The B-List: SOME THINGS I MISS MOST

• Shopping. I know a mom who's taken three kids into the Nordstrom dressing room. I'll show up at your wedding in my puff-sleeved floral junior high cotillion dress before I endure that kind of torture.
• Boobs. Yeah, I know - there really wasn't much to begin with. Thanks, Bugglekids.
• Movies. Bugglehubby and I used to see so many films we had to comb the fine print of the entertainment section for anything worth seeing. We spent hard-earned cash on flicks like Driven, eXistenZ and The Mummy Returns.
  
• Personal time. All I'm gonna say here is that I look forward to the day when Flush the Potty isn't one of my kid's favorite stories.
  
• Exercising solo. So long, spur-of-the-moment hike. Farewell, spontaneous yoga class. Now when I leave the house I've got more people and equipment than J-Lo backstage at the Latin Grammys.
• Adult interaction. I think I'm becoming one of "those people." You know, the TMI mom who tells the clerk at Sport Chalet the detailed history of her tendonitis, then chats up the guy at Starbuck's with the reasons why it makes total sense to order whipped cream on a nonfat latte.

Alas, I wasted so much time. I only realize it - and miss it - now because it's gone. Of course I wouldn't trade it for what I've gained in return. Not right at this moment. Hell, it's naptime.

I'm smiling - like Giada, but less toothy

Tonight, for the first time EVER, the Bugglefam sat down to dinner. Together. Eating the same thing.* AT THE SAME TABLE.

As if that weren't magical enough, I actually prepared said dinner. Using appliances other than the microwave and cookware that isn't dishwasher safe. I chopped, sauteed and boiled, adapting a recipe I found on the internet, incorporating ingredients purchased this very morning at the farmer's market.

Oh, it gets better. At the risk of dying just a little bit I'll tell you that my kid and my husband knowingly, willingly, dare I say happily, ATE SWISS CHARD.

You too can make miracles:

Pancetta and Swiss Chard Pasta
1 pound bucatini
8 ounces diced pancetta (2 of the handy packages from Trader Joe's)
1 large onion, diced
2 large bunches Swiss chard, stemmed, chopped (about 12 cups)
1 tablespoon white balsamic vinegar (also from TJ's)
3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
2/3 cup grated Parmesan cheese

Cook pasta in large pot of boiling salted water until tender but still firm to bite, stirring occasionally. Drain, reserving 1 cup pasta cooking liquid.

Meanwhile, cook pancetta in heavy large pot over medium heat until fat begins to render, about 5 minutes. Transfer to paper towels to drain. Drain all but 2 tablespoons pancetta drippings from skillet. Add onion and sauté over medium-high heat until softened, about 7 minutes. Add reserved pancetta and Swiss chard and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Add pasta cooking liquid to skillet. Toss until chard is wilted and tender, about 4 minutes. Sprinkle vinegar over; cook 1 minute.

Add linguine and oil to sauce in pot and toss to coat. Transfer to large bowl. Sprinkle with cheese. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Serves 6 (I halved it). Adapted from Epicurious.com, originally from Bon Appetit.

*Not a total lie. Buggleboy had one of his three standard meals. BUT - he snarfed it down, peas and all.

It's hard to get good help

Lately Bugglegirl has been wanting to wear panties during her nap, with mixed success. And in the past 24 hours, she's thrown up in her bed three times. So when I walked into the laundry room today to throw yet another load into the washer, I thought, Man, I'm doing laundry like it's my job. It only took a split second for me to realize the ridiculous irony of that statement. I think I'm going to go chug a bottle of Robitussin.

Greetings from the infirmary

We're all contagious here in Buggletown. I'm finding it difficult to look down without my nose dripping onto the floor so don't expect much for a couple of days. I will say that Bugglegirl called me "the best mommy ever" today when I let her wear my purple ring to Target. Of course I didn't buy it. But of course I ate it up anyway.

Wordsmith: FLAG

Somewhat less than patriotic when Bugglegirl's little friend points and yells the word, minus the "L," each time he spots one flapping gently in the breeze.

