Category Archive

The Sunday Report:  A Dramatization

Curtain opens on interior of a church sanctuary.  Most of congregation in quiet meditation, as the sacrament is being administered.  Our heroine, Madhousewife, aka Giraffemom, is only mildly distracted by the voice of Princess Zurg in the adjoining foyer, loudly complaining that her mother has failed to bring Cheese Nips to the meeting.  Young Elvis is munching on a cereal bar.  Sugar Daddy is at the organ.  Mister Bubby gently nudges his mother.

Mister Bubby (whispering):  Mama, my nose hurts.

Giraffemom (whispering back):  I'm sorry.  Maybe you should stop picking it.

MB:  I think it's because there's a raisin there.

GM:  There's a raisin in your nose?

MB:  Yes.

GM:  Why is there a raisin in your nose?

MB (a little louder):  Because I put it there.

GM tries to discreetly instruct MB on how to blow his nose.  MB can only inhale.  He alternately sniffs and whimpers about the unnecessary pain he is enduring because his mother is incompetent.  GM catches SD's eye and gestures meaningfully.  SD nods his head and his body starts to shudder with silent laughter.  MB continues to complain about his injury.

GM:  Sweetie, there's nothing I can do about it until the sacrament is over.  Can you wait just a few minutes?

MB:  I think we can use a pen.

GM:  I think that would just shove it further in.  Let's wait until Daddy comes down.  I bet he has experience in this arena.

MB:  Mama, did Daddy put a raisin in his nose when he was little?

GM:  I'm sure he did.

MB:  Mama, did you put a raisin in your nose when you were little?

GM:  No.

Short pause.

MB:  Mama, why do only boys do that?

GM:  I have no idea.

Curtain falls. 

*********************************************

So SD and I went out again on Saturday–two weekends in a row, and we've got plans for Friday, too–it's like +a Valentine's/President's Day miracle.  Anyway, I was getting ready and experimenting with the part in my hair, because Lord knows I have nothing better to do, when I realized that Elvis, who had thoughtfully smeared Vaseline in his hair on Wednesday in a valiant effort to give himself "handsome hair," had used this same comb to effect said 'do.  I'll wait for your laughter to subside before I finish my story.  Are you finished?  Okay.  So apparently one thing that makes me look older than I already do is giving my hair that limp and lifeless look you can only get from Vaseline.  Yes, it's still there.  I read on the internet that you can use baby powder and liquid detergent to get it out, but I haven't had time yet to assemble both those items in the same room at the same time along with my hair.  It's complicated.  Maybe today I'll get to it.

********************************************

Last night we opened my mother-in-law's Valentine's Day package.  Despite the fact that these packages are filled with stuff that mostly just clutters up my house, I can't fail to find them entertaining.  PZ and MB both got laminated maps of Narnia.  (When your mother-in-law works for the school district, lots of stuff gets laminated.)  PZ got a pink unicorn Beanie Baby and some conversation hearts in a Cinderella tin.  MB got Spiderman fruit snacks in a Spiderman tin, and a stuffed lion.  ("It's Aslan!" he cried.)  Elvis got some cool stuff, too, but once he saw the whole box of fruit snacks intended just for him, he wasn't interested in any other booty. 

My MIL has a great sense of humor about her son's obvious insanity, so among the trinkets she sent him was this little green NSync teddy bear, complete with stud earrings and a Justin Timberlake sweatshirt.  "This is going in my cube at work," SD said.  Then, when I started to remove the shrink wrap from its plastic display case, he protested, "Hey, that's limited edition, man."

"Excuuuuuse me."

"I'm just kidding."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm going to go on the internet and find out how much it's worth."

"Uh huh."

Among the thoughtful gifts I received was a lime green handbag with Mrs. Timberlake embroidered on it.  When I showed it to SD, he laughed and pronounced it "awesome."

"You just wish it was yours," I said.

"This bear is so going in my cube."

 *********************************************

Happy V.D. to all. 

Congratulations are in order, kids.  It took me almost three hours, but I have installed my first Tot-Lok™.  Woo-hoo!  Go, me!  Of course I have a small hole in my cabinet where I had a little, ah, learning curve issue with the power drill, but hey, that's the price you pay for greatness.  Deal with that, Elvis!  NOW WHO'S THE KING?

YEEEEAAAAAHHHHH!

