Worst way to potty train ever.

What you are about to read is not good parenting, not at all. But we, the parents of the Tank, are tired of diapers. The Tank is not tired of them at all, but we don't care. Please click on the ads on this page as we are going to need a ton of money for therapy, now that we have decided to ruin his life. So, here it is, the worst potty training method ever...drumroll...wait for it...

We started putting him in underpants.

I told him diapers are too small for him. They do, however, fit him at night, as TF* has no desire to change the bedsheets every morning. We're at the beach this week, where most of the floors are hardwood, so an accident here or there doesn't really matter. It should be said, however, that they can't really be called accidents since he wasn't making an effort to use the potty. Can you fail at something you didn't know you were doing? Seriously, a few days into our trip, he's using the potty every so often by choice. We're down one pair of Bob the Builder briefs though, as TF made the executive decision to chuck all pooped-on pants directly into the garbage. I support this. Poop is gross.

Today, he went to the potty at the Joggling Board, a children's shop down here. He wasn't going to do it until I pointed out the cool blue water in the potty. Which he suddenly really wanted to pee in, perhaps to claim the cool blue water as his own. After this, I'm going to the store to get some of those smelly blue tablets for every single toilet we might encounter. I'll carry them in my purse. I'd rather do that than change another diaper. Do those things come in different colors? That could be fun.

This is a big week for the Tank. On his first day in underpants, he also learned to ride a bike. The lack of padding and the presence of the bike seat led to a lot of crotch grabbing and "I have an owie!" complaints. Didn't keep him off the bike, though. I think a child who can navigate a tiny bike through the legs of several adults without so much as grazing a toe can damn well use the potty.

If you were looking for further evidence of my stellar parenting, you won't find it here. This is the worst potty training attempt ever. Earlier this week, the Tank got hold of a pair of scissors. I took them from him and told him,

"Scissors are for guys who wear underpants and use the potty."

That seems fair, right? But I'm such a liar because I probably won't give him the scissors. Whatever. It's spring break, y'all. All about slacking off! Speaking of slacking off and less-than-perfect parenting, I made seven nine layer dip for dinner the other night. I think I should get extra credit for the two extra layers. I used the following layers:

• Refried beans, from a can, which I carefully assessed in the grocery store.
• Frozen corn, as per my brilliant sister's suggestion.
• Chopped green onions.
• Guacamole (I added a cucumber to the avocado in the blender, just like Gwyneth. Shhh...)
• Chopped tomato and salsa, from a can, of course.
• Shredded Mexican cheese blend, which I also carefully assessed in the grocery store. This one said "farmer-owned." And was the cheapest.
• Sour cream.
• Black olives.
• Cilantro.

I served it with chips, hot sauce, bubbly (for moi) and water (for everyone else, including TF, who still isn't drinking for Lent, but is planning to go nuts on Thursday, when his Lent** is over. Can't wait.) The dip was a hit. You can make it, too. Just layer seven to ten Mexican-type ingredients in a casserole dish. Or twenty in a trifle dish. If you do that, please send me a picture. This is mine:



And, for those of you who like this sort of thing, a close-up of the layers. Pretty!



Namasté, y'all!

* That's right, I make my husband change the kids' sheets. I'm the one with the stretch marks, so now it's his turn to suffer.

** His Lent is different from everyone else's. Don't ask.

The Bad Word.

Over a recent dinner, my friend Tracie of San Francisco (soon to be South Carolina - whooooo!) introduced me to the concept of the Bad Word. According to her, each of her friends is allowed to have one - a word they despise. A word they find so vile it makes them throw up in their mouths a little every time they hear it. Anyone who knows your Bad Word must avoid using it around you at all costs. In return, you remember and avoid using theirs. Bad Words vary widely. Our mutual friend Mariah's is "scarf," as in "She scarfed down those bagels like there was no tomorrow." Tracie's is too vulgar to share, but let it suffice to say I will never use it.

