Sam's Peepee Goes To Preschool.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Sam
This morning we did it; we went and toured Sam's new preschool. He starts in September, and the only trick is going to be getting his peepee (not to mention his behind) in order by that time as far as the peeing and the pooping and when and where to do those things.

I have faith in him, though. He was fascinated by the four-year-olds' room and kept asking the director "What's that for?" and "What do we do here?" So he's motivated. We stopped at Starbuck's beforehand for Mommy's venti nonfat cappuccino and he peed in the toilet like a champ, although I'm going to have to work with him on making sure his peepee is actually pointing into the toilet before he lets fly. "My peepee is getting really good at peeing in the toilet," he mused afterward.

Sam's peepee has quite the personality. Sometimes I will take him to the bathroom and he will try to pee but then explain, 'My peepee says No no no." His peepee says other things, too, and Sam will sometimes wag his peepee up and down and make it "talk" as it says these things. Ben and I find it endearing that his peepee says No no no in the first place. Most guys' peepees don't say anything except Yes yes yes, and that goes for their whole lifetimes.

So, you know, I think Sam and his peepee are going to do okay. Mommy, on the other hand, is a bit of a wreck. Preschool this fall means kindergarten next fall, and excuse me, didn't I just give birth to this kid ten minutes ago? Mr. Baby is all grown up. This is all a bit much for a hormonal pregnant mommy.

In other news, I finally got up off it and bought a domain name. The Mr. Baby Blog is now located at www.MrBabyShow.com. Our motto: Same shit, different URL!

Saint George.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Music
Lately I've been listening to a lot of George Harrison's solo work. It's true that he tended to be a bit too Hindu around the edges and sometimes took the whole spirituality thing a bit too far, but you know, there was something about him. He uplifted like a good support bra.

In fact, the two songs Ben has been instructed to play at my funeral are George Harrison solo efforts. You'll have to show up to the funeral to find out which ones. Be sure to bring lots of Bombay Sapphire and a cute girl for Ben, since with three kids he is going to have to remarry by nightfall.

The thing that got me started on George Harrison was unearthing a couple of his albums in a box of crap in my office. These were The Traveling Wilburys, Vol. 1 (1988), from the supergroup he formed with Bob Dylan, Jeff Lynne, Roy Orbison and Tom Petty, and the greatest hits collection Best of Dark Horse (1989). Brilliant stuff. By today's standards, it's fucking Mozart. People aren't making music like that anymore.

There is a George story that Ben likes to tell which may be apocryphal, but I like it anyway. The story goes that during the Beatle days, George was sitting in his hotel room playing the ukelele when a girl arrived at the door and announced to whoever answered that she wanted to give George, umm, oral pleasure. George agreed, but kept on playing his ukelele -- she did what she came to do and brought the act to fruition, and then she left, and George never said a word or stopped playing the ukelele. Talk about cool.

Of course, George died of lung cancer in November 2001. They're really dropping like flies these days, aren't they? One of the things about getting older that really freaks me out is the way the heavens start filling up with Famous Dead Guys, and it just gets worse as the years go by. Saint George, you had a good run and left some good music. I don't know where you are -- the normal Heaven or some Hindu place or maybe reincarnated as God only knows what -- but you were a good one.

But It's True.
Mood:  lazy
Topic: Pregnancy
Today, after a meeting with my boss, I heaved my increasingly pregnant self to my feet with an audible groan. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"My arse hurts," I replied. She looked a bit taken aback. Hey, don't ask, don't tell. She asked!

If the truth be known, my arse does hurt. I hope the energetic, sexually active part of pregnancy isn't over already. I hope I'm not into the slow, heavy, achy part. Even if this baby is early, as my babies tend to be, I am looking at 16 more weeks at the very least. That's four months of a sore butt. Kid, just for the record, when you get here, you'd better be nice to me. I don't suffer ass pain for just ANYONE, you know.

