NothingSacred

I've got a boner for exercise

I like exercising as much as the next guy (maybe more), but while doing a little Christmas shopping at my local sports super-center (not Dick's- I hate those guys-- their pricing is ridiculous and I'm pretty sure they thought up the name of the joint after deciding to put a nine hundred percent markup on everything) I came across a little something that made me re-evaluate just how much I love to work up a sweat. Because this guy seems to really like exercising.

 

Potty Time: Winning the War of the Wizzer

I’ve done it. I feel like I’ve climbed Mount Everest. Again. I have once again achieved what might be one of mothering’s proudest moments; I have potty-trained another child!  As of today, Trey, my 2.8-year-old is five days accident-free. That includes naps and overnights, mind you. Right now I’m riding high on the crest of self-satisfied accomplishment like you wouldn’t believe. I’ve pretty much turned into an insufferable braggart, telling every person who stands still long enough in my vicinity about my accomplishment. That’s right, MY accomplishment. Because one thing I’ve learned after potty-training three boys is that this war, sisters. And like any war, the victory goes to the one who wants it more and refuses to give up.

Sure, sure. Trey needs to feel as if he is the winner here, and I can’t tell you how many times a day I still remind him what a fucking badass he is for his part in all this. I cheer every time he goes to the potty, but let’s be real, his conquering the ol’ thunder box is only half the accomplishment of me conquering his desire to continue making the foulest of unholies in his diapers. Left unchecked, he would have happily continued stinkin’ up the joint probably until some little peer had pointed out that what he was doing was babyish. I don’t got time to wait around for that sort of social development, you know what I’m saying?

 Trey proved to be my most stubborn -- which is mildly shocking considering that I’m pretty sure my ultra-defiant first-born, Ace, has Oppositional Defiance Disorder (“ODD”-- which is so funny and fitting). But hey, Trey has really earned his nickname of Little Napoleon. I was right there, ready to give up and give in to the temptations. I was considering defeat. All around me I had sympathetic moms feeling my pain, agreeing that they were going through the exact same thing- and had been for some time. Thankfully, TOM reinforced my resolve, gave me just enough encouragement not to throw in the towel and reminded me that no matter what, I could not give up. That boy could not defeat me!

So I thought I’d share some training tips with you all out there. Don’t get me wrong-- I’m in no way a poster-child of good parenting. I fuck up on a daily basis. But I seem to have found my sweet spot on the parenting front, so I thought maybe I could share some advice.

First, know what you are getting into. This is war and it’s not pretty, gals. This will be at least a couple days on end of trench warfare. It is a nuanced assault against the sweet little souls who rule our worlds, you must steel yourself. That whole idea that kids will “do it when they are ready”? Horseshit! Moms, it is up to YOU to be ready. When YOU decide you have had enough of the dirty-diaper duty, you will enable your kid to fully accomplish what is pretty much their life’s crowning achievement (thus far, of course... I hope my kids go on to bigger and better glories, but hey the jury is still out on that). 

This is a big thing for them, and they need to be made to feel as accomplished, proud and badass as you do about the whole thing. It’s like you win the war, but you let them be co-victors. Yeah, this is a win-win, it has to be. And it has to be sold to them that way. You want to build this up. 

But I bet you all already knew all that. Where’s the helpful advice, you ask? Here.

Tip#1 : Buy Azrin’s Toilet Training in a Day or Less.

This book got me through all three of mine. And for the first two, it was in one day. That little shit, Trey? Well, he thought I was just kidding there for a minute. He thought he could break me. For the first day he walked around in his new big-boy pants and used them like diapers. The whole day. He screamed and cried every time I invited him onto the potty. He thought I’d grow weak and weary, he felt if he just kept it up, sooner or later I’d get tired of cleaning up puddles of pee. Boy was he right! I did get tired of it. But I did not relent. I did NOT reach for the pack of Pampers.

Read this book. Everything I know came from it, every great tip. It will walk you through the process. It shows you how to have your kid teach a betsy-wetsy doll (modeling) and spells out the importance of the oft-overlooked first step: teaching the kid how to master taking their pants up and down. Key point on the whole deal. 

The only thing I don’t do in the book is use a training potty. I figure a kid’s gotta learn how to go wherever you are, and I’m not hauling around a fucking potty with me everywhere. (Although I did just see some mommy at swimming lessons carting around one of those mini-toilet seats that fits over toilets... I don’t know if she is just crazy germ-phobic or what, but that’s more than I can handle. Not forgetting to take the kid and his favorite blankie with me in the morning is enough-- last thing I need is a frickin’ toilet seat to try to remember!) 

Better just to teach them on a regular toilet seat, I say. They’ll have to prop themselves up with their hands, but that’s why we wash afterward, right? So you do need to invest in a couple sturdy little step stools to put in front of the potties in your house (you can get ‘em at Wally World for like $6). Plus, my kids really liked getting to flush and you can’t do that with the little plastic training toilets. 

The book was written in the 70’s so the artwork is kinda funny and some of the ideas are a scream. (It assumes you should train in the kitchen since that’s where you spend your whole day anyway, housewife!) Honestly, the only thing that is really outmoded is that today’s housemom hardly has a WHOLE day at home to do the program. That’s what I was really struggling with-- finding those hours to do it!

