Our (Mostly) Graceful Defeat

Everybody said it would happen. When they did, we scoffed. Loudly. Openly.

"Not us! No way! Never! Do we look like those kind of people?"

Most everybody would smile or shrug in response and politely change the subject. Yet others were more blunt.

"Yes you will. It happens to everybody. You'll see,"

I did see. I saw lots of moms and dads, people who I liked and really clicked with, parents who are as outgoing and adventurous as we are-- I saw it happen to them and hoped against hope that we wouldn't bow our heads in supplication to the inevitable.

Sadly, they were right. It was crazy and I still have a hard time accepting the reality of what happened yesterday.

I'm at a small, intimate rock concert at the Fillmore. The music is great and I'm loving every second of it, feeling vibrant, my cheeks flushed from dancing and singing along with my friends. After the music is over, the musicians come out and mingle with the audience and I notice the guitarist noticing me. He's sooo cute and I'm super flattered that he keeps trying to catch my eye. My girlfriends want to get going. It is after all, a school night and we all have husbands holding down the forts for us tonight.

Reluctantly I agree and we make our way toward the exit and out into the cool, misty night. I'm the driver tonight so we stroll on out to the parking lot and I hit the beep button on the key.

"Beep beep! Over here," calls the car. My girlfriends and I turn our heads toward the sound and all of see at once that Cute Guitarist has followed us to the parking lot. But he's not looking at me anymore. He's checking out my ride, mouth agape and not in the good way. His eyes go from the car, to the key in my hand, back to the car and without a sound he turns around and hightails it out of the garage with nary a backward glance. All of my girlfriends watch in stunned silence and before Cute Guitarist even turns the corner they all fall on the ground, screaming with laughter.

I snapped back into the real-life moment, refocusing on the bright, glossy poster on the wall in front of me, and turn urgently to Hubby.

"We don't have to do this. Really. We can walk out of here right now,"

"We need to do something. We can't keep piling in and out of the Mitsubishi like a family of clowns,"

He's right. We can't even fit one of the Beans' new, monstrous carseats into the back of our "big" car. We haven't been able to go anywhere or do anything as a family for over a month and this one thing will make our lives so much easier. We just wish it didn't have to be this way.

We (Hubby) signed the papers, left his car at the dealership and drove home together, meeker than when we left earlier in the day. But at least we now have remote push-button doors, side curtain airbags, a 5-star crash test rating, alloy wheels and lots of other doodads in a color we really kind of like a little bit. All things considered, it could have stung far worse.

Biscuit is very excited about "The Starship" as he calls her. He has tons of room, TWO cup holders, a cushy seat-- the list goes on. Her name is Margaret and she'll do for the next few years, until the Beans can ride without carseats.

I certainly will not be excited to drive Margaret to any concerts. But I'll rest assured that even if I have to, and even if my nightmare becomes reality, there's still a cute guitarist at home waiting for me with our kids. And even though he knows I now drive a van he will not let a little thing like that intimidate him-- after all, he now drives one too.

Our Miracle

I have a cousin who won the lottery a few years ago. While it wasn’t hundreds of millions of dollars, it was enough to help him buy a house after taxes and everything. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. You know, we always hear about things like that (things that some people like to call miracles) happening to other people and wonder, “Why couldn’t that be me?”

Well, we had our own little miracle here at home just the other day. In fact it was marvelously appropriate that it happened on Saturday. Allow me to set the scene:

It is Saturday afternoon, the day before Easter. The weather outside is stunning. “This is the perfect day to take the Beans out for a walk in their new stroller,” thinks the story’s heroine, Pie (that’s me). She looks around her, eyes casting about the living room, family room, dining room, her face becoming more deeply lined with dismay the longer she looks.

“This place is a mess! And we have the whole family coming over for dinner tomorrow! I simply must get this place whipped into shape.” And with that, our heroine is off. She calls Mimzi and beckons her over to play with the Beans so Pie can roll up her sleeves and get down to business. By the time Mimzi arrives, the Beans are almost asleep and Pie has all the furniture rearranged to run the vacuum unfettered over the carpeting in the bedrooms, living room and family room.

