Listerine

I bought a brand new bottle of fluoride mouthwash for children a couple days ago. Why? Because cavities are way more expensive than mouthwash (but are certainly more amusing.) I supervise the kid's intake and expell of the stuff, because no one wants to be the mom whose kids developed a drinking problem from the Listerine (no offense, Dimetapp moms.)

Saturday night I put the kids into the tub and went to get a towel. I heard Other Half supervising. Someone screamed/hit/smacked/spilled on the other and so tub time ended prematurely (no hair washing.) A few minutes later I looked over at the counter and noticed that the full bottle of mouthwash now had one centimeter of liquid left. I looked at it again. I counted the hours since I'd purchased the mouthwash. I looked again. Still one centimeter, not even a decent American half inch.

"El Guille," I said, "Want to tell me what happened to the mouthwash?"

That's when he did his guilt-ridden posture: Mouth widening into a cheshire-grimace, shoulders raising, head-ducking, eyes like teacups.

"I..."

"I...what?" I demanded.

"I wanted to see what would happen if I poured it all into the bathtub."

"WHAT?" I managed to get out, and then turned my head and pursed my lips to keep from laughing.

"I poured the whole thing into the bathtub. And then I got back in it."

"With your brother?"

Buzzed head nod.

"And..." *stifle* "What happened?"

"The color didn't change and the water didn't taste any different."

"Right," I said, and then sternly discussed a few notes about things costing money, and this mouthwash was supposed to last, and cavities, and responsibilities, and maybe Nero fiddling while Rome burned.

I repeated the story later to Other Half.

"Oh," he started laughing, "Well, that wasn't the only thing."

"What?"

"Uh, when Proximo had to sit on the toilet, I maybe didn't clean him all the way off and just stuck him back into the tub."

Wow. What a hot pair we will be.

In totally unrelated news that bears repeating even if you've heard it before on Twitter:

Proximo ate the peanut butter out of the mousetrap this morning.

We're so proud.

Woman! Parts! Scary!

I was talking to a friend today. She's a midwife. We were talking about midwifey-womanish things: panty-liners, curling irons, squealing, and how much we like the color pink.

The topic of IUDs came up. You know, intrauterine devices, a very small object placed in a woman's uterus that stops that uterus from growing a baby. Since she's a midwife, she installs and removes them all the time. She jokingly asked if someday I'd like to keep an IUD and scrapbook it.

"Uh, what?" I asked, "You can't be serious."

And with that she sighed and said, "Yes. I've had women ask to keep the removed IUD so they could scrapbook it."

AND THEN MY HEAD EXPLODED, INTERNET.

If you want to you can go read a thing I wrote for Vanessa's blog about how nursing my first child was very hard, how I cried, and then it changed my life. Be warned, male readers, I write about nursing over there, which may or may not be appropriate for your delicate lily eyes.

Dear Gentlemen in the Nissan with the Bullhorn,

Yes, you.

As much as I appreciated your request to remove my blouse, climb over the driver's seat, into the back seat, and press my mammary glands to the rear window, I had to decline. You see, although I was at the light, I knew it would change soon and I simply didn't have enough time to accomplish your request and still remain a courteous driver.

I wasn't exactly sure where the extremely loud voice originated as I pulled up to the light. I heard a massive voice snicker, "How was the Slipknot concert?" followed by an oblique reference to a male appendage. I assumed you meant to address the skinny, dejected kid with the black shirt and shoulder length hair that had recently walked past my car. There all four of you were, in your sad, late model Nissan, clad in primary colored polos and sporting slick hair, right behind my car. I heard another disparaging remark tossed at a grandfather in another car.

"HEY, are your windows down?" One of you wearing white aviator glasses boomed in my direction, followed by the request to doff my duds. It's no exaggeration to say that I was rapidly descending into an overwhelming fury.

