Redneck Pedicure

Is this the Downward Dog?

Thing Two maintained this pose for like, 8 whole minutes at our Neighborhood Night Out party

Go See this Movie

Young at Heart

Fun with Fractions

We are a family of five, including Lenny the dog.

Lets break it down:

2/5 of us have intentionally eaten crap

1/5 of us really likes eating crap, especially when served on a bed of Huggie Diaper, with a bit of nice au jus

2/5 of us have rolled around in crap for pleasure

2/5 of us have crapped in the backyard

4/5 of us have pissed in the back yard

1/5 of us have whipped it out and pissed at the park, right there in front of God and Everyone

1/5 of us have been to jail...more than once

2/5 of us are, for all intents and purposes, bald

1/5 of us is going to start preschool this fall

2/5 of us can barely hide our excitement at the prospect of a good, sound, preschool-street-justice-styled ass-whoopin' that 1/5 of us is likely to receive by the end of September

One could predict that the above statement might be true for another 1/5 of us

5/5 of us truly love Dan Zanes and Friends

2/5 of us lurked in the alley behind the Fitzgerald Theater in May for 45 minutes after the show so that 1/5 of us could shout, "Hi Dan Zanes! What kind of car do you drive?"

She's a Locomotive in a Dress

Unlike Thing One, who was as tall as a five year-old the day he was born, it is becoming increasingly easier for others to guess Thing Two's age.


At the park, for instance, where she whacks more people than Sammy “The Bull” Gravano. And you can't see it coming. There is no build-up, no provocation, just that whackin' hand reaching out to whomever happens to be on her radar.


It goes a little like this: "I'm poopin' mama. NOOOOOOOOOO!!! MY POOOOOOOOOOP!" Then she puts the smack down on some unsuspecting little thing in a Mickey Mouse onesie.


Yesterday she took a little girl's sandals. Marched around the park shrieking, "MMMMMMMMY sanals!" Tried to smack the girl when I gave her her sandals back. The girl was, like, twelve.


The other day a little boy about her age was looking her way. I think he was about to propose when, out of nowhere, she clobbered him with her slotted spoon. Before I could get to her, she got another good whack in. Why don't these kids run?? I made her say sorry, and she did. She hugged him, whispered, "Sorry," and clocked him again. She's like the Black Widow, this one.


Today she and I went on a little date to Super Target. She sat buckled in the cart, with her chubby little legs dangling below her sweetest sundress, and maintained a ten-foot clearance between us and anyone who happened by. "NNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOO. Bat's MYYYY cart!!!!! Bat's not wour cart!!!!!" Little kids cowered. Big kids cowered. One grown man openly laughed every time he passed us.


This went on the entire time we were in Super Target, mind you. I'm not even exaggerating. At one point she was distracted by a bag of rice cakes I put in the cart. "I wanna rice cake, mama. Peas?" Just to teach her a lesson, I said no. Just to return the favor, she said, "I. want. ARICECAKE!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Here comes laughing man again. "NO. Bat's MYYY cart! Bat's MYYY ricecake."


How am I responding to all of this, you ask? I'm not. I am doin' Paul Revere in my head.

Ridin' cross the land. Kickin' up sand. Sheriff Spice is on my tail,

cuz I'm in demand...One lonely Beastie I be, all by myself without no-bah-dee,

the sun is beatin' down on my baseball cap, the air is gettin' hot, the beer is gettin' flat.

I clearly remember Thing One's first attempt at defiance. He was about 2, and when I suggested we get dressed, he stood in the corner and timidly asked, "No?" Then he just quit hearing or seeing me for about a year and a half.

Thing Two's "Nos" sort of slam onto my head from above. Like the A.C.M.E. crate, and I am Wyle E. Coyote.

I Made this Necklace

It's the only thing covering his body most days

The Dog Days of Summer

Thing Two at the Park

Thing Two after an afternoon at the park, on top of the picnic table, on all fours like a dog, with her face buried in half a watermelon that a friend gave us

He Just Gets Better with Age

The setting is bedtime. The mood is silly. The kid is curious.

