The Road to Hell…

Is paved with good intentions.

Or so it is said.

You see, I bought the girls a sand box. Well, it's more of a sand table than a sand box, made by Step 2. But anyways, something for them to play with in the back yard.

See that? Good intentions.

It seemed like a brilliant idea, at first. We don't really have any toys in the back due to the pointy nature of the "gravel" landscaping our back yard. But then it came to me the other day- a sand box. We had looked into getting one last year but the idea was quickly kicked to the bottom of our "Hey, why don't we buy…" list due to other things.

So anyhoo, yesterday I bought them a sand table and this morning we went to Lowe's so I could buy sand.

I carried 50 frikkin pounds of sand from the car into our back yard. Twice. After a few minutes of rest (my arms were like jelly), I unceremoniously cut open the first bag of sand and dumped it into the table. And then half the other one (directions say this holds 80 lbs at the most).

The sand, I told the girls before I let them loose on the back patio, stays in the sand box. Inside of it. In. Side. Of. It.

So, imagine my dismay (although dismay doesn't really come close to describing the intensity of emotions I felt) when A. tells me S. dumped sand onto the patio less than an hour later.

It couldn't possibly be very much, I thought. I mean, the shovel that came with the sand box isn't exactly a work horse of a tool. Only a few teeny scoops of sand at a time.

I looked. And anger just filled me up so much I wanted to toss the whole damn thing into the wall. S. didn't dump the whole sand box out (thank God- I may have to give her away if she'd dumped 75 lbs of sand out of that fucking table). But there was much more than a few scoops. Enough to piss me off. Enough to leave me staring- angry, frustrated, disappointed- while I figured out what to do. I sent her to her room (and since she was apparently hiding sand in her shorts, A.'s bed is now awash with sand, too).

See, the great thing about having a sand table as opposed to a sand box, I thought, was that I wouldn't have to worry about them tracking sand into the house as it gushed out of their shorts, through the house, and into their beds and bath tub. Because they don't sit in it. They're supposed to stand up, and play with it.

So I have no idea how S. got sand in her shorts, or how she managed to track some of it through the house on the way to her bedroom.

All I know is that I'm starting to think this was the worst idea EVER!

How could I have been so naïve, thinking that the girls (S. in particular) would understand this one, very simple, very basic rule- Sand stays IN the sand table. Inside, like, not on the patio floor or even in our yard. It goes in the sand table. In. The fucking. Sand. Table.

Quite frankly, this makes me a little sad. Okay, more than a little sad- a lot sad. And possibly more sad than angry, even. Because I really thought I was buying them something that would bring them so much fun and me, so little heartache.

I'm sad because no matter what we do, or how we punish her, S. does not think that rules apply to her. And this is yet another example of her idea that she is "above the law" in this house.

I'm sad because every time I try to do something nice for them, it comes back to bite me in the ass somehow, and I end up wondering later if it was worth the effort or even money spent.

I'm sad because I feel like I can't do anything right. Not even for the girls.

I'm sad because I feel like anything that I do with or for or give to them is never enough. Never, ever enough. Because there's always something else. As in, "hey mom. Thanks for the table but I want you to buy me a (fill in desired toys of the moment)". Or, "I want you to do this, I want to go there and do that…"

I'm sad because I'm starting to think that the road to hell, as a parent, is most certainly paved with good intentions- fantastic intentions, even.

I'm sad because now I think- why do I bother? Why should I bother?

And just knowing that I think that at all makes me very, very sad, indeed.

(Note: I ended up making them clean up the sand with a broom and dumping the misplaced sand back into the sand table. Easy peasy. Kind of.)

W.’s Law of Housework

There's a Murphy's-like Law-type thing that happens in my household after I've finished cleaning it. I hereby dub it, W.'s Law of Housework.

For example, it is guaranteed that within a few hours of sweeping and mopping my floors (kitchen, dining room and both hallways), they will become pock marked with spilled chocolate milk, yogurt, and various other sticky-type substances which I am unable to identify. There is usually also a weird intensity that comes with these brand new messes. Super duper thick chocolate milk puddles, yogurt dripping off the table, down the back of the chair and onto the floor. It's as if these messes are trying to make up for lost time.

Within that same time-frame, I will find pieces of cereal (of various types. Today was chocolate peanut butter Puffs) ground up into my freshly vacuumed carpets (living room or girls' bedroom. S. is not very particular about where she likes to sneak and spill food.)

Scraping dried up toothpaste off of the girls bathroom counter so that I can actually see it, ensures that it will turn into another toothpaste-y mess after having the girls spend 2 minutes in their bathroom to brush their teeth (or some such activity which resembles brushing teeth). I swear more toothpaste ends up on the counter around their sink than actually on their toothbrushes. This is why I have to keep the toothpaste on top of the fridge and ration it out when it's time for them to brush their teeth.

Consequently, I also have to ration out their body wash/shampoo. After having to replace their body wash 3 days in a row, I got smart and bought a few little travel size bottles. I put some body wash in each one, put those on top of the fridge with the original bottle, and they get one little bottle at bath time. Otherwise, all 16 oz. of wash will end up as soapy bubbles in the bath tub, and the bottle will end up on the bathroom floor. All used up and unwanted.

After I have them move their dirty clothes from their bathroom to the laundry room, different clothes, hand towels and toilet paper spring up from between the floor tiles in full bloom. I'm lucky if I can still see the floor after their baths.

Toys make their way from their bedroom to the living room. Random assortments of blocks which have been crayoned, a broken crown, and stuffed animals gather in front of the couch, as if they're trying to hide from me. Waiting to go all commando on my house cleaning ass and overtake my living room floor! Some of them never make it past the kitchen though. I think those are the toys that just weren't determined enough to stage a coup -Hell, no! We won't go- back into that toy box, bitch- but thanks for playing.

Newly scrubbed walls and bedroom furniture in the girls room almost guarantees that one of the girls (again, usually S.) will find another rogue crayon, marker, pen… whatever; and try to go all Picasso on the re-virginized whiteness surrounding their room. And their desk. And their closet door.

A. occasionally includes a signature in her bedroom wall art pieces. That's nice, because then I know who to punish. Although it's really not that hard to distinguish between A.'s works of art, and S.'s "works of art". A.'s usually has letters, and people, and arrows pointing from one thing to another (she's gotten quite fond of creating illustrated flow charts). S. just scribbles. Scribble, scribble, scribble. Sometimes they look like something, usually they don't. But she is, by far, the most prolific vandal in this house.

Also, less in the house work tangent and more in the "random ass observation" tangent-

They don't seem to understand what "quiet time" means.

Quiet time: a time in which rowdy girl chil'lins must away to their once pristine, white-walled bedroom and *gasp* BE QUIET for a little bit. So that I, the mater familias, may enjoy the sounds of the keyboard tip-tapping (if that) and nothing else.

I have explained to them the rules. Numerous times, even.

"Its quiet time, girls. That means you go into your rooms, and you. Be. Quiet."

It is as if I'm speaking to them in Esperanto, but they only understand the black-hole-space-quark-left-of-Milky-Way dialect of martian-ese.

And of course, this means that they pounce in and out of their bedroom, grabbing at each other's arms in the hallway and bossing each other around- loudly.

This also means that occasionally A. will yell out, "Is quiet time over yet?"