 Luckily, last Wednesday my whole day opened up and on a lark I decided to give it a go. Friday, when Trey was STILL trying to break my spirit by seeing if he could weasel his way back into the diapers I thought I would scream, cry and give up. But by Monday, like I said, I was annoying the checkout lady at the supermarket bragging up my accomplishment-- all in the guise of “I’m so proud of my big boy!! He uses the potty now! Tell her, Trey! Tell her how you use the potty!” (The whole time, beaming my self-satisfaction.)

But I can’t say enough about the book. The program was developed to teach severely retarded people to toilet themselves and then after proving successful adapted for small children-- as young as 18 months! (Although I’d probably only recommend 18 month old girls try it... you know how boys are... attention spans of gnats!)

Tip #2: You will question your resolve.

You will get tired and cranky with the process and think to yourself that maybe this just wasn’t the right time. You’ll say that maybe your child just wasn’t ready. Or rationalize to yourself why it is a good idea to put them in diapers for just naps and bedtime. Don’t. DO NOT. 

Stand firm. If you give a little now, your angelic little genius will notice. They aren’t dumb, friends. And if you give in even once, they’ll learn that they can take it even further next time. They’ll let you begin to take this whole training process on as your failure and  laugh in their cute little-kid way about how they are breaking your confidence. (That’s right. They are hiding in your closet right now trying to outwit you as you read this, so don’t be pulled in by the whole “I look so sweet and innocent” act. They are all tiny little Evil Geniuses. Yes. Even yours.)  Don’t even give them the option that they can go in a diaper again.

Tell them they are NEVER going back in diapers, and mean it. This time, with Trey, I returned an unopened box of diapers to the store and told him, we don’t need them anymore. No more diapers in the house. Three days in, when he was still messing his pants, did I have a moment of weakness where I wanted to throw him back in those diapers? You bet. But I held out, and every day got better and better. By Sunday it was one accident, and since then? Nada. Thank God I didn’t relent. If I had relented three days in then the next time I tried, when I REALLY MEAN IT THIS TIME, Trey would’ve held out even longer to see if he could break me again.

So make a big deal out of it. Show the kid that you are firmly resolved. Throw those unused diapers away right in front of him, or give them to charity or something. Just make sure that you remind her that they are going away, and they ain’t NEVER coming back!

Tip #3: No Anger

You can not effectively train your kid if you’re mad while you’re doing it. I know this is hard. I know it gets frustrating. And I’ve got a temper like a Sicilian, so trust me, I’ve been there. But at this point, total anger-free training is required. I’m not saying slap a smile on your face when they pee down your stairs (which Trey did). By all means communicate that you are very sad for them. Empathy, not anger. Key component here. Teach them that bad, wet pants make everyone sad, not angry. And by all means, tell them that good, dry pants make everyone happy-- and throw in a little I’ve-lost-my-fucking-mind ecstasy to really play up how happy those dry pants make you! At the very least you’ll amuse your kid a little bit. (I have a feeling this learning process is pretty tiring for them, too).

Tip #4: Under no circumstances should you EVER waste your money on Pull-Ups.

Here’s the thing about modern diapers: they are fucking unbelievable! They do such a great job that kids can sit around in a wet diaper all day with nary a discomfort. They wick wetness so effectively they cannot teach junior a single thing about the disgustingness of sitting in his own filth. Well, guess what? Pull-ups are made out of the same thing. Kids can’t actually FEEL that they’ve got wet pants (another key point here).

You’ve got to let the kids feel how uncomfortable sitting around in wet pants is, and since taking them to the amusement park in jeans for an ill-thought-out flume ride (we’ve all been there, right?) is probably not in the cards for your wee one, might just be best to strap them in some old-fashioned training pants and prepare for a day of experiential learning. You don’t like walking around in clammy pants after that flume ride, your kid won’t either. But in Pull-ups, your kid won’t feel that. They may think, “Wow, my pants just got heavier”, but they won’t be like, “Sunuvabitch! That wet cotton and denim chafes!”

Another downside? Because they are basically just diapers (albeit more expensive diapers), Pull-ups are tight! This is not the time to be getting form-fitting undershorts. Little hands have to be able to get the darn things up and down, so unlike your favorite pair of date-night jeans, tight is not the answer. Buy a size or two up in underwear. It’ll make it easier for them to learn. They have their whole lives ahead of them to find out if they like ball-crushingly tight briefs or VPL-creating bikinis. 

A quick aside: at yet another swimming lesson I saw some mom chasing her daughter around after class to get her to put her Pull-ups on. She chased her around and had her step in and pulled them up for her. What’s the fucking point of that my friend? Listen, potty-training is time-intensive. And kids aren’t the fastest at learning to pull up their pants. But the world will not stop if you are late to soccer practice or whatever. Slow down. Let the kid learn herself to pull-up her pants. (Well, not that kid, of course, because Pull-Ups are too fucking tight to pull up without either maternal assistance or hips greased in Crisco.)

Tip#5 They CAN hold it through naps/night

Now I know this will be pretty controversial with a lot of moms, but I think this point is KEY to effective training. Do not do diapers during naps or at night. Yes. THey will have an accident or two in their bed, and no that won’t be fun for you to clean up. But they have to learn that they may no longer pee at will while sleeping. A couple of points here.

