Curses!

Okay, people, we've got a crisis on our hands.

This afternoon, 12 was doing her homework in the playroom when she came hurtling out to find me, carrying a bewildered Baby in her arms.

"Baby just cussed," she reported breathlessly.

"Cussed," I repeated. "What did she say exactly?"

"She said.... THE 'F' WORD."

"What?!" I laughed disbelievingly.

"Yeah. The 'F' word. I'm not going to say it."

"Don't say it."

"I'm not going to say it. But she was walking around saying her alphabet and then she said it. Twice."

"I'm sure she didn't mean to."

"Yeah. Me too. I'm sure she meant to say something else. But I just thought you should know."

"Thank you," I said.

Kids, I thought to myself, shaking my head as 12 headed back upstairs. As if Baby would ever say 'fuck' on purpose.

An hour or so later, all three girls and I had congregated in the kitchen. Baby was marching around waving a spatula when...

"Fuck!" she shouted.

The room grew quiet. I felt my head implode.

"Fuck!" she said again, before giggling and running into the den.

Oh.

Dear God.

No.

"Hubs, we have a situation," I said after speed dialing him. I told him everything.

"She didn't say 'fuck'," he said. "My baby," he answered to an eavesdropper at work.

Great. The news was already spreading.

"Yes she did," I responded. "I heard her."

"She couldn't have said it," he insisted. "Neither of us use that word. I don't say it."

I paused. Reddened. Maybe Hubs rarely used the 'F' word....

But I did.

Not in front of my family... But alone sometimes, if I scrape my hand on the inside of the dishwasher or if I leave my house and get in my car only to realize that my cellphone is still inside on the kitchen counter or if I'm really, really late to an appointment, well, I just might let slip a hearty, "Oh fuck!"

Only now, I'm never alone. Mini Me is watching. She's already picked up my phone greeting, ("Heeeeeyyyy!"), my "Ummmm's" when I don't have a ready answer for something, and my habit of "sss-sss-sss"ing when I think something's funny.

Why wouldn't she pick up my sailor's mouth, too? What was I thinking?!

And now... What do I do?!

I can't exactly write to American Baby Magazine for advice. Can you imagine?

Dear Dr. Sears,

My baby won't stop saying 'fuck.' What the hell am I supposed to do about it?

Sincerely,

Won't-Stop-Saying-Fuck's-Mom

So I'll put my embarrassing question to you. How do you eliminate the "F" word from a 1 1/2 year-old's vocabulary? Like, immediately?

Because our Christmas party is in a week and a half and if she lets it fly during this event, well I'm screwed. I mean. I'm in trouble.

Help?!

In Praise of the Stroller

There's something of a stroller prejudice in our society. Most everyone seems a bit annoyed by the space they take up on sidewalks, in elevators and in store aisles.

Even in a children's clothing store, the racks are way too close together for a stroller-pushing mama to even think about getting through. I've been forced to lug entire seasonal collections out of the way just to make my path around a shop, much to the dismay of the sales staff.

And yet, despite the hardships and discrimination I am forced to endure because of my stroller, I love the thing. It is an incredibly useful gadget to have around, generally speaking (I say generally because one time I lost a wheel on the soccer field and it was every bit as awkward and painful of an experience as it would've been to lose a heel off your favorite Jimmy Choos [ha ha! Who are we kidding? We don't have Jimmy Choos!], and then have to walk a mile to your Bentley [I might as well continue in this hypothetical vein of impossibility]).

My stroller has saved my slight, waifish, frame (I'm on a roll here with the hyperbole) a thousand times from bearing the weight of a squirmy 26-pounder. It has protected Baby from the sun, given her a fairly comfy spot for a nap on the go, and offered me a place to put packages and thus shop longer and with more spending abandon than I would have otherwise (Hmmm, should I or shouldn't I buy a J. Crew car coat in all three colors??? Three seems extravagant... but wait a second. I have the stroller! I don't have to carry any of them to the car. Sold!).

Best of all, in a world where men no longer offer their seats or open the damn door, my stroller has taken their place as a champion and defender.

Case in point: A few days ago, my stroller and I were making our way through a somewhat posh store, innocently looking for a holiday party outfit. In this particular instance, it wasn't a rack of clothes blocking our way, but an impossibly thin, impossibly botoxed, expensively-clad, middle-aged "blonde".

"Excuse me," I said politely.

Silence.

"Excuse me," I said again.

The haughty dame looked at me, glanced down at my stroller, then sort of shifted her weight from one foot to another without actually moving.

Sighing, I tried to maneuver my stroller around her leather bootie-encased foot.

"OUCH!" she shrieked.

I had nicked her precious heel with my stroller.

"Sorry," I sang out as she angrily backed away.

I hadn't done it on purpose. Really, I hadn't. But I was wanting to let out a vindictive giggle so badly that I felt like it was intentional.

To be honest, I've only used my stroller as a weapon once.

My husband and I were at a high school football game, trying to get from one side of the stands to the other. The walkway was packed with chatting teenagers, including a large group of ruffians. All-out hoods. Miscreants. These guys were too tough to get out of the way of a stroller-pushing mama. At least one of them was.

I said "Excuse me" a few times. I tapped him on the shoulder. I tapped him on the shoulder again. I was met with obnoxious defiance. This kid wasn't moving for me.

So I took my stroller and I pushed it right over the tops of his feet. And yes, I admit, I even kind of, um, bore down, too.

His face froze into a stoic mask of not-gonna-whimper. I looked him in the eye as I passed and saw fear. Good. Junior here finally got it. My stroller and I were not to be trifled with. Score one for mommies everywhere.

The fact is, my stroller's gotten me out of so many jams that I may continue pushing it long after Baby's outgrown it. Yeah. That'll go over like a lead balloon.

In the meantime, I will do my damnedest to eliminate the barriers of stroller prejudice in our world. Join me as we push our rights over the toes of all those who try to stop us.

Mommy Rage

It almost always hits me toward the end of a holiday break. And last night was no exception.

Crumbs littered the floor. Cups and plates covered every surface in the playroom. Dirty sneakers had been casually thrown into a dining room chair. Various dried spills dotted the kitchen counters. Toddler toys were just... everywhere.

I was frazzled. I was tired. And I was sick of looking at my formerly-clean wreck of a home. I could feel a white-hot mommy rage washing over me like a wave of molten lava.

Thank God everyone else had gone to bed, because mommy rage is not a pretty sight. My lips grow thin, my nostrils flare, my eyes get steely. Hello, Mrs. Hyde.

