A Sh** Load of Green Beans

I haven't the energy to do a coherent post. Not that any of my posts are ever coherent. Here are snippets of my week:

--I was going to the grocery store the other day and asked my husband if there is anything he wanted. He thought for a second and then said, and I quote: "Yeah, get a shit load of green beans." This brings up all kinds of questions, none of which I bothered to ask. What constitutes a "shit load" of green beans? Why do we need a "shit load" of green beans and not just several cans? Or are several cans a "shit load?" Doesn't this strike you as something an unemployed man wearing a wife beater with a huge belly would say to his bitch? I mean, isn't there something vaguely demeaning about being asked to get a "shit load" of green beans at the store? In case you're curious, this was on Monday. I bought six cans. He hasn't had any. So I'm waiting to see if he's preparing some green bean extravaganza of a meal this weekend wherein the appetizer, main course and dessert include green beans.

--And I think weird requests before grocery runs must be genetic. I don't buy much at Whole Foods. Not only because of the prices, but also the checkout people think they're so cool and "green." Piercings don't make you an Earth-lover!!  Anyway, I go to buy this Earth's Best stuff Lulu likes that I can't get at Jewel. So when I told the girls where I was going, Moxley says, "Can you get us Walden and Widget costumes while you're there? And make sure the Walden costume comes with glasses!" "Yes," I told them very earnestly. "I'll check if the grocery store carries Wow Wow Wubzy costumes and accessories."

--I'm back into my weird baking / making things from scratch phase. Worry not, it won't last long. This was precipitated by my worry that the girls aren't eating healthy enough. So I'm making our own popsicles and desserts like pumpkin bread cupcakes. I'm doing annoying things like substituting apple sauce for some of the butter and using half whole wheat flour and more brown sugar than white sugar. You know, sort of like what Jessica Seinfeld's chef does when making meals for Jerry's children and then Jessica tells Oprah she does it all herself.  Everything tastes like crap by the way. Speaking of a "shit load" of something, I put a "shit load" of canned vanilla icing on mine when the girls aren't looking...

--So now that I'm back to baking, nothing amuses me more than those recipe sites where people try the recipe (like allrecipe.com) and then make comments about the recipe and how they changed it. "Well,  instead of adding a teaspoon of nutmeg I used extra cinnamon and I don't like cloves so I skipped that altogether!" Really? You have that much time to find a recipe, not follow it and then post how you altered it online? And isn't it sort of inconsiderate to the person who invented the recipe in the first place? If I was the originator I'd reply, "I said use NUTMEG AND CLOVES dammit!" I substituted some applesauce for butter, but I didn't feel the need to inform the whole recipe-searching community that is in fact what I did. I guess I'm not a true baker at heart or I'd enjoy being regaled with tales of how pumpkin bread tastes minus the nutmeg. (And it's not lost on me that I have the time and inclination to take pictures and post them of the bread I baked and green beans I bought so I'm not one to make fun...)

--I am teaching an online PR course next month. I think I'll enjoy the relative anonymity of it and the fact I don't have to take a shower beforehand like I did when I taught in person. Maybe I'll even do it from bed. I need more opportunities where I can work from bed. That's my motto for 2011: "Willing to work from bed!" I should do a YouTube video of me from bed. Maybe it will get me all kinds of offers like that homeless Golden Voice guy who Dr. Phil made go to rehab.