Poop Talk Du Jour.
Topic: Poop
It's time to talk about poop, since I haven't done it in a while. I know I've talked about farts within the past 48 hours, but farts aren't poop, and the rigors of bloggery demand frequent entries on the subject of defecation. So I will talk about Sam's diaper, and what's in it, and the fact that he shouldn't be wearing it anymore.

It's true -- Alert Readers may have noticed that when talking about smelling the kids' butts for poop, I used the plural. Sam, less than three months shy of his fourth birthday, is still in diapers. This is not just because I'm a terrible mother; Ben and I, as well as the day care lady, have tried and tried to get this kid out of diapers. We've attempted every tactic known, so please don't e-mail me with your helpful hints, because if you do, I will find out where you live and mail you one of Sam's dirty diapers.

Ben's mother, my sainted mother-in-law, is going absolutely insane with annoying helpfulness on the potty issue. She clips out articles and mails them to us, asks Ben about Sam's potty progress every time they talk on the phone (which is about five times a week, for God's sake), and is always suggesting some video or Dr. Phil quackery or what have you. Poor Ben is the one who has to undergo these torrents of wisdom, and he's also the one who has to undergo my responsive ravings: Tell her I am NOT taking potty training advice from someone who has never toilet trained a child [Ben's grandmother trained him], and even if she claims she DID train you, THAT WAS FORTY-SEVEN YEARS AGO. My poor husband. I wonder which is worse, a bossy mother or a wife who doesn't take kindly to her bullshit advice?

The latest wrinkle in Sam's failure to toilet train came today when I called his prospective new preschool and was informed that while they take kids from infancy on up, they are not prepared to take on an almost-four-year-old who is not toilet trained.

It's just the latest logistical difficulty in a series of many. Sam is showing signs of growing out of the largest size diaper (he is very tall for his age and looks at least 5 years old, which makes it all the more incongruous that he still poops in his pants), and I've told him that he will end up wearing Depends like a nursing home inmate, but he is not impressed.

Nor is he fazed by the announcement by Katrina, his "girlfriend" at day care, that she is having second thoughts about marrying a guy who still poops in his pants. (Hey, it would be a dealbreaker for me, too.) I've even tried explaining to him that changing his poopy diapers is just too disgusting and I really can't handle it anymore. No dice. I really think the kid is just being stubborn, and the day care lady is in agreement with the preschool people that he'll train when he's ready, that pushing him too hard will just backfire. So that, for now, is that.

People say Well, he won't go to college in diapers, but I have my doubts. Someday I will help him pack his bag for college, and its contents will include both Trojans and Depends. Mark my words.

Of Marriage And Fidelity.
Mood:  amorous
Mean girl that I am, I should probably apologize to Ben for blogging a fart story about him. Even though he says that the farting is all my fault for cooking lamb shanks for dinner: You feed me dead sheep, what do you expect? But it's disrespectful to tell such tales, and really, I do very much love and respect my husband. Yesterday, for a moment, I was reminded exactly how much.

I was jolted awake at 6:30 a.m. by a nightmare that sent me bolt upright in bed with pounding heart -- I dreamed that he was leaving me. No discussion, no debate -- in the dream, he calmly and coldly announced that he was moving to San Diego. Waking, I quickly realized that all was in fact well, that he and the boys were there sleeping beside me where they belonged. But I was so upset that further sleep was out of the question. It was only a dream, but it reminded me how much you can't take your marriage for granted.

Although I guess many people do. Are Ben and I the only people on earth with a truly joyful marriage? Even after five years we are giggling best friends, we are still mad with lust for each other. That's easy to maintain when you're dating, when you spend your time together on jet ski trips and pub crawls and all-afternoon boink sessions. A lot of our time, though, is spent wiping noses and asses, and sex is a thing dearly to be desired but difficult to actually achieve, what with two toddlers who never seem to fall asleep until Ben and I are too exhausted to do much more than grin apologetically at each other. So the degree to which we're happy together is truly a rare thing.