I had trouble choosing my Bad Word, because I am picky and easily irritated. At first, I thought of "panties." I hate that word; I gagged typing it. Just after college, I worked as a bank teller for the health insurance and part-time underwear salesgirl for the store discount. I worked really hard selling underpants, because I wanted to keep that discount (it also applied at the attached clothing store) and I wanted to be a manager. Though I had no desire to be a career underwear store manager, I had a huge desire to avoid the task I hated most.

The store where I worked always had a special, usually something involving underpants. One unlucky employee had to (wo)man the door, greeting each customer with a big smile and the words,

"Hi! Welcome to C--! We have a special today! Five pairs of panties for twenty dollars! Let me know if there's anything I can help you with today!"

My blood pressure rose every time I had to say those words. And those words had to be spoken, because the store was owned by a big corporation, so you never knew which customer might be a secret shopper hired to inform the higher-ups of any deviation from corporate policy. There were only two ways to elude the hated task - become a manager or quit. Thanks to the aforementioned store discount, my bosses and the people I worked with, I liked the job, so quitting was out. Desperate to avoid the p-word, I applied myself and made it known that I was a college graduate and really interested in underwear store managing. When the first management position came open, I campaigned vigorously, more vigorously than any presidential candidate. I got the job, which included an even bigger store discount and the best health plan I've ever known*, and promptly delegated the p-word to whatever hapless employee was available. I stayed as far back in the store as possible, hoping to avoid hearing it. I campaigned for more bra specials.

So, I was tempted to choose the p-word as my Bad Word, but you're only allowed one and in my current capacity as a mother of three boys, the p-word really doesn't come up much. There's another word I hate. I hate the sound of it and, I'm sorry to say, don't really like people who use it or the way they pronounce it. Tout. Blech.

I remember the moment when I realized how much I despised that word. I was in a playgroup during a time when the big thing among hippy moms was cottage-industry cloth diapers. All over the internet, from Etsy to eBay, stay-at-home moms with sewing machines peddled their own special cloth diapers, with annoying names like "Happy Hineys" and "Boo-Boo Bum-Bums." They had names that were embarrassing to utter, which is probably why they were only available on the internet, where no words are spoken aloud. We were sitting around at playgroup and the discussion turned to cloth diapers. Incidentally, this was about the time I became a playgroup drop-out; I preferred talking about sex.

One of the moms, gushing over some diaper cover or another - maybe it was "Apple A**es" - uttered the following:

"They are touted as...blah blah blah..."

I couldn't even hear the rest of the sentence. The way she pronounced the word, with an actual "t" sound in the middle rather than the "d" most of us southerners favor, was vile, as was her pretentious refusal to use a contraction and the fact she was discussing the reputation of something meant to contain crap like it was art. It all made me sick. I'm pretty sure I left and went straight to the Hardee's drive-thru for a Thickburger, never to return**.

Ergo, my word is "tout" and all its derivatives. If you read this and care about me at all, you will never utter that word in my presence. My good friends don't use the word anyway. If they were the sort of people who did, we probably wouldn't be friends. Although I will never, ever use that word on this blog again, unless I really need to mock someone, if I do have to use it, it will appear thusly: t**t. Because it is that bad.

Feel free to share your own Bad Word in the comments section. I'll do my best, out of simple human decency, to avoid it, because I like you!

Namasté, y'all!

* The health plan, which cost a mere $5 per pay period, made everything more or less free. I don't even think I had a co-pay. Major props to the Limited Corporation for their integrity. Major props. That plan, however, spoiled me and I've been disappointed in every one I've had since.

** By the way, I think I could still qualify for my Hippy Parent card. I use cloth diapers and do a few other things that are hippy-ish in nature. I just don't want to talk about it. Because it's boring.

When will I learn?

I was enjoying a few moments of peace this morning, in between changing The Tank's diapers. Happy Diarrhea Day to Me! Just for today, I'm thankful he's not potty-trained. So, he was watching a movie in the kitchen - or so I thought - and I heard him moving around. No big deal, because the movie was Billy Jonas and the Tank likes to sing along and dance. I heard him say something, but I was doing really well playing Scramble on Facebook, so I ignored it. I heard it several times, each time more enthusiastic than the last. In between the outbursts, I heard a small sound, like crktt.