I contemplated the situation: there was always a bird or two to flip. However, upon further review, I determined that extending that finger would simply please you. If it came to a battle of verbal acuity, you would lose. I may not appear to have mastered the vocabulary of a stevedore, but I worked in kitchens, and have an expansive library of barbed insults at my employ that would leave you gasping with fear and shock. But no, words were not enough. The light changed, we all advanced, and my plan was set.

You see, you harassed the wrong girl.

Don't worry, it happens sometimes.

You think you can toss out such remarks with impunity, and perhaps with any other girl you could. But you don't know me, and you don't know how I despise the kicking of the weak by bullies of any stripe, let alone the disgusting harassment of my gender. You see, I'm not 14 anymore. Nor am I 19. In fact, I'm at an age and of a mind that no one can tender such offensive nonsense in my presence or in my society.

And that is why I called the police.

And why I told them you were driving with the bullhorn out the driver's side window. And why I gave them your license plate, and yes, I did it while boxing you in to your lane. And as you turned into the gas station while informing another girl, this one younger and far more intimidated than I was, that she, too, should consider her clothing optional and her body public property, I told the dispatcher exactly where you were.

Can you imagine my sense of satisfaction to see that cruiser turn left into the parking lot? Probably not. It's probably beyond your ability to comprehend. I can't wait until you have to explain to your mother what happened, because your shame will be overwhelming. And if it's not, maybe you'll just think twice about casting stray comments in the direction of women, because we're not all nice, and we're not all doormats, and we won't all ignore your depraved ilk.

If I'm telling the total truth, it's not just about your callous lack of respect for my gender (which is abhorrent enough,) it's not just that you're yelling at elderly people, it's about that kid.

Oh, you remember, the skinny kid who looks like he doesn't have a friend in the world. Yeah, that kid, because that kid looks like he's been on the receiving end of your punches, your insults, and your jackhole-ness, and you know what? He doesn't deserve that. You're the disparaged male appendage because you use your popularity and social advantage as a cudgel, and I won't have it.

So suck on that, you popped-collar failures of hooligans, I can't wait to meet you at a light again.

I Try to Make a Soufflé

Warning: This post may offend your delicate sensibilities and cause your stomach to convulse. Don't say you weren't warned, because you were, right here. Seriously.



I had cooking club later one night, eggs were the theme. I decided to make a cheese soufflé. I’ve never made a soufflé of any sort, but I was kind of excited to try. After looking at the recipe, I figured I’d probably need to double the recipe to make sure there was enough for everyone. I added up the cheese, almost a pound and a half. Wow, that’s a lot of cheese. I used gruyere and emmenthaler (which is real Swiss cheese) for a nice, strong blend of deliciousness.

I’d skipped dinner with my family, relying on the Five Guys at lunch to get me to cooking club. After assembling the soufflé and putting it in the oven I helped myself to a tiny slice of quiche, a little spinach, bacon and hard-boiled egg salad, a small egg benedict, and a shot of eggnog. It wasn’t a lot of food, but I felt really full, weird since I hadn’t eaten for nine hours. In fact, I felt like I was getting even more full after I’d eaten.

The soufflé was taking a long time to cook, double the time the recipe indicated. The smell was intoxicating, but heavy. Finally, I pulled the soufflé out of the oven. I started serving and immediately realized that I’d made way, way too much. I shouldn’t have doubled the recipe. Everyone was having a very small scoop and it barely made a dent in the dish. I had two tiny teaspoons of soufflé and I couldn’t eat another bite. My stomach felt like it would explode. The room was really hot, and the soufflé really smelly, so I moved to the side of the room and cracked the glass door open. I started fanning myself. Phew. And then I realized…

Bathroom.

Now.

FASTER.

I ran into the hall bath and emptied the contents of my stomach over and over. I sat on the floor and decided I couldn't say a word to anyone.