The house hums with the vibration of the ancient vacuum. Actually, sometimes it’s more like a clankety-clankety-clankety-wheeze-wheeze-wheeze-wheeze-wheeze-wheeeeze-clank-bbbbbbvvvvvrrrrrrr and then back to the hum, but that’s okay because the job’s getting done…

You can almost see it, can’t you? The picture of efficiency- the usually meek, docile, gentle mother creature transformed into a driven, single-minded, formidable cleaning monster, her eyes like laser beams, zeroing in on dust and dog hair and zapping it all into oblivion with her trusty vacuum cleaner.

Ah yes, the vacuum cleaner. The sidearm / companion to every SAHM heroine. Mine is Eureka Betsy. She and I go way back to the very beginning of our dirt –fighting days and I love hate love hate love have a somewhat complicated relationship with her. Vacuums age more rapidly than humans. Kind of how every year of a dog’s life is supposedly roughly equivalent to seven years of our lives. If I want to apply that rule here, then Eureka Betsy is about 105. And she’s not looking too good. Over the past few years, she’s become a rather high-maintenance girl and she’s had to undergo a couple of life-prolonging procedures (that have been a complete pain in the behind) so we know her days are numbered. Sometimes she blows more than she sucks, as Hubby likes to point out, however, cheapskate that I am, I’ll keep Eureka Betsy alive and sucking till there’s not a breath left in her.


And that day arrived on Saturday. There I was, halfway through the crucial vacuuming process when Eureka Betsy had another one of her episodes. I paused midstride, waiting for the clankety-clankety-clankety to give way to the wheezing sound when something snapped inside poor old Eureka Betsy. Cautiously, hopefully, but with more than an ounce of dread, I gingerly pushed her over the carpet in a long, sweeping pass and absent were the telltale streaks of cleanliness. Oh, no. Not today! Please, PLEASE not right now!!!

I tried rebooting her because that’s what Hubby always requires I do BEFORE calling him in to troubleshoot. Unplug. Replug. Switch engaged. No dice. I tried just plain booting her with my sneaker-encased-madwoman foot. Still, nothing. I ran out to Hubby’s office.

“Hi,” Smile. It makes people more likely to help you, I told myself.

“Hello,” He’s distracted and doesn’t notice my smile. I cut to the chase.

“Honey, the vacuum’s not working,” and stop right there. That’s all he needs to know. No need to pepper him with insignificant details. He hates those.

“Um, I’m right in the middle of uploading the print driver blahblahblah,” Stop listening because that means no, he won’t look at it now and I’m totally screwed.

“Do you want me to call around and find a vacuum repair place?” I’m hopeful to get Eureka Betsy back up on her casters today so I can heartlessly squeeze another fifteen minutes of service out of her. That’s all I need. Fifteen minutes.

“No…” is the response. “I’ll look at it later.” Shit. Later means October. Shit!

I leave. Now not only is the house dirty, I’m also pissed off.

In a perilous bind with no visible solutions to this overwhelming problem presenting themselves, our heroine’s mind races. What shall she do? She charges back into the house, evidence of her predicament everywhere: furniture all askew, dog hair on the sofa cushions, dust in the cracks of the coffee table. She knows that without Eureka Betsy, there’s no hope for a clean holiday.

Suddenly, a light blinks on in our heroine’s eyes. Her face is alight in newfound hope. She picks up the phone and begins dialing, a hopeful smile spreading across her face…

I called Howard. He was in the family room in under fifteen minutes and diagnosing Eureka Betsy with clogged arteries or something, which had resulted in her heart attack, but he could revive her. I gave him twenty bucks and he took a trip to Wal-Mart. I awaited his return in an anxious vigil over Eureka Betsy’s motionless corpse, gazing wistfully at her power cord, patched with electrical tape in more than a couple of places, snaking out behind her like a stilled tail. I thought of all the places we’d cleaned together, her and I, and all the places I still hoped we’d clean together in the days to come. I willed her to hold on, pouring all my hope and longing into her to recover swiftly and fulfill her purpose on this earth once again.

