Cooking Up a Storm

These girls love to "cook." It's become a constant request lately, especially by Avery. "Mom, can we cook? Just pretend." "Momma, do you have anything I can pour in here to cook?" "Mom, just please let me cook...you always get to cook, why can't I?" (That one is my favorite...Mom GETS to cook all the time!)

Outdoors, they use soap and mouthwash in buckets. It creates a delightful smell and is super easy to clean. Inside, though? Look at the above picture. It was taken about 10 minutes into the cooking experience. If I let them have this many ingredients, they will cook for at least half an hour, maybe more. It's so nice to have that much time to get something done without hearing arguing, whining or demands for "something to do." I can snuggle with Rhett, fold a load of laundry, and even vacuum the living room during that time.

But ohmygosh, the mess. The floor looks like the table times 100. Seriously, it's a vacuum, broom, mop extravaganza when they are finished. It's amazing what kinds of gunk that I can find on the chairs, table and floors. I just wish I could find something to occupy this kind of time without creating this kind of mess.

It's always a trade off being a mother, isn't it? Half an hour to yourself, but a 45-minute clean-up after. If you choose no messes, you have no time to yourself. Who designed this system anyway????

The Playboy Club

I've racked my brain to think of a fitting word or phrase for the Playboy Club in Las Vegas, but no matter how fancy I tried to get, I kept coming back to the first two words that popped into my mind when we walked in the door. "HOLY BALLS!"
You may already know this, but the Playboy Club is at the top of the Palms Casino. It's not really very close to the strip and the last time we were in Vegas, it wasn't even mentioned as a "place to be." It seems to have gained in popularity ever since the MTV show, "The Real World" was filmed there a few years ago. Still, it was never even on our radar as a place to visit. (Aaron and I, by the way, are so not "the place to be" type.) But Aaron has a business associate who offered to put us on his VIP lists when we were out there. The Playboy Club was one and The Foundation Room, which tops Mandalay Bay, was the other. I opted for The Playboy Club because I see celebs in US Weekly visiting the Playboy Club and I'm always up for celebrity spotting. Our only option was Saturday night, our first night there, so that's what we did. And all I can say is, again, HOLY BALLS.
First of all, we walked up to the Palms Hotel from the street. Where the bus dropped us off. I walked in bare feet to the bus, so my soles were jet black, but I was wearing heels and couldn't take the walking anymore. Stretch limos lined the driveway, where fabulously young, possibly rich, definitely over-indulged MTV types emerged, dressed to impress and attract. Already, we knew we didn't fit.
Then we walked in. Just passing through the slot section of the casino, we noticed that the vibe at the Palms is different than any other place in Vegas. It's filled with the same young, rich (maybe), over-indulged children coming from the limos out front. No one looks tourist-y, or desperate to win, or disappointed that they don't have $5 blackjack. It's a very cool, laid-back atmosphere. We are very tourist-y, very desperate to win, and always looking for $5 blackjack, so again, we didn't fit. But we still didn't know how out of place we were. Until we saw the line.
As we walked toward a sign that said "PLAYBOY," we noticed a line of people, approximately 50 people deep. There was also a sign that said N9NE (the steakhouse), so we thought (hoped) the line was for dinner. No such luck.
As we walked toward the line, we noticed two gentlemen in dark suits directing traffic. I walked toward one of them and told him we were "supposed to be on a list for the Playboy Club?" He pointed to the other man in the dark suit and said "Ask him."
We noticed several other people asking him. And being turned away. It was like being in the movies. Some were turned away because they weren't on the list. Some were turned away because they were dressed inappropriately, and others had "too many guys" in their group. I started to sweat under my arms. What if we were turned away? What do you mean, 'what if'? We are definitely going to be turned away. We are too old, too dull, and too married to be in this place. I almost turned to Aaron and said "Let's just forget it." But then I thought about that long walk back to the bus. And my dirty, sore feet. And I decided, What the hell? We'll never see this guy again. And just like that, it was our turn to be rejected. "We are supposed to be on the list," I told Rude Guy in Dark Suit. "Name?" He said shortly, much like the David Spade receptionist character on SNL. I told him our names. I was wishing our names were Biff and Muffy Beauregard at that moment. "Who put you on the list?" We said the two names we were told to say. And Oh.My.God, he's lifting the velvet ropes. We are IN. He gave us a little card and said "You are VIP comp tonight." Thank goodness because the cover was $40 per person. And that was it. We were in.