Uh, did it ever really begin?!?!

I think W.'s Law can really be summed up in this way:

An object or space which has been thoroughly cleaned will remain cleaned only in the event that children have grown up and moved out of the house. Even then, a perpetually clean house will only remain such if said children have clothing washers and dryers in their own "spaces" (home, apartment, dorm room, rv trailer) and which they have been thoroughly trained in its proper daily operation, thereby eliminating the need to come home and toss five weeks worth of reeking laundry onto the floor for mom to do.

Note to the college kids: Using the washing machine to make moonshine is not considered proper usage of such appliances.

The Not-Fun Fair

The Tucson 4^th Avenue Street fair came and went this past weekend. Over 400 vendors selling various types of crafts, art, clothing and other goods, it seemed like an interesting time to me. And I thought I read somewhere that they would have activities for the kiddos, too. Like a jumpy castle or something like that.

So Saturday, I talked dh into coming and we loaded up the girls and head downtown.

Within minutes of spying the start of the booths, A. began badgering us about doing something fun. "Just wait," I told her. "We're looking for it."

Several more badgerings and a complete walk around the entire fair later, not a single jumpy castle was to be seen. Or anything else "kid-friendly" for that matter, in terms of entertainment. There was a really small Ferris wheel towards the end, but it looked lame, I was tired, the girls were tired… A. was already upset that we didn't find a jumpy castle, I didn't think she'd notice the stupid Ferris wheel (and she didn't) and so we proceeded the three blocks or so back to the car.

The admonishments began simple enough.

"Mama, that fun fair wasn't a fun fair," A. told me once we got settled into the car. "It was a no-fun fair."

I couldn't exactly argue with that… we did see some cool paintings but really the most beneficial part of the whole afternoon is that I felt better knowing I had gotten so much walking in that day. Other than that, I was in complete agreement with A. What could I do but apologize and promise we won't come back ever again?

You'd think a promise like that would allow her to just. Let. Go.

But no.

Sunday A. began to really turn on the heat about my terrible decision to drag them all to the fair on a very warm Saturday afternoon for an activity that had very little entertainment value for any of us.

"Mama, remember the time you took us to the no-fun fair?"

How could I forget?

I can't. Because even if my addled brain somehow dumped that afternoon from my memory, A. will be there to pick it right up and shove it in my face.

I know this, because that's all I've heard about it in spurts throughout the week, since Sunday.

"Mama, remember that time you took us to the no-fun fair? It wasn't fun. I don't want to do that again." She has said accusingly.

Over, and over again.

As if I'd spent her college fund on blow and hookers. Or something.

Could I feel any more terrible about spending a perfectly good Saturday afternoon at that fair? A. will make sure that I do, I'm almost positive of this.

However, the other upside (for me, not so much the girls) is that I got to see all of the cute, neat little shops up and down 4^th Ave. that I've never seen before. A few I've heard of, barely, like the Chocolate Iguana ( I believe it's a coffee shop). So I did come up with a list of places I'd like to try eating at, or visiting some other time.

Just, not while the "not-fun" fair is going on.

Can I have a Real Baby?

First, some backstory.

I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned that A. is completely obsessed with having another baby brother or sister. This is a request she's been making for about a year now, and she's turned up the heat after two of our friends had babies in December. Well, now she not only wants one more baby brother or sister, but two. I asked her how many kids would be in the house then, wondering if she really meant two more babies. She counted, "me, S., one baby girl and one baby boy- that's 4". Apparently, she knew exactly what she was asking for. But this is one of our more interesting exchanges regarding infant additions to our household.

*note: we haven't completely written off having one or two more children. Just. Not. Now. Or next year. Or the year after that. And yes, I am perfectly comfortable with their being a 9-10 year age difference between A., the eldest, and the baby. Completely.

So anyways, without further ado…

*******************************************

A: Are we going to go to New York?

(I have no idea where she got this idea from)

Me: No.

A: Is that because it's not on the planet?

Me: No. It's on the planet. We're just not going there.

A: Ever?

Me: Maybe someday, a long, long time from now.

A: I want to go to New York and get a baby.

Me: What kind of baby do you want to get?

A: One that comes with pink, and can wear flowers and stripes and dresses.

Me: You want a girl baby?

A: Yes.

Me: Do you want a real baby or a doll?

A: A real baby.

Me: One that pees and poops?

A: Yes, but I want you to clean it up when it poops.

Me: Mmmmm. So, you don't want a real baby?

A: I do, I just don't want to clean it up when it poops. I want you to do it.

Me: Yeah. That's not going to happen. Sorry about that.

Trail of Tears

Do you know what happens when you get soooo tired that your eyes close and you doze off for thirty minutes in the late afternoon while the girls are still up and at 'em?

Yes. That is a trail of Lucky Charms cereal (and the spilled chocolate milk), which mysteriously jumped out of the cereal box in the pantry and scattered itself all over my kitchen, dining room, and front entrance.

Or maybe not so mysteriously. Because I know exactly who the culprit is.

I don't want to give her away, but I'll tell you that she's very short, her first name starts with an S. and ends with an A.

And the trail didn't stop at the front hallway.

It continued on into the living room. I don't have pictures of that though, because when I first told S. to clean up, she started right there in the living room.

By eating the cereal off the floor.

She's so delicate, let me tell you.

She was supposed to clean up the rest, too. I gave her thirty minutes. Thirty minutes because after that it was going to be time to go to the gym.

Because S. is a stubborn, stubborn child and refused to clean up the rest of her mess, and because dh was at a class until 6:30- I missed Body Combat tonight. Which now makes me cranky, because I've gained quite a bit of weight in the last several months, and then more in the last three weeks. I've been much better about getting to the gym lately, I go at least twice a week, but I'd like to go more. Anyways, now I get a little cranky when I miss the gym- like I did on Monday. And now tonight.

Grrrrrrrr.

But I think I'm going to go the gym anyways and just do some time on the elliptical, or the tread mill or stair climber or some such thing. Which I hate more than anything. Which is why I take the classes.

But one way or the other, I have to get out of this house.

Otherwise, I just might end up tossing dishes into the wall (which I occasionally fantasize about when I'm uber-pissed). Or maybe even kids...

I'm just joking about that last part, folks.

But seriously...

Paper-girl Turf Wars

Just a few miles from my house, there is a 4-way intersection which has become taken over by grown women (and one man, but he's rather unimportant) selling newspapers on the medians.

For months, there was just this one lady. I don't know her name, I think it might be Valerie (I've seen something to that effect written on her safety vest) and I've never bought a paper from her but we'll call her Paperlady A. She's tall and skinny with short, dull brown hair and a very, very red face. Sometimes I wonder if she thinks to put on sunscreen before she steps out onto that median to sell papers for the next 6 hours (yes, 6). I wonder all kinds of other things about her as I drive by almost every day. Does she have a home? Is she single? Does she have kids? Is standing in the Tucson sun for hours a day worth it? Does she make any money? What does she list as her occupation? Newspaper girl/woman? Where does she eat lunch? Does she step inside a gas station on either side of the median and grab a hot dog and an extra-large icee?

But in the last few months, a few other women have appeared in that same intersection, also selling newspapers.

