Heaven help me

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

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!

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.