Buggletown

Watch out, Aimee Mann

2009-08-28T16:00:00.000-07:00

I want you to be my first rat
want you to be my horse
yeah, I can do it

You're gonna get scratched by the cat
want to be this way
you can
yes, sir, you can

Singin' in the shower again

-Lyrics by Bugglegirl, July 2009

Beauty school dropout

2009-07-28T14:53:00.000-07:00

I know what you're thinking. But no, I'm not having a Britney moment. And my new vacuum cleaner, even though our romance is tenuous at best, is performing acceptably.

This, dear readers, is what happens when you entrust a four year old with a pair of child-safe scissors during quiet time. Fortunately, the hair is not her own; rather, Bugglegirl sheared it from the mane and tail of the fancy American Girl horse that she got for Christmas. She'd tried to conceal the evidence in her secret stash spot behind her toy basket, but the little tufts of black hair strewn about her beige carpeting betrayed her.

Me: What have you done?
Bugglegirl: Nothing, Mommy.
Me: Did you cut your horse's hair?
Bugglegirl: I made it pretty, see?
Me: Give me the scissors. Where is the hair?
Bugglegirl: Here.
Me: You know this hair will never grow back.
Bugglegirl: I know, Mommy. It will never grow back. It's OK.

Surprisingly, there's still a good deal of hair left on the horse, though now it's styled in an unattractive, asymmetrical blunt cut that might set Kelly Osbourne back a few hundred bucks.

Hmmm. . .beauty school. A double bonus: Not only could I blow the college fund on a downpayment on a Tuscan villa, but I'd have great hair - for free - doing it.

He's definitely Irish

2009-07-20T15:23:00.000-07:00

The other day while cleaning my desk I came across this artistic specimen. I'd written on the back and set it aside to upload here back around St. Patrick's Day. Which was, alas, in March.

Bugglegirl: Look, Mom, he's coming down!
Me: Yeah! The leprechaun is sliding down the rainbow.
Bugglegirl: No, that's God.
Me: That's not a leprechaun?
Bugglegirl: No, that's God. And there's the pennies.
Me: God is going to slide into the pennies?
Bugglegirl: No. He's going to jump off right here.
Me: OK.

The end of an era

2009-07-16T13:48:00.000-07:00

I should've known it wouldn't last. Maybe I was too demanding. Too unappreciative, too compulsive. Whatever the reason, our relationship is finished - forever. And now I have to kick the dirty, broken bastard to the curb.

'Cause I ain't coughing up two hundred and thirty-five freaking dollars to have the damn thing repaired, AGAIN.

About two weeks ago, my vacuum just died. Right in the middle of a caffeine-inspired fit of housekeeping. Unlike last summer, there were no dramatic pyrotechnics. The spirit of a trusted, humble appliance simply snuffed out in an otherwise uneventful instant.

It wasn't even that old. And it was a Kenmore, for God's sake. Before I made the leap from hip, single-apartment-dwelling owner of a cheap Target upright to mom-bob, raspberry-jam-shirt-stain sporting owner of a pricey canister contraption, I researched back issues of Consumer Reports. I listened to my mother. And where did it get me? Up to my kneecaps in dirt-studded piles of dog hair.

So this afternoon I fired up Stevie. Bugglegirl was ecstatic: Can I touch it, Mommy? Buggledog was indifferent: Check out how much hair I shed just flopping down on the floor! Buggleboy was terrified: [insert crying and outstretched arms waiting to be cuddled here.]

He was fine as long as I was holding him, even giggling a bit when Stevie bonked into a wall or the dining room chairs. After a potty break and his favorite song, he lay down for a nap.

Not ten minutes later, Buggleboy was crying hysterically. Stevie had crashed into his closed door a couple of times. I went in to comfort him, explaining that there was nothing to be afraid of:

Me: Did Stevie scare you?
Buggleboy: (nodding)
Me: It's OK, baby. Stevie just bonked into your door.
Buggleboy: Stevie come get me.
Me: No, honey. Stevie can't open your door. He has no hands. He just cleaned outside your room and he probably won't be back.
Buggleboy: (silence)
Me: Are you all right now, honey?
Buggleboy: Hold me.

I think I'm gonna run Stevie every afternoon for, like, ever.

Di-a-wee-wah: A Haiku

2009-04-09T19:36:00.000-07:00

Laughter, sunshine, breeze
Blissful moments pass, until
Two kids crap their pants

Yet, (hopefully) not halfway there

2009-03-31T22:05:00.000-07:00

OMG.

As if there weren't enough signs bombarding me with the fact that I am now old. Among them that my butt now has more dimples than the prepubescent Shirley Temple. But I digress. . .

People, The Matrix is celebrating its tenth anniversary. I might actually be a relic of the cretaceous period.

Which brings me to this week's (month's? What is time, anyway???) mantra:

THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.

I could've put the crib in the backyard

2009-03-13T14:40:00.000-07:00

I just happened to be cruising around some baby-related websites and came across an article on letting newborn babies "cry it out" in the middle of the night. Written by a PhD from Children's Hospital in Philadelphia, it talks about how "sleep training," her term for allowing infants to cry for half an hour at two in the morning, teaches them (in just a couple of nights) the self-soothing skills they need to fall asleep on their own.

Isn't that special?

Immediately I had this flashback to early spring, 2005, when I was propped up in my bed at three in the morning flipping through my paperback copy of Babywise, trying to decipher the print through my hormone and fatigue-induced fit of tears. It's a strict, schedule-based sleep-training book complete with graphs. Full of facts: sleep statistics, success percentages, the requisite troubleshooting section. I followed its advice, TO A TEE. Problem was, my kid wasn't in any of its two-hundred-twenty-something, whip-cracking pages.

Then there was the first time I showed up at the hospital-sponsored Mommy and Me class when Bugglegirl was six months old and still not sleeping through the night. When I lamented to the instructor that "crying it out" just didn't work with my baby, she coolly responded, "Oh, it works if you do it right." I almost invited that bee-atch back to my place for a two-hour, middle-of-the-night screamfest, but instead I just never went back. I also never let Bugglegirl cry for hours in the middle of the night again. I didn't need some wannabe Dr. Spock to tell me how to handle my kid. Intuitively, I knew that my little bundle of joy was destined to be the exception to every rule.

[Sorry - I just glanced up through the French patio doors to glimpse Buggleboy streaking through the backyard. Bugglegirl in her panties, carrying a purse and chasing him. Excuse me for just a moment.]

My point is: experts, schmexperts. It took Bugglegirl ten months to sleep though the night completely (my pediatrician's assessment: some babies just get hungry). And Buggleboy woke throughout the night until he had tubes put in his ears at fourteen months.

It was a frustrating, exhausting process, but now both of them sleep regularly from seven to seven. Sleep training, indeed.

What if they grow up to be Picasso?

2009-03-09T14:15:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting here at my desk and the smell of Barbasol is overwhelming. Right next to my laptop, at the apex of a toppling pile of preschool masterpieces (merely one of many such piles dotting my household landscape), sits an eleven by seventeen sheet of paper covered in a smelly, puffy, mint-green concoction of shaving cream and glue. And while I'm confident that Bugglegirl's preschool instructors could offer up a ten minute treatise on its developmental necessity in promoting tactile stimulation, fine motor skills and right-brain augmentation, one reality remains: I haven't the foggiest idea what the hell to do with it.

I'm drowning here, people.

How is it even possible for two children, with a combined age of only six and a half years, to generate so much paperwork? I've worked in animation, in publishing, IN STATIONERY, for God's sake, and I've never seen so many scraps and sheets strewn about.

The other day I was over at my neat friend's house. It is utterly immaculate - no dishes, no junk mail, no errant socks - which she will insist is due to the fact that they are trying to sell it, but I know better. She is one of those clutter-proof souls, those totally infuriating people who inspire me, after I return home, to dash breathlessly from room to room, frantically seeking something, anything, that I can throw into the garbage or donate to Goodwill to placate my inadequacy.

So I started quizzing her: What about the school artwork? The torn-out, half-completed coloring book pages? She winced, just a wee bit, and in a noticeably lowered voice she admitted: I throw it all away.

PARDON? My head started reeling. She might as well have told me that she'd shredded the Dead Sea Scrolls. Really? She proceeded to tell me that she does keep the special holiday projects, and that she expects to preserve more art as the boys get older. As I sat there listening, a curious wave of conflicting emotion washed over me - the same feeling I get when I'm watching the E! channel and Pamela Anderson flashes (practically) across the screen: horrified. . .yet, intrigued.

But I just can't get rid of it all. I harbor a guilty sense of sentimentality that results in my reluctance - and often, my downright inability - to part with mementos (have I told you about my cocktail napkin collection from elementary school?). At the same time, I can't function in this never-ending ticker-tape madness any longer.

So, myself and I have reached a compromise: stash some, trash some, send the rest to the grandparents. I'm going to curb, if not purge, this needless nostalgia.

It's downright nauseating

2009-03-05T13:25:00.000-08:00

So I've come down with a minor case of pregnant envy. Let me just peel off the Bugglehubs and explain that, no, I'm not really interested in actually being with child at the moment. What I mean is that several of my friends are currently expecting and each of them still appears to be a fully functioning, normal-looking human being.

I went walking this morning at the Rose Bowl with my friend who's due in June and she's finally looking the part. She is tall - exactly the height I would have chosen for myself, if anyone had bothered to ask - and is gracefully pregnant, whereas I appeared for several months to have a basketball lodged in my lower esophagus. Earlier in her pregnancy I kept drilling her during our strolls: Any cravings to report? Not really. How about nausea? Hmm, not too bad. Shooting pains? Nothing so far.