Howard returned. I left the room. I couldn’t bear to watch as he laid open her innards and went at her guts with his precision surgical tools. The tension in the air was palpable. Would Eureka Betsy survive to battle dirt for another day? Would Howard be able to yet again breathe life into this ancient, dying behemoth?

All of our questions and prayers were answered a moment later when we heard it: Clankety-clankety-clankety-wheeeeeeeeeeeeeezzzzzzzzzzzze-hummmmmmmmm.

It had happened! Our very own Easter resurrection. Howard and I took Eureka Betsy out for a test-sucking of Hubby’s office rug. It was truly a thing of beauty- Eureka Betsy sucking away at all the dirt and dust that had accumulated over the past weeks since Hubby set up shop. And I must say that the sight of Hubby pushing the vacuum gave me more than a little pleasure.

So, that’s the story of our Easter miracle. Never again can I look enviously at another person’s good fortune and lament my lack thereof. I have Eureka Betsy, my house was sparkling clean for the holiday, and I got to see my husband vacuum. Hallelujah! Oh, and the Beans were super-cute for their first Hippity Hoppity Happy Easter and we were able to take pics on the (CLEAN) floor!

On Soul Mates

I wrote this a couple of months ago and recently noticed that I never published it-- so here it is today...

I didn't believe there were such things as soul mates when Hubby and I met. I still didn't believe they existed when we got engaged and really couldn't be pursuaded to believe in the concept when we eventually married for tax purposes. I just couldn't buy into the idea that there is ONE person and ONE PERSON ALONE out there in the whole entire world who could make me happy.

This is for several reasons but the greatest reason is that statistically speaking it's just ridiculously improbable. There are what-- over six billion people in the world? Seven billion. I can't even wrap my brain around that number. Anyway, I'm going to keep it simple here and say for the sake of argument that about half of that humungous number of humans on this planet is male. Half of six billion is about 3 billion. If the whole "soul mate" thing holds true I'd need to find this one and only guy, and he me, out of all of those people otherwise we'd never ever be truly happy. Preposterous! I can't even find my car keys in the daily-accumulating clutter (read: Craps) of the dining room table. Buying into the whole soul mate pipe dream would doom me to a lifetime of discontent and misery.

The great contradiction is, I am truly happy. Yes, Biscuit is the greatest son ever. And yes, having the Beans has made my life wondrously fun and complete in a way I really didn't anticipate. Hubby is without a doubt a far better husband than I hoped for or deserved, blahblahblah. We so frequently say the exact same thing at the exact same time or do that annoying "I was just thinking that!" routine when one says something before the other has a chance to blurt it out, but what really rounded out my life was knowing someone who really is an absolutely perfect match to who I really am.

It started out a little over two years ago. We met and immediately experienced an amazingly strong bond. We've always spent tons of time together, especially when Hubby is away on business. We don't even have to speak-- we know each other's facial expressions, nonverbal cues and body language that well. We always want to be together, whether we're going all the way to the beach or just out to the mailbox. I know that she would, without the slightest hesitation, fight to the death to protect my children and there is no way she will ever leave me. She listens, she always does exactly what I ask and consoles me and keeps the greatest company when I'm sad. And best of all, she and Hubby love each other that much too.


Her name is Katie and she's the one who made me believe in soul mates-- because she's mine.

So Totally Busted

Crane, you're killin' me you slacker! How is it that you can sit there so smug like you're doing anything even remotely like your job when more stuff comes up than goes down when someone flushes you. You disgust me. You disgust me to the point that I want to barf-- but wait!!! I can't barf finto the most logical place (namely the toilet before me) because then I'd need to... Oh, how horrible. I can't even carry out that thought to its conclusion. How do you live with yourself?

What's the use? You never change. You never listen! This is a horribly dysfunctional relationship and I should walk away but I can't. I still feel like I need you. If only you'd come over to my side just a little bit. Just once in a while could you give me a little hope for you and for our future? No, I know you too well now. It'll never happen. We're doomed to this miserably wretched existence together because, let's face it-- I need you more than you need me and you know it.