Paperlady B appears to be fairly short, although also very skinny and has an under-bite which causes the bottom part of her jaw to jut out. I wonder, for some reason, if she has false teeth, and if she's wearing them.

The lenses on her sunglasses reflect the sun in such a way that makes her sunglasses seem large. I always think of a fly with a thousand eyes scanning the busy intersection when I see her. I don't know why. I just do.

She always wears a bandana of some sort, although she has ratty hair that hangs out the back. I can't tell if they're dreds in the making, or really just ratty. And usually Paperlady B wears long, flowy, print skirts that make me think of hippies and gypsies. The other day she wore a skirt with blue jeans underneath. It seemed a little too warm to me for layers, but that's just me. She also has a dog. It sits under an umbrella that's usually perched a few feet away from her as she walks up and down the corner, hoping for someone to roll down their window and wave a dollar bill around. She has a large blue thermos, too. But again I wonder all the same things about her as I do about Paperlady A, and more. What's the dog's name? Is it a boy or a girl? Does she drug it, as it is never on a leash and yet I've hardly ever seen it move? How did she get there? Does she have a car? Where does she park it? At the gas station across the street? Do the gas station people know? Do they care?

So then there were two- Paperlady A and Paperlady B. I'm assuming they sell different papers, as there are a couple local papers here in Tucson. I've never seen them talk to each other. Paperlady A stays on her median, and Paperlady B stays in her spot caddy-corner from Paperlady A's median.

Then a month or so ago, another lady (we'll call her Paperlady C) showed up on Paperlady A's median. Paperlady C has a little more girth than Paperlady A and B. She wears a khaki (I think) ball cap, with her light brown hair hanging out the back in a pony tail. She dresses a little more sportier than the other two. Jean shorts and a plain t-shirt underneath her lime-green safety vest. She, too, keeps a water cooler nearby. I wonder if she has kids, too. If they're all grown up and out of the house and she needed a hobby so she took up selling papers in a busy intersection to ward off Empty Nest Syndrome. I imagine her going to her grand-children's soccer games, taking pictures that will never see the light of day on her point and shoot camera and cheering until her throat becomes hoarse.

Again, I can't explain why this is my vision of her life when she's not in that intersection. It just is.

Oddly, the first time I saw Paperlady C on Paperlady A's median, I wondered if Paperlady A knew that someone else was on her turf. I envisioned the two of them gently placing their stack of papers down and start tearing at each other's safety vests and hair, trying to punch each other in the nose. Like a grown up version of King of the Mountain. Except on a brick-lined median in the middle of the desert instead.

The turf war I like to imagine in my head never happens though. That disappoints me a little.

However, not long after Paperlady C tried to depose Paperlady A from her median, I finally saw the two of them standing together. I watched them speak with each other, praying the light would stay red long enough to see my flights of fancy come true. There were bold gestures on both parts, and before the light turned Paperlady A did in fact end up walking to the median across the street. She didn't look happy. It's possible I imagined that, though, because it's more fun to think the seeds of conflict are growing as opposed to them reaching a reasonable compromise.

Compromise is boring.

I do suspect, though, that they worked out some sort of time-share because I've noticed lately that one of them will be on the contested median in the morning, and then the other one is there in the evening.

I've been chronicling these events to dh as I've watched (and imagined) them unfold over the last few months. When I mentioned my time-share theory the other day he laughed. It amuses him that I've gotten so wrapped up in this whole thing when, really, I don't have a clue as to what is really happening. Maybe they were comparing notes or something that day I saw Paper ladies A and C talking. Maybe Paperlady A was complaining about her husband/live-in boyfriend. Or maybe even her girlfriend. I have no idea.

"I don't know what is really going on out there," dh said to me, "but I don't think I want to know, at this point. I like your version so much better!"

And you know what? I like my version better, too.

I can't explain why I'm so intrigued with the homeless/not homeless Paper ladies occupying practically every median in that intersection. I think that it's just that I see them every day as I'm driving the girls and myself to one errand or activity or another. Also, I tend to have a rich "inner life" (i.e. Imagination). Or so I'm told.

But this "rich inner life" springs to action while I'm driving, especially.

Everything and nothing runs through my mind when I'm behind the wheel more than any other time of the day.

Probably because I can't safely knit and drive at the same time.

In any case, I'm going to continue keeping a watchful eye on Paper ladies A and C. Maybe one day I'll see the knock-down-drag-out fight I've been waiting for. Because, really, what's more amusing than two (homeless???) women coming to blows over who gets the median so they can sell their papers?!!!

Nothing, as far as I'm concerned!

Tulibu Dibu Douchoo or That's Not Really What The Song Says, Lady

I'm not really an American Idol fan. The few times I have watched it were the try-out episodes because I think it's funny to watch the people who actually think they have talent but truly don't.
Apparently, though, American Idol becomes much more interesting when you call it Music Idol and base it in Europe. Then it's not so much a matter of talent, but knowing your lyrics especially when the language isn't native to you.
And now, for the funniest wanna-be-music-star performance ever (in my humble opinion), I present this chick who thinks she is singing Mariah Carey's song, Without You.

Seriously, couldn't she google the English lyrics from Bulgaria?

Um, yeah those who-cakes are for me

You know how, every once in awhile you get excited about a movie coming out? You may even occassionally (particularly if you're a parent) you even become excited about the occassional children's movie.

Well, at least, I do. My movie-obsession this month? Horton Hears A Who.

I can't really explain it. I've never seen the classic, and as far as I know, I haven't made it around to reading Horton Hears A Who- for my children or myself. But that's not even what I've been especially excited about.

I was excited about the IHOP Who-Cakes, created in honor of the movie release (God bless them for that!).

I happened to take a gander at the IHOP site on Friday (occasionally I "window shop" restaurant websites. I'm sick, I know) and saw the 4 who-cake specials. The stack of pancakes have this colorful blue and pink boysenberry syrup-type sauce drizzled on it with nerds-type candles sprinkled throughout. And then there's the pink (bubblegum flavored) lollipop sticking out the top. It came with "green eggs" (eggs with spinach) and ham. Yum. It was all I could think about when I went to bed that night.

So Saturday we're out and about town, and I didn't get a chance to eat breakfast since we had to dash to A.'s Soccer Pre-Season meeting. Not surprisingly, I started to get a little hungry not to long after finishing up. I mentioned to dh how hungry I was, since I had missed breakfast. Well, he asked, what do you want?

I didn't really have to think about it, although at first I felt a little silly admitting it.

"I want who-cakes" I finally said. He smiled. He may have even laughed. Now that I think about it, I'm almost sure he laughed. I started to backtrack. I guess I don't care, I replied.

But dh being the wonderful hubby he is said (once he finished laughing) "if you want who-cakes, we'll get who-cakes". Maybe he only did this to get his daily dose of "wierd things my wife does" episodes.

Do I really have to tell you that ordering the Jo-Jo kid breakfast (smaller portions than the Mayor's breakfast) amused him to no end, and he laughed. Again.

So we ordered.

Of course, when the food finally came, the waitress started to set my breakfast in front of S. I reached out to take the plate from her. "Um, those are actually for me" I admitted as I ogled the yummy looking short stack.

"It's okay." She told me as she doled out everyone else's plates. "You're not the first."

That made me feel a little less silly. But just a little.