"No-count filthy ruffians," I muttered under my breath as I made my way down the playroom stairs juggling five dirty plates and three glasses. Damn. I'd have to go back up again to pick up the candy wrappers.

"Ingrates," I mouthed, scrubbing at a stubborn smattering of dried ice cream on the kitchen floor. "Slobby, slothful sapsuckers."

It's shameful to admit, but sometimes, I ease the pangs of mommy rage by calling my family names. Under my breath. Particularly when I'm trying to figure out how to get meat stick mush out of a Berber carpet.

"Little potbellied picklefeffer!"

Or vacuuming up mud tracked in from outside. Again.

"Dagnamed dirt devils!"

It's not so much that I mind the cleaning. It's the fact that it gets dirty again so damn quickly. And no one's willing to shoulder the blame. Who's responsible for the big red stain in the newly-cleaned upstairs carpet? More importantly, who is leaving strategically-placed tufts of hair around the house? Because everyone's in deny mode.

"Mealy-mouthed magpie lovers! Confounded curdled cruds!"

I felt the rage begin to subside a bit as I finished loading the dishwasher and put the girls' school lunches in the fridge. At least I'd have some time on Monday to get everything back in order again.

I was relieved to see that Hubs had left a light on for me when I headed upstairs to our room. Sometimes he doesn't, and there's nothing like crashing around a pitch-black bedroom to send me swirling back into emotional befuddlement.

The door creaked open and Hubs woke up.

"Thanks for leaving the light on for me," I whispered, feeling all loved and stuff.

"We've got a problem," he harumphed. "I can't take light in here anymore. I've got to get some sleep!"

I headed for the bathroom, but not before I overheard his final comment.

"Dimwitted dinglehopper!"

His holiday weekend was over. He would have get up at 5:45 for carpool. Work was a bitch. Uh oh. It could only be...

Daddy rage.

I'm Number One!!!

Susie Sunshine caused quite a stir in Blogland last week when she claimed the number one spot on the Google search for "drunken housewife."

Well, I was a bit miffed. Slightly panicked. I had always thought of myself as the Number One Drunken Housewife. I was even planning on having a t-shirt made that said so. But no. Apparently, several states away, Susie Sunshine was drinking me under the table. Suddenly, I understood the inspiration behind her turkey nuts.

For a few days I wandered around my manor bereft, swigging Chardonnay straight from the bottle and following each sip with a chaser of Binaca spray. Until one fateful night, I sat down at my computer only to find that I, too, was Queen of a Google search, a search that would make even the drunken-est housewife shake in her boots.

Wheelchair, diaper, grunting, poop.

Yes, out of more than 17,000 contenders, no one is more popular than I when it comes to wheelchair, diaper, grunting, poop.

I'll admit it comes as something of a surprise. While I have nothing against wheelchairs and in fact have longed for one on occasion after dinner, I don't believe I've ever specifically referenced a wheelchair on my blog until now.

Diaper, grunting and poop, on the other hand, now that makes more sense.

No matter. I am simply grateful for the honor bestowed upon me. I shall do my best to be a credit to the title of Number One wheelchair, diaper, grunting, poop, providing Google searchers with just the blend of humor, awkwardness and wheelchair data they were seeking.

Thank you. Thank you very, very much.

Beautiful People

"I wanted a different life. I didn't want to live in the suburbs. I didn't want to be a wife or a PTA mom. I just had bigger aspirations." -Jessica Alba, Jane Magazine, October 2005

There's a reason that magazines like In Touch and People are on the stands instead of In Touch with Reality and People Like Us.

Frankly, most people don't consider the lives of "PTA moms," as Jessica Alba put it, to be all that interesting.

After all, our designer wear is pretty much limited to whatever Isaac Mizrahi is peddling at Target. Rather than pricy gift bags of complimentary jewelry, electronic gadgets and week-long stays at The Golden Door, our swag consists of a few samples of Oil of Olay and a packet of laundry detergent. And the only strangers taking our pictures generally send us a copy with a speeding ticket enclosed.

It's not what you'd call a glamorous life.

So when I got an opportunity to join a bevy of Beautiful People at a party last night, you can bet I jumped at the chance to trade in my drool-stained duds for something slinky and chic. For a few hours anyway, I was going to be One of Them.

The event was a swanky Lexus party, hosted by MTV Real Worlder MJ. Not bad for a Monday night in my town. But before I could go, I had to pick up the girls from school and get dinner on the table.

I should've been spending the hours before the party taking a bubble bath and doing my nails. Instead, I dashed up and down the stairs in various stages of undress, cooking dinner, fixing my hair, vacuuming the den, playing with the baby, choosing an outfit, mediating a telephone argument between my stepdaughters, and doing my makeup. My husband laughed when he arrived home to find me sitting on the floor in a little black dress, emptying the vacuum filter.

Finally, Hubs and I left, arriving at the cavernous party locale to find a sizeable crowd of 20-somethings drinking Red Bull martinis, a DJ playing Gwen Stefani, and the ubiquitous MJ working the crowd. It looked like most of the partygoers were there solely to try and win the attention of the ex-reality "star." Here and there on the floor of the club were various Lexus sedans, forlorn and forgotten. It was a safe bet that most of the Beautiful People at the party couldn't afford a Lexus for at least the next ten years. But the cars certainly seemed like a good place to put empty martini glasses.

Hubs and I mingled for a few minutes, then grabbed a table and watched the crowd.

Hmm. Up close, many of the Beautiful People weren't so beautiful after all.

A few of the women were wearing gauchos. Ick. A young man had shellacked his hair into a permanent resemblance of a cartoon character who'd had the pants scared off of him. Ugh. And then there was the girl in the puffy fur coat, fur-lined boots and diamond studded fedora. No. No, no, no, no, no.

Thank God my little black dress never went out of style. Besides, I happened to know that this season, black is the new black.

I sat up a bit straighter. I could still compete with this crowd.

Hubs got up to go to the bathroom. As he walked away, a man came to my table. Uh oh.

He raised his plastic cup of Coors Light in a toast. Nervously, I raised my martini glass in response.

"You're damn pretty," he said.

"Thanks," I replied.

And before I had time to worry that Hubs would knock his block off when he returned, the man walked away and melted back into the crowd.

It was weird. But I didn't care. My charade was working. I was one of the Beautiful People.

Or at least the Damn Pretty People.