Damn. I don't want to see anybody suffering, but COME ON. Can somebody throw just a smidgen of acid reflux her way, please? It did occur to me that perhaps she's just not a complainer - that maybe she's been totally miserable but just doesn't want to spread it around (which, I know, would make my pregnant envy even more despicable). But then she tells me today, as we're talking about cooking and eating, that she overindulged this week. FINALLY, I thought, anticipating the worst: an entire chocolate lava cake? A family-sized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos? No, people. It was these chocolate covered almonds from Trader Joe's. ALMONDS? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I wouldn't have eaten almonds if they'd told me my kid would pop out reading. When I was pregnant with Bugglegirl, for dessert I used to chase a half a pound of spice gumdrops with a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips.

OK. You know how sometimes you write something down, and all of a sudden everything appears in perspective? Like where heartburn and fat thighs come from?

Damn.

Who you calling "Toxic"?

2009-03-01T22:03:00.000-08:00

I can't seem to recall exactly how the stars aligned recently to allow me a few spare moments to peruse an old issue of People magazine. Probably has something to do with the fact that Oprah was taking yet another vacation. At any rate, I managed to catch up with the likes of Jennifer Garner (battling a stalker!), Nicole Richie (debuting a jewelry line!) and Michael J. Fox (not cured!).

I skimmed most of it, but I got sucked into an article about Britney Spears and her "I hate when people call this a" comeback. There she was, all depressed-looking in the full-page photograph, followed a page later by a shot of her juggling a bunch of music awards. And while I delved into the article ready to mock the stupid redneck rich girl, it became immediately obvious: this chick is really miserable. All the money and hair extensions in the world can't change the fact that she went nuts, lost her kids and now, isn't even allowed to buy a pack of Hubba Bubba without an OK from Jamie Spears (the dad, not the loose little sister).

But for some reason, I still had this nagging suspicion that all that cash must cushion the crazy just a teeny bit. Isn't driving to your court mandated prescription drug rehab in your Ferrari better than taking the Big Blue Bus?

I had forgotten about the article until a couple of days ago, when I watched a Diane Sawyer exposé on 20/20 about the Appalachian "mountain folk." These people live in trailers surrounded by garbage. They have no teeth because they put Mountain Dew IN THEIR BABY BOTTLES. Many of them are addicted to prescription pills and the ones who aren't spend their black-lung-shortened lives buried in the coal mines. I spent a summer during college delivering pizzas to people just like this, in the Appalachian foothills. An otherworldly combination of stunningly beautiful scenery inhabited by stunningly impoverished people. I got lost a lot, tooling around the backroads in my Subaru wagon with directions like: Turn left at the crossroads. About four miles up the hill, take a right. Follow the path to the clearing, third trailer on the left. A gaggle of dogs, chickens and barefoot kids would come running up to the car. Their dad (brother? uncle?) would offer me fourteen bucks for a thirteen dollar and sixty seven cent pepperoni pizza and a two liter of soda (Mountain Dew, natch).

Point is, it reminded me of my roots (well, if not exactly upper-middle-class suburbia, my brief foray into the real world) and how I used to imagine what people in California might be like. With their fancy cars and their five hundred dollar haircuts. And it made me realize that to somebody in the Appalachian wilderness - darkest dark I've ever seen - I might as well be Britney.

So now I'm gonna spit out my gum and say a little prayer.

FREE: Super cute offspring

2009-02-26T22:11:00.001-08:00

I'm sorry, did I have the audacity to imply that I was having a bad day, sitting around on hold with the insurance company?

AT LEAST THEY DIDN'T SPIT ON ME. OR SWAT ME IN THE EYE.

One of Bugglehub's cousins has this clever little saying about living with preschoolers:

"You've got the terrible twos, the horrible threes and THE FUCKING FOURS."

Then you've got the assholes who volunteer to combine any of the above, then complain about it.

Let's have them two years apart - it's ideal. It all seemed so quaint at the time.

I'm kinda partial to Double Cross

2009-02-09T14:48:00.000-08:00

As of this moment, I have been on the phone with the the Prince of Darkness - Anthem Blue Cross of California - for forty minutes, twenty-three seconds and counting. How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved by You) Muzak is tinkling annoyingly from my speakerphone. Normally, I'd be multitasking right now - job hunting on Craigslist or folding laundry, for example - but I can't. I'm too pissed off.

A couple of weeks ago, we received a letter from the insurance company indicating that, as of March 2009, due to rising health care costs, our monthly premium would be increasing by twenty-seven percent. This on top of 2008's increase of nearly the same. You're correct, dear readers: that's approximately seven times the current average rate of inflation. When I called them last year demanding to know exactly what it was that was getting so damn expensive, they balked, spewing out some ridiculously circuitous nonsense for which I had no retort. What was I going to do, cancel and reapply for an even higher rate someplace else?

I decided to call today not to demand an explanation for corporate avarice, but simply to obtain an overview of my (so-called) options. I'd been inspired to act after a visit last week to Buggleboy's pediatrician. He's got another ear infection, natch. She was also following up with me regarding his visit to urgent care last weekend for pinkeye (we're just a rainbow of ailments over here):

Doc: What drops did they prescribe?
B-Mama: Vigamox. You know, the ones made with real gold flecks?
Doc: How much did you pay?
B-Mama: Sixty bucks.
Doc: With insurance?
B-Mama: I don't get brand name coverage until I spend five hundred dollars per person. And now they're raising our premiums again.
Doc: Those motherfuckers. I've got a cousin in Redlands who could disappear your troubles, no problem. Capice?*

*My intuitive interpretation. Actually, that part went more like:

Doc: Don't even get me started. You'd probably be better off paying everything out of pocket and just having emergency coverage. Make some calls, do the math.

I can tell you, friends, what Anthem Blue Cross is not spending its yearly blood money on: telephone representatives. After forty-seven minutes and twelve seconds, some chick picks up. And she has absolutely no idea where Earth is. When I try to ask her about the various plans, particularly a group called Lumenos (christened, no doubt, by one of those pricey, trend-forecasting consulting firms), this is what happens:

Representatard: Which Lumenos plan are you interested in?
B-Mama: I don't know. Your website offers no real explanation at all. What kind of plans are they, exactly?
Representatard: I'm not really sure. You have to set up an account through Mellon Bank. Shall I give you that number?
B-Mama: No. I don't want to talk to a bank. I called you to find out more about these plans.
Representatard: What number did you call?
B-Mama: The one on the bottom of the screen. The one that says, For more information, call 1-800. . .
Representatard: I'm sorry ma'am but that's not the number where I'm at. I handle things like if you want to change your address, things like that. You need to talk to your agent. . .

This degenerates into a bad sitcom, with my having no idea that I even have an agent, the Representatard offering me this agent's name and extension and ultimately, his turning out to be a very genial guy who handles only new accounts and alas, can't help me at all. But he does joke with me about Anthem's utter incompetence (You're preachin' to the choir. They got a lotta new people. A lot of 'em don't know what they're doin'. Note to job seekers: no barriers to entry at Anthem!!). He offers to transfer me, then promises to throw in a couple Hail Marys to help me end this phone debacle.

So ten minutes later I'm still on hold, my kid is now awake and I put the phone on speaker, set it down, and IT HANGS UP.

I wasted an entire nap time - and it ends like this? With misplaced karma? Please. I didn't actually call her Representatard out loud.

This whole episode has got me thinking about what an amazing job the health care lobby has done, evoking McCarthy-style fears: that if we move even one little inch toward a national health care initiative, we'll fall into some kind of socialist nightmare. The fact is, we spend more on health care than any other industrialized nation (many of which offer universal health care) and still have forty-six million uninsured (check out www.nchc.org for more puke-in-your-mouth-a-little tidbits).

Like so many other gnarly, socio-political conundrums, it reminds me of a scene in Dirty Dancing, the one in which Baby's big sister Lisa posits insightfully:

I've been thinking a lot about the Domino Theory. Now, when Vietnam falls, is China next?

Then there's this classic gem:

You wouldn't care if I humped the entire army - as long as we were on the right side of the Ho Chi Minh Trail. What you care about is that you're not Daddy's girl anymore. He listens when I talk now. You hate that.

But I digress. . .

I mean please, people. I don't see anybody freaking out about the fire department. Or the library. Yes, both local, rather than federal, institutions. But let's see. . .the F.B.I.? Anybody complaining lately that nationalizing crime investigation and prevention has us careening down a slippery slope toward communism? Where is my beige, iridescent lipstick?

My brain hurts. And hell knows I'm not going to be pre-approved for a neurology visit anytime soon.

Sushi, anyone?

2009-01-28T19:11:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-27T15:33:00.000-08:00

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?

2009-01-26T14:36:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-20T07:39:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-18T21:03:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-14T22:26:00.001-08:00

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

2009-01-12T06:22:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-09T13:39:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-03T20:41:00.000-08:00

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.

Hide the remote

2008-12-28T23:13:00.000-08:00

I really do watch an inordinate amount of television. At this moment, I’m killing time with Iron Chef America: Battle Tomato while Treeman: Search for the Cure (a documentary about an Indonesian man covered in branchlike warts) is recording on TLC – and I’m still trying to decide whether or not I’m going to delve into tonight’s prerecorded 60 Minutes.

I’m perpetually conflicted about my couch potato tendencies, though obviously not bothered enough to turn the damn box off. Occasionally I entertain fantasies of giving it up – for Lent, or something – contemplating the myriad accomplishments that would certainly manifest: maybe I’d finally assemble my wedding photo album, take up knitting, struggle past page nineteen of Ulysses. Usually this Spartanic delusion comes after I’ve powered through a week’s worth of Oprah episodes – kind of like how I routinely resolve to give up sugar after eating half a package of Oreos. By the next morning, I’m already looking forward to the next mindless viewing binge.

