

2010-01-12T14:16:00.000-08:00

I hope it doesn't scream like a lobster ...

I have some good news: The crock pot has been used! I have some bad news: I wasn't the one who used it! My husband made a delectable pork something or other. But in idly observing how easy it appeared, I was inspired. People, tomorrow I will be making a beef pot roast. Alert the media.

I informed my husband that if he would sift through and pinpoint a recipe (zzzzz) that I could potentially manage, I would give it a go. So he found one (which has considerably more than the two ingredients for which I'd hoped) and I went to the store and I bought the ingredients. We are half way there!!!

Here's the thing about grocery shopping when you're going to actually make something: you can't forget anything. As long as I didn't forget milk for the girls, every trip to the grocery store was a success. If you need an ingredient to make a specific recipe and you forget it, you're screwed. This seems like a lot of unnecessary pressure for an already unpleasant task.

I called my husband no less than four times from Jewel. Why he doesn't feign more meetings and let my calls go to voicemail is beyond me. I mean, I never call with good news or to exchange pleasantries. It's usually to a) bitch about something; b) ask a dumb question; or c) tell him if he doesn't get his ass home asap I'm going to blow my brains out. (This one is usually placed daily at about 5:00 pm.)

Here is one of our calls from Jewel verbatim:

Me: I'm in the meat section and I don't see four pounds of beef chuck roast.

Him: You have to go to the butcher.

Me: I have to go to Jewel AND a butcher???

Him: There is a butcher at Jewel. (This was said with a minimal amount of hostility or sarcasm. Which I appreciated.)

Me: I don't see a butcher. Are you sure there's one here?

Him: Very sure. (This was said with a hint of sarcasm but I ignored it.)

Speaking of butchers, we knew someone who knew someone who was a butcher and right after he was told he won a prize for selling the most shrimp that week he keeled over from a heart attack. Right there at the store. Seriously. I guess winning such a contest is more exciting than one might think.

Anyway, the recipe I've been tasked with is a bit complex and I wasn't sure if "new potatoes" were the same as "red potatoes" (the topic of the second of my four phone calls) and if there was really such a thing as frozen onions (call #3) and would the recipe be ruined if I got regular old beef broth because I couldn't find the low sodium kind (call #4). The answers: similar enough, yes and probably not.

So wish me luck! I plan on taking pictures. I'd like to "live blog" the whole thing like some bloggers who cover the Academy Awards but I'll probably need my full concentration and both hands. If nobody hears from us tomorrow, send the authorities. We may be dead.

Lunch Ladies

2010-01-10T06:35:00.000-08:00

One of the girls' Christmas gifts was a chef's costume to go along with a play kitchen we already had. I like the Pottery Barn model but I protest a pretend kitchen that costs more than installing granite countertops in a real one. The online description of the chef's outfit boasted something along the lines of "your little one will feel like a gourmet chef at a five-star restaurant." Umm, then why does my kid look more like a lunch lady and less like a Bobby Flay?

Lunch ladies always freaked me out. They seemed to be conspiring to poison us with their partially saran-wrapped hands scooping out moldy concoctions of last week's leftovers. Modern lunch ladies probably wear specialized bacteria-fighting gloves that laser peanuts on sight while simultaneously weeding out every germ imaginable. But I bet they're still kind of scary.

The smell of cafeteria food always made me a bit nauseous. Which is why as a kid I always brought my lunch. This backfired only once when my mother mixed up my brown bag lunch with my dad's and I wound up unwrapping a big hunk of meatloaf in front of a table of 20 seven-year-olds. They began screaming that my mother had packed me "dog poop" for lunch. I would have gone hungry if not for the resident fat girl who gently pushed one of her Ho Hos in my direction. Only a mercilessly teased fat kid could empathize with such ridicule. (ARE YOU READING, MOTHER? 34 years later I'm still traumatized by your "innocent little mistake!!!")

Despite this minor mishap, I continued my brown bagging tradition until high school when I could sneak off campus to Wendy's every day where I always ordered a plain baked potato and Biggie Diet Coke. They were both 99 cents. The Wendy's version of the lunch lady would see me coming and pre-order "the usual" so even if I wanted to I couldn't order something different because it might hurt her feelings. One day I really wanted some fries, but there was my meal all rung up with the little woman behind the counter smiling at me broadly, like she just did me a huge favor by my not having to wait an extra 30 seconds if she had just let me place the order myself.