Speaking of miserably wretched, the Biscuit also finds himself thus these days. He sure got himself in a heapalotta trouble last week. I find him a remarkable study in how much crap one can bring raining down on himself day after day. Talk about not listening! I must admit that when I visualize the Biscuit as of late, I see him standing in a number of places staring off into space, doing whatever it is he does when he thinks nobody's watching (though I usually AM watching- but that's another post) with a kind of gigantic Pandora's box perpetually hanging over his head. All that's between all the horrible stuff in the box and Biscuit's head is a thin, cheap, made-in-China trap door, and fixed to the trap door is a beautiful, bright, glittery, sparkly, eye-catching jewel-encrusted chain.

I see this and attempt to avert the many imminent disasters looming overhead. I say, "OK, all you have to do is NOT yank that chain and everything will be cool. You'll be happy, I'll be happy and all will be right with the world. Just ignore it-- pretend it isn't there. Because if you yank on it, even just slightly, you will find copious amounts of foul, sticky, stinky crap raining down on you heavily and for an extended period of time. That will be bad. You don't want that. You won't like it. So don't touch the chain. Do you understand?" The Biscuit tears his eyes away from the chain (which has completely entranced him because it's another one of those shiny objects that lures him in like a brainless fish) and nods at me. "Take your hand off of it!!!" I exclaim, my voice plaintively ringing out but falling too late on his deaf ears. I can see what's coming and I watch as this thought process steamrolls through his brain....

Wordswordswords, Pie is talkingtalkingtalking about something and yesyesyes I
hear you and agree to whatever. Please stop talking- I have more
important things to think about! There's that bad guy in Halo 3 that I
can't beat and I just need to get that armored vehicle and I'd
totally PWN him and dude this chain thing is SO COOL and I just
need to see what will happen if I pull on it ever so slightly and oh,
wait a sec-- what is that raining down out of the sky coming right for
me!?! Holy cow! I can't get out of the way and now curiosity is
turning to panic and I can't let go of this cool chain thing so YANK
HARDER! AHHHHH!!!! What is all this stuff?!?!? What's
happening?!?!?! Pie? Help me! What? Let go? Let go of
what?!?! Oh the chain thing! I didn't realize I was holding
it!! Yeah, okay, I'll let go. All right, just a sec. That
armored Halo 3 vehicle is just what I need to totally PWN that guy I
totally need to PWN him it makes me so mad that he kills me every
time-- Huh? Let go of the what? Oh yeah, the chain- that's
where all this is coming from and I should stop the flow first? How? Oh, OK,
that makes sense. Yeah I should just listen to you. How did this
happen, anyway? Wow what a mess. This smells really bad. Why didn't you tell me this would happen? I totally need to go try to get that vehicle.

And thus the Biscuit brought down myriad loads of crap (not Craps) upon himself. Once it began it just kept going and going and going. Not that I was surprised in the least. Sigh. I love that kid with all my heart and guts and all the ethereal dust of the universe but his penchant for bright shiny objects will bring ruin upon us all.

On the bright side, I din't have to clean the bathrooms this weekend. The Biscuit got to. Super Special Lucky Ducky Biscuit! Although in retrospect, perhaps this wasn't the greatest idea. Oh dear! What have I done? I just forced the Biscuit to spend some intimate quality time with Crane, my slacker nemesis. God only knows what evils the Biscuit will now find himself suddenly inspired to commit. And he'll have to do them over and ove and over because that's how Crane rolls. Just do it over and over and over. It's not like anything changes. Hmmm. Well, perhaps Biscuit had an epiphany of his own. Seeing as how he seems to consider me metaphorically full of crap and quite frequently finds Crane literally so, hopefully he will realize that if he wishes to spend his weekend in the presence of anything BESIDES crap, he should keep his hands off of the bright shiny objects.

I can always hope.

Oh, The Humanity!

I have glimpsed the future. And I am terrified. I apologize in advance, world, for the horrors my womb has unleashed on you all.







I have this vague recollection of half-sitting, half-lying in the hospital bed cradling both of my drowsy newborns. I was overcome by their new human smell and that hormonal, drugged-out postpartum fugue that's an awful lot like a hangover before the headache really hits. And I looked into the Beans' absolutely perfect, sublime, beatific faces and said to them, "You girls have the most wonderful thing any girl could ever ask for. You each have your own twin sister," and I remember tears welling up in my eyes and looking up at Hubby who said, "Yeah," with a cute little proud daddy smile on his face too.


