Updated: Lizard Logic

Update: now, by popular demand, with video.

It started Friday night. 

Meg came into our bedroom, her eyes wide. "There's a lizard in my bed," she said. 

     "I don't think so," I replied.

     "Go check," she said, and moved into my spot as I slid out of bed. I was half way to her room before I realized that was what I was doing. Nope, no lizard. I padded back down the hall. 

      "Honey, there is no lizard in your bed, or anywhere in your room," I said, trying to reclaim my spot. 

      "Well, I better sleep here just in case," she replied. She did. On my pillow. 

I thought that was the end of it. It was not. 

All weekend we heard about the lizard. She told me, her Dad, her grandparents, her cousin, and anyone else who would listen about the lizard. When it looked like anyone was getting skeptical, or about to tell her it was just a dream or her imagination, she would demonstrate exactly how the lizard blinked his eyes (very fast), and wiggled his tongue (even faster). 

Pretty sure she convinced more than one person. 



Saturday was the height of the lizard hysteria. Every time Meg needed to go in her room: to take a nap, to get a book, to search for lizards, she would have to show Ryan, and then me exactly where the lizard had sat on her bed. She would show us where his tail had been, and once again demonstrate the eye and tongue movements. She was totally obsessed. I was almost ready to either move her room, or else buy a tiny pair of pajamas for the little bastard so at least he wouldn't be in Meg's room naked. Finally, though, my Mom sense kicked in. 


The next time Meg and I went into her room to look for the lizard I stood in the center in the center of the room and put my arms out. "Lizard," I said, "it is time for you to go home. This is Meg's room and she does not want you here. You need to go home and not come back unless we invite you." I glanced down to see if she was buying it. She looked skeptical. I went on. "We like you lizard, but you can't be here when Meg doesn't want you here. Sorry." A little voice below me yelled "yeah," and I knew that it had worked. 


Don't think we've stopped talking about the lizard. We haven't. At least three times a day we have to discuss the lizard that came into Meg's room and waggle our tongues and blink our eyes. However, now the story ends with "then Mama told him to go home," instead of worries about when he will come back. 


That's fine with me. 


After all, Meg's lizard impression is really damn cute. 

Naming the Mess

Our backyard was a big reason we bought our house. 

It was so pretty. 

It was lush, which is rare in Utah. It had a little stream, that ran into a little pond, filled with little fish. A large oak shaded the lovely deck, and held up one end of a hammock. There was a garden, and fruit trees, and vine covered fences. It was so perfect I wouldn't have been surprised to see a large eyed baby deer frolicking in the backyard with his woodland friends. 

Then it all went to shit. 

The oak tree dropped two huge limbs, and had to be taken out due to a bore larger than my hips in the middle of it. Yes, it was that big. With the tree went the hammock, and any shade we had on our deck. Sitting outside became almost as comfortable as sitting in the oven. 

It turned out our little pond, and little stream are fed by little springs, which turned our yard into a big swamp once the water table shifted. After year two the back third of our yard was completely unusable, except for the vines, which sucked it up like blood and grew to Audrey 2 proportions. I suggested we bow them all up, but Ryan went out and tore them out before they could conquer the earth. 

By year three, I never looked outside. I mean, unless I wanted to get really, really depressed. 

Last year, though, we decided enough was enough. I, again,  suggested dynamite, but Ryan went with a series of drains that push the water into cisterns and then the storm drain. We took out the pond completely (after all we have a toddler) and now are looking at the final steps of landscaping. Again, I suggested dynamite, but by now that' just become habit. Ryan is thinking sod and a rock garden. 

Of course, none of this has, or will, come cheap. And that has depressed me even more. So far we have already spent several thousand dollars, and that's just to get it to this: 

You're probably depressed now too. 

Don't worry, though, I have something to cheer you up: I have figured out how to pay for it. 

Two words: naming rights. 

Yep, that's right. I figure there are lots of rich people who like to see their names on things, and at just ten thousand dollars this will be a bargain. I will even pay for the little plaque, and promise to shine it every day. Ryan assures me the whole "naming rights" thing doesn't work like this, but he got his way on the dynamite/reasonable solution argument, so I figure it's my turn. 

Hey, if we manage to get a new tree I will throw in the naming rights for that too. What a bargain. 