I always imagined this was the highlight of her existence, exercising her omnipotent ordering gift, so I couldn't very well squash her spirit with an alternate order. Also, I wasn't sure she was coherent enough to implement a rescinded order, which might necessitate a backlog of high schoolers eager to eat their lunch quickly so they could smoke some pot before returning to class. I certainly didn't want to be blamed for the Jeff Spicolis in my school not getting their afternoon buzz.

So my daughters running around the house looking like lunch ladies is a bit off-putting. I may see if Pottery Barn has chef outfits. They probably cost as much as tuition at Le Cordon Bleu, but at least the unpleasant flashbacks will cease.

Snowbound and Not Cooking

2010-01-08T08:19:00.001-08:00

Yesterday we had what I like to call a "Jammies Day." This means the girls and I stay in our pjs all day long because we can't leave the house anyway so why bother getting dressed. (Yes, they're wearing Halloween pajamas and it's January. That is the least of my problems. Please note they are flipping themselves backward off the couch in what inevitably will someday be a trip to the ER while I idly stand by taking photos with my phone...)

I woke up yesterday morning and told my husband we were going to Pump It Up Party -- or as my girls call it, The Jump Place. It's one of our usual weekly outings. Please don't go there if you live in Chicago. We don't like crowds.

So anyway, my husband informed me there was a snowstorm and we likely wouldn't be going anywhere. I never bother checking the weather anymore. It's Chicago. I know the forecast: inhumanely freezing, not suitable for human beings. I don't know about you, but when I've just been informed I will be locked in a house with two screaming two-year-olds by myself for the next 12 hours, I start to panic. I'm not a kindergarten teacher, for crying out loud. I don't do crafts, I don't like to color and there's only so much Caillou a 41-year-old lady can take.

Incidentally, am I the only politically incorrect person who not only hopes global warming is real, but that we don't do anything to stop it? "Humans over polar bears" is my motto. It's a wind chill of about -1 right now and I wouldn't mind it going up a degree or 50. (Note to environmentalists: I kid. Sort of. It's easy to be against global warming when you live in LA. You're probably reading this from your back deck as your kids frolic on the swings. You just want the temperature to stay where it is because you had the good sense to move somewhere warm. Try living in Chicago November through March and see if you don't start trying to INCREASE your carbon footprint.)

Bottom line: we survived our day inside. We sang, we danced -- and when things got really dire --we put all the coins I've saved over the last year into their piggy banks for entertainment purposes. Which I kind of want back but it seems wrong to take money from a child's piggy bank even if it was never explicitly stated they could keep it.

Moving on... My new shiny crock pot is sitting on my kitchen counter staring me down, mocking me.

"Ya gonna cook something or what bitch?"

I won't be spoken to like that in my own home unless it's my children. And they won't know the word "bitch" for at least another week or so.

Here's what I've come to realize: I found a vessel in which I can (allegedly) easily cook food. HOWEVER, I must first pour over a cook book, find a recipe rudimentary enough that I can pull it off, drag my ass to the grocery store, buy the ingredients and then lug it all home. And then I still have to cook the shit! My solution: make my husband do the grunt work then I swoop in like Betty Crocker (is that who the crock pot is named after?), throw the crap in the cooker, let it simmer for 12 hours and then take credit if it is delicious and blame it on him if it rots.

Okay, so after I posted that we bought a crock pot, my mother called and asked if we really bought a crock pot or if it was just a funny story I concocted for my blog. Because everyone knows you mention a crock pot and hilarity ensues. WHO MAKES UP THEY BOUGHT A CROCK POT??? She thought it could just be a case of exercising my "creative license." People, presume what I say here is real unless I mention Daniel Craig is stopping by for a martini and a chat at which time I'll serve him a delicious meal I've just whipped up in my new crock pot. Because everyone knows I'm not really going to cook anything, even for Daniel Craig.

Part-Time

2010-01-04T14:25:00.000-08:00

Why are there no well-paying part-time jobs for educated, somewhat intelligent women who happen to want to dial back their career a notch or two so they can tend to their children but still make some coin? I recently found one (it has "manager" in the title!) and applied but they haven't called. Granted, this was like 10 seconds ago. But I assume when my resume comes across the wire Human Resources calls an emergency meeting and shouts things like, "You call her! I'll e-mail her! Someone get in their car right now and show up at her house! Don't let this one get away!" People, my resume is that good. Or so it should be after paying TheLadders.com a hefty sum to make me sound much more impressive than I really am.