The Potty Diaries: No end in sight

Lately we've been struggling with a little thing I call number two. I use the term "we" to indicate myself and Buggledaddy, since apparently Bugglegirl is completely comfortable right where she is. This exchange happened recently, on a day that ends in "y." Welcome to the world according to poo.

"Mommy." Bugglegirl is calling me from her bathroom. She's been in there for nearly half an hour and I've started to wonder if she'll grow up to be one of those people with vintage stacks of Popular Mechanics and Redbook next to the john. Anyway, I walk in there and immediately spot trouble: little wads of not-so-white toilet paper scattered about. She looks up at me like I'm Cruella de Vil and pleads, "Mommy, I'll never lie to you again, Mommy." Oh boy. She knows she's supposed to call me when she's finished and apparently I've freaked her out to the point of confusion.
"I'll never get pooey on my dress again, Mommy." Weird, I don't see any poo on the dress.
"Is there pooey on your hands?"
"No." Her fingernails aren't exactly appetizing.
"Let's wash them really good." We dry our hands and Bugglegirl pats me on the back and says, "You're not upset, Mommy?" Insert knife and twist.
"Is there pooey on your blankie?"
"No."
"Did you touch your blankie after you wiped?"
"Yes."
"You did?"
"No."
"How did you get pooey on your belly?"
"Ohhhhhhhh, it just got on me," she muses, in the same way one might casually announce one's preference for paper instead of plastic.
"But how did it get there?" Cornered, she starts to play it off with that George Bush giggle.
"Heh, I just leaned over the potty, you know, and - heh - it got on me, Mommy."

I don't press the issue. Because maybe I don't really want to know. Maybe I'm going to close my eyes now and not wake up until she's graduating from junior high. When I can deal with less harrowing situations like blow jobs and braces. Please, keep the cocktails coming.

The B-List: THINGS I SHOULDN'T CARE ABOUT BUT DO

• My pores. Yes, Bugglehubby, that's what I'm doing in the bathroom - checking out my sun damage in a magnifying mirror. I'm sorry to say it involves neither magazines nor lotion.
  

• My obsessive-compulsiveness. Oh, the bittersweet irony.

• My kids' television viewing habits. Which is worse: an extra episode of Jack's Big Music Show, or a real-life version of Mommy's Big Breakdown Show?

• The cluttered messiness of my house. It's not like, TLC-organizer-intervention-worthy or anything, but I'm pretty sure this is not what Rachel Ashwell had in mind for the term "shabby chic."

• Aging. Read: sagging, wrinkling, bagging, dimpling, slouching, jiggling. Oh - and sometimes peeing just a teensy bit when I sneeze. Thanks, Bugglekids.

• Trash TV. Specifically: Would Lindsay Lohan rather go back to rehab than be caught dead in her family's reality show? Will Kim Kardashian's butt be featured as a balloon in the next Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade? What the hell is up with Kimora Lee Simmons' neck?

Is that Handel's Messiah I hear?

We're back in business.

Words cannot describe the domestic rager that's gonna go down in Buggletown this very weekend.

Attention child services: the kids will be involved, most likely in a dusting capacity. If you need to contact Buggledaddy, I'm sure he'll be seeking refuge from the madness at the local sports bar.

Bugglescoop: Everything but the kitchen sink

This week’s venture into the world of rampant consumerism is dedicated to our friends who are scheduled to have a baby boy on Sunday – their first. I’ve been trying my best to recall the naivete and uncertainty of those heady, last days of pregnancy. Days spent setting up and testing out our newly-acquired-sure-to-be-necessities like the portable baby monitor. The night I brought it home from the baby shower, Bugglehubby was so excited that he promptly removed the razor-sharp plastic packaging and placed it next to our bed (on his side!).

“Go in and make some baby sounds,” he commanded. I scurried into the nursery across the hall and did my best fussy newborn impression.
“I can hear you.”
“Cool.”
“No - I can hear you. Through the door.”

Were we thinking we lived in the Spelling mansion? I mean, we can't so much as sneeze without our next-door neighbor’s dog barking.