--Moxley has been a real downer lately. She's like that person who can ruin a good party just by showing up.  I think the potty training thing has hit her hard. She pees in the potty but then basically waits all day until I put on her night diaper to do her other business. This seems to put her in a foul mood every waking moment. She's been throwing temper tantrums about crazy shit, usually clothes. Then later she'll explain it to me very rationally: "Well, you know mama, it hurts my feelings when you don't let me wear purple." She's talking about an outfit consisting of purple pants with an ill-fitting blue-striped top with decorative crystals on it. She wants to wear the same thing every day. An ensemble, frankly, that is as mismatched as it is oversized. Also, mama don't like doing laundry every day, which makes it hard to wear the same thing day after day after day.  I feel like I need to do something extreme about her fashion sense. Send her Priority Fed Ex to Anna Wintour's house for example. I bet Anna's good with kids.  Here is the shirt but you can't see the pants that don't match. Yes, she's eating icing from the container. It was when we were stuck inside for 48 hours in a blizzard and we were making sugar cookies so bite me. (Did I mention I make my own healthy popsicles?)

--The girls have their three-year pediatrics appointment Saturday. If it goes anything like their second-year, I'm in for a really delightful afternoon. The doctor couldn't measure them, weigh them, examine them or even look at them. It was like the Diana Ross of two-year wellness visits.The nurses managed to stab them with the required vaccines while they were held down like wild animals. I had nightmares for weeks. We haven't been back since. My sister, who is a pediatric nurse, told me there is probably a note in our file marking us as "difficult." Difficult is putting it politely so that doesn't remotely bother me.

Anyway, if you know of any jobs where I can work from bed (aside, from you know working from bed -- ain't nobody gonna pay me for that the way I look these days) let me know.

Safe Haven

Guess what my kids WON'T be getting next Christmas...

Here in Illinois, and I'm pretty sure every other state, we have a "safe haven" law which means you can drop a baby off, no questions asked and you won't be prosecuted for baby abandonment and you know the baby will be cared for. It's usually at a hospital or fire / police station. Depending on the law in your state, parents have to do this I think within the first month or so of birth.

I don't mean to make light of a law that has certainly saved the lives of many infants, but isn't it kind of restrictive? Just 30 days? What about when you realize you might not be able to care for a child after the one-month window has closed? Or JUST DON'T WANT TO? Something happened yesterday that makes me question whether I am in fact the right person to be raising my twins. Something I couldn't have possibly known 30 days in. Surely there is another mother out there who can deal with certain aspects of their personality (terrible, gut-wrenching, uncorrectable flaws) better than I. Embrace them even! Let me be clear: I just found out my children love John Mayer music.

When we travel by car, the girls dictate what we listen to on the radio, much like they dictate every other aspect of my life. Normally, we either listen to a country mix and they insist we listen to John Michael Montgomery (does that guy even still make music?) ad nauseam, and will only concede me one or two Keith Urban songs along the way. They are partial to Kenny Chesney's "We Went Out Last Night" and will tolerate "Outta Here" if I really beg. They've been known to request Alan Jackson's "It Must Be Love" 15 times in a row. Their country music taste is fairly sexist although Carrie Underwood is growing on them. I wonder what they would think of SugarLand but I'm pretty sure subjecting youngsters to that woman's god-awful twang is legally classified as felony child abuse.

So yesterday I couldn't get the country mix to work for some reason, and they began demanding LOUDLY while I'm trying to drive in the snow that I play "Grundee County Auction" (not one of John Michael Montgomery's finest) but it wouldn't go on so I turned on the radio and started searching around. I made it into a game where they could tell me to stop and we'd listen to any song they liked.  Suddenly, without warning, they start howling for me to stop.  "I love this song!" one shouted. "I want this song for Christmas!" the other added gleefully. It took me a moment to place it. Then the horror crept in. It was that number where John wants to "run through the halls of his high school" and he wants to "scream at the top of his lungs" and I knew exactly how he felt. Not the running through the high school thing but the screaming really loud thing BECAUSE MY CHILDREN LOVE JOHN MAYER. 

I am about to research Illinois' safe haven law. Perhaps there is language in there specific to my situation. I wouldn't be surprised if it even mentions John Mayer by name. "You may leave an infant who is 30 days or younger or any child above that age with a known liking for John Mayer."

I will simply pin a note on the back of each of their shirts saying, "Likes John Mayer. Sorry, can't raise." I'm pretty sure the state will understand.

