A Note to A Future Serial Murderer

Dear Five-Year-Old at the Park With the Constantly Runny Nose and Oafish Head Who Stalks My Daughters:

I'm pretty sure this is how Ted Bundy started out. Your yearning to torture domesticated animals will probably begin in a few years at which point your mother will find cat corpses strewn about the yard and suspect a wild fox lurks in your bushes. But, no, it will be you.

I honestly didn't know I had it in me to dislike a child so much. For whatever reason, you are fascinated with my daughters and, well, who can blame you? The best thing I can say about you at this point is you have good taste in the opposite sex.

You know how whenever you infringe on their personal space they scream bloody murder? This is not a compliment. This is toddler speak for "F@#$ off." Please do so. I realize my venom should be reserved for your mother, who seems to be overly preoccupied with texting someone (your father? her boyfriend? the plastic surgeon who gave her the worse boob job I've ever seen?) and her nails, which she stares at in a way that makes me wonder if she's been lobotomized.

I understand you start kindergarten in a few weeks. This both pleases me as we will see you less frequently and terrifies me on behalf of whatever sweet woman (are there any male kindergarten teaches besides Arnold in Kindergarten Cop?) finds your name on her attendance sheet. The good news for me and my family, however, is you won't be sniffing at my girls and I won't have to have the following conversation EVERY TIME I SEE YOU (do you have early onset of dementia?):

You: Are they twins?

Me: Yes.

You: (real antagonistically) Then why aren't they dressed alike?

Me: Because that's stupid.

You: All twins I know dress alike.

Me: (ignore and try to walk to other end of park but am followed)

You: Why is that one fatter?

Me: She eats more.

You: Why?

Me: Because.

You: Because why?

Me: Please leave us alone.

You: Why?

Me: Dear, God, make it stop. PLEASE. I will stop (fill in something I have no intention of stopping) if you make him go away.

Then, as my pleas with the Creator are ignored, we have to leave and go to another park because he continues to follow us and pepper me with questions and upset the girls by trying to grab them. I hate that kid. And his mother. And possibly his father who presumably sanctions his wife walking around in a tank top braless.

The Needy Chef

Just when I think I'm the meanest wife on the planet, I read a story about a women who poured scalding hot water over her husband's balls while he slept. Granted, he was cheating, but still, I think that makes her meaner than me.

I don't think I've ever mentioned what a great cook my husband is. See? And he thinks I never say anything nice about him. I appreciate his culinary skills because a) I like to eat; and b) I don't know how to cook. He has a subscription to Everyday Food by Martha Stewart and several times a week whips up a high-end restaurant quality dinner. Glazed pork chops with smashed potatoes and stewed green beans. Herb-crusted salmon with spinach salad. Seared steak with mozzarella tomato salad and roasted vegetables. Nice, right?

BUT. People, there is always a but.

When he makes these dinners, I can't just say, "Wow, this is great! Thanks!" and eat my meal in peace. The conversation usually goes something like this:

Me: (sit down and take first bite of food) This is awesome, thanks.

Him: Yeah? Really? What do you think of the pork?

Me: Oh, I haven't tried it yet, but the potatoes are great.

Him: (Waits while I take bite of pork and watches my expression) What do you think?

Me: Delicious.

Him: Can you taste the pineapple in the glaze?

Me: Mmm hmmm. Very good.

Him: There's some brown sugar in there too.

Me: Yeah, tastes good.

Him: Do you think it's overdone?

Me: No, it's perfect.

Him: Maybe I'll make this the next time the So-and-Sos come over for dinner.

Me: Good idea.

Him: What about the tomato salad? Did you try that yet?

Me: (take bite of tomato salad) Yup, love it.

Him: I made it more peppery than usual. We got that new pepper dispenser. I think it made a big difference. Can you tell?

Me: Very peppery. Yes.

Him: The potatoes have a bit of heavy cream mixed in. Really makes them creamy, huh?

Me: I SAID EVERYTHING IS GOOD. SHUT THE FU#$ UP AND LET ME EAT.

I don't care that you went off-recipe and added a dash of paprika. And no, I don't think the new pepper dispenser made one iota of a difference. And, frankly, don't tell me there is heavy cream in ANYTHING because then I'm just thinking of how many freaking calories I just ate.

