Remembering Hunter And Mark.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Miscellany
The death of Hunter S. Thompson has left me a tiny bit melancholy and a whole lot nostalgic. He was so much the magic gonzo daddy of my undergrad days, and his passing has brought back a flood of memories from those times, and in particular, of good friends.

Why all this talk of HST? Well, that's a no-brainer. Those who have known me forever can easily understand why I would feel drawn to a crazy, perhaps brilliant, sometimes self-destructive writer. As for those of you who know me more recently: I wasn't always a smart-ass late-blooming brood mare with a happy marriage and a desk job, you know. Once upon a time, I was a smart-ass crazy writer, quite fond of substance abuse and occasionally promiscuous. Okay, maybe more than occasionally. Maybe seasonally. But not all the time.

When I think of my undergrad years, and I think of sex, I immediately think of Mark. To this day, the memory of him brings on a smile and a little rueful shake of the head. The guy was, quite simply, the lust of my life. There have been a handful of men, my beloved husband included, whom I wanted so badly, but Mark was the Holy Grail. If lust like that could be bottled and sold, I would be a billionairess several times over.

So hard to describe him to those who didn't know him. Was he good-looking? Shit, yes. Nice body? Like you wouldn't believe. But that wasn't it. I've known a lot of good-looking guys with nice bodies, and most of them you just want to flick aside like an annoying insect. You don't even want to sleep with them first, because that might involve having to listen to their stupid fucking attempts at conversation, and furthermore, you suspect it would be like sleeping with a semi-animate Ken doll. (Do men think this way about women with beautiful faces and bodies? I don't think so. I think they sleep with them anyway.) But I digress.

Mark was different. He had that thing, that dark angelic animal beauty. Jim Morrison comes to mind, the beatific sensuality, although Mark was never belligerent to his friends, never falling-down intoxicated. Modernly, the best I can think of is Johnny Depp, but without the scruffiness or the vaguely creepy Edward Scissorhands/ Sleepy Hollow/ Jack Sparrow effeminacy. Looking at him, it used to hit me bam! right between the ovaries.

As if that wasn't enough, he was witty and well-read and a great deal of fun to be with. In all fairness, he could also be a substantial pain in the ass, but that's true of all exceptional men, Hunter Thompson and my husband also included. They know they're good, those pricks.

I lusted after Mark unabashedly for something like two years. It wasn't any secret. Well, actually, since I met him through a friend of his whom I was dating for a while, it was mostly a secret for my entire second undergrad year. Not a secret to me, probably not a secret to Mark, but hopefully a secret to my then-boyfriend, the poor guy.

My best friend Scott was my gleeful confidante. We were all friends, all hung out together, and one night when Scott wasn't around, Mark finally cashed in his free ticket and spent the night with me. The next day, I called Scott with an audible grin, wrote Il prend la bate (a play, in French, on Mark's last name) on my bedroom floor with lipstick, and we spent some time celebrating. I felt like I had won the Stanley Cup.

Did I love Mark? Well, that depends on what you mean. I didn't want to marry him or have his babies, but I was willing to have with him whatever adventures might lie in store, and to stand beside him for the time we had. He was like an older brother in many ways, teasing me and giving me holy hell. There were no sappy words or romantic claptrap. After a while we stopped "dating" (whatever that means), but he was and is a friend. And if in ensuing years we occasionally slept together when we both found ourselves willing and/or unattached, well, that was just part of the ride. He knew he still had the free ticket. Sometimes he pulled it out and we put it to good use.

I lost touch with him in the early eighties and never knew what became of him. In early 1996, Scott gave me Mark for a Valentine's Day present -- meaning that he gave me information leading to Mark's whereabouts. I wanted to know if he was okay. It transpired that he was an attorney in Florida; whether that's okay or not, Mark can be the judge. He sounds happy enough on the phone and in e-mails.

The lust was a long time ago. When I speak to Mark now, there's generally an undercurrent of Remember all that? That was some fun, there, but he is someone's husband, I am someone's wife, and so the friendship remains. I'm happy to report he can still be a fucking prick -- Suffice it to say I am still gorgeous, that prick once mentioned in an e-mail. He was one of the most extraordinary people I've ever had the pleasure to know. Here's to you, Mark, you gorgeous smart-assed prick, my dear friend, the one-time lust of my life. We had some good times.

P.S. to Still Bill: I really apologize for the times when you were his roommate and trying to sleep. We tried to be quiet, really. And I promise we never, ever did it on your sheets.