Pulling a Boner

The guys in my high school had an expression for when you screwed someone over. "You really pulled a boner!" they would say, for example, if you promised to pick someone up for a party and forgot. I have no clue if that is a crude reference to an erection?  I haven't thought about that saying since the late 80s, but the expression suddenly popped into my mind when the epic Chicago snowstorm hit and my husband was laid up in bed from an ill-timed surgery. "You really pulled a boner this time!" I wanted to scream at him. Who has surgery a few days before a snowstorm hits, making their spouse fully responsible for their children in time of crisis? Oh sure, he didn't know the third-biggest snow fall in history was heading toward Chicago, but still.

He was due at the hospital last Friday around 10:30 am and I was responsible for driving him, waiting for him and then taking his drugged-up ass home. Oh, and picking up his prescriptions and buying some nursing home food such as Jello and vanilla pudding. Notice how sick people always want to inconvenience everyone else? Sheesh, it's not my problem the guy has a bum ear. But anyway, I agreed to do it, because I'm fairly selfless like that. When I woke up that morning, I had a zit on my chin the size of Jennifer Lopez's ass. It wasn't pretty. I don't like to go out of the house when one of those sprouts up, it frightens innocent people.

"Can't you take a cab?" I asked as I delved into my coffee and bagel dripping with butter, offering him a bite. I knew he couldn't have any food or drink before surgery so I thought it'd be fun to rub it in. "You look fine," he said not completely convincingly.  "Plus you won't have to talk to anyone beside the doctor."

Me: Is he hot?
Him: Who?
Me: The doctor!
Him: Is my doctor hot???
Me: Yeah, like am I going to have to have a conversation with a McDreamy or a McSteamy or even a George Clooney circa ER looking like this?
Him: (now slightly exasperated for reasons unbeknownst to me) He's like 60!

There are sad, disheartening times when you realize your mate doesn't really know you. I mean, really know you. This was one of those times. I didn't ask if the guy was OLD, I asked if he was HOT. I know my husband prior to this surgery was half deaf, but even a fully deaf person who lived with me would find it hard to escape the fact I'm in love with Jeff Bridges. And he's pushing 60.

Anyway, fast forward and I'm sitting in the waiting room and they have wireless Internet in the lobby and ginormous donuts dripping with glaze in the dining hall so I'm content. I settle into a comfy seat in the lounge where a bunch of other people are waiting for patients to get out of surgery. Most are yapping to each other. Why do strangers feel the need to make conversation with people they will never see again? It occurred to me that maybe some people are actually interested in what other humans have to say. It's fascinating, really. A harlot of a woman and some guy veer dangerously into flirting territory after debating Illinois politics for a while. "Rahm Emanuel MAILED SOMEONE A DEAD FISH!" the harpie yelled to draw attention to herself. "What kind of a person mails a DEAD FISH to another person*??! I'd slap him if I saw him!" (Rahm, consider yourself warned.) She was a Republican and he was a Democrat and it became evident after a while they wanted to find an abandoned broom closet and conceive an Independent. Or Libertarian. Or whatever offspring would be half-Democrat and half-Republican. Thank God the guy's wife was finally in post-op so they called him away before someone stuck their tongue down the other's throat.

The woman, defeated, set her sights on finding someone else to listen to her yammer on and began chatting up another guy, albeit she seemed to just want to chat, not fornicate. Suddenly on television comes a show that is so preposterously bad you can't believe it even exists. It's like a karaoke show where contestants win money for getting the words right and they put on a big performance like they are American Idol finalists. I'm pretty sure the host was Mark McGrath. I sunk lower and lower into my chair out of extreme embarrassment as one of the contestants began belting out "Don't You Want Me" by the Human League. Then, like out of a horror film, the woman who doesn't want a fish-mailing candidate for mayor BEGINS SINGING ALONG. "You better take me back or we will BOTH BE SORRY!" That was it. I slammed shut my computer and went back to the cafeteria where I ate another absurdly large donut (creme filled with chocolate icing) and began eavesdropping on some disgruntled nurses.

