Four Jugs

Netflix Killed the Video Store

2011-07-04T08:42:00.009-05:00

Throughout high school and college, I had a string of pretty good part-time jobs and babysitting gigs.

Yogurt-Slinger

My first real job was working evenings and weekends at TCBY. The perks included all the yogurt and Belgian waffes I could eat. Downside: I was forced to wear a green, collared shirt and mop the floors. I learned frozen yogurt comes as a liquid in huge plastic packages that you simply pour into the top of the yogurt machines and let electricity do the rest. I never learned to make change or to inhale the nitrous oxide from the whipped cream cans as one of my co-workers was fond of doing.

Hawker

There was the gift store at the mall, that sold all sorts of tchotchkes, lotions, candles, posters and dolls . It was fun to help people select their miniature babies for layaway before wrapping them gingerly in tissue to store in the vast stockroom until Christmas.

Perks: a 15% employee discount there and at the mall food court. The downside: The unending track of music, comprised of maybe 12 songs that looped over and over and over until time stood still and became a meaningless concept. I learned to distinguish between a Madame Alexander with its clever themey accessories and a Himstedt with its human hair and lifelike features.

(This only came in handy later when I identified a roommate's doll as being highly sought by collectors and was able to arrange a sale. Sweet! Beer money.)

Governess
I did a lot of babysitting. Even when I probably should have had a babysitter of my own, I was entrusted with the care of the children of others. There were the neighbors whose children were delightfully fun, begging me to paint their nails and then going to bed without so much as a complaint or a fuss, leaving me with the mistaken impression that children were naturally equipped to snuggle into bed and quietly sleep for 10 hours with little more than a "nighty-night." The perks of babysitting included easy money and the fun of raiding the family's refridgerator. I learned that parents pay more after they've been to parties and had a few cocktails. Downside: Trying to stay awake after the kids had gone to sleep. It was embarrassing to be snoozing on the sofa when Mom and Dad came home.

But, the best job ever was...

Video Jockey

Even before the movie Clerks pointed out everything hilarious and true about being a video store clerk, working in a video store was a hilarous and true high school job.

Getting paid to watch movies, making sanguine and sincere recommendations to customers and encouraging them to pay the extra 50 cents for something called "video insurance" freeing them of responsibility in the event their VCRs ate the tapes (which was actually quite common), made for an oddly fulfilling work experience.

There were late nights and the excitement of working with college kids including the coolest girl, Kimberly, who sort of took the high-school girls under her wing, regailing us with tales of her second job as a cocktail waitress and giving us tips on how to sneak in to local clubs to listen to bands.

I learned to use a shrinkwrap machine and not faint from the noxious fumes and to make a bitchin' display to promote the latest installation of the Lethal Weapon series. We rented video cassette players to folks without and Sega game systems.

My boss was school-of-hard-knocks single mom who probably shared way more about accidental pregnancies and dating married men than my tender 17-year-old ears were ready to process at that time. The perks included free movie rentals, working next door to a pizza parlour, where most of my wages went during work hours, and unparallelled people-watching opportunities. The hardest part of the job was dusting the display shelves and vaccuuming at the close of business. The only downside was when the store was briefly under the ownership of a franchise that required its employees to wear hideous yellow shirts emblazoned with the store logo.

Everything I needed to know about life may have been contained within those four walls: learning, love, laughter. Well, everything except how to make change.

Happy Fourth of July!

Separated at Birth

2011-06-09T08:56:00.003-05:00

and

No offense......Squidward.

Dress for success

2011-06-05T08:31:00.004-05:00

Found this sexy number in the Sunday circulars this morning.

It caught my eye causing me to pay closer attention to this cotton/poly-blend frock.

It has all the Cs.

Comfy. Cool. Casual. Colorful. Cheap (inexpensive).

... Dare I say cute?

I think the official name for this frock is "muu muu."

Come on girls!! Who's with me?

Oh good lord, have I completely given up on fashion?

File This One Under "Choose Your Words Carefully"

2011-05-27T09:30:00.002-05:00

Here's a photo of an e-mail my sister in law received:

Ladies and gentlemen, I know I grew up with brothers and currently live in a houseful of males; by osmosis, I have learned to see the potty humor everywhere. But I'm amazed that people who sell underwear for a living and no doubt are bombarded with underwear jokes in their daily lives did not think twice before publishing a "Panty Blowout" banner.

Am I right, or have I officially become Jim Carrey?

Wishing you a happy, safe, and blow-out free Memorial Day.

Love is in the Air. And Also in a Headlock.

2011-05-20T09:45:00.003-05:00

Engagement photos: Why?

It seems like such a simple thing: stand next to someone you love, point and click. So what is it with engagement photos? The vast majority of them seem to involve implausible poses, puzzling locales, and unsubstantiated exuberance. They're the photographic equivalent of an awkward cocktail party non-sequitur.

I remember my own engagement photo like it was yesterday. In my bridal stupor, I somehow believed that a photo of Michael and I in a porch swing would be a perfect representation of our happy future. No, we were not ninety years old at the time, and I believe it was the first and only time we've ever sat in a porch swing together.

Why? Why?

I've complied a brief guide with a few observations and suggestions I've culled after looking at this year's slew of engagement announcement photos:

Bride type: Classic.

How to spot her: Twinsets. Blinding glare of shiny hair.
What they were going for: As I hug my adorable fiance, casually check out my ring. Your visible jealousy will affirm that getting engaged is the best thing ever!

What it looks like: I pledge allegiance, on someone else's chest....

Try instead: Want to show that ring but have an edgier photo? Gang sign. East Side!

Bride Type: Playful

How to spot her: Fall foliage. Jeans. Ball caps. May be a former gymnast.

What they were going for: Sporty. Feigned spontaneity. A piggyback ride.

What it looks like: Leapfrog.

Try instead: Build a spirit pyramid at your rehearsal dinner with your bridesmaids and groomsmen.

Bride type: Level II Playful

What they were going for: Impromtu, outdoorsy affection.

What is looks like: A headlock with a noogie waiting to happen. A noogie, a wedgie, and a purple nurple to get him back for telling everyone at Camp Chippewa he got to third base with her.

Try instead: Get married in your thirties.

Bride type: Nature's Daughter

Where to spot her: Amber waves of grain. Sepia tones.

What they were going for: Splendor in the grass. Rustic. Ralph Lauren.

What it looks like: Cue the theme song from Little House on the Prairie and watch the Ingalls girls come galavanting down the hill. Is this the one where Mary goes blind? You guys, that one is so sad. Why does Laura call Almanzo "Manly?" It embarrasses me.