"HE DOES IT!"...crktt..."HE DOES IT!"...crktt..."HE DOES IT!"...crktt...

After failing again to beat my sister's high score at Scramble, I investigated. May I present, The Tank's first art installation:

He was so happy about it. I couldn't do anything but hug him. Score another one for Wellbutrin! Eggs are very hard to clean up with paper towels. Now you know.

Last week, life was perfect. My whole day revolved around beverages and hanging out. These are some beverages I enjoyed. First, imagine the taste of rich, warm espresso, sipped by the pool from one of these fancy Italian-y looking cups.

Also poolside, Coca Light quenched my afternoon thirst. I really, really miss reading under these straw umbrella thingies over the lounge chairs. American Wife, by the way, was a great vacation read. I'm finished, if anyone wants to borrow it*. Why does Coca Light taste so much better than Diet Coke? Anyone? Maybe it's atmosphere.

This last drink was my favorite, Malibu and club soda. Light on the alcohol, so you can have two! This vacation treat is ideal for sipping while playing "European or American?"

Speaking of "European or American?", my theory about Crocs and Speedos as unquestionable confirmations of nationality was incorrect. This guy proved it wrong, as he sports both Crocs and a Speedo.

But, I think we all know he's European, so my new theory is this:

Speedo=European
Crocs=American, if and only if accompanied by Speedo

Speaking of pants vs. no pants, both my husband and his brother managed to get locked out of their rooms without pants. I don't really understand how that happens. I never go outside without something covering my bottom. That is one of the rules I live by. Both of them attempted to re-enter via their respective balconies. Our room was on the first floor. My brother-in-law's was on the second floor. Please try not to picture him scaling a yellow stucco building at Club Med Punta Cana with no pants. Ha, ha! Try to get that image out of your head now! I'm thankful I didn't see it.

Namasté, y'all!


* I will not be including it at my next Anti-Book Club if you were counting on it.

Drama in the islands.

So, don't get me wrong, I still really love the D.R., but last night I made a very scary new friend. By "friend," I mean a horrifying, puke-inducing hairy monster of a rat spider who the world-wide internets identified as a tarantula. I saw it in the hallway connecting our suite and the kids'. At first, I thought it was a toy, a vile souvenir purchased by one of my freakish offspring. Then it moved. And I didn't remember anyone whining for batteries, so I knew it was real. Although it was the middle of the night, I screamed like a woman on fire (or like the toddler having a tantrum not ten feet from me here in the resort lobby. Well, maybe I wasn't that bad. Damn. This kid can scream.) My screams did nothing to rouse my husband, who had fallen asleep with the Tank on his chest in our living area. I stood right beside them, screaming,

"WAKE UP! I NEED YOU TO WAKE UP NOW! DAMNIT! WAKE UP!"

As always, he pretended he was awake. Why does he think I'll fall for this?

"I'm awake," he declared in that voice people use when they're trying desperately to pretend they are sober. His eyes remained closed as he slept soundly. Lucky for both of us, he was sober and (eventually) awake. Much as the state trooper harasses the drunk, I perservered. My poor husband, who is likely as afraid of furry monsters as I am, knew there was no way out. Still holding the sleeping baby - I was screaming, "PUT THE BABY DOWN!" for fear the monster would fly up and swallow him whole - he stomped the evil interloper, twice for good measure. Thus, I watched gleefully as my new friend died. I hope this posthumous photo gives you a basic feel for the spider, which crumbled in death. He or she was the size of a large tea saucer beforehand.

This morning, I found this video of a tarantula. I think my husband will confirm our spider looked similar, if not identical. He was probably still asleep for the spider stomp. If you think the fact people keep these things as pets makes me feel bad about its death, you don't know me at all. I'm totally down with my place near the top of the food chain.