I didn’t DARE face everyone to tell them I’d refunded their delicious dishes because I’d already had a cooking club scandale: A couple months ago I’d taken a bite of salad (yes) and it stuck in my throat. Several cashews lodged themselves and I couldn’t get them to go down. No matter what I ate, those infernal seeds prevented passage. I was in and out of the bathroom all night, much to the exclaim of my fellow clubbers. It was 3am the next morning before I was able to eat dinner.

In light of those events, I couldn’t exactly go back out and tell my friends that all their yummy egg dishes were introduced to the porcelain god. I also didn't need to watch any afterschool specials on the perils of bulemia--that's what Princess Di's biography is for. So I played it cool, packed the rest of the soufflé to go, and took my leave.

On the drive home the smell of the soufflé started to really get to me; it was overwhelming. I couldn’t bear the thought of driving down the freeway with that SMELL. My stomach was turning somersaults. I had to get rid of the soufflé, but where? I briefly considered a random field, but couldn’t face the guilt of some random farmer coming across a strange, slightly gelatinous yellow mass.

I rolled down all the windows to divert the smell. Meanwhile, I drove straight past a car accident in progress, and didn't even stop to see if I could help. I turned, shivering, into a shopping complex hoping to find some random place to leave the soufflé. My stomach was threatening me with more mandatory expulsion. Oh please! Let there be some trash bin or out of the way corner! I spied an open gate to a dumpster behind Panda Express. I dumped the soufflé with the very expensive cheeses into a plastic bag, tied a knot, and tossed it in the dumpster.

I sealed the still offensive soufflé dish with its lid, crossed my fingers, and called Tiffany to distract me from the smell during the 20 minute drive home. Call me nuts, but I really don’t want to have to pull over on the side of the freeway in the dark to empty my stomach—too much like my early college days as the permanent designated driver while my friends emptied their post-bender stomachs out onto the desert floor outside of Las Vegas. No, thank you. I made it home without incident,well, home to my very own embraceable commode.

And that's the story of how if you acquire an undiagnosed case of food poisoning at lunch, and yet you make way too much soufflé, you can cover up the unfortunate series of events with a drive behind Panda Express, and finish it off with a white-knuckle drive home.

CTRL + C, CTRL + V

I can’t stand plagiarism; it’s annoying and lazy. Not to mention that plagiarism increases the chances that I'll re-read something I've already read--which is unacceptable. I'm busy! No time to re-read! That’s why when it came to my attention that yet another person was ripping off my friend cjane, I decided to write this little post.

First of all, if you’re going to plagiarize someone, don’t make it one of the most well known people in the blogosphere—especially if your audience might have a lot of overlap with the more popular blogger.

Second of all, if you’re going to plagiarize someone, don’t, because it’s incredible stupid and you’ll always be found out.

If you don’t have anything to write about that day, your first line of defense shouldn’t be “I’m going to go and take someone else’s content.” If you’re having trouble writing, try an exercise, like writing about a topic, say, plagiarism. I’ll even give you a specific topic: What would happen if I were to rip off one of the best-known bloggers in the United States and everyone found out?

I didn’t get to see the post that she apparently copied nearly word for word, but I did find another example on her blog, like this one:

click to enlarge. I'd link back, but the original has been deleted.

Know how I know those "2 types of people" is not your idea, Miss Musing? You were 18, possibly 19, when cjane wrote that blog post and I find it hard to believe that any 18, possibly 19-year-old has that kind of perspective (my 18-ish-year-old perspective was really wrapped up in hoping I’d get tickets to the Downward Spiral Tour and showing up looking really cute for my Honors 200 course and the red-headed Canadian boy who sat next to me.) I was also in Courtney’s kitchen around the genesis of her idea and we have deeply discussed this topic over several years. I was able to place your paragraph within one whole second to this post:

The whole debacle is ridiculous. What’s worse? The plagiarism is merely a tool to build her reputation and capture her audience’s esteem. What’s even worse? She’s been contacted by a publishing company to possibly contribute to a book. Her plagiarism isn’t about what else she could add to the topic, or style, it is simple self-aggrandizement. And it’s frakking lazy.

