Ewwww.

My husband said something disgusting to me last night. I know, shocking. This man has no shame about anything. Bodily functions are fair game in his world, no matter who is present. He's icky. I'm so lucky.

So he was sitting on the couch, picking at his armpit. I was in the middle of cooking a gourmet meal of spaghetti and frozen garlic bread when he wandered into the kitchen, one arm over his head. He hept alternating between scratching the exposed pit with the opposite hand and trying to look at it. Caveman, I'm telling you - and I'm talking early caveman, when they were one step from monkeys. I asked him what he was doing. Oh, how I wish I hadn't.

"If I get you a razor blade, would you lance something off for me?"

Huh? "I'm sorry, honey. My medical license expired yesterday. If you had only asked me last week. What the hell do you need lanced out of your armit?"

It's called a lance, helllloooooo.

"I don't know, it's like a bump or something."

A bump that requires lancing with a razor blade. Riiiiigggght. That's going to happen.

My husband is constantly cutting at himself with razor blades, not in a tickle me emo way, just in a stupid man way. He used my callous shaver a couple of months ago to shave some dry skin off his elbow. Word of advice: don't ever try that. It bled for an hour and took weeks to heal. Even after losing a bucket of blood and not being able to rest his elbows on the table for a month, it still seemed like a good idea to him to try it again.

"But look at all the new, fresh skin on my elbow! It's so nice. I need to do the other one now that it's healed." Fresh new skin is not the same as scar tissue, hon.

I've caught him trimming his toenails with an exacto knife more times than I can count. We have approximately 147 pairs of nail clippers in my house. Granted, 146 of them are hiding out with all the missing socks in house purgatory somewhere, but still - we have clippers. The thing about his toenails is that he likes to cut them really short. Shorter than he can get them with clippers. He's obsessive about it. If you're wondering, "Doesn't he ever cut himself with the exacto knife?" the answer is yes. Yes, he does.

He's a smart guy most of the time, but good grief - put him in the same room with a razor blade of any kind and someone's coming out bleeding. I keep getting rid of them, and he keeps bringing more home. I purged the house of all blades one day, and he found my scissors and used those. That was a bad cut.

I assume it must be a genetic mutation attached to his y chromosome that causes him to do things like shave his elbows and pick his nose in public. Aside from becoming a genetic scientist, targeting the abnormality and blasting it into gene heaven, I suppose there's not much I can do. I'll just keep a box of bandaids in the house and pretend like I don't know him in public. It's a good thing I love him.

If he had as much common sense as he did love for the razor blade, well.... maybe he wouldn't love a razor blade so much.

$4 corn dogs and a moonwalk - oh, the joy

We went to a festival in my hometown yesterday. It was a combination of a BBQ contest, a biker rally and some local blues bands, all set up at the lakefront park. We have several local bike clubs, as do most towns, so there were quite a few motorcycles to be seen. The air smelled of smoked meat, there was beer flowing freely, and there was music blasting. It was nice.

When we got there, we took a quick walk-through to see what was going on. Molly sniffed the air and immediately said, "My tummy is rumbling." Yeah, sweetie, so's mine. We decided to check out some bikes first, and on the walk between the food and the bike parking, I saw the coolest thing ever. It was a refrigerated beer truck with taps coming right out the side of it. How I didn't get a picture, I have no idea. Anyway, I watched in awe as some chick in a Bud t-shirt poured ice cold draft right from the side of the truck.

I asked my husband, "Hey, do you think we can have one of those installed right on the front of the fridge?"

"They make refrigerators for that. They're called kegorators."

"Yeah, yeah, I know about kegorators. I want that truck. We could just park it right in front of the house and have a constant supply of beer."

He looked at me like I had lost my mind. "The neighbors would steal our beer if we did that."

Really, that's the best reason you can think of not to buy the Budweiser truck? I really need to learn to see things from a male point of view. Life would be so much easier.

We moved on to the bike parking area. Rows and rows of shiny machines sat before us. My husband, who has recently joined the ranks of the two-wheeled terrors, was in heaven. He was pointing out things that I can't even tell you about, because I have no idea what in the hell he was talking about. I wasn't seeing makes, models and spark plugs (do bikes even have spark plugs?), I was only seeing this:

Oh, look. It's Joe Dirt's motorcycle. Bryan asked me what the wig was doing on the bike.