I put the monitor away in the nursery closet, where it soon made friends with the velour-covered Boppy nursing pillow, the baby wipes warmer and the Baby B'Air flight vest. All of which had seemed, in my state of heightened progesterone and marketing susceptibility, like good ideas at the time.

Which is kinda how I feel about the registry item I purchased for my aforementioned mommy-to-be friend. Called a washPOD, it's billed as a European-space-saving-eco-friendly-womb-like alternative to traditional newborn bathtubs. It's all that, and so much more. Because in the words of one Amazon.com reviewer, "Um. . .it's a bucket."

There's no place like home

Judging by the absolute deluge of comments and emails I've received (read: one), I can tell you're all pining for an update on the fall of civilization going on chez Buggle.

Dire Pet Hair Situation
At the end of last week I finally broke down and swept the kitchen and master bedroom. Some of you may have wondered why I didn't do that before. You clearly don't recall the tornado scene in The Wizard of Oz.

Warning: the following photos may not be suitable for viewing while eating. Or with your eyes open. Imagine the barbershop floor after Andre the Giant has had his armpit hair shorn with a Norelco. This after a mere 6 1/2 days without vacuuming.

This first one is from the kitchen. The astute observer will notice that 1) Bugglegirl's been crafting, and 2) Buggleboy's been throwing rice again.

And this one is from the bedroom. I considered leaving this pile right here next to Bugglehubby's mesh shorts and tee shirt, so artfully placed on the floor, with a little sign that read, Who's neurotic now, yo?


I'm happy to report that over the weekend, I borrowed a vacuum. It's one of those bagless ones that allows you to see the exact quantity and quality of filth it's extracting from your floors. Look for me this December in a winterwear ensemble knit from the fur I emptied out of it.

Cold Shower Debacle

The gas company once again paid me a visit and we are now the proud owners of a brand new gas meter. Since then, the pilot light has gone out twice - which means that our water heater has taken its rightful place in the pantheon of items that, according to Bugglehubby, aren't broken, per se, yet don't exactly function. See also automatic garage door, water purifier, any of the vintage boom boxes taking up storage space in the garage.

Bathroom Sink Catastrophe

After the failure of yet another 55-gallon drum of Liquid-Plumr, we are now brushing our teeth in the kitchen. Yes, I should have called a Live-Plumber by now. But the last one, who came recommended, broke the drain, blamed it on the pipe, then charged me to replace it. So there's baggage. Which means that now I've got to assemble, interview and hire a team of researchers to assemble and interview a list of potential candidates. Then I'll have to make several lists and finally, a decision. And I just don't have that kind of time.

Wordsmith: PEANUTS

What Bugglegirl calls Buggleboy's - ahem - Buggleparts.

I think it's kinda clever, actually, like one of those "Tomkat" or "Brangelina" tabloid amalgamations.

Buggercise: When spandex falls short

Last week I was shocked to discover that summer is approaching. Though I've never been entirely comfortable with the season and its requisite state of relative undress, my recent ingression into the mid-thirties has compounded my distress. Enter the era of mom shorts.

But since there will certainly be a point this summer at which I'll be forced, after hours of personal grooming and possibly an encounter with a bottle of self-tanner, to don a swimsuit, I figured it was high time to put an end to what I've dubbed "eating season" (roughly Halloween through Easter) and start getting myself into shape.

So recently I ventured to the Rose Bowl, to power walk the three miles around the grounds and adjacent golf course. It was my first attempt with the dog and both Bugglekids. I strapped them into my secondhand Graco double stroller, the tandem one without a single pocket for the iPod or water. It was like pushing a freight car around a velodrome. After one-thirty-second of the way around I had crack sweat and triceps like Lou Ferrigno. Apparently a butt workout really is too much to hope for.

Halfway around, I paused to offer snacks to the kids, who were behaving impeccably after being shocked into submission by the sight of Mommy burning calories. I pressed onward, my desire to make it all the way around before the kids entered middle school matched only by an overwhelming craving for a mocha frappucino topped with whipped cream and perhaps, a squirt of Easy Cheese. If given the chance, I probably would have licked butterscotch pudding off of Richard Simmons' naked body. Instead, Bugglegirl offered me one of her goldfishy crackers and I swallowed it whole.

