Pranks-r-us

My husband is a pranskter. He delights in catching people off-guard and getting the best of someone. He is the proud owner of an entire box of stink bombs, and he has them in both varieties. I bet you didn't even know they came in two different styles, did you? There are the little glass tubes full of rotten-egg scented liquid that you smash to bits, and there are the little silver bags that you squeeze and throw, then wait for the explosion of rotten-egg scented powder. They'll make your eyes water and your nose burn. Horrid, I tell you. Horrid.

I wish I didn't know so much about stink bombs. I also wish I didn't know so many ways to use them. My (least) personal favorite is the stuff-and-run method. To execute this method, you must wait patiently until someone enters the bathroom for a reason that will keep them occupied for a few minutes. You take the explosion kind of stinkbomb, hold it very close to the bottom of the door, squeeze it, stuff it under the door, and run like hell. The person on the toilet or in the shower won't have enough time to escape before it releases its cheerfully awful smell.

I've been a stuff-and-run victim before. It's not pleasant.

My husband likes to prank the guys he works with, too. He's been known to do things like greasing the doorknobs and filling their lockers with packing material. He unrolled an entire roll of those brown paper towels like you find in public restrooms once, and stuffed it in his friend's locker. Then he coated his friend's locker door handle in some sticky greasy stuff. This made sense to him because - and I kid you not - "by the time he got the door open, he really needed a paper towel."

Most recently, he pulled a really disgusting switcheroo with his shopmates. He found some bottles of orange juice under the seat in the van one day. They were unopened, but clearly fermented. He took them to work and put them in the fridge. Now honestly, it's beyond me why someone would not be able to tell that the OJ was a no-go before they opened the bottle. Where I come from, oranges do not produce chunky brown juice. It didn't stop one of the guys from opening one and taking a sip. I guess it's man-logic that produces thoughts like, "if it's cold, it's drinkable."

A few days ago, I was having a conversation with my husband. We were talking about his job, and some of the people he works with. He mentioned one of the guys that works in his shop, then got all excited and... well, almost giddy. I knew a prank story was forthcoming.

"I have the best idea for a prank to play on Wes."

Ok, not even a story, just an idea? This must be a good one. "Okay, honey. Lay it on me."

"Well, as soon as I can find enough golf balls...."

I have no idea what he said after "golf balls." I immediately thought of the
Mythbusters episode where they had thousands of ping-pong balls trying to raise a sunken ship with them. I could picture my husband with an entire room full of golf balls, wading through them like a kid in a ball pit. I should probably ask him what he had in mind, but honestly, I'm afraid to find out.

Last night I was sitting at the computer desk when I heard my husband and son outside. They were laughing, which is always a bad sign. I looked out the window and saw them down the block, stooped over looking at the sidewalk. I shrugged it off, but something kept nagging at me about the way they were both bent over the sidewalk. I heard the front door open, and I looked up. I guess they didn't expect me to be watching them, because they stopped in their tracks. I watched my son ease his right hand behind his back.

"What were you two doing outside?"

"Nothing."

"What's in your hand?"

"Nothing."

"Am I about to get mad at you guys?"

"No."

They broke a lot easier than I thought they would. It only took about three seconds of the evil eye before they cracked like eggs. They tried not to look at me, but they couldn't help talking to each other.

"Okay, so it's really funny, what we did. It's going to be hilarious to watch the kids down the road tomorrow trying to get them off the sidewalk. I hope this glue holds. Maybe we should go out and put some on the other side of the sidewalk. Do you think anyone saw us? It won't be funny if someone saw us. How much more change do you have? Let's go back out. Got any firecrackers?"

They glued quarters to the sidewalk. I'm dead serious. I had to confiscate the glue, because there's no telling what they would have done with it next.

I heard them whispering about buying a pack of chargers for a model rocket earlier. I heard the words "stink bomb" in the same conversation. I imagine sometime in the next week I'll be a witness to the smelliest rocket ever launched in the world.

I'm so lucky.

Zip ties to the rescue (again)

I broke my van. I didn't break it in the traditional smoke-and-flames kind of way. It still runs just fine, in fact. We're just missing a window. A big window.