A mere seven months into their lifetime together, the honeymoon's absolutely over. They've been in separate cribs for a little over a month now- ever since they began whacking each other in the night and waking each other- and ME- up at the most inconvenient of times, namely while they were sleeping. Very bad, very bad indeed. Now, you should know that Pooki's always been a bit of a binkie hog while Pipsi is the toy hoarder.











See? I'm not being unfair. That's really how it is. Or, at least, that's how it was up until they began teething in earnest about two months ago. I thought that they were tolerating each other and the whole teething experience very well up until the other day. Here's what happened:

The three of us were on my bed, playing, rolling, sitting, chewing, fussing, screaming, cooing, babbling, singing-- you know all the usual. They were both getting sleepy and Pooki was going to town on her binkie and I was happy because I knew her naptime was drawing near and Pipsi was sure to follow and after that, lucky me, I was going to get to vaccuum. Then, out of nowhere I saw Pipsi, surrounded by mounds of toys as usual, zero in on Pooki's binkie. Her face a portrait of intense concentration, Pipsi's little hand reached over, popped the binkie out of her twin's mouth and stuck it in her awaiting maw and then she resumed her previous activity as if nothing happened. That's how she rolls.

Pooki, meanwhile, had looked up in surprise when Pipsi so rudely yanked away her beloved binkie. Pooki reached toward Pipsi's mouth and got her hand on the subject binkie with the intent of returning it to its rightful place when Pipsi, having none of it, pulled her other hand back and clocked Pooki in the side of the face with a hard plastic (made in China, much to my chagrin) toy. Pipsi was heartless, emotionless. It was like looking into the vacuous eyes of a trained government assassin. One who never openly acknowledges the devastation he wreaks on the lives of others, but rather hides behind a veil of ambiguity and you know that deep in the night he somehow believes himself to be some kind of twisted savior.

Well, this was not a good situation. Pooki's face screwed up and she started those little gasping inhalations that immediately precede a full-on meltdown. Mommy to the rescue! I sprang into action, reaching over and picking her up and popping another binkie in her mouth and singing to her. Distracted enough to forget that she was about to cry forever, Pooki calmed down and reached out in another direction for another toy. I lay her down on her tummy out of arm's reach of her sister and briefly turned around to open the window. When I turned back to the babies I was just in time to see that Pooki had rolled onto her back and had just grasped a handful of Pipsi's hair (quite s feat, considering how little hair Pipsi has). Again I swooped in before any serious damage could be done, damage that would certainly lead to creating mortal sworn enemies for life out of my little angels.

And I found myself wondering, "Why? Why am I going to such lengths only to prolong the inevitable?" The answer, my friends, is hope. Will they hate each other? Will they hate hubby and me? Will they become some misanthropic scourge of the earth? Well, they will, for ten years of their lives, be American teenage girls. So yes to all of the above. However, they are also two people whom I love beyand all measure of reason and because of that, I will always try to help them learn how to be happy and love each other.

Sigh. I had to go and get yucky, didn't I? Once in a while isn't so bad. After all, I still get the hormonal excuse for a few more paltry months so why not make the most of it?

The future is gloomy for us all. Gas will soon be $4 per gallon, the economy will totally suck for a long while, and Hubby never wants to eat pizza any more. But at least I have a ton of baby cuddles and kisses, chubby baby cheeks to chew, and baby's breath to breathe. And as long as I have that and the promise of more Bean antics tomorrow I'll be a happy camper!

More Than Just A Laxative

Baby oil is mineral oil with that special baby fragrance. I remember learning this when I was in 4th grade. I had to do a science project and needed some mineral oil. I informed Howard, my dad, of this requirement and he came home with baby oil. Chaos ensued until he reassured me, via the label, that what I held was indeed mineral oil.