When I was discussing a return to work toward the end of maternity leave and indicated I didn't want to be in the office full time, they offered to let me work four days per week with a 20 percent pay cut. As the now-vindicated Wes from The Bachelorette said, "I was born on a Tuesday, but it wasn't last Tuesday." Because in those situations you might be working one day less, but I can assure you you're still doing the same amount of work, just shoved into four days. Unless they are hiring someone to work that one extra day. Which they never do. So I took my ass on down the road to an early, if temporary, retirement. And I'm thrilled it played out like it did and I've gotten to spend the majority of my time doting on my children who will either someday be better for it or wind up in jail. (I only intend to take the credit on the former scenario.) Plus, physically I don't think I could have worked even part-time, woken up multiple times a night for feedings and lived to tell about it.

But now two years later I'd be open to a part-time job with a pared down salary if such a job existed. And I know tons and tons and tons (okay, like three) other women who are in the same predicament. So the question is why aren't there more opportunities for meaningful, well-paying, part-time employment? The only women I know who seemed to find that negotiated a flexible arrangement with their employers following maternity leave. Or they are in a medical field like nursing that lends itself to part-time work. I hate blood. That wouldn't work for me.

My point? Well, I don't necessarily have one. That's what I like about not working. Nobody can come over to my blog and tell me to revise it because it's not to their liking. Well, they could, but I'd tell them to #@$% off.

In the meantime, I will sit by my phone, my computer and my front door waiting for the flurry of activity that surely this company's entire personnel department is going through right now to reach me.

Crack Pot

2010-01-04T10:55:00.000-08:00

I announced to my husband that I am going to start cooking and evidently he took me seriously. Because he came home with a brand new crock pot yesterday. For those of you who don't know me, my announcing I'm going to start cooking probably means very little. For those of you who do know me, you might be on your way to the ER or pulling a Fred Sanford.

This desire to start cooking really isn't about a desire to start cooking. It's that if I don't we as a family will rarely have meals together. As it stands now, I am regaled with five-star meals at 8 pm most nights prepared by my husband after work while the girls are subjected to mushy purees, Steam Fresh peas and canned green beans at 5 pm. So I said I'd give being a 1950s housewife a try so we can all eat together sometimes. I'll get all spiffied up in a sleeveless shift dress and heels before my husband gets home, get the girls clean and house tidied up, greet him at the door with a martini and a hot meal on the table. This is the new me with minus the perky boobs and perky attitude:

But while perk isn't my thing, I am going to try to serve up a new pleasant attitude along with dinner. Which, let's face it, is going to be a far bigger challenge than throwing slabs of meat in a slow cooker. I've been fairly unpleasant to everyone but my children the last two years so it's now kind of a habit. I'm not even sure if I remember how to be nice unless it involves singing the Caillou theme song 100 times in a row. Surely cooking will be a piece of cake compared to the pleasant part.

Although I may be over-estimating my ability to learn to cook. The last time I really tried to cook adult food was around 1994. The recipe called for baking chicken at 350 degrees for 45 minutes. I was running late so decided to up the degrees to 450 and halve the baking time. I never heard from my date again so he might be dead from salmonella poisoning. I didn't really like him and I wasn't charged with a crime so all ended well.

So wish me luck in cooking and not killing my family in the process. I will photograph the first meal I prepare and perhaps videotape the response of the meal's recipients. I'll start brainstorming appropriate musical accompaniment. Perhaps something by Poison.

Choices

2010-01-02T11:30:00.001-08:00

I choose to play with a ball.

I choose to sit in a box contemplating the meaning of life.

Today I went to the play room I love that blares kid-inappropriate music such as Madonna's "Like a Virgin" and The Commodore's "Brick House." (Must children under 5 know that Lionel Richie's idea of a "winning hand" is 36-24-36? No.)

I took the girls, but I would actually have a pretty good time there on my own as well. While the tunes are delightful, the parents are often not. Here is a (one-sided) conversation I witnessed between a mother and her 18-month-old.