Try instead: Allegra commercial audtions. Unless of course, you are these people:
If you own the hat and the ranch and the shirts, you are fully committed and the genuine article. Proceed. Maybe you could lend your stirrups to this gal:

Bride Type: "Pushy" Bride

How to spot her: Her knees are touching her boobs.

What they were going for: Way casual. And grass stains.

What it looks like: Lamaze. She's smiling too big to be crowning. I'm guessing 5 centimeters. Still, that's no excuse to be cupping her ass, pal.

Try instead: An epidural.

Seriously, guys, stand up or everyone will think it's a ninth-month shotgun wedding! Which leads me to:

Bride Type: 9 1/2 Weeks

How to spot her: Her nipples will be showing through her shirt. The back of her hair is ratty.

What they were going for: Edgy. Sexy. Announcing their engagement while simultaneously announcing to their loved ones (and presumably their grandparents) that no couple ever before or since has had hotter, or more photogenic, sex than they do.

What it looks like: That softcore porn they show on late night Showtime.

Try instead: A blush or bashful wedding dress, 'cause honey, we know white won't do.

Bride type: Uncomfortable.

How to spot her: Neck brace

What they were going for: Let's get this over with on my parents' deck.

What it looks like: In free association? Arms. Teeth whitener. Shoulder cramp. The deck needs sanding and staining. Pollen stains. Your ribs are digging into me! Elbows. Ticks. Splinters.

Try instead: Lawn chairs.

I joke, I joke, you crazy kids! I know it's all to easy to get caught up in the pose-y pose of the engagement photo. Just relax, take a breath, and go for something beautiful, like this:

No pressure!

It's Her

2011-04-29T10:04:00.005-05:00

I know, I know. You're Not Excited about the Royal Wedding. In a country that's embraced the Kardashians, I'm not really sure why there's so much disinterest and even disdain surrounding William and Kate's big day.

Well, I am excited. And not just because I love weddings, which I do. I've always loved them, and all the more now that I've been married for over a decade. I said those words, too, I always think when I hear people say their vows. And I love wedding dresses. But even the thought of Kate's dress, and her beautiful diction as she says her own vows, is not what has me feeling sentimental today. Know what it is?

It's her.

Her baby got married today.

Of all the things that were unhappy or tumultuous about her life, Princess Diana loved her boys so much. As fiercely as I love mine. She travelled the world with them. She gave them perspective. She made sure they did not sit around on their Royal arses.

I don't know if my boys will ever get married. I hope I'll be lucky enough to be there. If I'm not, please be excited for my son's I do's. Drink a toast to him. Spend an afternoon in the sack in celebration of young love. Or at least, don't be cynical. I know the hats are over the top- as are the 150 horses- but one of the best parts of Princess Di is very much alive and overjoyed today.

And if I am there for my son's big day, and he marries himself a Kate Middleton, well, I think a three-foot feather sculpture atop a netted hat would only begin to express my jubilance.

Do you know how much I hate this?

2011-04-05T20:38:00.000-05:00

So I'm driving my kids to Barnes & Noble to go do something wholesome and vaguely educational, like, buy book, or eat muffins or something like that. Being a good driver and a law-abiding citizen, I stop at the red light.

It's a regular day... traffic seems regular... weather seems regular...

Lucky me! I spy a big truck. See it? It's a Ford or maybe a Chevy, I'm not really sure. But then, something shiny catches my eye.

Is it a faulty muffler or a broken trailer hitch? Are they dragging Christmas ornaments?

Oh cheese and rice. Is that what I think it is?

Being a responsible parent, I contain my emotions. Being stopped at a red light and not behind the wheel of a minivan in moving traffic, I use the opportunity to pull out my phone and snap a picture.

See it?

Take a closer look... and then tell me...

Why?

Postscript: No cows or rednecks were actually castrated for this blog post. Large metal scrotum dangling from spare tire well on truck, while in poor taste and raises questions about their owner too numerous to enumerate here, is in fact little more than some kind of very confusing truck decoration.

It Helps to Bring a Picture

2011-03-25T09:30:00.002-05:00

Some people bring a picture of Jennifer Anniston or Meg Ryan (or Farrah Fawcett, if you like to kick it old school) to their hairdresser to give them an idea of what hair color they'd like to have.

I took a picture of my son.

I snapped this as Henry was crawling toward me a few weeks ago. His hair often draws comments or joking inquiries as to what salon he visits for his highlights. Rest assured, he does not have chemical highlights. He has all natural, organic butterscotch frosting. It's truly beautiful- dark underneath with a sheet of golden caramel on top. Stylists sometimes call this look an ombre, although for some reason I got confused and asked my hairdresser if she could give me horchata. What, no rice milk with cinnamon in this salon?

Wave-Particle Duality

2011-03-22T09:30:00.000-05:00

Last week found me at Dr. B's office, wearing the ultrasound gear: the gingham gyno frock and paper apron. In the dark, Dr. B carefully pointed, measured, and explained everything that was happening to me.

If you know me and you're about to have a heart attack, let me stop you here. No, we weren't looking at a tell-tale flutter, or measuring little shrimp buds, or estimating due dates. We were, in fact, measuring a large and very unwelcome ovarian cyst.

I wasn't really surprised by this diagnosis. I've had cysts before. And, despite the nagging sharp pain in my side, I wasn't really worried about an ectopic pregnancy. After much consideration on both our parts, my husband underwent a certain surgical procedure to ensure that we will indeed remain a family of four.

And (risking an over-share) it's been fantastic. A little renaissance of spontaneity. Although we've still got a toddler in diapers, we feel like we've passed something of an initiation. We are out of the yawning and seemingly never-ending forest of nursing, sterilizing, sleepless nights, fear of SIDS, rear-facing car seats. Now, it seems much simpler. We have kids.

Of course, I was well aware of the very permanent implications of a vasectomy. And I had no doubt that my family is complete. After Joseph came along, I toyed with the idea of an only child. I had myself half convinced that we could function very happily that way. I didn't seriously consider or desire a second pregnancy until Joseph was five. But consider it I did, and along came Henry, very shortly after I wavered. And when he was merely an infant, I looked into his beautiful wee face and knew without a doubt that I had borne all the children that were meant to be mine.

Henry, if you're reading this someday, don't take that personally. It had nothing to to with your babyhood, or your temperament. In fact, I remember being incredulous that I almost talked myself out of a second baby. You slid into every one of our hearts so effortlessly, it was like you had always been there.