I think I'm just going to order Dominoes every night. Presumably the guy who makes the pizza won't come to my house, watch me eat and then proceed to grill me relentlessly like I'm a murder suspect. "Didn't I space out the pepperoni slices perfectly over your pizza?" "Can you taste the hint of garlic the Dominoes franchise makes us put in the crust batter?" "Not everyone can pull off adding chunks of pineapple to a pizza the way I can, huh?"

Good thing my husband doesn't know about this blog. He's making grilled beef tenderloin tonight so I don't want to piss him off.

Things Currently Annoying Me

I'm angry today. I can't quite put my finger on it but let me try:

• See the sign at the park that says, "No Dogs?" I'm not sure what is confusing about this sign. It even has a picture of a cute little dog with a red line through it. Oh, what's that? Your dog is nice and loves children? Well why didn't you say so! I will contact the Chicago Park District immediately and ask them to change the sign to read No Mean Kid-Hating Dogs. You're right sir, this rule couldn't possibly apply to you. Oh, sure, let your dog crap all over the park. No problem. I'll just return the favor and let my toddlers roam diaperless all over your lawn when it's time to do business and hope your dog steps in it and you have to scrub it from head to toe and it still stinks to high heaven. Then you can erect a sign that says No Toddlers and I'll explain that it can't possibly apply to my children because they are nice. A--hole. (PS -- I don't hate dogs so don't send me hate mail. I did, however, hate the book Marley and Me.)
• The Michael Jackson coverage. He's dead. He's not coming back. Please, by all means, let me know when you've closed your investigation and which doctors have been indicted but please please please for the love of God, stop with the play-by-play. And if the doctors are never indicted and don't lose their license to practice medicine still please send me their names so I know who is apt to give out Tylenol with codeine for no reason whatsoever.
• That presumably Jillian Harris may be moving to Chicago. Wicked! I'm pumped! I've got butterflies! Although truth be told I'd prefer Ed move to Vancouver. Chris Harrison, you seemed quite influential while talking Jillian into whose proposal to accept last night -- could you kindly suggest they take up residence in Canada? Any other country besides ours would be fine too.
• That I made a delicious acorn squash with brown sugar recipe and my kids won't eat it. I don't know for certain it's delicious since I won't try it either. Because it looks like squirrel guts. I'm an adult, I can eat Twinkies for dinner if I want -- why would I eat squash? But it's got brown sugar in it so how bad can it be. Damn spoiled kids don't appreciate my buying fresh organic vegetables and slaving away in the kitchen. God I'm old.

Oh, my husband is annoying me too but that's like mentioning Lindsay Lohan is a nutball. WE KNOW. Although I think he is annoyed with me too. Very rare. I'm just not that annoying of a person. I don't like these table-turning games. YOU are the annoying one and I am the one who gets annoyed. Get the roles right, buddy. It's been working like that for six-plus years and I'm in no mood to switch.

An Orange Billy Bob Thornton

My orange twin is decidedly more Halloween-esque than ever, bordering on the shade of a Burnt Sienna Crayola crayon. This is because she is ramping up her consumption of carotene-based foods, even for breakfast. While her sister happily munches on normal morning fare such as pancakes, French toast and bagels, Orangina points and yells, "Dat! Dat! Dat!" By "dat" she means sweet potatoes, butternut squash or anything that resembles a pumpkin.

Several helpful moms at the park have commented, "Wow that one is really tan!" as they sort of silently tsk tsk me for not properly applying sunblock. Because presumably I am a lazy mother who only has enough energy to slather lotion on one of her children. "You know what? All this sunblock applying is exhausting. THAT one can go without."

I'm thinking of telling people I've enrolled them in a sinister identical twin study on skin cancer whereby I allow one twin to get grilled mercilessly by the blazing sun each day without protection while the other is doused with head-to-toe zinc oxide so researchers can track if only one develops melanoma.

So now Orangina -- because being the color of cheddar cheese isn't weird enough -- has started taking on the mannerisms of Billy Bob Thorton in Sling Blade. "Mmm-hmmm..." she mutters in a deep-throated voice as she meanders around the living room. While some might find this alarming in the manner of calling in a child psychiatrist I find it alarming in that she might stop before I can capture it on videotape. Since my videos always need musical accompaniment -- I'm thinking People Are Strange by The Doors.

