It's like Super Bowl Sunday, except with shoes

I am so excited this Friday I think I am going to have a seizure. Of course, unless you've been living under a rock, you know the Sex and the City movie comes out today and while I too am nauseated by the media overkill associated with it I can turn a blind eye since I love, love, love this show so very much. It makes me laugh to think I had absolutely no interest in this show when it first came out. "Why do I want to listen to thirty-something sluts talk dirty?" I asked Hubby when I read about SATC in Entertainment Weekly. I had no idea what I was missing and only began watching it on DVD right after the birth of daughter #1 during Hubby's two week paternity leave. I have been hooked ever since and had a ridiculously hormone-fueled crying jag, gigantically pregnant with daughter #2, after the series finale.

So of course this Friday's post has to involve the show, but rather than list my favorite episodes, of which there are too many to count, I prefer to list...

Top 5 Quotes from Sex and the City

5. Miranda: He has only one ball and I have a lazy ovary. In what world does that create a baby?…It's like the Special Olympics of conception!

Prejudiced by my love of Steve I jumped for joy when Miranda found herself accidentally pregnant with his baby hoping they'd get married, which they eventually did. And watching Steve go through the whole vulnerable "fake testicle" shopping debacle made me love him more.

2. Samantha : I'm sorry.
Miranda : Hey, no need to apologize. I wouldn't bring Brady here. Mommy needs two hands to eat her eight-dollar cake!
Charlotte : You're not going to defend children?
Miranda : No, I don't like any children but my own.

Oh, readers, you know from Thursday's post how I feel about little people in big people places and, also, about other people's kids. Right on, sister. Right on.

3. Miranda: I'm sorry, Steve, I'm an asshole.
Steve: Yeah you are. But you're my asshole.

I know, I know, enough with the Miranda and Steve already, but I would love this line no matter who spoke it because after ten years of marriage Hubby and I have both uttered something quite similar to the other more than once. Usually it's "But you're my dork." after one of us has done something truly ridiculous like sing along to Vanilla Ice. That's Hubby, not me. Really..I swear.

2. Samantha: “You men have no idea what we're dealing with down there. Teeth placement, and jaw stress, and suction, and gag reflex, and all the while bobbing up and down, moaning and trying to breathe through our noses. Easy? Honey, they don't call it a job for nothin'.”

DAD, YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO READ THE FOLLOWING SENTENCE!

This is the most accurate description of a blow job ever recorded and any woman who says she loves doing it is proven a liar by this tirade. Men everywhere should be forced to memorize this quote verbatim.

1. Carrie: Do I judge?
Stanford: We all judge. That's our hobby. Some people do arts and crafts; we judge.

Um, if you don't know why this is my number one then you obviously haven't read the rest of my blog where most of my writing sounds like I'm wearing long black robes as I'm doing it. Don't you judge me!

So Happy Friday to all. I'm such a loser I bought my SATC tickets on Tuesday for fear they'd sell out. I not only plan on sneaking champagne into the theater (love those mini Sofia cans!), but I will be wearing a dress and hella tight shoes to match. Word!

Have screaming baby, will travel

I guess I should just cut and paste the phrase "when I was on vacation.." to use for the next twenty or so posts since it seems every entry starts with it lately. Sorry folks, but having three blissful days away from the kiddies gave me lots of time to think and ideas aplenty were recorded via Blackberry to be shared with you all upon my return.

So "when I was on vacation" this past weekend, I noticed a disturbing trend among upper-middle class Caucasians in their mid to late thirties who have children and a little cash to throw around. They think it is appropriate to bring their kids every-damn-where. I am not kidding. Let me give you the run-down on my trip and subsequent interaction with these idiots before you think I am overreacting.

My observation of this phenomenon began while walking around some of the tourist attractions of our destination city. Around lunchtime the sidewalks were crowded with parents pushing babies and toddlers, prostrate with exhaustion, to yet another museum or through the doors of a bistro for lunch. Later that evening, Hubby and I were enjoying $15 dollar cocktails in the lounge of our five star hotel, listening to the jazz ensemble, when Hubby whispers, "It's time for Junior to go to bed." as he points out the three year old stationed at the bar raking his fingers through the mixed nuts. After enjoying our libations, we proceeded to one of the city's best restaurants where I had made a reservation three months in advance and Hubby was required to wear a jacket. Upon finishing our entrees around ten thirty I thought I heard a baby cry. Whipping my head around, as do all mothers of infants, I could not locate the source and thought I was suffering from post-traumatic stress-induced hallucinations. A moment later, I heard it again and, this time, so did Hubby. This went on a dozen or so more times before I went to powder my nose (read: investigate). It seems there was semi-private room around the corner where a family was having dinner and parked right next to the table was a Bugaboo stroller with an, approximately, eight week old in it.

The next day, we were repeating our pleasant morning routine of having coffee in the Zen garden before heading up to the club level for breakfast when a father and his four year old came into the garden with a baseball and mitts! and started up a lively round of catch. Peace and quiet shattered, we headed upstairs where once we entered the usually silent atmosphere of the Asian-inspired dining room we were greeted with the dulcet tones of Sponge Bob Square Pants coming from the flat screen TV over the dining room's bar. Right in front of it were two brothers, approximately seven and nine sporting the required ensemble of the modern day boy - bed-head, baggy clothing and a blank stare - who proceeded to chase each other around the table with their mother whispering, "I told you to stop it!" Needless to say I took my mimosa to go.

What the hell is going on here? I was not at Disney World, Sesame Place, or Great Adventure. My swank hotel was not a Motel 6 or Red Roof Inn. I purposely shelled out good money to be ensconced in luxury far, far away from the din of the masses, my own children included (yes, I am a snob, and am not afraid to say I do not enjoy vacationing with "the people") and yet here I was smelling the stench of chicken fingers and being acoustically assaulted by cartoon characters before I had reasonably managed my hangover.

We all know who these people are. Sadly, I was probably friends with many of them before I had kids, but the fact that I had a baby and refused to go out to dinner on a moment's notice and "just bring the baby!", then stay out until midnight was distasteful to them and we parted ways. Now these people, bored with spending every Saturday in Pottery Barn, decided maybe procreating might be fun (and "I can buy an $800 stroller!") and not change their lives on iota for this child. Kid needs to nap? Do it in the stroller. Mommy needs a mani-pedi. Mom and Dad want to try that new sushi place and can't find a sitter? Bring Junior along and sit him at the table with his DVD player.

Well, if I can wait to go out to a grown up dinner until someone can watch my kids, so can you. It's called being a grown-up. Guess what? You had a kid! Your life is going to change, genius, stop screwing up my dinner. So I am giving notice. THIS BEHAVIOR MUST END. Listed below are some rules for these morons.

1. You may not bring your child to any restaurant that does not feature chicken fingers on the menu or use paper table cloths unless they are extraordinarily quiet and well behaved (and no, being lulled into a stupor by electronic devices does not count). That being said, all restaurant privileges for any child are suspended after 9:00pm. This rule also extends to infants, smart guy. Just because a child is young enough to sleep in a portable device does not mean said infant will actually sleep. I do not need my foie gras with a side of colic, thank you.

2. Sweet, fancy, Moses if I hear another crying baby or child in a movie theater I am going to go postal. I'm not talking abut the one o'clock show of Ratatouille either. I mean the ten o'clock show of Saw II. If it's not rated G, your kid shouldn't be there past 7:00pm. Or just wait until it comes out on DVD, rent it and forget to return it like I do. At least there's wine at home.

3. Speaking of wine...UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES IS IT APPROPRIATE FOR ANYONE UNDER THE AGE OF SIXTEEN TO BE IN A BAR. At least a sixteen year old can try to use a fake ID. I lose my appropriateness-filter when I drink so it is at your own risk you combine, me, wine and your child in an atmosphere that is supposed to be child-free. I will not make him cry, but I can't say the same for you.