I have a minivan, the kind with the big door that opens on the side. That door has a big window on it. Well, it used to have a big window on it. I was driving out to my mom's house last week with my kids, my sister, and my neice in tow. I stopped to get my mom's mail, and my son and neice jumped out of the car and started to run toward the house.

My mom lives in the middle of nowhere, so her mailbox is a hike from her house. I sorted the mail and turned onto her road. My son had stopped running, obviously wanting me to stop and pick him up. He stuck his thumb out like a serial-killing hitchhiker, and I slowed to a stop.

I have a sick, sick sense of humor, and so does my sister. Neither of us would have passed up the opportunity to carry out this classic prank. I waited for my son to approach the sliding door of the van. The instant his fingers reached out for the door handle, I drove forward.

We laughed. We laughed much harder than this lame prank actually warranted. He caught up with us and yelled through the open front window, "What was that for? Geez, Mom." He reached for the door again. I shot forward. Hahahahahahahahaha.

I was going to take mercy on him and let him in the next time, but right as he reached for the door handle, my sister looked at me and yelled, "GO!" Instinct made me do it. Unfortunately, my timing was slightly off. He had the whole door handle in his grasp when I hit the gas. I pulled away, and the door slid open. *thwack!* It slid so hard it hit the side of the van, and then... *crack* *thump*

"What the hell was that?" I was sure I had just run over my son, so I slammed on the brakes. The door slid shut with a bang. I glanced back over my right shoulder to locate my son. He was standing about ten feet behind the van, mouth agape, staring at the ground. It took a few seconds for me to register that something was amiss.

I slowly backed up, and it wasn't until my son leaned through the area where the window should have been that I realized what it was that didn't seem quite right. My entire window fell off. He looked at me with a stunned expression on his face, and said the only thing I would expect of one of my children. "That was not my fault."

I got out of the van, and walked around it to look at the road. Lying peacefully in the middle of the dusty dirt road was my window. How it didn't break into pieces is beyond me. I went from shock to anger in a heartbeat. I leveled my son with a glare. "You are SO grounded."

"Mom! It wasn't my fault! It fell off the door when you pulled away!"

"The door wouldn't have opened if you hadn't grabbed the handle!"

"I would have just gotten in the car if you'd have stopped!"

"Well, you would have already been in the car if you hadn't gotten out!"

He had nothing else. Somehow, I didn't really feel better for winning that one. "Just pick it up and get in the car."

We went on to my mom's house to find my neice standing on the front porch laughing hysterically. She replayed the entire thing for my mom, who laughed, too. I found no humor in it until I called my husband to tell him what I had done. As soon as he answered the phone, I started giggling. It wasn't that the broken window was funny, but I felt ridiculous trying to explain to my husband how it got that way. I couldn't even tell the story without laughing.

He didn't think it was funny. He will laugh hard enough to wake the dead over a fart, but the window falling off the van wasn't funny? Alright, maybe it wasn't really that humorous, but sometimes all you can do is laugh.

It turns out that it fell off because the little piece that opens up so you can vent the window broke off when the door slammed against the side of the van. Apparently, that piece also holds the window in place. We had to order it from the dealership, and haven't gotten it yet. It's been raining here every day, so I begged my husband to do something with it. He got out his bundle of zip-ties and reattached my window. Don't ask me how a zip tie can hold a window on, because I'm not sure I know, but it's working until the part comes in.

I'm sure if an automobile were capable of emotion, mine would hate me. It would pull a "Christine" on me and lock me inside and eat me. The sad part is, I probably deserve it.

The only thing worse than taking my kids to a restaurant is taking them to a buffet. There is so much potential for disaster there that it gives me little chill bumps when one of them mentions the word "buffet" in my house. They all love it, though. Once in a while I take a sedative and tag along while we hit the all-you-can-eat near my house.

We braved it the other night. It wasn't my idea, and I tried to protest, but I got outvoted. I toyed with the idea of faking a headache and sending them without me, but I didn't dare leave the four of them unsupervised in public. My husband has a much different idea than I do of what is acceptable behavior in public. So, I got in the car and went.