And once you are in, you are in. Even Rude Guy in a Dark Suit is nice to you once you are in. It's amazing. There are Dark Suits everywhere, directing you to the bathroom, riding with you in the elevator, and generally just making sure you are the happiest club-goer in the land while you are there.
I have to be honest. I kind of started to feel like somebody. Even though I was wearing jeans and heels while every other girl had on slinky, shiny, tight dresses, I felt like I belonged there. Because we were on the list. And as you know, not just anybody can be on the list.
We sauntered up to the bar like all the other rich, fabulous clubbers and ordered. Vodka tonic and Bud Light. "That will be $18." What? Did he just say $18? Holy balls. (sorry I can't think of anything else to say) We will be the only sober people in this club at that price!
I have to say, the club itself is cool, but not amazing. It's just a club, with music, drinks and dancing. It's the people and the money that is amazing. There are groups of sofas and chairs with either people or "reserved" signs on them. The reserved tables have drinks already there, especially for the high-rollers who will be sitting there later. For example, if a "client", as they say, likes vodka, then there is a bottle of Ketel One Vodka with carafes of cranberry, tonic, Sprite, orange juice and just about anything else you can mix with vodka. I always wondered how people like Paris Hilton can run up an $8,000 bar tab on one night out. Now I know.
There are also blackjack tables. No $5 minimums here. The miminum bet here is $100. And there are also reserved blackjack tables. We saw an older (60s, at least) man sit down at "his" table with two very young, very sexual looking young women. They just sat there, arms hooked in his, watching him bet $5,000-$10,000 hands, looking very bored but very attentive to "their man." Frankly, I was repulsed.
There is an escalator, which takes you up to Moon, a top-floor club with a retracted roof so that you can see (duh) the moon. Dancing under the moon...ahhh, so nice. Wait, did I mention that the dance floor is packed with sweaty, over-privileged young people? Yeah, so we danced two songs and went back down to Playboy. It's so much more us. (Can you read sarcasm in that statement? Please do.)
After an hour and a half of people-watching (sadly no celebs), and eighty freaking dollars in drinks, we decided we'd had enough. We were still feeling pretty ritzy though, so we took a cab back to the hotel. No stinky bus and sweaty, black feet for us after a night mingling with the rich folk.
We discussed our night on the way back...we both agreed that it was definitely worth the $80 drinks and the $20 cab ride just to get a glimpse into that lifestyle. And we also agreed that grilling with friends in our backyard and drinking longnecks at local hole-in-the-wall bars is more our style. And we like it that way.

We Made It!

Well, we made it back from Vegas. Broke and exhausted, but alive. Actually, not broke. We came back with $100 (each) in our pockets and for us, that's a big win in Vegas. We were down to nothing the last day, but decided, as only the most addicted gamblers can, that if we could just get a little more money, we'd win it all back. I won $250 on one hand of Let It Ride, which carried us for the rest of the afternoon. But does anyone really care what we won? Didn't think so.

The important thing is that we had a great time. We were alone for the first time in FOREVER and guess what? We both remembered why we fell in love in the first place. Sounds hokey, but it's true. You know how, after a few years of marriage, kids and responsibility, you start to look at your mate and think "Seriously, this is who I fell in love with?" No, it's not who you fell in love with...it's an older, more responsible (stressed) person and let's face it...they aren't as much fun as they were when you were both single whose only real obligation was to make sure they had enough money to pay for beer every weekend.