By contrast, most of our friends' marriages seem to fall somewhere along a continuum ranging from neutrality to misery. Worse, very few of the couples we know are actually faithful to each other. Of the men, even the ones who aren't openly cavorting with barely legal South American girls (whom they pay by the hour or by the day) are having clandestine adventures whenever the opportunity strikes. Are we the only married people on earth who aren't cheating on each other? I ask Ben. And he quickly points out the two married men of our acquaintance who don't cheat on their wives, or at least who haven't been caught at it or admitted to it -- but they aren't good examples, either. I know these guys, and for them, marital fidelity is like investing or flossing; it's the right thing to do, but there's no joy in it.

My husband and I, though, truly have the hots for each other. Some of that is due to deprivation and some to sincere effort; despite three pregnancies in my 40s, I make a concerted effort to stay cute, to wear a size 4 and wear my hair long and not skip jewelry and makeup. And God was kind enough to give me no stretch marks whatsoever. It's only fair to keep up my appearance; I could hardly expect Ben to stick close to home if I had gained 60 pounds, chopped off all my hair, and developed a sudden distaste for the male body in general and his in particular, the way so many wives do.

And in that regard, we're also different from every other couple I know. There seems to be something about having babies that makes women go cold on sex, and most of them won't even get on their knees and do their poor husbands a favor. No, they want to be romanced. You love the guy, don't you? I ask such women. He stays married to you, he supports your children, he comes home at night, right? So what's the problem? He wants sex; you don't; do him a favor. And they look at me like I've suggested they bury their noses in shit. Surely they are failing to grasp the secret to a happy marriage and to male fidelity: Give him a reason not to cheat on you. But they don't get it.

Not everyone has a marriage as happy as mine. But I think sometimes that's due more to lack of effort and imagination than to anything else. Ben and I don't have a perfect life by any means -- we wish there was more money and less baby shit; I wish he wouldn't fart into my sofa; he wishes I wouldn't blog embarrassing revelations about his bodily functions. But I love my husband. And my dream reminded me -- should remind us all -- that we should never take anything we love for granted, because maybe someday it's gone.

For Whom The Smell Tolls.
Mood:  smelly
Topic: The Tao of Ben
There is a standard Crumpacker method for checking if one of the boys has poop in his pants: Quite simply, we smell their butts through their pants. Ben was quite scandalized the first time I held up baby Sam and demanded, Smell his butt! But you know, it's a good method. I have heard of parents who check for poop by thrusting a hand inside the kid's diaper. Now that strikes me as foolhardy. Compared to the hand-in-the-diaper method, smelling their butts, while it probably looks a bit strange in public, is downright safe and sanitary.

This afternoon I thought I caught a telltale whiff, so I started polling my kids. Do you have a poop? I asked Sam. He shook his head. Matt, do you have a poop? Sam, who is my good little helper, immediately offered, I better smell his butt. And he duly did so, and announced after a moment that Matt in fact was poop-free.

Sam's sense of humor, these days, is firmly rooted in the absurd, so in the spirit of the moment, I suggested, I'd better smell Daddy's butt. Sam squealed with delight as I approached his father and said Sit up, I need to smell your butt. And I did exactly that -- I took a big whiff, thinking I was safe. I mean, you'd hardly expect the guy to have a poop in his pants, right?

I almost fell over -- it smelled pretty damned bad. You've been farting! I accused him. He grinned. Not lately, he replied. I was left sputtering with indignation and disgust.

Ben just laughed at me. See? he said. Don't go around smelling people's butts. And I have to agree. Next time you get the urge to smell the butts of the males in the room, I recommend limiting your inquiry to the toddlers.

Gimme Gimme Gimme.
Mood:  cheeky
Topic: Matt
As some of you may know, two-year-old Matt has finally weaned from the breast. Depending upon who you are -- whether you're a crunchy Mommy type or a college buddy or a smart-ass blogger or what have you -- that information may inspire any number of reactions from Kudos! to Ewwww to About bloody time, or possibly some or all of the above.