I spent most of today in a Yo La Tengo t-shirt and men's pajama bottoms, makeupless, ratty haired, and suffering from a cold. I didn't exercise. I didn't do much of anything, to be honest. Sickness'll do that to you.

But it was okay. I'd had a night to remember. A night I would've taken for granted five years ago, but one I desperately needed after two-and-a-half years of pregnancy, nursing, mothering and stepmothering.

Even so, it's become pretty obvious to me that up close, my life has plenty of beauty, much more than it did when I was single and self-absorbed.

From reading the blogs of so many wonderful moms and moms-to-be, I'd say the same is true for you, too.

So on this Thanksgiving holiday, I raise my martini glass to all of you. I think you're all damn pretty, too.

And I hope you know you can compete with the best of the Beautifuls.

A Brief History of Thanksgiving as I Know It

I've always hated Thanksgiving.

As a kid, it meant I had to put on a mother-ordained outfit generally consisting of a scratchy pair of unlined wool shorts, argyle knee socks, penny loafers and a stiff button-down shirt topped by a tightly-tied floppy bow around my neck. No, we weren't in the circus. Such were the fashions of the early 80s.

The awfulness of my clothing was surpassed only by the awfulness of the food.

I wasn't a picky eater; I just happened to loathe each and every item on the traditional Thanksgiving menu. What was the deal, anyway? Why couldn't the pilgrims have eaten filet mignon and french fries?

Instead, I had to endure dry white turkey meat, sour cranberry sauce, soggy bread stuffing, watery boiled ham, greasy southern gravy, and mushy sweet potato souffle. Oh, and apparently, the entire South was under the impression that the Pilgrims also partook of overcooked lima beans. Gross.

Once the meal was finally served, I always managed to anger the adults by loading my plate down with... two rolls. And a wee bit of fruit salad, for appearances.

Friday couldn't come fast enough. That was the day I gave thanks. I could stay in my pjs all day if I wanted to, watching cartoons on the sofa and eating leftover pecan pie while my mom, suffering an acute case of cooking exhaustion, lay in bed and feebly listened to Maury Povich interview the parents of teens who were out of control.

So when my father announced one year that he was taking my brother and me to see his parents for Thanksgiving, I was more than ready for the change, despite the fact that the venue was less than desirable.

Normally, we saw the grandparents just after Christmas. Visiting them involved a torturous, eight-hour car ride spent dodging my brother's punches whenever I inadvertantly encroached on his "side" of the backseat and inhaling second-hand smoke produced by my dad and stepmother's inexhaustible cigarette smoking. But that was nothing compared to the boredom that awaited us on our arrival.

My father, who'd moved out when I was six, had no concept of how to entertain my brother and me. There were no activity bags, no planned outings, no get togethers with neighborhood children. Instead, I did things like count the number of knick-knacks in my grandparents' living room that still contained price tags. I only wish I were kidding.

The highlight of the entire trip was my grandmother's subscription to Weekly World News. I devoured the stories of alien abductions and three-headed babies. I couldn't believe Jesus's face could plainly be seen in the greasy skillet of a Yonkers housewife. But now I had the pictures to prove it, pictures I hid away in the bottom of my Junior Samsonite to show my friends when I returned home.

Yet perhaps Thanksgiving would be different. Perhaps Dad would be inspired to take us to the mall and buy me some Barbie clothes. Perhaps my grandfather, who looked and felt like a granite statue of a man seated in a La-Z Boy, would have put up a swingset in his backyard. Perhaps my grandmother would even make sausage balls. Now I could get into that.

Aside from the squirrel that my granitefather had trained to take nuts from his hand, though, everything was pretty much the same as it had been at Christmas time the year before. We sat on the same plastic-covered sofa in front of the same television cabinet watching the same local newscasts with the same hairsprayed anchors braying about the same old holiday blah blah blah. The only bright side was that my dad didn't care what I wore.

"Dontcha want some hay-um?" my grandmother asked over Thanksgiving dinner that night. Eyeing the watery boiled ham on the table, I stifled a dry heave.

"No thank you, Grandmother."

"Way-ull...." she trailed off.

After a few minutes of silence broken only by the sounds of chewing and swallowing, she piped up again.

"Dontcha want some turkey?"

"No thank you, Grandmother," I replied, fastidiously tearing my second roll into fourths.

"Way-ull...."

My father helped himself to more cranberry sauce.

"Dontcha want some lima beans? They's real good..."

"No thank you grandmother," I said. My brother stifled a giggle.

"Way-ull...."

A small snort escaped me as my brother and I made eye contact. I quickly looked down at my plate.

"Dontcha want some sweet potaters?" my grandmother said a moment later.

"No thank-"

I was cut off by a guffaw erupting from my brother.

"No thank you, Grandmother," I said, my eyes watering as I fought back the laughter bubbling up in my throat .

My father shot me a warning look. Aside from a few strangling noises from my brother and me, the meal continued in silence.

Finally, my grandmother emitted a sigh of frustration.

"Dontcha wanna get fat?" she said to me, putting her fork down.

"Bwah ha ha ha HA HA HA!!" I couldn't control myself any longer.

"Ah HA HA HA HA HAHAHAHAHAH!" My brother screeched across the table.

"Children," my father said in a strange voice. I could tell by his red face that he was fighting to keep from laughing himself.

"WA HA HA HA! WA HA HA HA!" My brother fell to the floor and began rolling around, clutching his sides.

Meanwhile, I was doubled over, tears running down my face.

"Heee, heee, hee, heee heeeeee," I gasped.

"Way-ull...." my grandmother said, looking from one of us to the other. "I declare."

We laughed harder. We laughed until our stomachs hurt. We laughed until we were instructed to leave the table, separate and calm ourselves down.

My last memory of that night was my grandmother looking down at her dog as we left the table.

"Booger," she said, "I think they's crazy."

Although this particular Thanksgiving experience provided my brother and me with a scene that would be embellished and re-enacted at family gatherings for years to come, you can understand why today, the holiday leaves me cold.

In fact, I'd be tempted to skip Thanksgiving altogether.

What stops me are my two stepdaughters, whose only experience with Thanksgiving before I came along was being taken to Kroger and told to pick out anything they wanted. Their feasts consisted of Fruit Roll-ups and Oreos and Dr. Pepper. And while as a kid, I wouldn't have seen anything wrong with that, as an adult I feel the responsibility of passing down traditions weighing heavily on my shoulders.