First I need to share with you how a couple of my boys proved they were “ready”-- ie, they can hold it at will. Ace the Super Defiant, proved to me right off the bat he was ready. I tried for an entire morning to get him to pee on the potty. He never would. Just wouldn’t go. So naptime came along and I put him in a diaper (oops! My mistake! But he was my first, so there’s been a learning curve). When I got him up he was practically swimming in his bed he’d peed (and pooped) so much in that diaper. He’d just proven that he could hold it til he had a diaper on. That’s control. Deuce proved it to me, too. On our one-day-of-training, every time I’d leave him alone for a second to run up the stairs or dash to the other room to answer the phone, he’d peed his pants. Never in front of me, always when I’d left. Again, that is control. If you can catch your kid doing something like this, proving control, then they are ready. Period.

Allowing them a nap-time diaper (which is really just you not feeling like dealing with the mess, and has little to do with them), is really not teaching potty training. You should expect a couple accidents in the bed. That’s how we learn. Face it, you didn’t learn that drinking a buttload of tequila on an empty stomach was a bad idea until you tried it. Experiential learning. 

So here’s my thought. While they are in the throes of this potty-learning battle, and really tuned into figuring out the signals in their brains that tell them “Hey! Gotta pee! Make for the potty toute suite!”, let them learn that this happens while we rest, too. Just like they won’t like the feeling of wet pants, they won’t like the feeling of a wet bed. But you gotta let them learn it. And it may take a few times. 

It took Trey two nights- but bear in mind we were in the trenches. Pretty much ALL I focussed on until it was mission: accomplished was him going to the potty (Sorry, Ace and Deuce, for the neglect. I think we’re a better family for it now, though, don’t you?). But I encourage you to put all the rest of what you’ve got going on aside for a couple days to do it. I know it is a lot to ask, and the mere suggestion brings up in most of us an immediate response that we just don’t have that kind of time/luxury/availability. But long run, this is a time saver.

So expect that they need to learn that. And here’s my theory: putting them in diapers for sleeping will encourage bed-wetting in the long term. Yeah, I know. I’m not a doctor and I’ve got no scientific evidence for this. It is just a mother’s intuition thing. I just think that while they are all tuned in to listening to those potty-signals they get it is a good time to teach them that the signals come at night. Get it all over with. Don’t let them get in the habit of being able to totally “let go” when they sleep, or they will have more trouble getting out of that habit. This will also keep you from eternally being the “no-water-after-7pm” police. When they can get themselves out of bed to use the potty (and maybe here’s where you’d want a small potty for their bedroom, if it is too far or convoluted a route for them to get to the john in the middle of the night), they are fully self-sufficient on the potty front. And, that, gals, is trained!

Tip #6: Enlist their help

There will be accidents. THis is sure. But don’t make their accidents about you. This should be a shared accomplishment, so they should share in the responsibilities of accidents. Make them clean up after themselves. If they’ve wet on the floor, have them help out cleaning it up. Wet pants are their responsibility to take to the washer. Same with wet sheets. Now, i know babies/toddlers aren’t going to clean these messes up perfectly and to your standards. That’s not the point. They need to help do it. You can come back later and “do it right”. But give them some ownership of this whole thing.

Tip#7: Buy that darn book.

It’s all in there. And you won’t find a better step-by-step guide around.

Tip#8: Take your victories where you can. And when you lose a battle, know you haven’t lost the War.

As I’ve spent the last two and half hours writing this while Trey napped, you will probably be happy to hear that he had an accident. So there! You think. Little Miss Answers isn’t so smart after all, is she? Well, duh. Of course I’m not. But I’m not running for a diaper and going to throw all the progress we’ve made away, or hit the “delete file” icon on this piece either. There will be accidents. But we don’t throw away the gains we’ve made up until now. We stay strong. We don’t let the bastards get us down.

 Trey helped change his sheets, put on some dry pants and demonstrated that he knows how to use the potty and that he knows that’s where he is supposed to go. And I am going to go get myself a margarita. But not without some chips. I’m not reliving that learning experience again!

Interesting article on the debate over old-school/new skool potty training here: War of the Diapers- TIME

As expected, TIME sides with the softer, gentler potty-trainers... but it's nice to know there is someone out there fighting the fight against the "Ahhh, just wait 'til they're ready! They'll train themselves!" crowd.

And you wonder why I don't send my kids to public school

This picture ran on the front page of our local paper yesterday (the same paper that today printed my blistering guest opinion-- which you can read here).  What stands out to you here about someone who is being PAID to teach our children grammar??

Deuces Wild

It's been awhile since I've blogged, and as always, the more time that passes, the harder it is to get a new one going.

 My jewelry party was more successful than I could've hoped and has scored me another party in September, so now I'm right back in the studio trying to make new pieces to fill the void of the forty or so pieces I sold at the last party. But in the back of my mind, the nagging guilt that I haven't posted anything new here eats at me.  And then the only thing I've been fired up to write about lately is political (both local and national), but after my near-total meltdown last election season, I have made the decision not to use this spot as a venting ground for that.  Yeah, yeah, I know that my last post was political by nature, but that was more just to share with you all what had been published in the paper.