Need I say that dh spent our entire mealtime suppressing fits of laughter as he watched me eat my food.

Oh, and by the way. The food- YUMMY! The spinach and eggs were interesting, but still good. That's the best I could come up with.

No child can resist the allure of a lollipop. Especially not one sticking out of a short stack of pancakes (which I ended up sharing with the girls because they wanted a taste of my who-cakes, too). A. almost tricked me into giving her my lollipop. But just in time I realized, this lollipop came with my breakfast. And I will unabashedly admit that I, like a selfish child unwilling to share their favorite toy, reminded her it was my lollipop and stuck it in my mouth.

Harsh! Some of you may be thinking.

How ridiculous! You others may want to scream at me. Taking candy from a kid.

I know! I know! It's probably a little of both (but is it really like taking candy from the baby if it's my candy their after?) But I enjoyed those who-cakes so much that I almost forgot that I was the adult!

I have yet to see the movie.

I'm contemplating either going with the girls (maybe dh, too) or just jetting off to watch it myself while dh stays at home with the girls.

But that would be too weird.

Or would it?

Either way, try the breakfast guys! It's muy muy delicioso!

I'm Fucking Matt Damon

No, really, I'm not.
But according to this video, Sarah Silverman is. Go girl!
Some of you may have seen this already, but you should watch it again because it's pretty fucking funny!



Jimmy Kimmel, Sarah Silverman's boyfriend, didn't take this laying down (so to speak). Here is is response:



How awesome is that?!

The “Don’t Show Santa” Video Series

I have some pretty brilliant friends. Most of them are pretty brilliant without even thinking about it, which makes them even more, well, brilliant.

Let me explain.

Last week I was telling a few friends about this colossal melt-down both girls had at the mall a few days earlier. I'm going to spare you the details of what was perhaps the most stressful 30 minutes of my life and just say they were world-class fits. They were going off at the same time and we were in public!

So I was telling S. and A. (my friends, not my kids) about how I just started singing to them, telling them in verse how they were going to be in trouble when we got home as we were making our way out of the mall and into our car. They were wailing the whole time, but I just kept singing. I had to. It was the only thing keeping me from handing them off to a stranger with the promise of a notarized letter transferring parenting rights to them within 24 hours.

Of course, because it wasn't her, and because it was over, S. thought it was pretty amusing. Honestly at that point, I did, too. But then she said something so brilliant she deserves, like, a Nobel peace prize for parents.

"Do you ever think to record them when they get like that?" she asked us jokingly. "I know that I always try to record A. (her son) when he's doing something cute, but wouldn't it be great to catch him having a fit like that?"

"Yeah," I agreed. "It would be awesome!"

So, fast forward a week to this past Wednesday.

I don't even remember how it started (do we ever?). I just know that A. (my daughter, not my friend) started throwing this fantastic fit, refusing to go into her room when I told her too, and crying about how she didn't want to lay down. I picked her up under her armpits and placed her inside her room, where she crumbled to the floor like feta cheese on a greek salad and resumed her screaming there. We'd all been sick all week. And on that particular day my throat was hurting really badly, so I wasn't much in the mood for screaming or yelling. I did ask her to kindly cooperate, seeing as how I wasn't feeling well. But she didn't care.

Wah, wah, IT'S NOT FAIR! Wah, wah! She wailed. I shut the door and stood outside of it. Less than a minute later I hear this thumping around coming from her room. It did not sound good. I opened her door to see that she had turned over her plastic kitchen and her rocker chair.

"Oh," I said. "You want to start throwing things around you're room, huh?"

I took the kitchen and the chair out.

"Are you going to leave the tv and dvd player alone or should I take those too?"

"Noooooooo!" she replied.

Alright.

And then back to the screaming and wailing- this time about how it wasn't fair that I took her chair (she didn't care so much for the kitchen right then, I suppose). I stared at her, at a loss as to how to handle this.

And that's when I remembered my conversation with S. last week.

Without saying anything I went and found dh's camera, which takes videos. I walked back to A.'s room where she continued to carry on and turned the camera on.

At some point she turned her head and noticed I was recording her.

"Noooooo!" she cried. "Don't take a movie of it!"

"Why don't you tell me why you're upset, again?" I asked. She got up off the floor, went behind her door and tried to shut the door on me. Unfortunately for her I was close enough to put my foot out and stop it before it could close on me.

So not cool.

I went behind the door where she was trying to hide and raised the camera up to her face.

She calmed down enough to tell me again that she didn't want me to take a video of her.

"Are you going to stop throwing things around your room?" I asked.

"I don't want you to show it to Santa!"

"Are you going to be good?" I asked again. She nodded and agreed to lay down for a little bit. When she started up again a minute later, I just went back in with the camera and started recording. She calmed down as soon as she saw the lens pointed at her.

I set the timer for 15 minutes, but somewhere about minute 8 she thought she'd try sneaking out of her room.

Again, I grabbed the camera, turned it on and told her she had 7 minutes left. A. took one look at the camera, crossed her arms and then stomped back to her room, where she stayed. Quietly. Until the timer went off.

That was all it took.

I would love to show you the video, but I promised her I wouldn't show it to her friends or to Santa (who just might read my blog, you know).

Just know that this has become my favorite discipline technique! We've only had to take the camera out two more times since then. Her last outburst didn't last very long.

So now I carry dh's Canon with me, to gather evidence for Santa when they act up in public.

I imagine we'll have a nice little collection of Don't-Show-Santa videos by the time Christmas rolls around this year.

Or maybe not…

Stranger things have happened, right?

Stupid Human Trick Lessons

Stupid Human Trick Lesson #1

It is not a good idea to talk while trying to spit into a trash can where the lid pops up when you step on a pedal. It's a guaranteed collision course to smacking your nose right on the edge of the lid. Especially if you are not paying any particular attention to where the lid is in relation to your nose.

And it hurts.

Stupid Human Trick Lesson #2

It is not a good idea to jump through a moving hula hoop onto a yard landscaped with pokey rocks. Your hands will get scratched up.

And it hurts.

You’re making a mess, mommy

S. walks into my office with her hands on her hips. She looks around and sees the cabled knit squares I was putting together on the floor.

S: Hey, you're really making a mess on the floor!

Me: Oh, I am, am I?

S: (comes closer to investigate. Steps on top of the squares) Yes, you are. Stop it.

Exit, stage left.

In the living room to dh and A.

S: Mommy's really making a mess in the office!

A: Yeah, I know.

Japanese Zombie Game

This may be the funniest video I've seen in months! I love it, almost as much as the Japanese women's self-defense video.

Bonus- It's sub-titled, which is really what makes this video even more hilarious!

A Little Lesson In Manners From A.- sort of

A: Can we watch cartoons?

Me: Ak your daddy if it's okay

Dh: Sure

(we walk into the living room)

A: Is spongebob on?

I flip to Nick.

Me: No spongebob.

Flip to Noggin

Me: But Little Bill is on. Lucky me.

A: Is Little Bill one of your favorites?

Me: Yeah, not so much.

A: Why not?

Me: Because I think he's obnoxious (never mind she has no idea what this means). Much like Ruby in Max and Ruby. She's rude and mean.

A. thinks about this.

A: But you're rude and mean.

Me: EXCUSE ME?!