"Shhhhh it might be sensitive about it's bald spot. Don't point it out."

That made sense to him. Man-logic is a lovely thing.

The coolest bike we saw looked an awful lot like a tricycle, made obvious by the tricycle parked right next to it. Want to see?

Cool. A Radio Flyer with spark plugs (I think).

We wandered back toward the BBQ area to get some lunch. Have you ever wondered what a $4 corn dog looks like? I'd show you a picture, but it was gone before I could get the camera turned on. Seriously, it was like a 3 bite corn dog. Four buckeroonies. Wow. I asked how it was. Apparently it was exactly like "those ones, you know the really good ones, the ones you buy in Wal-Mart in the frozen food section." Yeah, the ones that are $4 for a box of 12? Interesting.

We got BBQ. Of course we got BBQ. I think because I've typed the word BBQ so many times (and the fact that I actually took a picture of a sandwich) that I'll show you a picture. Presenting, my beef brisket sandwich.

It was good. Real good. I bet it was even better than the corn dog.

The advertising for the festival promoted a "Kid Zone," which the girls were excited about that. I'm sure they expected rides. I expected rides, games, something to entertain the little monsters for a few minutes. What we got was a moonwalk. Ok, no biggie. For $5 each, the girls got a bracelet that they could use the whole time we were there to bounce themselves silly. Sounded like a good deal to me, even given the fact that the guy in charge of it was trying hard core to rent me one for a party I hadn't planned yet. I told him I'd consider it after I bought the Budweiser keg truck.

My kids love to bounce. They jump on the couch, the bed, the little trampoline, the seats in the car while I'm trying to buckle them in, each other - they are bouncers. It never even crossed my mind that either of them wouldn't love the moonwalk. Abby didn't. She sat close to the side, clinging to the net like she was imprisoned until I finally coaxed her close enough to the opening so I could get her out without having to crawl inside. Hey, at least the moonwalk episode lasted longer than the corn dog.

We were hot. We wanted to go home. Molly wanted to bounce. We let her bounce for an hour, then we bribed her with a milkshake to get her out of the moonwalk. She asked if she could bring her friend, a very cute little boy (oh, I'm in for trouble with that one). As if I would have said yes and hauled him off to my car, his mother came rushing over, yelling "No, no, no, Cody, you can't go with them." Ok, crazy lady. Believe me, I don't need another toddler in my house.

We left and hit up the McDonald's drive thru for frozen dairy sustenance. We took a drive while we ate our ice cream, trying to find the shortest route to the high school. Yeah, I could have mapquested it, but it's fun to take a family drive sometimes, especially when there's ice cream involved.

Even the ice cream was happy.

The following blog will be a record of interruptions.

Today is Saturday, and my husband is home. I've been trying to get some things done on the computer, and it's not going well. I started another blog, but I can't get further than a few lines into it because my family is running wild around me. About every third sentence, somebody is screaming the dreaded "M" word. MOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!

There it is now.


Interruption #1

"Mommy, I pushed a toothpick inside the couch. We're gonna have to take it apart to find out where it is."

Super. This means the next time I try to take 5 minutes to relax on the couch, my butt will be impaled by a wooden toothpick.

Wow. That's all I got typed before the next round.


Interruption #2

"Bryan's being mean to me."

Wah. Let me get out my violin. In my daughters' eyes, Bryan walking into a room without squealing and jumping up and down constitutes his "being mean" to them. On the rare occasion that he actually is mean, they don't come to me - they run crying to their room.


Interruption #3

"Honey, I'm going for a bike ride."

Seriously? He complains on a daily basis about riding his motorcycle to work, but on the one day when he's supposed to be spending some quality time with the kids (translate: keeping them out of my hair) he wants to go for a joyride. I chose to not acknowledge that comment. He's standing over me, probably wondering what I'm thinking. Most likely he's thinking about hot dogs or Pac Man or something equally irrelevant to the topic at hand.

"Ummmm I'll wait until later."

Hmmm. Maybe he was reading over my shoulder.


Interruption #4

"I love you, Mom."

Some people would wonder how I can see that as an interruption. When a 13 year old approaches you with a stack of papers in his hand and throws out the "L" word, he wants something. I'm no fool. I know that was not a "You're a super mom" love you. It was a "I need $500 for football equipment" love you.

Ahhh, it was a request to go to 15 different stores and spend God knows how much money for the perfect pair of cleats. That sounds like a fun Saturday, right?