Maybe naming rights will even pay the house off. I bet Meg wouldn't mind changing her name to "Citibank Comcast." It's kind of catchy. 

I knew there was a happy ending in there somewhere... 

Work to Quit

I have figured out a way to get rid of any bad habit. Find a way to make it your job.


I think it's safe to say I was a web addict. I was blogging, tweeting, Facebooking, and surfing constantly. A good chunk of my free time was spent online. I was attached to my phone. There's a statistic that says the average Smartphone user checks their device 34 times a day. You know what I called those people? Amateurs. 


I was understandably thrilled when an opportunity came open at my office to put my web savvy to the test. Now all of those moments when I thought "wouldn't it be great to get paid for this," were coming true. I really would be living the fingers flying, connected, doing what I love dream that had been inside my head. I just didn't count on one thing: once something becomes work, it's hard to accept it as play too.


Don't get me wrong, I love my job.  I am doing a show that is all about finding the best of the web and putting it on TV. It's a great show. I feel energized. I am loving what I do. I feel like I am bringing people something different, and that they maybe wouldn't be exposed to otherwise. It's just that now when I go online all I can think about is work. I surf sites not for fun, but to find stuff for the show. And even when it could be for fun, it still feels like work. My eyes still burn from the screen glare, but not in the way they used to. It's harder and harder to play with my phone when my family is home because I am not taking "me time" (my former favorite rationalization for my web addiction), but instead am "putting work before family." 


Two months ago you couldn't have pried my phone from my cold dead hands, but now I am putting it down, or even (gasp) turning it off. All it took was making it part of my work. 


That got me thinking. Maybe I could do this with some of my other bad habits, too. If they became a part of my job, maybe I would be able to give them up as well.


Now, I just need to figure out how to convince my boss we need a show on wine drinking, celebrity gossip, putting off exercise, and impulse shopping...


Maybe I can find the answer online. 

Seven Years In

As of today I have been married seven years, and I would marry my husband again tomorrow if it were possible.


Mainly because we need new stuff. 


I think that may actually be the source of the "seven year itch." You look around your house and realize the adorable cottage you bought and called your "love nest" is now is desperate need of painting and other repairs. You've broken most of the fancy wine glasses you got as wedding presents, and at least some of the china has chips. Your child(ren) have broken at least one thing you loved, but that is too expensive and impractical to replace. The hand towels are now being used as cleaning rags, and the bath towels that haven't been accidentally bleached just look worn. The chafing dish that an Aunt gave you is still in perfect condition though, mostly because you have never had a reason to "chafe." 


Then you look at your spouse. Like your towels they are worn as well. You both have likely put on some weight.  You've probably lost (or in the case of women, gained) some hair. There is no mystery about what goes on in the bathroom. Every bad habit has been exposed, every argument hashed out at least once, and every nerve has been frayed. If you don't have a strong marriage, I can see why some people would feel something needs to be "scratched." 


Luckily, I have a strong marriage. I can honestly say I love my husband as much, if not more than I did the day I married him, and I know for a fact I like him a lot more. Our friendship has gotten deeper over the years, mainly because the mystery has disappeared. Oh, and because we've never lost our senses of humor. Take last night for example: I was brining a chicken (I am very fancy) and it would not stay under the water. I asked Ryan what he thought I should do. 
      "Put a heavy bowl on top of it." I did, and it worked. 
      "See, that's why I married you," I said. 
      "Yep," he replied,"because I'm a problem solver, and you're a problem maker."


That never would have flown during year two.


I guess that's the trade off. While the shine wears off all of the presents that came with the wedding, over time the marriage itself becomes the gift. Such a gift, in fact, that I don't feel cheesy writing sentences like that one. I actually believe it to be true. Maybe that's what I'll use to comfort myself from now on every time an appliance breaks, or Meg floods the bathroom and ruins the rug, or we realize we need to repair a wall: "this is making my marriage stronger." 


Still, a new down comforter would be nice... 


Happy Anniversary, babe. 

Immature Humor

My husband is ten and a half months younger than me. 


That's nothing. On the cosmic scale we are the exact same age. And when it comes to maturity? He is sooo much older than I am. 


Still, he will never let me forget those ten and a half months. 


Some of the time it's in sneaky ways. He will be talking about what he wants to do when he turns 40 (dive an iceberg), and then in the sweetest voice possible will say "well, we really should talk about what you want to do, since you turn 40 first." Other times it will be more direct. For instance he may tell someone that we just met "I am much, much younger than my wife." 