One reason why I will never be organized is that I keep having to find new, more ingenious hiding places for all the stuff my son isn't allowed to have. So this morning I was holding Elvis up to the kitchen sink to wash his hands, and he picked up a knife off the counter.  Okay, that's cool, buddy, you got a knife there, why don't you just put it down, nice and slow like.  Yeah.  Okay.  Then he wanted the vegetable peeler, which I gave him.  Look, it was a compromise, okay?  It was all well and good until he tried to eat it.  I had to wrestle it away from him and throw it somewhere he couldn't reach it, which happened to be behind the sink in the master bathroom (don't ask).  Now he's playing with Sugar Daddy's razor.  Just kidding!  I had you going there, didn't I?  Okay, he is playing with SD's razor, but I popped the blade off, so it's perfectly safe.  Until he figures out how to turn it into a shiv. 

Anyway, as I was trying to put away all the toiletries Elvis could possibly try to use as shampoo–that's his new obsession these days, shampooing his hair–I was looking at the vegetable peeler hiding behind my sink faucet and thinking, "I will never remember that's where I put it."  Then I put the hydrogen peroxide in the linen closet and I found my box cutter, which has been missing for the last three months.  That's the good news.  No doubt SD will come home tonight and wonder why there's a vegetable peeler in our toothbrush holder, just like he came home the other day and asked, "Why does Elvis' hair smell like Jet Dry?"  (Incidentally, Elvis is currently doing a deep-conditioning treatment with some of my ocean breeze-scented hand lotion.  At least it's non-toxic.)

Nevertheless, I continue my organizational frenzy–another reason I'll never truly be organized.  I mean, do organized people conduct "frenzies"?  Nevertheless–I'm enjoying this word today–nevertheless, I conduct my organizational frenzy–the list-making, the labeling, the sorting and boxing–because I can't let go of this fantasy I have that someday I will be wanting to peel some vegetables or open a box and know exactly where I left my razor blades.  Like some girls never give up on true love, I never give up on this dream.  It's what keeps me alive these days.

Speaking of alive, if any of you naturopathic types can tell me why I am craving salt so much these days, I would appreciate any insight you could give me.  I don't mean I'm craving salty snacks.  I don't want any salty snacks.  I want table salt.  Like I want to take my salt shaker and pour a teaspoon and a half in my mouth.  Of course I haven't done that.  Yet.  I know something is awry here, but I can't think of what it is. 

Time to alphabetize the spice rack.  Just kidding!  I had you going there, though, didn't I?  (Okay, my new spice-inventory list is alphabetized, but that's as far as it goes.  I swear.)

This morning after breakfast Mister Bubby decided it was time to put on his Batsuit and that he and I should do some serious playing.

The first thing we had to do was divide his toy animals into groups of "fighters" and "not fighters."  This was less intuitive for me than it was for MB.  For instance, a giraffe is not a fighter.  Obviously.  Neither is a zebra.  Neither is a hippo.  A cheetah, on the other hand, is a fighter.  As is a lion.  As is a tyrannosaurus rex.  I was surprised to learn, though, that a gorilla is not a fighter.  Nor is a rhinoceros.  Nor is a lizard.  However, turtles are fighters, as are frogs and fish.  And camels, for some reason.  The sea lion was also a fighter.

Non-animal toys eventually got in on the action.  Knights on horses are obviously fighters, and so are firefighters (duh).  Jessie the Yodeling Cowgirl is not a fighter.  Trees are not fighters.

Once everything and everyone had been properly categorized, it was time to do battle.  I asked MB what the animals who weren't fighters were supposed to do. 

"Nothing," he said.

"Nothing?"

"They're not fighters."

"Are we just going to slaughter them?"

"Yes.  We're just going to slaughter them," he said.  Only it came out more like "sl…slwotter dem."

In typical girly fashion I said, "But that's terrible!"

"But, Mom," he said, "they're mean!"

Which is why the gorilla was the first to get its butt kicked by the gallant grey knight on the brown horse.  The grey knight basically knocked down all the bad guys with his javelin.  (The black knight on the black horse couldn't fight very well because his sword was bent.)

The cheetah did give the grey knight a run for his money, so to speak, but in the end the grey knight prevailed.  The grey knight then started to go for the lion, but MB had to protest.  "No, Mommy, the lion is good."  The lizard, however, deserved to die.  The lizard was bad.  The giraffes were good, but unfortunately they went down in an intense duel with the lizard.  That was hard for me.  You'll be glad to learn, though, that those nasty fish got their come-uppance at the hands of Spiderman (definitely a fighter).

Eventually everyone was down except the grey knight.  Even the trees were dead.  "You winned the fighting!" MB told me.  "Good job!"