I know what some of you are thinking. Some of you aren't buying this at all. You're recalling the last time you saw me snarfing caramel cheesecake in my body-skimming formalwear. To you haters, I have but one thing to say: Spanx.

The older I get, the more I appreciate the difference between thin-but-fit and thin-but-eats-nachos-bell-grande. I'm fairly certain that before I turned thirty - before I felt the urge to mitigate my wine buzz with the remainder of the kids' macaroni and cheese - my ass did not jiggle like a partially set quiche lorraine. I may be petite, but flabby chic is so passe.

These days, it's all about never appearing pregnant until giving birth in the middle of a bikram yoga session immediately followed by strutting the runway in a bikini and stilettos. Me, I'm still raiding the kids' candy stash. And anxiously awaiting the Spanx beach collection.

Workout Stats
Smokin' bod count: Two. I think one guy was a professional athlete. I almost took a picture.
iPod shuffle quality: High. Rage Against the Machine off the bat made me feel like a badass. In a suburban-white-mom-with-two-kids-
and-a-labrador kind of way.
Fanny pats: Zero. I'm trying not to let it bring me down. After all, I'd prefer to hold out until my butt no longer resembles a waterbed.
Sightings: Friendly nightstick guy. I used to see him all the time when I was pregnant with Buggleboy. Glad he's keeping up the routine.
Cravings: See frappucino cited above. Add to that anything not visibly moldy.
Excuses/Complaints: See entirety above.

The B-list: THINGS I SHOULD CARE ABOUT BUT DON'T

• Parabens. Though I have started checking labels before I buy, I could eat L'Occitane hand cream for dessert. I don't much care if there's kangaroo dung in it.

• Kaipo, our miniature parrot. The thing might live thirty years. But I'm sorry, anything that poops in its own bed is Buggledaddy's domain.

• Our "emergency kit," completely inaccessible in our junkyard garage, that consists of an economy pack of Ivory soap and a roll of paper towels. We'll be the cleanest survivors ever.

• My recent, unconscionable neglect of my feet. If I'm suddenly broke and homeless I can earn spare change by demonstrating to pedestrians the Velcro-like action of my heels.

• Our inexcusable lack of grown-up documents. Every time Buggledaddy and I go away for a couple of days I'm up late the night before, scrawling notes about where to leave the kids in case I don't make it back. This is why I'm going to get hit by a bus a block away from home.

• Buggleboy's finger sucking. My mother's direly pessimistic world view has for the first time proved useful. "Don't worry about it," she said. "Your kids are destined for orthodontia no matter what you do."

• Sports. Poor Bugglehubby. The only reason I go to any game is to nosh on hot dogs. And perhaps to rip on the dancing girls.

• Our next president. I know, I can feel your ire through cyberspace. But unless he's delivering a basket of Snookie's Cookies and a per-diaper-change compensation check, que sera, sera.
  

• American Idol. I could sit on my high horse right now but for the fact that I am completely up to date on Kim Kardashian's sex life. Look out for more trash t.v. in next week's "THINGS I SHOULDN'T CARE ABOUT BUT DO."
  

Harry Chapin said it better

Dear Dad,

Happy Father's Day! Even though you will probably spend the morning at the Church of Work and the afternoon renovating the master bathroom, I know you'll end the day with a few beers and a couple of puns in front of the U.S. Open. Finish strong.

Even though we're not really big on nostalgia, I thought I'd share a story with you. It's about a girl who walked home from first grade in the middle of the day because she resented being punished by the teacher. Undaunted, her dad volunteered to coach tee ball.

Then during fourth-grade recess, the girl nearly knocked out Chris Browder's front teeth with a rock. Unfazed, her dad signed them up for Indian Princesses.

In seventh grade, tooth-braced and bespectacled, she snuck out and rode the bus to the mall to see Mystic Pizza. Pissed, the dad grounded the girl for a month. But he still took her on the annual ski trip.

When the girl was sixteen, she crashed the Oldsmobile into a pole in the grocery store parking lot. Who knew five miles per hour could be so damaging? The dad still took her driving (with a five iron and a bucket of balls) at Smiley's on Sunday evenings.