But there's a feeling, in my mothering experience, of being Done. I knew it when I felt it. It wasn't the fatigue talking. I knew I had the two babies that were meant for me.

And yet, something at that office visit last week felt like a big, metal door clanging shut. I joked to Dr. B that this cyst wan't nearly as exciting to measure as a baby. He laughed, and then started talking to me about hormone changes, and what I can anticipate (read: dread) as I enter the next decade of my life.

It's probably worth pointing out that this is the downside to having babies in your late thirties. One day you're a cute little OB patient, and the next thing you know, you're looking at an ugly cyst and getting an introductory lecture on estrogen spikes that happen before pre-menopause, then menopause, and trading maxi pads for Poise pads, and Good Lord, you realize that any "fun" your ever had at your gynocologist's office as a childbearing woman is over. Not that cervical exams have ever been accused of being fun.

But truly, the reality crept over me. There won't be anymore OB visits for me. No more ultrasounds, no more hearing the hoofbeats on a doppler, no more feeling that unreal slipping and sliding going on just beneath the surface of my skin. I am Done.

How can that make me feel such utter relief and such utter sorrow simultaneously?

It's my experience that there really isn't anything about motherhood quite as staggering as the way two seemingly opposite feelings can exist in me simultaneously. And I don't mean one way I feel something, and the next day I feel the opposite (although that's sometimes the case, too). In their infancy, emotional exhaustion and elation went hand in hand. I can desperately need a break from my children and also miss them terribly.

And I can know that I absolutely do not want to be pregnant or have another infant, and yet, I am grieving that the chapter has closed, seemingly abruptly yet completely of my own choosing.

Cowbird

2011-03-18T09:35:00.001-05:00

Brown-headed Cowbird: A stocky blackbird with a fascinating approach to raising its young. Females forgo building nests and instead put all their energy into producing eggs, sometimes more than three dozen a summer. These they lay in the nests of other birds, abandoning their young to foster parents, usually at the expense of at least some of the host’s own chicks.

Cowbird: A parent who comes to the park, instructs their child to "Run play," and immediately begins an epic session with their cell phone. This parent assumes that, because you're out actually on the playground with your child, you'll be willing to serve as foster parent and lifeguard. The worst sort of cowbird may actually give you a chiding look if you fail to push their child on the swings or tend to their booboos while said child is under your implied care.

Stat Shot:

Number of parents at the park yesterday: 6

Number using cell phones for the entire duration of their visit: 4

Actual reaction seen to a small child falling and hurting his hands: Eye rolling

Number of moments phone call was halted or ended to tend to hurt hands: 0

Projected number of Advil parent must take a day for frozen shoulder due to parenting with constant ear/phone/shoulder sandwich: 12

Number of children under 3 roaming unattended on a play structure meant for ages 8 and up: 2

Number of times an older child insisted on going down the baby slides in shorts, making that awful skin-on-plastic-slide sound: 3

Practicality points earned for wearing high-heeled wedge sandals to the playground: 0

Number of parents smoking Marlboro Menthols inside a gated area containing only children's play equipment even though there are plenty of benches and trashcans in the park directly adjacent to this area: 1

Lucy's level of hatred for the smell of menthol cigarettes: 50 billion

Number of construction vehicles working not far from the park: 2

Number of minutes construction watching held Henry's attention: 10 (Personal Best!)

Number of minutes Henry wanted to let anyone else have a turn with the captain's wheel: 0

Novel idea: Take your kids to the park, leave the phone in the car...and play with them.

Ladies Who Lunch

2011-03-11T09:40:00.005-06:00

I was caught on tape last week making out with a cupcake. My facestuffing apparently made the evening news, or so I've heard from a few friends and colleagues.

Allow me to explain. I was invited to a donor recognition luncheon as a grantee (yippee!). As a person who works in healthcare-realted non-profit, I attend such fetes on a semiregular basis. A gala here, a luncheon there- you know, grueling stuff. But, haha, in once sense it is grueling, for me anyway. Because eating meals with small children has reduced my manners and refinement to those of a bear at the dump, and because eating at home with said children is a timed relay race, having a civilized meal makes me feel a little like I'm playing dress-up. I have to be very careful not to break character.

It's not just that my manners are a little rusty. It's really my deep down love of chowing down. I like to eat with gusto. Not like that awful Man vs. Food show (He's going to rupture his esophagus. You heard it here first). It's just that, when faced with a beautiful spread of food or a decadent dessert, I like to eat with abandon, not worrying if sauce is on my chin or salsa is running down my wrist. I'm a Pig, according to Chinese astrology, an epicurean beast who never met a menu she didn't like. Food is for savoring, not picking. Noses are for picking- just ask my kids.

When I'm at these events, it always seems to me that many of the urbane and worldly types that attend barely seem to take notice of the food. Following that sophisticated cue, I've learned over the years that, when attending work-related social gatherings, it's best to dial down the food enthusiasm. When faced with a buffet, I make sure, at the end of the line, that at least part of my plate is still showing. I try not to cry when the waitstaff come along and clear the uneaten brownies (uneaten brownies!!) I play along, and do my best to delicately graze at my plate. But inside, what I'm really wanting to do when I see that amazing, professionally prepared smorgasbord is load up a platter like I'm at the Sizzler, tuck in my napkin, and start smacking.

I know when I'm at an event as the recipient of an oversized check, the food should be the last thing on my mind. Truly, being funded for another year's work was exhilarating. But, man, these cupcakes were sublime. It was almost like pound cake with a perfect, creamy-but-not-sickly-sweet frosting. The first bite of something like that usually sets off a feeding frenzy of sorts for me. I think I managed to keep my elbows down by my ribs and not level with my ears, but I don't think I looked up from the dish until I had devoured the last bite. But as I looked around the table to see if perhaps there might be an extra, I did notice a large, black television camera pointing my way.

I didn't actually see the luncheon footage on the evening news, but it's safe to bet it was me, with pink frosting in my eyebrow, looking simultaneously satisfied and stricken.

Living With Second Graders

2011-03-08T20:38:00.010-06:00

I composed this blog post in my brain whilst doing the dishes this evening. As I soaped and scrubbed the roasting pan, scraping little brown bits of cooked pig, I couldn't help but think, "Dang, pork juice smells good," much to the presumed chagrin of all my Jewish relatives.

But I digress. (But isn't that the point of a blog?)

Anyhoo..

I live with a 2nd grader. And the dinner conversation tonight surrounded on the code language spoken amongst the 2nd graders at my daughter's school.

Code is necessary for kids to say foul and inappropriate things in class, in front of teachers and, yes, at the dinner table.