In summary: I have a chubby, pasty twin with OCD and a slim, orange, mentally-deranged twin who might want to kill Dwight Yoakam. Hopefully this will continue so nobody will bug me with the "how do you tell them apart?" question.

HUNG

I never considered myself a TV junkie. But as I look at the programs piling up on our TIVO that I am behind on, I realize perhaps I have a problem. I do my best to avoid getting into new shows, no matter how great they are supposed to be, because I can't imagine adding another one to my to-do list. It's like a job. For years I was admonished for not watching Grey's Anatomy. For the record, that Sandra Oh freaks me out -- although I didn't mind her in Sideways -- and I prefer to remember Dr. McDreamy as the dorky kid from Can't Buy Me Love.

My current list of must-see shows when they are in season:

• The Bachelorette: Good Lord Jillian is annoying. If you don't think she's annoying it's probably because you are annoying. No offense. I had the pleasure of recapping The Men Tell All this week so read it here. Go ahead, we'll wait.
• Denise Richards It's Complicated: I like to think it's only because I'm obligated for Reality Roadkill but really maybe she's growing on me. Don't tell Denise that if you see her.
• Entourage: Is Vince as boring in real life, one wonders?
• LOST: This works out well because Sawyer is in my top 5 and Kate is in my husband's. Unfortunately for me, my husband probably has a better chance because if Kate will sleep with the guy who played a munchkin or whatever you call those creatures from Lord of the Rings, chances are she's not too picky.
• True Blood: Did you know those two do it in real life, presumably minus the fangs?
• Jon and Kate Plus Eight: Again for Reality Roadkill but these people are NOT growing on me. Dear God pray it doesn't come back on or if it does it will include Jon's sexual exploits with bong-loving hussies.
• Flight of the Concords: Present! Murray is my favorite.
• Dancing with the Stars: Because I'm a big dork although not as big as that Samantha host chick. I'm not as tan either.
• House Hunters: Most people seem to watch it for the house hunting part. I'm always intrigued by the couples. Like one recently where a surgeon married some hottie little nurse 25 years his junior with the worst fake boobs you've ever seen and it was clear his kids hated her and you had to wonder what the jilted ex-wife thought about them house hunting for a tropical getaway on national television. They said they "met at the hospital" but forgot to mention he was married and having a severe mid-life crisis at the time. See? Who can concentrate on the property when there is so much to speculate about regarding the personal lives of the buyers.

So... (I'm getting to the point here soon, people, what do you have work to do or something???) with so much tv already on the weekly agenda, it is usually with great caution I add another show to the mix. But the previews for the new HBO show Hung got me curious. I mean, it's called HUNG. Because the guy is HUNG. Why be subtle? A divorced Detroit-based teacher has hit a low point, is out of cash and realizes his only true asset is below the belt so to speak so he decides to become a male prostitute. It's a lot funnier than it sounds... Check it out. I'm afraid nobody is watching and they'll can it and I'm now hooked. Which is what happened with that couples therapy show Tell Me You Love Me on HBO that aired one season, I fell in love with it and it disappeared. WHY WAS NOBODY WATCHING THAT??? I don't ask much of you people. So go TIVO Hung. Stat.

Like a Tim McGraw Song

When one looks death square in the face and lives to tell about it, one would think one would have a better outlook on life, wouldn't one? Sort of like that Tim McGraw song. If you think I was kidding that I was convinced I had eyelid cancer, I actually wasn't. I was quite sure. Ask my husband or my mom or that receptionist at Northwestern who wouldn't give me a hasty appointment and who had to listen to me ad nauseam as I quoted research articles and such. I even asked my sister if she would take my kids after I died but then remembered that my husband would probably want them.

No, I'm back to busying my mind with superficial, trivial issues like: If I wait for the JCrew Final Sale to be announced, will they still have those white denim boot cut jeans in my size? If I buy them now, can I buy another pair when they go on sale and then return them using the first receipt or is that technically stealing?

So, I'm back, baby! (Eyebrow-less, but back.) Cracking on Denise, making my husband miserable and generally collecting debit points on my karma card. And The Bachelorette is on tonight! All is well.

PS -- Tim McGraw: Hot or Not?