We parked, paid, and found a table. I sent my husband and son ahead to scout out the buffet while I got the girls situated. Bryan turned to walk away, but stopped two tables away. "Hey, Mom, hold my ball."

In the time it took me to process what he had said, he tossed a dirty, gross tennis ball at me. This ball was nasty. It looked like a team of Great Danes used it as the puck in a game of mud hockey. When he tossed it, I missed it. Hey, I'm not athletic, and he didn't even give me a warning - just tossed it mid-sentence. So the ball hits the floor behind me, bounces once, then rolls underneath a booth against the wall. Of course, it was occupied. That's a good thing because nobody wanted to see me trying to crawl under the booth to retrieve the ball. It's a bad thing because the little boy at the table did crawl under and retrieve it. After he gave me the ball back, his mother made a face and whispered (loudly), "Go wash your hands. That was disgusting." Thanks, Bryan.

I put the ball in my purse and sat down, dirty hands and all. The boys were back with food, so I did a quick cleaning of hands with a diaper wipe (of course, that's what they're for) and went to fix plates for myself and the girls. By the time I got back to the table, both of the guys were heading for round two. It never fails to amaze me how much they can eat.

Bryan came back with a plate of nachos. They were good looking nachos. Take a close look at the picture. Crispy corn chips, tasty taco meat, yummy shredded cheese, spicy crushed red tortillas, and... care to wager a guess what the other thing on that heap is?

"Ummm, hey Bryan. What's that?"

"Nachos!"

"No, I mean that." I pointed to the brownish blob on top of the pile.

"Refried beans!" Still with enthusiasm, too.

"Sweetie, I don't think that's refried beans."

He didn't believe me. I made him let me take a picture of the nachos before he tried them in case he barfed. He shrugged off my caution and took a big old honking bite of nacho. His face went from surprise (even though I warned him) to confusion to disgust.

Cinnamon butter. That's what he put on his nachos. The nacho section of the bar was right next to a tub of baked sweet potatoes. Cinnamon butter is fantastic on sweet potatoes, but I guess not so much on the nachos. The server came by to clear plates later and eyeballed the full plate of nachos. To his credit, he didn't ask, but I had to volunteer why they didn't get eaten. He laughed almost as hard as I did.

By this point the girls were done eating. I got them ice cream. Molly snorted hers in 4 seconds and wanted more. I don't think so, kiddo. She got out of her chair and stood behind it. She stuck her arm through this hole in the back of it. Who the hell knows why she does some of the things she does, but this was her bright idea of the day. Predictably, she got it stuck right above the elbow. I contemplated leaving her there, but she was starting to scream. I pried her loose and told her to sit down. She didn't, so I told her if she was going to stand up that she should just do this:

It seemed like a good idea to me. Every parent needs a set of portable stocks to lock their kids in when they're out in public. I briefly considered marketing the idea, but two seconds after taking that picture, she got stuck again. This time she got stuck pretty tightly in there. I sent my husband to find some lubrication to help slide her elbow out of the hole. He brought back cinnamon refried butter beans. Before I was forced to grease her up like a sweet potato, our server came to the rescue. He tilted the chair and she easily pulled her arm out.

"You look like you've done that before."

"You'd be surprised how many kids get their arms stuck in those chairs."

I eyed him sceptically. "Are you just saying that to make me feel better for the whole 'Mother of the Year award that I'll never be recieving' thing?"

He actually convinced me that this is not the worst he'd seen in that restaurant. Right at that moment, we all heard a weird sucking sound. The server, my husband and myself all turned our heads toward the sound, expecting to see one of the kids doing something horrendous. Nothing could have prepared me for what we actually saw.

There was an older man at the next table, holding his dentures in his hand. He was inspecting them for food scraps, then sucking his finds off. He literally licked them clean, right there in the middle of the dining room. When he was done, he tucked them neatly into his shirt pocket and picked up his coffee cup as nonchalantly as if he had done nothing more than fold his napkin.

The server looked at me, nodding his head a little toward the other table, and said, "Case in point. A stuck arm is nothing around here."

No freaking kidding.

Am I pretty, Mommy?