A: When I'm bad, you're rude and mean. Just like when Max is bad, Ruby is rude and mean.

I think about this.

Me: I suppose you're right. Except that Ruby is sometimes rude when Max is not bad. But good thinking. I love you.

A: (smiles) I love you, too.

When Will I EVER Learn

It all started innocently enough.

Weeks ago, A. came into the living room where I was reading to tell me that she was having bad dreams (although she'd only been in her bed a matter of moments and never really fell asleep).

I must point out that this has become a common occurence in our house.

So anyways, that night I told her to tell the bad dreams to "go away. You're not the boss of me!" She said okay, went to bed and came back less than 10 minutes later.

"The monsters won't listen to me."

Thinking myself to be very clever, I remembered she was sleeping with her princess blanket. And Disney princesses are magical, right?

Me: "Well, tell the monster that if it doesn't leave you alone, the princesses will beat them up."

A: "But, it won't go away!"

Me: "Just try it, okay?"

Silence.

Seconds later, compliance.

And minutes later, she returns.

Of course.

At a complete and total loss as to what to do, I racked my brain for something- anything I could use to get her to make the monsters go away and her stay in bed for the rest of the night.

Ah-ha!

A dream catcher!

Feeling quite pleased with myself for being so brilliant, I promised her we would go to Michael's and find some things to make a dream catcher the next day. I explained to her that it catches the bad dreams and only lets the good ones through the netting. Satisfied with this response, A. agreed to go back to bed and stay there and hold the monsters at bay for one more night.

So the next day we go go Michael's and because I hate buying things like this just for A., I bought a Dream Catcher kit for S., too. Not a terrible idea, though, since she seems to be catching onto the whole "I'll just keep coming out of my room and tell mama I'm having bad dreams until she decides to let me sleep on the couch and/or sleep with me" bug.

I promise you, I did look at the directions on the back before we bought them and it didn't look terribly difficult. It turns out I conveniently ignored the "6+" label as the appropriate age group. Because sometimes the girls can play with things meant for older kids provided there isn't anything to choke on. A.'s past the age of shoving things in her mouth but S. is just getting started (yes, at 3 years old. I know!).

I pay for the kits and we go home to make their dream catchers.

You know what I took out of the box?

A silver ring, a thin purple suede ribbon, some beads and feathers and this flossy type string. I look at the front of the box and notice the (finished) dream catcher is wrapped with the purple suede ribbon. I look back at the contents. The ring and the ribbon were two separate pieces coming out of the box.

Ooooh-kay.

I took out the directions and saw that I had to wrap the ring with the suede ribbon myself, securing the ends with glue.

Alrighty then. How hard could that be?

Yeah, well- it took me more than 10 minutes to wrap that damn ring because the suede ribbon was so thin and I had to keep readjusting. But finally it gets done and satisfied, I move on. I consulted the directions again and notice the nice netting in the ring on the box. I don't have a net to attach to the ring. It turns out, this flossy string- I'm supposed to create the netting by wrapping loosely around the edges of the ring and then wrapping through the loops over and over till we get to the middle.

Fuck.

I grab the flossy string and begin looping it per instructions. It looks like shit but I keep going. Then I began the second round of looping. It still looks like shit. I look back and forth between the box and the dream-catcher-in-progress in my hand. All the while, the girls are pestering me about finishing it, and telling me, "you have to put in the beads and feathers."

Yes, I know that.

Clearly, I am incompetent. In addition, I'm not moving fast enough for them.

After a half hour trying to create a dream catcher net, I give up. I am nowhere near being finished and there's no earthly way the girls can manage this themselves if we want them to be done before they graduate high-school. But I'm so fed up with it already that I just undo the netting, pack everything up and promise to get to it again… some other day.

Of course, in preschool-speak, "some other day" means "now".

The girls are upset that I'm giving up on the dream catcher so soon, and I'm upset with myself for creating not only more "work" for myself, but now a whole new drama because I know they will continue to tearfully admonish me for not finishing their dream catcher soon enough to make the bad dreams go away.

"Sorry, guys," I say. "But I just can't do this right now."

Or the next day- which A. doesn't really think about.

It's not until bed time that next night that she remembers my stalled attempt to create her dream catcher. She tearfully comes into the living room, telling me that if I don't finish her dream catcher, she's going to have bad dreams. I have no answer for this because I'm the one that told her the dream catcher would keep the bad dreams away. So I tell her, "go to bed. I'll work on it later." She reluctantly returned to her room. Peeved, I'm sure, that she must endure another night of bad dreams because I'm a retard who can't pay attention to detail!

Lucky for me, A.'s birthday comes along within days and between the gift-getting and ice-cream eating she forgets all about that damned dream catcher. Its days before she mentions it again, but mentions it, she does. And this time, dh is in the room to witness her distress.

"You've got to finish those dream catchers." He tells me.

Really? I think.

"Yeah," I say instead. "But you don't understand how much work those fucking things are!" (or something like that). He laughs because I've done it again- gotten myself in over my head with a project that was supposed to be for the girls but ends up being for me. I'm a fucking genius, I tell you.

I just can't bring myself to finish it. Because I feel like, if I have to spend one more second creating a fucking net out of dental floss, the floss would somehow end up wound around my neck, instead of in the ring- and that could lead to something tragic!

But now A.'s back to (consistently) reminding me about her dream catcher, and how I need to finish so that she doesn't have bad dreams. And all I can think of is… fuck. Because not only do I have to finish hers, but then I have to start on the one for her sister!

I should have just gone to some nearby reservation and bought authentic ready-made dream catchers! It may have cost me a little more cash-wise, but the sanity I would have maintained would have been priceless.

Just priceless, I tell you.

In Which We Learn A. Doesn't Have Shoulder Joints

Thinking that, perhaps, this really can't be that hard, I attempt to do it, too (just pretend like the mess in the background isn't there):

Triumph- Finally!

Ha ha! Those stupid mice couldn't outsmart us for long!

Dh finally found the rotting, stinking rodent corpse the other day, and he didn't even have to take the car apart to do it! He took the Merc to a car wash as he was waiting for our order from Subway on Saturday, and as he was vacuuming he hit something underneath the back left passenger seat. He lifted it up and wha-la! The missing mouse trap was revealed- with a jerkified mouse corpse inside pressed up against the smoky plastic. The cause of the offending odor was thus removed to the trash can, the car was thoroughly cleaned out and is now free of rodents (alive and otherwise) and mouse poop.

Yay!

I got the wonderful pleasure to drive the rodent-free vehicle this weekend and it smells lovely!

We finally got those mice bastards!

The Birthday Letter and Music hell

A. turned 5 today. Yes, 5. In six months she will be boarding a big yellow school bus and officially become a kindergartener! Wild.

Because I've been feeling super crafty and sentimental lately, I sat down last night and wrote her a letter about some of the things she learned to do in the last year. Realizing that 3 pages might be a bit much for such a young child to sit through, I told her she could stop me anytime she wanted and I would put the letter away.

I got through the introductory sentence.

Over 12 hours of labor 5 years ago, 2 hours of writing last night and 3 pages of effort and I get stopped at the introduction!

I know, I know. She's young and the letter won't really mean anything to her until she gets much older but I would have liked her to know what I wrote, anyhow. I think I must have had a vision of angelic smiles and huge, heartfelt hugs after reading her the letter. I was seriously delusional.