Bad Week Alert

I've had a bad week. For the third time in eight months, I had to have a large cyst cut out of my eyelid. It's called a chalazion and it sound a lot prettier than it looks. This process (I hope you're eating breakfast) consists of numbing the eyelid repeatedly with a large needle, then flipping the eyelid inside out, draining the lesion with a sharp instrument and then cutting the tissue away. ALL WHILE THE VICTIM IS AWAKE AND STONE COLD SOBER. I mean, give a girl a little Vicodin if you're going to torture her in the manner of the ancient Mayan civilization.

So upon suffering this indiginity and fruitlessly begging them to stop mid-procedure, my eye patch and I returned home and starting researching why this condition keeps recurring. It's then, thanks to Google, I was able to diagnose myself with a very rare cancer called sebaceous cell carcinoma, which "often masquerades as chronic chalazia." Boy, would those ophthalmologists at Northwestern feel stupid when I pointed out they clearly missed that I was dying! I thought of the huge lawsuit my husband would bring against them once I was gone. At least the girls would be taken care of for life, I comforted myself as I laid awake pondering how I would spend my last few months on Earth. (At the Sesame Street Beaches resort on Turks and Caicos).

I bullied my way into an appointment with the attending physician (residents were clearly not up to the task of diagnosing this rare disease, I reasoned) and calmly explained that I was dying and could she please verify that I in fact have this sebaceous cell carcinoma, which by the way I'm not sure how to pronounce so I had to spell it for her.

The good news: I'm not dying! (I bet doctors hate the advent of Google...) You'd think the knowledge one is not dying would put one in a celebratory mood and one would be thankful one is alive and well. You'd be wrong. Because the bad news is I have this chronic condition and may have to face this procedure in the future and frankly death looks like the better option. I hinted that I may need an itsy bitsy something in the realm of a narcotic if I have to go through it again and she said we'd "worry about that bridge when we have to cross it." Clearly she never crossed the bridge of having a snotty-nosed resident half her age digging enthusiastically into eyelid with all her wits about her.

In other bad news: The gal who waxes my eyebrows decided to wax them all off. I only have half an eyebrow over my left eye. Perhaps she was drunk? Mad at me? Went blind and the salon owner felt bad laying her off? I've been going to her for over a year so not sure what that was about. Of course I didn't say anything except, "Oh, looks great! Thanks!" because I'm rather nonconfrontational in those situations and find it more productive to come home and yell at my husband for something completely unrelated.

There is also a slight chance one of the girls has a broken toe, my car seems to be on the fritz and Reid was voted off The Bachelorette. You can bring ME coffee, Honey Bear! Good thing I'm not a recovering crack addict because I'm pretty sure if I was I'd be headed to the nearest dealer asap.

Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!

At first I felt bad. This poor woman has tourette's syndrome, I said to myself as I tried to ignore her incessant whooping during my usually low-key spinning class. Then a song she apparently really really really liked came on and the whooping ceased and the singing began. "It's raining men! Hallelujah, it's raining men! Amen!" She knew every word by heart and was standing up on her bicycle pedals screaming each syllable. I thought that song had kind of been taken over by the gay population but she was taking it back and making it her own.

I just looked down and pedaled along, kind of embarrassed for her and the entire room, and breathed a sigh of relief when the song finally ended. "NICE!" she declared loudly and clapped, looking around at the rest of us and trying to make eye contact, presumably wondering why we weren't cheering along with her.

"Woooo Hoooooo!" she shrieked when the instructor announced we were going to start a steep climb to the top of an imaginary hill. "YEEEESSSSSSSSS!" and she high-fived an invisible person and she yelped a few more times and I promised God I would be a better person if the next song was something like Nirvana to which she probably didn't know any of the words. Unfortunately, it was that Rolling Stone song about getting off of Mick Jagger's cloud. She didn't seem to know all of the words but was intermittently singing and humming and gesturing in a "get off my cloud" kind of way and then pointing at random people during the "hey hey you you" parts. I wondered if I could slip undetected off my bike and slither out of the room. But I sort of think she may have started hollering at me or singing to me or something.