Then we get to something really amusing:

click to enlarge. source also appears to have been deleted.

Yes, as you can see, this person had their own plagiarism issue with another blogger. Yet, after it happened to her, she plagiarized cjane at least twice. Oh, how delicious! Like rain on your wedding day! A free ride when you’ve already paid! Wait a minute…




UPDATE:

I found the original text to her plagiarized post:

"In the last of the sun, the Boyfriend and I took an evening walk. As the puppies navigated our way through the wide roads of our neighborhood, we quickly discovered that our evening activity proved unoriginal as we were greeted by neighbors who had the same idea.

"Hello Mr. and Mrs. Stamps," I said, passing an older couple. Having spent my childhood in this same neighborhood, I tend to know many of the home owners. The Boyfriend is always eager to make connections, so this leaves the him to rely on me for first-hand knowledge of background information as it pertains to our neighborhood history.

"Mr. Stamps is an Egyptologist and spent years working on the Theban Mapping Project at the American University in Cairo. Mrs. Stamps is a mother of five (doesn't she look so young?) and a painter. In fact, you admired her painting at the local gallery last time we were there."

The Boyfriend always listens, ear-tipped, as I talk under my breath. I wouldn't want our passing neighbors to know that I'm inclined to spill their personal resume to those within earshot.

We passed a Victorian home with a white picked fence outside.

"This is Mrs. Cronin's home." I pointed with my elbow (hands inside my coat pocket). "She was my first piano teacher."

We encountered houses with tangible memories spilling out the windows and doors. Homes of immaculate facades waiting to bloom with spring's floral offerings. We greet more neighbors who require my back-hand introductions.

"Hello Mr. and Mrs. Andover, " we all nod in salutation.

"Mr. Andover used to be the town mayor and Mrs. Andover volunteers as president of the Neighborhood Beautification Committee..." My voice like a spy.

"In fact, she helped me plant our garden this year. Now that the tulips are in bloom I really ought to invite her over for lunch and to see the garden."

As we rounded the corner home, we spotted a couple coming toward us.

"Hello." I said.

From my lack of words that followed, it became clear that I did not know them.


"That is Dr. and Mrs. Anderson." The Boyfriend returned the favor, matching my tone as we headed up the sidewalk. "He is a law school professor and she's a concert cellist..."

"Well played," I commended the Boyfriend."

You can read cjane's original here.

UPDATE to the update here.

Take it Like a Baby

I'm the oldest in my family, explains a lot, doesn't it?

These days I get to see the world from down under. I watch Proximo take the kind of violent love and abuse that only happens among siblings (and stupid teenagers.) From the moment that El Guille jumps into his crib in the morning to wake him up, to the moment El Guille jumps in his crib at night to ‘play,’ Proximo takes it, well, like a baby. In just one day I witnessed that baby get kicked, rolled on, smacked in the car, nearly suffocated with blankets, pinched, hit with a toy, and peed on.

I’M SORRY MOM because I know I did things just as bad to my siblings—except for the P stuff, I’m pretty sure that’s a snips and snails thing.

So thanks, Mom, for having me today all those years ago (even if you don’t read my blog because you can’t be bothered and therefore don’t get to read the apologetic gratitude.)

Oh, and thanks for howling with laughter tonight when I told you that Proximo was his brother’s target practice for the third time in seven days.

(Boys.)

What do I want for my birthday? For my kids not to P on each other.

Too much to ask?

Heidi Klum and The Departed

Cartoon courtesy of The New Yorker

Every day on my way to and from work I pass a cemetery. It’s a nice little cemetery on the side of a hill overlooking the valley. Some days there will be tents and lots of mourners, children chasing each other and a long line of parked cars. Other days there will be just a few somberly dressed people, the hearse conspicuous on the manicured lawn. I like to see the decorations change with the seasons. It kind of warms my cold, dark heart to see a new set of flowers, Valentines, and reminders of other passing holidays on headstones.