My sister was over the other day, and we were sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. Such a normal, grown-up thing to do, isn't it? I was completely enjoying the adult conversation, gossiping about our other sister and common acquaintances, when my girls decided they were bored and wanted to sit with us.

Have you ever been at a concert, and tried to tell the person next to you something without screaming directly into their ear? That's what it's like to try to talk in the same room with my daughters. Luckily, I had a diversion for them. I had two brand-spankin'-new coloring books just waiting to be scribbled on and torn to shreds. I put them on the living room floor with a handful of markers and sent the girls to color.

Yeah, I know, markers seem like a bad idea, right? Well, we don't have crayons in the house anymore since my two year old started eating them. The first time I opened a diaper and saw Rainbow Brite inside, I pitched the crayons. Thanks to my sister-in-law (who is clearly childless), we have a nice collection of washable markers, so that's what they got.

I went back to my coffee and conversation. The girls colored quietly for a long time. In hindsight, I realize it was too long. Their attention spans are about as long as the list of people willing to keep my children overnight, so I should have been suspicious that I drank a full cup of coffee without seeing them move from the floor. They tricked me because they never moved. They laid there quietly on their tummies, open coloring books in front of them, not making a sound. They're getting too smart.

Anyway, I was so caught up in my peace and quiet that I didn't question what they were doing. I was animatedly telling a story to my sister about our last trip to the Magic Kingdom when I saw her eyes widen. Her jaw dropped open, and I paused in my story. I hadn't even gotten to the shocking parts yet, so what..... oh, no. I turned my head.

My beautiful little girls were standing next to the table with very big smiles on their faces. They asked if they looked pretty. I'll let you decide.




That was nearly a week ago. Let me tell you that washable markers are not quite as washable as Crayola would lead you to believe. If you look closely right around Molly's ears, you can still see pink.

The morals to this story are as follows:

• Do not assume that washable markers are really washable.


• Do not assume that because you can see your children, that they are behaving.


• Do not assume that adult conversation will be a part of your life before your children are in college.

The bestest potato salad ever

I know posting recipes is not really what I do here, but I have a reason. I went over to my mom's house yesterday, and she gave me some potato salad. She had a neat little tupperware container all stuffed full of potatoey goodness waiting for me to take home. I grabbed a fork to sample it and fell in love. It was so freaking good that I ate half the container before I ever left her house.

I wrote down the recipe, but I have a problem keeping track of things. This is a recipe I must not lose, EVER. I came to the conclusion that blogging it would be the best way to keep it. It's virtually impossible to lose here, because even if I lost the link to my blog, I can google it. Yeah, I have some organizational issues.

Anyway, for myself and you, here is the recipe. It's bacony and mayonnaisey and heart-attack-in-a-bowly. Make it. You'll like it.


Bacon Potato Salad

2 1/4 lbs red potatoes (about 8 medium)
1/2 lb sliced bacon, chopped into small pieces
1/2 C chopped onion
2 tsp cider vinegar
1 tsp celery seed
3/4 tsp salt
1/4 tsp pepper
1 C mayo

Put potatoes in a large pot and cover with water. Bring to a boil. Cook until tender, abolut 20 minutes. Drain and cool.

In a large skillet, fry bacon until crisp. Remove bacon to paper towels. Drain, reserving 2T of drippings.

Peel potatoes and cube. Add everything but the mayo and toss gently. When it's all room temperature, add the mayo. Cover and refrigerate overnight. Makes 8 servings.

For Rent: surly 13 year old with summer boredom blues

It's the end of another year of school. We've been busy with all those year-end activities that parents must deal with or look like really crappy parents, and I'm kind of glad it's over and we've moved into actual summer vacation. I say "kind of" because, as any parent knows, long breaks from school aren't really fun for anyone.

About a month into any given school year, the whining begins. "I can't wait for Christmas break. I hate school. Can't I just stay home today? I need a day off." Christmas break comes and goes, then the whining resumes. "When is Spring break? I can't wait for time off. I hate school." Spring break comes and goes as well. You can imagine what comes next.