Just a month before high school graduation, the girl was suspended for three days for violating alcohol policy at the spring dance. The dad happily sent her off to college. But he came to visit. And bought drinks.

After college the girl moved far away. The dad sent cards, telephoned and bankrolled a couple of apartment security deposits. But she never came back. Except for holidays, of course, but it wasn't the same.

Years later, she got married, bought a house, had a couple of kids. And she forgot to send her dad a Father's Day card. The end.

Dad, I know what you're thinking, and I totally agree: Blame the parents.

Bugglescoop: No balls in this house

Going green has got me blue. My enthusiasm started to wane when I realized that my reusable Trader Joe's grocery bags are made out of plastic (hello?). Since then I've had to break out the Clorox to clean the shower, thrown in the trash four Ziploc freezer bags and inherited Bugglehubby's V-8-engined SUV. I know, it's bleak. But that thing holds a crap ton of gear.

Only because Leo is just so compelling (could you die in the kitchen in The Departed?), I thought I'd give this eco-friendliness thing another shot. Recently at Bed, Bath and Beyond, I bought these reusable fabric softener things for the dryer - spiky blue balls that previously were only available in certain areas of Amsterdam. Made in China of plastic (naturally) and labeled "AS SEEN ON TV," they came with a two-year guarantee and a ten-dollar price tag. This is what happened to one of them after three trips through the dryer:



On "delicate," mind you. I treated these balls gently.

Needless to say, I'm back to the dye-free, fragrance-free dryer sheets. As for Leo, I'm hoping it's not a dealbreaker.

A plague o' both your houses

I'm pretty sure a big flood is coming. Like, of Biblical proportions.

First my vacuum cleaner erupts in flames. And the front yard sprinklers go haywire. Then my bathroom sink backs up, leaving all of that phlegmy toothpaste just swirling around in there like wisps of cotton candy at the county fair. I'm gagging a little bit just envisioning it. Now the pilot light has gone out on my water heater, for the second time this month. Yesterday's shower rivaled the one I took with a garden hose in some Indiana campground the morning after a Dead show in the summer of '94. . .

What was I saying?

Oh, we're filthy. I can't vacuum, which means that I can't dust or mop, lest I just push the nastiness around in haphazard rows like seaweed washed up on shore. I won't shower, which means that I can't exercise (possibly my most legitimate excuse to date). And I can't do laundry, because haven't you ever seen those magnified dust mites that won't die unless you wash them on "scalding?"

So we're sleeping on vermin-infested sheets, clothing and musty towels are piling up in every corner and black dog hairs are wafting across the hardwood like tumbleweeds. Five days in, and Bugglehubby hasn't noticed yet. But I'm finding myself gazing across the living room with the theme song from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly playing in my head.

I've started urging the kids to go play out in the garage, where it's cleaner.

On the bright side (isn't therapy special?), I've had a bit of time on my hands. In addition to the positively rampant posting herein, Monday I replastered all of our ceilings in the rococo style. Yesterday I disproved string theory and built an ark, but the squalor is wearying. I'm planning to sail back to the good old days, when my house and I were merely shabby.

Wordsmith: FOX

At the home of one of our innumerable Bugglecousins, storytime takes an “R” rated turn when the nearly-three-year-old pronounces the word with "u," rather than an "o."

The proverbial henhouse might never be the same.

[Do email me with any of your own kid-related linguistic bloopers. I'd love to make it a regular Wednesday feature.]

We're practically wading in it

Before our first baby was born, Bugglehubby and I made all the requisite preparations. Painted the nursery. Learned how to install the carseat. Started ignoring the dog. What we couldn't seem to decide on was what the hell we were going to call it.

I'm not talking about the baby. I'm talking about what comes out of the baby. Because along with snakes, exams with essay questions and USC athletics, Bugglehubby had this preternatural aversion to the word "poop."

Recognizing that indulging him in this bizarre, completely irrational quirk might prove advantageous, I agreed to brainstorm new ideas. But a cursory search through The 10,001 Best Poop Names left us wanting. We rose to the challenge. To his "growler," "dump" and "stinker," I added "freshie" and the old standby, "number two." We also considered the possibility of forgoing a label altogether in favor of gentle innuendo, as in "you change the f-ing mess."