One day, as I was driving home, a group of mourners was heading back to their cars. My eyes went wide as I watched them pick their way across the lawn. I couldn’t believe that I was seeing women, who had just attended a service in CUT-OFF JEAN SHORTS.

I’m sorry, but are daisy duke cut-offs ever, ever, ever appropriate at an internment? Did I miss an episode of What Not to Wear? Did the Fugly girls give their blessing to formal shorts for funerals (and thereby cause my admiration for them to turn to disgust?) Is it really OK to wear something where the pockets are hanging out of your butt ever, let alone to a solemn occasion?

Let me go on the record: if any of you wear jean shorts to my funeral, I will come back from the dead and haunt your remaining days with the wrath of raiment.

In the vein of all things morbid, I want a party for a funeral; there had better be funny stories and lots of laughing. In fact, I think I might make it black tie.

Other things that are not allowed:

Flip-flops. Seriously. I will go poltergeist on your cola.

Hot Tamales the candy. Don’t like ‘em. Even in death.

Crocs. You know what? You don’t need ‘comfy’ shoes for a funeral, not even you, c-dawg.

Throwing yourself on the coffin. That’s just tacky.

Poetry.

Allowed:

Ravel’s Pavane for a Dead Princess. Come on, that’s funny.

General snacks, including actual hot tamales. Hey, grieving is hard work, I get that. But my tamale recipe goes to the grave with me.

Dramatic displays of tears

The whole “LALALALALALA” thing that Palestinian women do.

Peldons

Gabriel Garcia Marquez readings. Or something you wrote for the occasion (unless it's a poem.)

What's IN and what's OUT at your funeral?

Sick

I had the sickest thing happened to me on Christmas Eve, sick. This year I was in charge of the tamales, as I am every year. I make awesome tamales by the way; even my husband will eat them. I grabbed the bag of dried chilies that I bought the day before from my pantry so that I could sauté them. As I opened the bag THE COBWEBS SEPARATED. Sick. Did you just shiver? Because I totally did, and I even know what happens next.

I immediately stopped opening the bag and held it up to my face. You know, because I want to get bitten as close to my eyes as possible. For a moment I was transported to 1990, when my friends dragged me to see Arachnophobia at Movies 8. If you don’t remember, or you had nice friends who didn’t force you to see terrible movies, a horrible arachnid hitched a ride in some crates to a bucolic town in northern California and wrecked havoc. Gross. My bag probably came in a crate. I examined the bag looking for the spider (large? Brown? Fuzzy?) Instead I saw half a dozen MOTHS crawling on the chilies. Sick. I don’t hate moths, but inside a sealed bag of food? SICK.

I kind of panicked. I took the bag outside and dumped it onto our front walkway. I just stared at the chilies. I contemplated using them (oh yes I did) and then reason prevailed. It didn’t prevail enough to clean up the chilies, I just left them there for 32 hours until I had the guts to pick them up and transport them to the garbage. Sorry to my elderly neighbor, I’m sure they obstructed his walking path, but what could I do? SICK!!

Back to the tamales, I was worried that if I chucked the fresh bag of chilies I’d be out of luck. Thankfully, when I checked my pantry, I had a spare bag of chilies from a different vendor (my favorite: World Spice Merchants, out of Seattle.) The new chilies had a lot more heat intensity, so I truly did make hot tamales: shredded pork with ancho chilies, chicken mole, and sweet corn with roasted veggies and carmelized onions. They were delicious.

In other news, guess what was waiting for me under the tree?

Hello, 6 quart lover.

Two Lessons in Physical Pain

Me: Put down my [expensive bottle of Chanel] perfume!

Me: Put it down.

Don’t touch it.

Don’t touch it.