Interruption #5


"Mommmmmyyy I don't like Emily Yeung, I want Daniel Cook!"



Molly has a crush on this kid that does little 5 minute shows on the Disney Channel. He goes and does exciting things like visiting a karate studio and doing some Jackie Chan moves, playing with bugs at a science museum and so on. When Molly was about 2 1/2, she told me she wanted to marry him. Cute, right?


So Daniel Cook is getting older, and has moved on to soup commercials or something equally exciting, and has been replaced by Emily Yeung. Apparently, Molly has no desire to marry a cute Asian/American girl. She's devastated at the loss of Daniel.



Interruption #6

"Honey, do we have bread?"

Do you see bread in the kitchen? The bread is always in the same place. Our kitchen is Lilliputan sized, and there aren't that many places to look. There is no bread.

"Well, you went to the store."

Oh, no he didn't.


He better be glad for Interruption #7

"Mommy, Molly has mine makeup."

Abby, you don't have makeup. This one's for Daddy. I can hear the yelling from here.


Interruptions#8 & 9, simultaneously

"Honey, do we have any nail polish remover?"

"Owwwww there's a toothpick stuck in my BUTT!"




This is going to be a long day.

Agent J for Prez

I was joking the other day with a friend about writing his name in on my ballot in November, and it made me think about who would be a good write-in for the presidential vote. I know that not all states even allow write-in votes, but let's pretend for a minute that we have the freedom to elect whoever we please.

I'm not a politcally savvy person. I don't keep up with who supports what and platforms and... well, I don't even know the correct terminology, so I won't pretend that I do. My method for voting comes down to frantic research within the last few days before an election. It might not be the best way, but it's my way. Don't tell my husband or kids, though - they think I know everything. My lack of expertise in this area led me to some interesting conclusions about who would make good candidates.

I'd like to take this opportunity to present to you my choice for write in candidate for the 2008 presidential election.

Agent J. We've never had a president this cool. My reasons for choosing J are many.

1. He runs fast. That might not seem like a good reason to some, but the way I see it, if he ever travels to the Middle East and catches a glimpse of Osama Bin Laden, he could damn sure catch him.

2. He has fantastic weapons. The country could save zillions of dollars a year on Secret Service, because he can just whip out his big guns and take care of any potential threat all by himself.

3. Any guy who can make a plain black suit and sunglasses look so darn good deserves some kind of special recognition. Clearly, our standards for the role of president are not all that high right now, so this reason alone might just be enough to secure millions of votes.

4. He has a kick-ass running mate. I mean, really, who doesn't love a talking dog?

5.He has a neuralyzer. That's the flashy thing with the red light that erases memory. If I had a flashy thing, I'd be the best at everything, because anytime I screwed up I could erase memories and call do-over. It's the ultimate power.

6. He's got the whooooole world, in his hands......

7. Agent J clearly has a handle on problems with illegal immigration.

You may not agree with my choice for the leader of our people. It wouldn't be the first time that someone disagreed with me, and it surely won't be the last. For those who aren't quite yet ready to write in Agent J, let me make one more point that will surely convince you. This one is a demonstration. I need you to look right here at this red light......

The age of (the loss of) innocence

My son will be in high school in the upcoming school year. He made a decision a couple of months ago that he definitely wanted to play football for the school. Given the fact that he could probably easily land a job manning the door at any nightclub, football is a good choice for him. He's been psyching himself up for it for a while now, and he's been so excited he practically buzzes all the time.

Tonight the school offered sports physicals in the gym. We went, filled out all the paperwork, and waited in a line that rivaled Space Mountain at noon on a Saturday in August. They had the basic stuff broken up into stations, all of which were manned by the cheerleading squad. Peppy, cute girls took his weight, then sent him to another group of peppy cute girls who measured his height, which was six feet even. How the hell did my teeny baby get that tall in 13 years?

Anyway, the height squad sent him over to the vision check. It was obvious that my son fell in instant smittenness with the vision girl. She giggled and cocked her head and touched his arm. The whole time I wanted to yank her arm behind her back and yell in my pissed-off-mom voice, "Do you UNDERSTAND that he is THIRTEEN?" I refrained from inflicting any injury on the eye chick and went to sit on the bleachers and wait.