Back To Reality.
Mood:  chillin'
Topic: Miscellany
We're back from our palms to pines vacation and glad to be home, although the weather in Newport Beach is distressingly damp, grey and chilly in contrast to the sun and heat of Palm Desert and the crisp alpine air of Idyllwild.

Science nerds that we are at heart, our favorite parts of the vacation were exploring the local plant and animal life, Southern California being a place of amazing climactic contrasts. The desert climate of the Coachella Valley (where daytime temperatures were in the 90s) is less than an hour's drive from the high elevations and pine forests of the San Jacinto Mountains (where Sam and Matt played in snow for the first time ever). In between are, I believe, seven or so microclimates, each with its own mix of plant and animal life. From chollas to firs, from roadrunners to robins. Blew our minds.

I'll spare you a detailed account of the journey, because let's face it: Everyone's vacation is far more interesting to themselves than it is to anyone else. Ben tells of a friend who, upon returning from a trip through Asia, actually held a narrated slideshow for family and friends. He did that? I asked Ben. To his friends? There aren't enough cocktails or hors d'ouevres on earth to make that kind of boredom worthwhile. Me, I much prefer handing my friends a pile of snapshots, to be glanced at or ignored as they please. Here are some verbal snapshots from this trip:

The Indian Canyons of Palm Springs are unbelievably cool, packed with wildflowers and groves of California fan palms, which is California's only native species of palm. That was our favorite side trip.

Matt gave us all a scare. Our cabin in Idyllwild, which appeared to have been built in the '40s, harbored an insane heating system featuring a radiator under a grate in the living room floor. On Saturday morning, Matt tripped and fell, burning his hands and cheek on the grate. Fortunately he was not badly injured, but he cried for a full hour, in obvious confusion and pain. I sobbed right along with him. Especially when he buried his face in my shoulder and sobbed, "I'll be nice" -- thinking he was being punished. And then my heart broke into a thousand pieces, until he mended it completely by smiling through the afternoon, telling me his hands felt better, and remarking over dinner, "I had fun today."

We drove to the Salton Sea, which is a fascinating piece of California natural (I should say unnatural; check out the link if you are curious) history. Like a 40-year-old stripper, it can be very beautiful from a distance but is most disillusioning on close inspection. Pollution is to blame for a lot of that. Furthermore, it smells awful.

Sam had a blast paddling around the pool in Palm Desert and repeatedly scaling a miniature rock climbing wall in a park in the mountains. Our little athlete. We suddenly realized that his legs are about four inches longer than they were when I bought his fall clothes. Furthermore, he has developed a fraternal, protective attitude toward his younger brother that just slays me. "Come here, Matt," I heard him say. "I will share my cookie with you."

Pregnancy Update: The fetus has been identified as a girl, to wit Julia Rose Kathleen Crumpacker. She has no Down's markers or visible deformities on ultrasound. I have gained no weight in the past two weeks despite a close vacation kinship with Ben and Jerry. I have, however, started to waddle. Furthermore, we have seen the advent of the Famous Second Trimester Return (With a Vengeance) of the Sex Drive. Of this, I will say only (a) I wish the boys would sleep more often and (b) good thing I can't get pregnant.

Erika and Joel, who were ostensibly watching the house in our absence, did a lousy job and furthermore left my kitchen and laundry area an utter mess. Next time, we will lock the joint up and take the gecko and tarantulas with us. Despite all this, we are glad to be home.

Les Vacances.
Mood:  lazy
Topic: Miscellany
This blog is going on vacation. Well, actually, this blog is staying right where it is; I, and my husband, and my two sons, and my enormous belly -- we are going on vacation. It's our first real vacation in two and a half years, and although it promises to be a very wholesome, family-oriented, low-key vacation, I am still insanely excited about it.

Tomorrow morning I'll have my ultrasound and amnio, at which time we will learn what gender the pierogi. If all goes well, the amnio will show that this kid is genetically as sound as a pound, and thereupon Mommy hopes to breathe a sigh of relief and settle in for a blissful spring and summer.

The vacation itself? Desert Breezes. Palms to Pines Highway. Idyllwild. Of course, the Coachella Valley is loaded with fairies, but at this time of year it is also loaded with wildflowers. Furthermore, Ben and the boys will be with me, so it hardly matters where we go. I could take a vacation in a wet paper bag with those guys.

Stay out of trouble while I'm gone. Eat fish on Fridays. And just say no to drugs. See you around the Ides of March.