In order to assuage my guilt, I usually try to accomplish little tasks while watching. Tonight, in typical compulsive-multitasking style, I’m uploading pictures to create a hardbound photo book for my parents, while also composing the wisdom herein. If I weren’t a bit hampered by the glass of wine and mound of pasta I downed earlier, I would also be warming clothes in the dryer to fold. But then again, that would mean I’d have to fold them.

Holiday mantra

2008-12-22T08:00:00.000-08:00

Christmas cookies don't make Christmas. Christmas cookies make cellulite.
Christmas cookies don't make Christmas. Christmas cookies make cellulite.
Christmas cookies don't make Christmas. Christmas cookies make cellulite.
Christmas cookies don't make Christmas. Christmas cookies make cellulite.
Christmas cookies don't make Christmas. Christmas cookies make cellulite.
Christmas cookies don't make Christmas. Christmas cookies make cellulite.
Christmas cookies don't make Christmas. Christmas cookies make cellulite.
Christmas cookies don't make Christmas. Christmas cookies make cellulite.
Christmas cookies don't make Christmas. Christmas cookies make cellulite.
Christmas cookies don't make Christmas. Christmas cookies make cellulite.
Christmas cookies don't make Christmas. Christmas cookies make cellulite.
Christmas cookies don't make Christmas. Christmas cookies make cellulite.
Christmas cookies don't make Christmas. Christmas cookies make cellulite.
Christmas cookies don't make Christmas. Christmas cookies make cellulite.
Christmas cookies don't make Christmas. Christmas cookies make cellulite.
Christmas cookies don't make Christmas. Christmas cookies make cellulite.
Christmas cookies don't make Christmas. Christmas cookies make cellulite.
Christmas cookies don't make Christmas. Christmas cookies make cellulite.
Christmas cookies don't make Christmas. Christmas cookies make cellulite.
Christmas cookies don't make Christmas. Christmas cookies make cellulite.

The reason for the season

2008-12-18T21:15:00.001-08:00

For some reason, I thought this year would be different. Maybe it's because I started shopping in October. But here it is, merely a week before Christmas, and the display shelves in my living room (ideally an enviable yuletide showcase) still look like the holiday clearance aisle at Ross. Peppered with preschool glitter art.

This seems like an ideal time to proclaim my hatred of the Pottery Barn catalog.

However, that's not really the direction I intended to take herein. This was supposed to be about my general disillusionment regarding this holiday season, and how, contrary to my revelation of three years ago that, after decades of denial, I actually enjoy Tom Petty's music, I have come to terms with the fact that I'm not much of a Christmas fan. It seems as though it's morphed in recent years into a month-long New Year's Eve - a facade of stress-inducing hype concealing a disappointing few moments.

Say it ain't so.

Don't get me wrong; I'm still riding the holiday train, holding on tightly to the fond memories of my childhood, trying to create similar ones for my own kids. And truly enjoying it, when I'm not freaking out about stocking stuffers.

So to help keep me in the spirit, I've been listening to the month-long deluge of Christmas songs on KOST 103. Except when I have to frantically turn the station, like when Feliz Navidad comes on. Or that song by Wham, which is now going to be running through my head EVEN WHILE I SLEEP TONIGHT.

But they do play some of the really oldie-goodies, like Nat King Cole and that Charlie Brown song. This afternoon they were playing some traditional carol and it really got me thinking about what the birth of Jesus must've been like. Here is a stream-of-consciousness-style account of these profound thoughts:

Can you imagine it? An angel coming down in the middle of the night. It's cold out - is it cold? Does it ever even dip below freezing in Bethlehem? Is it a desert, or what? Anyway, so here's this angel who appears out of nowhere, while you're just minding your own business trying to keep those camels from eating your sheep (right?), perhaps lamenting to your Israelite shepherd buddy about the tyranny of those damn Romans, when this angel starts going off about how you're gonna be saved. You're thinking you should lay off the moonshine. No - this is for reals, the angel assures you. I can prove it. Just follow that star - yeah, the super bright one, and check out this baby that was born in a stable. His mom's a virgin. Rich guys are trekking from miles around with golden boxes of incense to kill the pervasive scent of manure. Sounds like what they really need is a multi-pack of onesies and a bassinet. Anyway, you get there and it's like Woodstock, all kinds of people and farm animals, circled around this kid who's banging a drum in front of a newborn who's smiling (gas?) and you're thinking, yeah, I could get into this.

2008-12-17T22:54:00.000-08:00

Dear Kids,

Sorry.

Sincerely,
Joan Crawford

P.s. This doesn't change the fact that you both SUCKED today.

By popular demand

2008-12-10T22:55:00.001-08:00

People, are you sitting down?

Because apparently, some of you are reading this.

And moreover, some of you are actually anticipating additional drivel.

I know. I almost fell out of my chair, too.

Anyway, I'm making an early new year's resolution (and we all know what happens to those) to post more frequently. It's just that between coughing up chunky green boogers, swirl-cleaning size 2T gorilla-print briefs* and monitoring the state of Padma's** botox treatments on Top Chef, I'm actually quite occupied.

That's how much I love my fans.

*It's quite an art form, in fact. You have to hold on to the undies for dear life, lest they be sucked into the danger zone by the toilet's powerful flush. Ah, but bowl-soaking is only the beginning of a poo panty's (or in this case, poo-boxer-brief's) long journey to cleanliness. Next comes the waiting period in the holding bucket until a full load of soiled comrades accumulates, followed by the first of two cold water rinses and a complete hot water wash. I heart potty training.

**Could she be hotter? Would you think so if you caught her swirl-cleaning?

This month's mantra

2008-12-03T21:47:00.000-08:00

Eating my childrens' leftovers does not fight global poverty.
Eating my childrens' leftovers does not fight global poverty.
Eating my childrens' leftovers does not fight global poverty.
Eating my childrens' leftovers does not fight global poverty.
Eating my childrens' leftovers does not fight global poverty.
Eating my childrens' leftovers does not fight global poverty.
Eating my childrens' leftovers does not fight global poverty.
Eating my childrens' leftovers does not fight global poverty.
Eating my childrens' leftovers does not fight global poverty.
Eating my childrens' leftovers does not fight global poverty.
Eating my childrens' leftovers does not fight global poverty.
Eating my childrens' leftovers does not fight global poverty.
Eating my childrens' leftovers does not fight global poverty.
Eating my childrens' leftovers does not fight global poverty.
Eating my childrens' leftovers does not fight global poverty.
Eating my childrens' leftovers does not fight global poverty.
Eating my childrens' leftovers does not fight global poverty.
Eating my childrens' leftovers does not fight global poverty.

Tell me this isn't sensible

2008-11-24T13:45:00.000-08:00

A few weekends ago we went to a college football game with two other couples. While the guys focused on the game and their beer consumption, we chicks did what we do best: multitasked. We chatted, gossiped, gawked at the surrounding fans, sent text messages, snacked and glanced down at the field every so often - usually when people started booing or clapping - just to say we did.

Somewhere around the end of the second quarter, while I was noshing on a hot dog and Ruffles, my girlfriends, whose children attend the same preschool, started talking about their 12:00 pick-up time. Seems my one friend was on a mission. What had started as a simple desire to arrive in a timely manner had turned into an unspoken competition with several other stay-at-home moms to see who could arrive the earliest to pick up their kids. She said she'd started getting there around 11:30 and she still wasn't the first one there. And she was pissed about it.

This, gentle reader, is when I asphyxiated courtesy of the previously mentioned wiener and chips. Suddenly, I felt faint. The voices around me melded into the roar of the crowd, the bright colors washed away from my vision and my limbs tingled.

When I came to, I started relating the weirdness of the experience: that while unconscious, I dreamt that my friend had said she'd been showing up more than half an hour early to pick her kid up from preschool FOR NO GOOD REASON. Can you imagine? I marveled. They looked at me kinda funny, then proceeded to offer me a vodka and soda.

I'm still reeling in amazement.

Where's John Stossel when you need him?

2008-11-03T21:44:00.000-08:00

Can we talk about my kid getting kicked out of school today? Can we talk about how you're assuming that I'm referring to Miss Bugglehub in a Dress, when in fact I'm talking about What the Hell Happened to My Precious Baby Boy?

Apparently he's a hitter.

Today, I had already killed half my morning by taking Bugglegirl on her very first dental appointment (I'm not complaining, it was adorable), only to return to the preschool co-op to learn that Buggleboy was on an apparently-uncontrollable, violent rampage: he bonked two four-year-old girls on the head with a toy. There were tears, and allegedly an indentation. He needed constant supervision to avoid further confrontation, and the co-op was shorthanded. The implication was clear: either I stay in order to restrain my incorrigible, antagonistic child, or I remove him from the premises. I knew I shouldn't have dressed him in that black trenchcoat from Baby Gap.

Don't get me wrong; I was mortified. Certainly his behavior was unacceptable. It's left me wondering where my sweet, obedient son went. Lately he's been going limp when he doesn't want to be picked up, and throwing himself on the floor, screaming in dramatic disgust, when he's upset. In other words, he's been acting like an almost two year old. As for the violence, I have noticed that he's started standing up to Bugglegirl, the eight by ten section of den in front of the TV transformed into a coliseum of sorts, a place where two gladiators attempt to fight to the death, or at least until Mommy finishes applying concealer and a coat of mascara. It ain't pretty. But expulsion-worthy? Give me a break.