That said, I thought I'd herald my triumphant return with a couple of Deuce tales. Mostly because he is so sweet and innocent, and his earnestness oftentimes makes me laugh so hard I cry.

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Last year, right after Deuce had turned five, we were in his room cleaning up.  I was in the bathroom, straightening up the aftermath of two young boys brushing their teeth, using ungodly amounts of Dixie cups and evidently attempting to tie each other up with dental floss. I mean, really, who needs seventeen feet of floss? Maybe Gary Busey, but I digress.

Deuce was happily picking up the detritus strewn about his room. "Don't forget to look under the bed, Deuce," I called to him. 

"Hey, Mom!" he shouted back excitedly, running into the bathroom waving a clothes hanger in his hand. "Look! I found a hooker under my bed!"

Yeah, yeah, how many times have I heard that before? I mean, what American man wouldn't love to find that?!

I didn't have the heart to tell him that they are "hangers", not "hookers". Also, I was laughing so hard and running off to tell TOM that I didn't have the time.

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Yesterday was the first day of school after possibly the shortest summer on record. I think it may have to do with global warming that the summer was so short, but I'm not sure as Al Gore's people refuse to return my calls.

It sort of took us by surprise, how quickly summer ended and the boys started back up. Maybe we just were trying to ignore it after Ace's ridiculously horrible year in second grade last year. At any rate, I forgot the camera, of course, and sent Ace to school without a snack. 

 I did have the werewithal to drop Trey off at his daycare so I wouldn't have to tote him around and got there on time for once (yeah, not so well done today, the second day of school, when we were officially tardy). But Ace's third grade class is on a different floor than Deuce's kindergarten, so dropping both off and getting them settled in is basically impossible as I haven't figured out cloning myself. Yet.

I walked Deuce to class first, and ushered him through the door telling him I'd be right back to say a proper goodbye after I got Ace settled into his class.  

Deuce walked into his room, smiled at his new teacher and pulling his ginormous backpack off, looked back at me and called, "Hey Mom! Where are the hookers?" 

I know he meant hook. Of course I did. But I couldn't resist replying, "Son, you don't get hookers 'til the second day of kindergarten." And I wonder why I don't exactly fit into the Christian school where I send my kids.

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Ok, one more Deuce tale, and then I'm off to return the clothes TOM found too dorky for my kids to wear. This is my favorite Deuce story of the summer.

A couple years back Edna supplied me with some totally inappropriate and tasteless "gifts" for my bachelorette party. Among them was a blow-up dude who looked mildly homicidal, despite totally lacking formed hands and feet. Also included was a purple or-gizmo that while phallic in shape, lacked veins and the exactitude of masculinity, and was such a fun color it looks fairly benign and toy-like. Most of the things she gave me I shoved into the back of my bedside table drawer, and forgot them (not the blow-up doll. I took that with me for Edna's bachelorette and haven't seen him since). Since then I've stuffed the drawer full of birthday and anniversary cards and the random crap that accumulates near my bedside.

Anyway, one Wednesday this summer I drove the kiddos home after a long day swimming lessons and whatnot. They were all wiped out in the car, which is my favorite time ever. I get to be close to all of them and yet none of them are making a sound. I pulled into the garage and carefully unstrapped Trey from his carseat, slowly walking him up to his crib to continue his nap. Deuce, who is terrified that at any moment I will abandon him, woke when we parked and followed me (thus, his nickname "Shadow").  

After settling Trey, I went down to my room, crawled on the bed and tried to entice Deuce to lie down and continue his nap (Ace was knocked out in the "way back" of the van, and being that he now weighs almost as much as I do, I just opened all the doors and left him there). I grabbed up my phone and started checking facebook and email, rolled over to TOM's side of the bed and snuggled into the pillows hoping to doze myself.

"BRRRRZZZZZ"

I heard it turn on. You know that sound. We all know that sound.  Oh my god.

 I was afraid to roll over and look behind me because I knew Deuce was standing there holding a running purple vibrator. I waited for the inevitable question to come. "Mommy, what is this?" 

It didn't. But the buzzing continued. Oh my fucking god. I peeked over my shoulder to spy what Deuce could be doing.

There he was, standing next to the open bedside table drawer, nonchalantly using my "massager" to work the kinks out of the back of his neck. He didn't notice me look, didn't notice me quickly roll onto my stomach so I could laugh into my pillow. He just went about his work, the look on his face bespeaking that he knew exactly what this thing was for, he was using it correctly and this clearly wasn't his first rodeo with it. He did both sides of his neck, down his back as far as he could reach over his shoulder, expertly twisted the end to turn it off, stuck it back in the back of the drawer and slid it shut.

Feel better, Deuce? I know I do.

 

Hard at Work

Sorry to have been away for so long. Don't think I am without guilt over it. I'm steeping in a big pot of it right now. But I've been hard at work cranking out pretty little lovelies for my upcoming debut jewelry party! I'm hosting it at home on July 17th (A Friday after work sorta open-house thing).  I'll try to keep updates of my progress as I attempt to 1) build up an inventory that isn't dwarfed by my dining table and 2) prepare all the other crap that goes along with it-- displays, prices tags, etc. Maybe I'll even post some of my favorite new pieces as they are assembled by my crack team of Pygmy Taiwanese Mice who I've got working overtime ( I wish. It's just me and my blisters).