Bill, Still.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Miscellany
Last night I was swapping e-mails with my friend Bill Toreki, or as he's been known for 25 years and more, Still Bill. I can't remember exactly how he got that name -- I wonder if he does -- but it always fit. Because, you know, no matter what, he was and is still Bill.

Bill was a core member of the group of intellectual bad boys and girls I ran with in my undergrad days at the University of Delaware. Most of us were in the University Honors Program, whereby the rising intellectual stars of tomorrow were sent to college early and placed in honors courses. We weren't the Poindexters you might envision -- in fact, we were completely out of our fucking minds. We tackled tough courses and played very, very hard. Bill was an amazing guy, the Hunter S. Thompson of science. An unschooled observer might have thought he spent all his time completely drunk and/or stoned and/or -- you hardly wanted to think what. And maybe he did, but he was also clobbering a tough science curriculum and oh, I don't know, maybe inventing polymers off in a corner in his spare time.

He is now a genius scientist in Florida, to no one's surprise. You can find his website here. Drop on in, and tell him Gretch the Wretch sent you.

I Filled Up My Shoe, And Brought It To You.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: Music
Today, on an impulse, I pulled out and listened to Bob Dylan's 1966 release Blonde On Blonde for the first time in years. Knocked me out all over again -- what a fucking brilliant piece of work. It's number nine in Rolling Stone's top 500 albums and has served as the soundtrack for bits of my life on many occasions.

Nice one, Saint Bob. Makes me remember why, way back when I was 17, I wanted to have your baby.

The Academy Would Like To Thank.
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: The Tao of Ben
The Academy would like to thank my husband for a brilliant performance, a truly disarming acceptance speech, and for being such a good sport about the fact that the slow smouldering passion of our courtship has given way to "Hey, we could boink" delivered in a conspiratorial whisper while watching the Oscar wrap-up after the boys are asleep.

Ben Crumpacker, you of the prodigiously prolific semen: Take a bow.

Turning Japanese, Redux.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Pregnancy
Who knew maternity clothes could be fun? Japanese Weekend is presently having a fantastic sale, and my husband is awesome, and I am now the proud owner of a stunningly hip maternity wardrobe. If you're knocked up and have a bit of money to blow, I highly recommend their stuff. Check these out (except you have to picture a human, older, less maddeningly svelte body inhabiting these clothes):









Thank you, Ben Crumpacker and Japanese Weekend. I now feel less like a dirigible and more like a girl.

Womb With A View.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
Sam has been chatting quite knowledgeably about the baby in my belly. The other day he told me, "I want to go back in your belly."

I told him "Sam, you wouldn't like it in there anymore. It's boring in there. There aren't any toys in there. There's no TV. There are no DVDs."

He replied "Yes, there are! There are toys and TV and DVDs and remotes."

I told him "If there were, then you and Matt would never have come out of there. You'd still be in there."

If there were, their father probably would have found a way to get in there with them by now.

Hate To See Him Have To Go.
Mood:  sad
Topic: Miscellany
Let's have a moment of silence for Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, who took his own life on Sunday, February 20, 2005. I don't know what made him have to leave life -- probably no one but him will ever know, but I do hate to see him go. His book Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas was one of the most noteworthy among a number of literary eye-openers I discovered in my first year at the University of Delaware. Say what you will about wretched excess; the guy was a hell of a world-class journalist. Godspeed, Dr. Gonzo.

Soul, Mate.
Mood:  lyrical
Topic: The Tao of Ben
To borrow a word from my friend AB, there are about a frillion reasons why Ben is absolutely the guy for me. These reasons crop up every day, usually in very routine aspects of day-to-day life. Which, as I've said before, is exactly where love's true colors are found.

Yesterday I found myself coming down with just a real ornery sort of coughing, congested headachey cold/flu type of thing. Just butt ugly. It was the start of a three-day weekend, so my office closd early, and I went straight to bed with a mug of tea, a bottle of cough syrup and the remote control. Ben offered to pick up the boys so I could rest.

So I took to bed, and the whole family wound up congregated up there, and we watched TV, and I blew my nose and swigged cough syrup, and eventually everyone wound up falling asleep.

And so it was that I found myself up all alone at 2:30 a.m., sniffling, coughing and suddenly realizing that I must have chugged too much cough syrup. It was Robitussin; Dr. Sears said the active ingredient was okay during pregnancy; I hadn't thought much about it. But cough syrup? If you overdo it? Can affect you sort of strangely. What I'm saying is it gets sort of hallucinogenic.