He went through a few more checkpoints, then took a seat to wait and see the doctor. While we were waiting, he was scanning over the physical form. "Uh, mom?" I glanced over at him to see his eyes wide, focused on the paper. My eyes followed his pointing finger to the checklist.

#13) Male genitalia

"Ummm, what does that mean?"

Not only have I never had a sports physical (I'm smart, not athletic), but I also possess no male genitalia of my own.

"I have no idea. I'm sure it's nothing."

Wrong-O.

He eventually was called back to see the doctor. I waited patiently, reliving a little of my own high school years as I absorbed the sights and sounds of the gym that I hadn't set foot inside of in over 15 years. I heard the door crash open and looked up.

My son stood in the doorway, shaken and pale except for the crimson spots on both cheeks. His left eye was twitching, and his eyebrows were raised so high it looked like Botox gone wrong. He walked awkwardly toward me, grabbing all the paperwork off the bleacher seat and heading for the exit.

"How did it go?"

"Fine."

"What did they say?"

"Nothing."

"So tell me about it."

"No."

Oooookay. I let it go and we walked back across campus to the parking lot. I snuck a glance at my son, and he was walking with his head down, making his bulldog frowny face. Uh-oh. I let it go, assuming that he would tell me what happened when he was ready.

We got in the car and shut the door. He sat quietly, with his chin on his chest until we pulled into the drive-thru at the Taco Bell.

"You ok?"

"Mom, I just lost my virginity to an old man with a stethoscope."

I couldn't really speak, because my lower jaw was resting comfortably somewhere near the brake pedal.

"Mom, he... well, he.... *shudder* he squeezed my balls."

I started laughing. I couldn't help it. The sound just burst out of me.

"No, it gets worse. While he was.... doing that... he made me COUGH. Oh my God, Mom. I never thought the first person to touch that stuff besides me would be some old guy wearing a souvenir shop t-shirt and a lab coat."

I couldn't even order his crunchwrap supreme because I was laughing so hard.

He just shook his head, staring at his lap in shame. "You just don't understand. I feel so violated."

Sweetheart, I've had three children. Let me give you a little lesson on violation of the genitalia.

On second thought, I'll leave that discussion for his wife to deal with in the future. Maybe he'll hook up with the eye chick and they can have a few children who will, someday, be violated in the same gruesome ways.

Go Bulldogs!

The death of Wormidoodle

We had a family outing this weekend. Fishing is fun for everyone, right? The kids actually love going fishing. The girls each have their own pole, and the boys have a collection. We never actually catch anything but bait, but it's a good family activity with a bonus - it's free! In Florida, there are lakes everywhere. You can't drive five miles without having to go around one, so places to fish are abundant here. We have a favorite spot, a pier close to a lakefront park. Granted, the fish seem to be more interested in the ice cream truck that is always parked close by than in our bait, but it's a nice place to hang out.

We packed up the cooler and picked up some bait, and headed to the lake. My son prefers to fish with minnows, and my husband is a big fan of the nightcrawler. Molly loves the worms. When I say that she loves them, I mean that she makes friends with them. She loves to poke them and hold the container they come in so she can have long conversations with the worms. She likes to put them on the ground and watch them inch their way along.

It's obvious to everyone but her that they are trying to escape when they are crawling desperately toward freedom. She thinks they are just trying to entertain her.

My kids are getting brave with their bait. Bryan can poke a hook right through the eye of a minnow without cringing now, and I even saw him hack a nightcrawler in half with a pocketknife recently. I suppose enough time wasted trying to fish with mashed up bread will help you conquer your fear of the minnow.

Molly will hold a worm now. She squeals and giggles, but it's with glee instead of fear now. She made friends with a worm this trip. His name is Wormidoodle. I swear. I would not make that up. She hauled poor Wormidoodle around for the better part of an hour, until the poor thing was hardly crawling anymore. I helped her put a little dirt and water in the lid to the container, and we found a shady spot next to the tackle box where Wormidoodle could rest.

I don't know what I was thinking, encouraging a friendship with a worm. It was just so cute. She kept a watchful eye over her new best friend, until she got distracted. It doesn't take much to distract her. If the wind changes direction she loses her train of thought. So, something distracted her and she turned away.

I bet you think I'm going to say the worm died or crawled away, don't you? It's worse than that. My husband hacked it right in half. I turned toward him when I heard the knife click open. I saw him, hook in hand, holding half a worm.