No, really - PLEASE - give me a break. I live for Monday and Wednesday mornings. Never mind that I end up spending a good percentage of them helping out at the co-op, or shuttling one kid to an appointment, or trekking who knows where for some b.s. work thing that never pans out. It's still a much-needed respite from the daily monotony, a welcome opportunity for me to use the restroom without a cheering section and a chance for the kids to interact with peers and become familiar with paint - that colored, stain-making stuff that Mommy won't allow in the house.

Obviously, I really didn't have a choice. There was no way I was getting suckered into watching six rugrats and possibly changing a foreign poo diaper just to avoid running errands with my kid. So I took Buggleboy to Target, where he cried when I wouldn't let him play with the stocking stuffers I tried unsuccessfully to keep hidden in the cart. If this whole debacle blows the lid off of Santa, I'm gonna be pissed.

I'm swallowing the red pill

2008-10-01T11:44:00.000-07:00

So last Friday I spent the better part of the afternoon sitting around waiting for a buff, patent-leather-clad Carrie Anne Moss to text "you're the one" to my iPhone.

[You're either following me into The Matrix here, or you're mocking my unexpected penchant for science fiction. If it's the latter, just know that you're only revealing yourself to be as of yet unenlightened; tune back into whatever it is McDreamySteamy's got going on at the hospital.]

Since there's only like two of you who actually know what the hell I'm talking about, what I'm trying to say is that the weirdest freaking thing happened the other day. My mom was rooting around in a bunch of boxes in the attic, searching for some long-lost dolls that had belonged to my sister and me. Instead she came across a couple bags of clothes, ranging from infant to about size seven. She rifled through, separating the dolly dress-up garments from the ones we'd save for Bugglegirl's future wardrobe (like my yellow tee shirt with the unicorn and rainbow iron-on from second grade!).

About halfway through the bunch, my mom pulled out a quilted vest, baby blue with tiny white flowers and white trim. It looked almost homemade, but for the tag sewn in at the neckline. A tag to which was taped another, makeshift tag bearing the bubbly, all-caps handwriting of my childhood. It read, simply: BUGGLEGIRL . And below that, GREAT COAT.

Consider this: None of my childhood friends were named Bugglegirl. None of my dollies were, either. There aren't any popular children's fictional characters by the name. Bugglegirl isn't even in the top 200 most popular girl's names. Plus, Bugglehub was the one who came up with it - the name wasn't even on my radar.

Or, was it?

There's no such thing as coincidence.

I can't stop thinking about tomorrow

2008-09-27T11:57:00.000-07:00

I thought I'd jump briefly onto the political bandwagon since, let's face it, apparently they're letting absolutely anybody into the club these days. And since I can't seem to get away from being trapped inside affluent little bubbles of conservatism - having grown up in one and now straddling the border of another, a rare anomalous pocket of liberal Los Angeles - I resolved to give the Republicans a fair shake. After all, this is the party of Jefferson and Lincoln, right? I have these vague recollections from high school government class that conservative and Republican used to represent decentralized, limited rule, with an inclination toward independence from foreign influence. Sounds pretty good to me.

I tuned into the convention in St. Paul with an open mind, ready to be wooed by the guy everyone's been calling a rebel. And though I have to give props to John McCain for being able to pronounce the word correctly, he lost me as soon as he declared nuclear power to be a cornerstone of his energy policy. This not ten minutes after proclaiming his belief that we can't leave our children with the legacy of our irresponsibilities. Um, it's called nuclear waste. And like, they totally have no idea where to stick it (I have some ideas).

But the real deal-breaker came when the speech was over. When the applause was thundering. When the well-kept blonde wife and various other VIPs were sauntering onstage. When that appallingly heinous 1970's rock music came blaring over the PA system. BARRACUDA? Really? He may as well have busted out a little Styx, perhaps even one of the geographically inclined bands of the era, like Kansas or Boston. It's pretty obvious that they were going for that maverick sort of theme, made even more apropos by the choice of a rocker chick duo - a little homage to the vice presidential candidate Bugglehub refers to as a hot little nugget (no secret who he's voting for).

I honestly never thought I'd miss the Clinton-era Fleetwood Mac days. And now, I don't have to, because both those damn seventies songs just won't get out of my head.

The heart of it all

2008-09-25T19:46:00.000-07:00

Greetings, people. I'm coming to you live from the still-verdant hinterlands of southwestern Ohio. Carted the kids here via airplanes full of way too judgmental people who don't appreciate the nuances of a well-honed, double-ear-infection-induced screaming fit. Let me tell you it's bad, really bad, when jelly bean bribes prove fruitless.

But we're here! And it's like I'm on vacay in the Seychelles. Who tans these days, anyway? I went jogging this morning BY MYSELF. I was like Forest Gump out there, not having to stop to scoop up steaming piles of dog crap off the sidewalk. The Bugglekids played all morning with toys my mom's been saving since the seventies (now there's something to be said about the virtues of non-degradable plastic).

The most ambitious thing I did all day was take the kids on a field trip to the library because I have to read John McCain's book while I'm here (the things I do for my book club friends). Buggleboy had a massive tantrum because I picked him up when he wanted to climb the non-fiction stacks. This dramatically decreased my ability to recall exactly how the Dewey Decimal System works, so the reference librarian simply disappeared into the depths of library shelving and retrieved the memoir for me. I'm contemplating doing all kinds of shopping with a screaming child in tow. It's really amazing the way people scramble.

Should I roll the dice?

2008-09-16T20:08:00.000-07:00

Well, well, well. I knew there had to be an upside to limited readership. Last week I was positively bombarded with requests (two!) to fill in for busy, back-to-school-night bunko moms. I actually accepted a position, only to be forced, at the eleventh hour, to resign by reason of head cold. Thereby relegating myself to an even lower neighborhood mom caste: from alternate to flaky alternate.

They must be simply desperate, because then I received an email addressed to "Bunko Alternates." Seems there's a spot opening up on the coveted roster and, shockingly, I'm in the running. If I were from another planet and could shoot my own dinner, I might say I know exactly how Sarah Palin feels right now.

Who, me?

I'm still here, yeah

2008-09-09T20:41:00.000-07:00

I'm not apologizing for the delay. What, was there some danger I'd lose the two of you who comprise my loyal readership? Please. I've been up to my eyeballs in various back-to-school related preparations as well as navigating the heretofore uncharted waters of eBay. I've made almost two hundred bucks. Target is quivering.

Plus I've been working on this essay for Real Simple magazine that someone (you know who you are, and you've locked all your doors) challenged me to enter. No, I wasn't writing it the whole time I've been M.I.A. But it was occupying the better part of my parietal lobe so get off deez nutz, as the Bugglehubbizzle would say. I was going to put it up here but then I had visions of being disqualified for "publishing" it and losing the three thousand dollars that we are going to blow together on cocktails. Unless I take that vacation I've been deserving.

MAGGOTWATCH '08

2008-08-27T14:59:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the delay, folks. It's been just a madhouse. Anderson Cooper's people have set up his custom Airstream directly across the street. The neighbors are getting salty about the round-the-clock helicopter coverage. In the interest of bringing some journalistic credibility to Buggletown, I've reprinted (with permission, of course) Anderson's upcoming feature for 60 Minutes here, in its entirety:

It's early morning here in Buggletown, another typical day in this typical Southern California neighborhood. But as we take a closer look - or more accurately, a closer whiff - we're struck by the sense that something has gone horribly wrong in suburbia.

From the moment I open the front door of this small, mid-century tract home, I'm overwhelmed by the rotten stench of decay. Our cameras follow Bugglemama, a name she's given herself to avoid social ostracism, as she shuffles through her morning routine haphazardly, guiding herself and her two young children through a hazy stink nearly as palpable as the household clutter strewn about. She seems irritable, almost listless. When I ask Bugglemama about her plight, she's distracted, evasive.

"I don't have time for this. I mean, sure, there are people in like, Africa who would probably kill to have a roof over their heads that rains maggots. Whatever. Have you seen Bugglegirl's purple Croc?"

The doorbell rings. A lanky, uniformed man with a receding hairline and a passing resemblance to James Taylor is at the front door. It's Steve, the Bugglefamily's Terminix technician. A look of relief washes over Bugglemama. They have an understanding, she and Steve - an understanding that requires few words. The technician swiftly sets up his telescoping ladder and disappears into the recesses of the stifling attic after his prey.

Meanwhile, Bugglemama whirls about the house like a trauma surgeon on crack, addressing Buggleboy's spilled Cheerios and Bugglegirl's skid marks with a frenetic sense of monumental importance generally reserved for catastrophic natural disasters. One wonders: is self-destruction looming near? Is the seemingly never-ending parade of disease-ridden vermin combined with the strain of a grueling summer's end simply too much for one mother to bear?

Oh, the humanity.

Fewer than ten minutes later, Steve emerges from the attic, a recycled plastic grocery bag containing the wretched corpse dangling from his hand. He saunters casually to the kitchen to have the paperwork signed, but Bugglemama is transfixed by a raised, pinkish smear across the front of his khaki uniform. Unable to avert her eyes, she points out the innards in spite of the awkwardness.

Steve chuckles, "Oh, that. Don't worry. That's just my Jamba Juice. Strawberry banana," as he swipes a finger across his shirt. Bugglemama shares an uncomfortable laugh, pens her signature, and bids the Terminix guy farewell.

One can't help but ponder whether or not ordinary life in America will ever be quite the same.

Why, is that a MONTANA 60 you're drinking?

2008-08-19T20:10:00.001-07:00

Here is the recipe for a very refreshing cocktail I concocted out in the wilderness of Fortine, Montana. It's a makeshift take on an old classic, the French 75. I'm on my second one right now and feel so lovely that I just had to share it with ya'll.