So here I am, essentially tripping on cough syrup all alone in the dead of night. And I'm thinking well, this is a buzz I would have paid good money for 25 years ago, but now it really is kind of a pain in the ass, and here I am sick besides. And then Ben woke up.

I told him what was wrong, and he hugged me and told me I was goofy. And do you know what he did? He hunkered down and kept me company. With our two sons snoozing away in bed beside us, we cuddled up on the bed, whispering and talking in the dark, and flipped through all 400 channels in our premium digital cable lineup before deciding to chuck all that and put in the VHS of Things To Come (1936), an Art Deco science fiction glimpse into the future. Is there anything so cool as the vintage future?

After a couple of hours of watching that, holding hands and saying "cooool" a lot, we heard a thunderstorm approaching outside. Which might not be much to you, but in Southern California, they're remarkable events -- you might see one in a ten-year period, maybe not. So we opened the blinds and sat there listening to the thunder and watching the lightning together at 5 a.m. And then we went back to bed. It was the most time alone we've had together in a very long time, completely not romantic or planned or even very interesting. But oh my God, so friendly and comforting and cozy.

How cool is to be married to your best friend? Who else will sit up with you and keep you company on your stupid cough syrup trip and watch '30s movies with you in the dead of night and hold your hand and giggle with you and think lightning is as cool as you do? I never have to explain or defend or excuse or pretend with Ben. He just inhabits this life with me, day in and day out, there when I need him, no questions asked. Oh my dear goodness, so lucky am I.

Kiss My Aspirations.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Pregnancy
Last night on the phone, Ben finally delivered the news to his mother than I am pregnant. It was way overdue, what with my belly being the size of the Midwest and all. It wasn't like we were going to sneak it past her.

Her reaction? She laughed, he said. But a nice laugh. Not a Dr. Evil laugh or a Boris and Natasha laugh; just a laugh. I see her point. A woman my age finding herself accidentally knocked up borders on science fiction; it's definitely within the realm of comedy.

She also mentioned that with three small children, it would be difficult for me to work. I don't know about that; with three small children, it seems it would be far more difficult for me to stay home, especially since people would then expect me to accomplish things like housework and cooking. Talk about comedy.

It's true that at a certain point, some working mothers do not earn enough to financially justify the cost of the day care required to allow them to work. Me, I'm a paralegal. That is not an impressive thing to be, especially in light of all the Mensa and 99th percentile and starting college at 16 horseshit; people were throwing about phrases like brain surgeon and nuclear physicist. You might say I'm a bit of an underachiever.

But not enough of one! The fact is that I make a respectable amount of money, enough that even with the cost of gas and lunch and day care, the salary and benefits I bring in are more than enough to justify remaining in the work force. And do you know what that means?

It means that I am even a failure at being an underachiever. That is pretty funny, but I'm okay with it. My kids think I'm awesome.

Every Baby Has His Buellton.
Mood:  smelly
Topic: Poop
Just as every Napoleon must have his Waterloo, every baby must have his Buellton. Today, Matt had his.

You are right now scratching your head and thinking WTF?? so let me lay a foundation. Buellton, for Ben and me, is marital shorthand for A science fiction poop event which we must breathe in and clean up. The term originated, of course, with Sam.

When Sam was a nursing infant, I had pneumonia and took a course of antibiotics. The result, in Sam, was a nasty and very fragrant bout of diarrhea, which happened to coincide with a wine tasting trip through the Santa Ynez Valley, north of Santa Barbara, where Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch is located, the region featured in the movie Sideways. Our hotel was in Buellton.

It was there, at breakfast in the hotel restaurant, that Sam produced the most horrifying bowel movement ever witnessed. The stench radiated a full 25 feet from our table in all directions. The mess, when I carried him to our room and unzipped his jammies, spanned from his knees to his chest. Our room required two hours of airing out in the January chill before we could stand to breathe in there. This was Buellton: the Armageddon of poop. Since then, when confronted with a particularly odious diaper, it's gone like this: "Was it bad?" "Well, yeah, but you know, not Buellton bad."

That was three years ago. Today, Matt had his Buellton.

We were home alone, and I was at the computer and Matt was watching his Blue's Clues DVD and happily shouting along, when I came over to him for something or other and immediately got the poop waft. "Okay kid," I told him. "Poop in the pants. Let's go."

I unhooked the baby gate and let Matt scamper up the stairs ahead of me. He had taken his shirt off, as usual, and it was then that I saw the poop smears crawling up his back from inside his diaper. This was going to be a really bad one. But there was no one around to complain to, so at the top of the stairs I grabbed him carefully around the waist, scooped up a towel, and spread it out across the foot of my bed so I could confront the mess.