Oh no. Wormidoodle.

I raced toward the scene of the crime. "Distract her!" I hissed at my husband.

"Huh? What happened?"

"You killed Wormidoodle!"

He stood there scratching his head looking a little like a caveman for a minute. I shoved him in the direction of our blissfully unaware daughter and sprung into action. After drawing a careful chalk outline and stringing crime scene tape around the area, I stopped to think.

This is one of those times when you have to make a choice in parenting. Do I tell the truth and try to explain the circle of life to a three year old, suffering myself, but content in the fact that I have been honest, or do I lie?

Sorry, Dr. Phil - I'm going with the lie.

I replaced Wormidoodle with another worm of similar size and color. Well, I think I did. They all look alike to me. I swept the area for evidence, and cleared it for release. (I have got to stop watching so much CSI.)

The new worm, freshly dug from his happy home of black worm-poo dirt, was wiggling and... well, alive. I called Molly over to see how happy "Wormidoodle" was after his "nap." She squealed, which she does a lot, and jumped up and down, which she also does a lot. Then she picked up her best friend Wormidoodle, gave him a kiss, and threw him into the lake.

Figures. All that work, and now the decoy worm is dead in the bottom of the lake.

Time to get out the crime scene tape again.

Wal Mart trickery - you can't outsmart Mom

My family has been steadily growing over the last few years, and I don't mean in numbers. My husband attributes our ever-expanding waistlines to my "good home cooking," and my oldest claims an ongoing growth spurt. They are eating me out of house and home, and they have the bellies to prove it. (Did you notice how I left myself out of that statement? That's because I'm not fat, I'm fluffy.)

Because of the outward growth of our behinds, I've recently made a commitment to healthier eating. I made this commitment on behalf of my entire family, and they're not so happy about it. The girls don't really know the difference, but the boys... well, let's just say it's not been easy. I've made simple changes - exchanging pointless carbs for healthier ones, adding extra veggies, cooking leaner meats, etc. I haven't cooked anything with gravy on it for at least a month - please don't tell my mother. I've also cut all snack foods out of my grocery budget. That's the great sin that sent me straight to the place in hell reserved for women who take fun things from their families.

Snacks are big around here. When my husband walks in the door from work every night, he sniffs whatever is simmering on the stove, sneaks a nibble or two, then heads straight for the fridge. He'll spend several minutes scrounging in there, then move on to the cabinets looking for something to munch on. I don't think he believes me when I tell him, "Dinner will be ready in 10 minutes." The same goes for my son. He walks in the door from school every single day and heads straight for the kitchen. It's on my mental schedule. Every day by 3pm, the whining begins.

"Moooooom, there's nothing to eat in this house."

shuffle bang crash shuffle

"Don't we have any chips? Cookies? Pop Tarts?"

Yes, we do, and I hid them all. "Nope."

"Mom, can we go to Taco Bell? I'm STARVING."

Eat a banana, Bryan. I don't need to say this out loud, because my answer is the same every day. I just roll my eyes, and he knows that my ass is not driving to Taco Bell. We had a bad experience there, and I avoid it as much as possible.

"MOOOOOMMMM!" *insert dramatic sigh, followed by the sound of a banana being peeled*

I made hummus the other day. The kids love hummus, provided it's slathered on something considerably unhealthy. Pita chips, potato chips, flatbread - carbs galore. I did the most evil thing a mother can do, and cut up lots of fresh veggies to dip into it. That didn't go over so well.
"Um, what is this?" I think he came dangerously close to saying what the hell is this, which is a no-no in my house. Do as I say, not as I do. You know the mom rule.

"Green peppers and celery!" I said brightly, pretty darn proud of myself.

I have trained my kids well in the art of the evil eye. I ducked to avoid the daggers coming from my son's angry glare. Not to be outsmarted, the wiseass got a spoon (you know, the bigger ones that only boys will eat cereal with) and ate the hummus off a spoon.

Sigh.

The situation was compounded when I served dinner. Baked fish, steamed broccoli and rice. Not just any rice, but healthy brown rice. This set my husband off. "Something is wrong with the rice." Yeah honey, it's healthy. They grumbled and griped, but choked it down. I swear, it was good.

About an hour after dinner, my husband said, "I'm going to Wal Mart." Instantly, Bryan agreed that he wanted to go, too.