Matt is being a pretty good sport about the whole thing, really, but has replaced nursing with a habit which I fear most people would find socially unacceptable, namely that he feels free to plunge his hand inside my bra, any time the mood may strike him, and start rummaging about in there. I have tried reasoning with him, explaining that we just don't do that and that people aren't generally going to let him get away with that type of thing later in life, but he isn't really impressed by any of my arguments. Nor is his father any help whatsoever. He just cackles and gives him a thumbs-up and says Go for it, kid.

Well. Many women say that they wish their husbands would be more tolerant and supportive of extended breastfeeding. And to that I say Be careful what you wish for.

Badge Of Motherhood.
Mood:  lucky
Topic: Rants
It's an annoying bit of inevitability in my life that absolutely every sweater, jacket, blouse and shirt I own has vague stains about the right shoulder. I'm really kind of mystified as to why this is -- it's true that I tend to sling Matt onto my right hip, but it's not like he's a gurgling, spitting-up infant anymore; he oughtn't to be generating stains on my shoulders. Certainly, I never catch him at it. But the stains are always there, and I am always noticing them and being embarrassed and annoyed by them.

Ben doesn't understand my irritation. It's the proud badge of motherhood, he tells me, or You're a mom -- of course you're going to have barf and drool all over you. At this point I am always tempted to throw at him a Jedi knight or Crayola marker or whatever little missile might come to hand. Yes, buddy, all that is true, and furthermore, I do love to point out that I ruined my body having YOUR children, Ben Crumpacker. But I used to be cute, you know. In my heyday I was even thought to be a bit of a hottie. And how is a girl meant to feel properly sexy when she is pregnant with her fourth child and also surreptitiously removing dried baby boogers from her sleeve?

Honestly, it defies the imagination. What with all the nursing and the snot and the spit-up stains and the diaper leaks and the maternity bras and episiotomies and so on, it's quite honestly a miracle that anyone wants to get close enough to do anything to me that could even remotely result in getting me pregnant this often. You would almost think that I was running immaculate conceptions over here, except that there is nothing immaculate about me. Even when I am nominally well-put-together, if you look closely you will see Infant Motrin stains on my fingers. Motherhood may be many things, but sexy is not one of them.

Well . . . Yes.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
Yesterday we had lunch at BJ's Pizza. It's one of Sam and Matt's favorite places; they love the minestrone and the root beer floats, and Ben loves the beer, so we go there a fair amount. On this particular visit, Sam was especially energetic. Which is to say he drove us absolutely nuts. He was happy enough, but was completely bouncing off the walls, so that the whole meal was a litany of Sam this and Sam that and Sam, will you please pull your head out from under the table and eat already?

By the time we loaded the kids back into the van to go home, I was exhausted. As we started out of the parking lot, Sam suddenly piped up, "I don't want to go there anymore. I don't want to go back to BJ's Pizza ever again."

I turned around to look at him, surprised -- he loved BJ's. "Why, honey?" I asked.

"That place makes me crazy," he said.

Pope Circles Drain.
Topic: Miscellany
I just wanted to see what it would look like actually posted as a headline. CNN is no better and has even posted POPE IN GRAVE CONDITION on the TV news crawl. Hey, I may be a smartass, but at least I'm not stooping to macabre puns. Note to anyone taking, or preparing to take, offense: I was born Polish Catholic.

I've always loved the guy to pieces. I remember when he became Pope. So proud! He's been a fighter from beginning to end. Stubborn Polish son of a bitch, and charmed the pants off absolutely everyone in the process. In recent years, people have spent so much time speculating how much time he has or hasn't got left, no one talks very much about the splash he made in his heyday. He was big. He was rockin'. He was Live At Budokan!

Karol Jozef Wojtyla, I wish you peace. You've always had a special place in my heart. You kicked some major ass, and you're going out fine and feisty. You rest now. Done us proud.