I honestly wasn't prepared for what happened when I laid him on the towel. A turd approximately the size of a tennis ball rolled out of his pant leg onto the towel. It wasn't the shape of a tennis ball, but somewhat elongated, which is probably a good thing because otherwise it probably would have injured the kid, coming out. It was solid. It was fragrant. And it weighed a couple of pounds. I'm not kidding.

My guess is that he hadn't pooped all week. That can happen when a kid is in day care: You figure he's been doing it there, they figure he's been doing it at home. The mess inside Matt's trousers was another chest-to-knees extravaganza, and the cannonball that rolled out of his pants was, I'm figuring, the clogging point. Which he finally blasted through, to spectacular effect.

I had to laugh as I cleaned it up, in between bouts of gagging. Matt periodically offered an I'm sorry, but I told him not to worry about it. As poops go, he'd just produced the December 26 tsunami; imagine trying to apologize for that. You just wouldn't know where to begin, and who can stop a force of nature anyway?

There's a whole lot of stuff they don't tell you about parenthood, that you have to find out for yourself. And God help you the day you find yourself in Buellton.

Scary Belly.
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: Pregnancy
This week, my belly, as they say, popped. You would think, this being my fourth kid, I'd be used to it by now. But it took me by surprise, just as it has every other time.

The scale tells me I have only gained five pounds. The pregnancy books tell me the baby is roughly the size of an action figure right now -- not those little tiny Star Wars Galactic Heroes guys, not the great big Hagrid from Harry Potter either -- I'm thinking this kid is probably about He-Man sized. So, six inches or so. Why, then, is my belly abruptly the size of a Mini Cooper? Where'd the rest of it come from? (And don't say Twizzlers, because if you do, I will clout you with a licorice rope.)

Last Monday I was running around in my Ralph Lauren size fours. This week I am firmly in maternity clothes. So fast it gets away from you. Worse, we're meant to see my mother-in-law this weekend, and Ben still hasn't told her I'm pregnant. I think she's about to find out. This belly enters the room a full ten seconds before I do.

So, pregnant. Visibly, for all the world to see. Sam sized up my belly the other night and said "It's too crowded in there!" Kid, just wait. By my seventh month, the Zoning Department is going to want to get involved. And I think I've seen my girl parts for the last time until autumn or so. But that's okay. They always seem to get me in trouble.

Sam's Advice.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
Every morning when I drop the boys off at day care, Sam walks me to the door to tell me goodbye. It's a long, elaborate ritual punctuated with hugs and kisses and standard recitals. "Bye mom! Have a good day at work! Be careful! See you later!"

This morning, he had a final admonition for me before closing the door: "Don't blow up the car!"

Well, honey, I'll try to avoid that. But I am definitely putting my foot down with your father about all those James Bond movies he's been watching.

Tiramisu Report.
Mood:  hungry
Topic: Pregnancy
It's actually quite good at Romano's, although it wants a bit more liqueur. Ben gave it an A- or B+. I say solid B.

Interesting Super Bowl today, although the fact that a Beatle to perform in the halftime show is considered the safe choice, with absolutely no edge whatsoever, is proof positive that we Baby Boomers have absolutely turned into our parents.

Why I'm Glad I Quit Weight Watchers.
Mood:  cool
Topic: Pregnancy
I quit Weight Watchers upon finding out I was pregnant. This is the online version of Weight Watchers, mind you; can you imagine me going to meetings? I certainly can't. What I said was The last thing I need is to go hang around with a bunch of fatties. Which is not to say that I'm not, or haven't been, a fatty myself from time to time; just that people who look like cows oughtn't to go hanging about in herds. It invites unflattering comparisons.

The reason, at this very moment, why I am glad I quit Weight Watchers is this: I had tiramisu from Maggiano's this afternoon. That shit is heavenly, and I only allow myself to eat it when I am pregnant, so I haven't had it for over two years. But I caught myself thinking, afterward: I wonder how many points that was?

In case you're among the uninitiated, Weight Watchers uses a system of points derived from portion size and calorie and fat content. To give you an idea, a McDonald's cheeseburger has, if I'm not mistaken, more points than you're meant to have in an entire day. The last thing a pregnant girl wants to do is verify that the thing she just ate is worth 80 points, or about 5 days' worth of calories. And if she's terminated her Weight Watchers account? She can't.

When it comes to tiramisu, ignorance truly is bliss. So is pregnancy.