"Emily, Mommy is giving you two choices. You can choose to continue crying and we will go home or you can choose to stop crying and we'll play for a while longer. Please think about it and let Mommy know which choice you'd like to make."

What new-fangled parenting manual advocates this line of dialogue? Listen, I'm not saying giving kids choices is a bad thing, or that tricking them into believing they are in charge of their own immediate destiny can't be an effective parenting tool. What I am saying is that if I hear you talking like that to a baby I'm going to make fun of you.

I myself talk to my children like they are beyond their years. ("Is it me, girls, or does Caillou seem to simplify the plight of the modern family?") So I'm really nobody to talk. But I try to have inane conversations with my children in the privacy of my own home so that nobody can mock me on their blog.

This particular child -- Emily -- chose to keep crying. Yet, there they were -- Emily and Mommy -- playing for the next two hours. So I'm not sure Emily learned much about choices and consequences today. But neither did my kids. I basically told them if they didn't shut their yappers while we waited for our car in one of those parking garages that insist on getting your car for you in exchange for a tip that they wouldn't get to eat the lollipop they always receive at this particular garage. (They were squealing "LOLLIPOP!" in a pitch that only certain breeds of dogs and mothers can tolerate.) They in fact didn't shut their yappers and you know what they ate all the way home? Lollipops. So my children are no better than Emily and I am no better than Emily's mother. Maybe just slightly less annoying. (Emphasis on maybe and slightly.)

But, hey, if we can't harmlessly mock each other's parenting styles how would we manage to feel superior to other mothers? And isn't that what motherhood is all about?

Butterflies and Ice Cream

2010-01-01T13:41:00.000-08:00

I eat humans...

I desperately want my children to be having fun every moment of every day. I have no idea where I got the notion that children having fun 24 hours per day seven days a week equals being a good mother. If that were so I suppose Dina Lohan would be mother of the century. Expect several stints in juvy by the time the girls reach 13.

Anyway, on my never-ending quest to entertainment my children, I did two things this week on opposite sides of the spectrum that I never would have considered prior to breeding, nor do I particularly want to do them now. One kind of high brow and the other decidedly not.

1) We went to the Nature Museum. I don't like nature. So a museum dedicated to it holds no interest for me. The last time I communed with nature was in college when my philandering boyfriend dragged me camping for the weekend where he proceeded to inform me I was getting fat. Why a guy would decide to communicate that opinion to his girlfriend when there were no other people within a 5-mile radius is beyond me. It's very dangerous. Because I would have killed him had I not been deathly afraid of being left alone to be eaten by a bear. (Given how "fat" I was the bears were probably afraid I was going to eat them.) I probably shouldn't hold nature as a whole responsible for that weekend but somehow I do.

Anyway, the Nature Museum has a room with a bunch of wild GINORMOUS kamikaze butterflies that are on the attack. I didn't want to scare the girls so I pasted a frozen smile on my face the entire time but I'm serious, butterflies were diving at us like they were Tiger Woods and we were strippers. And sure, butterflies are kind of pretty FROM FAR AWAY. Up close they are a bug with long freakish legs that just happen to have colorful wings. Gross.

Me no likey.

2) Ate inside a McDonalds because they had a little play area. I didn't know customers actually ate inside McDonalds. People, they have a drive-through for a reason. Did you know they call it their "dining room?" Like you're at the country club or something. Anyway it was before 10:30 am so they were still serving breakfast. I asked for two cups of vanilla ice cream. The lady goes, "We're serving breakfast." (She emphasized "breakfast," in a Supersized antagonist tone.) So I say, "Oh you're not serving ice cream yet?" And she goes, "No, we are" and then looks at me disapprovingly. In other words, the lady behind the counter AT MCDONALDS was judging me for poor food choices. And would it be mean of me to point out she looked like she had eaten an ice cream cone or two in her life? (My ex-boyfriend would have been happy to inform her of this...)

McDonalds corporate headquarters is located in the Chicago area. I almost interviewed for a job there. And when I say "almost" I mean I sent my resume and they never called. But if I did have a corporate job with McDonalds I might send out a memo reminding the counter people that if they want to get uppity about what moms serve their kids they might want to go work at Whole Foods.

Regardless, Happy New Year people! I'd share my News Years resolutions but I don't have any. If it ain't broke... (Umm, need I say I'm kidding?)