The point is, vacations work. From now on, if I ever think we don't need a vacation and that it won't make that big of a difference, remind me that I'm an idiot and I don't know anything about marriage! We will try our hardest to continue to be Vegas Aaron and Dodi, but I know, in time that these kids will, once again, suck the fun and romance out of us. We'll know it's time to book that flight! (Unless gas prices keep going up, in which case, we'll drive three miles to the nearest hotel and spend one night remembering who we used to be.)

Oh, and did I mention it was our anniversary? 7 years...some great, some not-as-great, but overall, the best 7 years of my entire life. (3 kids in 7 years? There must still be something we like about each other!) More on Vegas later this week...for now, here's a picture of us, blissfully happy in Vegas at the Wynn Hotel. Beautiful, amazing hotel. But not as amazing as our night at the Playboy Club at the Palms Hotel...more on that later. It's a post all it's own!

Vegas, Baby

We're leaving for Vegas tomorrow. Aaron and I are in desperate need of some alone time; something that, with three kids, is hard to come by. My mom and Nana are coming to watch the kids, which excites the kids to no end. Needless to say, our house is abuzz with eager anticipation. And apprehension. On my part only, I'm afraid. What? You didn't honestly think that someone with my obsessive compulsive, neurotic nature would just be happy and excited did you?
I mean, come on...think of all the things that could go wrong. Plane crashes, muggings, terrorists. Not to mention all the trouble at home. Injuries, choking, bathtub mishaps....it's enough to send me to my room, sucking my fingers as if I were Reesie.

So, basically, I'm 90% excited and 10% neurotically obsessed with negative thoughts. That's quite an improvement from when Avery was a baby. I was much more 60/40 back then. I even left a long letter detailing who I wanted raising my kids (Mom...she can pass them around to my siblings when she gets sick of them) and who was in charge of their medical care (Mom, again.) I didn't relax and feel happy until my 2nd in-flight Bud Light (hey, that rhymes...in-flight Bud Light). This time, I think I'll feel relaxed mid-way through the first in-flight Bud Light (I'm going to keep saying it). Just in case, I may pack some of my Vicodin from the good ol' staph days. I'm kidding...I'm not a drug addict. I'm NOT!!!

Alright, so nothing bad is going to happen. We are going to be alone. Every couple needs alone time and we never get it so we deserve this, dadgum it! It's going to be a fabulous time...especially for a gambling addict like me. My kids are the furthest thing from my mind once I see the bright lights and hear the bling bling of the slots. Plus, Aaron's fancy VIP friend has us on the list (what is this list anyway and is there really one with MY name on it?) at the Playboy club in the Palms and some other fancy bar. How fun is that? Oh wait...what will I wear? I better go get started right now...we may run into K-Fed!

Have a fabulous weekend...see you next week!

Sexual Harrassment

When I was in college, I worked in the athletic department. With coaches. I'm going to make a broad generalization here, but it seems to me, in my experience, coaches are a, um, virile bunch. Maybe it's all the testosterone and muscles, but I think they think about sex and women more than say, a banker or an account executive. Maybe all working environments are this way, but I've never experienced anything quite like working in the athletic department.
Shoulder massages while I typed playbooks; prank phone calls from desk to desk with heavy breathing; naughty jokes were a dime a dozen and sexual innuendo laced 90% of conversation in the office. Somehow, these guys could make "Hey, I need my expense report filed" sound like a proposition. They commented on everything. I remember when I got my hair cut short, one of the coaches said "Whoa, what did you do? Why did you cut it? It's not bad, though...you're still doable, of course, but the long hair was HOT."
And you know what? Not only did I never complain or file a grievance against any of them, but I liked it. I took part in the back-and-forth
I loved it. And I miss it now. Never again have I experienced this level of attention and feeling of being the hottest person on the planet. I wasn't the hottest person on the planet, of course, but when you are constantly surrounded by people who notice when you lose 3 pounds or get a new haircut or outfit, it sort of causes you to think constantly about how you look. And sadly, when you have relatively low self-esteem, you begin to rely on this sort of attention to reassure that you do look good.
So, there you have it. I'm not politically correct. I like sexual harrassment, if only because it boosts my self confidence. If any of you want to begin prank calling me and telling me dirty jokes, email me for my number. Heck, you can email me a dirty joke if you want. As long as you tell me I'm hot.