Let me enlighten you about some of the primo code words currently in circulation in Ms. Smith's class:

Nest -- A nest is code for penis. Why is a nest a penis? I'm not sure, other than perhaps it is bunched up and a home for eggs?

Sauce -- Sauce means "poop." It's somewhat descriptive, yet totally gross. Every time I ask the kids, "Do you want the sauce on top of the pork or on the side?" they fall apart in waves of laughter. Yes, both children: The daughter has taught her younger brother the secret language. So when he starts kindergarten in the fall, he'll know everything. We are already expecting calls from parents who will be shocked by such language.

Balls -- This is a goodie, because it's not what you think. That's what makes the code so hysterical. It's both functional so the kids can feel they are pulling one over on the grownups, yet highly ironic in ways that only a grownup can know. Balls, for example, means "boobs." I guess because boobs are round? Although I'm fairly certain none of the children in my house have ever witnessed round boobs in real life. Flattish, slightly oblong boobs, yes. Maybe they should be called "pouches." Clearly, my daughter didn't author balls.

Slice -- Care to venture a guess on this one? A slice is a vagina. Sometimes known as a slicer. I thought my husband was going to snort pork sauce (an actual sauce, of honey and dijon mustard) from his nostrils when this fact was uncovered. Not a bad code word, huh? Better still, is that it was allegedly coined by someone's little sister in kindergarten. Kids, right?

I put an end to the conversation, changing the subject by asking everybody to tell me their favorite thing about dinner.

Husband: The texture of the pork -- it was perfect! (He made it, so props to him.)

Son: The sauce. (In all seriousness, he really liked it.)

Me: The fact that I didn't have to make it! (See hubby's comment.)

Daughter: The pink.

What?
Oh the innocent irony.

Got any good new words?

Feeling Trashy (Guest post)

2011-03-05T07:57:00.006-06:00

Note: Thank Ba-Jeebus our dear friend Alice Brody from Down the Rabbit Hole was feeling creative and generous enough to provide us with today's guest post. Take it away, Alice...

* * *

Feeling Trashy

I have a lot to remember in a day. Shit, I have a lot to remember in one HOUR. Pay the bills, pack the lunches, spank a child or two, dentist appointment at 9:00 for...???, pay taxes, change the oil, change a diaper, make a power point presentation on Laos for Thursday night class....or is it Tuesday night class???, buy makeup remover (never gonna happen, I'm afraid), eat obscene amounts of chocolate, this one needs picture money, that one needs popcorn money.....ever changing and never ending list of things I must remember.

You'd think the one thing that I would never ever forget to do is take an active role in ensuring the shitty diapers and left over fried chicken make it to the curb for pick up day. Nah. Preparation and organization are for suckers. Here's how I role......

We begin with my 7 year old coming back from the bus stop to inform me that "IT'S TRASH DAY AND THE TRUCK IS 2 DOORS DOWN FROM OUR HOUSE!!!". Upon hearing this news I proceed to run flailing out of the house with the half full trash can (because I mean, who actually puts all their garbage IN the trash can???? Much cooler to put it right inside the garage and vow to put it in the trash can at some point before trash day and then never actual follow through so the garage ends up with a nice Sanford and Sons feel to it.).

Next, I scream "SONOFABITCH!!!" as I realize the truck that's 2 doors down isn't the trash truck but the recycling truck (and by the way it's now 1 door down). So then I haul ass back to the garage to fill the empty recycling bin (because again, who actually puts their recycling IN the bin until trash day, right???). Trash flying, I race back to the curb just in time to slam into the recycling man and apologize profusely for my tardiness and obvious short comings as a self sufficient single Mother. OK, I didn't literally say that but I think it was implied with the look on my face.

The absolute most crucial part of this scenario comes in the wardrobe planning. It is a must that the night before trash day I jammie up in a seriously unflattering wife beater t-shirt and (if you know me you know what's coming) hard core full on granny panties. Top it with a heavily stained robe (sans belt) and viola! So, barefoot and foaming at the mouth (did I mention my teeth have yet to be brushed?), I rush madly to the curb being sure to hold the recycling against my body so that my robe doesn't fly open. Unparalleled uber gracefulness. Also, the smudged mascara and ratted up bed head perfect the look and take me to a whole other level of sophistication. I'm pretty sure I might have inspired the recycling man to ask me out. Not only that but I'm positive my neighbors think I'm a winner because of my total lack of composure and random Tourette-like bellowing of some of my favorite naughty words. Yeah, they like me now. It's official. They're gonna make me the neighborhood mascot and throw parties in my honor.

I try and I try but it seems every time I gain a new piece of information to remember I trash info that's already in there. There just isn't a fuck ton of space left in this here brain of mine. I'm ok with that...but I think I will try a little harder to remember to at least strap on some fancy granny panties for trash day;D

Make me feel better. Tell me something you forget to do that leaves you feeling incompetent and, dare I say, human. Also, think green and be nice to leprechauns. Peace out.

Harmonious

2011-02-25T10:00:00.000-06:00

Lucy: I'm not a big fan of the harmonica.

Jane: Everybody loves a harmonica. At least everyone in the 1970s did. Every major TV theme song had a prominent harmonica solo. (Well, maybe it was just Sesame Street.) The harmonica must have been prestigious. Plus it's fun to say.

Lucy: I don't mind the Sesame Street harmonica, or the lonesome cowboy around a campfire harmonica. But I was listening the that Pretenders song- "Time the Avenger"- in the car yesterday, and suddenly that harmonica was just irritating the peawadden out of me. And I wasn't even PMSing. Our parents had it out for the electric guitar, but I would like to issue a formal complaint against the harmonica. Especially when people really go to town on it, like the Blues Traveler dude. Oh, my God, Blues Traveler! Quite possible my most hated songs of the 90's. That "hook brings you back" song! Horrid. That "suck it in, suck it in, like you're Rin Tin Tin or Anne Boleyn" lyric. That made me want to throw myself off a cliff. Or off the cleefs, as our Greek friend would say.

Jane: If I had any idea what song you were talking about I could commiserate more appropriately.

Lucy: I'll call and sing it to you later. There's something to look forward to.

Jane: Spare me. Do you remember when that was a sarcastic come-back? Hey, did I tell you I got a promotion yesterday? I'm going 90-to-nothing.

Lucy: Congratulations honey! I'm so proud of you! I'll switch now from exclamation points to question marks. Was this a surprise? Are you rolling in dough now? Are we going out to dinner to celebrate?

Jane: Thanks, Mama! Exclamation point! Surprise? yes… And no. Dough? HA. That's a good one. Dinner? Sounds bueno. When? Maybe in june? I'm running with my tongue hanging out.