Today is one-week post-op. My  husband is fine if a bit annoyingly gimpy. I'd give details on what he had done but really if he wants a place to whine about various ailments he can start his own damn blog. The good thing about this incident is I learned a few things:

--The Human League sucks.
--A person can gain 5 pounds in one day eating hospital cafeteria food.
--Mark McGrath's music career has evidently stalled.
--It's possible to pick somebody up in a hospital waiting room while both of your spouses are sedated.

*I never mailed a dead fish to anyone, but I almost left one in the jeep of the guy who lives behind me to let it swelter in the hot sun all day. This was the summer after giving birth to the girls -- I can't remember now what he did. It probably involved waking my babies up. I had a very serious conversation where I tried to talk my husband into it (why should I get arrested?) and he somehow convinced me we couldn't do it. Spoilsport! Postpartum manifests itself in various ways, one apparently, involves the desire to stink up a neighbor's car with rotting fillet of sole.

Amateur Hour at The Sag Awards: Ricky Gervais, I Missed you!

This statue is about to get molested by Betty White... and like it.

Can the Screen Actors Guild not afford to hire a host? What's an award show if you don't have a host mocking the very people they are there to honor? The SAG Awards were so boring, however, it would have taken more than outing John Travolta to make it remotely entertaining. Here are my (equally boring) thoughts:

Hey you. Yeah you. The one who thought it would be a quirky unique little way to start the SAG Awards by having actors who looked pained in a manner like they were having an appendectomy with no anesthesia to give a cute anecdote about being an actor. Are you still employed? You might not be by 5:00 pm this evening. In my (vast) experience with termination etiquette, seems they always fire people at the end of the day. Clean out your desk and start downloading some secret files now just in case.

Do the SAG people think us normal people who just tune in to mock actors give a rat's ass about the power struggles and internal politics between their various professional societies? I mean, do I care if the Saggers merge with some other competing actor-y group and when and how and what that will mean? And who was that fat guy who informed us of this potential merger? Was that the white guy who lived upstairs from the Jeffersons?

Don't you think the Golden Globe executives are a bit miffed at Annette Bening? What does she have against the Golden Globes anyway? Why did she look like a cross between Ed Asner's character from Up and the wife from the Addams Family at the Golden Globes, and like a goddess at the SAGs? Whose that really old guy with her anyway?



Good chance Steve Buscemi will never receive an award again no matter how deserving. I mean, you're best actor and you can't get through two 1-minute speeches without making dumb excuses? "I didn't know Best Actor category was up first!" and then later "I wrote my notes for Best Ensemble Cast on my Best Actor note card!" And why didn't the ensemble cast people do a last-minute vote and rescind their offer to let Buscemi talk on their behalf after he messed up the first speech? Steve baby, you shouldn't have reminded us you even had notes guiding you through the first speech. Sheesh. How hard is it to accept a freakin' award?  Not that I'd know...

I think the same person who had the bright idea for the opening montage was responsible for the Ernest "Ernie" Borgnine Lifetime Achievement Award. Didn't the guy (he's 94 for the love of God!) deserve a tribute that didn't look like it was strung together by some intern flunky? And on the off chance my place in hell isn't already etched into the reservations page, did you see Ernie's wife? I'll just leave it at that. If you saw it, you know what I'm talking about. If you didn't, words can't describe. And Tim Conway. You're awesome. But would it have killed you to wear some reading glasses so you could get through the script? Annette wasn't wearing hers, so I'm sure she would have let you borrow them.

Is Claire Danes really that big of a moron? I mean, really? Plus, I thought she was with that guy who left Mary Louise Parker high and dry seven months pregnant? When did they break up? And she has since gotten married? What the hell? People, keep me informed, would you?