So we have a turkey (deep-fried and ordered in advance from a Cajun man here in town), stuffing (I finally found a wild mushroom version I can stomach), cranberry casserole (sweetened with a little brown sugar, it actually tastes like dessert), fancy mashed potatoes, and homemade yeast rolls. We set the table with fine china and dress in the most stylish elasticized-waistband wear we can find.

There's pleasant conversation. There's talk of thankfulness for our family and friends. And if there's laughter, I can only hope it is the side-splitting, sparkling wine-snorting, watery-eyed, rolling on the ground kind.

After all. It's tradition.

The Suburban Spirit of the Season

I did it.

Spending just under thirty minutes and just over sixty dollars, I have ensured that Baby will have a veritable mountain of (slightly-used) toys to open on Christmas morning.

If you could see this mountain, you would surely gasp, "Lucinda! How did you manage to buy all of these expensive and oh-so-popular toys for just 60 bones?!"

Two words: Consignment Sale.

Here in suburbia, the annual toy consignment sale is the one true harbinger of the holiday season and for obvious reasons, I wouldn't miss it for the world.

But before you start up your car, let me warn you that consignment sales are not for the meek and mild-mannered. Oh, no. Only the pushy (and prompt) bitches get anything worthwhile.

I arrived at today's sale (held at the local mall), moments before the doors opened, joining a silent line of mothers with set jaws and grim expressions. Every mom worth her salt pushed a stroller; Consignment Vets know the stroller is absolutely key in blocking off entire sections of toys so that one can pick and choose without competition.

As the sale began, I raced toward the entrance, zigzagging my stroller to cut off a mom behind me as she surreptitiously tried to edge past. In my zeal, I accidentally nipped the heels of a grandmother ahead of me.

"Sorry," I shrugged in response to her glare.

Granny didn't push it. I could see by the hard gleam in her eye that she understood- at consignment sales, anything goes. As if to neutralize the situation, she turned and elbowed a young mom beside her.

Once inside, the women scattered to pluck up toys before anyone else could get to them. I grabbed up a $12 Little Tikes rider, then crawled beneath a table to triumphantly pull out a humongous moving box overflowing with baby doll furniture. It was a steal at $15.

"Hey! Could you move this thing outta the way?!" a mother fumed from behind my stroller, strategically placed to give me first pick of the entire toddler kitchenette section.

Turning back to quickly scan the area, I slowly moved my stroller out of the aisle.

"Junk," I sniffed at the mom before moving on.

Ahead of me in the video section, a woman was causing quite a ruckus with her son, who was tethered like a dog on a toddler leash. He was busy lunging at toys while nervous mamas tried to edge past him.

"Whoa, Preston. Whoa," his mother muttered halfheartedly, clearly enjoying the back-up Preston was creating and using the opportunity to peruse the Disney movies.

I stopped short.

"Melanie?" I said.

She looked up.

"Lucinda. Hi," she said weakly, unable to hide her dismay.

Melanie had briefly attended my play group last year with two runny-nosed, phlegmy toddlers in tow. She mysteriously stopped coming right about the time Baby came down with her first-ever illness, strep throat, and remained sick for a month. I was still peeved about it.

"Ohhhh, the Fisher Price castle," I said, noting the oversized toy she clutched in her arms. "You know it's missing the moat, right?"

"The moat?" she said

"It doesn't even work without the moat," I ad-libbed. "I was going to buy that and one of the workers was nice enough to warn me about it. That's why it's so cheap."

Her grip loosened slightly.

"Oh well," I said. "I'm off to look at board books!"

Turning to go, I saw her regretfully put down the castle before I walked away. It was nothing compared to holding a feverish baby non-stop for an entire week, but I'd take what revenge I could get.

Making my way through the aisles, I picked up some pop up books here ($1 for four) a set of alphabet board books there($2), an alphabet wooden puzzle ($2), a musical book of nursery rhymes ($2) and a Fisher Price giraffe holding 10 blocks ($5) before I happened upon the piece de resistance... The coveted Fisher Price barn along with what looked like all the accessories. Yet how could I be sure? Other moms, sensing my hesitation, began circling the toy table, zeroing in on the barn. I felt a thin bead of sweat form on my upper lip.

"They're all there," a man said beside me. I looked up. Holy heck, it was Michael Landon!

"M-M-Mr. Landon?" I stuttered.

"The barn retails for $25. The accessories are another $18, not including tax," he said as I gawked at him. "It's a great deal at $22. I mean, look at it. It's practically new."

Michael put the barn in my shaking hands before turning and disappearing into the crowd.

I looked down at my barn, not believing my eyes. It doesn't hurt to have God on your side at a consignment sale.

Once everything was paid for, I had a new dilemma... How on earth would I get it all to the car? I sighed and took Baby out of her stroller seat. Loading everything in her place, I picked Baby up and made my way through the mall, feeling like a bag lady with my heaping stroller of toys.

A few times during our torturous journey, I thought the arm that Baby was sitting on was simply going to fall off, or at least give way like a dunking machine platform. But miraculously, it held. We made it to the car, where I unloaded my treasures amidst much gnashing of teeth from mothers struggling to unfold their strollers in the parking lot.

No Fisher Price barn for you, bee-otch!! I thought merrily as a pert blonde frowned at my toyload before quickly turning back to heave her son from his carseat.

And so I say as I sit here surrounded by gently-played-with toys about to be boiled and scoured and otherwise disinfected into near-newness.... Let the suburban holidays begin!

Potty Mouth

"Mommy goes potty."

I'm sitting on the toilet, talking to my 1 1/2 year-old, who's eyeing me curiously.

"Pah-ee?" she asks hesitantly. "Poo poo?"

"Yes! Poo poo! Mommy goes poo poo!"

She looks unconvinced.

"Unh!" I say. "Unnnnnh!" I try to mimic the face she makes when she's pooping. My performance is far from Oscar-worthy; I can't seem to master the watery eyes and red cheeks needed to make my scene truly compelling.

"UNNNNNH!" I grunt loudly, prompting Baby to squeal and run to her bedroom.

Alone on the john, I realize I have once again reached rock bottom.

Of all the things no one mentions in conversations about having small children, potty training, and specifically a mother's role in it, is one of the biggies.

I knew it would be tough to convince Baby to transition from a diaper to a potty. I had no idea that one of the most important early methods of training was allowing her to watch her family, um, do their business.

I also had no idea that my entire family would opt out of the learn-by-watching phase, leaving me to do the dirty work all by myself.

"Ewwwwww!" 12 said when I mentioned that Baby might benefit from hanging out in the bathroom sometimes while she's in there.