Kids look forward to summer vacation all year long. I think there's an idealized version of what summer should be in our kids' heads. I know that when I was a kid, I always had visions of warm, perfect days full of fun outdoor activities and weeks of vacationing in foreign locations. I made plans to go to the beach, camping, the amusement parks, the movies, the mall... every day would be filled with laughter and fun. Every year, my son has those same dreams of what will happen when school lets out for the summer.

The reality of summer in Florida is that it's hot. It's too hot to go to the beach, too hot for camping, too hot to go to the amusement parks. It's too hot to walk to the car so we can drive to the mall or the movies. It's blistering heat, and we stay indoors. I swear, we all seem to forget what summer is like when the weather is a perfect 79 degrees in March. June comes, and the only place we'll be camping is in the air conditioned house.

Over the last few years, the period of time between the last day of school and the first day of whining about boredom has gotten shorter. I used to get a good two weeks before I had to deal with a moping child who needed constant entertainment. This year it started at noon on the last day of school. Bryan graduated eighth grade this year. On the last day of school, they had an awards ceremony in the morning, then I brought him home. Around lunchtime, he flopped on the couch with a dramatic sigh.

"What's wrong?"

*dramatic sigh* "I'm bored."

Oh, hell no. School hasn't even officially ended for the day, and I'm already getting the "entertain me" attitude. In spite of the fact that it's never worked in the past, I'll try the tactic that my mother used on me.

"Find something to do." Yeah, that's going to work.

"I am doing something. I'm talking to you."

Well aren't I the luckiest mom in the universe? This conversation went so far south it took up permanent residence in an igloo. When a 13 year old decides there is nothing to do, there is nothing that will convince him otherwise. I sent him across the street to see if his best friend was home. No such luck.

"I want to dooooo something. I'm sooooo bored."

Mom's way of dealing with the boredom speech didn't work, so I moved on to Grandma's. "If you're so bored, then why don't you go clean your bathroom and pull a load of laundry out of that Everest-sized pile of clothing in your room."

He gasped. He gaped at me with eyes the size of saucers. His jaw hit the floor.

What? Did I say something shocking? Apparently, suggesting chores when boredom strikes is not an acceptable solution. Right then, his friend knocked on the door. Crisis averted for a couple of hours.

I'm looking into a summer exchange program for him. Well, not so much an exchange as a rental program. I'll be leasing him to the highest bidder for slave labor. If you're interested, email me. Be forewarned - he eats a lot, and he gets bored easily. For an additional fee, I'll include two very cute preschoolers who don't eat much and will entertain you all day long. Hell, I'll throw them in for free. Email me. Seriously.

I have new material

Really, I do. I just haven't typed it out here yet. I actually have a notepad in my purse where I write down stupid things my family says so I can remember to share it here, and it's full of notes.

I just read that last sentence and realized that I'm going to be in a lot of trouble one day when someone in my family actually decides to read my blog.

I'll relay my horror stories to you soon, but I'm procrastinating until tomorrow.


more cat pictures

Speak into this hole :-O

I was digging through my picture files this morning trying to find something, and I came across this picture. We went to the county fair back in February, and when we walked up to the booth to pay admission, this sign was on the window.

I couldn't help the laughter that bubbled out of me as soon as I saw it. There were a lot of people there, and they were all looking at me like I was a total whackjob. Seriously, nobody else thought that was funny? They sure as heck thought I was funny for laughing at it. Well, I suppose I can understand that. I literally doubled over, holding my sides and cracking up. I was laughing that kind of laugh where it comes out half-laugh, half-hiccup. My husband was slightly mortified. He was trying to pay for our tickets, and I was digging through my bag for the camera case.

"Wait, wait, don't go yet... I have got to get a picture of this."

He stopped and stared at me. "A picture of what? What the hell are you laughing at?"

"The SIGN! I'm laughing at the sign!"

The man behind the glass was not amused. He loudly rolled his eyes at me. If you think an eye roll is silent, then you need to spend more time around teenagers and/or carnival workers. While I was turning the camera on, I leaned very close to the hole and spoke directly into it. "Are you hearing impaired? If so, I'm sorry for laughing."

"No, I ain't deaf. Why's my sign funny?"

"Well, that depends. Why is your sign there?"