Random Thoughts.
Mood:  lazy
Topic: Rants
I am, at the moment, desperately procrastinating on a huge writing project that needs to go out the door this week. Do you think that if I ignore it long enough, it will just go away? Neither do I. But in avoiding this project, I am ruminating upon the following:

(1) Tomorrow is my ob/gyn appointment, and the only reason why I am not eating absolutely everything in sight right now is because I do not want to step on the scale and be informed that I have gained 80 pounds in the past four weeks. According to my home scale this morning, I have in fact gained four pounds, but who knows? That preggo scale reads funny. If I don't eat too much and go to the bathroom as much as possible, maybe the doc won't tell me that I have gained as much weight, at 12 weeks, as I'm meant to gain in the entire pregnancy.

(2) The level of the e-mail spam I am receiving is sinking to new lows and is, I think, consciously designed to make me physically ill. I've been irritated for some time now with Impress your girl with a huge cumshot, which was admittedly something of an improvement over Does your cum just dribble out when you wish it had squirted? But today's offering just took the biscuit: Pill to improve cum flavour and volume. The ideas that someone produces these e-mails, and that someone -- anyone -- may actually read them, stagger the imagination. You need to be wary, and I mean really seriously wary, of anyone who would actually use the word cum. Or, for that matter, worry about its flavour.

(3) Tomorrow is Groundhog Day, so beware of furry rodents and Sonny & Cher. Actually, that is probably good advice for any day.

Michael Jackson.
Mood:  quizzical
Topic: Sam
Sam came home from day care one day, a few weeks back, talking about Michael Jackson. I asked him a bit about it, because I wondered how he had heard of him, and also because I was curious what sort of impression a creature such as Michael Jackson might make upon my skeptical three-year-old son.

Some of Sam's observations:

"She has an umbrella."
"Is she a skeleton?"
"She's scary for kids."

I told him that actually Michael Jackson is meant to be a boy, but he told me "No. She's a girl."

At bedtimes, we put CNN on TV with the sound turned down, the theory being that guys in suits droning on about Iraq are enough to put anyone to sleep. Last night, the trial having started, the guys in suits were interspersed with photos of Michael Jackson. "That's a girl," I heard Sam murmur sleepily.

I hope it didn't give him nightmares.

Making Him Company.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Sam
When Sam wants one of us to come out to the living room and sit with him while he plays, instead of puttering around in the kitchen or garage as we tend to do, he sticks his head through the door and says Come in here and make me company! Apparently, Matt is not enough to make him company; someone more substantial is required.

Last night, at one point he announced that his peepee wanted to make him company. I asked if he needed to pee, and it turned out that he did. So Daddy accompanied him to the potty. It turns out that his peepee, apparently, makes him company when he uses it to pee.

Afterward, it seemed that things weren't lying properly in his Pull-Up, which he detests. Sam is very particular about his peepee alignment and positioning. "My peepee won't make me company!" he complained, annoyed. "Do you need to fix it?" I asked, and held his waistband away while he adjusted himself. Whereupon he and his peepee were just fine.

I'm glad Sam and his peepee are developing a rapport. After all, there are times when a guy's peepee is the only one on earth who will make him company. And that holds true for his whole life.

He's The Damn Paterfamilias!
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: The Tao of Ben
Tomorrow is Ben's and my fifth wedding anniversary. Ben is not the sort of guy who is interested in hearts and flowers and lyrical pronouncements of love; he is a pragmatic, no-nonsense, salt-of-the earth kind of guy. He is amazing and I cannot describe him, although these phrases spring to mind: A Mensa member with a penchant for doo-doo jokes. A Renaissance Man with a whoopee cushion.

He is also a fantastically low-key husband. Low-key all around; he doesn't make a lot of demands, nor does he make showy displays of love. What he does do is show up every single day, cooking food, reading stories, taking out the garbage, wiping bottoms, laughing, making wisecracks, hugging me when I feel fat, giving me breaks when I feel tired, and being just generally all-around present in the household, with the boys and at my side. For that, you can keep the dozen roses and boxes of chocolate. Roses won't rock the babies to sleep. Chocolates won't make me giggle when I'm sad and weary.

So raise a glass to my husband, and thank God or whomever that there are men like him in the world. He's the why and the wherefore, the center of my life, the father of my kids, my one true love. Love you bunches, honey. I never could have guessed, as a little girl, that when my knight in shining armor finally showed up, he'd have a handful of fake dog doo and a gag arrow through his head. And I'm not complaining a bit. He's bona fide!