Fruit on the Bottom

2011-02-23T09:36:00.000-06:00

Lucy: I eat a lot of Pro Bars, and I'm here to tell you- there's a vag artfully hidden in a fruit or seed on every wrapper.

Jane: The picture is a little fuzzy. At first I thought it was a dirty shot. Or a Georgia O'Keefe painting. Or a ham.

Lucy: Remember when subliminal messages were actually a public concern? Subliminal messages and Ozzy Osbourne lyrics.

Jane: I never could understand why a subliminal penis on the Marlboro Man's ear would subconsciously entice someone to purchase cigarettes. What about playing records backwards? That's how the devil made you do bad things.

Lucy: Never doubt that Peemies are a force to be reckoned with in the Marketing industry, Janie. Also, remember when George W. tried to say "subliminal?" He pronounce it like a hybrid of "subliminal" and "abominable."

Jane: s the subliminal message to read: "blow me -- blow some smoke -- blow me"? Hey, we have a friend who works for Ozzy Osbourne now.

Lucy: Update: He's off the road and not with Ozzy, but now headed to Vegas to work with Cirque du Soleil. I'm tempted to say "Vegas, baby!" Only, I hate Las Vegas. I wouldn't mind hiking in the Red Rock Canyon, though. Road trip, Jane?

Texts from Last Snow Day

2011-01-20T11:53:00.000-06:00

Jane (10:02 a.m.): PMS+Snowday=Bad news

Jane (10:03 a.m.): When will i start period anyway?

Lucy (10:05 a.m.): If school is cancelled tomorrow, I'm going to put my head in, on, or around the oven.

Jane (10:05 a.m.): omfg I know. i do not heart this snow day. i may go shining on my husband.

Lucy (10:53 a.m.):I'm already crying and convinced that I'm the most unfit mother ever.

Jane (10:57 a.m.): how many time have you spanked? i've spanked and yelled. I told my neighbor her kids could not come over but they could play outside. in the cold. U R a fine mother. I'm a yeller.

Lucy (10:59 a.m.): And, having my period. I am so fun today!

Jane (11 a.m.): Husband pissed at me because I told son he could play with an ice scraper.

Jane (11:01 a.m.): i'm going to pig out all day.

Lucy (11:04 a.m.): I told Joseph he was ungrateful and that his grandmother would have spanked my ass if I acted half as rudely as he does.

Lucy (11:05 a.m.): I also yelled at Henry. My baby. For whining incessantly

Lucy (11:05 a.m.): Good times!

Jane (11:06 a.m.): Hang in there...only 8 more hours til bedtime. Maybe I can put my kids to bed early.

Lucy (11:32 a.m.): I just horked down an entire kashi pizza. Wiped my lips on my sleeve too. Just as refined as a bear at the dump.

Jane (11:33 a.m.): Ate enchiladas followed by peanutbutter.

Lucy (11:35 a.m.): [MULTIMEDIA MESSAGE]:

You're not the boss of me dough boy. If I want it raw by god I'll eat it raw.