In other news, we're all having a blast, wish you were here, etc. The kids love the Mini Club, although the ones in double digits have to protest just a little before they run to join their group. The Tank has a new catchphrase, "I don't care," which he uses about everything. We think it means "I don't like..." Just before he tears into the toddler room, he announces, "I don't care my school." He seems to have bonded with a guy who works there and communicates mainly by pretending to be a baby tiger. When I asked my husband what language the guy spoke, he said, "None of them really." Because several languages are common here, physical comedy is the main mode of communication in the kids' program. Cup smashing followed by hysterical giggling is common.

The children have maintained their cool about the number of exposed bosoms. My husband, less mature, cannot get over seeing some guy's junk peeking out from his - admittedly way too small - Speedo. I, on the other hand, have been trying to catch a glimpse ever since he told me about it. The guy, who looks like he swallowed a beach ball and has hair plugs on his stomach and back, is less than enticing. But it's like looking at the spider. I have to see, I just have to see. Nightmares be damned.

Namasté, y'all!

How to be less gross.

If you only know me from the witty and sparkling chatter found on my blog, you probably think I'm gorgeous in person. Well. That just depends on the day and whether or not I had time to put on lipstick, now doesn't it? Actually, I probably look the same to the world at large every day of my life, but (like almost everyone in the Western world) I notice myself a little more than other people do.

When I was eighteen or so, I had a friend, sort of like a boyfriend, but I don't think he was that into me, so maybe not. We were supposed to go to some party or another and I had a zit on my chin. I freaked, threw a full on hissy fit and refused to go to the party. Looking back on it, I'm not sure why. Could one zit really change someone's opinion of me? Did one zit indicate a great character flaw I needed to hide from the world? Um. I have no answer for that, m'kay? I was eighteen and ridiculously self-conscious and self-obsessed. My friend did me a big favor.

"You know," he said as I sniffled dramatically, "Nobody cares about your stupid zit."

What? This was a statement both depressing and liberating. Nobody cares. Nobody's watching. The world just isn't that into me. He chastised me for being willing to miss an entire party over something so inconsequential as a zit.

"Do you realize how small that thing is compared to your entire body?"

I did the math. He was right, the percentage was minuscule.

"NOT THAT I'M SAYING YOUR BODY IS BIG. YOU ARE VERY, VERY SKINNY."

Well, thin or slender are nicer words, but to quote Sarah Silverman, "I just want you to think I'm skinny." Although he was also eighteen, he was a wise man.

So, thanks to that guy, I haven't turn downed a party since. Thanks, that guy. Now I'm an alcoholic. But I digress.

This time of year, when the weather changes, my skin goes into panic mode. Yesterday, I had dry, peeling skin, all over my face. No amount of moisturizer made it disappear. Desperate for a fix, I went to the kitchen. In a bowl, I mixed the following:

• a spoonful of almond butter.
• a blob of mashed, overripe banana (froze the rest for banana bread later).
  
• a spoonful of sugar.
• a large squirt of honey.
• a dash of extra virgin olive oil.
• a dollop of buttermilk, which I'm still trying to get rid of. Suggestions?

It didn't look like much, but then I remembered this cool soap I had one time from Lush. It was supposed to be a massage bar and had all these aduki beans mashed into it. I did not have aduki beans, as that is not the sort of thing a housewife keeps in the pantry. I did have some (much smaller than aduki beans) raw quinoa, so I added that. Then I rubbed the whole mess on my face and left it there for a while. I licked some of it from my lips and it tasted pretty good, but I wouldn't drink it. I don't think the quinoa added to its effectiveness, but it felt good when I was massaging it into my skin. I looked funny with all those little quinoa balls on my face. It made me laugh, out loud, alone in the bathroom. That's the kind of crazy person I am. I rinsed it off after about ten minutes, patted dry and rubbed in some La Mer cream. The flakiness was almost gone. I applied the gooey homemade face wash one more time in the shower that evening and the flakiness was conquered. This is huge. Usually that flakiness lasts for days. I feel happy.

Namasté, y'all!

How to say no. (This is a new one. Trust me.)

You may or may not, in the next few moments, be about to learn a brand new cuss word. Mom, Dad, stop reading now. You don't want to know.