Thing One: I'm gonna take my diaper off when you leave.

Me: Well, then you're going to sleep in a pee pee bed, because I'm not going to clean you up.

Thing One: Why wouldn't you clean me up?

Me: Because if you take your diaper off you'll have to (I know, I should've known) live with the consequences.

Thing One: Where do the Consequences live?

I assured Thing One that I wouldn't make him go live somewhere else for such a relatively trivial offense, and then commenced a protracted and somewhat winding explanation of consequences, with lots of false starts and colorful examples.

Like this one: Well, like if you're running with your milk and I tell you to stop and you don't, your milk would spill. That would be a consequence.

Thing One: No it wouldn't, because I would just do this--(places flattened hand securely on top of imaginary cup of milk, effectively creating a vacuum seal).

Me: Well...hmmm...

Thing One: Oooh I know, like if people run and they don't hold their hair, it might fall out, that would be a consequence!!

Me: Yup. Or how 'bout this: If you don't brush your teeth every day, they'll turn brown and fuzzy and fall right out of your mouth forever.

Thing One: And that would be a bad thing?

I Think There's an Echo in Here

Thing One: I need some socks on, mom.
Thing Two: I meed some saxxonmommm.

Thing One: Can we watch "Yo Gabba Gabba"?
Thing Two: We wash yogabbagabbababbagabbababba mama.

Thing One: I hurt my penis, mom.
Thing Two: My peanuts hurt, mama.

Thing One (After being told not to bang his fork on the table because it makes mom nuts): I'm just a nutty banger.
Thing Two: Nut bang! Nut Bang! Nut Bang!

Thing One: I wanna watch "Meet the Robinsons."
Thing Two: I eat the bomb, mama.

Thing One: "Hi, Emily!"
Thing Two: "Hi, Enema!"

More To Come...

Took down the final Easter decorations today.

I believe it's important to get those things done early.

Love Me Some Thing Two

You Never Know What You'll See at the Zoo

Thing One and I were talking about our upcoming trip to the zoo.

Thing One: "Do they have frogs there?"

Me: "Yup. We'll see frogs. And gorillas and a giraffe and.."

Thing One: "And maybe we'll even see some heinees!"

Yeah, probably. And after that maybe some hyenas.

Watch Out, Mall Rats--There's A Cat on the Loose

I never thought I would be one of those moms whose kids hauled around a "lovey". I'm barely motivated enough to include the kids themselves when we go places. When they were infants, my kids had pacifiers long enough for me to realize that it was my job to re-cork them when the stopper fell out of their mouths. I'd rather listen to them cry.

When it comes to a certain stanky kitty, however, Thing Two was the creative mind behind that acquisition. She used to only want it when she was sleeping. At four months old, she could deftly reach behind her head while lying in her crib, grab Stanky Kitty, and give it 1 1/2 turns on the way to her face so that she could suck its ass and her thumb at the same time. And I, with smug satisfaction, would tell the moms at the park that we "only let her have it when she's sleeping." Who am I kidding with that fantasy?

Of course, Stanky Kitty wasn't always stanky. An acquaintance gave it to Thing Two the day after she was born, and the kitty shone with all its orange, furry, unmolested luminescence. After 18 months of being dragged to breakfast, lunch, dinner, and one surely non-consensual date night with the dog, however, Stanky Kitty is...well...not clean.

The night we came home and found that Stanky Kitty and the dog had eloped was a sad affair. We came home, saw Lenny the dog sitting on the couch looking beat and smoking a Pall Mall, and Stanky Kitty's fur, clothing, and bodily fluids scattered all over the house. No one in our house can sew. Not even Thing One. So Pete valiantly tied Stanky Kitty off at the torso and each limb with a piece of string and put her to bed with Thing Two to talk girl talk.

Yesterday I took Thing One and Thing Two to the play place outside JcPenny at the mall. We call it the flu pen, but what are ya' gonna do when there are at least 8 more weeks of winter and you live in a 1300 square foot house? Stanky Kitty and the kids played until they were wiped, at which time I proudly ushered them toward the mall exit so we could go home and make dinner and I could announce to Pete that, although we did go to the mall, I hadn't spent a dime.