"Grosssssssss!" 15 shouted after I asked if Baby could sit in on her morning "routine".

I couldn't believe Hubs would let me down.

"Can you take her now?" he asked me on a recent Saturday. "I have to go to the bathroom."

"Well, let her play in there, too," I said. "She needs to see how Daddy goes potty."

"But I really have to go," he said.

"That's okay. It's nothing she hasn't seen before."

"Honey. I really have to go."

Apparently, man not only dies alone, he also goes poo poo alone. End of discussion.

Which leaves me, mock-grunting on the toilet. And explaining the process to a gaping toddler.

"Mommy goes poo poo on the potty. Big girls go poo poo on the potty. Baby goes poo poo in her diaper."

"Ohhhhh," Baby says thoughtfully. "Baby poo poo."

And in the end, I can see that this is yet another reason why God blessed us with the ability to forget the first two years or so of our lives. Because I'm pretty sure the mental image of Mommy going poo poo is one we'll both be eager for her to forget.

Comment Torture

Hi, everyone. I apologize for the comment deletion, but I got one too many e-mails from people telling me that they couldn't comment on Haloscan. Add to that the fact that Haloscan deletes comments on old posts and that I can't get my comments via e-mail and I finally decided to go back to Blogger comments.

Unfortunately, that means that I lost all my Haloscan comments and that new comments can only be posted on new and non-Haloscanned posts. But I think that this will work better for everyone in the long run.

I'm thinking now of hiding this site from search engines so that I can turn off word verification and make commenting even easier... But then I wouldn't get visits from people who are looking for things like "frilly panty stories" and "purple spit up in two month old infant".... It's a tough call.

Tech Dreck

So now that we've made the horrible mistake of buying 15 an iPod for her birthday, we're frantically pouring all of our earnings into trying to make the damn thing work.

$200, a computer technician and several hours' worth of updates later, we've yet to download a single song. I won't bore you with the details, but they involve a wireless router, a network, and a renegade laptop with a mind of its own.

I'll master this problem, though. I just know it... Yesterday, my computer guy told me I have the mind of a techie.

"BWAH HA HA HA HA HA!" 15 burst out, doubling over in laughter when I repeated the "compliment" to her later.

"The mind of a TECHIE?! Yeah, right!"

I expected a more appropriately awed reaction from 12 when I repeated the story to her over dinner.

"HEE HEE HEE HA HA HA HA HA!!! Yeah, right!" she chortled into her hands.

Hmm. Was my family doubting my intellectual abilities?

This morning, I called my professional ubernerd for a little more help. He walked me through a complicated set of instructions that involved deleting a network gateway.

"Okay, so now I see a little green thingy on the bottom right part of the screen? It's blinking. Okay, so I'm clicking on it. And now there's a box. I'm going to hit "no." Okay?" I said, cradling the phone between my shoulder and jaw.

"Exactly!" he chirped on the other end of the line. "And do you see that red thing on the left?"

"Yeah, I just clicked on it. Okay, I deleted it. Yeah, it's deleted. The thingy is blinking now and the little orange thing is gone. Hey, it's working now!"

"Great!" he said, excitedly. "Hey, you did really well with this. You really could be a tech, you know."

"Yeah, well tell my family that!" I snorted.

"I'm serious," he insisted. "I'm looking for some new ITT people for my business and you'd be perfect for that. You'd make a great apprentice. Not that you'd ever want to change careers!" he laughed.

"Yeah, I don't think so," I demured. "Hey, thanks for helping me. Take care," I said before hanging up the phone.

Great. I used to get invitations to party with rock stars. Now I get invitations to learn how to be a geek.

And according to my family, I don't even qualify for that.

"I still can't download music," I whined as Hubs watched me futz with the laptop for a few more minutes this afternoon. "Every time I try to download iTunes, I lose my Internet connection."

"So it's still not fixed?" Hubs asked.

"Nope."

He shook his head.

"But I can do it," I pouted. "I know I can. I'm a techie."

"Honey," he said, putting his hands on my shoulders. "I just don't think you're techie material."

Hmmph. I think I detected a note of jealousy in his voice.

My family's doubts and derision have only made me more determined than ever to prove them all wrong. I'm going to establish a wireless connection, all right. The best damned wireless connection anyone's ever seen. They could never be techies. But I could.

Darvin said so.

Cult-Free Since '93

It has come to my attention that many of my readers are considering joining a cult.

I've gotten plenty of e-mails about it.

"I know raising two stepdaughters is tough," one reader wrote. "Why not let a cult brainwash them into submission? Who knows? It just might work! And if it does, let me know- I'll join too!"

"I am so feeling you on the dirty carpet front," wrote another. "But I heard about this cult that requires all its members to go barefoot and drink only water. I think this might solve your problem! I'm trying it now and I can tell you, my floors have never been cleaner!"

I know you all mean well... But I've already been there, done that.

Really.

I have.

In the spring of my freshman year of high school, a girl named Nutmeg (I've changed it, but her real name was equally ridiculous) befriended me. Nutmeg was a Junior, a cheerleader, blonde, peppy and extremely popular. I couldn't believe she wanted to be friends with me. But who cared what her reasons were? I was hanging out with a Varsity Cheerleader!

At the same time, Nutmeg's mom befriended my mom, suggesting that they do a personal Bible study together. Nutmeg offered to do the corresponding teen version with me. My mom and I thought it would be fun and agreed.

Nutmeg also started taking me to her youth group meetings. They were held once a week at an adult leader's house. Teens from all over the city were brought in to hang out together and listen to a devotional. I noticed that many of the teens had left home and were living with church members. I didn't think much about it, though. I had my own church and my own youth group that I had no intention of leaving. Nutmeg's youth group and Bible study were just a way for me to get out of the house and hang out with older kids.

After a few weeks of attending Nutmeg's youth group and Bible study, her youth leader asked to talk to me alone one night.

"You know how we ask each person to bring two or three friends to youth group?" she asked me very seriously.

"Uh huh," I said.

"You haven't brought one person with you since you started coming here."

"But I'm coming as Nutmeg's guest," I said, confused. "I'm not a member of your church."

"If you're taking this seriously, you really need to start bringing your friends along, too," she said. "And another thing. It's time to start making some sacrifices. All of us have something we spend too much time on that's taking us away from God. I think you spend too much time on your appearance. You need to spend less time putting on makeup and fixing your hair and more time focusing on your Godly life."

"Uh. Okay," I said, miffed.