I can't even type his response without laughing. He said to me, "So's people know where to talk at me."

At that point, I think he may have been personally offended, because I laughed so hard that I couldn't even stop my husband from dragging me away from the ticket booth. I swear, I had not been drinking. Much.

My father-in-law was with us that day. I don't think he saw the humor in my sign either. Oddly enough, they both found a great deal of humor in some lifesize statues of anatomically correct bulls that we saw later in the evening. They even thought it was funny to, for lack of a better word, molest the statues. These are men who haven't ever been around an angry bull. I explained to them that this would be their only opportunity in life to get that close the the backside of a bull without finding a hoof planted in their own tender areas, and I suppose they thought it was funny to take advantage of that. Okay, so it was a little bit funny... but not as funny as my sign.

Big trucks, mud and beads, oh my

Ever heard of Muddi Gras? Not to be confused with Fat Tuesday, this celebration of all things redneck is basically a huge group of people driving their biggest and baddest trucks through a field of watered down cow crap for fun. Talk about some good times!

We went this weekend to join in the festivities. Located in the middle of no man's land, a small paper sign off the side of a very long road directed us into 200 acres of dusty fields with a designated mud area. On the way through the field toward the lineup where we were to sign our lives away in on mud-splattered release forms, I was watching the little pickup in front of us. I noticed that the guy driving was holding a long squeegee, which I knew from past experience was a good idea. We forgot to bring ours, and I reminded my husband of that. He moaned and groaned about it for a minute, then stopped short mid sentence.

"Ummm, Robin, I don't think he brought that for the mud."

"Whaddya mean?" Really, why else would he bring a squeegee with him, and how could my husband tell? He pointed ahead of us.

"I think he's using it as windshield wipers."

It was sprinkling rain, and he was indeed reaching out his driver's side window and swiping the rain from his windshield with a squeegee. Let the redneckiness begin.

We drove through hundreds of big trucks to find a place to park. We got a good spot, one row back from the muddy field where the fun would take place. We got the kiddos out of the car and stomped across to check out the roped-off area. This is what we saw:

Hell. Yeah. Now if you're one of those urbanite types who can't even imagine what anyone would do in a field of mud this size, let me show you.

That's right. We drive through it. Woooohoooooo! People get muddy. People get stuck. People fling mud on other people. Talk about some good times. It brings back memories of being a teenager in a small town, where drinking MD20/20 down by the canal and going muddin' were the only things to do on the weekend. Sometimes, if we really wanted to live it up, we'd drink while we were muddin'. That's what we did this weekend. We drank cheap beer from cans and slung mud all over the place. Our Bronco took a mud beating, but it sure was fun.

If you're wondering, "Why are the windows down?" then you wouldn't be the first person to wonder that. The thing is... so much mud gets flung on every suface of your vehicle that you literally can't see without the windows down. You're probably also wondering how you participate in this dirty little dance without coming out looking like you got spatter painted in poop. The answer is, you don't. You get muddy and dirty, and you drink enough beer that you don't really care.

We saw a lot of interesting things while we were there. The following picture is a golf cart frame on some really big tires. Look closely at the sign on the front. It reminded me of those old "bikini inspector" t-shirts that used to be popular with the beer-belly crowd. The guy driving the Tittie Patrol had a bucket full of Mardi Gras beads, and he was tossing them to all the girls in bikini tops who showed him a good bit of cleavage. It was shocking and fascinating all in one jacked-up package.
Speaking of jacked up, check these out.

Everyone loves a classic car on track tires.

This is about as redneck as it gets... camo paint and confederate flags. This was not the only truck like this we saw. Hard to believe, I know, but true.

Yep - that's a Camaro on tires taller than the girl sitting on top of it. That girl was flashing everyone that looked at her. It was loads of excitement not only for my husband, but for my teenage son. That's redneck porn for ya right thar.

We grilled. We got muddy. We took pictures of big trucks. We laughed at other people muddier than us. We tried to go to a concert in an adjoining field, but someone unzipped the sky and we got rained out, so we went home.