Then he wanted to set all the animals up again.  This idea didn't thrill me too much because setting them up in the first place was no small feat.  (It's those darn giraffes with their skinny legs.)  Once I had them all set up, though, MB announced that he was tired of fighting.  "Let's build another
Disneyland," he suggested.  Elvis helped. 

More glue sticks (they're delicious!)

Better childproof locks (come on, challenge me)

Hot plate (less trouble than climbing on stove)

Gilette razors (Mach 3 preferred)

Toothpaste (with fluoride, for smearing on the carpet and swallowing)

Steak knives, scissors, barbeque forks, etc.

Extension cords

Wallet filled with real money and active credit cards

Scented soaps and lotions (they're tasty and decorative!)

Car keys (no, YOUR car keys)

Lawn mower (no, YOUR lawn mower)

Video camera that bounces

CD's/DVD's (I won't need a player…but you know that)

Stocking stuffer ideas (pass along to Santa):

Indelible markers

nails/screws

needles

popcorn (any kind of choking hazard fine)

batteries (all voltages)

"You can't dye your hair yellow because it just won't work."–Mister Bubby's style advice for Madhousewife

When Princess Zurg was born–or it might have been before she was born, for all I remember–my mother-in-law made me promise that I would never buy my daughter a Barbie.  (That along with "no anatomically correct words for genitalia before age 10."  But that's another story.)  Never having owned a Barbie myself (no, really), I didn't think it would be such a hard promise to keep.  It wasn't like she said no dolls period–just no Barbies.  She never explained exactly what her beef was with Barbie, but then, it hardly seemed necessary.  For the last decade or two Barbie's shouldered the lion's share of blame for every female's self-esteem issues.  If only Barbie had had proportionately-sized breasts!  If only Barbie had had flat feet and sensible shoes!  No one would have eating disorders, men would be doing their share of the housework, and Hillary Clinton would be President.  Oh, well.

Anyway, fast-forward to the present day.  Princess Zurg still does not own a Barbie.  Technically.  I have bought her a Cinderella ballerina doll for Christmas that is like a Barbie, and I will probably end up buying her a Fairytopia doll, which is definitely a Barbie–though a Barbie with wings, which may be different.  Well, it's obviously different, but you know what I mean.  Anyway, that's neither here nor there.  Though technically without Barbies, Princess Zurg has still managed to become addicted to everythinggirl.com.  There she not only visits Studio B (you know what that stands for!), but also Polly Pocket, My Scene, Flavas, and Diva Starz (which in my opinion makes Studio B look like a NOW rally, but nobody asked for my opinion). 

I worried at first–and okay, I still worry a little now–about her entertainment focusing so heavily on choosing outfits and changing hairstyles.  Where's Barbie the astronaut when you really need her?  But then I have to remember that this is just what girls do–probably what they've always done, even before Barbie.  They like clothes.  They like pretty stuff.  No, not all of them.  Not every boy likes football, either, but a whole heck of a lot of them do.  And there's nothing wrong with that.

Nor is there anything wrong with the fact that thanks to his older sister's influence, Mister Bubby has become addicted to everythinggirl.com, too.  His favorite is My Scene.  First he got hooked on the makeovers.  Then he got into full-fledged shopping sprees.  Eventually he even started watching those lame mini-movies, which go almost entirely over his head, but he loves them anyway.  When he's not on the computer, he likes to have "My Scene parties," in which he draws pictures of the My Scene friends and their clothes and makeup selections and even the food he imagines that they'd enjoy eating.  It's quite a shindig.

At first PZ would have these parties with him, but after a few nights she tired of them.  That's when he started recruiting the rest of us to be his guests and decide what the My Scene friends were going to wear that night.

"What kind of dress do you want her to wear?" he asks, pointing to the selections he's drawn.

"Um," I say, trying to find the most attractive yet modest one, "how about that one?"

"Okay," he says cheerfully, and circles it before moving on to the next item on the agenda.  "What kind of hair should she have?  Red hair or brown hair or black hair or yellow hair?"

And on it goes.  What kind of makeup, what kind of jewelry, what kind of accessories.  Just when I thought it couldn't get any more precious, he finally asked, "And what kind of weapon?"

Now that's accessorizing, my boy!