Then there are the times he is so stealthy about it I barely even notice it. 


We both have iPhones. We both have keep them in black cases, because we have a toddler who likes to drop things, and I got a deal on them. This has led to both of us accidentally taking the other one's phone while rushing out the door, which leaves him unable to check his schedule and me unable to easily check Twitter. You can see the problem. The solution we came up with? Stickers. Just glancing at the back of the phone lets us both know who's is who's. Ryan picked the stickers from the hoards that have taken over our house since Meg was born. This is mine:

This is his: 

Get it? 


Maybe I am older than him when it comes to maturity after all... 

Right Idea, Wrong Reason

My mother is quitting smoking. But that's not the point of this post. The point of this post is why she is quitting smoking.

Guesses?

Did you say because of her health? You're wrong.

How about because the price of cigarettes is going up, and she is trying to save money? Nope, wrong again.

Did anyone say doing it to help her best friend who is also trying to quit? Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner.

Now, can anyone guess why the friend is quitting? I'll give you a hint, it's not health or money.

Oh, and it's not because smoking is becoming totally socially unacceptable.

Or because it's just generally gross.

Give up? You might as well, because you are never going to guess it.

My Mother's best friend is quitting smoking, and taking my Mom along for the ride, because she is sure the world is going to end on December 21st 2012.

Now, I am sure you are saying "well, if the world is going to end, why doesn't she just enjoy her cigarettes?" After all, that's what I said. You see, she doesn't plan to die in Armageddon, but instead to take off with her family in their RV for a safe place to ride out the storm until society is ready to rebuild.  And in that safe place? It will likely be very hard to find cigarettes. She's quitting now so she won't have to deal with both the apocalypse and nicotine withdrawal.

It would be a brilliant plan if it wasn't so totally and completely insane. And it's led to a brilliant plan of my own.

I am going to start stocking up on cigarettes. If the end of the world is coming, there have got to be some people out there not as prepared as my Mom's friend. There have got to be even more people who will want one last drag before they hurtle out of existence. At the end of days I will be queen -- because I will have all the smokes.

And if the world does not end on December 21st?

I will have one hell of a Christmas present for my mother... and her friend.

The Reluctant Bride

I have christened my friend Molly the "reluctant bride."

It isn't that she doesn't want to get married. She does, and rightfully so; her fiance is a great guy. It isn't that she doesn't want to have a wedding. She's really looking forward to celebrating her marriage with her family and his at a small ceremony back east. No, she wants the wedding, and the marriage, she just doesn't want to have to do anything too "bridey." 

Pick out invitations? Not interested. 

Peruse bouquets? She doesn't want to carry flowers.

Fantasize about the perfect cake? There will be no fancy cake. 

Thumb through magazines looking for the perfect dress and hairstyle? She bought the dress years ago (on sale), and figures she will just "figure something out with her hair."

I can't even convince her she needs to register for gifts. Now, that's the one that really got me. After all, they are GIFTS! This is one of the only times in your life as an adult you can ask people to give you nice things, and THEY DO! Right now, if I asked a friend or family member to buy me new bed linens they would A) look at me strange, and B) tell me to buy them myself. Molly could totally get those bed linens though, and no one would bat an eye! She might even get too many sets and have to trade them in for other things like chafing dishes, and fluffy bath towels. 

I actually thought about registering for her, but I decided I don't want to be the "crazy friend" of the "reluctant bride." Also, I was kind of worried if I did that I would have to write the thank you notes for all the gifts. I still have flashbacks of that from my wedding -- and that was 7 years ago. I mean, after about the 76 note about flatware and kitchen utensils all creativity goes out the window.  I think at one point I actually wrote a thank you featuring the sentence "the rack will surely add 'spice' to our marriage."

I digress. 

I guess things could be worse. I could have "bridezilla" as a friend. Or "perfect theme wedding bride." Oh, or the worst bride I have heard of as of late: "grow all the food (including the chickens) for the wedding bride." That one scares the shit out of me. I mean, there is micromanaging, and then there is that woman. I'm sure she pictures perfect plates with home grown herbs sprinkled on them, but I see her curled in the fetal position, covered in chicken blood and mumbling about aphids eating the lettuce. I definitely prefer Molly to that nightmare.  