4. There is no way I can cover every possible scenario, but let's just say your child does not belong in any over-priced, obviously adult spaces such as swank hotels, lounges, and coffee shops. Starbucks? Knock yourself out, it's a caffeinated playground, but a patisserie? Shut up and get out. See the difference?

The point is, NO ONE LIKES YOUR KID EXCEPT YOU. Hell, I have days I don't even like my own so why should I extend such a courtesy to a kid who's idiocy is reminding me I actually have offspring on a child-free second honeymoon or even dinner-date? Look, I get it. It's a drag not being able to go everywhere you want when you want to, but that's the price you pay for being a parent, and yes, it stinks. We all thought our lives would hardly change when we had kids*, but for everyone's sake, especially yours if I have been drinking, get a sitter or stay home. Otherwise, I can not be held responsible for my actions and that will be scarier to your kid that any R-rated slasher movie.

*Yes, B, I'm talking to you. Remember your trip to Martha's Vineyard wit that French woman who nursed her kid through a ten o'clock dinner? Please.

Die, Sleeping Beauty, die!

While we away this past weekend I was actually able to read several of the magazines I've been hoarding for this trip since flipping through the Pottery Barn catalogue can prove challenging on most days. One of these magazines was O, the Oprah magazine, and while I personally can not stand to listen to that hollering demagogue on her egotrip of a talk show and think she is thisclose to starting her own cult based on abuse of concealer, good lighting and the worship of cashmere, she does have an excellent writing staff and if you ignore any word Miss I Am Photoshopped Within an Inch of my Life on Each Month's Cover - seriously? Every month? - has written, you're in for a real treat.

Each month has a theme and this past month's was beauty. And while I thought a significant portion of the issue would be devoted to beauty products, specifically in the monthly featured "O List" which highlights for Ol' Eye Bag's acolytes living in trailers in South Dakota items they simply must have, such as $100/fl. oz eye cream that will change their lives, the writing in this issue was moving and deeply personal as various authors discussed their own beauty insecurities and body image. One of the lengthier pieces focused on the effect mothers have on their daughter's perceptions of themselves physically. As my own daughters creep closer to the age when they will start looking at their bodies instead of simply inhabiting them I reexamined how I am choosing to deal with issues related to looks when it comes to my kids.

I have tried, very hard, from the beginning to make looks and, body image specifically, a non-factor in my house. I have held my tongue a few times when I want to tell my girls how absolutely gorgeous I think they are. I don't mean I withhold compliments, but every mother thinks her kids are adorable and if I told them as often as I felt it Macy's might need one of their heads come November. My poor father in-law will attest to my earnest attempts to prevent all accolades from centering on appearance. I can not love him more when I hear him tell my daughters they are smart and fast and strong since I know he's doing it for me, a well as for them. My father must have thought me insane when I banned all discussion of weight around my kids. Even if it's to tell someone how great they look, I want to push off as long as possible the day my girls think, "You look so skinny!" is a compliment to strive for. Tony had to point out the girls weren't with me on vacation this weekend when I asked, "Do these pants make my B-U-T-T look F-A-T?", but it's second-nature now. And yes, I know the spelling thing is basically over since #1 can spell three letter words now. Damn literacy.

It's not only what you say, but how you act that can leave it's mark. My mother, who was basically a thin person, would occasionally during my teen years, go on a diet which consisted of eating nothing all day and them inhaling three pork chops at dinner. Yes, it worked, but she was impossible to deal with and we learned nothing about healthy weight management. When I, myself, was trying to lose my baby weight and started watching my portions I premeasured certain things when the girls were in bed for the night so they wouldn't think this is the way to eat on a regular basis. Having my kids has actually made me a healthier eater. Before kids I would only rarely indulge in favorite treats and then when doing so consume the entire container, box or tub. Disordered eating? Quite possibly. But now, to ensure my kids actually see Mommy eating her favorite foods, I do so with regularity in normal amounts. My girls also see me exercise regularly and this became a sticky issue when #1 asked why I run. After wracking my brain, trying to look into the future to see which of my responses would least likely result in her screaming on some therapist's couch fifteen years from now, "It's my mother's fault!", I answered, "I run because it makes me strong and gives me energy." Which she used this winter when I complained of fatigue. "Mommy, maybe you should exercise." Easy there, Jane Fonda.

Who knows if my efforts will pay off? As with all things related to child-rearing, you do your best and see what happens. I am beginning to see the fruits of my labor though. My oldest daughter's favorite Disney princess is Mulan because she's "brave and smart and strong". (Perhaps I coached her there, but I don't give a crap as long as she stays away from the repellent Sleeping Beauty whose name says it all. Wake up and get a damn job! What kind of idiot pricks her finger on a spindle anyway?) And recently we were having a discussion about a boy in her class who is a little chubby. We weren't talking about his weight, it was a story about art class, but when I couldn't remember who this boy was and she was trying to describe him she described his hair, his eyes, and then literally could not find the word to describe how he is shaped. She simply did not know the word "fat" could be used to describe a person. Huzzah!

That conversation is my fantasy made reality. I want my kids to live in a world where weight does not exist. Where their bodies are sources of strength and pleasure. Where how they feel on the inside is more important than how they look on the outside. While I know this is not possible unless we become Amish and move to a farm (I bet even those Amish chicks compare ankles though) I want to keep them innocent for as long as possible. Ask any woman and I'll bet they all can tell you the exact moment they thought for the first time something was "wrong" with the way they looked because of some comment made by an insensitive uncle at a Chritmas or stranger at the beach. The first time they hated a part of themselves. When they stopped thinking "This is my body" without any judgment, just statement of fact. If I could take years off my own life I would spare my children that. In my eyes, they are strong and beautiful and perfect. Maybe I'm wrong and I should tell them that when ever the thought crosses my mind.

He's learning!

As the kids are still home from school (damn, unused snow days) today's post will be equally as lame as, although much more sober than, the last. I had to jump on today though to give props to Hubby who sent me the most beautiful, and definitely the largest, flowers ever for our anniversary last week. Granted, he totally forgot we were leaving on Thursday and had them delivered moments before we left for the airport - he was literally pacing in front of the living room windows and I thought we was developing a tick of some sort - but I managed to salvage them by sticking them in the fridge with the remaining two yogurts and four pieces of string cheese that didn't get purged in The Great Before Vacation Ice Box Clean Out. They actually survived and are gracing the table in my living room. Good job, honey!

PS - I tried not mention the vase which looks like it's from Liberace's 1800Flowers collection, but couldn't help myself. To be fair though, he didn't notice it when he ordered. Although how you don't see a gold lame vase is beyond me. Also, please note, I had to remove every shelf, save one, to get this botanical behemoth in the fridge so great was its girth.

Thish ish Heaven

Am drunk in marble bathtub, drinking wine, watching an episode of Sex and the City on bathroom TV!  Have died and gone to heaven.

Hubby has realized am blogging on Blackberry while sitting in water intoxicated and is prying device from hands.

It's Friday!

Well, at least for me. Sorry to rub it in, dear readers, but tomorrow hubby and I leave for three fabulous, child-free days to celebrate our ten year wedding anniversary so this is my last day of "work" this week.

I can't believe we've been married ten years. It seems like our wedding, pictured left, was yesterday. I don't just mean that in terms of time, I mean in terms of how I feel about Hubby. I am not only still as ridiculously, head over heels in love with him as I was the day I married him, but with all we've gone through in the last decade (a freakin' decade!) I can honestly say I love him even more. And while marriage can be a lot of work, when it works, it is the best of all things. So to honor marriage and Hubby this "Friday's" list...