His favorite character is Kenzie.  He says he likes her because she has such pretty red hair.  It isn't his first crush.  I would say his first true love was Sugar Daddy's character in KOTOR, a female scoundrel named "Lisa Jangles."  (In case you're curious, SD did let MB pick the name.  And yes, I am aware that it sounds like a stripper's name.  What's your point?)  Just a few weeks ago MB was looking at a map in the car and pointing out where he and Lisa Jangles lived.  That's when I found out that he and Lisa Jangles were married.  Well, the other night when I was attending his My Scene party, he informed me that he doesn't live with Lisa Jangles anymore.  He now lives with Kenzie.  This news saddened me at first, but before I could say anything, MB explained the whole thing to me.

"I'm just pretending to be a grown-up," he said.

"Oh, I see."

"Yeah.  When I'm grown up, Kenzie will be real.  But when I'm a kid she's just pretend."

See?  There's nothing for me to worry about.

SD doesn't worry either, especially since MB's obsession seems to be borne out of his firmly-established

heterosexuality.  (After he gives the pretty girls makeovers and gun, he marries them.)  Traditional as SD is in many respects, he's broad-minded enough to buy his son a Kenzie doll complete with a shopping spree playset (on sale this week at Target!) for his fourth birthday (coming up in October).  I call that a man.

Speaking of men, SD has invited MB to come with him to our local high school football game this Friday.  At first MB wasn't interested in going, much to SD's disappointment.  "Did you tell him there would be cheerleaders there?" I asked.  He had.  But eventually MB was persuaded to go because he learned that they'd be serving hot dogs there. 

You see?  All four-year-old boys are alike.

The boys have been picking flowers, i.e. dandelions, for me this afternoon.  Elvis has been crawling around the back yard, dutifully pulling the yellow heads off, depositing them in my hand, and then heading out for another harvest.  Mister Bubby has picking me bouquets of the long-stemmed variety all week.

I'm glad he has started to trust me with his treasures again.  A couple weeks ago he interrupted me in the middle of a cleaning frenzy to give me some of the local flora he'd been collecting, and not paying an ounce of attention to what I was doing, I automatically turned around and threw them in the trash can next to me.  Let me tell you, he was nonplussed by this act.  I don't think a guilty conscience has ever spurred me to fits of laughter before, but I couldn't help myself.  I felt just as ridiculous as I did guilty.  I even pulled the dandelions back out of the trash, but no amount of apologizing for my temporary insanity would wipe the "what did you do that for?" look off his face.

These days I have three or four vases in my kitchen window sill, and they're all filled with dandelions.

It's a good thing I like dandelions because they're all over our place.  I've never seen the point in trying to keep the kids from blowing the seeds all over creation–I mean, wouldn't the wind do pretty much the same thing, only not appreciate the experience nearly as much?  Now we're reaping what I've allowed them to sow.  We have a dandelion field in the back yard.  It almost looks like we did it on purpose.  But I guess in a a way we did.

I can't bring myself to call them weeds.  They're just too yellow for that.  Of course, they aren't quite as attractive when they go all white and fuzzy on you, but then again, what is?

If I were Sisyphus75, I could turn this into some lovely metaphor about life or the human condition, but unfortunately, I'm a selfish, insecure writer.  If I manage to come up with a metaphor I think is any good, I hoarde it in my mattress for fear it will be my last.   Anyway, I think the dandelion/life metaphor has been done before, by a writing mother with a greater sense of wonder than I.  I think I look at these dandelions more as a metaphor for my parenting style:  I'm too lazy to beat 'em, so I join 'em.

Now that's an ambiguous statement.

Speaking of the kids, Princess Zurg has officially adopted the ladybug Elvis accidentally maimed during his frolic with nature today.  Any pointers for us, powva?  (Other than "don't squish it anymore"?)

Madhousedreams (skip if you bore easily)So last night I dreamt that I was riding in a bus driven by two ladies who didn't know how to drive–at least that's what they told me.  We were following a tiny minivan which kept driving into the back of a huge minivan in front of it and backing out again.  Eventually we reached our destination, which was goodness knows where.  All I know is that I was in a big hurry to drop Princess Zurg off for a private tutoring session with her Sunday School teacher, who in real life is Mister Bubby's Sunday School teacher, but in the dream Mister Bubby had to go to school school.  I was helping him find his homework, which was buried in our barren front yard.  Somehow I knew exactly where to dig (with my fingers, of course, in very hard dirt), and I found the item he was looking for, which was a small plastic brain.  During this whole ordeal of dropping off PZ and hunting for MB's little brain, I was wondering how I could get my hands on a copy of a speech George W. Bush had given about Ronald Reagan on Martin Luther King Jr. Day of this year.  I didn't have the internet.  I tried calling 1-800-MARTINLUTHERKING or something like that.  All I got was a recording.  But MB had to get to school, and my mother, who is dead while I'm awake but almost always alive when I'm asleep, was helping me feed the boys breakfast, which for some reason was chunky vegetable soup with so many fresh herbs it was like eating boiled potatoes with grass.  In a light tomato sauce.  And I thought to myself, "Why does Ronald Reagan remind me of fresh herbs?"  Then I woke up.