Once the world returned to its axis and resumed normal rotation, I finished my project and tucked that little morsel of information away in my lunchbox of knowledge forever and ever. Occasionally I'd pull it out and review it as necessary, like a couple of weeks ago when Hubby said, as I was walking out the door to the grocery store (always a fun adventure), "Oh, see if you can get some mineral oil. I need it to season the new cutting board." And onto the list it went.

I trucked through the grocery store, an efficient shopping machine, finding all the items on my list and stowing them in the surprisingly quiet cart for purchase at the finish line. Then I got to the mineral oil at the bottom of the list. Around and around and around I went in search of the mineral oil. Not in Beauty. Not in Bakeware. Not in Household. Not in Baby. Not in the Nowhere to be Found aisle. I considered buying baby oil but decided that since Hubby requested mineral oil, bringing home anything other than EXACTLY mineral oil would be folly.

Thwarted, I steered my cart toward the checkout counter, bummed because now I'd have to go to TWO stores in this trip and that wouldn't happen because oh, yeah, I have twins at home and at the moment they were being cared for by an individual who can tolerate no more than twenty minutes of whining / crying / fussing / general expressions of infant discontent (read: Hubby who, to his credit, admits that he could never do my job- like I didn't already know this) and said twenty minutes was almost up. I'd return home neither with my shield nor on it, cruelly broken by my inability to find an item under $5 that was the key to Hubby's happiness. Sigh.

At the register the checker, certainly sensing my disappointment, inquired of me, "Did you find everything you were looking for?" Here it was! My knight in shining armor! My gladiator, here to rescue me from my ruinous ineptitude! A final means to escape my inevitable walk of shame topped by a confession of utter failure!

"Mineral oil-- I couldn't find any... Do you carry it?" I asked, hope shining from my soul.

"Mineral oil? Hmm. Hey, Joe, where would we have mineral oil? That would be in Health, right?" He called to a fellow gladiator a couple of registers over. Joe turned and peered at me.

"Yeah, Health," and he picked up the little phone thingie that miraculously lets supermarket checkers talk to one another AND broadcast their voices at superhuman volume throughout the store.

"I NEED A RUNNER ON TWELVE," Joe's voice reverberated over the PA and, like magic, a delightful, fresh-faced young man materialized next to the register. "Mineral oil," Joe said to the runner. "How much do you need?" He asked of me from two registers over.

"Oh! I don't know... It isn't a very big job," I replied, thinking about the size of the cutting board and the amount of liquid necessary to coat it a few times. I'd never seasoned a cutting board. I didn't know! Joe paused for just a second, looking at me with a rather quizzical look on his face and turned to the runner. "See if we have any," And off the runner ran.

I was jubilant! Celebrating on the inside, I anxiously awaited the runner's return with my coveted mineral oil, the elixir that would make my return joyfully succesful rather than heartbreakingly devastating. I waited. And waited. And he returned empty-handed.

"Sorry. We don't have it."

I was crestfallen. Obviously, this triumphant return I imagined was not meant to be. Perhaps there was a larger lesson this experience was meant to teach me.

"If you really need it you can check the drugstore across the street. They probably have some," my checker offered what solace he could, but I was defeated and I knew it.

"No, I can't go. I'll have to wait until tomorrow,"

Brokenhearted, I departed the store. I arrived home to Hubby, who had completely forgotten his special request. "Thank God you're home!!! They started crying right after you left and have been at it ever since." And so we went on with our busy lives. After dinner Hubby washed the dishes. He got to the cutting board and asked about the mineral oil. Shamefully, I confessed that I was unable to procure the magical liquid for him but I fervently promised to get him some the following day. I went to bed down, but not out.

The next day, at the first opportunity I rushed to the drugstore. I charged in through the sliding double doors and strode confidently through the aisles on my quest. Today, I would triumph. I wasn't leaving without the freaking mineral oil.

Aisle after aisle, endcap after endcap I searched to no avail. "You have GOT to be frickin' KIDDING ME!!!" I thought aloud to myself. That was it. At the end of my rope, I approached a girl in a blue pinafore and a name tag.

"Hi, excuse me, where would I find the mineral oil?"

She looked at me. Surveyed me, actually. Gave me a good once-over before replying, "Against the back wall," and she paused.

