Sushi, anyone?

I know I said that there would be additional installments of the other day's CSI: Buggletown entry. I lied. Well, not so much lied - more like changed my mind. I realized that there really isn't much suspense or intrigue inherent in the barf bash that gripped the Bugglehouse last week.

I thought we were going to get off easy, after Bugglegirl upchucked bits of clementine all over her bed in the middle of the night a couple of weeks ago. Miraculously, nobody else got sick. That is, until five days later, when Buggleboy spent last Tuesday morning puking on every spot on the couch that wasn't covered by a towel.

Wednesday was my turn. I'm still not sure how I managed to pick up Bugglegirl from the co-op and fix her lunch without falling down. I kept having to take breaks every thirty seconds or so, crouching randomly in the parking lot and assuming the fetal position on the floor of the den. Really, you haven't lived until your kid peers right down into the toilet bowl while you're in mid-vomit and exclaims, Mommy, you throw up just like I do!

Even Buggledad, a.k.a. Stomach of Steel, succumbed on Thursday night. But like a true warrior, he rallied Friday night for martinis and steak. It's mind over matter, he gloats. So I have this idea: next time you see him, sidle up close and whisper gently in his ear, Canelloni Porcini and see what happens.

She lives on love street

This is the medical night, oh, this is the medical night
This is so much time, oh, this is so much time
Early in the morning, early in the morning, early in the morning (repeat)
When she got the kittens for the parade,
Oh, you're not having so much spiders
Oh, have a beautiful night
Dee da lee, dee da lee, dee da lee dee (repeat ad nauseum)

I know what you're thinking, people. I delved deep into the Elektra archives and discovered some of Jim Morrison's unpublished and arguably, most haunting early lyrical poetry.

Then Bugglegirl memorized it. And belted it out from her bedroom during "quiet time" this afternoon.

What did you think I was talking about?

I don't know about you people, but I sure am glad last week's hullabaloo is over with. Seemed like one endless torture session, like having Mr. Blonde shove bamboo under my fingernails with The Carpenters playing in the background. Here's where it all started, Sunday evening, just as I was about to polish off a bottle of pinot and a leftover log of herbed chevre. Feel free to gloat about your lazy garbage disposal, your mountain of dirty laundry:

Is that poop? I believe I said aloud. But I already knew the answer. Bits were strewn across the floor of the den at intervals, tiny increments of excrement that temporarily defied explanation. I grabbed the L.L. Bean crank-powered flashlight (thanks, Santa!) and shifted into CSI mode (not Vegas, or even Miami, but perhaps more akin to Omaha or Pacoima): Is it human?

I'll cut to the chase: turns out our intrepid black Lab, Buggledog, trotted through her own backyard freshie and paraded the offending paw through the den, the kitchen, living room and back 'round to the den - a crap lap, if you will. Depositing shit bits o'er the hills and dales of carpet, prefinished bamboo, throw rug, oak floor and back to carpet again.

After tender-lovingly ushering her out to the backyard to await sentencing, I crisscrossed the crime scene with my bottle of Nature's Miracle and an empty vial to collect samples for further analysis back at my blue-lit, slightly smoky lab. Buggledad quarantined the carpeted areas with the always-handy baby safety gates. The site was secured, credits rolled, wine once again flowed.

CSI: Buggletown will continue. . .

We are so dead

I need to get one of those handy (and stylish!) belt attachment things for my iPhone, or maybe just keep a Post-it note stuck to my pant leg, so that I can faithfully reproduce herein the outrageous emanations spilling daily out of Bugglegirl's mouth. Considering that I am now middle aged, I find myself forgetting much, in particular those things that I vow, in the moment, to commit to memory and thus foolishly fail to write down.

What I'm getting at is that, last week, Bugglegirl combined the words frickin' booby in a sentence and, because I'm such a booby, I can't frickin' remember exactly what she said. I do recall the following:

1) Her blatant denial of having done so, insisting that she'd said freaky something (again, the memory fails).
2) My blatant denial of having inadvertently laughed at her doing so, insisting that I was only smiling on the outside because Buggleboy was doing something funny.

Look out, ladies

Buggleboy has started singing. It began last week, in the middle of the second verse of Twinkle, Twinkle - where I plug in na, na, na, na's because I don't know the words. He prefers this glorified humming to the actual lyrics of the first verse, often interrupting my singing with an insistent, Na, na, Mama!. And now he sings along, sometimes sweetly, sometimes (like tonight) in his super-low, scary monster voice. The other day I overheard him lying in bed after his nap, crooning to himself:

Tinta, tinta nana tar,
Na na na na na na nar. . .

And though I generally eschew sentimentality in favor of sarcasm, I have to admit that he is unequivocally the most adorable creature in the Milky Way.

My BFFs

Just wanted to give a little shout out to my loyal fans. The four of you really brighten up my spirits when the blogging gets tough.

You probably see through this, right? You realize that, in spite of having once built an entire website, I'm pretty much a technological moron. What I'm getting at, people, is that, although I greatly appreciate your comments and want to respond to them directly and individually, I haven't the foggiest idea how to.