A girlfriend and I were discussing the art of saying "no." This can be very hard to do, especially if you don't want to offend the asker. And some of us Southern ladies just will not take "no" for an answer.

"Listen, honey, could you possibly get this little bitty thing done for me? By tomorrow morning?"

The little bitty thing, as it happens, is a huge project and you can't. Or you don't want to, so you say no.

"But," she says, still smiling, "You did it for Mitzy LePew."

True. But you don't want to do it now. So you try to lie.

"Bless your heart," you say, "I'd love to do that for you, but I just can't. I have to be in Charleston that day for a something-or-other."

Lying is a mistake, because it gives them something to argue about. And a lie is hard to defend.

"Oh!" she exclaims, pretending to have accepted defeat, "I hope you don't have to drive too early in the morning. I just hate to wake up early on a weekend..."

You are fooled into thinking she cares, so you innocently tell her you aren't leaving until 10 am. Guess what? She's available at 9. You are losing this one. Desperately, you try to think of another excuse.

"Unfortunately, I still can't! I'm taking my grandmother out to breakfast early and going from there."

Do not answer any more questions. You have to back away from this barracuda and fast. In fact, your first and final response should have been a charmingly firm,

"Oh, sweetie, you have no idea! I would love to do that for you. Unfortunately, I just can't!"

Make a sad little pouty face and back the hell away. She'll try to follow you, so you are going to have to pull out the big guns, with no concern for your reputation. As you are backing away, grab her arm and whisper, conspiratorially,

"I really do have to run. I just sharted."

Then lock yourself in the bathroom until she leaves. Take your cell phone, so you can text someone nearby to give you the heads up when she's gone. If you're lucky, she'll never tell a soul, because she'll be too grossed out. Even if she does tell people, you'll never know. It's not like they'll ask. According to some people, everyone sharts once in their lives. I think those are the people who have and are trying to make themselves feel better. I have never in my life sharted. But I'd still use it as an excuse in an emergency. No shame!

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. If you do not know what a shart is, ask your grossest friend. Or your gastroenterologist. Or watch the movie Along Came Polly, which is a very funny movie and gives a nice explanation of the term near the beginning.

Please refrain from making love to your food in front of me.

One of my pet peeves (and there are many) is when people order in a restaurant by saying,

"I'm gonna' do the Grouper."

That just sounds filthy to me. May I suggest some alternatives?

"I would like to make mad passionate love to the Grouper."

"I'd like to hump the Grouper 'til the break of dawn."

"I'd like to do something to the Grouper that can be very special when a man and a woman are married."

"You should try the Grouper. I had a hot one night stand with it back in July."

"A la Marvin Gaye, I'd like to get it on with the Grouper."

How about a little Van Morrison?

"I wanna' make love to the Grouper tonight. I can't wait 'til the morning has come."

Why not take a page from the ever lovin' Smoove B?

"I would like to get freaky with the Grouper and her friend Cherise in my whirlpool."

Or Tracy Morgan on 30 Rock*.

"I would like to take the Grouper out back of the middle school and get it pregnant."

Just don't announce to the table that you're going to "do" the Grouper. That's disrespectful to the fish and classless. And weird. What you do in your own house, behind closed doors, is your business, but keep it out of my dining experience, m'kay? Whatever happened to a simple "I'd like the Grouper, please." It makes your intentions clear and even includes a charming "please" at the end.

Speaking of restaurant-related pet peeves, I have a few more.

• I don't like it when waiters refer to something on the menu as a "must-do." I rebel against that. I find myself wanting to stomp my foot and say, "Will not!" I refrain.
• Please don't interrupt my conversation to ask if I want more water. Just pour it. Or don't. Has anyone ever gotten mad that a waiter poured them some water without permission? Well, probably, because restaurant patrons can be jerks, but I won't get mad, so go for it.
• Loud talkers in restaurants are the worst. They never let their friends get a word in and they are always boring.
• Please don't ask me if I want to keep my knife. If I do, I'll wipe it off and slip it in my pocketbook. If you want me to keep it, let me know. Own your feelings.
  