Potty stop? Check.

Jackets? Check.

Hats? Check.

Mittens? No chance.

Stanky Kitty? Stanky Kitty?

OhgeezIfrickenknewthiswasgoingtohappenwhydon'tIhavethat
stupidthingonaharness?

We go back to the flu pen, looking at the floor the entire way for an orange dirty mess. Nothing. Well, at least we didn't have to go back into 15 different stores like when we lost the keys (two weeks ago) while looking for replacement mittens for Thing Two (seriously, what retailer in Minne-fricken-sota quits selling mittens in mid-February???).

No, we don't have to go back into 15 stores. We have to stop by every stinking cell phone booth and South American hoodie/jewelry/wool sweater/Crocs kiosk in the whole damn place to see if someone happened to take pity on us and turn in a Stanky Kitty.

With no luck.

The kids are starting to get mean. Pete has likely arrived home from work to find an empty house to go along with his empty stomach, so I call him and tell him to make himself a sandwich--we are going to split a Subway and look for kitty.

His reply? "Nice one." I don't think he thought through the potential hazards of that comment.

We go back over every inch of the mall again. Back to the flu pen, where I shrilly ask all the moms to get up and see if there is a stuffed kitten below them.

To Bath and Body Works. No one has turned in a stuffed kitty.

"Be careful," says the cashier.

"Oh, I'm sure we'll find it."

"No, be careful, that's.............(shattering sound to the left of us at the end of Thing Two's stubby little tuna-fish-Subway hand) glass."

Fortunately, nothing broke. As I bent to pick up little bottles and trinkets, the cashier and her helper guided us out the door gently but emphatically. "Really, we'll get it. We just want you and your ragged monsters out of our store."

Once more through the mall, with no kitty in sight. By this time, Thing Two has realized that the damned thing is gone and is calling for her:

"Here tittytittytitty. Here tittytittytitty. Titty, are you??? Dere shees."

"SHE IS??? WHERE?"

Nope, Thing Two is simply on an audio loop now. "Here tittytittytitty. Here tittytyittytitty. Titty, are you? Dere shees."

I wish I had a pacifier to stuff in Thing Two's mouth, because I'm pretty sure the tuna-fish Subway is scattered on the floor with various sundry at Bath and Body Works.

On our third trip back to the flu pen, Thing One chose to surf on his portion of the double stroller. I don't even care--I tell him to look high for Stanky Kitty.

I apathetically notice an ancient janitor cleaning up what looks to be tuna-fish and American cheese off the floor across from Bath and Body Works. I turn around so he doesn't notice my tuna-covered kids, only to be faced with two Bath and Body Works staffers with their arms crossed in front of their aprons.

Damn! I'm cornered. There's nowhere to go.

I turn back to the janitor and weakly ask him if he has seen an orange stuffed kitty on the floor, wondering at the same time if the state has mental health beds available for scrappy, sleepless toddlers.

"A ratty one with no bottom?" He asks.

Sweet. Mother. Of. Jesus.

"Yes. Nasty old kitty, have you maybe seen it?" I'm crying now.

Without blinking, he dives head-first into the garbage bag part of his supply cart. After some grunting and stirring, he produces...

that thing which will allow me to breath again.

"Stanky Kitty!!!!" screams Thing One.

I hugged the janitor, possibly for a little too long. Wiped my tears. Wiped a little goo off Stanky Kitty, and gave her to Thing Two.

Who immediately stuck what used to be the ass in her mouth.

Thing Two

Thing One

You Can't Put Baby in the Corner Anymore--Or At Least You Can't Make Her Stay

I remember the blessed days when she nursed, slept, nursed, slept, and then watched contentedly from that rock-ee thing in the corner. Now she goes everywhere tummy-first, propelled by her elbows and her sass.



Today, she twisted my nose harder than my mean uncle ever did. I didn't think I was going to break loose.