Top Ten Things That are Awesome About Being Married

5. You get to look ugly sometimes and your spouse doesn't care. One of the benefits of being in such a long-term partnership is your spouse has your overall appearance track record to refer to on days when you are still in your baby-vomit-covered pj's at five o'clock , you haven't washed your hair in three days, and you're still carrying fiftteen pounds of baby weight. I know there must be days my husband looks at me and says, "Jeez...", but he never says anything and I thank him for that. I try not to take this acceptance for granted though and doll myself up once in a while. Its' all worth it when we're at playground and I see him looking at another mother who is, perhaps, not looking her best and he says, "Thank you."

4. Another benefit of marriage that I rely on, perhaps too often, is you have someone who is legally bound to take your crap. We all have peccadilloes, but this person knew all of yours and then agreed to spend the rest of their life with you regardless. Hubby took me for better or worse and my worse includes a bad temper, a big mouth when I drink, an addiction to vacuuming, and a love of reality television. He has bad habits too, which I will not list here, few as they are (you can thank me later, H) and I'll take the whole package, thank you.

3. On a practical note, you have someone who has to help you with gross things. Now, I don't mean cleaning out the bottom of a scuzzy garbage can, which they should be doing as well, but I mean gross personal things. I will truly embarrass myself and give you a prime example.

WARNING TO PARENTS/IN-LAWS READING - THE FOLLOWING IS VERY GRAPHIC.

While I was pregnant with daughter #1, I was not yet savvy in the ways in which pregnancy slows down the digestive tract and had not begun eating the mass amounts of fiber cereal I did with my other two kids. Needless to say, I became ridiculously constipated. I called the nurse at the OB's office in excruciating pain after four days of not going only to be told you can not take laxatives during pregnancy. My only option... an enema. A WHAT? Yup, an enema. So after the humiliating task of procuring one from my local drug store I greeted hubby after work by informing him of the task that lay ahead.

For those of you who have never had the joy of having an enema, you have to put the tip of this plastic bottle into your butt and then squeeze all of the liquid into said orifice. And all of this has to be done while on all fours next to the toilet. Sweet! Imagine the scene as I kneel there, trying not to die of embarrassment as I stick my butt in Hubby's face and he prepares to stick this thing in. What then happens is we both die laughingwhich only makes it worse because apparently your butt clenches up when you laugh.

Me: "Stop poking me already!"
Hubby: "Stop laughing then."
Me: "I caaaan't" (Rolling around on floor laughing.)

Needless to day, three babies later, I have no more qualms about Hubby seeing my butt than I do having him see my unshaven legs. Not pleasant, but what are you gonna do? The point is, it's his job to do the gross things I can't do for myself and I will return the favor. I just hope there's no more butt-poking involved.

2. Hubby and I have our own private language. I don't mean we speak Italian or French, but we have our own slang terms and gestures for things that make communicating in public about private things easier. While I, of course, can not divulge details lest I need to talk about one of you to him in your presence one day, an innocuous example is, when walking down the street, if someone is walking to closely behind us I will simply say, "I have something in my shoe." This means we step to the side and I pretend to fix my shoe while Mr. Up-Our-Butts (am I obsessed with butts today?) goes on his way and we are free to return to our leisurely pace. It takes time to develop this system of communication, but it is very effective.

1. The number one, top thing about being married is you always have a soft place to land. Someone who won't judge you for your mistakes, but help you correct them. A person who sees you as your best version of yourself even when you're not behaving in such a manner. I read an article the other day in which the author mocked women who think their husbands are their best friends. And while agree my relationship with my best girlfriends is different from that with my husband, if it wasn't Hubby I wanted to tell first when something good or bad happens, I'd be worried about the state of our marriage. To put it simply, I know he always has my back.

So wish me bon voyage, dear readers, as if I could have anything but that. Tomorrow is our actual anniversary and I'm as excited about this trip as I was about our honeymoon ten years ago. But instead of piles of gifts and envelopes stuffed with money, I'll be returning to three small children and a messy house. I guess I'll keep 'em though, they're pretty good gifts for ten years of marriage. Besides, they didn't come with a receipt.

Love in the Time of Technology

Let me paint a picture for you. It's scene that has played out again and again in my house at approximately six thirty each weeknight.

While I'm cleaning up the kids' dinner I look at the clock and realize that, shortly, it will be time for baths. There are two ways this can be done, with or without assistance. "With assistance" means I bathe the baby, put on his pj's then imprison him in the Exersaucer while I put the other two in the tub to marinate since hubby will be home soon and he'll do the actual washing of the girls while I nurse the baby and put him to bed. "Without assistance" means I put all three of them in the tub, wash the baby while trying to prevent his sisters from drowning him in their efforts to "help", then remove (read:rescue) the baby from the tub and get him dressed while I keep listening to the chaos in the bathroom that assures me one of the girls hasn't drowned. Yes, I am a bad, bad mother for leaving my almost four year old and my almost six year old unattended in a bathtub, but I am also the mother of three children and until they perfect that cloning thing, I have no choice. Then I return to the bathroom, plop #3 in the 'saucer, and finish washing the girls. Which scenario seems easier to you? Exactly. So this is why I am a raving lunatic when my husband does not call me by six thirty each night to tell me whether or not I have to run the gauntlet alone or he'll be home to help.

Why does he not call, you ask? A very good question. First of all, hubby hates the phone, but aside from that, he tells me the cell service on New Jersey Transit is shoddy, at best, and he hates sitting next to some poor guy screaming into his Blackberry, "Whaaaat? Can you hear me?" While I did think this service excuse was a load of crap at first, I came to realize it must be true if the alternative is to take the verbal beating I deliver each time he doesn't call. It got to the point where he would call and just say, "six thirty-five", meaning the time he would get home, since we were never sure how long the connection would last. Then, in his typically male way, he decided e-mailing me, without telling me he would, was the best solution because his Blackberry would send the message as soon as it got a signal. Well, unlike him, I don't spend the witching hour (six to seven thirty, the worst part of the day) with the kids plopped in front of the TV while I'm in the basement on the computer, so I never got said e-mail and ripped his face off as usual upon his seven o'clock arrival.

But suddenly, there is a glimmer of hope. And that glimmer is reflecting off my very own, brandy-new, sparkly-red BLACKBERRY! This piece of technology has singled handedly changed the face of my marriage. Yeah, yeah, I am a bit of a Ludite when it comes to technology, but this little wonder has brought my husband and I closer. It not only solved our bath time problem, since now I just check it periodically during dinner to see if he's contacted me, but now we can send each other stupid messages during the day without the time investment of a phone call. OK, that sounds bad, he still calls to check in, but now hubby doesn't really need to go through the whole, "Hi, how are you? How are the kids?" thing when all he wants to say is, "I just heard the term 'tramp stamp' - hilarious!" Or I can shoot a quick message to say, "I hate Kathy Lee Gifford." It's like we're passing notes in class!

My BB has also helped on the weekends when we're apart like when he takes the kids to the park. I tend to forget to pass on bits of helpful info that make the day run more smoothly so now I can quickly write him, "Make sure you're in the car by one forty-five so the baby doesn't fall asleep on the ride home and screw up his nap." and he sees it right away instead of having to spend ten minutes pressing thirty buttons to access his voice mail while pushing one kid on the swings and chasing after another.

So let me highly recommend a Blackberry to all couples out there. While I still stand firm on my rules regarding turning technology off when you are actually together, and not using it for recreational purposes when with the kids, I have changed my opinion that Blackberry owners are all self-important, tech obsessed, family-ignoring boobs. This little gem has brought a new spark into my marriage. I never thought something battery-operated could make such a difference in my relationship. NO, not that either, perverts. I know you were thinking that...

Oh no, you di-int!

Oh yes, yes, I did. I put eighteen inch magnetic flames on the van to proclaim visually, "I only drive this thing because I have to." I also contemplated having a custom bumper sticker printed that read, "I drive a minivan, but I can still kick your ass", but I thought that crossed the line. My father in-law thinks I'm nuts, well he knows I'm nuts, but now he has more evidence and hubby asked, "Can I take them off when I drive it?" Um, no. They are awesome and I defy anyone to tell me otherwise.