Well, Okay, If I Have To.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Rants
I have mentioned before that I don't like spring, and summer gets on my nerves, mostly because I live in the land of endless summer and let me tell you, that shit gets old,old, old. You ask any East Coastie: There is nothing like scraping ice off your windshield and stepping in hidden slush puddles all winter to make summer seem magical and welcome. But here in So Cal, where summer curls up in your lap and arches its back and thrusts its tail in your face and won't move for endless weeks and months on end? After a while, you just want to push it away.

Well. This week, spring is here. Actually spring has been here for a little bit now; I've lived around the Back Bay for going on 15 years, and there is a subtle smell in the air, some plant that opens or flower that comes into bloom, that says spring has arrived, and that's been around for a while now. So I saw it coming. And then I had occasion to be out and about in the afternoon, and it was perfectly sunny and seventy-four degrees, and the air smelled like that, and suddenly there were butterflies all over the place.

I don't mean a butterfly or two or three, but a whole lot of them, just zigzagging around through the air. I must have seen a hundred of them, driving over to pick up the kids. Got out of my car and here are a few butterflies, walked into the house and over there are a few more, and when I came back out with the boys: butterflies. Okay, who ordered the butterflies? And the sun is so golden, and the air smells like that.

Only a truly miserable asshole could uphold an I don't like spring policy on such a day. Me, I gave it up right then and there.

Very Tiny, Very Significant Piece Of Paper.
Mood:  crushed out
Matt has a number of dastardly gambits which he employs, while I'm on the computer, in order to get my attention back where it belongs, i.e., squarely on him. One of these is to cry MY dotcom! while trying to wrestle the mouse out of my hand. Another is to hang all of his weight on my right forearm -- my mouse arm. He's nearly 30 pounds now, and that really hurts. And another is to start rummaging through the desk drawers, bringing forth items -- checkbook refills, birth certificates, passports -- which he absolutely is not meant to have. It makes me nuts, but for Matt, it gets the job done -- it makes me pay attention to him.

A couple of nights ago, he seized my attention by seizing Ben's old black address book. I haven't seen much of what's in it; it dates back from our early days of dating and beyond, and its contents are certain to raise more issues than they resolve, so I leave it alone. But when Matt grabbed it, a business card fluttered out, and I couldn't resist picking it up.

It was familiar. More to the point, it was mine. Much more to the point, it was the business card on which I'd given Ben my phone number for the very first time. The business card that set this whole thing in motion.

I looked at it more closely. It contained my handwriting -- my home phone number, and also my name, or what was my name at the time, back before I became a Crumpacker and the mother of his kids. His handwriting was there, too -- my work extension jotted on the front, and on the back, rudimentary driving directions to the apartment where I'd been living those seven years ago.

It completely blew my mind. I held that little card in my hand and looked around me -- at Matt, at our cool little house across from the bay, at Sam (who was busy waging a battle between Jedi knights on the arm of the sofa), at Ben himself. At my pregnant belly and the restless stirrings inside. So much life and noise and words and laughter and tears and goings-on we've made, this house, these kids, and all that lies ahead of us. And in my hand, the little piece of paper that started it all. What if I'd never given it to him? What if I had and he'd lost it, or tossed it away? None of this would ever have happened.

I tried to think for a minute of what life might have been like for each of us, had we just moved on and none of this had ever come to pass, but Matt interrupted me: Mommy, I TELL you something! So I turned back to him, but I know this. There are moments when your life holds still, and little pieces of paper which will change absolutely everything, and it's probably a good thing that we can only recognize them in hindsight. Otherwise we might run for our lives. Imagine someone telling you: This piece of paper will bring you ultimate love and wonder, but also ultimate worry and care and sleepless nights, and nothing will ever be the same. You see? That's enough to freak the living shit out of you. If I'd seen it coming, I might have chickened out and missed everything.

And I'm so glad I didn't.

Reamed At The Pumps.
Topic: Rants
This morning I spent $2.35 per gallon to gas up the minivan. (Yes, I drive a minivan. You're issued one when you have your second baby, didn't you know?) This was the best price available after scouting the area over the weekend. Most places, you have to pay in the $2.40s and even the $2.50s. I understand it's higher in Malibu and possibly in Honolulu, but that's about it; gas prices in Orange County are amongst the highest in the country. It cost me nearly $40 to fill my tank. Damn, my butt hurts.