She's an independent, this girl, that's for sure. Today she spent 45 minutes methodically trying to stuff her big, orange, smelly kitty into the shape sorter. When she finally got frustrated, she came over and bit me with that snaggle-tooth. So I put her in the corner, just because I can tell I'm going to need the practice. She ran after me all-not to be sexist-girly and crying real tears just because I bellowed, "YEOWWWWWWWWWWWW! NOOOOOO BITING!!!!" Then she grinned and bit me again.

We know when she's done eating because she gives us the baby sign-the one that looks just like dumping a half-full bowl of pasta/soup/goopy/sticky whatever over her head-and states, "Igetdooowwnnowah."

"Do you want to get down, Thing Two?"

"Noooooo. Igetdownowah."

"Do you want to get down?"

"Noooo. Igetdownowah."

Jesus, that's hilarious--I could do that for hours.

Is That Thing On?

Last Saturday, Pete took the day off of work so that I could travel to Duluth for a little me time. Granted, it was for a last kiss to a dear, dear friend at her wake, but hey--kidless is kidless, right??

On the drive back, I had a lot of time to think about how lucky I was that Pete can handle two kids all day by himself without whining or complaining, and how he was probably going mental right there on the spot with all the taking of Thing Two off the dining room table and the explaining to Thing One why he cannot take the hair dryer into the bathtub for water play. I thought about how he is not used to spending the whole day with two kids, how frazzled his nerves must be, and how he would sure appreciate a break when I waltzed into the door all fresh-faced and armed with silly kid-rhymes to save the day.

So I stopped at the outlet mall.

My first 45 minutes in The Gap were spent fielding generous offers from perky headsetted twenty-somethings to "start a room for me," "help me find a top for that," or "help me find something I like". Satiated with a pair of black fleece bottoms, a long-sleeved crew, and a pair of funky tights for Thing Two, I entered the black hole of the cashier's area. As I worked my way through the two hundred-foot roped-off maze intended to safely and methodically funnel all of the shoppers (me) to the next available cashier, I passed a headset attached to a gum-chewing face and a clipboard. The gum bobbed up and down in thin air as the headset stared blankly at me and spoke, "Um, Lindsay, could you hop up on a register for me real quick please?" I think of those creepy Stepford Wives and another headset materializes before me, the only difference being the color of the layering cami she was wearing. Lindsay, I presume.

It started benignly enough. "Did you find everything you needed?" Lindsay asked the register.

"Yup. Aren't these the cutest little tights?"

And then it happened. Lindsay spoke the word which I was to quickly learn she had spent her late teens/early twenties perfecting. She wrapped those thin lips around it and tilted her head so that the word floated my way almost effortlessly.

"Whaaayet?"

"Oh these tights are just so cute," I labored, already, unfairly, annoyed with Lindsay.

Then silence as Lindsay did her thang with the tags and the register.

But I couldn't stand it. Partly to make small-talk and partly because I hadn't peed in about 2 hours, which was about an hour and 50 minutes longer than is normally comfortable for me, I asked if there was a bathroom in the store.

"Whaaayet?"

"A bathroom," I said a little more quietly.

I saw a spark from the top of Lindsay's headset.

"In the store? A bathroom?" I asked.

"Oh!! No, no bathroom in the store." She shot a we got a live one look at the gum-chewing headset and went about ringing me up.

Lest she forget about me, I piped up again.

"You have the prettiest red hair."

"Whaaayet?"

Am I on freakin' Candid Camera?

"Nevermind," I mutter. She's giving me the look that I got from fat Lance Fareman in the first grade, when I was making those noises with my mouth closed, thinking no one could hear me. Yup. She thinks I'm weird.

"I think your hair is so pretty. You probably get that all the time."

"Oh, huyeah, I kinda do."

Almost done. Just one more thing from Lindsay.

"Would you like to save $15 off your Gap purchase today by opening a Gap credit account?"

"What?"

"Would you like to save $15 off your Gap purchase by opening a Gap credit account?"

"Oh, no thanks."

"Have a great day and thanks for shopping at Gap," Lindsay twitched.

"What?"