On top of that, bear in mind that school is out for summer, which is both blessed for not requiring me to monitor homework, pack lunches and have children at appointed places on time, but simultaneously a chore in that now I have to try to entertain three boys all of rascal age. You see my plight.

Thanks for understanding. I promise to be back with funny shit when A) it is so overwhelmingly hilarious I cannot ignore it and it demands to be shared immediately or B) my schedule frees up enough that I can spend a moment making mildly amusing things uproarious. 

Until then, I highly recommend my new favorite funny-as-hell site to keep you occupied (just be sure to come back now, ya'hear?!).  Check it:

Awkward Family Photos  

A Real Headscratcher

Riddle me this:

Four NY American Muslims are arrested for attempting to blow up two synagogues and charged with "conspiracy to use weapons of mass destruction and conspiracy to acquire and use anti-aircraft missiles". They allegedly said they were "eager to bring death to Jews".

Here's my question: Why the fuck aren't they being charged with a hate-crime statute?

After "they expressed a  hatred of Jews on several occassions", this seems to me to be a pretty obvious instance of a "hate crime".

Now, I generally think "hate crime" legislation is a total bunch of bull, as crime is crime, and we should punish the hell out of any and all who commit them (mercilessly, in my opinion, but I tend to be a bit tough). But since I seem to be on the losing side of this argument at the moment and must resign myself to the Big Brother tyranny of the few who push for hate crime legislation, I will accept that hate crime legislation and punishment is probably here to stay (although I still think it is wrong).

At any rate, my larger question--and I think a perfectly good example of why "hate crimes" are a nebulous, arbitrary assignment of one person's standards, completely unquantifiable and thusly wholly unjust, inequitable and unfair-- is why the hell doesn't this fall under a hate crime? Could it possibly be that these four jack-offs are not being charged with a hate crime because they are black? Or that they are Muslims? That can't be right, can it?

I have a hard time believing that if four Timothy McVeigh douchebags were foiled while plotting this exact same outrage that they wouldn't be charged with a hate crime, so what's the deal here? Seems the perfect instance to re-inforce hate-crime punishments, no?

 I'm hoping that the comcast.net story I picked this up on (see here) just overlooked this charge, or that more charges will be following shortly, but until I see evidence of that, this reeks to me of yet another example of how inequitable certain deviances from common (sense) law have become. At this point, it looks like the progressive left that pushes for stricter hate crime legislation is gouging out Justice's blind eyeballs with pencils. Or no, perhaps it seems more that they are fitting her with bifocals after forcing her to have Lazek. Yeah, I think that's a more appropriate metaphor. Wait, is that a metaphor at all? Well, you get my point.  Someone set me straight here. 

Am I to believe that only white Christians are capable of hate crimes?   

With Friends Like These

I'm a cat person, let's just get that out there. I know it's not as cool as being a dog person, but I don't care. And what's the coolest thing for a cat person? A kitten! And my mom got one-- yay! So I've been going over to visit him everyday and squeeze up his sweet little kitten face and kiss all over his sweet little kitten lips (I'm practically turning into Edna over here, he's so fuckin' cute he makes my earlobes hurt!).  

Anyway, the other day I walk into Mom's kitchen to see the little scamp and see a ziploc bag on her kitchen island that looks to be full of papier mache paste.  It is expanded with air and smells a bit of the loft I lived in in Denver that was above a microbrewery.  "Hey Mom, where's the cat? And what the hell is this?" I ask and point to the science project.

"Oooh! That's Amish Friendship Bread! I need to mush it!" Yeah. You need to do something with it, or it'll be all over your kitchen cabinets in about three seconds, I think as I grab a bottle of water from her fridge.

"Amish Friendship bread, eh?" I ask skeptically. 

"Yes! I got it from my friend, Francie. You just mush it around in the bag and add some stuff and then split the recipe into four bags and pass it along to your friends. It is supposed to be delicious!" She tells me as she pushes the air out of the bag and proceeds to "mush" it around. Pass it along to your friends? This sounds not only unsanitary, but contagious, the dietary equivalent of an STD. Great. I see a bag of mush on my counter in the near future. I take my water into her craft room and play with her new baby kitty yum-yum.

Fast forward four days, I'm in my kitchen making yet another delectable and nutritious meal for my family (ok, a box of mac n' cheese with turkey dogs sliced up and thrown in) when Ace walks in the back door with a tin foil wrapped loaf, a ziploc bag of paste and a piece of paper. "Grandma made us some bread," he tells me and rips into the foil to happily spread crumbs all over the floor. Super. 

I take the bag of goop and the "instruction sheet" and give it a look-see. 

DO NOT REFRIGERATE! It blares across the top. Ohhh-kaaay. Why would I want to refrigerate something that I'm gonna eat in... TEN days? Keeping it on the counter seems perfectly reasonable.  

If air gets in the bag, let it out. It is normal for the batter to rise, bubble, and ferment. Never use any type of metal mixing spoon or bowl.

Ok, that sounds easy enough. I throw the bag on the counter and forget about it. 