So, A. says "stop", and I fold up the letter, put it in the envelope and toss it onto the (growing) pile of books on my night table. And even though I anticipated a little bit of a lack of interest, I was still a little upset by the haste in which she wanted me to stop. And the speed in which she hopped off the bed and out of my room...

Oh, well.

Moving right along-

Have you ever gotten a song stuck in your head? I have just a touch of an obsessive personality, so songs get stuck all the time. They're not even always good songs either. Or grown up songs. Which is why this is particularly annoying, I think.

I've got a kids song stuck in my brain! It's like an illness, really.

Today I am being victimized by this cd of silly songs for kids (Wee Sing Silly Songs) I got for the girls. I was playing it for them this afternoon and somewhere around 20-something tracks in, a song came on called "The Green Grass Grows All Around". It's one of those songs where you build onto the verse and then put them all together before moving on.

It started somewhere around 3 pm. And it hasn't stopped. In. My. Head.

It played in my head as we got ready to go to dinner at 4:30, as I ate dinner about 6, on the drive to Coldstone Creamery at about 7, and then again as I navigated my way around Target buying pillows and carpet shampoo (approximately 8 pm).

And because misery loves company, I'll give you a glimpse of what the hell is break dancing around my brain. Since I love you all, though, I'll just cut right to the end (which is really the bulk of what's looping around my head, anyways):

"On that bug, there was a germ, the prettiest germ that you ever did see;

the germ on the bug and the bug on the feather

and the feather in the wing and the wing

on the bird and the bird in the egg

and the egg in the nest and the nest

on the branch and the branch on the limb

and the limb on the tree and the tree

in the hole and the hole in the ground

and the green grass grew all around, all around,

and the green grass grew all around."

There. If you made it this far you have officially entered my hell.

Welcome! I'll be bringing drinks around shortly.

What I'd like to know, though, is how the hell a bug gets into an egg?

What Crawled In Here And Died?!

It's been 3 weeks and we haven't had any more traps disappear. As a matter of fact, we haven't had any mice at all in this time. So this means we win, right?

WRONG!

Wrong because it seems that some rogue mouse died somewhere in that stupid SUV. It seems this way because the truck REEKS! I mean like, something seriously crawled into some hidey hole and died! We took the truck to the Renfest on Sunday, so we were in there for 4 hours total with no foul smell. But it's been heating up into the 70's this week. So dh's theory is that the mouse may have been there for the last several weeks, but was basically refrigerated. And now that it's warming up, well, you know…

Ewwwwww!

He's been driving around with all the windows open (we switched cars for a few weeks) so he doesn't suffocate in the disgustingness! So the plan? He's going to go through the car, maybe start taking apart the dashboard and what not to see if he can't find the decomposing mouse. *shudder* Better him than me cuz seriously- I think I would be so disgusted when I come across the rotting mouse that I would be puking for days. And then I'd be in therapy for more days, because I'll start having nightmares about skeletal mice chasing me into a plastic cube with a one way door, where a slice of yummy chocolate cake awaits as bait…

Flybaby

I am a flybaby. Although I have to admit, I haven't been as observant as maybe I should be (my morning routine springs to mind). But baby steps, right?

For those of you who are seriously confused, I'm talking about the techniques created by The Fly Lady for staying on top of housework and keeping your home organized.

Last week was my first week, and we were in Zone 5: Master Bedroom. Which turned out great because I had plans to clean up my bedroom, anyways.

But what most excites me about the Fly Lady system is the Control Journal. It's a place where you are to write down your daily/nightly routine, put detailed cleaning lists of the zones, record emergency numbers and stuff like that. So a lot of my time has actually been spent modifying the control journal to suit my needs and put one together.

Because I'm truly a geek, I have created several documents to go into my journal. I'll let you in on my geek-ness.

I am creating a Dinner Idea Master List. Sort of like a cook-book I guess. But it doesn't include recipes. I take recipes that I've found that we like, or that I'd like to try and put them all into a word doc by category (poultry, beef, fish, etc…) and I list their serving sizes and ingredients. I'm working on including general costs of the ingredients for each meal, but I still have to update my Grocery Price List before I do that.

The point of my Dinner Idea Master List is to help me plan dinners more efficiently. If I'm stuck for dinner ideas, I can consult this list and I'll see exactly what ingredients I'll need without having to go through the recipe books or web sites to get ingredients for each recipe. And when I include the price, I'll be able to have a better idea of how much we're spending on dinners, and I can adjust meals according to price when I have to.

I've been working on it all week. Oddly, I am actually having a good time doing this! It's so sick and crazy, I know. But I think about how much easier meal planning will be for me with this document. So far I've got over 35 recipes. Some we've tried, many we haven't. If we try one and don't like it, I can just delete it and move on. Of course, it will always be a work in progress as I find new recipes and get rid of others.

I created a document where I can list 3 weeks worth of menu's as a master reference of what we'll be having and I've created Weekly Dinner Menu's. As in, the meals for the week are presented on it with cute little clip art and funky type just like you would see in a restaurant. That goes on the fridge, so I have a pretty little display of the week's menu.

See that? Geek.

Hades Has A New Address

Hades has a new address.

Yes, the entirety of Hades has moved, taking it's captives with it.

It is now located at:

1234 The W. Household Circle

Tucson, Az blah blah blah blah

Please make a note of this and take the time to change it in your address books.

Rescuing The Princess

In more ways than one.

I thought about A.'s lost toy phone all night. Part of me felt that I should just go back and get the phone (if it was even still there) and just give it to her, and part of me felt I needed to teach her a lesson and make her earn money to get a new one.

The first part of me won.

I called the Children's Museum when they opened up today and asked if anyone had turned in a toy princess cell phone. Yes, the person said, we do have a princess phone. But she sounded reluctant to tell me it was there. "We were having a lot of fun with it last night," she said. "We were taking pictures of each other." (apparently, this phone has a functional camera- sort of. Who knew?)

"That's great." I said. "We'll be by to pick it up today."

"We'll take good care of it for you."

I didn't tell A. that we were going to get her phone back until we were half-way to the Children's museum.

She was so happy to see that phone, and the guy behind the admissions counter was happy to have made her smile. That was very sweet, I thought.

So, what did I end up doing with the phone?

I gave it to her with no strings attached.

I figure it this way- if I had lost something that I purchased, and thought I knew where I had left it, I would go back and get it before I replaced it. Since this is something that A. purchased with her very own hard earned money, she deserves the same courtesy I would give myself or dh had it been us who had lost something. Particularly something we cherished.

And so, the Princess was rescued phsyically (the toy phone) and emotionally (A.) by the Mom-In-The-Silver-Mazda and everyone lived happily ever after.

The Triumph Over Potty Training

Sort of.

I have changed approximately 3 pull-ups in the last few days.

No, no. S. has not finally decided that using the potty at home is the coolest thing in the world.

I'm having her change her pull-ups herself. She takes off her shoes, her pants, her pull-up, cleans herself up and puts a new one on. I actually got the idea from a passing comment a friend made last week when I was going on about my potty training woes. She just started telling me about different things that her friends had done to potty train their children. And one of them made her daughter change herself.