"WTF?" I thought to myself. I was pissed. But I decided to just ignore her. She had stepped way out of line.

Before long, Nutmeg had hijacked my social life. Her youth program literally had events planned every night, from movies to swim parties to themed events... By the end of that summer, I hadn't seen my friends in weeks. I was too busy hanging out with Nutmeg and company.

But it was becoming increasingly hard to ignore the weirdness behind all the gaiety. It turned out Nutmeg's mother had divorced her father because he didn't want to be a part of their church. And the church had encouraged her to do it. Nutmeg's older sister and her husband had recently moved to New York at the church's request. And the family allowed the church to control their finances.

Honestly, though, I didn't care about all that. I was getting out of the house nearly every night of the week. Woo hoo! Party on!

Meanwhile, my mother was attending adult party nights with Nutmeg's mom and going to lady's teas and other events sponsored by the church. She was a week ahead of me in the personal Bible study, which occured weekly with Nutmeg's mother and a church leader.

One day, she came home from her Bible Study and said we needed to talk.

"I had a really disturbing day," she said. "And since you're supposed to have this lesson with Nutmeg next week, I wanted to warn you about it."

I leaned in, fascinated. "What happened?" I asked.

"The lesson was about confessing your sins," she said. "They read a bunch of Bible verses about confessing your sins to God, and then they said it was time for me to confess all of my sins to them."

"What?" I said.

"So, I told them, 'Well, I guess I've lied plenty of times. I've probably cheated on a test...' 'You need to be more specific,' they said. 'Tell us the things that no one knows. And don't worry, we've heard it all. We've even heard about people having sex with a*n*i*m*a*l*s"(will that protect me from perverted searchers?).

"WHAT?!" I gasped. "What did you say?!"

"I said I didn't feel comfortable sharing that kind of information with them," she said. "I told them I had already confessed my sins to God and been forgiven and I didn't need to rehash any of that."

"There is NO WAY I'm doing that Bible Study!" I said. "Mom, they're creepy. It's getting weird. I don't want to hang out with them anymore."

Mom agreed. She said she'd handle it.

Luckily, I had a summer camp coming up, giving me a few weeks to leave town while mom manned the home front. She told Nutmeg's mom that we would never leave our church and that we'd decided it wasn't right to keep attending her church's events when we had no intention of joining.

Both my mom and I thought we could keep Nutmeg and family as friends. We had all gotten so close.

We were wrong.

Once Nutmeg and her mom were absolutely certain that we weren't coming to any more church events, they dropped us like hot potatoes. Church rules. Damn, that was sketchy.

I later did a research paper on Nutmeg's church and contacted several cult watchdog groups to find out whether it qualified as a cult. Guess what? It totally did. They sent me pages of information on the "church" I had been attending.

The next school year, I switched to a different school (not because of Nutmeg). I heard that Nutmeg started dating a boy who began attending her church with her. When things got serious between them, his parents had him kidnapped and deprogrammed for a week at a remote mountain home. After that, he never spoke to Nutmeg again, although they continued attending classes together and the school was quite small. I'm sure she was heartbroken.

She was a very nice girl. Just misguided.

So, to the reader who kindly offered to hook me up with her Grand Poobah, who can rid me of my embarrassing addiction to any and all news concerning the Hilton sisters, thanks...

but I'm just not interested.

Some Things Can't Be Erased...

You'd think I lived in a funhouse with crazy, slanted floors. Either that or certain members of my family were genetically cursed with an inner ear disorder that causes them to lurch inexplicably whenever a beverage is placed in their hands.

I'm talking about Hubs and my 12-year-old stepdaughter. Both of them have an extraordinary ability to spill virtually anything they're carrying, marking their wanderings through the house with a trail that generally includes drink stains, muddy shoe prints, crumbs and candy wrappers.

The coffee stains that visitors surely note spattered throughout our home are Hubs's specialty. The man drinks more coffee than a grad student the night before her thesis is due. He'll make three pots in a day if he's home, but a fair amount of it never reaches his mouth. Instead, it's sloshed onto countertops, hardwoods, carpets... You name it, it's been baptized in java. My friends laugh when I tell them the places I've found coffee stains, but I am not kidding. Little dried droplets have been discovered on practically every wall in the house and even on the ceiling. I really don't know how this could've happened, and I hope I never find out.

The worst coffee incident we've had here lately was when Hubs dumped an entire mug of coffee on the playroom carpet.

"It's okay," he said quickly. "I've figured out a really easy way to get it all out."

He ran downstairs and brought up a few dishrags and a tall glass of water, which he poured (all of it! all of it! Noooooooooo!) onto the stain. He then threw the dishrags on top of the whole thing and stomped a few times.

"There!" he said. "The water dilutes the stain and when it dries, you won't even see it!"

Two years ago when we moved into this house, I would've probably reacted in a less-than-pleasing way to his remedy, but I've been so beaten down by spillage over the years that I'm ashamed to say I believe I only emitted a doubtful grunt. In the back of my mind, I told myself I'd deal with the stain later.

Two weeks later, as it turned out (What can I say? The playroom is generally a spectacular catastrophe of old food, candy, toys and art supplies- In the summertime when the girls are out of school, the mess is so vast and depressing that I avoid it at all costs), I entered the playroom only to find that the smallish coffee stain had spread and darkened. Was that.... mold?!

Outwardly, I remained somewhat calm (having a small child will do that to you), but inside, a screeching banshee in an apron was clawing at the insides of my stomach. You know what I'm talking about, right? That inner eye most women in charge of a house have, the one that goes bulging and bloodshot when it first sees a significant stain or scratch that even a fucking Magic Eraser can't fix?

Moving on (even now, I can't bear to think about my moldy carpet stain too long without getting short of breath). Hubs is surpassed in his Olympian spilling skills only by 12. She makes Messy Marvin look like Hazel. She has mastered the act of carrying a drink. But add to it a plate of food and.... kersplat. The drink inevitably turns inward and empties its contents on her and whatever else is within a three-foot radius.

I watch, with a mixture of fascination and horror, as this happens again and again and again. What is a stepmom to do? I can't exactly slip her a sippy cup without her noticing... and besides, liquids aren't even the half of it.

I offer up the following situations for your perusal:

Cough= cough syrup= cough syrup stains on bedroom carpet, sheets and pillow.
School supply run= pink highlighter= massive stain on carefully-purchased beautiful comforter.
English project= multi-colored molding clay= new permanent rainbow flecks in playroom carpet (to draw eye away from enormous mold stain).
Puberty= botched attempt at painting own nails bright red= using guest towels to eliminate evidence on fingertips.