Fill a highball glass with ice.
Pour a "five count" of vodka (my new favorite way to measure alcohol without a jigger, courtesy of my sister-in-law).
Fill glass with grapefruit juice to about two-thirds from the top.
Squeeze in a slice of lime.
Top with champagne and stir once, gently.

The "60" is in honor of my mother-in-law's birthday, the reason for our trek to the wild wild west. Jury's still out on whether or not this posting will be the extent of my revelations regarding the trip. I mean, what more could I possibly have to say about traveling with the entirety of my in-laws?

I have the best new diet plan!

2008-08-15T15:01:00.000-07:00

WARNING: This post may result in decrease or loss of appetite, nausea, or outright volatile vomiting.

I know you're all just dying to hear about my week of in-law togetherness in the wilderness. But I'm just not ready yet.

There's been too much drama in the air since we got home Sunday night. By drama, I mean a mysterious reek reminiscent of sour milk, spoiled hot bananas and smushy poo diapers. Eau de nasty that hit right as you walked through the front door. The other day I went on a stink hunt, peeking under the furniture's dust ruffles and emptying garbage cans, to no avail. By Tuesday night the odor was pungent enough for me to feel kinda embarrassed to have the babysitter over.

The next morning as I was walking from the den into the kitchen to retrieve Bugglegirl's sippy cup, I noticed a mess of what appeared to be sawdust with black bits flecked throughout, scattered on the striped throw rug. When I returned to the spot with the vacuum and peered closer, some of the debris was moving. More like wriggling. Tiny centimeter-long, flesh-colored, make-me-want-to-puke grubby things were writhing through my carpet and underneath the throw rug.

I immediately ordered the kids back to the couch to watch t.v. and began sucking up the little buggers with the carpet setting. The vibration of the machine made them bounce about frantically right before whirling them up into the HEPA BAG OF DEATH.

Once I'd exterminated the whole lot (save one repulsive specimen that I scooped up into an LA Lakers playoffs souvenir cup for imminent laboratory testing), my next instinct was to phone my go-to person for all things money-pit related: Dad. But I didn't. I thought about consulting Bugglehub - but didn't. In an uncharacteristically sophisticated move, I took immediate command of the situation and phoned Terminix. (Some of you savvy readers will note that it's only taken me seven years to realize that, matrimonially speaking, consultation is just another euphemism for inaction.)

"Sounds like termites."
"But, they look like little grubs."
"Well, there's several different kinds."
"When can you send someone out?"
"I can have someone there between twelve and two today."
"Great."

In the time it took to have this conversation with Terminix, three more worms magically appeared on the carpet. It was as though they were falling from the wood-panelled ceiling. OH, GAG ME, THEY WERE FALLING FROM THE CEILING.

For the next three hours, I stood at the kitchen entryway like a Buckingham Palace guard, my vacuum nozzle poised for action, warding off any approaching child with a grim expression of impending doom. I remained eerily stoic, but for the forty-seven times I shook my hair out and clawed at it frantically, convinced they were dropping onto my scalp.

By the time the exterminators showed up at the door, we appeared to be grub-free. Buggledaddy happened to be stopping home after a meeting, just in time to hear the prognosis. I grabbed my trusty specimen cup and thrust it at the technicians as we walked into the den.

"Aaaah. Yes. I was thinking, because of the smell, you know. . .this is a maggot."

Yes, gentle reader, you're throwing up in your mouth a little bit, aren't you? My sympathies.

In a typical display of ridiculous silver-lining optimism, Bugglehub exclaimed, "At least it isn't termites, honey!"

Anybody else thinking about the orange tree? Anybody else thinking that a rat crawling into my attic to die and hatch maggots to fall on my progeny after I condemmed its favorite snack bar is too creepy to be a mere coincidence? Hello, Wes Craven?

Oh, but it gets better. These two "exterminators," since they were there to provide me with my complimentary termite inspection, were unable to recover the putrid, maggot-ridden carcass, as it was lodged too far back behind the air conditioning duct the little shit had chewed through. Lest they muss their hunter green polo shirts, I suppose. So they'd have to send out my regular guy, Steve. The next day.

Greetings from the wilderness

2008-08-05T20:58:00.000-07:00

Howdy, people. As most of you know, I'm at a dude ranch. Like, riding horses. They don't really do blogging up here in Montana. More on that later.

Bugglescoop: The sun? Free. No dessert? Free.

2008-07-30T00:00:00.000-07:00

Dear Jergens Corporation Marketing, Research and Development People:

Recently I purchased from Target your product, Natural Glow "Firming" Daily Moisturizer. I debated for a moment there in the overstocked skincare aisle, vacillating (as I am wont to do) between the myriad options before me. Among the questions complicating my decision:

1) Jergens brand or Target brand? Having recently been burned after discovering my "compare to Crest" Target brand dental floss was actually a reel of seafoam green gardening twine, this was a relatively easy choice.
2) Original formula or "firming"? No contest. It's the end of July, and I'd call in the National Guard if I thought it might help my cause.
3) How dark is too dark? Would "FAIR" show up at all, given my midsummer farmer tan? "DARK" might put me into Donatella territory. I settled on the innocuous-sounding "MEDIUM."

It's been a couple of weeks now since that fateful moment at Target, and I have some concerns. I know what you're thinking: PARABENS. CANCER. IMPENDING LITIGATION. But you can relax. I can't get any of my attorney friends to return my calls. I'm thinking they don't want to associate with me because a) I'm still pale, and b) I'm still squishy.

So that leaves me pondering: is "subtle skin darkening" just industry jargon for "not at all visible to the naked eye"? And while I don't purport to be some kind of cosmeceutical expert, I'm thinking that in order to achieve a "firming" effect, you might want to consider adding something a little more potent. Like maybe some epoxy-based resins.

I had high hopes for your product, Jergens People. Maybe I'm partly to blame, for foolishly believing that a firm, natural glow can be safely guaranteed for $6.99. But mostly I think it's your fault, for testing it out on a bunch of anorexic albinos and calling it a day.

The wait is over!

2008-07-28T15:49:00.000-07:00

This is one of those times you'll look back on and marvel, How did I ever eke out an existence before this moment? Before I could sit down in front of a small, glowing monitor, click a button, and view hundreds of photos of somebody else's kids?

That's right, people, Buggleshots is now open for business. You'll notice that in these oh-so-recent photos, there is snow on the ground and my kid has short hair. Those of you who know Buggledaddy are aware of the fact that to him, everything is a photo opportunity. So cut me some slack as I wade through the archives.

This is a members-only site. If you'd like access, please comment or email me (I need your email address) and I'll add you to the list. Unless you're a perv.

Enjoy!

Bugglescoop: You can never be too careful

2008-07-28T13:46:00.000-07:00

As you may have read, last week the Bugglehouse was something of a minor cranial trauma ward. I have to admit that as recently as this past weekend, I was still experiencing some tenderness above my left eye - and Buggleboy still has a faint, army-green slash above his.

I just don't have the stamina to constantly worry about my kids being harmed simply while playing in the house or backyard. Who knows - if every stay-at-home mom was able to channel all of the time and energy spent protecting our kids from household hazards maybe we would have cured cancer or averted global warming by now.

Isn't it comforting to know that no matter what challenges this world might fling straight at your noggin, a solution is merely a mouse-click away? God bless the internet.

Behold, dear reader: the Bumper Bonnet, available online at One Step Ahead. I've already placed a rush order for several, in colors and patterns to coordinate with all of the kids' activewear, as well as a couple of pairs of these:

Because a responsible parent should never be caught without Snazzy Baby Knee Pads. Rumor has it that Paris Hilton is coming out with her own line, embellished with Swarovski crystals, to be featured at Kitson.

Once my shipment arrives, provided I'm able to convince Bugglehubby to install that toilet seat lock and the home-wide closed-circuit video monitoring system with webcam capabilities, I'll be available for mani/pedi's followed by lunch at the Ivy - no sitter needed. So ring me up, ladies. Soon I'll be stress-free, ready to plot an end to the global energy crisis over crudites and cosmos.

Sound it out: mah-dur-ay-shun

2008-07-24T19:00:00.000-07:00

Tonight as I was cleaning up the kids' dinner by shoveling into my face a portion of the leftovers, some of which had most likely already been partially masticated by Buggleboy, I at last understood the deeply disturbing magnitude of my snacking compulsion. Which, like a vampire during the waxing moon, only emerges when conditions are ideal; i.e., after a hearty serving of antioxidant-rich-fermented-grape beverage.

I am one of those people who simultaneously must, and should never, mix junk food and alcohol.

In reality, I think I am probably quite the lightweight when it comes to booze, particularly when it's ninety degrees out and I've been "exercising." Snacking while imbibing prevents me from, at worst, spinning during tubby time and at best, waking up at three in the morning to chug a liter of Vitamin Water.

My go-to solution to this problem, to Buggledaddy's chagrin, is simply not to keep much junk food around the house. But today at the grocery store they had Cheetos Puffs for two dollars and I caved. They blended so effortlessly into the bounty already shoved onto the kitchen counter between the dirty Tupperware: the remains of a bottle of cabernet sauvignon, polished off during the opening number of The Backyardigans, and the Trader Joe's original hummus and white corn tortilla chips that's been my snacking staple all week.

On tap for the kids' dinner tonight was the leftover chicken and rice with vegetables that I had made last night. Buggleboy was wolfing it down, but Bugglegirl seemed destined for a repeat performance of yesterday, when she ended the meal with a mighty gag and subsequent regurgitation into the bowl a mere three bites in. It's really those moments that make standing in front of a hot oven in July so touching. Last night I wrapped up the bowl "as is," popped it into the fridge, and nuked it for her dining pleasure this evening.