So this is like my group web hug to you. If I could stick in some animated candy and flowers, or maybe some kissing noises, you know I would. You're so worth it.

Pray for me, Gregor Samsa

In the spirit of Oprah's recent, dare I say, groundbreaking (no pun intended) new year's revelation regarding falling off the weight control wagon, I hereby declare, people, that I'm off decaf.

I know, I know. This blog is appearing more and more to be merely a tragic vehicle for social alienation.

It all began with my request this Christmas for a French coffee press. For years, I've been making my decaf espresso via a countertop Krups machine that no longer froths milk (despite quarterly, invasive prodding with a bent paper clip). Recently the seal began leaking as well, belching steam out the top instead of through the grounds. It was time to say farewell.

Like the dutiful, clever husband that he is, the Bugglehubs colluded with Santa: boxing up an eight cup press and filling my stocking with flavored coffee. Caffeinated coffee. Peppermint, truffle, pumpkin spice. I had to try it - just this once. After the unwrapping chaos died down, as the kids were nestled in their beds for a (hopefully) long winter's nap, I brewed my first pumpkin spice latte, mixing a bit of egg nog into my one percent milk.

I thought I'd died and gone to Starbuck's.

I've had one every day since, metamorphosing in mere days from a jittery, uber-productive mess into an outright, headache-prone addict. I'm hoping the eggnog runs out before I wake one morning to find myself an upturned, twitching cockroach.

2009 lifestyle and decorating trends

As many of you know, I never slow down to gawk at gruesome freeway accidents, nor do I indulge in the unimaginable debauchery on YouTube. Instead, dear readers, I subject myself regularly to a grueling perusal of the Pottery Barn catalog. It makes me want to slit my wrists - and yet, I just can't seem to take my eyes off of it.

Recently I received in the mail my first catalog of 2009. Only fifty-seven (give or take) more to go! I'm pretty sure the reason their furniture is only partially wood is because they've ground up all those discarded glossy pages into an overabundance of particle board. Anyway, they are having a winter "sale," which no doubt means that they've shaved a few bucks off of their three thousand dollar, distressed-veneered multimedia solution wall (as pictured, $5,999).

Dear God: I need it all.

Anyway, this "fresh start" edition is simply brimming with sage lifestyle and decorating advice, both explicit and implied. Here are a few of the tidbits I gleaned:

• Discard everything you currently own.
• Relocate to a five thousand square foot home with wood floors throughout.
• Change all upholstery and bedding seasonally. If necessary, convert garage into "seasonal storage."
• Receive no actual mail. Instead, purchase postcards (preferably vintage) from around the world and address them to yourself.
• Your desk is not, in fact, a workspace. It is a showcase for overpriced nicknacks and a chance to imply that you're organized.
• Pencils are never to be used as writing instruments. They must be unpainted and unsharpened at all times.
• A home library is essential. However, create it entirely from books with covers that are the same color. If you must, devote time each weekend this year to covering your books with unbleached, recycled paper.
• Give pets up for adoption.
• Transpose all of your family photographs from color to black and white. Hire an architect to arrange them on your walls.
  
• Cultivate a monochromatic, exotic cutting garden. You may need to convert a bathroom into a greenhouse (try citrus trees!).
  
• No children allowed. Particularly in the outrageously expensive dream rooms pictured herein.
• Despite conventional wisdom, enormous butterflies plastered across your duvet cover will not induce nightmares.
• Always have attractively-presented cocktails and appetizers handy. Never prepare or consume them in-house.
• Try to appear as though you never watch television, movies, or listen to CDs.
• Never use a vase for something as mundane as fresh flowers.
• Display only coordinated, stylish items. Hide the unsightly things you use everyday in one of your spare walk-in closets.
• Decant, decant, decant.
• Transform one of your six bedrooms into an oversized, marbled bathroom.
• Incorporate moss into your everyday experience.
• Toss your dentist-recommended electric toothbrush in favor of a manual, faux-tortoiseshell one. Rest assured, the Christmas 2009 catalog will debut PB veneers.
  
• Stop trying to cure cancer. Accept the fact that keeping your home environment pristine is ultimately the noblest of pursuits.

[At this point, I feel compelled to disclose that, in a galaxy far, far away, I was once a seasonal employee at Pottery Barn in Beverly Hills. I spent my entire salary, and then some, on merchandise. That damn discount was just too compelling. Now you see why, underneath the junk mail, preschool art and the cluttered barrage of everyday life, my own house is simply oozing polish and style.]

Never give up, folks. Keep pushing on, keep searching for perfection, for the pottery and the barn. I know it's there somewhere.

I'm practically tasting ash

About twenty-four hours ago I started reading Cormac McCarthy's The Road. I went to bed early and thought I'd just start it. About a hundred pages in, I looked at the clock and it was nearly 11:30. And of course I couldn't sleep, too profoundly disturbed by the fact that my "emergency" kit is irretrievably buried in the garage and contains only a roll of paper towels and an economy pack of Ivory soap. My poor kids would have no chance in the event of an apocalypse. Then again, maybe I should be grateful for that.

Right about now, The Real Housewives of Orange County is looking pretty damn uplifting. So much for laying off television.