Where I've Been

I've been working on a sketch every morning for weeks now which would explain pictorially where I've been for the last, um, season. Infuriatingly, even if you put pants or triangle dresses on stick figures, it's really tricky to bring them to life and tell the true story of a mom who went to Babies-R-Us and bought four baby gates, enclosed herself inside with 45 consecutive issues of the New Yorker, and let her kids spend the winter poking at her with a stick.

The other day I was reading one of those child development wheels--you know the ones that are supposed to tell you whether or not your children are acting normal at any given age from birth to three--and Thing One asked me what I was reading.

"Oh, just a card that tells me some things that Thing Two can do now, like take off her shoes without mom and dad's help, or say a bunch of words..."

"Or climb on the table with no one's help again and again and never get down ever?"

"Yup, that's about right."

So that has taken up some time. Also, we joined the YMCA. I've always been a sort of ten days on eight months off kind of gal when it comes to exercise, but the Y has worked out really well for us. You see, the Y offers free child care while you are working out, up to two hours a day. TWO HOURS A DAY, PEOPLE!!!! As Thing One would say, "That feels me really happy."

My intention was to drop the kids off and go sleep in the sauna without actually lifting a finger, but there was a draft in there that kind of stressed me out. So I went to the front desk and asked for directions to the cafeteria. Nothin. Then I tried just sitting in the lobby chairs with the old guys, but I couldn't stand the "are-you-seriously-just-going-to-sit-there?" looks.

So now I work out. "You look great," a friend said the other day, "Are you working out?"

"Well, sort of. I think it's more that I'm dumping my kids on someone else at the most stressful time of the day several times a week, though."

And lifting a giggling, wiggling, 25 pounds of snaggle-toothed girl off the dining room table two thousand times a day. 100 sets of 20. You know, for my core.

This Really Happened

"Hey Mama, look at the elephant I made!"

"Wow--look at his enormous ears."

"Yep. And also I made an enormous nose, an enormous butt, and an enormous penis."

Okay, then.

Crazy Car-Lover

Context Shmontext

"Vermouth??!!! You can't handle Vermouth!!!!!"

--I think it stands pretty well on its own, don't you?

A Few Minor Things

My mother-in law can stand on her head. And not with her feet against the wall, either. You know the pose--I call it "Getting Ready to Go Through the Birth Canal"--where you put your head on the floor and your knees on your elbows and then gracefully lift your feet into the air until your body resembles a flag pole. Yeah, me either. But I've seen it done. And while this may not astound you young and flexible types, let me tell you that my mother-in-law is probably almost twice your age. Not old, definitely not elderly, my mother-in-law is one of those women who I just know will live long enough to raise money for my funeral by posing for one of those Naked Old Ladies calendars. And she will be the best looking. There is an old family story that says someone was complaining about their weight and my mother-in-law said, "Just come to my house for two weeks. That's all I need to whip you into shape."

She has one of those immaculate townhouses where you know to take off your shoes -and wish you could hack off your grimy feet at the ankles- before you enter. Once I spent a week there while our floors were being done and I compulsively cleaned up after myself every moment of every day. But it didn't stick.

When Pete and I have had our fill of the mental illness we euphemistically refer to as parenting, we call my mother-in-law to babysit. Invariably she asks for something to do while we are gone, because she gets bored. Apparently it is not enough for her to stare at the television and contemplate what she thinks she might have time to prepare to eat during the next commercial. "Give me something to do," she says. "I can fold laundry or whatever. Anything. I get bored." I always refuse. I give her a DVD and the remote and run like hell out the door. Come to think of it, though, I do have a few things I've been meaning to get to.

Here's a partial list.

1. There is a splatter of coffee on the stairwell wall that has been there since 2002. That was when Pete spilled it and refused to wipe it up because he was actually bringing the coffee to me. After a battle of wills that lasted three months, I finally cleaned the coffee off the rug, but I can only go so far and still keep my dignity.

2. There is something that resembles a booger on the bedroom wall. In the kids' room? No, ours. On Pete's side of the bed. In any case, that should just take a minute. You can use Pete's pillow case if you like.

3. There is some vacuuming to do in the basement. Those little white round things hanging from the joists are not party lights. They are egg sacs. From spiders. In a colony the size of which would make Warren Jeffs beam.