Still... 

Maybe if I could just get Molly to do one "bridey" thing: like commit to a tea party shower, or go on a crash diet that requires her to be on a feeding tube...

Of course, either of those things might push her over the edge from "reluctant" to "runaway." Dammit. 

If only she would just ask for a toaster. 

WHY DOESN'T SHE WANT A TOASTER?

Rove-ing Utah

Three or four times a week I see Karl Rove.

Well, not actually Karl Rove, I don't watch that much FOX News. A Karl Rove look alike. Utah is lousy with them. Men (and, occasionally women, bless their hearts) who look just like the dark lord of the GOP. Not just a passing resemblance either. Dead on. So much so that most of the time Ryan and I (and whoever else may be with us) actually have a short conversation about whether or not it actually is him.

Don't remember what he looks like? Here's a reminder...

Yep. He's a looker.

He looks like roughly 10% the population of Utah. I don't think it's an accident either.

No, I am not saying that "Rove chic" is a thing here. Nor am I saying our genes are Roved (although he did grow up here). What I am saying is I believe people who naturally look like Karl Rove have moved here to find safe haven.

Think about it. It makes sense.

Poor chubby guys (and gals) were living happily in Vermont, or Oregon, or Wisconsin when suddenly, in 2000, they begin being mistaken for what is now the face of the far right wing. They try to lose weight, buy new glasses, buy Subaurus and put HRC bumper stickers on them, invest in shirts that say "I am not Karl Rove," but nothing seems to work. Neighbors start gathering pitchforks. They are pariahs. So, they start looking for a place where the fact they have a Republican doppelgänger  will be a positive.

Utah. The state that would change it's name to "Republicanada" if that didn't sound so much like "Canada" where godless socialists live.

I haven't done the research to prove my theory (that would be work), but I am pretty sure I'm right. I bet if I went through the records at the DMV I would find a large number of balding, pleasantly plump, bespectacled new residents applying for licenses around 2003.

Every time I see a Rovian now I want to tell them to "stay strong." After all, there is a Democrat in the White House now, and probably will be until 2016; eventually Rove will have to retire, and people will forget who he was. Then they can return to their liberal, hippie homes without fearing retribution.

At least I hope that happens. Rove could be having himself cloned, or be planning to have his head jarred ala "Futurama." I really hope that isn't the case though. The more of these Roveugees that come into the state, the more likely that Meg's graduating class will end up looking like an episode of "Face the Nation." How is she going to hang that picture on the wall of her dorm room at Howard University? She'll have to go to Bob Jones University just to fit in.

Of course, there she might actually see Karl Rove.

I just hope she doesn't mistake him for the butcher at our local grocery store. Or the teller at the bank. Or one of the board members of the local Planned Parenthood chapter....

The Silent Epidemic

I can't believe we are dealing with addiction before the age of three. 


It started innocently enough, with just a little taste, socially. 


Soon, Meg had to have it daily. Then she demanded it hourly. Now she claims she can't function without it. 


When we don't give her any she goes through horrible tantrums of withdrawal. 


Oh, dear God, Pez addiction is a special kind of parental hell. 

On the surface it seems so harmless. Chalky, fruity, candy that can be doled out in small portions, with a colorful container to hold the rest. 


In reality it is so different. One Pez quickly turns into a whole pack for our sugar starved toddler, and then the empty container mocks her with the fact she NEEDS more candy. She can still smell it on the plastic, still kind of taste the residue if she licks it, and she feels she HAS TO HAVE it refilled. 


There is nothing that can distract her from it, either. No way to make her forget. With other past obsessions (stickers, tic tacs, mylar balloons) she has forgotten all about them once they are gone. She may ask about them once or twice, but more in a nostalgic way. With Pez the dispensers are always there, smiling, reminding Meg she is out of candy. I guess I could throw them away, but I've been on Ebay, a couple of them could eventually be sold to put her through college. 


What makes it even worse is the fact there are so many Pez dealers out there. They hide in plain sight, you would never suspect them. Grandma? Check. Aunts? Check. Friends wanting to bring a "treat?" Big check. I would hope they just are ignorant patsies, unaware of the Pez cartel they are muling for, but I think at least a few of them must actively be working for big sugar. 


Meg will, literally, do anything for Pez. I hate to admit it, but I have actually exploited this at times. That's right, I'm an enabler. 


