The Diabolical Laugh

I have been busy working on a project. No, I don't like it anymore than you do, but alas they are paying me. In the meantime, please enjoy a short film that prove my children are insane. Oh, and me too. Can money be made from the talent of laughing manically on demand? Please advise. I will go back to posting on a regular basis pronto.

The Fireman and the Princess

My girls are identical twins, but unless a stranger reminds me of that or I am thinking up ways to monetize their very adorable existence, I usually forget they are identical let alone twins. I have never referred to them as "the twins." They are always "the girls" or their names. Not that I think there is something wrong with calling twins "the twins," I just never have. I've always just thought of them as sisters around the same age, and am literally dumbfounded -- as I was today and it happens at least once a week --when a person says, "Identical twins! Wow!" I always then take a good look at my daughters -- and they appear, seem and feel just so different to me that I am taken aback when a stranger sees them as identical.

I recently read a memoir called "One and the Same" about identical twins and part of it really jolted me. Identical twins apparently can feel "interchangeable" like it doesn't matter to family or friends who is who. To me, my girls are so unique, so individual, so equally special but in different ways that it would break my heart if they someday felt they were interchangeable to me or anyone else.

Today we went to a playroom and Twin B went running for the fireman outfit. She is tough and tomboy-ish and I think she'll be like Sporty Spice except without the bad grill and tattoos.

Twin A is all girl, she delicately tiptoes right for the tutus and the crowns and will be like Posh Spice, minus the anorexia, aggressive plastic surgery and overall alien demeanor.

Okay, they will be nothing like the Spice Girls (God willing) but you get my point. (And yes, I know Victoria Beckham no longer looks like that but I like to pretend she does. Deal with it.)

Anyway, today at this playroom was a dad, he's there a lot on the weekends solo with his daughter who is probably about 4. He always looks unclean, unkempt and unenthused, not necessarily in that order. I always picture that his wife scolds him that he works all week and the least he can do is take his daughter to a fun activity on the weekend so she can have a break or cook dinner in peace or screw the neighbor. Who knows. She apparently doesn't give him a chance to bathe before she kicks them both out the door. You've never seen a more miserable man on dad duty in your life and it makes me feel sick for the little girl. He alternately reads a magazine, texts on his cell phone and checks out the moms, again, not necessarily in that order. I want to helpfully suggest if he's there to get laid he might want to shower beforehand. Sheesh. Not that I do -- always shower that is -- but I'm not there trolling for sex plus I play with my kids. So there.

Okay, so this post was kind of rambling and not particularly amusing but I did make fun of Victoria Beckham and that always kind of makes me happy.

Oh, and Happy St. Patrick's Day. A couple was drunkenly fornicating in the alley behind my house last night. So if you are a mom who wonders why you moved to the suburbs -- that's why.

Bath Time and Bribery

Bath time makes me want to slit my wrists. I always envisioned bath time as a blissful little bonding period where children splashed merrily about and I cheerily washed their hair without issue. HELLO.

Oh, sure, she looks perfectly pleasant here but only because I promised we'd go upstairs and have a treat if she was good in the bath. And by good I mean just screamed for half the time instead of the whole thing. Are baths that unpleasant? In the summer I demand a bath nightly, because, well, I don't like pungent odors. In the winter I compromise with every other night and they act like I'm water boarding them.

I always brace myself before announcing it's bath time. (Breathe in and then faux exuberance): "Girls! Let's go have fun in the bath!" Lately the response is such: "How bout Friday?" Whenever they don't want to do something, they suggest we reschedule for Friday. Why Friday? I don't know -- why the hell not? They're crazy, that's why. My favorite is when they use this argument on Friday and I feel an inexplicable sense of superiority. "It is Friday," I inform them condescendingly.

When we finally get out of the bath, they go ballistic that they're freezing, even though I have a (probably illegal and dangerous) space heater blaring at 90 degrees and I'm sweating like a pig who was forced to do a spin class during summertime at the zoo. They yell "I cold!" over and over as if I sent them to Antarctica naked to sit on an emperor penguin egg. Sheesh.

So my answer to this has been, of course, bribery -- my favorite and most effective parenting tool to date. They received new (VERY WARM) Pottery Barn animal towels (above, which I will dock from their lunch money come grade school), lollipops and Dora coloring books with nifty little sparkly stickers. I'm thinking of buying them each a Ferrari and calling it a day.