Day 1-5: Mush the bag.

Luckily I remember to "mush" the bag these first few days only because if I don't let the air out it I'm afraid it will explode all over my kitchen. "Rise, bubble and ferment" is right. It is starting to behave like a teeny, beige version of the La Brea Tar Pits. I start regarding the bag as an Amish Goo Grenade and are thankful that the Amish are a nonviolent people as this as a weapon, while gross and possibly annoying, could not inflict much real damage. 

Day 6: Add to the bag: 1 cup flour, 1 cup milk, 1 cup sugar. Mush the bag.

Ok, I can do this. I'm not particularly busy on Day 6 and Ace has ravaged the loaf that Mom sent over, so he really likes the stuff. I may as well try, right? I can do this house-wifey stuff if I try. Wait. Did that just say to add MILK?! Am I to still regard the warning across the top of the page not to refrigerate? Really? With milk in it? I'm no stranger to what happens to milk sitting out for God's sake. I'm a mom of three with a mini-van. My ride always has the pungent smell of rotten milk from some lost sippy cup. Oh Lord. Please don't let my house smell like my car.

DAY 7-9: Mush the bag.

I like mush the bag days. Those are easy. But I've started keeping a wary eye on the concoction now that it has rotting milk in it. The bag starts expanding more rapidly.

Day 10: Pour the contents of the bag into a non-metal bowl and add: 1 1/2 c. each flour, milk, sugar. Mix together using a non-metal spoon. Label four ziploc bags with today's date, this is your new Day 1. Measure 1 cup of mixture into each bag, seal them and give them to four friends with a copy of this recipe.

My Day 10 was last night. So I finally read the whole recipe.  

First of all, what is with the whole non-metal bowls and spoons directions, I wonder, as I slowly mix together the ingredients in a glass bowl with a wooden spoon. Wouldn't this be a helluva lost faster if I just used my mixer? Oh, crap. That has metal beaters. Can't do that. What exactly is in this that can't be touched by metal, anyway? What'll happen, I wonder. Corrosion? Explosion? Salmonella? 

I'm no baker, and more than a little miffed at having to mix up this bowl of mushed glue by hand, so I start thinking about it. I think the rule is not anything to do with messing up the ingredients with metal, but just that the Amish aren't allowed to use electric mixers. And they are jealous we can. They're like, Hey, if we have to stir this shit by hand, so do you, infidels! Just be grateful you aren't wearing a rough cotton dress, a bonnet and crazy homemade boots! 

I mean, really. What could be that bad about metal touching it? Well, I can't be sure. Because then I see this: 

Keep a bag for yourself, you'll be baking every 10 days. Only the Amish know how to create a "starter" recipe, so if you give them all away you'll have to wait until someone gives you one back.

Yeah, that's not really incentive for me to keep another bag of mystery explosives on my counter there, pal. And what is this enigmatic "Only the Amish know" crap?! I'm getting really nervous about eating this loaf of bread I'm sticking in the oven, in, get this, a LOAF PAN. Now I don't know about you, but my loaf pans are all metal. You see my quandary. Is metal suddenly ok to put the batter in? Why? Or more likely, I think I've just caught those Amish in the big, gut-busting lie this whole edible chain-letter farce is.

 I'm just certain that all the Amish ladies are back in houses just rolling with laughter about this. They've got all us leaving bags of rotting ingredients on our counters for a week and a half and then they just wet themselves over the idea that they've made us dig through our cabinets for that nasty old wooden spoon. They are having Amish giggle fits over us trying to make this bread with the "secret" Amish ingredient that somehow makes perishable food edible after being un-refrigerated. I keep wondering how many "friends" ago left-over milk is still left in this batch I have. I probably have milk so old in there it would be cheese if we'd just stop all that darn daily "mushing"! 

I think that's it. This is a big, Amish joke. Well, the joke's on them, really. Know why? 'Cause I could go on and on and talk all the smack I want to about them and their crazy non-refrigerated bread and they'll never know!! Why? Because I'm doing it on the internet. So there. Suck it, Amish people.

Oh, and this: 

Cool until bread loosens from the pan and turn out on a serving tray. Keep refrigerated.

Really, you little Amish yucksters? I'm to keep the COOKED bread refrigerated? Why? I just left the nasty-ass dough out for ten days! What could possibly need refrigerating now?! 

I'm telling you people, the Amish are after us. They are ridiculing us and in the same breath totally indoctrinating us by forcing us to use their stone-age tools to make their loaves of Amish bread that are probably filled with magic "REPENT, SInner!" Amish dust that'll make us give up all our technological wonders. And it is working. Why? Cuz that shit be yummy! 

Now I'm just looking around for four "friends" to pass these bags of expanding goop along to. 

Cougar Snacks

Warning: This post will bore men. You've been warned. Come back in a couple days for something for everyone.

Second: Sorry about that music-- it's from that silly "trim style" commercial I embedded in a post down below without knowing how to make the playing of the video optional. My apologies. Maybe when I find some extra time I'll learn how to properly embed video. Yeah, extra time. That'll happen. Oh, and what's your trim style again? I'm rocking mini-strip myself. I shaped all the plants in my entry courtyard identically to really advertise my preferred bush shape. But I digress.