Christian Bale. Still drunk. Still bearded. Still English. WHY CAN I NEVER REMEMBER THAT? But thanks for the lesson on how to get in the biz! I am endlessly fascinated by people too! Sign me up to star in a major feature film! Since I'm going to hell anyway, his wife is a bit too gummy for my taste. (Oh c'mon! She can take it! She's married to Christian Bale!)

Just in case I haven't been clear enough about this, I love love love Jeff Bridges. Love. And, I think it's best I go ahead and admit it: He's overtaken Daniel Craig as Number 1 on my list. Granted, I'd prefer it be from the Fabulous Baker Boys era. But that's not how the list works. You can't say, for example, "Warren Beatty, but before the chicken neck." No, there's not a time traveling element to the Top Five List. Take it as it is or leave it. And Jeff Bridges, I take it!

Why did it look like Nicole Kidman just got back from the gym and threw on an (ugly) outfit and then grabbed some (tacky) jewelry and sprung Keith Urban from the crate she keeps him in down in the basement and ordered him to put more gel in his hair and off they went? I'm not so sure Nicole and Keith have a marriage certificate or she has whatever paperwork one needs to prove a pet is indeed theirs.

Last night I decided I don't like Julianna Margulies. No reason in particular. Just don't.

I am actually quite upset Helena Bonham Carter wore matching shoes. Again, the Golden Globes people must be pissed. Why do celebs clean up so much more for the SAGS (besides Nicole Kidman)?

Don't you get the feeling Natalie Portman is a nerd. I mean, like a complete dork? And her way of trying to convince people she's not a geek is by using the word "asshole" during a television broadcast when she's about to give birth to god only knows whose baby? Nat, sweetheart, using a naughty word while knocked up doesn't make you cool. And by declaring you're never an asshole while in fact being an asshole is sort of being a a double asshole. (Isn't saying "asshole" on live network tv the definition of BEING an asshole?)

That's all I got. The whole thing left me uninspired.

An Important Announcement Part Duh

Potty seats make interesting if unsanitary head gear.

When one announces one's children are potty trained, one's children should in fact be potty trained. Because soon after I pressed "publish post" with an air of mild smugness (the "mild" is because when children are over 3 and just getting potty trained perhaps immense smugness is overkill) Lulu announced she "had an accident" which was actually no accident because I caught her purposely squatting in a closet defecating in her Hello Kitty undies. I have no problems with the accident part of course. The part I have a problem with is my husband was out of town and normally when a task like scraping shit out of cotton undergarments arises, I delegate it to him.

Partially potty trained doesn't really work for me. I don't like uncertainty. The constant vaguely anxious feeling reminded me of having a partially monogamous boyfriend throughout college. Is he out sleeping around on me right this very moment? Will we be out in public and she'll crap her pants? See, the unease of both are similarly disquieting. Although at least my angst over the potty training lasted less then a week. Try four years of wondering if your alleged boyfriend was cheating, with the answer 9 times out of 10 being a big Hell Yes. My favorite was when he was humping his high school co-worker from TCBY. The Country's Best Yogurt indeed! I grew suspicious as she began interrogating me when I went in for a peanut butter shake on a day he wasn't working. He scoffed when I confronted him, noting that she was still in high school for Christ's sake! What kind of person did I think he was? Well, it turns out the kind who contracts crabs from an underage high school girl. (I feel the need to confirm here I was not infected, because by the grace of God he was too busy screwing jail bait on a frozen yogurt-making device to be intimate with me during this unfortunate time in my life).


And while I'm on the topic, I might as well mention this particular boyfriend lavaliered me for some reason still unbeknownst to me and proceeded to sleep with a freshman the night of my sorority candle light ceremony. (If you are unfamiliar with the antiquated customs of sorority life, consider yourself lucky.) And, because my best friend from high school thinks no conversation about this person is complete without the following anecdote, she came to visit me in college for a week during her school's spring break and he uttered exactly one word to her the entire time: "Cups." (Why that was the particular word he chose is not the point. The point is she was my best friend and he couldn't be bothered to say more than one word to her the entire week.)