Sorry about the short post, but I have to kick it into high gear today to get ready for my and hubby's big trip that begins on Thursday - three days with no kids!!! - so don't expect too much from Mean Mommy this week. I will be posting, but don't expect War and Peace. Well, I'm meeting with #2's teacher today for her follow-up conference so I might be on with a rant later. Jesus, I hope not.

Please notice my approximation of a gang sign. My gang is the Muthas and we rule the playground.

Do you own a mirror?

This post has been a long time coming. I have lived in the suburbs for about five years now and have felt on more than one occasion that I do not fit it. Even though I have come to feel more at home as time as passed there is one area in which I am constantly reminded that, at my core, I do not belong here and am only killing time so my offspring can have the benefits of schools without metal detectors and parks with actual grass. That area is fashion. Yeah, yeah, I know I'm no great shakes in my yoga pants and baseball hat most days, but this Friday I need to list the most ubiquitous and heinous suburban fashion faux pas. I am ignoring the truly pathetic displays of sartorial retardation as they are as cruel to make fun of as a kid with Down's Syndrome. Some people simply can't help it and I will not mock them for the mom jeans they use to hide their tummies or their love of Disney character embroidered shirts. This Friday I am calling out those individuals who wear their fashion ignorance like a badge thinking they actually look awesome and make us suffer the consequences.

Top 5 Fashion Faux Pas of the Suburbs

5. Leather jackets - I have no problem with leather jackets, in general. I own one myself as do most people I know. But the popularity of the leather car coat has spread in the suburbs like a case of herpes in Cancun. I would have no problem if it actually looked good on all the people sporting them, but would someone please tell the hordes of male, grossly overweight, Italian*, New Jersey residents that they actually look like the cow the leather came from and to just get a nice full length wool coat? Speaking of full length, ladies, you don't escape my watchful eye either. Unless you are a member of Bon Jovi and it's 1984, a full length leather coat is strictly forbidden.

4. Sports outerwear - Unless you play for, coach, own or are in any other capacity professionally affiliated with a sports team you may not wear outerwear with a team's insignia. Baseball hats, fine. T-shirts, knock yourself out. But if I can see the logo and it's forty degrees outside, you are, officially, a loser.

3. Anything bedazzled - Really, do I need to say more? Because that, ill-fitting velor sweat suit you're sporting just isn't tacky enough. I really think the rhinestones class it up. And speaking of sweat suits...

2. You knew it was coming...those goddamn Juicy get-ups. Again, I will try not to choke on my own bile when I think these pieces of crap cost three hundred dollars, but what makes it even worse is when I see some hag in her fifties pouring herself into one. Here's a hint, gals, the writing on the ass would be easier to read if said buttocks weren't down around your knees. And even you broads who have tight bodies, just because it fits doesn't mean you should be wearing it.

1. Cell phone belt clips - Oh, boy. Unless you are a member of law enforcement, a fire house or an emergency response team, no one needs such immediate access to their cell phone. I know you're trying to say, 'Look at me, I'm important", but what you're really saying is, "Look at me. I have such low self-esteem I need to show you I think I'm important". That two inches of difference between pants pocket and belt clip is the demarcation line between the type of guy who was on the hockey team and the guy who was the equipment manager. "I'm important! These water bottles don't fill themselves!" (Refer to #4 as to this guys choice of outerwear)

So there you have it. If you need any real life examples of these crimes against fashion please feel free to stop by my local Dunkin' Donuts where most of them congregate. Seeing them in their natural habitat really enhances the experience.
Happy Friday to all!

* Admit it, Pop, you know most of these guys have last names that end in a vowel and they give trim, well turned-out gentlemen of your ethnicity, such as yourself, a bad name.

This post is rated PG

TV stations around the tristate area were in a tizzy this morning as every newscast rushed to get audio of news anchor Sue Simmons cursing on the air. No! It can't be! News anchors don't always speak in measured tones using bland, accessible language and trite catch phrases, you say? It's true, I swear! Conservative groups are pissed and there is much hub-bub, but I say good on ya', Sue! This outburst actually made me like her more because it made her more of a real person to me. Listen to the audio and you can tell she is either really annoyed, or she is having a really bad day and when in either situation myself, nothing makes me feel better than dropping a few F-bombs*.

I love, love, love cursing. I remember the heady feeling of using the word "shit" for the first time in sixth grade. What power! What freedom! The world didn't end - well, only because I said it when not in front of my parents. I went on a bit of a potty-mouth spree after that, but have, since then, reigned it in to an appropriate level of usage. Anyway, I know this is not the best habit for a woman who spends ninety percent of her time surrounded by small, impressionable children, but I can honestly say I do not curse in front of my kids. It's like being a closet smoker, I do it when they're out of sight and earshot. Why do I not give up my habit cold turkey you ask? Because swearing is a very effective stress reliever and method of getting your point across to certain audiences. Let's take an exchange between hubby and myself and compare the expletive-free version and the one that would normally occur and see which would be more effective.

G-rated version -
Me: "Would you please stop leaving your dirty socks and underwear on the bedroom floor? It's really annoying."
Hubby: "Sure." Repeats said behavior the very next day.

Real-life version -
Me: "If you don't stop leaving your fucking socks and dirty underwear all over the bedroom floor I'm going to punch you in the nuts."
Hubby: (laughing) "I might need those if you want another baby." Remembering threat of violence puts socks in hamper for one day then returns to old behavior*.

Now please don't think I haven't tried the G-rated version. I did for the first year or so we were married, but you can be nice only for so long. While the cursing didn't solve the problem and perhaps it was the threat of violence that effected some change, swearing in these situations makes me feel powerful and heard. It's a verbal smack in the face.

It can be very frustrating not being able to curse when I'm around the kids like when I get cut off in traffic or slam my finger in a door, but it's amazing how well you adapt. I've also had practice being a teacher as most parents frown upon their child's teacher asking them, "Why the fuck are you still talking?" I am so jealous of my husband who works in the financial industry where most of his coworkers leave a trail of profanity in their wake so thick you'd need a shovel to get through it. I think that's awesome because it shows they are real and comfortable with themselves. Yes, it can be unprofessional and inappropriate, but I personally do not trust a person who never swears. I especially can't stand mothers who are so stringent in their curse-filtering they won't use "damn" or "hell". "Darn" and "heck" are for pussies and make me want to puke. Nothing makes me feel closer to a fellow mom than when, out of the kids' earshot of course, she says something like, "He is such an asshole." I think, "Yes! You are my people!" Swearing sends a message other than the actual words. It is a way people bond, letting the person you curse in front of know you feel comfortable enough to not always be on your best behavior with them. Do you remember the first time you cursed in front of your parents and weren't corrected for it? It meant they finally saw you as an adult and an equal on some levels. Touching what can be expressed when you use the word "fuck".

So call me classless, but I will continue to use my beloved four letter words when the situation is called for and appropriate. My dream is to be on Inside the Actor's Studio and have James Lipton ask me what my favortie curse word is. My reply? "I love 'em all, Jimmy. I love 'em all."

*Lindsay has the best blog title ever using this word
**For the record, hubby is not a total pig, just semi-retarded.

Buzz, buzz

Whew! I am finally back after my weekend away followed by my welcome home gift of a sick baby. Thankfully #3's fever has broken and we are back to two-toothed grins and giggles. I m also back to my usual routine which, when I get a chance to step away from it, is more than a little tough to get back into. Once you step off the treadmill it's hard to get back on. I am leaning on my best friend more than ever now. No, it's not hubby, who I have to give mad props to for keeping the house together in my absence - he even vacuumed! - my BFF Monday through Friday is caffeine.