So I'm feeling quite conflicted since I finally got off my arse and set up that Etsy site (if you haven't been yet, shame on you: nothingsacredbynic) and have found, guess what? No one is buying jewelry in this economy. Weird!  I've been stewing about it by relentlessly prowling facebook and other colossal time wasters.  And since I can't seem to find a single buyer online I've convinced myself I need to host my own jewelry party in the hopes that once someone is able to touch the wares they won't be able to live without them. So that has sort of spurred me on to get cracking making inventory for my hopefully-not-too-distant-future party. And the good news is that I'm actually making jewelry again! The bad news? I've been woefully neglecting writing anything or posting anything new to the blog. You see my consternation. 

I look back on all the time I wasted, before I had kids. When I could sit for hours on end and do absolutely nothing. I'm pretty sure one college summer I laid on my apartment floor for thirteen hours straight just staring at the ceiling waiting for something interesting to present itself to me (no a/c, it was hot as scotch bonnets in your Underroos, anything above 30 inches off the floor was like trying to breath in a kiln). Now, of course, I want to be always producing something and find I have not near enough time to do everything I want. I already neglect my kids enough, and really, would it matter if I had that extra thirty minutes a day I use to warm up some slop for dinner? In my heart of hearts I think, Yes. Yes, it would make all the difference in the world if those kids weren't monopolizing that precious half an hour by requiring being fed.  Selfish of them, really.

Anyway, I do feel bad for not being here, so I thought I'd do a fun little vapid post today. Perhaps I was inspired by TOM's new issue of Maxim (yeah, I always thought I'd marry a guy who subscribed to The Economist, but alas, car and hot chick rags litter my bathroom floor). Trumpeting the Hottest 100 Women Ever (bold claim, my testosterone-addled friends) it made me extremely wistful for the days of Tiger Beat. Mixed undoubtedly with my obsessive facebooking that keeps sucking me into "Top 5" lists of favorite cereals and blow job positions, all I can think up now are imaginary "Top 5" lists. 

So I thought it might be fun to throw up my Top 5 Cougar Snacks after spending FAR too long figuring out my Top 5 Favorite Actors. This list is different. By definition, Snacks cannot be based on substance. They are Cheetos and DIng-Dongs. Therefore this list is not at all based on acting ability. In fact, true acting ability may hurt a candidate for this acclaimed title. 

Following is a list of guys way too young for me to ever hold a conversation with, but hot enough to make me sit through horrible rubbish of film in the hopes of a shirtless scene. I warn you, it will NOT include that namby-pamby stink-bomb who played Edward Cullen in Twilight because for the life of me I can't figure out what's so damn attractive about him. His head is the size of Mercury and it looks like he gave up washing his hair for Lent and then didn't bother to start back up again come Easter. It will not include Zac Efron either, because while I can't deny he is pretty, one of the preconditions of the list is that the guys must at least pass for straight, even if they are total pole-smokers. Sorry, a girl has to have standards.

These guys all made the list by giving me a Brad Pitt-in-Thelma & Louise-pause. You know what I'm talking about. Where you saw him and were like, "What the fuck!?! Is he real? Who is that dreamboat?" (You didn't know I used words like dreamboat, didja?! I do. I learned it when I met TOM.) And then you sat extra long through the credits to figure out his name. 

Feel free to argue or add in your favorites (just click on the "comments" button-- I know you have it in you).

#1 Cougar Snack: Cam Gigandet 

Yeah, if you are a Twilight dork you'll know his as the "bad" vampire, but if you are just a plain dork like me, you'll recognize him from the crappy movie Never Back Down where he blessedly has no need for a shirt for most of his scenes and makes one wonder if he actually has more ab muscles than is normally found in human anatomy. Secondly, his name alone sorta makes me think he has an extra special treat in his pants. 

Cougar Snack #2: Taylor Kitsch

While he's currently starring in the crapfest movie Wolverine, he's better showcased (Ie likely to be without shirt) on the tv show Friday Night Lights. 

He's got a real sweet southern drawl, and sorta makes you wish you were back in high school. 

 Sadly, that is where my Top 5 list ends. I know. I could only find TWO hot guys in Hollywood that don't need to rely on anything other than their looks. Sooo sad when there are clearly so many actresses who make a living off only being hot. All the rest of the guys I evaluated only get hot when I factor in their personalities. That is so fucking sad. Maybe it says something about females? Or maybe just me? Maybe I'm a lame cougar. Maybe I'm not quite old enough to be an official cougar yet? 

I pondered throwing JT on the list, but let's face it, he's really not THAT cute in the face. His bringing sexy back has a lot to do with how well he delivers a line on SNL. James Franco could've made the list, but then he went and made me love him in Pineapple Express. Shia LaBeouf and Emile Hirsch were briefly considered for the hunt, but let's face it, they both can act (Transformers and Speed Racer notwithstanding). I'd like to add in Josh Duhamel-- he's certainly got the dumb down, but isn't he older than I am?!? That hardly makes him cougar bait unless the cougar you are talking about is roughly the age of Ann Margaret.

Lookit, I need some help here. Any suggestions? Can anyone tip me off to some completely vapid boy meat?