4. While you're down there, maybe you can take a moment to take care of that yucky I-emptied-but-didn't-clean-the-deep-freezer-when-the-power-went-out-in-August smell. That would be helpful.

5. There is a dress on the floor by the washing machine. It has been there since our friends got married four years ago. Why? Because while I thought I looked incredibly sexy in it, subsequent wedding reception photos told me differently and I left it there thinking I would wear it again when I lost some weight and gained some abs. Plus it needs to be dry-cleaned and those kinds of things I only wear once.

6. If you're really ambitious, you could brush the dog. He really loves it when you do that. You'll need a contractor's bag and a canine straitjacket for this job.

7. If you're really bored, you could try to clean out the fridge a little. You can probably guess what belongs there and what doesn't. For instance, 8 gallons of whole milk? Those belong. A toddler's slipper and a plastic letter M? Give 'em a quick smell, but those could probably get thrown out.

8. Throughout the house, on every level, you will find stacks and stacks of mail, fliers, ripped-out reminders from newspapers, downloaded lyrics sheets, and mathematics scratch-papers. These belong to your son. I have tried every method imaginable to control this paper storm, including forcing him to take it with him whenever he leaves the house, to no avail. Maybe you could pack them in one of those bazillions of boxes of his stuff that you shipped to our house when we got married? Then we'll just mark it, "Valuable Things," and send it to Thing One's wife when he gets married.

9. Thing Two is over a year old. If you have time, she could probably use a bath. Take pictures, though, okay? The first one is a milestone.

10. Finally, if you could just do a quick run-through in my car, it has been "Mom-ed." You know, sour-milk sippy cups rolling around under the seats, cast-iron french fries and chicken nuggets stuffed into the cushions, that sort of thing.

Don't feel obligated to fill all of your time though. These things are not priorities, they are just busy-work. Take a break. Relax. Do some headstands.

Happy Birthday, Little Lady

Politicians Make Larry Strange Bedfellows

This week it was (finally) revealed that Idaho Republican Senator Larry "I am not nor have I ever been gay" Craig was arrested in June at Minneapolis St. Paul International Airport for allegedly soliciting anonymous sex from an undercover police officer in the men's bathroom.

Police reports state that Mr. Craig made "inappropriate toe and finger gestures" - which are widely known to be solicitations for anonymous sex - in the presence of an undercover police officer. The alleged gestures included sliding his foot under the stall and rubbing the officer's foot in the next stall. Mr. "I am not nor have I ever been involved in inappropriate conduct" Craig states that his finger and toe gestures were simply misconstrued and that his foot "may" have touched the officer's foot in the next stall, but only because he has a "very wide stance" when using the toilet.

Seriously, Lar, if your stance is that wide either the toilet is a hole in the floor or your legs are longer than your Pinocchio nose.

According to police and apparently several gay anonymous sex websites, tapping your toe in the next stall is secret code for "I want to have anonymous gay sex with you right here in front of the toilet." In all fairness to Mr. "There is not nor has there ever been a fairy on the prairie" Craig, could we be a little more specific about the toe tapping? What exactly is the secret code? Is it Morse Code for, "Hey, haven't I not seen you ever here before"? "Don't I not know you?" "What's a straight guy like you not doing in a place like this?" Perhaps it was a simple request for toilet paper?

In any case, Lar, I too think it's time for you to come out of the, uh, stall. You can still have bathroom sex with an undercover police officer. Or a domineering French butler. Your call.

And finally, while I'm here, which one of you douche bags got to my blog by Googling daddy finger spank?????

I'm Not Getting Paid for This

If you like motorcycles, or motorcycle stuff, or even just like to hang out with people who really do like motorcycles or motorcycle stuff, go here to buy, sell, or trade your motorcycle stuff:

http://www.cyclehound.com/

According to my friend, who is kind of a decent guy, http://www.cyclehound.com/ is a FREE site to BUY, SELL and TRADE motorcycle stuff and just $25 for bike ads. The first bike ad is FREE too with the COUPON CODE: 1free (used when placing the ad).