Or I may just let them be filthy and pretty soon maybe they'll realize the human population will recoil in their presence. Oh, right, they'll like that because they hate humans. And speaking of which, the skinny, orange one just asked for a dog. She said, "I want puppy RIGHT NOW" so I gave her the pink stuffed one she got for Valentine's Day. She threw it back at me and yelled, "No, I want real puppy RIGHT NOW!" Because I think my kids are adults I asked, "Who will walk it and clean up its poop?" to which she informed me that Mommy would. Right, and Suri Cruise is coming to your third birthday party. Beat it.

Is it 2026 yet? Because I think that's when they leave for college.

Oscar Night Thoughts

I am the perfect person to give an analysis of the Oscars because:

1) I didn't see any of the nominated films, and

b) I pretty much fast forwarded through all of the acceptance speeches.

So that leaves me completely impartial and unmarred by pre-conceived notions based on the quality of movies themselves or my opinions of people's outfits clouded by rags-to-riches sob-stories by weeping winners.

Some observations:

I realize being married to James Cameron can't be easy, but is it so completely demoralizing that Suzy Amis won't eat, refuses to cut her hair (unless her next role is as Rapunzel, in which case forgive me) and ages at quadruple the rate of a president?

Suzy might want to talk to Demi Moore.

What the f@#$ is she doing? I want to know the name of the doctor and a complete list of procedures. Not that I can afford it, but I would show up at his clinic, hold him at gunpoint and make him perform whatever those procedures are immediately. I figure I could claim delayed post-partum depression and be out of the clink in three years (looking fabulous). The bonus would be my girls would be entering kindergarten upon my release from prison so I would skip the rest of these hard years and saunter back in as the hot PTA mom when my kids would be in school all day.

Did you see the tribute to John Hughes? I cried. Not out of nostalgia but because all those people peaked in high school and that seems kind of sad. The only ones that should ever show themselves in public again are Matthew Broderick and that guy who played Ducky who is now on Two and a Half Men. In particular, what happened to Ally Sheady and why? And Judd Nelson? Where did he get those glasses? And, at the risk of repeating myself: WHY?

What was on the back of Sarah Jessica Parker's head? Could she not get a babysitter for her twins so she decided to wrap them up and pin them in her hair? That doesn't seem very motherly.

What the hell was Monique talking about? Is her husband is little controlling or what? Regardless it was nice of him to let her off the leash to go up and accept her award.

What was with George Clooney's scowl all night? And that Italian bitch he was with? Did someone not tell her she is at the ACADEMY AWARDS with GEORGE CLOONEY. Cheer up! Sheesh. And I will go on the record now that I don't find Clooney remotely attractive. I'm serious.

What happens to Hollywood soundtracks when Randy Newman dies? Has there ever been a year he hasn't been nominated? And I think this year he was double-nominated. (Don't quote me on that, I was TIVO-ing around like nobody's business.)

The blogosphere was abuzz that John Travolta showed up at the Academy Awards wearing jeans.

People, his son died a year ago. You're lucky he didn't show up in pajamas. Give the guy a break! Really!

I love Steve Martin. Love him. I think we could have really had something. I also love Sandra Bullock and must confess I'm confused by her husband. Which reminds me of when he was on Celebrity Apprentice and Donald Trump's yes-man said Jesse James must be something special because Sandra Bullock could have married anyone and she married him. And deadpan Donald replied: "She couldn't have married me."

Why was Tina Fey dressed as Bam Bam?

I am the only person on the planet who doesn't like Tina Fey. I certainly understand that subconsciously I might be jealous, but I don't think that's it. I think I just don't like her.

That's all I got. I hope Suzy Amis isn't sick and I'm going straight to hell for criticizing her appearance. Although I'm probably going straight to hell anyway.

No Baggage Fees

The Reaction Upon Learning She's Been Accepted Into Pre-School

I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is the girls got into the pre-school of our choice (that being the only pre-school we applied to). I saw a big, fat envelope in the mail addressed to moi from the church and figured the same rules still apply that applied with college applications over two decades ago:

Big envelope = Welcome aboard!

Slim envelope = You suck!

Well, apparently we don't suck. I'd like to report this acceptance is directly related to my children's intelligence and good manners. But I think it has more to do with the $20 bill my husband sticks in an envelop every other Sunday. (Twice per month isn't bad for someone who hasn't been to church since 1998.)

I happened to drive by the church the other day and was wondering when we'd hear. It was then I noticed a large banner waving in the wind attached to the side of the building:

"Going on a life journey? Come fly with us. No baggage fees."