Leave [The Chanel] alone

*SPRAY*

*SCREAM*

Me: You sprayed yourself in the eyes and now you want me to feel sorry for you?

Guille: My eyes! It hurts!

*SCREAM*

Didn’t I tell you not to touch it?

Didn’t I say to put it down?

Didn’t I say to leave it alone?

*SOB*

I guess Coco Chanel continues to cause consternation and pain posthumously to men everywhere.

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

I’ve been making homemade marshmallows to give away lately. I normally make caramels or caramel sauce for the holidays, but I wanted to shake things up a little. To make marshmallows, you need to make soft ball stage syrup. If you’ve ever made candy or caramel, you know that you must watch the syrup carefully because the temperature reaches and then exceeds the correct temperature quite quickly. I thought I’d throw together a batch and allow it to cool before work the other day. I was almost there when the baby woke up and demanded to be set free. I got back to see that I was already into hard crack (which I thought I’d kicked back in the late 80s.)

Soft ball – fudge, marshmallows

Hard ball- caramels

Soft crack – butterscotch

Hard crack – lollipops, toffee, and you’re screwed

I wasn’t going to make marshmallows with hard crack (that sounds funny and illegal.) I decided to make butterscotch and add a cube of frozen butter. The butter brought the temperature down and we still had a few minutes before we got back to soft ball stage. That’s when I heard a scream, some crying, and was subsequently found by El Guille. His jammies caught a certain part of the body in the zipper. It was all very much There’s Something About Mary, except there was no prom, no paramedics, and thankfully no Cameron Diaz (because she likes them young and who knows how young she's willing to go.)

After a comfort and some sympathy, we were back up to hard crack. I added the evaporated milk and resigned myself to making caramels—as usual—for the holidays. So for those of you who consumed caramels, just know the physical sacrifice they entailed and be thankful.

Part Two of I like Halloween, Really. Well, mostly. OK, only parts.

In the 7^th grade, when I thought I was an actress, the drama kids put on a haunted house for the school. Really, it was a haunted stage. We loved the chance to dress up and practice our stage makeup. We’d just discovered spirit gum and the fun things you can do with makeup and putty: open wounds and gashes, a third eye, etc. I got to be a witch, complete with Lee Press-on Nails that I’d painted dark red. Do you remember Lee Press-on Nails? They were huge and very long, and never actually stayed pressed-on. I and my fellow witches did our revolting makeup, one or two may have even used a fake nose. I didn’t use a fake nose because even then I didn’t want to look like Nicole Kidman in The Hours (I am prescient.)

Our haunted house was the generic kind. I’m sure it was completely terrifying since it was located two steps from the cafetorium. Half the school had gone through when the administrators took their turn. No one told us that part of the contract between a haunted house participant and the haunted house provider is that the human providers do not ever touch the participant. That’s why when the vice principal went through I clawed his face.

Don’t worry, they were Lee Press-on Nails, half of them came off on contact.

I still remember the look of horror on his face. I’ve lived most of my life thinking it was simply abject horror, but now I think it might just be, “What does that girl think she’s DOING?” Well, if losing half your manicure is what it takes to get the scare across, I’ll do it (I’m so method.)

I began to not feel very well. I was stuck (downstage right) in the haunted house and each successive wave of teenagers was exhausting. Then I felt it. Bubble-bubble toil and trouble! My stomach began heaving. I ran for the exit, hoping beyond hope that I’d reach the small bathroom off stage. My knees buckled in front of the toilet and I began to empty the contents of my stomach, wiping off the makeup from my face as I tried to clean my cheeks. I can still smell the makeup mingling with the heaves.

Are you grossed out?

Me too.

That’s why Halloween is dicey to me: so many people wear that makeup; I can smell it and instantly want to refund my meal. I went to my parent’s neighborhood Halloween party last week. They served chili, good homemade chili. The very thought of eating it while I could smell the makeup was revolting. Everything smelled disgusting; although I’m sure it was absolutely delicious. The very next day El Guille was refunding onto my carpet. SEE?