Oh, how I love coffee. There is no way my life would work if I didn't have something to kick me into gear each morning. Interestingly enough, I was not a coffee drinker until I had my second kid. In college I never understood drinking cup after cup of this squack to pull an all-nighter. Well, I never understood all-nighters being the anal-retentive planner I am, but I digress. A kinetic person by nature, I didn't need any outside stimulants to make it worse. In fact, I think I have some weird caffeine sensitivity since I distinctly remember starting to drink Diet Coke during these years and feeling weird - like I was going to come out of my skin. Years later, while I was waiting tables in Manhattan and having trouble sleeping I finally figured out it was the cappuccinos I drank after my shift to mask the fact that I wasn't throwing back vodka shots with the rest of my alcoholic coworkers (the restaurant industry is really the underbelly of society - one step above a crack den) that made me feel like my brain was going to burst through my skull.

Even after I had had one child and was working at Starbucks, for Christ's sake, I did not hear the siren song of the glorious bean. In fact, I was irritated by all these caffeine junkies and their need for a fix delivered in the foreign language of Strabuckian - "Venti, non-fat, no foam, 1%, double, extra hot latte" Wha? Now, Starbucks is really a great company - they give full medical, dental and vision benefits if you work twenty hours a week which was why I was working there in the first place - but it is also the epicenter of some serious get-the-hell-over-yourself coffee snobbery. And most of these picky assholes - a term I feel justified in using if you send a cup of coffee back three times - are in their early twenties, a time when you can manage your own schedule in order to actually get some sleep. Why are you so damn tired? Up all night partying? Well I was up all night nursing and you don't see me freaking out about a quarter inch of foam harshing my latte buzz. It's a freaking cup of coffee, not a martini, so don't give me all these damn specifics. (I only understand such persnickety behavior when alcohol is involved, apparently, as I absolutely can not drink my beloved Chardonnay if it is one degree above the perfect temperature.) It's coffee - pour it, put some crap in it and move on. And before my hubby can chime in here, yes, I do have some serious alterations in my coffee orders when Starbucks trots out those delicious holiday drinks (Non-fat, peppermint mocha - two pumps peppermint, one pump mocha), but, seriously, unless I want all my teeth to fall out I do not need that much syrup when pancakes aren't involved - so shutty your pie-hole, Mister. My establishment of choice these days is Dunkin Donuts. I not only find their coffee less bitter, but any place that has a whole wall of donuts, not just a pile of stale, artisan donuts from some obscure bakery that uses free-trade flour, is my kind of place. All this being said, while I was wearing the green apron, I did not imbibe at all.

Fast-forward four years and three kids later and I am now a slave to the bean. I didn't realize how dependent I had become until about a month ago. I suffer from occasional migraines, but I had a week when I had one every day. This isn't just a headache, mind you, I go blind in one eye and have to lie in a darkened room - not exactly functional for a mom. Even the coffee I was drinking to combat the symptoms wasn't helping. Seven days and seven migraines later, I was making the morning coffee, which hubby had done the previous week and I see the bag he's been using is DECAF! Here I was worrying I was in the early stages of a stroke and the whole time I was in caffeine withdrawal. In hubby's defense the bags are not marked very well and it was an easy mistake to make. Why was there even decaf in the house you ask? Well, I still have my caffeine sensitivity issue. It's seriously bad. I either have to mix half decaf and half regular coffee or drink the tiniest cup of regular or I go off the deep end. I guess I am so tightly wound as it is that too much added stimulation can turn me into a raving lunatic. Several of our worst fights ever have occurred because hubby made full strength coffee and didn't tell me. I have to be careful with my afternoon jolt or I wind up screaming at the kids over things like lint.

So thank you caffeine, for getting my through the day. Where would I be without you? I'll tell you where, lying on the living room floor, still in my pajamas, surrounded by unfolded laundry, covered in dog hair from my un-vacuumed floor, trying to convince the kids that The Quiet, Be Still Game is great fun.

If only my town had a drive-thru Dunkin Donuts, my life would be perfect. Well, maybe not since we'd go into bankruptcy to support my habit or I'd have to turn myself out as an Iced Coffee whore.

Oh, what a night

I'm sneaking in a post today since it's Mother's Day and hubby has taken the kids to his mom's to start prepping dinner and give me some time to make out with my hangover. Oh yes, I am the epitome of great class and am spending my Mother's Day drinking coffee by the gallon and remembering why I don't do shots anymore. Needless to say the price I am paying today is the cost for the incredible night I had last night out with my sista-soul Sasha and my homegirl Candi. We went to a ridiculous eighties bar in the city where Sasha and I were ten years older than everyone, got hit on by the bartender because we were the only women he wouldn't get arrested for touching and got way too drunk while Sasha and I played matchmaker for all the cute twenty five year old girls there too shy to talk to the gaggles of stupid-but-cute-wannabe-traders who were too dumb to realize they were surrounded by women way out of their league in the brains and class department and stood around in that circle jerk guys do at bars. We bought rounds of shots for bachelorette parties, sang along to Total Eclipse of the Heart until we lost our voices and generally behaved like lunatics because we were just out to have the time of our lives.

I hope everyone else had a great Mother's Day, not involving large amounts of Tylenol and caffeine. I will be taking tomorrow off to put my house back together after hubby had the kids all weekend. He did a great job, but now I need to put everything back where it actually belongs.

Note to self: Woo Woo shots are part of your past for a reason.

It's the most wonderful time of the year...

No, I don't mean Christmas, Sunday is Mother's Day - now officially my favorite holiday of the year since it involves next to no work on my part and is a day I can completely, selfishly, tell my wonderfully understanding husband that the kids are all his for the whole day and only bring me a child if it needs to be nursed. And since this is my first MD with three kids and I survived the last eight months with my sanity and that of my family intact, I am making it a whole weekend by staying over in the city with a fellow mother on Saturday night.

Most of you who know me, know my mom died when I was nineteen. A bit blunt, I know, but I really have no patience for the overdramatizing people expect me to partake in when it comes to speaking about this event. Yes, it was the most awful thing that has ever happened to me and it changed my world and who I am, but frankly, it's my mom's life and not her death that I want to focus on. My mom was a good mom. Notice I didn't say great mom. I feel "great" is such a trite, overused word. "He's a great guy." means you like having him at barbecues. I say my mom was a good mom in the way you describe someone as a good person, rather than a great person when they are solid, real, and dependable. I also avoid the word great to avoid what we all do with our departed love ones and make them saints. My mother was a real person with real attributes and flaws all of which made her who she was and were her gifts to me. So this Friday, in the spirit of the holiday, I am using my usual Friday format of The List to honor my mom. I don't want to be maudlin when talking about her, she was too much fun for that. Of course I could go on and on about all the things that made her a good mother, but rather, I'd like to write about the little things I have inherited from her that make me laugh and remember.

1. To begin with the completely superficial, my hair. Yeah, yeah, I admit I am not a totally natural red head. But for those of you who knew me before I hit the bottle you know I definitely had those leanings. Let's say it was auburn. My mother, on the other hand, was a true redhead with beautiful copper hair (unfortunately, I could only get this photo* to scan in black and white mode and hubby is unavailable for tech support). So I took my inspiration from her when I decided to go to the salon. It's not just the aesthetic of red hair that I love, as I have expressed before, red hair is usually is accompanied by a fiery temper - my mother definitely had one and I'm sure hubby would say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. By temper I don't mean an uncontrollable rage, but rather getting very worked up in situations where you or a loved one have been wronged or need to be defended. Think, mother lion. A perfect example is the time my mother, then in her twenties, was out at a bar with her friends when she ran into a woman who had had an affair with her best friend's husband. She followed the woman into the bathroom and as my aunt tells it, sounds of commotion soon emanated. My aunt opens the door and finds my mother flushing the tramp's head in the toilet. I love this story so, so much because it shows not only my mother's physical strength, but her moral character. She was so enraged by what this woman had done to her friend she had to act. It also shows how my mom had no time for bullshit. Many other women would have shot that broad dirty looks across the bar, but my mother needed to send a clearer message. I remind my husband of this story whenever he tells me to calm down and I tell him, "Be happy your head's not in a toilet." And to clarify before my dad sends me a nasty e-mail about this, she was very young and calmed down considerably with age.