"What the hell are you going to Wal Mart for this late?" Yes, I realize that 8pm is not that late for a Wal Mart trip, but you need to understand that my husband is faithfully snuggled up to his girlfriend, the sofa pillow, by 8:30 every evening, snoring peacefully. Fishing stuff. That's what he wanted to go to Wal Mart for. Okie dokie, then. It's 8pm on a Monday, and there will be no fishing taking place for at least four more days, but it's like a national state of emergency that he look for a casting net tonight.

Now, I'm not stupid. I knew there was another reason. The only time my husband goes out that late at night is if there is a gift giving occasion the next day. He's a master procrastinator, and I know his patterns, but this is even off for him, because lately he waits until the morning of a big day to start shopping. Whatever.

They leave, and come home an hour later carrying the casting net that he was suddenly frantic about finding. Good cover, honey. That cheese sauce on your shirt doesn't give you away at all. I swear, he's a messier eater than my two year old. Not only was there cheese on his shirt, there was mustard at the corner of his mouth. Bryan had blue lips. I thought for a second.

"Nachos, hot dogs and Slurpees from the gas station, eh?"

Busted.

They think they outsmarted me. Maybe in a way they did, but I gained a great deal of satisfaction in catching them at it. One day they'll learn that I am "The mom that will not be fooled."

Tomorrow I'll make turkey burgers and sweet potato fries. That should go over well.

I just had my hand up a cat's butt. It isn't a real cat, but it is a very lifelike imitation of one, once you cram your fingers into its appendages and wiggle them. My kids love that puppet, and today is the first time that one of them noticed that my hand is the magic behind the movement. Before today, they thought it only liked me enough to wake up, I suppose.

They were petting and snuggling the "kitty" while I expertly (or not) threw my voice in a perfect imitation of a cat's meow. Molly decided that her kitty would love daddy's kitty. Daddy's kitty is his ever-spreading mop of chest hair. Molly named it "kitty" when she first started speaking, and it's been kitty ever since.

"Make this kitty hug Daddy's kitty," Molly ordered in her special "I'm 3 and I'm the boss" way. So, I helped kitty walk over to Howard's hairy, bare chest. Let me take a moment to sympathize with the other wives who are subject to their half naked husband's hairiness on a daily basis. *moment of silence* So anyway, the kitties had a brief love affair, and I think my husband might have liked it a little more than he should have (which is creepy in a weird stuffed animal kind of way). All of a sudden, Molly squealed at a pitch that would have shattered every window in a greenhouse.

"WHYYYY is your hand in the kitty's BUTT?"

Oops. It's like ruining the magic of Disney by letting people see the well-hidden parking lots in the middle of the Magic Kingdom. Afraid she would never recover, I scrambled for an answer.

"Because.... well, because.... he had something stuck in there, and I had to get it out."

Huh? What on God's green earth made my mouth say those words? Oh, that's right. It was my brain, malfunctioning.

The answer satisfied the girls. It also spawned a new game for the kids - I like to call it, "stuff the butt." By the end of the night, that poor little kitty gave birth to two plastic snakes, an Easter egg, a set of car keys (which I will probably never find again) and a spoon before I put it out of its misery.

There are two morals to this story. Puppets are bad, and men who have kitties on their chests may also have them on their back. Eww.

I bought a Ped Egg. I'm sure you've seen the
infomercial. If not, let me briefly describe this torture device to you.

Shaped like an egg to fool your senses into thinking it is safe for human use, this glorified cheese grater shaves off the top 45 layers of your skin with ease. Corns? Callouses? Extra toes? The Ped Egg can remove nearly anything!

I stopped at Walgreens one night to pick up diaper wipes, because we are always out of them. They had the Ped Egg on sale for $9.99. What a steal! I couldn't pass it up. I wear flip flops all the time, and by all the time I mean nothing else. My feet have to be pretty, you know? Anyway, I kept thinking about the infomercial where they rub it against a balloon and the balloon doesn't pop, so I thought, "How can I possibly injure myself with this?"

I have a bad history with my feet. I hate having them touched, so professional pedicures are a no-no in my world. I struggle through trying to maintain my foot grooming on my own. The last implememnt of torture I bought was a callous shaver. It's basically a razor blade with a handle, and it did not have a warning label. I nearly cut off my big toe with that damn thing, and I limped for a week. The Ped Egg seemed like a good idea to me. If it won't pop a balloon, then there's no way I could injure myself with it, right?