I think word of mouth is the way to go when building or expanding your business, so this is a great place to add the link to http://www.cyclehound.com/ . I mean, just think, I get one hit a day on this blog--and that's usually me checking to see if I got any hits on my blog. If I go to http://www.cyclehound.com/ and tell me about it, then I go to http://www.cyclehound.com/ and tell myself about it, well I think you can understand the implications for my friend's business.

http://www.cyclehound.com/

The (Internal) Vagina Monologue

As Thing Two approaches her first birthday this month, I feel a slight panic setting in. But I'm not reaaaddy!!!!

Not ready for walking? Nah, I'll just take some friendly advice and knock her down.

Not ready for sibling rivalry? Trust me, Thing Two has proven herself a brave, bloody, and worthy opponent.

It's not nostalgia or sentimentality that has me daydreaming these days--it's boobies and bicycles.

Thing Two is done nursing. I know this because of the high-pitched scream she produces each time I present her with the prize. She retracts the scream only when a sippy cup is lodged in her mouth.

Although I'm not one of those women who insist despite all evidence to the contrary that nursing your offspring until they are 30 is indicative of extra-good mental health and selflessness, I would have liked to continue just a bit longer. You see, the wonderful scientists at WeightWatchers gift nursing moms with an extra ten points a day. Points which, if you are familiar with the program at all, you will remember allow a nursing mom like me to continue to eat like a junkyard dog with little or no real exercise while still achieving my weight-loss goal.

Now, as Thing Two gnashes breakfasts, lunches, and dinners that would astound the Monty Python Just-One-More-Mint Fat Guy, Thing One and I seem to be competing to see which one of us can survive on the least amount of bread crumbs a day. Even thus, I am still required to get in 5, 435 minutes of "fast-paced" exercise a day in order to shed a pound.

So, what is a lazy mom with an epic case of exercised-induced hives to do? Bicycling, my friends. Bicycling. Take out a second mortgage to pay for a Burley to attach to the back of my bike, strap the spawn in with nothing in arms reach to throw at passing cars, and go. The great thing about riding a bike is you can do a minimal amount of work and then coast for a breeze. Work, coast. Work, coast. Definitely my kind of fitness. I have even taken to going on long bike rides by myself after the kids go to bed, and I am honestly astounded at the distance one can cover on a bike.

If you intend on following in my healthy example, however, and want to ensure you are able to enjoy the biblical act ever again in the future, I have two words for you: Bicycle shorts.

I know. They're not pretty, but they are definitely a necessity. For men, the choice is limited to a pair of skin-tight black Spandex with a video rocker built in. Thankfully, I was born a woman so I could choose the much-lovelier skin-tight Spandex skort with the couch-cushion crotch. I wore it last night on an 8-mile ride. Sort of cute in a Monster Truck All-Star cheerleader kind of way. And way cushy. But I still don't trust the ride. And I am convinced that each and every other cyclist I pass along the way knows what's going on. At first I imagined they were thinking, Look at the cute mama in the skort riding her bike with such talent. She must be really healthy. Then I recognized my folly. What they were really thinking - each and every one of them, I know - was,

Now there goes a woman trying really hard to keep her vagina from touching her bicycle seat.

What's That Again?

Me: "Hey Pete, 'member when Thing One used to stand in the living room window and scream, 'DADDY'S COCK!!!!!!!' for the whole neighborhood?"

Pete: "Truck. He was saying, 'Daddy's truck.'"

Overheard at the Park

"I could never just get my kid a Black baby doll. I would feel pretentious or overreaching or something."

"Well, yeah, but I think I understand what she is trying to do. It sort of defeats the whole purpose if the White girl is dragging the naked Black girl through the sand behind her, though, don't you think?"

How To Drive Your Wife Absolutely Crazy in Bed

Announce, by way of an historically unprecedented "half-birthday" card - without Previous Spousal Error - that you have gotten her a gift which will arrive in the mail today. Then watch her run to the ungifted mailbox daily and then lie awake at night, bubbling with anticipation, as she wonders if said gift is ever, ever, ever going to arrive. Now that's hot.