2. My mother's no bullshit attitude definitely made her the mother she was and I'd like to say I see a lot of her in my mothering style. My mom never used one of those sing-song voices when speaking to us as kids and was very clear about what was and was not acceptable behavior. I hear her when my five year old's doing something she knows she shouldn't and I say, "Really? Come on, you know better than that." And of course, she brought it when she was really pissed by making the same clenched up beaver face I do when I yell at my kids.
One of the things that was important to my mother, and is to me as well, is that my kids have a concept of other and can put themselves in someone else's shoes when taking an action. I remember so clearly being six years old walking back from the grocery store with my mom and walking by the school. Some kids had been "drawing" with sticks in sand by the sidewalk and I scraped my foot over a heart one of the girls had made. Now this girl was way far away and had obviously moved on to something else, and I was really just interested in smoothing out the sand, no malicious intent at all, but my mother walking behind me, arms full of bags, read that as an action laced with cruel intentions and literally kicked me in the behind. Not hard, more of a tap, but she couldn't let it an action she saw as mean go unnoticed. At the time I felt so wronged, but now I completely understand where my mother was coming from and I would have done the exact same thing accompanied by whisper/screaming, "Are you serious?". I think this tough love is what made my sister and I good kids and I hope it has the same effect on mine.

3. My mother was very attractive and had no problem getting the guys, but it wasn't just her looks that won them over. Those bitches stole the Rules from my mother. She did not ask guys out or return phone calls promptly which made them like her even more. On one of my parents very first dates my father was being a bit of a conceited jerk - he admits it himself - and when he asked my mother to hold his coat she said, "Sure." As he held it out and let go my mother let it drop to the floor, turned on her heel and said, "Hold your own damn coat." She wasn't going to pander to any man. She passed this knowledge on to me and essentially won me my husband. Way back in college, hubby couldn't figure out if we were "just friends" or something more and we went home for October break. My mother knew how much I liked him, since I told her everything and as soon as I got through the door, she said, "Don't you dare call that boy while you're home." Advice I followed and he called me. Weeks later, still fed up with his indecisiveness, I started focusing my attention elsewhere, and other guys started coming to visit me in our dorm, he got the picture - all thanks to Mom.

4. My mother, as my father in-law would put it, was "one of those clean Irish broads". Seriously, high school friends I just reconnected with tell me most of their memories of my mother involve her walking past my room with cleaning supplies in hand about to tackle some project. While it was annoying as a teenager, I totally understand it now. I remember asking myself, "Why the hell does she want me to vacuum now?" having been forced off the phone during a critical "what are you wearing tomorrow?" discussion. But now, I myself can not relax if my floors are covered with dog hair and I see the annoyance on my kids faces when I pause (spoiled TiVO brats) their show to run the Dyson over the rug. While I know it can be irritating, I am proud I know how to keep a clean home (some days).

5. I love vengeance movies. Death Wish is the classic choice, but the more recent Four Brothers is excellent as well. My mother ingrained in my sister and me, at an appropriate age, a love for movies where the wronged parties kick some serious ass and drop bad catch phrases in the process. This love also extends to non-vengeance action movies like the Terminator series - which I spent an entire summer watching in loop with my sister since she had no cable in her room - The Die Hard series and any action movie with Nicholas Cage. It was a great night when my mom fired up the Jiffy Pop and the VCR and we all got to sit around screaming at the TV, "Shoot him! Shooooot him!"

There are so many other things I got from my mother that I could write about, but these are the things that make me smile the most. While I did get cheated out of my mom being at my graduations and wedding and it breaks my heart she will never meet my children, it's through these little things that my mom lives on. And even though they will never meet her, my kids will benefit from Grandma Rita's wisdom. I will hear her voice coming through me when I tell my daughter's years from now, "If I have to tie you to a chair, you are not calling that boy back until tomorrow."

So happy Friday to all and Happy Mother's Day to all my fellow moms. Plan something special for yourself - you deserve it. Then think about all the funny stories your kids will get to tell about you someday.

* In this photo I am five years old, my sister is two. So I guess that makes my mother and father twenty-nine and thirty. Sorry to out you on the 'stache, Dad.

Curb your - kid?

Quick post today, kiddies, but it's gross enough to make you think about it all day long.

I took the kids to the park yesterday straight from school to enjoy this gorgeous weather. In preparation, I made sure my middle one used the facilities at school before we left, but I had the potty in the back of the van just in case. So we get to the park and as we're exiting the vehicle, my oldest tells me she has to go to the bathroom. As you know, the pick up her school is curbside (like Chili's without the benefit of guacamole) so I didn't have an opportunity to have her use the loo, but I figured she must have gone in the three hours she was there, unlike my middle one who is basically a camel and will hold until her bladder is the size of a beach ball. We got to the park and daughter #1 asks if she can use the potty. I don't discriminate when it comes to port-a-potty usage having been there myself, so I set it up and shut the van doors to give her some privacy.

Moments later, I look through the tinted windows to see her holding her nose. Oh, no, you're saying. She didn't. Oh, yes, she did. My five year old daughter took a dump as big as a grapefruit in the potty in the car. Now what the hell was I going to do? The van was beginning to smell like the bathrooms at Yankee Stadium - I had to get rid of this thing. I gave her a few wipes and she took care of business after which, I tucked them in a dirty diaper of the baby's which I was throwing out in the park trash anyway. But I couldn't very well walk up to the garbage can in full sight of all the other moms and drop this huge HUMAN turd in the can. So, I did what any irresponsible dog owner would do. I found a tree hidden from view of the park and away from the van and tossed it where no one could step on it. Yes, I am embarrassed, but what was I going to do? Of course I had to do it without my girls seeing or the questions would have been endless. Oldest (loudly entering park): "Mommy, who's gonna clean up my poop?" Me (whispering through clenched teeth : "Shut up, kid."

So my apologies to anyone at Crestwood Park who found this monstrosity. No, it wasn't a great dane that did that, it was my fifty pound five year old.

Food of the gods

I have a problem. I think I am really, truly, addicted to peanut butter. I can not remember a day in the recent past when I have not consumed peanut butter, in one form or another, at least once. I used to have a pretty normal relationship with peanut butter. I had a jar in my pantry and occasionally would have some on a piece of toast, then I had kids. Once you have children, peanut butter becomes so central to your existence running out is akin to McDonald's running out of fries.

My children are not helping with my addiction as their appetite for this heavenly spread had increased and varied in its applications. Since they eschew most forms of animal flesh I'm happy they eat something containing protein and dole it out liberally. Their favorite manifestation - the cut-out peanut butter sandwich - is especially problematic since once I cut out the shape, I am left with the entire crust with which to plumb the depths of the peanut butter jar. And yes, they are total freaks and DO NOT like jelly with their peanut butter. We also eat it on apples, crackers, bagels and toast. This may not seem like a big deal to you until you realize one tablespoon has almost one hundred calories. One tablespoon? Please. That's the amount I lick off the knife while making the sandwiches. Never mind when I start in with my finger. Eeew. That sounds gross out loud.

It's gotten so bad my husband and I were watching The Biggest Loser and a trivia question came up asking how much peanut butter the average American eats in one year. To which my husband quipped, "A normal person, or Mary?" Smug asshole. He is free from peanut butter's evil grip as he is the sticky paws of chocolate and pie. Let's see how funny you are when they put up a bacon question, smart guy. He's right though. Manys the night I have sat next to him on the couch eating peanut butter directly from a jar with a spoon ala Dee from What's Happening? and wondered where the rest of the jar had gone at the end of the night.