Monday's semi-coherent essay must have taken a lot out of me because I had to take a whole day off before I started blabbering again.  I think I've used up all my coherent thoughts for the week, though, so if you're in an MTV-generation mood today, here's the place to be.

More Things To Love About Little Boys

A couple weeks ago my mother-in-law sent the kids a beanbag toss board from Oriental Trading Company.  It was a surprisingly high-quality toy, but interest in its intended function was short-lived at best.  Mister Bubby, however, LOVES the stick that is (supposed to be) used to prop up the board.  He takes it everywhere he goes.  He even sleeps with it. 

On Monday we walked down to the park, and he took his stick along.  You know, so he could kill any bad guys who happened along.  He had the stick in one hand to fight off predators–and there were many, let me tell you–and the other hand he used for picking flowers.  One minute he'd be waving the stick around shouting, "Kill!  Kill!  Kill!"  (Only technically it sounded more like "Kiwl! Kiwl! Kiwl!")  The next minute he'd be picking dandelions and holding them up to his nose to breathe in their sweet fragrance.  We spent a very safe and lovely afternoon.

Last night Sugar Daddy took the kids to rent movies, and Mister Bubby insisted on getting "Barbie as Rapunzel"–which, I'm afraid, we have rented before at Princess Zurg's request (oh, like you've never done it).  SD thought it was a little odd, but they got it anyway.  It all made sense later that evening when they got to the swordfight at the end and MB asked, "Where's my stick?"    The rest of the movie he spent shadow-fencing at the screen.  "Take that!  Take that!"How long will this perfect blend of sweetness and savagery last?  I hope it's forever.

Reasons Why the New Manchurian Candidate Movie Can't Be Any Good

1.  NO SINATRA!  It may well be that Denzel Washington is a better actor (I mean, he won an Oscar, didn't he?  kind of surprising since I didn't think "The Pelican Brief" was that great a movie, but to each his own)–but the fact still remains:  he's not Sinatra!  No one is Sinatra anymore, of course, since Sinatra is no longer with us, but…Denzel Washington?  It's just so bizarre.

2.  NO COMMUNISTS!  Now the bad guys are an international corporation called "Manchurian Global."  You know why?  Because "The McDonald's Candidate" sounded stupid.  This is equally stupid.  I know communists don't scare us as much as they used to, but…Evil Corporation Rigs the
U.S. Election So They Can Take Over the World?  It's just so '90s. 

3.  NO BRAINWASHING!  That's right.  It's an "implant" making Shaw do all those dastardly deeds.  Talk about lame.  Talk.  About.  Lame.

Movies I Wish They'd Remake Instead of Manuchurian Candidate

1.  LEFT BEHIND.  I know it only came out a couple years ago, but somebody besides me has to see the blockbuster potential in this story.  Satan–now that's a bad guy!  ("Manchurian Global."  Still shaking head.)  It should be someone with enough financial backing to afford some decent special effects and an Actor Who Is Not Kirk Cameron.Yes, I admit that I have seen the original "Left Behind."  (It was a free rental from Blockbuster, so sue me.)  I would do it over again, too, if only to see the previews for the other low-budget Christian movies starring Corbin Bernsen and Mr. T.

2.  THE FOUNTAINHEAD.  Now that we've established that people have attention spans for movies longer than 80 minutes, someone ought to give Ayn Rand's novel the real
Hollywood treatment.  This story has everything
Hollywood loves–sex, conspiracies, courtroom trials, sex, sex, sex–and maybe they could actually film it in color and cast a redhead as Howard Roark.  (Are there any sexy redheads working in
Hollywood these days?  Please don't suggest David Caruso or Carrot Top.  Thank you.)

3.  THE SHAGGY DOG/THE SHAGGY D.A.  I know what you're thinking:  no Fred MacMurray.  I agree, it's a drawback.  But if they're going to remake "Flubber," for Pete's sake… Anyway, they could follow it up with a brand-new third installment, "The Shaggy Supreme Court Justice."  That could not be anything but Pure Comedy.

The Great Communicator Part Deux?