It's enough to make one's head spin (I am carefully holding mine in place right now). I'm going to stop typing this list of evidence now before my blood pressure gets any higher.

Thank God I have a helper coming to my aid... Although Baby currently is a toy tornado spiraling her way through the house, leaving anything she can reach toppled and/or strewn in her wake, I am not yet counting her a total loss. I have had a few glimmers of hope.

For one thing, one of her first words was "mess." Now it has expanded to "Ooooh, mess!" and a finger wagging at the problem areas, which have included spilled drinks, overturned trash cans and recently, our leaf-covered front yard.

Give her a dishrag and she'll busily clean everything in sight. Give her a napkin and she'll carefully wipe her mouth with it- and then yours. And one of her favorite pretend games is "vacuuming."

Could Baby be my avenging angel? Could she, the budding neat freak, be the one who makes possible that stay-at-home-mom life I'd always dreamed of having? The one in which I sleep in until noon and then spend the day lolling on the sofa, eating bon bons and watching Desperate Housewives on Tivo while she happily tidies up around me? We'll have to wait and see.

In the meantime, does anyone know where I could find a deal on shit-brown carpet?

Coming Clean

There's almost nothing a domestic goddess won't do to spice up her life.

Susie Sunshine uses frilly aprons to drive her husband wild, while Angie's developed a meatloaf that doubles as a potent aphrodisiac. Me, I'm enjoying a little fling- with Mr. Clean.

I'll have to admit that I got his number from Ms. Sunshine. Actually, it was meant for someone else, but... whatever. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

I was a little leery about bringing him home at first. I've never had a thing for bald men, much less one with two earrings and one outfit. But after hearing Susie's raves, I got a little... jealous. What did she have that I didn't (besides clean walls)? Despite my nerves, I managed to pick him up at his hangout, the local grocery.

Luckily, Hubs wasn't home when we got back to my place. But 12 was. Too bad. I'd waited this long. I couldn't contain my excitement.

"I have to tell you about something..." I began, carefully placing my grocery bags on the counter in front of 12.

"Mr Clean! The Magic Eraser," 12 interrupted, pulling a box out of one of the bags. "I've heard about him," she said, giving me a knowing look.

"You have?" I asked. Okay, stay calm, I told myself.

"Yeah," she said casually. "I heard he's a real miracle worker."

"Erm, we'll see," I said, grabbing the box from her hands. "So! I heard there's a new episode of "That's So Raven" on..."

Without another word, 12 turned and bolted for the playroom stairs. Finally, Mr. Clean and I were alone.

We began in the kitchen, where a dark spot on the wall near the trashcan had been plaguing me for weeks. I'd tried everything to remove it, with no luck.

"All right, Mr. Clean," I whispered. "What can you do for me that the other guys couldn't?"

Turns out, quite a lot. The smudge was gone in seconds. Breathless, we moved to the foyer, where scuff marks lined the wall beside the shoe basket.

I wanted to give it my all- but Mr. Clean had warned me to be gentle. We got into a nice rhythm as the scuff marks, one by one, disappeared.

Suddenly, I heard Baby calling me from the next room.

"Ma Ma!"

Damn! I thought. I'm so close to finishing!

"I'll be there in a second, sweetie!"

"Ma MA!"

"Just a second!" I panted.

A few more strokes and the last smudge was gone. Gone. I sat back shakily and looked at the pristine wall before me, fresh as the day it was painted. The bliss of that moment welled in my throat. Inexplicably, I longed for a cigarette.

Mr. Clean was far from spent. That day, we danced the scuff mark samba in the den and the dining room, with whispered promises to christen the upstairs bedrooms the next morning.

What began as an afternoon delight may very well last a lifetime.

Thank you, Mr. Clean. Your magic eraser has changed my life.

What They Don't Tell You About Birthin' Babies

There are way too many sappy childbirth stories on the Internet.

Women dreamily recount their water births (...and then my mer-cherub swam to the surface and gave me a dazzling smile), their caesarean sections (...as I held my little crumpet in my arms, I knew it was all worthwhile) and even their epidurals (...I felt only elation as dear impkins pushed his way through the birth canal), all the while ignoring the other side of childbirth: the indignity.

I had a great birth experience- wonderful doctors and nurses, a comfortable room, a supportive family and only about 12 total minutes of pushing before my baby was born. Yet I also had more embarrassing moments in a 24-hour period than I'll probably have again in my lifetime.

For starters, I had labor contractions for three days... Contractions that sent my parents rushng to our house from out of town and convinced us to pull the girls out of school in preparation for the big event. For the next two days, we all sat at home staring at one another, waiting for something to actually happen.

Now before I continue, you should know that for nine straight months, I had promised myself I wasn't going to be one of those moaners that I had seen in the childbirth class videos. For one thing, I was raised in the South, where moaning for any reason is believed to be in very bad taste. Beyond that, it seemed extravagant. I imagined all that moaning was a thinly-veiled metaphor for "Look at me, everyone! I'm about to have a baby! Pay attention to me!"

But after about 40 hours of intensifying contractions, my moaning philosophy went out the window. I was in pain, people. Yet I still had my wits about me enough to be deeply embarrassed by the gutteral sounds coming from my mouth as my entire family sat in the den, silently staring at moaning me on the sofa.

"Don't look at me!!" I hissed. "Don't just sit there looking at me!" I am ashamed to admit I actually glared at my 80-year-old grandma, owl-eyed and frowning on the Barcolounger.

After that, elaborate efforts were made at conversation each time a contraction hit.

"So, the Braves are doing pretty good this year," my Dad said shakily as yet another groan came from the couch.

"OOOOOOOH! Owwwwww!"

"Did I tell anyone about the sale on beans at Piggly Wiggly?" my grandmother hesitantly asked.

"EEEEEEEEE Yahhhhhh!"

"I made an A on my history quiz," 12 squeaked before running in fright to the playroom.

Once the moaning was judged loud enough for a trip to the hospital, Hubs and I left, only to be subjected to indignity number two. I was checked in, examined, and told I wasn't dilated enough for admittance. The nurse suggested that I walk around the maternity ward for an hour in hopes that my labor would progress.

"Okay, let me just put my clothes back on," I sighed, sitting up from the table clad only in a standard-issue hospital gown.

"Oh no, we can't let you do that," the nurse said.

"What?!" I gasped.

"You can put another gown on to cover your back, but you can't put your clothes back on once you're checked in."