I suppose there are worse things to be addicted to, booze for instance, but my situation is like an alcoholic working as a bartender. Will I ever be able to get this monkey off my back if constantly faced with it? Perhaps if I switch my kids to chunky style, which I find abhorrent and a crime against nature since it basically looks like a bag of half-digested peanuts instead of peanuts that have intentionally been ground smooth. My brother in-law was given a PB&J on rye made with chunky PB and strawberry jam while on an outing with a friend's family when he was nine years old - that woman should have been drawn and quartered.

For now I will comfort myself with the fact that my vice is full of protein which I need for nursing and healthy fats to raise my good cholesterol. Maybe when the kids get older and actually begin eating more than the nine foods currently in their repertoire it'll be easier to get over this vice. I tell my husband to become concerned when I start telling him every time he asks me for a favor "Gimme a quarter."*

*Which, if you do not know was Dee's catch phrase when Rog asked her not to tattle, get to YouTube immediately.

Baby Mama

I just got back from my hair place (or the SA-lon as hubby calls it) and I am shocked - shocked! - to report that Ashlee Simpson is pregnant. OK, well, maybe. It was US Weekly after all. Regardless, if it is true then she is yet another young, unmarried, celeb who apparently doesn't know how to use a condom and I am sick and tired of it.

For the record, I do not give damn whether or not these women, no, girls, are married or not. It's the fact that they do not have their lives together, decide to bring a child into the mix and then, by the glib way they talk about it, set an unrealistic example for young girls. Under the best circumstances, like having a supportive partner who, ideally, you live with, and being financially and emotionally secure, having a baby can seriously throw you for a loop. I was lucky enough to be in the ideal circumstance when I had each of my kids and each and every time I had days when I thought I was going to jump off a bridge. So when a teenager in Anywhere, USA is deciding whether or not to have sex and if so, whether or not to abstain until proper birth control is obtained she can relax, thanks to Jamie Lynn Spears, Jessica Alba, and, maybe, Ashlee Simpson, knowing that if she does, indeed, get pregnant, it's no big deal.

This trend feeds into my rage, in general, at the way pregnancy and motherhood are portrayed in the media. A pregnant belly is treated like an accessory and while I appreciate the subsequent increase in availability and chicness of maternity clothing, the real, stretch-marked, swollen-ankled truth about the physical demands of carrying a child are swept under the red carpet.

And after these celebs have their babies - wait, let me take a deep breath here to keep my blood pressure under control. OK, better. If I see one more fucking celebrity on the cover of a magazine with the caption "Body after baby!" I'm going to drive down to US Weekly's offices with a firearm. Let me say this for all of you who do not have children and for those of you who have had a child and weren't wearing your size 24 True Religion jeans five weeks later (I had to look up the size comparison since I know nothing about these weird, Euro-sizes) - IT IS NOT NORMAL TO BE BACK TO YOUR OLD BODY RIGHT AFTER YOU HAVE A BABY. Do you know why these women look so great? Because they have a staff. Someone else, other than them or their complaining husband, is getting up with their kid in the middle of the night so they can get a full eight hours of sleep in order to have enough energy to workout for two hours the next day while yet another person cares for their infant. After each baby, I barely had enough energy to stuff that third cookie in my mouth to give me a sugar rush to wake up and take care of my kids, never mind take a Boot Camp class. I loved, loved, loved Sarah Jessica Parker for saying during a post-baby interview that she was able to get back into shape so quickly only because she was lucky enough to have childcare which many new moms do not have.

The media, in its irresponsible praise of celeb moms does not mention the fact that the life of a celeb new mother looks so easy compared to yours because it is. They have someone to clean their homes, cook their healthy meals (or accept their Zone delivery), do their laundry, you name it, they don't have to do it. With all this extra time they can actually shower, or even brush their hair - imagine! But the most glaring oversight is the fact that these new moms return to work and their lives carry on as if they'd never had a child. And it is this that makes me the most angry. The average, young, single mother out there struggles and sacrifices. Many can barely cover the cost of the daycare that allows them to work. So when a young girls is making important decisions about her life and sees these images in the media she may think, "Hey! Jessica Alba can do it. So can I, even though I'm only sixteen, live with my parents have haven't graduated from high school."

Yeah, yeah, I know. It's the parents' responsibility to make sure their kids make the right choices and the media shouldn't be parenting our children, but for some kids that's the case. And while US Weekly and OK only care about selling magazines, celebrities should care about being role models for their audiences. For all that money we pay them by buying albums and movie tickets, so they can hire four nannies to tend to one baby, the least we can ask for is a little honesty. Even if it's only to say, "How do I look so good after my baby? A lot of money. A lot of money and Spanx."

"I've got a turtle head poking out."

We now return the the saga of trying to get my daughter to successfully eliminate in the toilet.

My daughter has finally mastered urinating in the toilet/potty to some degree. She still needs reminding when I see her doing the pee-pee dance or digging at herself - always attractive in public - but the vast majority of the time she stays dry. Our next hurdle? Poop. After conquering her anxiety over letting her pee fall into a vessel, my middle one now has anxiety over pooping in the potty - to the point where she will come up and ask me for a diaper when she has to take a dump. Which is uber-fun to change afterwards, as previously discussed, as they are full sized craps with the stink to match. God forbid I express my displeasure at having to deal with said dookie as she will tell me, as I hold her legs up over her head to scrape turd off her butt with the twelfth in a succession of wipes, "Don't make a bad face, Mommy. Be happy." I'll be happy when I no longer have to handle this toxic waste, thanks.

Last weekend, it seemed there might a light at the end of the tunnel. I was sitting in the living room as hubby was putting the girls to bed when I see him and #2 (no pun intended) emerge from their room, at which point my daughter tells my she "has to go poop". I try to contain my excitement and stay on the couch as I hear her and hubby go into the bathroom and he commences his one hundred and second hopeful reading of Once Upon a Potty. Moments later I hear him say, quietly, as she does not like fanfare, "I'm so proud of you!" Can it really be? It could. She had pooped! Huzzah! My husband said he even got a little teary-eyed.

Our excitement was short lived. The next day she asked me for a diaper when she had to take her post-dinner dump and despite my gentle suggestions she use the facilities - and by this I did not mean the book corner of the playroom - she screamed, "Noooo!" Oh well.

So imagine my surprise yesterday when she tells me she has to poop and when I make my obligatory inquiry as to potty or toilet she chooses - TOILET! We run upstairs, sit down and after a few minutes of reading she says, "Actually I don't have to go." Later, after playing for a bit she tells me again she has to go again. Back to the bathroom. Again, she doesn't have to, actually. We did this about fifteen more times with the sittings decreasing in duration despite my efforts to lengthen them by allowing her to bring every toy in the house into the can with her and I have begun hating Prudence and her damn potty and envying her mother for the ease with which her frizzy-haired offspring managed to potty train. I bring the potty in to the playroom thinking the walk to the john is interrupting her flow - no dice. I am also becoming concerned because now she's telling me her tummy hurts. Great, I am envisioning this going on for hours and ending with laxatives and tears. I even offer her a diaper which she rejects, then accepts, three potty attempts later. At this point, we have been working on this dump for TWO hours. My whole day is revolving around it. I run between making lunch and the toilet, nursing the baby and the toilet, I just want this poop out and be done with it.

Twenty minutes later, I see #2 in the corner (the kid, not the fecal matter - not that I would have cared as long as she finally went) squatting and grunting. Then finally, finally, she tells me, "I done." Readers, I am embarrassed to tell you how happy I was about a crap. And when I tell you this was the turd of the century, I am not kidding. It was as big as my kid's head. I contemplated taking a picture for all of you, but I think that's too far, even for me.

So it's back to the drawing board in the deuce department. Just like everything else, my strong-willed middle child will do this when she's ready. I will try to remember The Day of the Turtle Head the next time I'm being told to be happy as I'm covered in feces since I really don't think I could go through that again.

A Diamond indeed

After using one of his song titles in a post this week, I decided to listen to some Neil Diamond. Smirk, if you will, but after listening to a few tunes I remembered how very much I love Neil, as did my mother, and it's been too long since he got some respect. So this Friday, my list..