Seriously, if she becomes a regular at this class, I may have to take to smoking pot -- which I don't even like -- to relieve stress in the mornings. This class is really the only time that works in my schedule so it's not like I can just switch times. What motivates one to be a menace during a 45-minute cardio workout? I think the karma gods sent her there to punish me for yelling obscenely at my neighbors on July Fourth.

Wes is Right: Love Don't Come Easy...

If you don't think The Bachelorette is the best television programming ever, you should seek therapy. Or maybe it's the other way around... Regardless, check out an update here. Is Vegas doing odds on the ending? If not, here are mine:

• Odds Jillian will pick Kippy: 2 million to 1
• Odds Jillian will pick Ed: 10 to 1
• Odds Jillian will pick Reid: 2 to 1
• Odds picked person will marry Jillian: 2 bazillion gazillion trillion to 1
• Odds Wes will wind up on a soap opera playing a villain after his album crashes and burns: 1 to 1

Although I heart Reid, Wes is probably the smartest of the bunch because he's the only who seemed to realize that Jillian bites. Having a hotdog theory doesn't make you quirky or spunky, sweetheart. (Jillian's words to describe herself, not mine.) But it does making you annoying. I am living for The Men Tell-All episode, airing July 20. Maybe it's me who needs therapy.

Getting the Orange Out

So I'm trying to concentrate more on non-orange foods and the Lisa Rinna-like hue seems to be subsiding. I feel bad now for mocking Lisa to high heaven. Maybe Lisa doesn't so much have a fondness for fake tanning as she does for sweet potatoes...

Have you ever seen such joyous consumption of unsalted green beans in all your life? Sheesh.

Ka Boom!

Nothing pisses me off more than fireworks. The illegal kind where dumb asses set them off with abandon in their backyard. So we get home from a Fourth of July thing and we pull into our house and there is a firework fiesta going down in the alley behind our place and our parking lot and deck are filled with debris. I say to my husband, who can be a hothead, to let me get the girls inside and he can come back outside to deal with it. But as we pull up I see the person setting off the fireworks is about 11 years old as his family sits around drinking and watching. Do you know how many kids blow their hands off with fireworks? Well neither do I but I was livid. I open the car door and start going nuts screaming, "Hey assholes! Your kid is going to blow his f@#%ing hands off AND it's ILLEGAL!" Some guy starts yelling back at me and we take the girls inside. I figure they are fully scared of me (I do The Crazy really well) and that will be the end of that. So pops start going off again and now the girls are in bed and they are being kept awake and slightly scared of this shit. I wait, peek out of our back window and see that now there are a gaggle of kids, some as young as eight, setting this crap off.

I go marching onto our deck and start hollering like some white trash hillbilly. The adults refuse to look at me so I continue screaming and point at them, demanding the fireworks stop. A woman looks at me and says, very calmly, "You didn't say please." This stumps me. She was right -- I guess I didn't say please. I march back inside and call my sister to bitch about this situation. "What are you guys doing?" I ask. "Oh, we're about to set off some fireworks for the kids. Can I call you back?" (But in my defense, they are legal where she lives...) Still, I feel like an ass.

Oompa Loompa Alert

I thought one of my girls was getting way too much sun but I couldn't figure out why the other wasn't. I slather them both with sunscreen so I was confused why one turning orange and the other is still relatively pale. The affected twin's color (and stature I suppose) is that of an Oompa Loompa. My first thought was, of course, how can I make money on this? Are they casting for a remake of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory here in Chicago? My next was, what disease does she have? I diagnosed her via Google (is there any other way?) as having jaundice and possibly hepatitis. Rather alarming in that I couldn't possibly get her cast if she's ill. But the whites of her eyes weren't also yellow, leaving the revised diagnosis as carotenemia which is harmless and results from eating too much stuff like sweet potatoes, squash and other yellow and orange foods. (Why do we need doctors anymore now that we have the Internet, one wonders?)

Anyway, only one of them has this condition because they like different foods. Which is a pain in the ass for me. "Hi, you're IDENTICAL," I like to point out. "Your taste buds should be, by all accounts, IDENTICAL." They just look at me like I'm an ass and continue eating separate menus.

So if anyone is in the market to cast a short, orange little person in a blockbuster Hollywood production, please let me know. I can Fed Ex her (C.O.D. only) for arrival by Monday. She doesn't like people so please make sure her scenes are solo.