I can't help it. I'm so weak. 


I am willing to trade Pez for eating six bites of dinner when she is lying on the floor claiming she isn't hungry. I am willing to trade it for hair washing too. I am even willing to trade TWO packs to get her to do things like wear underwear and use the potty for a whole afternoon without an accident. I would trade it for brushing her teeth, but that seems counter intuitive. 


The only thing that gives me comfort is the fact we are not alone in all this. The family next door is dealing with the same situation. Their daughter is four. 


I just hope she and Meg don't steal a car in order to make a score. 

Things I Have Learned From Pinterest

I, like pretty much every other person on the planet with two X chromosomes, have fallen prey to Pinterest. How could I not? I'm lazy and would like to be a better person, and Pinterest makes it seem like I can improve my lifestyle by surfing the web. Also, it makes me feel better about my slacker state, because it shows me other people are slacking as well by what they pin. Sure, it may look like they are coming up with great ideas for meals, playtime, and their homes, but I can read the subtext... 

1. No one wants to eat their vegetables -- or chicken breasts.  Seriously, there are so many recipes for chicken on the site at times I think it's sponsored by the poultry farmers of America. Then I remember that chicken breasts are the one thing pretty much everyone buys, and no one really knows how to prepare with flavor. There are equally as many recipes for "jazzing up" vegetables. You know what doesn't need "jazzing" to make it palatable? Ice cream. You don't need a "pin" to remind you. 

2. Everyone is disorganized. Organization tips are the chicken of the home design pages. Oh, and almost all organization can apparently be done with hanging shoe racks. I am expecting any day to see a pin with children stuffed into plastic sleeves hanging on the back of a closet door. 

3. There are very few "good hair" days. Women with straight hair are pinning advice on curling it. Women with curly hair are pinning advice on straightening it. Brunettes are looking for home streaking tips. Blondes are looking at "low lights." Everyone wants to find something "different" and "romantic" to do with it. I'm betting very few do. 

4. Playing with kids can be a drag. I love my daughter, I really do, but there are some times when I just have no idea what to do with her except sit her in front of the TV with a bag of refined sugar. Pinterest let's me know I am not alone. There are thousands of "car games," and "rainy day activities," and "play time ideas" that don't cost a lot of money, and don't need a lot of time to set up. Oh, and most of them can be organized with hanging shoe racks!   

5. Remembering more than five things is hard. Recipes with five ingredients or less spread faster on Pinterest than rumors about celebrity pregnancies on TMZ. Ditto for crafts with five pieces or less, photo shoot ideas with five props or less, and cleaning solutions with five steps or less. I guess six makes our brains explode. 

I've also noticed that a lot of people are apparently planning parties with great themes and really cute food that they aren't inviting me to, but I that's a topic for another post. Or for my therapist. 

Of course, it could just be that the parties are all in their minds... After all, actually throwing a party is work. 

That is sooo un-Pinterest.  

Women Are NOT Stupid

For the past few months I have been gnashing my teeth in anger at the number of ideas being put forth across the nation to "regulate" abortion. The bills that require a woman to have an ultrasound. The bills that require a woman to take a class. The bills that require a woman to undergo counseling. The proposal that a woman be made to watch an abortion before getting one. Each time a new one has come forward, I have shaken my fist, and roared a terrible roar.

Why?

Not because I am pro-abortion.

Not even because I am pro-choice.

Because at the heart of every one of these bills is the belief that women are idiots.

The sponsors of every one of these bills says they aren't trying to stop abortion, but instead are just trying to make women more "aware" of what is happening in their wombs, and what will happen if they undergo an abortion.

Do they really think women who have found themselves with an unwanted pregnancy aren't "aware" of all that?

I would say they are painfully aware.

I would say that almost all, if not all, women seeking abortions understand the physical, mental, and emotional ramifications their actions will have. However, they are also aware of the physical, mental, and emotional ramifications if they carry the pregnancy to term. So, they make a choice. 


Anyone who thinks it's an easy choice are really the ones who need to be made more "aware." 


As if calling women stupid isn't bad enough, some of the backers of these bills are also calling women liars. In Idaho a lawmaker objected to exempting victims of rape from undergoing an ultrasound before an abortion because most women who claim rape as a reason for an abortion are lying. 