What am I getting at? Good question. I think I was saying I prematurely announced the girls were potty trained and it's been a rough few days but they are in fact now potty trained. Pretty much. They still wear  diapers at night but I don't particularly care if they do that until they leave for college, where hopefully they will have better taste in men than I. 


PS -- I don't know the ethics (or good taste?) of combining a post on potty training with that of an STD-laden ex, but well, too late.


PPS -- You know the DUH in the title was purposeful and I don't think that's how two is spelled in French, right?


PPPS -- Speaking of French, I have mentioned that I took like 14 years of French and yet all I know how to say is "Centre de plounge" (spelling not so sure) which means scuba diving shop, correct?

PPPPS -- Okay, just one more thing. Really. I must say I have no hard feelings, actually I have fond ones, for my philandering college boyfriend. He meant well. He just liked the ladies. A lot. You might suspect as much, but I was no angel... Although I did keep my dalliances to those of the legal variety.

What's In a Name?

So a very lovely woman asked me to do a guest post at a blog that specializes in baby names. That was back maybe in the fall and I just got around to it yesterday. Keep in mind that people go to that site LOOKING FOR A BABY NAME. You know that old expression -- know your audience? Well, if you went to a site looking for advice on baby names, would you want to be insulted by a bitch who thinks it's funny that she would have named her twins Lulu and Moxley if she was famous? Probably not. So after I submitted the piece (below), she very kindly told me perhaps this wasn't up their alley given that, among other things, 15,000 people named their daughters Madison last year and a large majority of women who visit the site meet my definition of "unstable." Well, I spent a whole 10 minutes on it so I didn't want to put it to waste. Here are some tips on naming your baby. Don't read this if you have a child named Madison. Or one named Buddy Bear Maurice Oliver for that matter. Or if you name your babies before they are even conceived and then accuse other people who have real, non-fictional babies of stealing YOUR baby name. Or if you are Nicole Kidman, Gwyneth Paltrow or ... you know what? Maybe nobody should read it.

Eight Tips on Picking Out a Name

I assume you are over here at (the blog's name) because you are expecting a bundle of joy and are debating monikers for your impending little one. Either that, or you are one of those unstable women who name their children years before said children are conceived and are here to see if other people are “stealing” your name.  I say “women” because men almost never think up names for children that don’t exist.  It’s the one and only way in which they are the superior gender.

So if you are in fact perusing for a name, I have some helpful tips for you:

1. It’s always a good idea to name a child after a cherished relative. Or better yet, a rich one. One of my twin daughters is named after my maternal grandmother, unfortunately not for the latter reason.

2. If you’re going to stick a child with a bizarre name, after a day of the week for example, give their siblings an equally tortuous name. This brings to mind Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban. Their first daughter is “Sunday.” They just had a second daughter born on Tuesday, December 28. Instead of naming her “Tuesday,” they chose “Faith.” Don’t they think someday Sunday is going to wonder why she got stuck with the weird name and her sister got off so easy?

3. Speaking of celebrities, unless you are one, don’t name your child after a fruit.

4. And even if you are a celebrity, have some compassion. I’m talkin’ to you Katie Price and Jermaine Jackson. No child deserves to be emblazoned with Princess Tiaamii Crystal Esther Andre or Jermajersty Jermaine Jackson.

4. People will not think you are creative if you spell your child’s name in a funky way. They will think you are illiterate. Think Jaycub instead of Jacob, Brittni instead of Brittany, Jourdynn instead of Jordan, and J’son instead of Jason. (Yes, people have done it.)