I should have gone inside beforehand and asked the guy for a kiss. You know, if I'm going to get screwed, I should at least get a kiss first, right?

A Fun Disease.
Topic: The Tao of Ben
Everyone at our house is sick. It's my fault; I caught it at work, from our accounting department. That sounds a touch scandalous, until you consider that my firm's "accounting department" is this chick whose desk is ten paces outside my office.

Ben was complaining of his symptoms this morning, and I felt guilty for infecting the household. I told him "I'm sorry. This is not a fun disease to have. . . . Then again, I guess there are no fun diseases to have."

"Well, there's St. Vitus Dance," Ben suggested.

Yikes.
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: Evil Things
See? I told you he's a skeleton. No wonder Sam is scared of him.

I yelped out loud when this photo popped up on my News front page. Do NOT do that to me, Netscape! It was much like the yelp emitted by Ben one day when he turned on our big TV only to have a close-up of Barbra Streisand's face fill the screen. I will never forget the startled, horrified sound he made. It was as though the ancient Frank Zappa curse had been fulfilled upon him, and his shit had come to life and kissed him.

I saw some rather close-up footage of Skeleton Girl on CNN, I think it was last night. Guilty or not, the guy is falling apart before our eyes. It's just ugly all the way around, and I can't take my eyes off it (or, apparently, shut up about it). It's a freak show from start to finish, and I'm just waiting for the geeks to show up and start biting the heads off chickens. One of US! One of US!

In Which I Move By Increments From A Phallic Symbol To Terri Schiavo.
Topic: Miscellany
For various reasons, the State of Florida periodically thrusts itself upon my consciousness, if I may use that verb when speaking of a state shaped like a phallic symbol. The most chronic reasons for this are Dave Barry and hurricanes, which of course are the main exports of the State of Florida.

I also happen to have several old friends living there. They are from Delaware, Pennsylvania, Virginia, New Jersey, Maryland, and they mostly don't know each other. They are an accountant/martial arts expert who is rumored to now have a much younger lover (nice work, Melinda!), a mad scientist, a family law attorney who has converted to Eastern Orthodox Catholic, a computer geek, and a multilingual, multitalented attorney. Somehow they all ended up in Florida, and I communicate with each of them only in fits and fugues, but have been talking to a few of them lately. So that is another Florida thing.

Furthermore, as further proof that I am a hopeless nerd, I collect those 50 States quarters in a very casual but very earnest way. And I am missing Florida, which was released last year and which I still don't have, and exactly whom do you have to blow to get a Florida quarter around here? (I hope it's Ben.) In that respect, Florida is vexing me to my very limits. I am quite serious about my casual quarter collection.

My sole direct experience with Florida was getting stuck in the Miami airport for hours and hours and hours on the way back from the Caribbean, six years ago. Bienvenido a Miami! And fuck you very much. Of that, I will say only that the little sports bar saved my life, and those seats in the waiting area are ill suited for napping by my linebacker-sized husband, who was then my boyfriend, who was pretty cool to take me to the Caribbean, don't you think?

My mind has also been drawn to Florida because Terri Schiavo is there. Now, as a rule I strenuously avoid discussing issues and controversies online. There are a million reasons why, but to show you the tip of the iceberg, (1) I'm a Republican, (2) I'm also a hippie and (3) I loathe arguments. You see? Mum's the word. But this time I will make an exception and give you my conservative, loving, hard-nosed, compassionate, pragmatic take on the topic.

Terri isn't in there anymore. Am I a doctor, have I examined her, have I reviewed her medical records? None of the above, but my instinct is that she isn't home. There's something left, but it ain't her. So let's start with that idea.