You know, because women take rape so lightly. 


Suddenly, being called a "slut" doesn't seem that horrible. It's better than a stupid, lying whore. 


Did I not mention the whore implication in these bills? Oh, I didn't need to? Good. Moving on. 


Abortion is legal. Even if it is outlawed, it will still happen. There will still be women who make the choice to end their pregnancies. The only difference is, then they will have to make very risky choices do to it. Choices that could, and in many cases will, kill them. 

If these lawmakers really want to "protect" women they should make sure those aren't choices they have to make. 


Anything else would be idiotic.  

Name All the Animals -- Or At Least the Bears

All bears are apparently named Chris.

Don't feel dumb if you didn't know that until now. I, myself, was not aware of this until just recently. I guess I just assumed that bears, if they actually have names, wouldn't all have the same name. Doesn't that make things awfully confusing at the country jamboree? Do they have last names so they can be "Chris R" and "Chris D" like kids in elementary school? Also, I guess I thought bears would have cooler, tougher names like "Chuck" or "Norris" or "Chuck Norris." Not that Chris isn't a great name, it's fine, it just isn't what I pictured as the perfect moniker for a bear.

Meg is the one who set me straight.

Last weekend Ryan and I decided to have a date night and let Meg have a sleepover with at her Grandparents. Because my parents are on a relentless quest to dominate Meg's affections the night not only included pizza, but also a trip to the toddler hysteria inducing, wallet draining "Build a Bear Workshop" There Meg selected out a large, pink, fuzzy bear. She went through all the rigmarole of giving it a heart, watching it get fluffy innards, picking out the perfect tutu to match it's eyes, and giving it a name. The name she picked? Not Bubbles, or Fluffy, or Angelina, but Chris, of course.

We don't know anyone named Chris.

That's a lie.

Everyone knows someone named Chris.

However, the Chrises in our lives aren't people that Meg interacts with, and certainly aren't ones she would want to name a bear after. She has no Chrises in her various classes or play groups. We racked our brains trying to think of where she came up with Chris. Books? Not that we know of. Movies? Nope. Songs? Bands? Beat poets? We could find no reason in her seemingly Chris-free existence.

On Monday, Meg told us that not only is her pink bear named Chris, but her much loved, smaller, brown teddy bear is also named Chris. I asked her if her stick horse was named Chris as well. She looked at me like I was high. "No," she said, "that's a horse." I felt chastened.

Then, on Friday, Meg got to meet real bears.

No, it wasn't a cage fight. Nor was it an incident that will soon be turned into a Lifetime movie starring Tori Spelling as Meg.

Baby bears were brought into my office to promote an outdoors show going on. They were about the size of cats, and one of the cutest damn things I have ever seen. Meg was especially taken with them, and wanted me and Ryan to pet them along with her and the other kids who had been brought in.
"Daddy, pet Chris," she said. Ryan explained to her that we had left Chris, both of them, at home. "No, Daddy," she explained, "not those Chris, this Chris."

That's when we figured out that all bears are named Chris.

I don't know how Meg gained this knowledge. Maybe the fact we called her "little bear" as a baby gave her some kind of physic bond with her ursus brethren. Maybe at her age she still is in touch with her "wild spirit." Maybe she's just messing with us.

Whatever the case, from now on, until the day I die, whenever I see or hear about a bear, the name whispered in the back of my mind will be "Chris."

I won't ever say it out loud though. I don't want people to look at me strangely.

Money, Money, Money

I am trying to come up with ways to make money. Other than with my job, that is, for which I am probably vastly overpaid, and yet feels like it doesn't pay nearly enough. I'm talking about some magic bullet money making scheme that will solve all of our financial worries, and make it so we don't have think twice when making non-insane purchases.


So far? I got nothing.


Well, maybe not totally nothing. Today while I was thinking about how to make more money I decided to "brainstorm" and write down ideas. I came up with:

1. Be a personal speech writer for people who have to speak at weddings and other events. 
2. Show people my boobs for money. 
3. Offer to teach people how to make extra money, then sell them those ideas. Tell them no refunds. 

Yeah, sorry, I was wrong. I got nothing. 

Did you know the woman who invented Spanx is now a billionaire? And all it took was making too tight panty hose. I'm sure there were a couple other steps in there -- marketing, business plan, blah, blah, blah -- but I like to think she made her super girdle, held it aloft and the money just came pouring down on her head. That makes it feel more like something that could happen to me. 