5. The name Madison should have remained nothing more than a mermaid in the movie Splash. Unfortunately, every elementary class in the United States is filled with them. On behalf of Darryl Hannah, don’t perpetuate the trend. She probably feels guilty enough as it is.

6. Consider how much money and power you have when naming a child. The more money and power, the more leeway you have with names. When the kid is teased on the playground, will he be able to retort, “My daddy can buy your daddy’s company and fire him!” and actually mean it? Well, then, knock yourself out and name your son something like Buddy Bear Maurice Oliver like that overrated famous chef Jamie Oliver did. 

7. Be careful with nicknames. Oh sure, he may be your little “Mikey” when he’s three months old, but nicknames have a way of sticking. And a 23-year-old Mikey (or even an 8-year-old one) isn’t quite as cute.

8. Remember this is your child’s name. Forever! Give them a lovely name, a creative name if you must, but one that they will be proud of as a child AND an adult. I am no expert on names. I spent all of three seconds deciding what to call my girls. One is (Lulu's real name), after my awesome grandmother. The other is (Moxley's real name), just because I think the name is so pretty. It wasn’t until I noticed every third child on the playground is (Moxley's real name) that I realized it was so popular. But the name suits her perfectly and I wouldn’t change a thing. So go with your heart like I did and you can’t go wrong. Good luck!

No doubt this is not my best work, and as I said to the woman, I certainly don't want to offend her readers. But I don't mind insulting mine. Okay, I kind of do. I like the name Madison, okay? Mermaids are awesome. I like the name Ariel too. Got nothing against mermaids. Sorry to offend. Sheesh, why so touchy? And if it makes you feel any better Lulu's nickname is the same name as a famous movie star and everyone always asks if she was named after this movie star to which I diplomatically reply, "No, bite me." 

PS -- I lost a follower yesterday. Perhaps they were upset I got the girls potty trained? If I lose some more today, I will assume they have a child named Madison. Or hate mermaids. No hard feelings.


PPS -- I want you to know that I'm going to sit here and pick worriedly at my cuticles hoping I didn't offend anyone. Mermaids, Madisons or otherwise. 

An Important Announcement

People, I think you might want to sit down for this. As you may know, I have many failings as a mother. My children still drink milk from a bottle. They still use pacis at night (and occasionally at other points in the day just so I can confuse them with inconsistent rules). They are still vegetarians in a very annoying Gwyneth Paltrow kind of way. They might even be vegans except I'm not sure what that means exactly. But THEY ARE NOW POTTY TRAINED. Well, sort of. Accidents are occurring (our couch now has the faint scent of cat urine and we don't own a cat but whatevs) but for the most part, they are using the potty.

This of course occurred BECAUSE of my failing as a mother. I accidentally ran out of diapers. I may write a potty training book. It will go something like this. "Wait until they are embarrassingly old to be crapping their pants. Forget to buy diapers. The End." It will be the shortest best-seller in the history of publishing. Oprah will beg me to come on her show, despite my having broken the publishing world's cardinal rule -- never bash The Opes! I will comply only if she promises -- in writing -- that Jenny McCarthy will not be on the same program. I will be hailed as an international potty training expert and parenting forums will pay me absurd amounts of money to give (very brief) talks on potty training which will consist of "Hello mothers and fathers out there. Forget to buy diapers! Thank you very much! I love you too!"

As seen above, my children are being rewarded with treats as big as their heads. This weekend we have to go pick out bikes. It's the middle of winter in Chicago so I have no idea where they'll ride them but we promised them bikes when they got potty trained. Perhaps I should add in a chapter about bribing in the book -- or better yet, I'll save that as my follow-up parenting masterpiece. So, I'm not sure if there is a Mother of the Year award floating around out there, but feel free to nominate me. My children are almost 39 months old and (pretty much) potty trained. Surely that should garner me something?

Just out of curiosity, when do they start wiping their own butts? When you answer, add on two years past the time most kids do it as that's when it's likely to happen around here.