Matching Chairs?

Look at these two girls. More importantly, look at their chairs. The chairs look the same, right? They are both Pottery Barn Kids chairs. The only thing different is their color, right? Yeah, well, not exactly.

You see, Avery got one of these chairs for her 1st birthday from her grandparents. It was pink and had her name embroidered on the back. It was adorable and she loved it. But, ever since she decided about 2 years ago that she hates all things pink, it hasn't gotten much use. So, for her 5th birthday, her Grammy got her a new cover. Batman. I believe the cover was $59. The original chair was around $100 at the time. So, in total, Avery's chair is worth about $160. Not too shabby for a 5-year-old who contributes nothing to the financial status of this family. But she loves it the chair again, so it's worth it.

Then there's Reese's chair. Poor Reesie. She's not the first. She's not the baby. Poor, poor middle child. She never got a $100 chair (they are now $129-damn inflation!) for her first birthday. She has been sitting on the floor for 2 1/2 years. Until now. Now she has her very own, red, shiny (shiny canvas?) PBKids chair. But, she's the middle child. Do you honestly think we would shell out $129 for a chair for our middle child? The baby, maybe...the oldest, certainly. But surely not the middle. Nope. Hers came from a garage sale down the street a few weeks ago. I was driving home and spotted it in the front yard. $5 for a PBKids chair. Covered in animal hair. No worries...I came home, washed the cover in the sanitary cycle twice and sprayed an entire can of Lysol and Febreze on the cushions. And now, it's as good as new. Or at least as good as Big Sister's. She doesn't look like she minds. In fact, she's probably the happiest, most well-adjusted of the bunch. (Have you seen her "go to her happy place" and suck her fingers like there's no tomorrow? If that's not well-adjusted, I don't know what is!)

Tell me I'm right and that it will never bother her that she never gets anything new and special.

Never mind. I'll just make another huge contribution to her Future Therapy Fund. (And pray that someone dumps a PBKids chair in the garbage so Rhett can have one too. Lord knows he can't have a new one now!)

Side note: The fact that Avery is all nonchalant, drinking her drink and refusing to smile at the camera is just more indication that she is over-privileged and has gotten too much attention. Reese is just so glad that I'm taking her picture that she would probably swallow a flaming baton if I asked her to. There's a special place in Heaven for the Middle Child. And that's coming from an over-privileged, attention-hogging Firstborn, so you know it's true.

The Pool

I have to admit. I don't really like going to the pool. Don't get me wrong. I love to swim, I love the water, and I like to get a bit of sun. But since I had kids, the pool seems more like a job than a recreational activity. You have to pack sunscreen, swim diapers, towels, floaties, more floaties, pool toys, floating rings, rafts, snacks, drinks, hats, and the kitchen sink. Not really on the sink, but seriously, it's a whip trying to remember everything you have to bring to keep three kids occupied and safe.

Plus, I have an unnatural fear of my kids in water. The thought of taking my kids to a lake makes me queasy. I have had nightmares about them drowning in the bathtub. I have a hard time relaxing (or breathing) when we are at the pool, I am so afraid that one of them is going to fall in without floaties or an adult. I will not take the three of them by myself. Every time my husband mentions that Avery is almost tall enough to be on slides at the big water park, I freak out. We are NOT going. I happen to know that my neice, who swims very well, almost drowned at a water park with her grandparents last summer. I would seriously have had a heart attack if that were my child.