• I know all about that study that showed waiters who use the phrase "for you" earn more money in tips, but you can overdo it. Don't use that phrase more than once each visit to the table.
• I don't get people who walk in looking unhappy and peruse the menu with pinched lips and a wrinkled nose. They listen to the specials with a scowl. Why go out at all if it makes you so miserable?
• I didn't like the lady who used to come into the restaurant where I worked with her hemorrhoid** pillow. I get that maybe she wanted to go out, in spite of the 'rhoids, but I couldn't help but judge her food choices. She put it out there! If I had hemorrhoids (which I never have!) and wanted to go out, I would strap the pillow on and wear a voluminous skirt. No one would be the wiser.
  

I'm sure there are more, but now I'm starting to sound picky. Like a patron I observed this weekend in a local restaurant. I'll spare you the details, but she had a complaint. The dish she had ordered wasn't prepared the way she was used to. That's fine. The waiter tried to correct the mistake, even offering to let her order something else. The dish in question is very popular and the staff let her know, very politely. She complained some more and, unsatisfied with the response, let loose with this zinger,

"Of all the places I've complained, I've never had this response."

She sounds like a fun date. Her date, in fact, was looking more than a little embarrassed. Wonder how long that one will last? She was really hot, so that might hold them together for a few more weeks, but can you imagine planning a wedding with this woman? The only advantage would be the potential for getting refunds galore from anyone who wanted her to just leave them alone. Worth it? Eh. She wasn't that hot.

Namasté, y'all!

* I LOVE YOU, TINA FEY!

** Thank you, Spell Check.

In which the solution is as horrifying as the problem (NOT for the Weak of Stomach!)

So, I was gittin' my hair did (as we say down heah) the other day and my fabulous stylist casually mentioned his friend who had recently purchased eight Geckos. For roach control. Although I have no intention of trying it, I had many, many questions. First of all, just how bad of a roach problem do you have to have to justify the addition of eight crawly, poopy things to your household? His friend, as I recall, paid around $50 for her Gecko stash, but it might have been $200, which is a lot of money. No word on whether or not they can talk.

Geckos, according to random sources on Google, can grow up to a foot long. And they poop, a lot, probably more if they're hoovering up mountains of insects. Neat. And just how does one control a free-roaming Gecko? I would be scared one would crawl on me at night. What if a roach crawled into your bed (trust me, it happens to the best of us) while you were sleeping. Sure, that's vile, but you would never know. Unless a wild, crap-happy Gecko was in hot pursuit. And what happens next? How messy is the capture and consumption? Does the Gecko go elsewhere to relieve him or herself afterwards? I think not. So, you're woken up by an attacking lizard, maybe with a steaming pile of dung on your pillow. Fun!

Google also informs me that Geckos must live in a warm climate, between 84 and 88 degrees. So...your house will be hot and filled with crap. Lizard crap. Apparently, the Gecko also indulges in the occasional mouse, but isn't mouse poop fairly innocuous compared to foot-long Gecko poop? The Gecko, by the way is a foot long, not their poop. At least I hope not. Now that I think about it, I don't really know. But I feel sure it's bigger than mouse poop, which is starting to sound cute, given the alternative.

How do you keep the Geckos in your house if they have to be free range? Do you put them away when you have guests? What if you can't find one of them? Do you warn your guests of the situation? Do you even have guests if you have that kind of roach problem to begin with? Do you even have any friends? Do they eat children? Do they chew on couches? Do they burrow in furniture, attacking if they're disturbed? Do they bark? This is all too much for me.

I think you have to be a lover of Geckos to do this. Otherwise, you might just call an exterminator. Or move to a new house. I wonder if they have Gecko Rescue organizations, for trend whores who get tired of their Geckos and release them into the wild. Can feral Geckos survive? I wonder if Rescue Geckos would be cheaper. Do people actually use Geckos as roach control or is it just an elaborate internet hoax? I have a tummy ache.

Namasté, y'all!