Jane (12:02 p.m.): I think the sun is coming out!

~~~

How's the weather where you are?

Catch a Tiger by the Tail

2011-01-01T10:16:00.027-06:00

2010 will not go down in history as my favorite year. According the the Chinese calendar, this was the year of the Tiger. According to me, it was the Year of the Flatulent Sabertooth Tiger with Tourette's. Certainly not Tony with his stupid thumb in the air singing, "Grrrrreat!"

The year's highlights included three family deaths, family drama, whooping cough (really, we should have just pitched a tent and lived at the pediatric clinic this year), financial stress, job stress, an arrest (not mine), a divorce (again, not mine), an open heart surgery, the miserably hottest summer I can remember, a husband working 60+ hour weeks, a seven year old who's half Woody Allen half Woody Woodpecker, a toddler on an apparent daily suicide mission.....the stress was not just day to day, it was moment to moment.

In fact, a big part of the reason I've found it almost impossible to write a blog post for the last six months was that every time I sat down to write something, I ended up with a page full of bile and pitaboo. None too Juggish (or is it Jugular?) and not worth sharing. Although I'm all about the genuine life, being genuinely, and chronically, negative has just felt wrong. By nature I'm prone to annoying optimism and and overall feeling that everything turns out alright. So for several weeks in early 2010, I chalked my ickiness up to outside circumstances and waited for the clouds to clear. But as the weeks turned into months without a wane in my discontent, I started to feel almost hunchbacked with pessimism and pissiness.

The Bible, the Buddha, and probably some other philosophical thing that starts with "B" teach us that difficulties are to be accepted, even welcomed. Difficulties are, indeed, the normal course of life. Adversity is also a great teacher. To be sure there were some lessons this year, but at times I just felt like cutting class. Enough already, I griped. Keeping a sense of humor and perspective, something I prize, was the order of the day, or in this case, the year. I knew, know, that I have so much for which to be grateful- a job, healthy children and spouse, a roof over my head. But the day to day felt downright overwhelming this year. Sort of like a lost, hungry traveller arriving at a fleabag motel with rusty pipes and a stained bedspread- I was grateful to have the basics, but not terribly happy about the conditions.

Somewhere in late September, I came to the grudging conclusion that 2010 was just not going to be a salvageable year. It's been a while since I've thought of time in those terms. I've had tough days, crazy weeks, even an off season or two, but I can't remember a year this despised since I decided at 23 that even-numbered ages were better for me than odds. Life goes easy on me, most of the time- to quote Damien Rice. But I don't think I'm alone in thinking that 2010 sucked. Again, maybe it's just my pessimism (misery loves company, or so I've heard it said), but I've heard from many friends, loved ones, and even strangers that 2010 was tumultuous at best and disastrous at worst.

So will my magical thinking be my self-fufulling prophecy? Was it the calendar that created the pesky cloud over my head? Will I wake up in January 2011 with a lighter chest, neck muscles uncrimped, eyes bright? As the year comes to a close, I am proud of how Michael, Joseph, Henry and I have handled the year of the Tiger from Hell. I've held it together. I didn't run away. I'm still me, although I've probably downgraded from blindly optimistic to just optimistic. And, probably also gone from lovably neurotic to just plain neurotic. Color me hopeful that maybe the Year of the Rabbit will pull something unexpected, charmingly unexpected, out of the hat.

**Squarasota comic strip (which originally appeared in the Sarasota Herald-Tribune) by the wonderful Austin McKinley, who also happens to be my brother and a brilliant "Swiss Army knife of artistic possibilities." Check him out at www.austinmckinley.com. If ya click on the comic you might get a bigger and easier to read version.

The Twelve Days of Christmas Break

2010-12-23T07:57:00.012-06:00

On the first day of Christmas break, my children said to me: "Mommy, can I open just one present under the tree?"

Then, on the second day of Christmas break, my children said to me: "She won't let me have the remote!!! He's touching me. She's being mean!!! But he took my silly bandz!!!!"

The next day was the third day of Christmas break. I asked my son, "what did Daddy get me for Christmas?" He said to me (in one breath): "I-can't-tell-you-oh-OK-he-got-you-a-toaster." Which I am very happy about.

So, on the fourth day of Christmas Break my children said to me: "Can we have marshmallows for breakfast?" (The answer was "yes.")

On the fifth day of Christmas break, my daughter said to me: "I feel sick."

On the sixth day of Christmas break, my children said to me: "When is Santa coming?" (And so we tracked him through the North American Aerospace Defense Command Santa tracker, which is very fun. He hadn't left yet, by the way.)

And since I can predict the future, yes, I can, here's how the remaining six days will go:

On the seventh day of Christmas break, my children say to me: "Can we have friends over we're bored." ("No, it's Christmas Eve," I'll say.)

The eighth day of Christmas break is the day we've all been waiting for. My children say to me: "Yiippppeeeee!!!! I love it! Santa brought me just what I wanted!!"

Then on the ninth day of Christmas break, my children say to me: "She won't let me have the remote!!! He's touching me! She's being mean!!! But he took my silly bandz!!!"

On the tenth day of Christmas break, my children say to me: "Can we go to the mall?" (The answer will be "no," but I might consent to going out to dinner because man, even as much as I love to cook, I will be getting a little burned out by this day.)

On the eleventh day of Christmas break, my children say to me: "Ham for dinner again?" (Because I don't know what I was thinking when I bought a 5-pound ham. I don't even eat ham.)

Then, on the twelfth day of Christmas break, my children will say to me: "Can we stay up late to watch Elf again?" (And, I will smile and sigh and nod my head "yes" because there are still another five days of Christmas break left.)

Merry Christmas, everyone.

You, at Two: A Dictionary

2010-11-30T09:00:00.004-06:00

As I've mentioned before, Joseph did not speak until he was two and a half years old. I worried, agonized, waited on tenterhooks for his words. I was overjoyed and astounded when he finally began speaking, in a voice clear and quite sophisticated for his age, as though he had purposefully waited a little longer to begin because he could not deign to use baby talk.

Henry has kept to a more traditional developmental pattern, his babbling giving way to "words" over the past few months. My husband and I have joked that it seems strange to us to hear words coming from such a small fry after our experience the first time around. Given our limited frame of parental reference, hearing a toddler talk just seems odd and implausible, like a monkey playing an accordion. And although it's getting a little clearer, we have to really put forth an effort to decipher his language.

With his second birthday fast approaching, I thought I'd treat you to a rough interpretation of my toddler's vocabulary. In his own words, here's what Henry's telling us:

Mo': I'm going to need more of that.

Mow-ah: I know I still have a half a bowl, but I'm just telling you now I'm going to need more.

Ban-banes: Technically, pancakes. Loosely used for any other round breakfast items such as waffles, biscuits, etc. We can argue semantics while you serve me Mow-ah.

Peemie: Not 100% sure what's up here, but I think I'm onto something. Anything peemie-related gets a big reaction. Daddy always winces very dramatically when I twist-pull my own peemie, or see how far I can stretch it out. Brother always squeals when I manage to pull his. And just so you know, my mom and the dog were born without peemies. Sad.

Danta: A large, bearded fellow who is charming in children's literature but absolutely terrifying in person. And his beard smelled funny.

Tiddy! Come on, cat! Just because I was born does not mean you have to live out your fifteenth year of life under the bed.

Do dat: Watch me closely and then follow my example as I color/ attempt a somersault/ drink from the bird bath.

Bool-bah: Oh MY GOD! A school bus just went by my window! Did you see that thing? I bet the kids riding that bus feel so lucky this morning.

Butt-butt: Please pull up your shirt. I'd like to jab my pointy little finger in your belly button.