As you can see, I have quite a bit of weird, over-the-top anxieties about my kids and the water.

So why do I even take them at all? Why don't we just stick to the slip 'n' slide in the backyard and forget about the pool? Because they love it. I have the pictures to prove it.

I also like what the sunscreen/chlorine combo does to Rhett's hair.

I don't know what causes his face to look like that, but I like it.

The Prayer

When Avery was born, I made a deal with God. Well, not so much a deal because I've heard that God doesn't make deals, but I threw an offer out there that apparently, He couldn't refuse. I prayed for a lifetime of little stuff to go wrong and that we would never have anything big to deal with. I said "I hope we have little 'uh-ohs' daily so that we never have a sick child/spouse or serious accident or anything like that." I believe God listened. And I also believe that God has a sense of humor. We have had our share of little things. It seems like, if something is going to go wrong, it does. It happens almost daily in our house. The latest is one that has me saying "Why me?" and then I remember. The Prayer.

I was bitten on the face by an ant. I have a bad history with ants anyway and I'm severely allergic to a certain kind of fire ant, so they aren't my favorite insect anyway. But who in the hell has ever been bitten on the face by one? Of course, since I practically begged God to torture me daily, it's me. It happened in boot camp Saturday. We were doing some sort of demented, harder-than-heck push-up. Our instructor always tells us to go down as far as we can. So I did. We were in the grass, so my face was touching the grass on the down portion of the exercise. Apparently, an ant was just sitting there waiting for me to come down again because on about my third down time, I felt something stinging my face, right next to my eye. It burned severely. And then I felt another one on my cheek. I saw ants crawling around my hands and I knew that's what it had been.
I tried to finish my push-ups because I was too embarrassed to stand up and have everyone see that I was bitten in the stupid face by a stupid ant. Of course it didn't happen to anyone else. Why would it? No one else prayed The Prayer. Just me.
I did finally have to stand up and use my water to try to rinse my face because it was burning so badly. But thankfully, it wasn't the bad kind of fire ant because I didn't have a reaction. And my friend looked at it and said that it was a bit red, but you couldn't even tell.
When I got home that day, I couldn't see anything. Whew. That was just a little "uh-oh." Just the kind I was talking about. Thank goodness. How stupid would I feel if I had to walk around with ant bites ON MY FACE? Pretty stupid. I mean, I would feel so stupid I wouldn't even want to leave the house. I wouldn't want to have to say "I got bit by an ant. "In the face????" "Yep. In the face. Yes, I am an idiot and ridiculous things like this happen to me all the time. You wanna make something of it?"
Thank goodness that wasn't going to happen. There were no obvious bites. It itched a bit, but the important thing was that you couldn't see anything. Double whew.

Hey, guess what I learned yesterday? Ant bites fester overnight and don't turn into a stupid, red, obvious bump until the day after.
The moral of this story...don't ever think you've escaped the ridiculous. Especially if you are me.

Oh Sweet Reesie

Reese's latest saying is a bit, well, naughty. Not to an innocent 2 year old, of course, but I'm a perverted old lady. And every time she says this, I want to die of embarrassment or laugh hysterically. It happens almost every meal. See if you can tell what she is saying....

If you guessed "Will you eat me?" you were correct. This is what she says when she is trying to get out of eating her dinner and she wants me to feed her. She means "Will you feed me?" but she has it a bit wrong. At least I hope she means that. I hope to God my baby girl isn't really saying "eat me" at her mother. At any rate, I usually say no, because I don't want to start a trend of feeding her again...that's a step backward and I've already got Big Tuna to handle. But sometimes I just give in because I get tired of her yelling "EAT ME!" at me. It just ain't right.

The Tennis Champ

Here she is, the tennis champ herself. Avery Evert Lloyd. Or Avery Jean King. Whatever you want to call her, doesn't she look cute?