What they fail to mention in that infomercial is that the balloon was created by rocket scientists of a flexible material that is the secret love child of plastic and steel. It's like the Superman balloon, minus the whole "vulnerable to kryptonite" thing. Unpoppable.

So I take my Ped Egg home, excited about the beautiful heels that are sure to come as a result of my purchase. I put it together and scraped the top layers of skin right off my heels, with nary a nick or scratch. Success! The worst part of my experience that night was when my husband witnessed me emptying the secret chamber of dead skin snow into the toilet.

"OH MY GOD did that come from your FEET? EWWWWWWWWWWW!"

Achieving beauty is an ugly process.

I became addicted to the Ped Egg. Every time I walked into my bathroom, I was checking my feet for any sign of removeable skin. I told everyone I knew how much I loved the Ped Egg. I was like the Ped Egg poster child. Seriously. It was at a point where I was kicking myself (with perfectly smooth feet) for not having taken "before" pictures so I could tell the world about my success.

My husband hid it. He won't admit it, but I know he did. It just dissapeared one day. I know I needed to take a break from it, but damn. He stole my fun. Yes, I know I need a life. I went two weeks without the egg. I found it last night far underneath the bathroom sink, hidden behind the tampons and Windex. Don't panic - I wasn't cleaning. I was looking for the source of the pantiliners that my daughter was sticking to the living room walls. After I found it, I had to use it.

I guess I got a little over enthusiastic with the Ped Egg. I scraped and scrubbed and filed away the dead skin in a quest for perfectly touchable (be myself only, of course) feet. Little spots of blood appeared in a streak across my heel.

Uh oh.

I quickly checked the other foot and saw the telltale open raw spots on the ball of my foot. Oh, hell no.

Over enthusiastic might not have been the right terminology. Masochistic is a better fit.

I'm sure I'll be hobbling for a few days. Thank goodness I don't have any major walking to do anytime this week.

I hope the Ped Egg is having fun partying it up with the tampons, because it will be there for a while. If it comes down to a standoff between them, there's no doubt that the Ped Egg will win that fight. It can spit foot snow at them to blind them and scrape off their protective wrappers before they can organize their army. My tampons (and my feet) will never be the same.

The midget in my backseat

I have a backseat driver, and I believe it's my fault.

When you put a two year old and a three year old in a car together, there will be fighting. There will be hair pulling, poking, pinching, and endless cries of, "She's touchingggg meeeee!" I'm a minivan mom (ugh), and it seems that there should be more than enough room to separate the girls in the car. I put their carseats as far apart as possible, but they outsmarted me. They bring ammo, and now they throw things at each other in the car.

I finally realized that distraction was the best method of keeping them from throwing daggers at each other while I drove, so I pointed out stoplights to them. Red means stop, green means go, yellow means go faster. They look forward to stoplights. In fact, they have a song they sing.

"The light is red, the light is red, the liiiiiiight is reddddddd..... thelightisgreenmomGO!"

I made a right turn on a red light yesterday. Perfectly legal, of course. Instantly, there was a scream of protest from the backseat. "MOM! The light is RED! You can't go!" It's okay, Molly, really - Mommy knows how to drive.

"Mooooooommmmyyy you can't drive like dat with kids in da carrrrrr!"

Hmmm. Wonder where she's heard that before.

You have to understand that my husband is one of those drivers that you do not want to be on the road with. He cuts into traffic, speeds, drag races people from stoplights, ignores the red of said stoplights, tailgates, yells at other people and occasionally makes use of his middle finger. When we all go somewhere together, he pulls out his man card and insists on driving. There is rarely a family outing where I don't need to remind him that our precious children are in the backseat. There is a lot of yelling in the car, and random threats of getting out and walking.

When we go places, I try to beat him to the driver's seat. If I'm the last one out, I find a reason that one of us has to go back in the house and do the switchout. What's been working for me lately is not locking the door of the house. In spite of his aggressiveness on the road, he's a gentleman with me, so he always insists on going back and locking it for me. That's when I pull a one-person chinese fire drill and race to the driver's side of the car.

I think he's catching on to my devious ways. Apparently, the kids are catching on to my paranoid ones. It's all good. I'll keep finding ways to revoke his man card, and I'll just turn the radio up to tune out the midget with the ammo in the backseat.