I paused back. "With the toothpaste?" It was really more of a wish than a real question.

"No. Here, I'll show you ma'am," and abandoning her cart of deodorant she led me through the store. "No, oh Jesus," I was thinking. "She's taking me to THAT aisle," That thought kept running in circles through my mind. Not really circles, I guess-- more like the crazy circuitous path Biscuit used to run through the mall-- up the escalator, around the counter, down the escalator, around another counter and back up the escalator. Crazy.

From halfway across the store I saw the illuminated sign highlighting our destination. It was inevitable. I drew a big breath of air and exhaled it as we drew ever closer to that sign, puffing upward and ruffling a few errant hairs that flitted around my face as we walked. We came to a stop in front of the sign.

"Laxatives. Of course! Why didn't I think to look here?!?"

She looked at me dubiously. I didn't say anything else. The only thing that could have made the situation worse was having a seventeen-year-old makeup-jockey drugstore employee give me that look that says, "Yeah, EVERYBODY knows that's a poop-aid."

"Well, yeah, that's it," she said, pointing to an inconspicuous clear plastic bottle simply labeled, "Mineral Oil". Lovely.

I knelt down and grabbed the stupid goddam laxative mineral oil, marched up to the front, snagging a bag of Peanut M&Ms along the way, paid for everything and scrammed the hell out of there.

A laxative. A goddam freakin' LAXATIVE! No wonder Hubby had sent me out to get it. And I've been broadcasting my need for said laxative practically all over the known universe. What a COOL errand for him to send me to do!

So, what did I learn from this experience? Several things. First, that if I really need some help pooping, I know where to turn. Second, my local grocery store doesn't carry mineral oil but the drugstore does. Third, I know how to season a cutting board, something every good housewife should know (Up Yours, Martha!). But most importantly, I learned that even though I have a degree from one of the best universities on the planet, even though I speak three languages and can still read music, all of that is no guarantee against ever feeling like a dumbass. But even through all of that, I take a little bit of devious solace in the fact that there is a good quantity of an odorless, colorless, tasteless laxative in the house at my disposal. And, if someone were to speak to me crossly at any given time, my hand could certainly slip unnoticed over his morning cup of coffee. Then all I have to do is sit back and watch the show. But I wouldn't do that! That would be really embarrassing...

I Was Strolling Through the Park One Day...

Before I forget, Pooki got her second tooth on Feb 22. Her left one poked through first on the 20th . Whew! Don't want to forget that!!!

We had one of those busybusybusy weekends where we accomplished a lot but really nothing worth mentioning. And, I still feel like I have so much to do. Yuck! We (read:Hubby) cooked all day Saturday. He was in the kitchen for about 6 hours, he said. I believe it! Hubby is really great about making up stuff to keep us going through the week. This time he made a really fantastic, super-spicy curry and his famous lentil soup. And, he made double batches of both so we took some over to Grandma & Grandpa. That was fun. We all certainly had great appetites this weekend.

Last week was a different story, though. If you're about to eat, stop reading now and revisit after you've digested, because this next bit is gross.

There's a park right across the street from our subdivision and if you were to look at a map of our town and draw a triangle connecting the elementary, middle and high schools in our neighborhood, said park would be pretty much in the middle of all three. Generally I think this is a good thing. However, last week as Biscuit, the Beans, Katie and I were walking home from school, a kid (high-school aged) stepped out from behind a tree, zipping up his jeans and wearing a devious smirk on his face. I couldn't believe it!!! NO WAY!!! Just walk along, don't acknowledge him, don't let it bug you, don't SAY anything, I told myself. But then I flashed forward twelve years to when the Beans were walking home from school and they saw this nasty lamebrain public-tree-wizzer emerging from his private business and, of course, I was overcome. It was broad daylight. There were people EVERYWHERE! And he's Peeing on a TREE in the MIDDLE OF THE PARK!!!!!!!!!

"You nasty little boy! There's a bathroom RIGHT OVER THERE!!!" I pointed to the bathroom right across the park. For a public toilet in a park, it's really pretty nice.