In the end, we agreed to disagree: he settled on the macho, crude "dump," I on the sweetly innocuous "freshie."

But it was all for naught. There was just no avoiding the poop. The inadvertent exposure therapy eventually mitigated Buggledaddy's phobia. Today, he's able to utter the forbidden word with only a slight cringe, though he still prefers his go-to terminology.

Just the other day, Bugglegirl was gazing out the bay window, watching Buggledog in the yard. "She's taking a dump, Daddy?"

[Craving more toilet talk? Tune in Tuesdays for a freshie.]

The B-List: NAME THAT DOLL

After some initial prodding, Bugglegirl has finally embraced wholeheartedly the task of naming her dolls. At first she wasn't particularly jazzed on the idea, which yielded her Bitty Twins' fairly ho-hum monikers, Dolly and Eddie. But now she's branching out, a pint-sized linguist synthesizing culturally-sensitive names from around the globe. Some of them sound Russian. Others, vaguely scientific. I'm pretty sure at least one is an STD.

• Peta
• Chipson
• Brianna
• Crunchdents
• Ezra
• Colacha
• Katrina

I'm sorry to report that Colacha's dog recently passed. Services are being held near the toy basket, snacktime to follow.

Like Lindsay Lohan. Only neater. And old.

I've been thinking that I need to whip this whole blog thing into shape. In case any of you were placing wagers, I managed to leave well enough alone for 28 days. My own little OCD rehab stint. But also plenty of time for me to overANALyze it, to use Bugglehubby's catch word for all of my compulsive quirks. Can you feel the love?

In order to provide a bit of focus and motivation, as well as to satisfy my inherent, maniacal need for absolute control, I'm hereby implementing a schedule of sorts, subject to change depending on whateverthehelliwant. Stay with me here. I'm much more fun when I get my routine fix.

We'll start off slowly; no need to hit the hard stuff yet. A tidy little list to kick off the week. I'm marking it down on both my schedule and my to do list for Monday, which kinda makes my toes tingle. Good stuff.

A blaze of glory

For the past few months, my vacuum cleaner has been on the fritz. It's one of those canister types from Sears, with a little mini upholstery attachment that rocks on the dog bed. (Wow - "rocks on the dog bed." How sad is my world?)

Anyway, it short circuited or something a while back and I've been having to bend down to keep the handle nearly parallel to the floor for it to work in "carpet" mode. So every time I bring the handle back toward me, it shifts into "floor" mode for just a second until I start to push it away from me again. For the uninitiated (read: spoiled), this lapse means that the cylinder with all the bristles stops turning, leaving myriad bits of unspeakables buried deep within the carpet fibers unless I double back. Given the frequency with which I vacuum, minus the square footage of hardwood flooring, I've estimated that this deficiency has cost me nearly eight years. Additionally, the alternating decibel level, combined with the flashing on and off of the little headlight, is certainly the cause of my uncanny irritability.

And today the fucking thing burst into flames.

There I was, doing the convoluted vacuum tango in the den, in between lunch and naptime. The Bugglekids were jockeying for position, impeding my progress as they waited impatiently for a turn. (I have this hunch that their interest in housework is inversely proportional to their efficiency.) Suddenly the thing hissed, popped and went up like a roman candle. I checked to make sure the kids still had eyebrows and carted the contraption out to the front porch, which is looking more and more like a way station for battered gear.

"What happened, Mommy?"
"It broke, honey."
"It broked? What happened?"
"It caught on fire. And broke."
"On fire? What happened?"

After a few minutes of the familiar Abbott and Costello routine (we'll be here all week, folks), Bugglegirl moved on. By now, it was potty time, story time, kicking Buggleboy in the chest time, twinkle twinkle time.

Vacuuming time is hereby postponed.

It's not as fun as gambling

After much soul searching and mental anguish, I've come to the conclusion that I'm never going to be one of those bunko moms.