My-yeen!: Bless your heart! You didn't realize that I've touched/breathed on/thought about/ that object you're holding. Let's just hand that back to me, so I won't have to punch you in the butt-butt.

Bubbah Milk and Duddy: You just keep right on reading that child development book while I polish off this bottle and suck my pacifier.

Thanks for reading Henry's guest post! He will send you an autographed picture he dolored with his Dayons.

Holiday Rules -- 2010 Edition

2010-11-24T15:36:00.000-06:00

With Thanksgiving fast-upon us -- like really fast -- I am reminded that it's a quick hop, skip and a jump into the full-fledged Holiday Season.

Before you stuff the bird and perhaps while your pies are cooling on window sill, I thought I should take a moment to give you the latest rules for the Holiday Season. These are mine. Feel free to add yours:

10. When entertaining vegetarians, just relax. Don't worry about picking up some fancy avante garde veggie dish from the local hippy co-operative. It's nice, but not necessary. Chances are, the vegetarian guest can adapt to whatever you are serving. Under no circumstance should you serve something called "Tofurkey." Ever.

9. Thank you notes should never be sent as text message. At least not to me or you will find yourself the subject of a forthcoming blog post.

8. Feel free to say "Merry Christmas," "Happy Holidays," "Season's Greetings," "Happy Hanukkah," "Merry Kwanzaa" or "Happy Festivus" to me. There are many holidays throughout the coming 35 days and all worthy of acknowledgement regardless of whether or not I participate in them. I'll be gracious and reciprocal and not offended in the slightest -- unless you say "You don't celebrate that Jew holiday, do you?"

7. If you wish to give my children a gift, that's lovely. However, please don't feel obligated to give them 18 gifts. Their attention span and level of gratitude are not sustainable by the opening of the 17th gift and they love you all the same with one present. Besides, that's a lot of thank you notes for a 7-year-old and a 4-year-old to write. (Mimi rule, specifically.)

6. Gifts for me and my husband are completely unnecessary: We have a gracious abundance of everything we could want or need and are so grateful for it all. I mean unless you give us a winning lottery ticket ... I'm just saying...

5. If you tell my kids Santa's not real, I will hunt you down and give you the worst monster wedgie in the world. I'm not sure how many years I have left of their wide-eyed magical holiday beliefs... and I'll take every single one of them.

4. No Thanksgiving, or Christmas, or New Year's Eve or any special holiday dinner will be served on paper plates. I'm sorry, but I'm a confessed holiday meal snob. (I just confessed it here.) Even if you serve KFC, break out the freaking wedding china for crying out loud.

3. See #5. I'm serious about that.

2. No drama.

1. Mimosas, please.

What's on your menu?

The Trick's on You

2010-11-02T12:36:00.001-05:00

Dear Friends and Neighbors:

Please accept my sincere apologies for possibly infecting you and your darling children with Strep Throat this Halloween.

You brought your little Power Rangers and witches and Spidermans and the dad from The Incredibles and that one punk rock girl who was a little too old to be trick-or-treating right to my front door completely unsuspecting that you may be exposed to Group A Streptococcus Bacteria by me, as I doled out Dum-Dums and Laffy Taffy.

Of course this was in conjunction with me sending my children out door-to-door to each and every one of your homes -- probably dropping off bacterial bits attached to their very beings to your doorsteps.

To be sure, I was not aware, either. It wasn't until I wrested the vat-loads of candy away from my little vampiress and skeleton and got them tucked away in their own beds before I realized something was awry with my own health. The chills and body aches that sent me right to bed at 8 p.m. were my first real clue.

On Monday morning, when I felt like I had been hit by a Mac truck left me suspecting the flu. Rare is the occasion when I will actually haul my own butt to the doctor for something more reliable than my usual Web-MD-self-diagnosis, but in this instance, I knew I needed drugs. And so until RedBox opens an antibiotic and pain-relief dispensary, the pros still win with their prescription-writing. One throat culture and nasal swab (ouch!) later, and I was rewarded with a nice, cool injection of antibiotics, right in the hip. I learned that strep feels just like the flu.

The past 24 hours has been a hazy blur of tossing and turning, trying to find a comfortable place in the bed, half-awake, half-asleep drinking the water or tea brought by my husband to my bedside. Only now, am I cognizant enough to realize the gravity of my potential neighborhood-wide contamination and extend my apologies.

Oh dear, did I serve dinner to some neighbor kids? Did I fill their cups with ice, touched by my hands? Did I kiss my children goodnight -- on the lips?

Probably.

At least you all got to go trick-or-treating before you get sick, right?

Sincerely,
Jane

Same as it Ever Was

2010-10-17T16:25:00.001-05:00

It's funny living with children. And I do mean both kinds of funny -- funny haha and funny peculiar. I'm pretty sure that's what keeps the species alive: our need to laugh and our curiosity. Sometimes they are one in the same.

It occurred to me that my two kids have lived in a world where some modern conveniences and technologies have always existed -- and they are blissfully unaware of the rapid advances happening all around them.

For example, for them, computers have always been the norm. Everybody they know has at least one. In their home. The kids have banged out letters on a keyboard before they could walk. A mouse has always been a thing that drives the cursor. And a cursor has always directed them to a website. And a website has always been for watching videos or playing games.

In their world, phones have always been wireless -- not just cordless. Also, phones have always had cameras. They usually have games and can send text messages. They know about text messaging -- even the 4 year old.

We've always been at war, in either Iraq or Afghanistan. The term "9/11" is a part of the vernacular even though they don't really know what it is.

Spongebob has always been on TV, being called a "moron" by Squigward. Their mother has always taken offense to small children repeating the word "moron" to one's sibling, thus banning the yellow sponge from the household airways.

Cars have always had DVD players. Road trips have always been spent sleeping or glued to a movie and never playing License Place Bingo or Slug Bug sprawled across the back seat, perilously unbuckled, crying "he's touching me!" or "she's on my side of the car!"

In fact, in the children's lifetime, they've never been inside a moving vehicle without a seat belt, nor have they ridden in the front seat. Well, except that one time my dad took leave of his senses and allowed my then 5-year-old daughter to ride in the front because she asked him. At least she was buckled, I suppose.

Movies have always arrived in the mail or been procured outside a Walgreens. They've never set foot in a Blockbuster but they know how to make selections on a RedBox.

Miley Cyrus has always been Hannah Montana -- and thanks to reruns, she'll forever be a teen leading a double life. In fact, the kids have always known real people with clever and unique names like Miley or Kennedy or Avery or Chloe or Sydney. Not a Laura or Amy or Jenny in the bunch.

They've always lived with a mother who is neurotic about them eating healthy foods and never eating fast food -- except for the occasional McDonald's on road trips and Taco Bell when Mommy's lazy -- and such occasions are always filled with sodium-induced regret and a motherly reminder of "see, I told you you didn't like that food."

What's new in your world?

Banned Words & Phrases: 2010 Edition

2010-10-06T09:16:00.001-05:00

Back after a year-long hiatus is the much anticipated FourJugs arbitration of words and phrases that should be banned from existence. And this year's round up includes philosophies or paradigms that should be stricken from the record.

Designer cupcakes -- FAIL. A dried up cake stump with four inches of sickening-sweet frosting is not something I'll ever pay $3 for again. Especially not when a Kit Kat is still under $1.

The word "addicting" -- Say it with me people: "addictive." Misuse example: "Man, these chocolate-ganache, truffle-infused cupcakes are addicting."

While we're in the neighborhood, it's "vicious CYCLE" NOT vicious CIRCLE. Shapes are not vicious. If they were, preschool would be terrifying.

Blessed -- Formerly reserved for recognizing sneezes, its profound current overuse now makes your daily existence an event of near-Biblical proportions. "Have a blessed day."

