Three things I know, like, almost for sure

This is how I know I'm raising city kids:

The other day Oliver brought me the empty cardboard oatmeal box he'd filled with sand and dirt and called a "shaker," and asked me to write "free" on the lid. He then put it out on the sidewalk. This is how he thinks you get rid of unwanted things. And it's true: We've unloaded everything from coffee tables to Styrofoam coolers to boxes of baby clothes by leaving them out on the sidewalk. So far, we haven't managed to entice anyone to take the free cardboard cylinder full of sand. San Francisco can be kind of a yuppie town like that.

This is how I know I may have dropped an F-bomb within earshot of my innocent children:

Maggie is an extremely helpful child. She can be a major piece of work at times, but when push comes to shove (and it nearly did today) the kid loves nothing more that to scurry around at the service of another. Need that table wiped off? Maggie's got it. Have a baby in need of a paci rinse? Maggie's your girl. Decide to put together the IKEA table and chairs that's been sitting in your garage for eight months? Maggie is by your side, handing you the unpronounceable screws.

The Mister is away for a few days and in his absence I decided to prove my capability by finally tackling the daunting Levsack. It is a universal truth that assembling IKEA furniture does not go well, and this, my friends, was no exception.

ME:

(grumbling under my breath)

This can't be right. Wait, is this right? Why won't it fit? This is supposed to fit.

Never again. NEVER AGAIN.

MAGGIE:

(pointing to the part that won't fit in the other part despite what the directions say)

Mom, is this the fuck part?

ME:

What?

MAGGIE:

The fuck part. Is this the fuck part?

ME:

Um, what do you mean by that?

MAGGIE:

(looking a little self-concious)

Just, you know, a really fragile part. It's just, um, nothing. Fuck.

ME:

(seeing no need to make a big deal out of it)

I think I've got it now. Thanks.

This is how I know the laser was on:

Yes. Those are burns. On my neck. It cost me $100. And it hurts.

Also, I'm HERE today, talking about reality TV and how the Biggest Loser makes me cry.

Icarus melts into a puddle of snot

*

So, one day you are bragging to the Mister about how lucky you are, and about how it's not just luck, but probably a form of super-humanness that has kept you from being sick all winter even though you spend two days a week working at your kids' preschool.

You muse about your superior cells and how you are being justly rewarded for living so well, for exercising so diligently, for simply being a really great addition to the human race. God is just sending you a personal little thank you note in the form of your virus-free season.

And then—BAM—the next day you are flat on your back, whimpering, ready to barter all future happiness for some medicine that will make the pain and the snot and the misery go away. You're thinking Oxycontin might be strong enough. You toss and moan through fever-dreams of Wurdle. You watch Papillon through blood-shot eyes and think solitary confinement, sure, but could Steve McQueen survive this cold? You fill trash can with your snotty tissues and miss your family trip to Tahoe.

You have this conversation with your three-year-old son:

OLIVER:

Mommy, I don't want you to die.

ME:

(looking up from my spot on the couch, crusty but somehow lovely)

Don't worry, I'm not going to die.

OLIVER:

Never?

ME:

No, never (no need to worry him now)

OLIVER:

Good. Because I think you are fantastic.

And then you emerge to blog another day. Your nose is scaly and your cough still gurgling, but you emerge from your cocoon of self pity. And thankfully, there are chai lattes and that weird kale and peanut butter soup the Mister made to ease your way.

Hello, world. It's nice to see you again.

* buy those pretty tissue box covers HERE.

If you want to kiss Betty White's butt, you're going to have to get in line

Over HERE, kissing up to Betty White. I'll be back to myself soon, keeping this blog alive. In the meantime, you could watch more TV.

The drunk Oscars could've used more booze

I'm HERE today, writing about the Golden Globes. Do you think Ricky Gervais hates me now?

Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails (and princess shoes)

Last month, on the way to meet Santa, I decided that Maggie's scuffed, red, hand-me-down, patent-leather shoes simply would not do. In a pre-Christmas fit of unchecked spending, I ducked into StrideRite to remedy this imbalance with a shiny new pair of Mary Janes.

The offending red shoes, seen here

What I didn't expect to discover is that I had been shoving the poor girl's foot into shoes that were a size-and-a-half too small. Suddenly, my maniacal shoe-shopping became just another case of responsible parenting. I love that.

Because I am smart like this, I deduced that if Maggie's feet had grown gargantuan, then Ollie's probably had too. A quick trip to Payless a few days later confirmed my suspicions (I can not afford to replace all my kids shoes at StrideRite, let's get real). We were on! Sneakers, school shoes, maybe some boots; all of it was suddenly so necessary and blameless.

I let them lose in the aisles of cheap Hannah Montana blinker boots and sinfully ugly "water shoes" to pick what they wanted. Here's your size, go crazy. By which I meant, "Here's your size, now pick out something that lives up to my own self-image as a hip mom. Preferably something retro and orange."

Now this I would let him go out in

It was in this way that I came face to face with the ways in which I am conditioning (read: screwing up) my children.

The first shoes Oliver brought to me, breathless with excitement, were a snazzy pair of white patent Mary Janes. "Aren't they beautiful?" he asked.

After I confirmed that while they were indeed beautiful, I believed they were for girls, he brought me a pair of pink, blinky princess sneakers. Again, breathlessly in love.

This time, my declaration that those too were for girls was met with a bit more suspicion and some palpable disappointment. Maybe even a lip quiver.

The third pair? Silver flats with a cross weave and a kicky little tassel.

By now I was feeling like a monster of gender propriety. I realized I should have just let him get what he wanted. There could even be a certain panache to a pirate t-shirt paired with pink, blinky princess sneakers. But I also suspected that very soon after exiting the store, some bigger child was going to put him in his place and embarrass him right out of his new shoes. The shoes would be not only a waste of money, but Oliver's very first lesson in shame. I couldn't do it.

This time, his disappointment got the better of him. "All the shoes I like are for girls," he cried, real tears running down his face.

Earlier experimentation with accessories

And what do I say to that? It is a universal truth that girls get nicer clothes and nicer shoes. It's a way of the world thing. But why, at 3, must he be denied the simple and pure pleasure of a pair of pink blinky sneakers?

Had all the hours of listening to Free to Be You and Me as a child meant nothing? Had William Wants a Doll fallen on deaf ears? Apparently.

Our compromise? A pair of black and white blinky sneakers and some camouflage converse low tops that were on sale for $7. And I don't even approve of camouflage; it's done the world way more harm than princesses.

In my defense I also nixed Maggie's Hannah Montana Uggs.

A snowsuit made of fat

I'm over HERE again, writing about grunting. Please comment--it makes me look good. Which is more than I can say for the three chocolate chip cookies I consumed while watching.

Reader, I married him

I've had a couple requests for pictures of the Mister's annual Christmas beard. So here you go, a pictorial history.

You remember where we started.

Well, we shaved.

And shaved a little more.

And in the end we decided to go with 1920s pugilist...

...which is way better than Bath House Pete, which is what we went with a few years ago.

This shirt says: "I have a healthy penis"

And there you go.