I can't wait to go next year. :)

Reason 467 that kids are soooo much fun

We went out for dinner after a school function last night. We decided to take the family to Outback. Not neccesarily a high-end restaurant, but with a family of 5 and my mom to boot, we expected to blow at least a hundred buckeroonies.

Let me just tell you, eating out with preschoolers is not always fun.

I'll give it to my kids, we were walking in the door at Outback around the same time they normally go to bed. Any parent of a preschooler knows that once they hit the point where they should have been in bed, one of two things will happen: they will get cranky, or they will get hyper. My kids tend to get hyper. While the hostess was finding a table big enough to hold my crew, the spawns of satan that I gave birth to started tearing apart the waiting area. I was in the bathroom "freshening up" while we were waiting, and when I came back, Abby was running laps on the bench in the waiting area, and Molly had emptied an entire bookshelf of kids books and had started on a tub of blocks. By the time I got that cleaned up and finished shooting some daggers at my husband (love you, honey), our table was ready.

One table over from us was a family who lives in our neighborhood. They have two sons, who are around 5 and 7. As soon as the boys saw us, they started yelling Molly's name. Molly is a sociable kind of girl. She's also a flirt. The next ten minutes were spent watching the two boys competing for the attention of my three year old which made my husband pull out his Papa Bear card and remind our little girl that boys are icky. He's hoping she'll wind up more interested in watching softball than baseball, if you know what I mean. We diverted Molly's attention with two words guaranteed to get the attention of any child: chocolate milk.

I asked the kids what they wanted to eat. Bryan, being a sulky almost-fourteen year old, declared that there was nothing on the menu worth eating. Seriously, kid? STEAK. Helllooooo?!? The girls knew what they wanted, and after 2.4 seconds, so did the rest of the people in the building.

"Chickens, chickens, I wants chickens, Mommy, chickens!"

"Macardoni and cheese! Mommy, mommy, mommy, mom, mom, mom, hey ma, hey ma, can I have macardoni and cheese?"

It had been a long day. I'd have fed them chocolate bon-bons for dinner if they'd be quiet, seriously. We ordered. They colored for a minute, then decided to make the crayons naked. Yeah, that's what they call it when they strip the paper off the crayons. Honestly, I'd rather see them undress the crayons than eat the crayons, so whatever. I was not, however, pleased when Abby started singing her naked crayon song.

"Nekkie, nekkie, crayons are nekkie, nekkie, NAKED!"

We got our food in record time (can't imagine why), and the kids decided at that instant that they were no longer hungry. Of course they did. If they ate at dinner, what would they use as an excuse not to go to bed when we got home? I gave them some more crayons to undress and dug into my steak.

Let me take a break in my horror story to tell you about my steak. Outback has a filet mignon that they put this horseradish crust on top of. It is slap-yo-mamma good. I'm serious. Try it.

I ate about four bites of my steak when the real fun began. Abby stood up in her highchair. I hissed "Sit down now," in my most serious mom voice.

"I can't. My booty hurts."

Abby is going through this weird phase where everything she says comes out in an outside kind of voice. She's loud. She's also cute, so people pay attention to her when she yells things. Heads turned toward our table. I asked what was wrong with her booty.

"I have to POOP!"

Oh, dear God, please let that have gone unnoticed. A quick glance around the room told me that it was definitely noticed. In addition to being loud, Abby also repeats herself a lot.

"I have to poop! I have to poop! Mommy, I have to poooooopy!"

I'm trying hard to potty train her, which is not so much fun. She has no interest in using the potty at home, but she feels the need to sit on every public toilet we get within a one mile radius of. Of course, I took her. Of course, Molly had to go, too.

Forty minutes later (I swear, I timed it), we returned to the table. There was an elderly man getting up to leave at the table next to ours. He leaned over to Abby and said, "Well, little lady, did you do your potty duty?" It might have been creepy, but he was like 110 and adorable, and he said it with a smile, so it wasn't icky at all. Abby smiled her brightest smile and answered him with a yell.

"No, I no pooped in the potty. I poop in mine pants!"

If you don't have kids and decide one day to take that turn toward masochism, remember this piece of advice. Do not EVER take them out to eat. Ever. Trust me on this one.