It didn't register right away as being something that we should try until a few days later, I found S. sitting in her pink rocker chair- she was soaked, her chair was soaked. And she was wearing a pull-up. She wasn't bothered the least bit by it, either. This surprised me because I had changed her just a few hours earlier but this child pees more often and in greater quantities than I've ever even heard of!

As I was shampooing her chair (for the fourth time that week- perhaps we should find chair covers?), I thought about how much this sucked. I'm shampooing furniture whether she's in pull-ups or panties- plastic or otherwise.

Then it hit me.

If she doesn't want to pee in the potty, or tell me when she needs to be changed- she'll just clean up and change herself, dammit.

So, I took a brand-new pack of pull-ups, put it in the cabinet underneath the sink. I showed S. where the pull-ups were, and explained to her that from now on, when she needs a new pull-up, she has to come into the bathroom and take care of herself (I still help with the poopy ones though. I'm afraid poop will end up all over the bathroom floor if I don't, but luckily those don't happen too often)

There was a little resistance the first time. The getting off not such a big deal. It was the putting a new one on that was the problem. It took about ten minutes for me to get her to do it. She peed on the carpet in the meanwhile. Lucky me.

But since then, it's actually been going pretty well. I still have to ask/tell her it's time to be changed. But she heads straight to the bathroom where all this business is being done now and did what she needed to do. She even put a new one on immediately and without a fight! Yipeeee!

And here's the kicker- she was so proud of herself!

I'll take what I can get.

Another thing I did was copy a picture of the huggies pull-up designs from their website. I typed "S.'s pull-ups" on top and printed it out at about 6x6 image. Then I taped it on the cabinet door which led the way to her pull-ups.

Oh, how she loved that!

This last time I shuffled her into the bathroom, she ran! Then sat on the bathroom floor and ooo-ed and ah-d over this lovely picture of the princesses which also adorned her pull-ups. Then she changed herself and ran back into the living room. The whole thing took less than five minutes, and all I had to do was get her and take her back to the bathroom!

And again, she proudly proclaimed "I did it!" I congratulated her and fussed over her being such a smart girl before she ran off.

If I'd known this particular method would be so much less soul-wrenching for the both of us, I'd thought of it much sooner! But the important thing now is that I found something that works.

She's still not "potty trained", but I'm not changing pull-ups every few hours either. It's a win-win situation.

Also, A. saved up just enough money doing chores that she was finally able to buy the princess cell phone toy she saw at wal-mart last week. I gave her the money to give to the cashier all by herself, even. She was so excited! She's been carrying that phone everywhere since she bought it yesterday, occasionally flipping it open even as we're walking and putting it up to her ear to see what Princess Jasmine has to say about Aladdin's latest adventures.

But she lost it at the children's museum today, and we didn't realize it until we were half-way home. It was too late, anyways. The Children's museum would have been closed by the time we got back there.

It really was heart-wrenching for me to see her distress over losing that phone. Because it wasn't just any phone. It was the very first thing she's ever bought with money she, herself, has earned.

I thought about calling them, turning around and going back for it, but I didn't. As much as it sucks, this is a great way for her to learn about keeping track of her things and taking responsibility for them. I'm always telling her to keep this or that in the car because I don't want her to lose it. But today I just didn't. I didn't think of it. My bad. But this isn't about me.

I told her that I was sorry she lost it, but that she could earn more money to get a brand new one, and maybe next time she'll be more careful with her things. Surprisingly, that was enough to quell the tears flowing down her cheeks. Still though, I'm thinking about calling the Children's museum to see if her phone has been turned in. But then what? If I give it to her, she'll never learn to be responsible for her belongings.

So now I'm trying to think of extra things she can do around the house this week to earn the money back faster (that $3.06 was the result of weeks and weeks of accumulated change).

I just feel so terrible that she lost it so soon after buying it.

It's hard to be a preschooler, sometimes, isn't it?

Still There

I caught another mouse in the garage.

In the car- not so much.

And yet again, in the car there was a cracker on the outside and NO FUCKING TRAP!

I looked under the seats, between the seats- where I noticed that the traps weren't the only thing this fucking vermin was rearranging. I found a moth ball (which was in the drivers side cupholder) underneath the front passenger seat.

Son of a bitch!

That fucking rat bastard!

I don't want to use poison because I'm afraid that it will work, but the mouse will crawl into it's hidey hole before it croaks, and then I'd be left with a rotting mouse carcass somewhere in my vehicle.

This whole ordeal gives me the neebie jeebies. I get all shivery- the kind of shivery you get when you're scared of something and not sure if you'll be able to escape.

What the hell does a girl have to do to get rid of an obviously smart magician mouse?!

Seriously.

Ideas anyone?

Updated to say:

I am bolting down the traps tomorrow. Duct tape, velcro, super glue-

let's see houdini make it disappear then!

The Rodent Magician

This is going to sound terribly disgusting. And if you happen to be someone whose vehicle is manned by children (in any number) 95% of the time yet have managed to not have stray French fries on the floor boards or sticky car seats will probably definitely find this terribly disgusting.

I do have to say though, that I am disgusted myself so- I won't be hating on the haters this time, yo.

There are vermin living in my car. Or maybe just one mouse. I'm not sure yet.

See, I started noticing these odd black rice sized thingies scattered in the cup holder and on the floor boards of our suv. I immediately figured out that we had a boarder of the disease-carrying kind. I did what any normal person does when faced with an unknown situation. I googled, "there is a mouse living in my car". Lo and behold, I found page after page of people plagued with the same problem.

*whew* I'm not alone in my disgustingness, then. That makes me feel just a teensy bit better. But just a teence.

So anyways, the vermin must go.

First I deep cleaned the interior of my car. I vacuumed in spaces I had no idea even existed, pulling chairs up and even getting into the compartment in the back where the jack is (who knew it was even there??? Not me!). I was sure I'd find that fucking mouse just a nibbling away at some wire or piece of plastic. But no such luck.

After I vacuumed, I wiped the consoles down with Lysol wipes, and then I shampooed everything- the floor boards, the seats…

Satisfied with my wonderfully clean and mouse-shit free vehicle, I went to Target to get moth balls, which I read mice did not like. I bought a box and just dropped like, 5-6 in one of the cup olders. And yet, the droppings showed up again the next day.

Son of a bitch!

Now I had to get all hard core and actually buy mouse traps!

On the way to Wal-Mart, I pondered the techniques used to dispose of a live mouse stuck on a glue pad (I'm not fond of having to clean up mouse guts). Do I just throw it right into the trash like that (ewwwww)? Do I smash it's head with a hammer and put it out of it's misery (double ewwwwww. And kinda psycho, don't you think?). Luckily, once I found the traps at Wal-Mart I realized that I would have to do neither. Because there were these "humane" (funny, how I'm all concerned about being humane to disease carrying vermin which are not, um, human) traps called Mouse Cubes or something like that. It's a rectangular plastic box with a few holes in the door, which only goes one way. So the mouse can get in, but can't get out.

Disposal then became less of a concern for me. I figured when I trapped the mouse I could take it into the desert (away from my house) and let it free to be eaten by snakes (which is another reason these mice must go. Snakes eat mice. And remember what happened a few months ago? I don't know that I could sufficiently bash a rattler to death with A.'s walking stick all by my lonesome. I prefer dh to do the dirty work.)