I'm kicking myself because I forgot my camera today, of all days, when she was wearing her perfect little tennis skirt and matching Dri-fit top. I couldn't resist buying the tennis skirt for her, even if she never wears it again. You see, I've never had the nerve to wear one. I always think that, to be cool enough to wear a tennis skirt, you have to be a really good player and I've never thought of myself as a really good player. So I've never purchased a tennis skirt for myself and I am going to take every opportunity I have to live vicariously through my daughter.

But I digress (as usual). Back to Avery Navritilova. She totally loves the camp. They keep them hopping and she's learning all kinds of good stuff. It's been great, even if my other kids are dragging us down with their sickness and boredom. Here they are on the first day, watching their big sister. This was during the first four and a half minutes while they were still interested.

So, have I gone on and on about this too long? Is it obvious that I love tennis and I really really really want Avery to love it so we can play together and have totally awesome, really fun mother-daughter matches where we wear matching skirts (I'll finally get good enough to deserve one) and give each other high fives as we switch courts.

Ok, so I haven't slept in three days...I'm in a sleep deprived haze and I may be hallucinating...pray that we are all back to normal tomorrow!

Busy, Busy

Wow, is it Tuesday already? Time has flown by the last few days.
We had a mini-vacation over the weekend. We took the kids to a hotel 20 minutes from our house just to get away. More on that later.
We have also started tennis camp and swimming lessons this week. Oh yeah, and did I mention that Reese and Rhett are both sick? Rhett had 103 temp yesterday. The doctor can't find anything wrong with him except his cough. But he is one miserable baby. I've never seen him so lethargic and whiney. Reese woke up with it this morning, but isn't suffering quite as badly as her brother. Hmmm...Avery sailed through this illness in about 24 hours. Reese has barely complained. And yet, Rhett has whined and cried and kept everyone in the house on pins and needles for a day and a half so far. I wonder....hmmm...no, it can't be. Maybe. Do you think? Do you think it could possibly have anything to do with the fact that he is a MALE?
I'll let you decide.

More on tennis camp and our mini-vacay later...gotta go tend to The Baby.

Sick in the Head?

When I was a kid, my dad would tell us that getting sick was a sign of mental weakness. In fact, if he wasn't in the mood to hear us cough , he'd tell us to stop. Period. "Stop that coughing!" he'd say and he meant it. He said that if we were mentally tough, we could overcome the coughing and we'd stop. Apparently, I wasn't the most mentally tough 10-year-old in town because what I would do is that red-faced, cough-with-your-mouth-closed thing that probably looks as ridiculous as it feels. But coughing aloud was not something you did much around our dad. I was thumped in the back of the head a few times for coughing in church after he had said to can it. I'd rather do the idiotic cough-with-your-mouth-closed thing than get thumped with one of those monstrous, gnarled fingers my dad has.

Also, if we were sick enough to stay home from school and Mom let us lay in their bed to watch TV, the minute he came home, he'd kick us out. He'd say "I don't want that mochus in my room...get out of here with that." I'm not sure what mochus is, but I know he didn't like it. I think it's just a general funkiness, only I don't think my dad has ever used the word "funky."
Anyway, I used to think my dad was super mean to say I was mentally weak and that I could control my own sickness. I still think it was mean to make me cough like a nitwit, but what happened Wednesday actually got me thinking that he was on to something. Not that I would ever stop my kids from coughing out loud, but that there is a mental aspect to sickness.