Halloween has a unique smell. It smells of plastic (like Hot Topic) and bad stage makeup. Someone get me a baggie.

I’m not a very nice wife.

When my Other Half gets sick, I don’t usually respond in a mothering and loving way. First of all, I’m not HIS mother, I have my own children. Second of all, he’s a real pain when he gets sick. His tolerance for pain on a scale of 1-10 is a 1. My tolerance for pain is a 10. We 10s have a problem empathizing with 1s. In our view, they lack the moral fortitude to ‘suck it up’ and play ball. I could look beyond that, but he’s such a jerk when he’s sick that it’s hard to be around him at all, let alone minister to him.

Last Tuesday he told me he didn’t feel well. My response was a short, “Oh, I’m sorry.” Hope is Power came over with her chillens and her Dr. Husband (not that kind of doctor.) Hope brought some berries and ice cream, while I supplied the cake and whipped cream. Doctor set off the fireworks and the chillens ran a little mad. Other Half, however, was dour and sullen. He felt bad! I took it as one of his normal and regular battles with intestinal bugaboos and let it go.

The next day he thought he felt better, but later that evening he walked into our living room making a sour face and hit his chest with his fist. “I don’t feel good,” he said. I, as usual, chalked it up to one more ill-advised visit to the other woman in our marriage, Wendy. “Mmm,” I said. I’m always chalking things up—usually to his late bedtimes, lack of exercise, and poor diet. You would think that considering how sensitive his body is he would stop with the soda and the fast food. ‘Tis not so, my friend, he pushes the limit and pays the price.

Some people say El Guille gets his dramatics from me, but let me tell you, Other Half is a significant contributor as well. That’s part of the reason I have a hard time believing him—when he gets sick he has never been sicker, never been in this much pain, never been so sensitive to his surroundings. Like the time he thought he was having a heart attack and it turned out to be heartburn (pepperoni pizza.) He’s just like my dad: a pill when he’s sick. Other Half gets sick often enough that I never know when he’s REALLY sick. We’ve become all too familiar with the Urgent Care place nearby because he’s also only REALLY sick on weekends and afterhours.

I had just put Proximo to sleep in the wee hours of Thursday morning when Other Half got up insisting he was STARVING and could I fix him something? I heated up some buttered noodles with parmesan and parsley. He ate three bites, announced he was both stuffed and that the food was disgusting. All day Thursday was not much better.

Friday, he was a wreck. I left him, prostrate on the couch, with one kid rolling at his feet and the other hitting him with Murdock the Train. He called me at work and told me that he had visited the porcelain gods; offering repeated sacrifices. I could tell he was honestly sick because he wasn’t complaining.

Saturday he complained.

Sunday, at 10:00 at night he said he’d had enough and that I needed to drive him to the doctor. I am beside myself with not caring. I resolve to lecture him on his diet and the poor way he treats his body, but I don’t. He actually broaches the subject, volunteering that he needs to change his ways. Yes, I want to say to him, because it’s not just you, it’s all of us that are affected.

Urgent Care, how I love thee! I’m so used to being there I came prepared: I re-arranged the chairs, brought my water bottle, plugged in my phone, put my legs up, nursed Proximo, watched Jeeves and Wooster, and read a book. An hour later, Other Half emerged from the offices with a sad face.

I resolve to be nice. I need to be nice to him.

He’s been nice about the baby blues (mostly) and I need to empathize with him.

We drive to the pharmacy and he makes small jokes. My heart softens, a little. I laugh when he tells me that the doctor prescribed Cipro. “Cipro?!” I howl.

“Yeah, why?” he says.

“That’s what they use to treat Anthrax.”

“Do you think I have Anthrax?”

“I don’t know. Have you been doing any farming lately? Or received any letters with white dust in the mail?”