In case your idea of a night out with the girls involves possibly waking up in the same clothes you went clubbing in (ah, memory lane), bunko is a dice-rolling game punctuated by bell ringing and gossip, requiring neither skill nor strategy but simply a nominal buy-in fee and a gaggle of suburban moms.

And I just don't get it. I mean, this is the best we can do? This is the offspring of Grandma’s bridge group, Mom’s mah jong night? I confess I don’t know if the latter involves any intellect or skill, but hell, it’s both ancient and Chinese. And therefore presumably too advanced to be readily mastered by a koala bear.

At this point I feel compelled to address any members of "my" bunko group who may have inadvertently stumbled into Buggletown: The opinions expressed herein are completely uninfluenced by bitterness or malice toward you personally. While of course it would be gratifying and validating to be promoted, after nearly two years on the "alternate" list, to a full-fledged member of your cool mom posse, I don't hold it against any of you. On the contrary, I'd likely trade my ill-fitting, questionably-authentic Chanel sunglasses (anyone leave these at my house like three years ago?) for a shot at being just like you.

I'm not hating the player, ladies - I'm hating the game.

Maybe my lack of hand-eye coordination is partly to blame. I can't seem to manage rolling dice and swapping bathroom renovation horror stories simultaneously. Perhaps my control issues bar me from fully appreciating a game of pure chance. More likely, it could be that I’m too easily intimidated by the prospect of being wounded during the supercilious “mommy wars” that inevitably flare up at such gatherings: criticism cloaked in casual comment. In fact, at this very moment I’m feeling the urge to self-medicate my burgeoning anxiety with a glass of pinot grigio.

I’m pretty sure that not only am I way out of my league; I’m not even capable of playing at all.

It’s not like this self-imposed ostracism is new, or unexpected. As far back as junior high I was the girl everyone loved to hang out with but somehow forgot to invite (that’s not a tear, people, it’s allergies). I was the delinquent cheerleader, the sorority dropout – continually vacillating between craving and thwarting popular acceptance. Designer diaper bags have replaced the pom-poms and Greek letters, but the mores remain. I want at once to embrace and to despise bunko, in all its cliquish, mindless absurdity.

Watch closely as the dichotomy plays out: There I am in a newly-remodeled great room, in my painstakingly-appointed-casual- chic-mom outfit, listening intently for an entrée into a conversation whirling with nannies, tee ball, contractors, sneaking away for more salad of baby greens accented with raisins even though what I really need is a cheeseburger and another glass of wine. Or perhaps a shot of Jameson. The game gets going and I’m sitting there with three pleasant women I don’t particularly know but feel compelled to by the time the bell rings which, ideally, is before my brain starts smoking and my underarms sweating from trying to manage simple addition concurrently with basic social grace. After this I have the audacity to pout internally if I don’t win any money.

Did I actually insinuate, mere moments ago, that bunko wasn’t challenging enough?

Perhaps I’ve been too harsh. Perhaps I erroneously implied that every moment of a bunko evening tends to be excruciating. Despite my misgivings, I do appreciate much of the conversation, and certainly all of the libation. When pressed, I’m quite adept at tiptoeing gingerly near the border of enjoying organized pleasantry. At least until the bell rings.

Chances are I’m going to be free hereafter on the first Tuesday of the month. Mah jong, anyone?

He's going to need a restraining order

Well I've been hard at work trying to get something decent to stick up here but in the meantime, you might see me on Maury because I'm going to devour Buggleboy for breakfast. He's learned how to kiss with this Angelina-esque puckered pout and an enthusiastic "mmmmmmwaaaah" and I might need to bite his cheeks off and keep them in my pocket.

Today after naptime while Bugglegirl was rocking her purple "bitar" during the Laurie Berkner DVD, Buggleboy just snuggled on my lap, hugging his shnuggie blanket. I almost sat him down on the couch so I could go back to working on my freelance computer programming job. But then I had this flash forward to my deathbed and realized that I don't have to be the lame loser who passed up unsolicited cuddling in favor of Filemaker. It was so worth the seventeen bucks (what can I say, I command top dollar).

Later on he held up his shnuggie and called it “mama.” I think I swooned.