"I know but I'm helluv impatient and I drank a whole bottle of water," Seriously? Was that really the best he could do? That's his best defense? Maybe he has some sort of mental deficiency and I should lay off and try to UNDERSTAND him and his helluv impatience.

"Well, big boys are supposed to know when to go weewee and when to hold it. Maybe you should go back to kindergarten until you can learn that."

We were really close to the kindergarten. But we were closer to the bathroom. What a dork.

I would have been SO embarrassed if someone had caught me weeing in public. I still would be! What's the deal? Am I old? Am I just showing my age? Is it in vogue to wee in the park? If I were a dog, I'd perhaps consider it. But even our little Katie has class enough to not wee in inappropriate places. The Beans get a bye since they're still in diapers-- I guess I'll just have to start carrying extra diapers for errant tree-wizzers. Not for them to use! Not clean ones! Big, nasty, soggy, stinky ones-- so the errant tree-wizzers can know just how disgusting it is to be confronted with someone else's bodily refuse against one's will.

Like I have time to do that.

So Unfaithful

Last night, I had a dream Hubby wanted a divorce. Sigh. We're both elated that he isn't the man of my dreams. For some crazy reason (and I'm sure it's crazy indeed) my dreams about him are always terrible. But that's a story for another day.

He wasn't unfaithful to me in that dream, not that it matters. But I feel like I've been unfoathful lately. Not to him! I'm not an adulteress or anything (although it's only 11:17 am- the day is still young) but I can't stay FOCUSED on ANYTHING!!! It's driving me nuts. I haven't even been faithful to you, Blog.

Partly, it's a result of Teething. Teething sucks. Teething makes my home a hell. A cacophonous (caca-phenous, haha) isolated hell. Sometimes the Beans are just inconsolable. Wah, wah, wah my heart is BREAKING Mommy! Do something to HELP ME!!! Well, they're not entirely inconsolable. Sometimes they're entertained by farting noises. That's a ton of fun! Farting noises of all kinds for, like twenty minutes nonstop. Have you ever tried it? Try it! You haven't lived until that's been your life. After a while your lips and mind go totally numb. I'm not sure which area loses feeling first but does it matter?

I've had three job offers in the past three weeks. I just can't take them. After child care, commuting, wardrobe and food costs we'd have less in the bank than if I stayed home. Sigh.

Pooki (I can't stand numbering them any longer) particularly loves the farting noises (see, unfaithfulness to my train of thought right there- from farting to career back to farting). She really likes the ones that fluctuate in pitch from high to low and then taper off. Kind of like this: Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeppphhhhhhhllllllluuuuuuubbbbbbbbbbbpop,pop,pop,pop......pop..............pop. Loves it. She giggles and smiles and giggles and then sticks her fingers back into her mouth and resumes fussing until she hears the noise again. She just fell asleep. That'll last for maybe twenty minutes. She's really very considerate. Both of the Beans are. They make sure I'm never alone. One is awake when the other is sleeping so I constantly have a companion. You should see what this is doing for my arms! The old biceps and triceps are superbuff from doing chores with a Bean on a hip. Really! Vaccuuming with a baby is the best way to build those muscles. I've decided that when the girls are old enough to begin doing chores, I'm going to teach them to do it while holding a baby. It might be worth having another baby just to experience the satisfaction of watching them perform what I fondly refer to as "encumbered chores". Wait a second, have another baby? What am I talking about?!?!?! Obviously I haven't been listening to myself.

But, in all honesty, I have to say that I'm really pretty proud of myself. The Craps are (were) diminishing in numbers until this week. I unloaded a bunch of stuff at the mothers of multiples semiannual used clothing and equipment sale last weekend and made about $400. That was cool because the Beans' new carseats cost $300 each. Then I learned that one of my girlfriends is going to become a grandma this month. I jumped on the chance to build a nursery again (because we know that's never not fun) and I discovered while talking with Biscuit's dad and stepmom that they want to get rid of all their kids' gear-- cribs, toys, carseats, highchair, etc (read: Craps) and my girlfriend is welcome to all of it. So where are said Craps now? I'll give you one guess.

Maybe that's why I dreamed that Hubby wanted the divorce.