“I thought that was just a sample, so I sniffed it. Was that wrong?” We giggle a little.

In line at the pharmacy, some weird woman touches Proximo’s foot and is going for his hands when I swing the car seat 90 degrees in an avoidance maneuver. “EXCUSE ME,” I want to say, “If you’re in LINE at the PHARMACY to pick up MEDICATION because you’re SICK don’t TOUCH my BABY.” But I don’t, I go pick out paper towels and a Ritter Sport instead.

I return to the waiting seats where Other Half has a different pained look on his face. Weird Woman is chatting to him a million miles an hour while he rocks Proximo. I sit down, pull out my iPod and share my earbuds. This shuts up the Weird Woman. We watch Mitch Hedberg's stand up special and wait for his prescription to be ready.

Other Half and I drive home. He asks me to remind him in the future of this sickness so that he can dial it down a little in comparison.

I smile and promise to be nicer.

If you hear the water in the bathroom sink running and you know that you didn't turn it on, isn't that always a harbinger of bad things? I mean, really, if you hear water running in the house that also contains your preschooler, it should rightfully send a cold shock of fear down your spine.

So it was that I heard water running in the bathroom this morning.

"Other Half?" I said, hoping it was him. No answer, but the water increased its flow. I went to go investigate and...

I found a turd pile in my sink.

Apparently, having a toilet around is just too boring for El Guille. Toilets are so passé! So 80s! At least he thought to turn the water on to wash it away. How...considerate. Oh Soft Scrub With Bleach, how I love thee.

I went back to my regularly scheduled programming. I'm on dessert retainer for Oh Judy and oh, judy I needed to get the deliciousness finished!

Regular MCM Utah readers might remember that I put up Wall Candy in the boys' room a while back.

Ah, yes, there's a reminder.

Now, here's what Wall Candy would look like if you decided to channel your inner Tim Gunn and gird yourself in re-positionable decor.

Keep in mind, it's not like he's an URCHIN or anything, I did actually dress him this morning. I guess it's nice that he takes initiative. It shows that he can think out of the box...or off the wall.

It's been a crazy day around the Jet Set Pad.

Why I Became a Mother

It has happened to every mother, and I am no exception. It’s not like I didn’t know it was going to happen to me, I’d been anticipating it, I’m just surprised it took this long. If you have a weak stomach, stop reading. We’ll start at the beginning.

I just bought a crock-pot! Now, this might seem like a lie, but although I was raised mostly in Provo, my family did not own a crock-pot. I was always jealous of those righteous families with their avocado and harvest gold countertop appliances. I don’t know if owning a crock-pot has made it onto the temple questionnaire yet, but I figured it’s better to be pro-active! Also, I got it into my head that if I prepared my dinner in the morning then I would have more time to spend with my son after work.

8:45am: To keep El Guille occupied and feed him a healthy, warm breakfast I made him cinnamon oatmeal and bananas (from scratch, natch.) I lovingly prepared our first crock-pot dinner while El Guille (21 months) ate about half the oatmeal, and then gave himself a facial and hair treatment with the remainder. Whatever, we’ll just take a post-breakfast bath.

9:15am: While El Guille was chilling in the tub with his toys, I got ready for work. That morning I had to drop him off at my mom’s office on campus before the dedication at so time was paramount.

9:30am: I’m just about done putting on my face when I hear a sweet little toddler voice say “Mama, poop.” Oh no! I turn around to see logs emerging from El Guille’s nether regions. I act quickly. Remove son from bath. Grab TP and a rag. Check son for lingering evidence. Return to tub to view disaster area.

9:31am: My bathtub is Louisiana Lemonade.

9:35am: It's nice to know that nectarines stay roughly the same color. Remove the multiple tainted toys from tub and place into bleach solution. Drain tub, scrape tub, clean tub, dry son off, dress son, dress self, leave house by 10:30am.

Oh the joys of motherhood, will the wonder never cease?