Her husband makes me suspicious. Why does he want her dead so badly? As evidence that she would want to die, we have only his word, and he has a new girlfriend and clearly wants to get on with his life. That's okay, but he could seek a divorce. There's nothing to say he must be a widower. If there's any doubt about her wishes, and I think there is no doubt that there is doubt, why not hand her over to her parents -- who clearly want to preserve her life -- and get on with his life? He says he is motivated only by what he knows Terri would want. I don't believe him.

So let's say she did want to die. I can see that; I would probably want the same thing, if my mind really was gone and not coming back (as opposed to just having stepped out for a quick breather). Ben, you taking notes? The thing that really bothers me is the way she is dying. They are dehydrating and starving her to death, and all the carefully chosen words in the world do not change that.

Yes, you may say, but didn't you just say she's not really in there? True, but that doesn't mean that what part of her is there isn't suffering. Why is it that entities who can't verbalize physical suffering are deemed not to have it? Think of circumcised baby boys, and even of the insect you step on. Maybe they can't speak up and say Good gravy, that hurts like hell, and would you mind not doing that to me? But that doesn't mean they don't suffer.

But euthanasia is, of course, illegal. So it's a really, really fucked-up situation. And that's all I have to say, except Ben, honey, if it comes to that, go ahead and get a girlfriend and stuff, but if it comes to this type of thing, try to off me real quick on the sneak instead of starving me to death, okay? So bad for everyone involved. But they shouldn't starve her to death. Because I think she knows what is happening to her. And no one should have to die that way.

If I were really cynical and tactless, I would mention in passing how ironic it is that a woman who had an eating disorder would ultimately be starved to death. Did I just say that? I didn't just say that.

Garment Of Danger.
Topic: Rants
A trench coat is a rather ominous garment. Think about it. When someone gets up in the morning and puts on a trench coat, usually they're about to either expose themselves in public or shoot up a school.

The boys are watching that old Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen video again. The girls are wearing trench coats throughout much of the film. It freaks me out either way.

Blind Items.
Mood:  mischievious
Topic: Evil Things
Item! WHICH popular, nationally known blog appears mysteriously to have jumped the shark of late? I can't put my finger on exactly when it happened, but suddenly I just don't find it readable anymore. I hope it comes back from whatever strange place it's got to. I don't know where that is. I only know that I don't have fun going there. Note to people who may be friends of mine: It's not you. It's someone else. Just making sure you realize.

Item! WHICH popular, nationally known hosting website, whose EZ Blog Builder Lite offers highly peculiar and apparently arbitrary "mood" icons to idiots who don't know enough code to create their own, doesn't know how to spell mischievous? That's M-I-S-C-H-I-E-V-O-U-S, boys. The letter i appears twice. Not three times. Do y'all have spell check, or what? I'm just asking.

Do Not Adjust Your Television Set.
Topic: Miscellany
No, you are not hallucinating. Well. Maybe you are, but don't decide yea or nay by looking at this blog. If you believe it has changed color, you are correct. Now check and see if your walls are breathing. If so, you are hallucinating. Either that or it's time to raise holy hell with your home warranty people.

My friend Anna Beth complained a while back that my red and black color scheme had made her go blind. (To which I responded Nah, that was from masturbation.) I do like the red and black for some reason. It evokes, oh I don't know, the Georgia Bulldogs or London double-decker buses.

But I don't want AB to go blind, and now it's starting to happen to me too. (No, I haven't been. Shut up.) So I give you: Earth tones. If you're still seeing red and black, refresh your browser, clear your cookies and temporary files, and if that doesn't work, you are hallucinating after all.

Can I Borrow That Stick? You Know, The One That's UP YOUR ASS.
Mood:  irritated
Topic: Rants
You want to know how to tell everything you need to know about a girl? Look at her face in repose, when she's off her guard. Check out her natural facial expression when she is neither interacting with someone nor conscious of being watched, and that's when you'll see the real story of what goes on inside. A girl can and will turn on the smile and the charm, but sneak a look at her when she doesn't know you're looking. That's when you can see who she is.