Really? I mean, really? Is this the national Catholic recruitment campaign or just a misguided local one? But while going on a life journey with them has no baggage fees, attending the school does. So here comes the bad news. They need a deposit by the end of the month of $1000, $400 of which is non-refundable. And, frankly, I don't think the girls will be ready by August.

So here are my choices:

a) Send in the deposit and hope the girls are potty-trained, off the bottle and generally less mentally insane by the time school starts. And if not we've lost $400. (And let's face it, in my wilder days I probably spent that much out carousing on a weekend.)

b) Decide to defer until the next school year when they will be going on 4. They will still have two full years of pre-school before kindergarten, but may be behind other children who started formal schooling in the womb.

c) One of the above and make sure either way I am appointed to the church marketing committee to lead the charge on a new campaign slogan.

Do we need that extra year of pre-school (they will be three in November)? Keep in mind my kids are "quirky" if we are being polite and "psychopaths" if we are being honest. As of now, they have a strong dislike of people, freak if I leave the house without them and think dropping to all fours and acting like a dog in public is completely normal.

Help!

Bedtime Shenanigans II

Game on, people. It's war. Via the monitor, I heard the girls softly conspiring and egging each other on: "Get out of crib.... right now!" one demanded of the other. ("Right now" is currently their favorite expression. It's cute when they're not climbing out of their cribs "right now.") I'm pretty sure I know which one is the instigator (Twin A aka The Orange Skinny One, on the right) and I plan on punishing her in a passive aggressive way when she's a teenager so that she can tell her therapist she has no idea why I'm so angry or even if I'm angry.

By the time I got down there, they had moved their bedtime necessities (blankies and pacis) along with themselves into the laundry room where they pretended to be asleep when I entered. Then laughed like hyenas because apparently they think they're the female incarnation of The Smothers Brothers.

I a) took a photo, then b) placed them back in their cribs with nary a word. I read somewhere that negative reinforcement is even worse than snapping a photo so you should say nothing at all. I am currently sitting in my kitchen giving myself a pep talk and anxiously awaiting Round 2. They might win a battle here and there but they will not win this war. I am going to go watch a few episodes of Band of Brothers to psyche myself up for what may be a long, somber series of sleepless nights. Not to diminish the importance of World War II, but in my cushy little world I might as well be General Patton drawing up the strategy for storming the beach at Normandy. (If this analogy is historically incorrect, I don't want to know. If I wanted a history lesson I would have attended class in college.)

People, my sanity is already hanging from a proverbial thread. I will, however, blog from the loony bin provided they don't put me in a straight jacket or hook me up to some machine that renders me like Jack Nicholson at the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

Pray for me. If you're into that sort of thing.

Bedtime Shenanigans

The Emergency Room is calling my name. This is what I found upon racing into my daughters' room the other day during what was supposed to be nap time. In case it's not evident, they both climbed in the same crib that offers access to a ledge where they continued to inch over and at some point would have been dangling from it without the crib as a safety net had I not lunged downstairs thanks to our video monitor, which before buying I predicted was about as necessary as a wipes warmer.

Of course, as discussed previously, it's hard to convince a toddler what they've just done is wrong if mommy whips out her cell phone to photograph the evidence for the amusement of strangers.

These girls, who have been excellent at slumber just like their mother up until this point, now have a million excuses why they can't nap or retire to their cribs in the evening or what my own mother used to refer to as "bedtime shenanigans."

The Direct Approach: "I not tired."

The Antagonistic Approach: "I NOT TIRED!"

The Thou Protest Too Much Approach: "No night night! No night night! No niiiigggghhhtttt niiiigggghhhhhtttt!"

The Starving-On-the-Verge-of-Death Approach: "I hungry! Hungry hungry hungry. Cookies? Lollipop? Ice cream?" When that doesn't work they start listing more healthy food choices: "Apple? Carrot? Squash?"

The Mirage-Inducing Thirst Approach: "I thirsty! Water! Water! Water!" (This is followed by them being provided with a cup of water they sip gingerly at their leisure, very slowly, until it's all gone, about an hour later.)

The Wet / We Confuse Our Pronouns Approach: "I wet! Change you!"

The Scared Approach: "I scared! Too dark!" In order of self-reporting, they are afraid of the following: thunder, lightning, a choo choo chugging through their room and a rather rotund child named Charles we happen upon from time to time.

The What-Are-Ya-Gonna-Do-About-It Approach: Climbing out of the crib, opening their bedroom door, climbing up the stairs to find me and announcing nonchalantly: "Hi."

The I'm Gonna Break My Leg Approach: As illustrated above.

We're veering into big girl bed territory. I was hoping to stave that off until age 5. Sigh.