It seems like only yesterday I was bragging about Elvis's newfound linguistic abilities.  Now, for the last 72 hours, the only thing out of his mouth has been, "Kah!"  Sometimes.  "KAHH!"  I have no idea what that means.  No, it's not car.  It's not cup.  It's not kazoo.  I don't know what to think.  Except that he's 14 months old and he's allowed not to make any sense.

What has really made my day thusfar is that I had an opportunity (while Elvis was napping and PZ was sending Disney e-cards to imaginary e-mail accounts) to play dolls with Mister Bubby. 

MB has always been more in touch with his nurturing side than his sister has.  PZ's baby doll phase lasted about a week.  MB, on the other hand, got plenty of use out of the pink dolly stroller with the flowers on it.  It was really cute to watch him push his Ernie doll around the neighborhood while he made "vroom vroom" noises.

Likewise, he has gotten a lot of pleasure out of our dollhouse.  Like many other Americans, we own the Fisher Price Loving Family dollhouse, because I don't think toy stores are allowed to sell any other kind (unless they're one of those hoity-toity toy stores that only sell hand-carved wooden toys too expensive for children to play with).  The mommy and daddy dolls that came with it have these odd mechanical features.  If you pinch her legs together (there's really no good way to phrase that, is there?), the mommy doll's torso will sway side to side, so she can rock the baby. When you pinch the daddy doll's legs, he raises his arms–supposedly so he can pick up the baby, but it doesn't work very well (unless catapulting the baby could be considered a form of picking it up), and it looks more like he's making an obscene gesture.  Which actually has made the dollhouse a lot more fun than it would be otherwise.  For my husband, anyway.

This morning I noticed that the mommy doll was missing.  When I asked MB where Mommy was, he said, "Mommy went out the window.  Mommy's dead."  (I tried not to take that personally.)  So the first thing we did was have an earthquake, wherein each member of the family, including infants and pets, got thrown around the house, had furniture fall on them and eventually jumped off the balcony.  Mommy doll was eventually found and got into a brawl with Daddy doll in the living room.  (I swear I don't know where he gets this stuff.)  Mister Bubby's sensitive side reared its head when the family cat got thrown through the second story window and he couldn't find him again.  He got this concerned look on his face and asked, "Did my kitty get kiwled?"  As it turned out, the kitty was not mortally wounded but lived to fight with the teddy bear and later take a dump on the family room floor. 

We did play out one typical domestic scene when Daddy doll ran around the house making obscene gestures and shouting, "I HAVE TO MAKE DINNER!  I HAVE TO MAKE DINNER!  AAAUUGHHH!"I can't wait until he discovers tea parties.

21)  Dropping stuff over the side of the tub and then leaning over to get it so he can fall on his head.

Bubby must henceforth be called Mister Bubby, as he has taken up hairstyling as his new hobby.  Last night before bed, as he was brushing and combing (you need both, you know), he told me, "This is just to make your curwy hair vewy smoov.  And then I will make it vewy long."  I said, "That's good, Mister Bubby.  You sure know a lot about hair."  "I do," he replied.  This morning he brushed and combed my hair with water (from a spray bottle, of course–tools of the trade) and asked when he could get some scissors to cut it.  I told him he had to go to beauty school first.

 From time to time someone has speculated on each of my children's destined sexual orientation.  Usually these remarks are based on offensive stereotypes–e.g. Princess Zurg's former penchant for stripey shirts, Mister Bubby's old nightly ritual of looking at the moon while wearing my high heels–but the speculators are almost always gay themselves, so I don't get heavy with them.  Some people would be tempted to wax philosophical on this topic, but I'm not one of them.  I was just thinking of how cute little boys look in pumps.

My one-year-old, Elvis, is driving me batty.  Here is a list of his preferred activities:

1) electrocuting himself

2) choking on something

3) playing with something sharp that could poke his eye out

4) pulling down heavy objects onto his feet and/or head

5) eating spoiled food he found on the floor

6) playing in the toilet (I know, now you're really grossed out)

7) going down the stairs headfirst

crawling into the line of his siblings' swings

9) throwing expensive electronic equipment across the room

10) drawing with markers or ball point pens (not on paper)

11) ripping pages out of books

12) crawling into the street

13) pulling up on unstable pieces of furniture

14) making long distance phone calls

15) ripping my face off

16) sinking his teeth into my flesh

17) playing the piano…and then climbing on top of it

1 emptying the laundry hamper

19) emptying the trash can

20) screaming at the top of his lungs

A Renaissance man, just like his father.