The directions on the trap suggested that I smear peanut butter on a cracker and slide it into the trap (not cheese. Huh.). And so we got home and I got to work putting crackers slathered with peanut butter into the traps. The directions also suggested that I put a little bit of pb on the door of the trap, to attract the mice. So I did that, too.

Two traps went into the garage, because I remembered dh telling me, not too long before I realized that mice were living in my car, that he saw one in the garage.

And two went into the SUV.

I've been driving dh's car while I make my suv rodent-free, because this mouse (these mice?) are fucking smart. I've never seen or heard one in my car. Just seen the droppings. And you know what else? The day after I cleaned my car, I took the girls to story time. I went into B&N with a shit-free car and came out two hours later to see droppings on the back passenger floor!

That fucking mouse waited until we were no longer in the vehicle and then took a dump all over the fucking place! So, I figured I had to stay out of the car, to increase the chances of catching that little fucker.

The next day I found mice in the garage.

Take that, you car-shitting fucker!

Then I checked the traps in the car.

The one in the left rear passenger side was missing.

MISSING!

But when I looked under the seat, there it was. With the peanut butter cracker sitting RIGHT IN FRONT OF IT!

I have no idea how that is even possible, but the fucking mouse moved the trap and got the cracker out of the trap with the one-way door! Oh, and he pooped in the pb. Ewwww.

I shut the door and checked the front passenger side trap.

The trap was still in place, and the cracker was still there, but the pb I smeared onto the door to attract it/them to it was all licked up! There was a clean trap door!

Mother fucker!

I went back inside, furious that I was being bested by mice. Mice! I glanced at the mouse traps in the garage, each being occupied by an unsuspecting mouse. "You'll pay," I told them on the way into the house, "you're little buddy wants to be a smart-ass, so you will pay. Let your demise be an example to him/them!"

Right then I decided that I was just going to toss their traps into freezer bags and then into a plastic target bag and then finally into our trash can (thank God trash day was the next day).

Life is cruel like that.

It took an extra day for me to catch the mouse in the car. In the front passenger trap cowered a little gray peanut-butter-car-shitting nuisance and I laughed when I saw it there.

Triumph!

I got you my pretty.

I had hoped he was the only one, but I can't be sure. Because when I checked the back trap again yesterday, it was gone. Not moved this time, but disappeared! I checked the very back, where the 3^rd row seating is- the trap is fucking gone. Like some kind of rodent David Copperfield putting on a show, the fucking trap had VANISHED. I don't know if it vanished before or after I found the one mouse because I didn't check that one again until later. But it's not there anymore. Or anywhere from what I could see.

Son of a bitch! Bested again!

We'll see about this.

Yesterday I went back to Wal-Mart, purchased four more traps. This morning they were placed, as before, two in the garage and two in my car.

As of this afternoon- no mice.

This could be a good thing meaning I caught them all. Or this could mean that Vermin Copperfield and his remaining buddies are incredibly smart and sly.

I'm hoping for the former.

Because really, my ego can't handle being out-smarted by a fucking rodent again.

I Trust You, But…

A conversation at Jamba Juice:

A.: I want an orange drink.

Me: we're going to share today (they never drink all of theirs).

A.: Are you getting orange?

Me: No, I'm getting something else, but it has strawberries in it. You'll like it.

(after a brief pause of consideration)

A.: Well, I trust you, but I still want my own.

Potty Trainers Anonymous

*Note: This will be the LAST post about potty training EVER. I'm sick of thinking about it, so I'm sure you're sick of reading about it. Thanks for sticking around!*

Hi. My name is Lynn, and my 3 year old doesn't use the potty.

That's right, folks. Potty training boot camp is officially a bust.

This past week I finally got a hold of more plastic panty covers and began using them over real panties, instead of the plastic panties with the liner. And you know what?

Not only was I still shampooing wet spots off of the upholstery and carpeting, I began cleaning trails of pissy foot prints off the floor with Lysol wipes and Pinesol.

We did give it a break for a few days, because not only was S. not using the potty- even after replacing the plastic panties with plastic panty covers- but she began crying every time she peed her panties and we had to clean her up and change her! I didn't think that was such a good development. So we put her back in pull-ups and went about our business.

S. quite obviously isn't ready to use the potty at home, yet. Just in libraries and malls, apparently. But then today she said she wanted panties on so I put them on her, thinking maybe we've made progress since she requested.

Ha ha! The jokes on me, man!

Cuz she still peed (and pooped, lucky me) in her panties, left behind pissy foot prints traveling from her bedroom to the living room and back to the bathroom, and I still had to shampoo the carpet and clean those prints off of the floor. Oh, and also the bathroom floor, because her panties were dripping urine from beneath the panty covers. Into the laundry they go.

I have made peace with the fact that S. may well be in diapers when she finally leaves for college. And when she gets married, we'll have to find or special order really pretty plastic panty covers (perhaps with frilly ruffles and sequins) for her to wear under her wedding dress. Her groom probably won't want to be rooting around under the dress for the garter at the reception, but who cares? At that point, her potty habits will officially be his problem and not ours. Maybe we can marry her off early? Let's say, when she turns 4? Then someone else can take over this wonderful task of civilizing this stubborn kid, and I won't be buying pull-ups for the next 15 years?

I know for a fact that some of you have sons. Anyone want to betroth their son to S.? I'll throw in a year's supply of pretty-as-a- princess-pull-ups as part of the dowry…

Why don't you take the weekend to think about it.

You know where to find me once you've made your decision.

Say It Ain’t So

The strike, the strike. That damn'd Writer's Strike!

It appears that my favorite shows will continue to be on hiatus as the Writer's Guild of America attempts to coerce the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers (AMPTA) to satisfy their demands.

To date, the strike has lasted 9 weeks and 3 days according to wikipedia, with shows such as Private Practice and Pushing Daisy's (two of my favorites) among those whose production has come to a halt until the savage beast we have come to know as the WGA, can be soothed.

However, on January 2nd, David Letterman returned to night time tv with a full writing staff after their demands were negotiated and met by Worldwide Pants, Letterman's production company.

And lucky me, Grey's Anatomy returns tonight with an all-new episode. Hopefully the first all-new episode of many for the rest of the season.

Hey, it's something, and I'll take it!

Being that the strike was organized by the Writer's Guild, it seems a little odd that factions of that guild would return to work while others wait to have their terms accepted. Guild spokesmen refer to the return of Letterman's show as their "Trojan Horse". They contend that, as a result of Letterman's writers getting what they asked, the other writers's demands will come to the attention of show producers and apparently save them all. As if other show producers are hiding with their heads in the sand and have no idea what the writers are demanding if they are to return to work.

This, quite frankly, sounds like a lame excuse for why writer's of one show are getting what they want as other writer's man the picket lines until their terms can be met. Were they striking then, as an organization? Or as teams of writers assigned by show?

Hopefully, this is an indicator that the Guild does not have the stamina to really "stick it to" the networks and their show producers until the bitter end. That would, indeed, be great news for those of us who are nervously pacing in front of our televisions and obsessively checking the next days tv schedule to see if our favorite show has been reinstated.

But, the last Writer's strike, which took place in 1988, lasted for 21 weeks.

God, help us all.