Okay, right now, impromptu brainstorming session. What are things people need, but cannot buy? AND GO!

1. Bathtub shorteners for people who like to lie down in the bath and not drown, but are too short to touch both ends. 
2. Armpit patches for people who don't want to shave but don't want to look like hippies. 
3. Something that makes everyone skinny and doesn't cost much, and is totally organic -- like magic. 

Shit, now I'm back to charging people to look at my boobs. 

I do have nice boobs though...

Lead Balloons

I knew, when Meg was born, that the decor of our home would change. However, I pictured it would be all about moving fragile things to higher shelves, tripping over toys, and papering the walls with her artwork.

I had no idea it would involve a style I can only think of as "festive sports bar chic."

These balloon came to darken our doorstep almost two months ago. They were used for a segment on a TV morning show about Superbowl eats a FULL week before the Superbowl. Afterwards, they were just hanging around the newsroom, so I said I would take them home. I thought Meg would enjoy them for a couple days, and then they would follow in the steps of all other balloons that have entered our house and either deflate or be popped by a cat. I was fine with either. What I wasn't fine with them that I start thinking about rearranging the living room so it involves more stadium seating and replacing the rug with AstroTurf.

Sorry, I'm exaggerating. If I am going to have a field I want it to be natural turf.

I have tried many a time to get rid of the balloons. First, I tried asking Meg if she thought it was time they went home. If she could have said "hell, no" I think she would have. Instead she just screamed about how the balloons are her friends. After that I started planning a quiet, sudden "disappearance" for the balloons, but Meg somehow sensed what I was up to, and started saying good-bye to them every time she leaves the room, and asking me if the balloons will be there when she gets back. I thought about pricking each one with a tiny pin and just letting the helium seep out, but all I can picture is Meg inspecting each one -- CSI style -- looking for the murder wounds, thinking about how she will sweat out the perp: her mother.

I'm stuck.

On the upside, the menus at our house have been fabulous lately. We've been having chicken wings, and nachos, and onion rings, and jalapeno poppers, and mozzarella sticks almost every night. Nothing else feels proper. Salad is for balloon-less homes.

I also like to think of the money I will make renting them out for Superbowls in the future. I think their lure as the "never ending" balloons will just inflate the price.

Get it? Inflate the price?

Yeah, well, see what your sense of humor becomes when living with a Macy's parade float in your living room for six weeks...

Screaming Child on Aisle 7

My child was the terror of Target today.

It started in the toy section. We were walking through when she spotted a "Memory" game featuring her latest infatuation: "Angelina Ballerina." She was very excited about the game, and I was very excited she had picked a toy that was not only educational, but also only cost seven dollars. I told her when we got home I would teach her how to play.

That's when all hell broke loose.

"YOU WILL NOT TEACH ME," she bellowed from the depths of her soul. "I WILL TEACH MYSELF."

I stepped back, wondering if she was about to vomit pea soup. I swear the entire store went silent, afraid of incurring her wrath. I stepped up to the parenthood plate. "Meg, that is not how we talk to anyone," I said, "you need to be polite." Usually that works. Meg is pretty reasonable for a two year old. Today though, no dice. Instead of returning to normal, Meg ramped up the crazy, responding with an ear curdling scream that reverberated off every hard surface within a mile.

I tried to pry the game out of hands, attempting to make sure the last thing I did was reward this behavior; but she held onto it like it was welded to her hands. "Meg, if you don't behave, we can't get the game," I said. "I DON'T WANT TO BEHAVE," she screamed, and tightened her hold on it.

I decided the best thing I could do was just get out of the store as fast as possible.

We dashed through the aisles, picking up the things we needed, Meg's screaming like a siren warning other shoppers to pull to the right and let us pass. We finally screeched to a halt at the check out line, behind a woman with a baby that was also crying, although nowhere near as impressively as Meg. He was crying just enough though, to make Meg go silent.

"Mom," Meg said, "that baby is crying." I nodded. The baby's mother turned around and gave us a wry smile. Meg looked even closer at the kid.

"Mom, do you think that baby has a penis?"

I burst out laughing. So did the Mom in front of me. Oh, and the lady behind me. And the checker.

Hey, she may be a terror, but at least she has timing.