Top 5 Neil Diamond Songs

1. Cherry Cherry - This song is a classic - Lauren agrees and I love that she started off her radio show in college with it each time because it is so anti-college-radio-show with its good time beat. A bit racy for 1966, this song is actually quite sexual. I do take issue with the use of the name/fruit Cherry normally in this context as it creeps me out (i.e. Warrant's Cherry Pie - blech), but I'll let Neil off this time.

2. You Don't Bring Me Flowers - This song is a duet with Barbara Streisand, whom I also love. "You don't bring me flowers, You don't sing me love songs, You hardly talk to me anymore, When you come through the door at the end of the day." I used to think this song was so sad, but now I know the people in the song just have small children. They're talking to one another but it's more "Here, take this one, he needs a bath." coming through the door trying to get them all into bed so you can actually have a conversation that isn't interrupted with requests for juice. Maybe the flower bit is true. OK, that's not entirely fair, hubby does bring me flowers (but nowhere near often enough - am I being clear? Am I?), and we both hate acapella singing so no dice on the love songs. Anyway, it's a nice, sad, love song regardless.

3. Forever in Blue Jeans - In contrast to #2, this classic is an ode to young, broke, love and I played this song often when hubby and I were having some hard times. "Money talks, But it don't sing and dance and it don't walk, And long as I can have you here with me, I'd much rather be, Forever in blue jeans" Sigh. Is there anything better than that? Sure, it's easier to be goo-goo eyed about your spouse when you're not fighting over who ate the last cup of Ramen Noodle, but I still love this song because it reminds me of what we went through and I think we'd still be happy even if we lived in a cardboard box.

2. Coming to America - You secretly love this song too so stop your giggling. You can mock me all you want after I write this, but I swear to God, I get chills every time I hear this song. Yes, it's hokey, and theatric and over the top, but there is just something about the music and the way Neil talk/sings part of the national anthem that gets me. I can't remember if it was my husband or one of his brothers who sang this in the elementary school chorus and had to dress up like an immigrant, but I get teary-eyed/laugh hysterically when think about any one of them having to sing a Neil Diamond song while wearing their dad's old suit jacket and carrying a bandanna bundle on a stick.

1. Sweet Caroline - You knew this was coming didn't you? Predictable? Yes. Deserving of the top spot? Also, a resounding YES. This song is so much fun, especially when you are drunk at a wedding, it can't not be my #1. At my wedding, where the DJ was forbidden to play most group dance music - no Chicken Dance, no Macarena, no Electric Slide - upon pain of death, this was one of two group songs I did allow (the other was Shout and my whole wedding wound up on the floor doing The Gator). One of my fondest memories is of all my late mom's friends holding hands in the big circle dancing because they and she loved this song. It was almost like she was there. Regardless of my sentimental connection though, this song is still wicked fun at a party, circle dance or not, with the whole crowd shouting, "Bah! Bah! Baaah!"

If you are not familiar with these songs I pity you and demand that you immediately go to iTunes and take a listen. I guarantee you will buy at least one. While my tribute to Neil may be good, nothing compares to the Neil Diamond tribute group the characters in Saving Silverman belong to - "Diamonds in the Rough". I love Neil, but I have to draw the line at dressing like him.
Happy Friday!

Post-posting note:
AAAAAHHHHHH! I just finished my workout and who do I see on the TV? NEIL DIAMOND! He is performing on the Today show this morning!!!!! This is fate, karma, whatever you want to call it. Neil is thanking me for my tribute. Well, Neil, you're welcome.

"South to drop off, moron!"

Whew! I am finally back from my morning workout. No, I wasn't on the treadmill I mean I have returned from schlepping all three of my kids to school. This is the calm after the storm - a storm that starts every morning at 6:30 when my oldest, the early bird, wakes up and on occasion, 6:15, when the baby decides to screw with me. I love my darling middle child who is a late sleeper and is conked out until at least 7:00. Before I had kids I had no idea what a shit-show mornings could be. I thought it was difficult dragging myself out of bed at 7:00 to get myself out the door for work. I had all that coffee drinking, news watching and hair drying to do. Now I have the Herculean task each morning of getting three semi-cooperative, small beings fed, dressed, groomed and in the car by 8:15. Perhaps you'd like to take a look at what my morning entails...

6:15 - Baby starts to squawk and I ignore him as I finish my workout.
6:20 - Jump in shower, wash body and face.
6:22 - Get "dressed" in pajama pants and T-shirt.
6:25 - Nurse baby.
6:30 - Get milk for oldest who is snuggling in bed with hubby.
6:45 - Put baby in Exersaucer prison while I make coffee.
7:00 - #2 awakes and groggily asks for milk - she is not a morning person. Take breakfast orders - pancakes, waffles (both frozen, Aunt Jemima I am not), cereal, bagels, etc. Flagellate myself as I allow children to eat in front of TV so I can get other things done such as making the beds and packing lunches.
7:30 - Feed baby breakfast while screaming at the kids to get dressed.
7:40 - Leave baby in high chair eating bananas hoping he doesn't choke to death while I get his sister's head out of her sleeve and begin the hair negotiations. #1 : "I just want to wear it long (read: down, with nothing in it)." Me: "No, you have gym to day and you look like a street urchin." #1 : "What's a street urchin?"
7:55 - Finish feeding baby, get him dressed and change my own shirt which has been spattered with pureed prunes.
8:05 - Brush everyone's teeth and put shoes and jackets on.
8:15 - Get in car to drive .34 miles to elementary school. Seriously, I mapquested it. Now a bit about drop-off. It is really, and truly, just like the drop-off scene in Mr. Mom. The cars all drive in one direction only and we all pull up to the curb where a fifth grader helps your kid out and they run into the school. The cars pull up four at a time and I am never more stressed then when I am the last of the four because my oldest insists on kissing every member of our famliy goodbye before exiting the vehicle. This means the other three cars in front of me have pulled out alrady and everyone is waiting for me. Once the love-fest is over it then takes my automatic door a good five seconds to close while I sit there whispering, '"Come on, come on!" burning rubber as I pull out. One benefit to this drop-off scheme? I can literally wear my pajamas and no one knows. Then it's back to the house since #2's pre-school doesn't begin until 9:00. So...

8:30 - Take off shoes and jackets. Put baby on the floor to play, and since my middle daughter is actually a Hobbit and must eat every 90 minutes, make her a snack. At this point I actually get to eat my own breakfast - at least until the baby starts screaming for some of it and I put him back in the high chair for some toast. At some point in here I swap out the pj's for my yoga pants since I actually see people at the pre-school.
8:40 - Baby takes usual morning dump - change diaper.
8:45 - Put my daughter on the potty (YAY! It's actually working), put shoes and jackets back on.
8:50 - Get back in car to drive 1.85 miles to the pre-school, a Driver's Ed nightmare, as I repeatedly look in the rear view mirror, which is pointed squarely on the baby, frantically try to keep him awake so he doesn't ruin his 9:30 nap by taking a quick snooze.
9:00 - Drag baby and #2 into school. Spend five minutes trying to take off #2's jacket and hang it in her cubby while holding 25lb baby in one arm. Kiss #2 goodbye and I'm off.
9:10 - Repeat driving scenario from earlier, trying not to run any red lights as I race against the clock and the baby's drooping eyelids to get him in his crib in time for his nap.
9:30 - Plop my ass in front to the computer to write and drink more coffee.

THE END - (at least until I have to pick everyone up at 11:30 and do it all again in reverse order)

I know many of you are in the same boat so feel free to share your own ridiculous morning routines so we can all pat each other on the back for a job well done every damn day. I especially relish the mornings my husband is home so he can experience the madness. One time I was sick and he actually had to do the whole thing himself. His reaction at the end of the process? "Boy, your job sucks." Indeed.