And tonight, she gobbled it up. The difference? The alluring promise of artificially-flavored, chemically-colored, extruded bits of turd-shaped, puffed corn. For every three bites of dinner, I offered up one Cheeto. I, not surprisingly, attacked the bag like I'd spent the summer at fat camp. Which of course is exactly where I'll find myself next year, should I continue this nightly bacchanalia.

Everybody's doing it

2008-07-22T19:50:00.000-07:00

I'm happy to report that after approximately one hundred thirty-three million, nine hundred twenty thousand seconds of enslavement to the child-bearing-birthing-nursing-rearing-machine, I have at last seen the light at the end of the tunnel. And it is good.

Over the weekend the Bugglefam trekked out to the beach club despite the misty, overcast weather. Clearly my morning raisin bran had been tinged with PCP, because right before strapping everyone into the car, I shoved a magazine into our LL Bean beach bag. I figured that, at most, I might get to peruse the cover bylines, maybe flip halfway through the first twenty-two pages of advertisements, if Bugglehub was willing to spot me a couple of minutes.

It was so much more than I could ever have imagined.

Bugglehub and I sat, FOR HALF AN HOUR, in our teal canvas beach chairs, facing the kids' play area, peering over our periodicals only periodically to catch a glimpse of Bugglegirl making sand angels and Buggleboy veering dangerously close to the edge of the jungle gym. I daresay we almost forgot we had offspring, but for the dad sitting next to us who felt the need to broadcast this tidbit to his two young boys:

"You know why I was gone for so long?"
"Why, Daddy?"
"I had to make a poop."
"Was it a big brown poop?"
"Yep. It sure was."

Yes, children have emerged from my nether regions. Even so, I really didn't ever need to overhear this conversation. Particularly as I'm attempting to ignore said children.

It's just a flesh wound

2008-07-21T14:00:00.001-07:00

Currently the kids and I are sporting coordinating forehead contusions.

I got mine in the middle of the night last week when I got up to go to the bathroom and slammed my head into the granite countertop. You'll either deduce that I'm two feet three inches tall, or that I'm a moron who didn't back up enough toward the toilet before starting to sit down. Trying to avoid the inevitable, hideous bruising, I stumbled to the kitchen for an ice cube. Then I spent the next ten minutes lying in bed giving myself an ice cream headache on top of the already pulsing pain. But the extra distress paid off, since I awoke the next morning with only some slight swelling. I spent the day doing my best Courteney Cox Arquette impression, trying to speak and express all my emotions without moving my sore forehead. All that's left now is a faint, lentil-green bruise.

As is usually the case, Bugglegirl was the unfortunate victim of her three-year-old temper. She was trying to karate kick her bedroom door down during a time-out when Buggledad burst in and inadvertently smacked the edge of the door into her head. Hence the vertical, purple welt above her right eye.

Poor Buggleboy spent Sunday evening at the Bugglecousins' house impaling and bludgeoning himself upon every metal, wood and concrete surface available. The goose egg with a red bruise running parallel to his right eyebrow is merely the worst of the night's boo-boos. He refused to let anyone put ice on it, and now I know why.

The things I do for my children.

BUGGLESCOOP: Erotica for the OCD inclined

2008-07-18T16:17:00.000-07:00

Listen up, ladies: this could quite possibly be the most exciting advance in the world of rechargeable, remote-controlled gadgets since the rabbit.

It's the Roomba Discovery robotic vacuum cleaner. My sister got me one on eBay when my vacuum cleaner blew up. It scares the crap out of Buggleboy, who can't resist the Simon-like lights and tones of its various buttons, pressing them in combination until he inadvertently sets the contraption in motion, sending him into a squealing fit.

It scoots around the room like a cockroach on meth, spinning haphazardly and bouncing off the furniture. I've christened it Stevie. I almost can't stand to watch it, yet at the same time, it's strangely hypnotic.

Much like the aforementioned rabbit, vacuuming with Stevie isn't meant to substitute for the real thing. It's more like an in-between, stopgap measure when you just don't have the time and energy: perfect for a quickie.

The SAHM's club goes primetime

2008-07-15T19:42:00.003-07:00

I spent the better part of today at a hotel near the airport with four other stay-at-home moms from the Bugglekids' preschool co-op. One of the moms invited us to be her support team for a final, taped audition for a popular game show. She could've told me she was going to be starring in one of those genital herpes commercials and I still would've been stoked to get out of the house.

I didn't have to drive or schedule a babysitter, since my friend arranged to have the preschool open for the day so the kids could play and eat pizza while we tried to catapult her one step closer to fame and fortune. Buggleboy was crying uncontrollably and wailing Mama as I ran out the door. By the time we hit the road I needed a cocktail.

The entire process - from the photos to the peppy introduction speech to the waiting, primping, waiting around and finally, to the audition itself - was strangely exhausting, a surreal amalgamation of a Girl Scout merit badge festival, a job-training seminar and a homecoming pep rally. I don't think I've jumped up and down screaming like that since Madonna was still wearing lace.

Afterward, over a late lunch at Baja Fresh, we started chatting about how stay-at-home moms get a bad rap, like we're all just sitting around in our terry cloth track suits waiting on the cable guy. Maybe. But who else is gonna do it, in between scraping Play-doh from the cushions and scrubbing crayon off the walls? Maybe the idea of another grownup entering the house before it's dark out is actually the most exciting thing since David Beckham donned briefs. Maybe a visit from the homely Terminix guy is the only adult interaction we're going to have ALL DAY.

I spent a lot of time lamenting about how grumpy I've been this summer, and how I should snap out of it because come September, I'm going to have two mornings a week all to myself. And then it's all downhill until college.

I left feeling so inspired by these women who, with little or no outside help, are able to do what I do every day and not complain. At least, not at the professional level.

When the kids and I finally got home, I rallied. I parked them on the couch in front of Madagascar, changed into my grubby clothes and decontaminated the shower, scrubbing away in my starlet eyeliner and teased mom-'do. After that, I prepared this intricate meal, stirring polenta for twenty minutes, reconstituting dried Italian mushrooms and blanching kale, while simultaneously trying to corral a wailing Bugglegirl in the living room so she wouldn't have a chance to sit on Buggleboy. Bugglehubby wasn't stoked when he saw more greens in the pot (Look, honey - there's pancetta!) but it turned out to be surprisingly tasty. Although about halfway through dinner I started to get a little grossed out, as the polenta congealed like oatmeal gone cold.

Oh, the entire afternoon didn't smell like roses. At one point as I was chopping mushrooms, with Buggleboy wrapped around my shins, I started barking orders to Bugglegirl to stay on the couch. In between hysterical sobs, she cried, "Mommy, you need to say that with kindness, Mommy." And she was right. Because this isn't some audition; this is the real deal.

The B-List: YEP, IT'S A BIOHAZARD

2008-07-14T14:38:00.000-07:00

I spent a good deal of time this past weekend doing the cleaning that was supposed to happen last week, which was actually the cleaning from the week before, pushed to the limits of reasonable procrastination. Maybe it's the humidity, but lately the most I can seem to manage is to gather up the toys, laundry, paper goods, etc. that accumulate hourly on every available surface. Bugglehubby defines this process of straightening as cleaning, a discrepancy which, back when we employed a housekeeper, used to provoke this exact conversation every other Tuesday at ten p.m.:

"The cleaning lady is coming tomorrow. So I need you to pick up all of your crap."
"That's what a cleaning lady is for."
"But if you don't pick up your junk, she's just going to clean around it."
"Sounds like we're paying her too much."

Anyway, by the time I get all of the straightening done, I'm too tired and demoralized to proceed to actual filth removal. So this weekend I put the Bugglekids on dusting duty, and vacuumed the floors. But I just can't bring myself to tackle the bathrooms. To wit:

There is some mysterious reddish ring forming around the drain in my bathroom sink. Every time I wash my hands I can't decide whether to chastise myself for not scrubbing it with Lysol yet, or to push on through to what must only conclude in the discovery of a powerful new antibiotic thriving in there.
During tubby time, I have to sit with a flyswatter to whack the kids' hands away from the icky mildew growing where the tub meets the tiled wall. Why do they always have to touch there?
I'm sure that if I scraped all of the dried-up purple "soamy foap" and electric-blue-sparkly toothpaste petrified around the basin of Bugglegirl's sink, I might not be so surprised that we have to make a Target run already.
After removing Bugglegirl's nasty potty seat, I actually put paper down ON MY OWN TOILET this afternoon. Something I haven't felt compelled to do since the spring quarter in college I spent crashing on one of those foam couch/beds covered in burnt-orange velour, sleeping off a Vicodin buzz.

Call me spoiled, but I'm just not cut out for cleaning toilets. Unidentifiable bits and man-hairs are just not my forte. Don't misunderstand; I'm not a total heathen. All I need is the threat of unexpected company and I'll be in there in a HAZMAT suit with the Clorox channeling my inner OCD in no time flat. Please, just don't drop by until tomorrow.

Wasn't it a cherry tree, Mr. President?

2008-07-10T14:51:00.000-07:00

We've lived in our charming 1947 California style stucco hot box for just about five years now. The previous owners crammed four kids into the two original bedrooms and slept in the larger front addition, which keeps an ambient temperature of about 94 degrees during the summer, even though we installed air conditioning last June. Bugglegirl lives there now, the appeal of having the biggest room outweighing the inconvenience of sleeping in a pool of sweat in summer and losing toes to frostbite in winter.