Today I came home from work early, toward noon, and along the way ended up stopping off at the neighborhood health food supermarket to pick up something nutritious for lunch. You know, on account of the fetus. The place was pretty crowded, which surprised me; it isn't often I rub elbows with the housewife crowd, what with the career thing and all. Must be more than two years now, since maternity leave with Matt. And I couldn't believe my eyes.

With very few exceptions, these broads were the biggest bunch of sourpusses I ever saw in my life. Most of them didn't just look neutral or expressionless -- they looked actively pissed off. I couldn't divine any reason or excuse for it. It wasn't like I was in a Newport Beachy section of Newport Beach, or like they were some incredibly beautiful MAW types (MAW = So Cal shorthand for model, actress, whatever) and therefore had some excuse, however ill-founded, to come off snooty and repulsed by the denizens of Mother's Market. They just looked like regular housewives, except that none of them had any kids in evidence -- and they wore these horribly disgusted, pissed-off looks on their faces, like someone had given them a Dirty Sanchez on the sneak and they constantly smelled shit as a result.

For the life of me I can't fathom it. LADIES: WHAT HAVE Y'ALL GOT TO BE SO PISSED OFF ABOUT? LOOKS TO ME LIKE YOU DON'T GO TO WORK, BUT SINCE YOU ARE OUT SHOPPING, PRESUMABLY YOU ARE DOING IT WITH MONEY SOMEONE ELSE IS EARNING AND WILLING TO SHARE WITH YOU. IT'S A BEAUTIFUL WARM DAY, THERE IS INTERESTING MUSIC, THERE ARE COOL THINGS TO EAT, AND YOU'RE NOT IN SOME HIGH-RISE BUILDING DEALING WITH A BUNCH OF LITIGIOUS ASSHOLES. WHAT THE HELL IS SO BAD ABOUT THAT?

Most of them are terribly rude, too. (Don't you ladies watch Martha Stewart, when she's not actually incarcerated, I mean? Doesn't Oprah occasionally have Emily Post or Miss Manners or whoever?) They don't respond to niceties like Excuse me or Have a good one or Could I just squeeze through real quick? Not a nod, not a faint smile. Not even a Fuck you to death, which would at least be interesting. Just the stony stare. What is up with these chicks?

Here I was walking around happily pregnant, humming and having to smile from time to time at a thought or a song on the radio or a friendly dog walking by. Didn't people used to smile at pregnant women? Not any more. They don't treat us with any common courtesy anymore, either. Always with the sour puss firmly in place, these broads will instead shove past me or bump me with their shopping carts if I move too slowly or if my big belly is blocking the soy cheese. What's that about? A Newport Beach thing, a housewife thing, or just a matter of some women being basically miserable people?

You have to feel for their husbands. You know they will never make these girls happy; people who walk around looking so grim and disgusted with the world in general will never be happy, even if you hand them all the spa weekends and black SUVs and tennis bracelets on earth. Even during sex -- maybe especially then -- chicks like that will still wear that wrinkled-nosed What's that smell? face. In fact, today I may have witnessed the beginnings of one of those blessed unions right there in the store. I was taking down some kimchee when a well-dressed couple walked by, and I heard the guy ask his date Do you like kimchee? And she, in a tone dripping with ice and revulsion, replied Neau. I deaun't. As Ben would say, Danger, Will Robinson! If she sounds that pissed off and disgusted in the early dating, imagine how she'll sound after two years of marriage. Poor guy. I shuddered and moved on to the next aisle, but his nightmare is just beginning.

One of the first lessons Ben and I are going to teach our sons, when they get old enough to tangle in any meaningful way with the fairer sex, is how to spot a basically happy girl and how to avoid a basically miserable one. A happy girl, since it comes from within, won't depend on you to make her smile, although she will laugh with you whenever possible. A miserable one will always be miserable no matter what you do, and will eventually drag you down there with her, given enough time. Sam and Matt: I'll teach you to tell the difference, and the girl who tries to make one of you miserable? I'll teach her the real meaning of misery.