Silly Bandz -- My daughter adorns herself with Silly Band rings, make Silly Band scarves by looping them together, and some crazy contraption that spanned from wrist to wrist via a chain on bands looping around her neck. I drew the line at Silly Band chokers even though she wasn't impressed by my explanation of why it was no good to restrict blood flow to her carotid artery. Enough already.

Spam -- "Still don't have diploma of the higher education?"... "She will be thankful for your huge rod." ... "Click HERE for 61% off V|agra." ... "I saw your hott picture here." -- And that's just from today. Who is keeping these practically illiterate spammers in business by purchasing whatever it is they are hawking? I hereby declare a ban on spam.

Twitter -- Hasn't this gone the way of MySpace yet? #twitterislame #whatsMySpace?

Sister-in-laws -- If you have more than one sister-in-law, then you have sisters-in-law. The sisters are plural, not the laws. This is more an example of my neurosis than a peeve against general word misuse, now that I think about it.

Extreme Makeover: Home Edition -- The melodrama. The designer egos. Really? We're supposed to believe they come up with those overly done up thematic room decorating ideas right there on-site?

Head honcho -- Is "honcho" even a real word or is it a vaguely Spanish-sounding term to suggest "boss"? Editor's note: OK, so I looked this one up. And guess what? Honcho is actually a Japanese term meaning "squad leader." Sorry land of the rising sun, the Americans have worn out your perfectly good word. Still banned.

90-to-nothing -- We typically eschew euphemisms for being busy. Or tired. They are hardly unique because everyone is busy. And tired.

Webinar -- At least "seminar" has semen as the root word and doesn't suggest entanglement.

Social Networking/Media -- There's nothing social about sitting on your sofa, alone, with a Peanut Butter Spoon while Face-stalking looking at pictures from your ex-boyfriend's summer vacation with his wife and kids. I'm starting a movement for calling it Solitary-Networking.

(((((HUGS))))) Let's nip this treacly, increasingly popular Facebook/ blog comment in the bud. It's skeevy. Maybe it just seems oppressive to Lucy because she's so (((((((CLAUSTROPHOBIC))))))))). Back off, parentheses!

Did we miss anything?

My Vagina's Monologue

2010-09-20T16:45:00.000-05:00

I had never really stopped to consider just how many people see my delicate lady parts over the course of the year until today, when I was having some routine maintenance done, well, you know, down there.

Once I had tallied the visitors who have peeped my va-juju this fiscal year –- the husband, the gyno, my kids, a couple of different service providers (nothing kinky, you pervs) -- I quickly I began to fancy my fancy as a talk show hostess, delivering her own brand of funny night after night Letterman-style?

Odd ... but funny, right?

* * *

Me: So here she is, Ladies and Gentlemen ... back from her private two-county tour where she appeared in full frontal effect and dazzled the esthetician with her witticisms and showy ways ... an original part of my anatomy who has served me well for nearly 39 years ... my Vagina!

[APPLAUSE!!]

My Vagina: Well hello! So nice to see you. Thanks, Jane, as always for that lovely introduction. And let's give it up to you, FourJugs readers. I applaud you for being here. I'd say "clap," but, come on, Vaginas shouldn't say that... am I right or am I right?

So what's the deal with Lindsay Lohan being in the news every 45 seconds? I mean really, is that Mean Girl's drug use that interesting? At the end of last week, she Tweeted that she had failed a drug test. I'll be that was a Freaky Friday. I'll bet she'd like to snatch back the days when she was a sweet and demure Disney Princess. Am I right or am I right?

And speaking of royalty, did you hear that tea-bagger Queen Christine O'Donnell claims to have been involved with witchcraft in high school? Well, the Wiccan movement is upset that she's defaming their religion by equating witchcraft with satanism. You know what I have to say about that? Starts with "B," rhymes with "witch," Christine O'Donnell is a big ole ... I don't need to say it 'cause you know! Am I right or am I right?

Last thing I've gotta say, folks, but what is up with Glee? You know, the show on Fox full of teen angst and awesome song-and-dance routines? Am I the only one who gets embarrassed every time those crazy kids bust out into song? I like music just as much as the next pathway to the cervix does, but only in the shower! Am I right or am I right?

Great being here! Thanks for having me! I'll be here all week, folks!

* * *

Wow, who knew my Vagina was so political, so in touch with pop culture and so annoying? Maybe she's secret pals with Andrew Dice Clay.

What do you have to say?

Pie Beta Oh My

2010-09-06T16:06:00.016-05:00

I got a text message the other day, from my BFF Lucy Cooper, asking me this:

"Are you over blogging?"

What she really wanted to say, but was far too kind-hearted to actually say, was this:

"You are the shittiest blog partner in the universe now would you please get off your sorry ass and write a post?"

I thought about this question for a long time. I didn't really have a good answer for why I've been radio silent for a month, but I do have plenty of excuses. So, today, while I was baking a pear pie, I wrote this blog post in my head and will commit it to digital format now that the pie is in the oven. (I did TOO bake a pear pie, you naysayers. In fact, the above-pictured pears went into said pie.)

This blog post is entitled (cringe at misused word!): A round-up of things I've been doing.

One fine day in August, my husband proved he loved me by purchasing a tub of chocolate-chip cookie dough. Now, he bought the dough under the guise of "baking cookies for the children," but I knew in my heart of hearts that the dough was really a love offering for me. I accepted this offering and proceeded to eat half that tub by the spoonful until it was no more, which probably says a lot about my mental state -- or premenstrual cravings -- that weekend.

On approximately August 15, I had a talk with my son about why it was not appropriate for a child of his age -- 4, in case you were wondering -- to use the qualifier "damn" when describing the dog, or his race cars, or, truly, anything. It was a good talk. I really think I made an impression. That is until I heard him saying he didn't want to share the "damn God Intendo* with my sister when it's 'upposed-to be my turn." (*Nintendo, in case you needed an interpretation.)

Later in August, my first-born child began 2nd grade. It was a momentous occasion, marked by her pleas on the first day of school: "Mommy just pick out something to wear and get dressed so we can GO!" She declined breakfast and probably tooth brushing as well in her excitement to get back to the books. Oh, and she declined riding with me that morning because I was taking too damn long, in her opinion, to get ready.

At the end of August, my husband and I went on a date. I did something I never do (no, not that you pervs). I bought a semi-slutty dress to wear for the occasion. It was totally age-inappropriate, slightly revealing, completely impractical and super fun to wear. Except I had to remember to sit up straight all night unless I wanted the girls to seep out of the top. Certainly, that dress won't see the light of day -- or the dark of night, actually -- again, unless we go to a beach resort sometime soon. Note to self: try to begin next date after the sun goes down. You'll feel less old in your slutty dress if you aren't going home when all the other sluttily-dressed women (i.e. college girls) are just arriving at the bar.

Early in September, I made a completely over-zealous list of all the crap I wanted to get done over the weekend. It ranged from "have yard sale" to "run three miles," and was so excruciatingly ambitious that I got exactly one thing on the list done. You want to know what it was? "Finish laundry." I'm glamorous, just like Fergie.

Last week, I had to explain to my husband that there were certain songs on the Greatest Hits by Prince album that were not suitable for my daughter's MP3 player. He doubted this wisdom until I reminded him that it would not be smiled upon by teachers or other parents should our child teach her friends that there are "23 positions in a one-night-stand." Bonus points if you can name the song we deleted from the playlist.

Last Friday, I discovered while walking the daughter to school (I was able to leave the house by a reasonable time) that my first-born child doesn't want to hold my hand any more. Two words to describe that episode: heart break.

Pie's ready! And it's freaking perfect, if I do say so myself.