Back when the house was first built, somebody had the bright idea to plant an evergreen magnolia in the front yard so it could shade the garage. Kinda like Nicole Richie, it's beautiful, but otherwise pretty much just respiring. They also planted a California pepper, a haven for bees and a shedder to rival Buggledog, in the far corner of the back yard. So it could cool the cinder block wall back there. Two winters ago, the pepper tree caught a fungus and died. It's still there, sad and barren, one of the many projects relegated to the purgatory of our permanent "to-do" list.

Without a single mature shade tree, we're like the poster house for global warming.

I suppose I should mention the orange tree. The one I'm convinced was planted by the stoner, I mean doctor, who lived here in the eighties. Until the SWAT team raided the place and confiscated all his pot plants. We tend to attribute everything dilapidated around here to the now legendary Dr. Feelgood. Anyway, this orange tree is planted less than two feet from the back of the house. If I close my eyes, I can imagine Dr. Feelgood gazing out at the back yard, glassy-eyed, with a bag of Doritos in one hand and a tiny orange sapling in the other. Too lazy to even make it beyond the concrete patio, he immediately turns to the left and realizes that, if he plants it right outside the bay window, he won't even have to get out of bed to pick a juicy orange right from the tree. He digs a little hole, dumps in his potting mix of Miracle Gro and Maui Wowee, and dreams of the nutritious munchies to come.

When Bugglegirl was an infant, I used to take her out on the back patio for her evening bottle to escape the kiln-like temperatures inside. Sitting on the wooden bench one night, I heard a little rustling in the orange tree. My eyes were drawn to the slightest twitch of a leaf, behind which was a pair of beady rat eyes staring back at me. Suddenly the hollowed-out orange rind that occasionally appeared beneath the tree made perfect sense. I lunged, he scampered. Game on, little fucker.

We trimmed back any branches that touched the roof. We sealed up all the crevices bigger than a quarter. We set traps laced with peanut butter. But still, they came. One night I saw a big fat daddy skip gingerly along the power line from my neighbor's backyard to my roof. The orange tree expressway.

But like all things broken, malfunctioning or merely in need of attention around here, we learned to live with the nuisance. After all, there are at least a few weeks a year when there are no ripe oranges on the tree - plenty of time to lull us into complacency.

This summer, however, we've had a bumper crop. Not sure which has been more prolific - the tree or the rats. For the past month, they've been feasting all night on the choicest fruit, the juice dripping to the patio below, gluing dried up rat turds to the painted concrete. Periodically I've tried, unsuccessfully, to squirt them off with the hose. They seem to come off only when Buggleboy shuffles over there in his bare feet, wincing and whining "Uh-ooo" when the poo pellets adhere to his soles.

So this past Sunday, I stopped pretending to be some laid-back, I-don't-care-if-my-kid-walks-in-rat-crap kind of mom: I sent in Bugglehubby with the clippers.

My first pang of concern came when John McCain's son personally performed the pre-battle flyover.* Ten minutes in, Bugglehubby was dripping with sweat. It was becoming clear that he was hell-bent on waging a campaign of gruesome Shock and Awe. Quickly I washed and pressed the kids' flight suits and brushed up on the lyrics to "America the Beautiful."

By sundown, I was convinced that Bugglehubby might secretly be orchestrating the administration's war on terror through a website that only appears to be ESPN.com.

You be the judge.

It's par for the course, really. Bugglehubby is the reigning Selective Hearing World Champion. Rather than comprehending both "We need to get rid of these rats" and "We need to trim the tree," he distilled the phrases into a tidy "We need to get rid of the tree."

Impeachment hearings are scheduled to begin next Tuesday. Please bring a covered dish of your choice.

*Yeah, he's like a Marine or something. It's called creative license, so save your comments. Actually, comment away. Comment like forty-seven times. SOMEONE.

Wordsmith: DOCK

2008-07-09T09:42:00.000-07:00

MID-MORNING, at the ZOO. A MOTHER holds her DAUGHTER up so she can see over the fence in front of the SEA LION POOL:

DAUGHTER
(pointing at the flat wooden structure floating in the middle of the pool)
What's that, Mommy?

MOTHER
It's a dock, honey.

DAUGHTER
A tock?

MOTHER
A dock.

DAUGHTER
A dick?

MOTHER
(laughing)
A dock.

DAUGHTER
A tick?

MOTHER
A dock, honey, DOCK.

DAUGHTER
A tock?

REPEAT until SUNSET.

I have a hunch about this one. It's gonna be the feel-good comedy of the year.

Buggercise: Rose Bowl redux

2008-07-08T13:51:00.000-07:00

Shortly after my ridiculous attempt to pilot my Graco tandem monster stroller around the Rose Bowl, I decided to give my friend's double jogger a test drive. Thank God she said I could keep it indefinitely, because reading herein that I am never, ever giving it back might have been awkward.

While quite easy to set up and break down, it is a double stroller after all - a veritable behemoth requiring some exertion to muscle in and out of the back of my 4Runner. Some days when I don't feel like working out, I just lift it in and out of the trunk a couple of times to generate a little sweat. I've finally figured out how to position it properly back there, so it doesn't tip over when I turn or go over bumps. Sorry, Buggledog.

But the extra effort pays off: this baby glides like Dirk Diggler slathered in Crisco.

The first time I took it to the Rose Bowl, I actually started jogging, something the public hasn't seen me do voluntarily since the early Reagan administration. Consequently, about two-thirds of the way around I pulled a groin muscle, which also hasn't happened in ages (poor Bugglehubby). But I pushed through the pain, completing the three mile perimeter in just under six hours, forty-two minutes (including drink breaks and a scenic detour to Baja Fresh).

Workout Stats
Smokin' bod count: Zero, unless you count me in my orange terry cloth peddle pushers at a steady 2.8 mph clip, yo
iPod shuffle quality: High. That Fergie song about her blanket into Lovely Day into California by Tom Petty rounded out by a little Chili Peppers. Enough to transform me into the pop diva princess that lingers within. . .
Fanny pats: Zero, though Buggledog did sniff my outer thigh as we were jogging. Not exactly a Boogie Nights moment, but encouraging just the same.
Sightings: Just friendly night stick guy.
Cravings: None. Realized that if I have enough time to crave something, I'm not working out hard enough.
Excuses/complaints: See above groin injury.

The B-List: LIKE CAMPING, ONLY CROWDED

2008-07-07T12:52:00.000-07:00

Since you're reading this, you'll surmise that I survived the Fourth of July weekend at the Grandbuggles' lake house. Better known in my internal dialogue as Place Of 1,000 Ways My Children Might Die, Or Simply Make Me Miserable.

Here's a tally of the most notable happenings:

I wore a swimsuit. Not as underwear, which is routine for me at the beach - but without camouflage. And not just any swimsuit, but the one Bugglehubby bought me for our Caribbean vacation (where NO ONE knew me). Apparently my butt has grown since last September. I couldn't manage to tug the thing down over my cheeks without showing cleavage. Isn't that "in," these days?
Buggleboy slept soundly in the pack and play. Thoughts of the sleeping situation (four bedrooms for seventeen adults and kids) were giving me high anxiety for days. But he was content as could be, if a bit sweaty. Worried he might discover how to climb out of the playpen, I left only the window at the far end of the room open. I decided that stuffy air was preferable to my child plummeting through the screen onto the pine-needle -blanketed forest floor below.
No one was struck by a car as we crossed the street to the lake. Last year my niece was nearly hit. This year her little sister scraped up both knees trying to bolt across. I realized that the drivers who don't stop or even slow down when they see three adults trying to wrangle a wagon, two coolers, four beach bags and six little kids across a windy mountain road with no sidewalks are probably thinking the same thing I'm thinking: What are you, some kind of moron?
I only uttered "I'd so much rather be at home right now" two times. After one of which Buggledaddy actually stepped in and removed the screaming child gripping my kneecaps.
Bugglegirl slept down at the dock. In a pack and play, without sedatives, surrounded by cousins playing. This is the kid who chased me around the airport from midnight to four-thirty in the morning when we were snowed in. Who hasn't slept in a stroller since she was six months old. Can mountain air be bottled?
I drank beer. In the middle of the day. Even though the chances of Buggleboy toppling into the lake were certainly higher for my doing so. Oh, and get this - I had fun. For this I'm mainly crediting my efforts to complain only minimally beforehand. And perhaps the aforementioned mountain air. And naturally the beer.

Heaven help me

2008-07-03T14:05:00.000-07:00

I'm approximately five thousand, one hundred sixty seven minutes into the first week of summer vacation from the Bugglekids' twice-a-week preschool co-op. We've already been swimming at the Grandbuggles' pool (124 minutes), frolicked at Shane's Inspiration (97 minutes) and ridden the antique merry-go-round at Griffith Park (6 minutes), trekked out to the beach (302 minutes), picked cherry tomatoes, strawberries and pansies in the back yard (35 minutes) and visited the goats, alligators, sea lions, flamingos, kangaroos and gorillas at the zoo (127 minutes). We've watched four episodes of Sesame Street, two Backyardigans, one Jack's Big Music Show, Finding Nemo, Cars and Madagascar (about 386 minutes).

Accounting for sleep (1,2oo minutes) and meals (270 minutes), that leaves roughly two thousand, six hundred twenty minutes of Wondering What The Hell Are We Going To Do Until September Time. Throughout which we've peppered Stop Screaming At Me Time, Don't Pinch Your Sister Time, The Dog Is Not A Horse Time, I Can't Do This Anymore Time and my personal favorite, I Don't Want To Be Your Mommy Right Now Time.

Yesterday I made a manhattan at 4:47. It would have been more effective if Bugglegirl (who'd been yelling and banging on her bedroom door all afternoon - yes, I lock her in for time-out) hadn't asked repeatedly if she could eat the cherry. And if Buggleboy hadn't wailed in protest for the duration of my phone conversation, prompting me to dip my finger into the cocktail and shove it into his mouth. And yes, that worked. For him, at least; I made the mistake of only having one drink too slowly and by the time I got to the cherry, I was grumpy again.