Wednesday was check-up day at the doctor for Avery and Rhett. Rhett's one-year checkup went well and was uneventful except for the four shots. Avery's was fine except for one thing. She had a fever of 101 degrees. But she was fine. She had been playing and acting like her normal goofball self. Even when he asked her how she felt, she said she was fine. No sore throat, nothing wrong in her ears. She was fine except for the fever. He said it happens and that sometimes, their bodies are fighting something that we can't see and she was probably fine, but keep an eye on her.
We went straight home because I didn't want to chance her making other kids sick at the playground. The second we got home, she said "Can I watch a movie? Since I'm a little bit sick?" And there it goes. Now, she has a cough, runny nose, has had fever twice since the doctor's visit and is just, in general, carrying around the mochus/funkiness.
Now, I have to ask...Is that a mental thing? Did she get sick because the doctor told her she was sick? It made me think about all the people who are diagnosed with a life-threatening illness and die like two weeks later. They were totally fine and then one day, they just died. Would they have died so soon if they hadn't known they were sick or did the fact that they were told they would die lead them to believe it, thus causing it to actually happen? It's something to think about...well, maybe. I mean, if you're like me and the only thing you have to do is think about whether or not your daughter's doctor actually caused her illness, it's something to think about. Otherwise, go on about your too-busy-to-think-about-it lives.
Happy Friday!

I Think It's Finally Safe to Say....

He's walking! (I have tried rotating this damn thing 400 different ways and it keeps showing up on here like this...sorry!)





Sure, he has the occasional fall, but he is getting around pretty good. He's about a month or two behind where his sisters were at this age, but hey, he's a man...plus, he has about 10 more pounds on him than they did, so what do you expect? All in all, I'd say he's doing a fabulous job.


Except when he chooses to be Dorf instead of walking around like a normal person.
Remember when that guy from Carol Burnett did those stupid Dorf videos? He walked around on his knees. (Did he even walk or just stand there, on his knees?) He even put shoes on his knees. The only one I remember is Dorf on Golf. (Did anyone think that was funny?)
Anyway, Rhett seems to have taken a cue from good old Dorf because when he's not walking on his chunky little meat-pie feet, he's doing this:













He can move pretty quickly like this. I've tried putting shoes on his knees, but he gets irritated. I'm taking that as a good sign.

The Urinator

See this precious little girl?

She has an alter-ego I like to call The Urinator. The Urinator pees on everything. Couches, floors, beds. I often go into her room to put something away only to step on a pair of soggy underpants, squishing into the carpet. The tile around the toilet is damp and dark with urine at all times. I wash sheets every single day. Our entire house has that faint ammonia scent that I try to mask with Tyler Candles' Pineapple Crush.

How did this happen? Two weeks ago, we were diaper free all day and all night. No accidents. Well, not NO accidents, but they were minimal and understood...didn't make it to the potty because we were outside having too much fun, or we were at Wal Mart and the damn restroom is always furthest from where you are. But she had it. She was potty-trained. And then, for some inexplicable reason, The Urinator took over. And let me tell you something. The Urinator is mean. She is working overtime to beat me down. And she is winning.

The only thing that keeps me from throwing in the towel is this: when The Urinator is in a hurry to make her getaway without being caught, she is often hasty in donning her replacement skivvies. The waistband-as-leghole always gives her away and I know The Urinator has struck again. And as sick of pee that I am, this never fails to make me laugh.

I Am So Weird

I have lost a cup. Not an expensive, one-of-a-kind cup. Not a rare piece of china or crystal passed down from my mother's grandmother. No, just a plastic cup. An Eskimo Joe's cup, to be precise. But it's not just any Eskimo Joe's cup. Not the regular short, fat ones. No, this one is a big tall one that you can only buy at the store. I bought four of them last fall and I LOVE them. I use one every day.
Ever since the big birthday party, I've been missing the pink one. And I've looked everywhere. I'm sure someone just walked off with it. Probably my dad. He and his family have this weird quirk about taking cups from other people's houses. So what's the big deal, right? It's just a plastic cup, I have three more, and besided, I can always order more if I need them.
Here is the problem. I confess, it is about as anal-retentive and obsessive-compulsive as you can get. My problem is that there are only three left. As in 2 in one stack and a stack of, well, one. Which isn't a stack at all. So there's always just one sitting there, stackless. And it drives me nuts.
I gotta get a life.