"But there are people out there!" I said.

"Oh, you'll see other women out there in labor, too. It's really common to walk the halls like that," she assured me.

So out I went, into the halls packed with the family members and friends of every other laboring mom in the city. And of course, I was the only one wearing a fucking hospital gown. And of course, we ran into about 100,000 people who recognized Hubs.

"I know you! I'm the pastor of Christ Presbyterian downtown!"

"Oh, hi!" Hubs said brightly as I hugged the wall and tried to edge by him.

"And this is..." the dastardly pastor said, stopping me in my tracks.

"This is my wife," my husband replied. "This half-naked, hot air balloon-sized, tear-streaked, bed-headed woman is. My. Wife."

Well, the last part was unspoken, but I knew it was what everyone was thinking.

Good Lord. Would every last shred of my dignity be taken before the day was over? After a few forced conversations with strangers and acquaintances, my mother kindly loaned me a pair of oversized Chanel sunglasses for the remainder of my hour-long March of Shame. I'm sure the glasses only increased the staring, but at least my identity was now somewhat in question.

Of course, the March did no good whatsoever. It took three separate trips to the hospital before the labor gods finally decided I was ready to go. A nurse wheeled me to my room and set me up in a bed, where the indignities continued.

I am a very private person when it comes to my... privates. I mean, how many people actually needed to investigate what was going on down there, anyway? I felt like I was a carnival sideshow as doctors and nurses endlessly filed in to check my progress.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," I snapped to the fifth doctor to enter the room. Wordless, he turned and scurried out the door.

The indignities of actually giving birth are well-documented and frankly disgusting to the uninitated, so I'll leave those to your collective imagination. I will say, though, that my entire family was somehow allowed back into the delivery room like one millisecond after the baby was born, while I still lay spread-eagled on the hospital bed.

"For God's sakes!" I shouted weakly, prompting one of the doctors to rush over and close a curtain around the bed.

How much more could one woman bear?

"You need to go to the bathroom now," a nurse snapped at me about an hour later.

"I'll go when I'm ready," I replied defiantly. I had just given birth, for crying out loud.

"I can't leave until you go," she said.

Loudly exhaling, I crawled from the bed and made my way to the bathroom. As I tried to close the door, she stopped it with her toe.

"I have to watch," she said.

"The hell you do!"

"Hospital regulations," she insisted. "I have to make sure you can go."

"Of all the ridiculous, razzafrackin garbage..." I muttered as I reluctantly sat down.

I was treated to perhaps the worst pain of my life. Worse than childbirth. Oh. My. Lord.

Fighting back shrieks of pain, I looked up gasping into the nurse's smirking face.

"That's satisfactory," she said before shutting the door on me.

Utterly defeated, I sat on the toilet, head in my hands. Oh........ The indignity.

My Halloween

Ah, the pageantry, the excess, the gaudiness that is Suburban Halloween...

We did it up right last night, in so many ways.

For starters, Hubs and I forced our croupy, cranky baby to dress up in a ballerina costume and go begging around the neighborhood for candy- candy that was clearly for Hubs and me. Oh, there were enabling phrases bandied about, like 'she would feel left out' and 'she'll love seeing the other kids all dressed up', but let's be honest people. Hubs needed Kit Kats. Lots and lots of Kit Kats. And that's exactly what he got.

Meanwhile, 12 and 15 grabbed a few friends and relieved every house within a 50 mile radius of its candy. At least their costumes looked good- 12 was a biker chick and 15 was a dead ballerina (contrasting nicely with our croupy, cranky one). Some of their friends, on the other hand, merely donned a mask or a baseball jersey. I have a problem with that. Don't you?

Also, why does no one say "Trick or treat?" anymore? Is it too much to ask these kids to wear a real costume and say "Trick or treat?" But I digress...

Once we had wiped out our own neighborhood, we made a special car trip to one house that had taken 30 days to decorate. Festooned with thousands of orange lights and featuring 450 pounds of dry ice and at least 50 headstones in the front yard, the piece de resistance was the Elvirish doyenne holding court at the front door. She held a microphone on reverb attached to a karaoke system.

"Hello, my darlings..." she drawled in a southern-tinged Transylvanian accent as children hesitantly edged up her front steps. "Don't be afraid, my dear ones. Happy Halloween, everyone. Everyone!"

Judging from her delirious expression and blissful swaying, I got the impression she'd been waiting for this moment in the spotlight all her life. She seemed not to notice the crowd of parents that had gathered on the street outside her house, some laughing, some staring in bemusement, one (surely the neighborhood association president) gaping in abject horror as if he could literally see the property value plummeting on a number board above Elvira's head.

Although the baby was sound asleep in her carseat toward the end of the night, I had one last act of cruelty to impart on her before I was done. 12's friend lives in a neighboring subdivision that's about as cookie cutter as it comes. Back in September when I was dropping the friend off after soccer practice, I noticed her neighbors already had their Halloween decorations up.

"Oh yeah," she said. "Some band named Cinderella lives there."

"There used to be a band named Cinderella in the 80s," I said doubtfully.

"Yeah, that's it," she said. "They all have long hair and they all come over and practice sometimes. "

"Cinderella? Lives there?!" I cried despite myself, eyeing the trim and tidy two-story brick house. "They were huge in the 80s! Like the Backstreet Boys," I said, noting some tweenage disbelief in my rearview mirror. "You know that song, 'Don't know whatcha got... till it's gooooonnnnneee..." Despite my soulful falsetto, they didn't recognize the tune.

"Well, anyway, they were big!" I said gleefully. Oh, this was rich. Cinderella had gone suburban. Just. Like. Me. Awww yeah, how the mighty had fallen!

Last night, I made Hubs drop Baby and me off on Cinderella's front lawn. I was hoping for a repeat of last year, when, I'm told, the lead singer dressed as Count Dracula to greet the trick-or-treaters. This time, though, a tired-looking young woman answered the door.

"Hi," she said flatly, dumping some candy bars in my, I mean, Baby's trick-or-treat bag as I, grinning uncontrollably, peered around her, straining to see inside Cinderella's digs. I couldn't see much, but I distinctly smelled something unusual as the door slammed in my face.

And of course, I've saved the best for last. I've seen all kinds of interesting Halloween items dropped in my girls' pillowcases over the years. But last night took the cake. Inside 15's bag was a paltry Hershey bar taped to a brochure and business card for an insurance agent. Oh. My. God.

Uh. Edward Jones dude. Get a life.