My dourness was still with me this morning, inspiring Buggledaddy to wish all of us the best of luck on his way out the door. Getting ready for our trip to the zoo, we had surprisingly few moments my kids will later discuss in therapy. And we had great fun brushing the goats at the petting zoo and eating pretzels while the baby gorilla ate her bamboo.

Ah, but it couldn't last. As we approached our car in the parking lot, hungry, tired and sweaty, Bugglegirl bolted ahead. I yelled, clapped my hands furiously and pointed forcefully at an approaching car. Bugglegirl just stood there staring at me, wondering why Mommy was leading an invisible marching band. I ordered her into the car while I tried to break down and wrestle the stroller into the trunk. Soon she was fussing and shouting whiny demands.

"My pretzel!"
"What?"
"I dropped my pretzel."
"Oh well."
"My shoe."
Just then the stroller's tire smudged down the front of my shorts.
"I want water!"
"Oh my God, Bugglegirl!"
"You should say 'Oh my gosh,' Mommy."
"Really? OK, how about this: 'Oh my gosh, you're driving me crazy.'"

Wordsmith: FIRETRUCK

2008-07-02T00:00:00.000-07:00

One of the distant Bugglecousins, age two, has a little friend who loves to "play firef*cks."

New evidence to suggest that the ubiquitous female affinity for firemen may be inborn, rather than learned.

Buggercise: All this - so close to home!

2008-07-01T00:00:00.000-07:00

I've been trying to get up early some mornings to go out walking with the dog, before the kids wake up. This is challenging for me, since most nights I'm up late doing absolutely nothing of value, unless you count trying to erase the wire-hanger highlights of the day by vegging out on the leather love seat in the den searching for a tivoed Oprah that doesn't feature the cast of High School Musical or some dude who can blow a bubble around himself. I do love me some mink-lashed Oprah - but only the really meaningful stuff, like Lisa Ling undercover at the Amish puppy mills, or Tom Cruise Tells All From Telluride. Don't tell me you didn't watch.

So recently I ventured up a street I'd only been on once before. It's steep and quiet, with an array of home architecture I'd describe as Brady Bunch meets Clearance Sale At Home Depot. The facade of my favorite house is plastered entirely with twelve-inch-pink-marble flooring tiles. Like all its neighbors, an enormous die cast "Victorian" mailbox blocks the sidewalk out front. Many of them are also gussied up with custom faux finishes.

Beholding the splendor, Stone Temple Pilots on the shuffle, I couldn't help but wonder if this is what happens when Timothy Leary and Christopher Lowell get together over sangria and an eight ball and decide to plan a community.

Approaching the top of the hill, a little out of breath, I spotted a coyote trotting across a vacant lot just a few yards ahead. As he passed, he watched me, watching him. I think we were both eager to get back to our comfortable, modest dens.

The B-List: SOME THINGS I MISS MOST

2008-06-30T14:12:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-29T21:54:00.000-07:00

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 bucati ni
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

2008-06-27T13:14:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-25T20:15:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-25T00:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-24T00:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-23T14:11:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-06-20T16:07:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-20T00:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-19T00:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-18T00:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-17T00:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-16T00:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-15T00:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-13T00:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-11T15:43:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-11T14:19:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-10T15:02:00.001-07:00

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

2008-06-09T07:00:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-06-08T20:48:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-06T13:16:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-05T22:01:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-04T21:05:00.000-07:00

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.

Two (rather damp) steps back

2008-05-27T20:09:00.000-07:00

Not that I consider myself a tragic hero or anything (often merely tragic!), but the other day's hubris definitely came back to haunt me. Barely more than twenty-four hours after bragging about my oh-so-progressive attitude toward the aforementioned pee incident, Bugglegirl struck again. This time it was blatant. This time, it was as though we'd rerouted the Euphrates. A deluge on the carpet, right in front of the leather sofa. I had started to undress her for bed when she bolted to the den to retrieve her blanket and relieve her bladder. And then she laughed.

Then today as I was crossing the courtyard to pick up Bugglegirl from school, I spotted a darkened half-moon at the bottom of her denim jumper. Sure enough, this was not the usual arts and crafts project gone awry. "Did you have an accident?" She nodded. I resisted the urge to create more drama and said simply, "Let's go get changed." And she complied - instantly, following me into the building like I was Cinderella carved out of ice cream. No doubt I'll be recanting these words soon enough, but I'm choosing to view this as a small victory rather than a soggy setback.

Fabulosipee

2008-05-25T21:44:00.000-07:00

Right now I’m having a hard time writing anything because I’m absorbed in the Kimora Lee Simmons reality show. This episode is about her laughable attempts to “go green” while shooting a fragrance commercial in L.A. Kimora insists that her kids be in the commercial, because her “fabulosity” stems from the happiness her children generate. I’ve heard that each of her two girls has her own nanny (conspicuously absent from the program). Since I’m drinking Bordeaux I can watch it without wanting to crawl into a hole and die.

Today Bugglegirl peed on her bedroom carpet. I didn’t actually see her squatting there, but after her nap I happened to walk in there and spot the wet mark on the floor. I did a sniff test and when I asked her what it was, she looked me dead in the eyes and said she wasn’t sure. She was definitely grinning.

“I had a accident.”

Then she started in with the hand gestures and exaggerated expressions she uses when imitating the conversations I have with friends. “Actually, Mommy, I, you know, I tried to make it to the potty, see? OK? And, um, I had a accident, OK?” She flashed a conspiratorial smile. And I lost it. I had to do the turn-and-cough-into-the- crook-of-my-arm move. I was actually laughing out loud, thankful that she’s still young enough to buy the lie that Mommy was thinking of something else that’s funny; that I was in fact very upset about her lying, not to mention her peeing. But inside I was doing cartwheels and composing my acceptance speech for the Least Neurotic Mom of the Year award. I mean, I was still a good four hours away from popping the cork on that Bordeaux. I need to stop here and have another sip, lest I overanalyze.

Progress, people. It’s fabulous.

File Under "M"

2008-05-11T17:10:00.000-07:00

Mother’s Day: the one day out of three hundred and sixty-five when a mother might reasonably anticipate the requisite thank you for fulfilling her job description. As a grown-up daughter, I readily concede its necessity; as a burgeoning mother, I tend to prefer those moments when gratitude comes unexpectedly, instinctively: when Bugglegirl, during the throes of a tantrum, pleads in between sobs, “Mommy, I need a hug,” when Buggleboy runs giggling from across the room to bear hug my knees, when Buggledaddy grabs them both for tubby time with the directive to “sit down and relax” (wishful thinking, but a welcome gesture all the same). These are the ephemeral moments not marked by a greeting card or a bouquet of lilies, the moments that don’t make it into the tattered shoebox marked “mementos,” but instead disappear into the emotional ether to be called upon sooner or later: to bolster me when I’m convinced that if one more unfinished meal is tossed onto the floor, if one more shrieking “No!” pierces my eardrums, if one more diaper explodes after I’ve just finished the laundry, I just might not make it.

But of course, I do make it. Becoming a mother (and I use that word “becoming,” though my children are past infancy, to indicate a process rather than a terminable event) has taught me not that practice makes perfect, but rather that practice makes progress. Even so, as a recovering perfectionist prone to frequent relapses, either relishing in or fleeing from the chaos I’ve helped create can be daunting, almost impossible. I envy the apparent ease with which a mom can sprinkle shallots into the slow cooker with one hand, sip pinot grigio from a glass in the other and exclaim, “Thank God for Spray N Wash” as her kid smears finger pain all over himself. And I’m equally jealous of a mother who unabashedly retains a nanny, babysitter, anybody, on a random Wednesday, when the nothing in particular she has planned certainly doesn’t involve any of her children. I tend to be terrible at letting go; and when I manage to, I spend much of my time struggling to recover my grip. My kids could do worse. But knowing that ultimately I may be my own worst critic doesn’t make it any easier to accept the realization that the best I can do is really the best I can do.

Ultimately, my dilemma will be irrelevant: transformed, along with those fleeting moments, into a hazy memory smelling faintly of crayons and baby shampoo. My children will let me go, and I them. Until then, wading knee-deep in the muck of child rearing doesn’t leave much time for self-indulgent deprecation or nostalgia. All of this – from misery to magic – is, in fact, exactly what I signed up for. I have to remind myself that it won’t always be like this – a mantra at once my saving grace and a sentimental lament that leaves me feeling bittersweet. I struggle to appreciate not just the victories – a full night’s sleep, graduation from diapers, from high school (imagine it!), but also the trials – spending half the night in the rocking chair, scrubbing the latest form of excrement off the new carpet, the unforeseen traumas of adolescence. I’m frequently mediocre at treasuring the good and downright dreadful at embracing the bad, but I’m persevering. And giving thanks for all of the thanks I can scrounge.

Better Late Than Never

2008-05-11T16:38:00.000-07:00

Just a moment ago I was putting the finishing touches on this new blog when Buggledaddy busted me. "What are you doing? You have a blog?"
"Yeah, for the kids' photos and stuff."
"Who's going to read it?"

Not sure. What I do know is that Bugglegirl turned three in February and I still haven't finished her baby album. At least her photos are neatly organized on the computer; poor Buggleboy's are scattered here and there and I think he'll have all of his teeth before I remember to write down when any of them came in.

So forgive me, vast audience, the erratic postings, the errors in syntax and the poorly-cropped snapshots. I'm smack in the middle of a place called Buggletown - where the founding residents, too busy growing up, don't mind those things a bit.