Stay tuned for the follow-up list Top 5 Oddly Attractive Cougar Meals, starring those oddball guys you just can't figure out why you like. Which might be considerably longer, and certainly funnier than this lame list was. I better just get back to the jewelry making.

Does Anyone Else Smell... Cheese?

Oh, the true thrill of discovery can rarely be as dumbfoundingly dazzling as this little gem from my trusty pal, Edna. (and it has a how-to video!!) 

First off, let's give a shout out to all the preggos and new parents in the house shall we? Not only do you get to bring forth new life to utterly complicate and inconvenience your own, but you get to do it 2009 when the world's marketplace is literally flooded with product after product to "help" you out (luckily you are flat broke, so you buying this shit is really just an exercise in hypotheticals).  Sure, there is the bane of my existence, but I'm always on the lookout for newer and more useless crapola to waste your hard-earned dollars on. Edna never lets me down.

Speaking of "letting down", this little treasure promises to whisk away all of a new mom's worries when that little trick of motherhood occurs. Because we all know what a total problem and heart-wrenching waste "letting down" can be.

Without further ado, I proudly present to you "Milkies".

Slim and portable, no one will even know you are

 wearing it. Best of all — it collects your leaking

 breast milk when you nurse, allowing you to store 

extra breast milk effortlessly. When you have 

breast milk available all the time, 

you will never resort to formula.

 Ok, really? Are they serious with this thing? I can only say "yes, sadly they are" because I've seen their five-minute video explaining how very much every new mom needs this contraption. (PS- Dear Milkies People: Next time try not to use actual pregnant women in your ads-- the facial swelling is just too much. Also, you may want to consider hiring a make-up artist for your "actors").

Just a couple things, because I know what a sensitive topic this can be and have no desire to get my house egged by a ninja group of La Leche League Nazi Bitches (That's the full name of the organization).  

I can only assume a woman who would consider this is one of those women who leak milk nonstop and thus cannot think of anything else other than her dripping nipples. And for a woman like that, who is dissatisfied with the traditional nipple pads, is this really going to work for her day in and day out? Is a lactating mama expected to really wear this fucking plastic milk bag in her bra? And when the inevitable hormonal hot flashes occur, are we to believe that this thing will not slip around and spill a pint of milk down her front? And should I even venture a guess what one of these things smells like after a few hours riding around on swollen teats? Are the ladies supposed to constantly be dumping these "saving"? Because if not, let me tell you, things are gonna get pretty darn ripe, pretty dang fast. 

 Howabout the sound effects? What does a full one of these sound like when you walk around with 'em shoved in your bra? I bet is is not unlike my childhood piano teacher who was four years younger than ancient and when she sat next to you you could hear her insides sloshing back and forth like her entire body was not filled with organs, but a great, angry sea. 

Furthermore, really? Are you encouraging even MORE post-natal psychosis by suggesting women need to be concerned about all that "wasted" breast milk leaking all over? They need to worry about that, too? As if all the rest of shit they have on their mind isn't enough, now you want to make them stress over spilt milk? And trust me, I've been there, that's exactly the kind of thing that could send a hormonal, flabby-bellied wreck of a woman into hysterics. Now she's gonna feel bad if she doesn't catch every last "precious" drop? Gimme a fucking break. We're now inventing things to be stressed out about. As if there isn't enough to worry about right now.

I have to add that I did hear from a certain, nameless source that these may come in handy for those women who pierced their milkers. Yep, you probably didn't know if you aren't pierced (luckily I have friends who love to "share"), but once you shove metal bars through your nipples and then try to breast feed milk literally shoots out like a sprinkler. Front, sides, everywhere. Yeah, that's not something they advertise in piercing shops. Although they probably should. I can see them now, big surgeon general warning posters, akin to the death knell affixed to cigs, hung next to the posters of tattoo-sleeved rock-a-billies and skulls.  Plus, another smaller, screechier version put out by the La Leche League Nazi Bitches.  Well, I'm sure it is only a matter of time before those warnings are legislated by Congress. 

Another little known side-effect of the nipple pierce: If you want to fight, say MMA style, you gotta tape 'em down so they don't get yanked out. Yeee-owtch!  Who knew there was such upkeep and consequences for an impulsive decision like nipple piercing? Not I, but thankfully I've got all these pervy friends... 

Tending the Garden

Forgive me for not being able to leave Schick's new "Trim Style" bushwhacker alone, but over the weekend I got a chance to see the commercial again and this time I actually paid more attention to the visuals as I wasn't so gobsmacked over the "trim style" name.  HO-LEE crap! I want to meet the ad execs who pitched this idea and the razor exec who thought it was a good idea! 

Check it out here, and notice the shape-shifting BUSHES in each scene. 

schick TrimStyle

Oh, I see, "whatever my 'style'", eh? Yeah, I see all sorts of "trim styles" portrayed. The Sculpted Natural V, the Landing Strip, even the rarely seen Circle Muff (??). I love that they show the two girlfriends with their similar, but ultimately individual little muff cuts.   

Just a couple observances: A) Where is the skanky girl who hops out of a cab and the conveniently placed topiary molts all its leaves? and B) I notice that all the little bushes start out all scraggly, branches akimbo.  Wouldn't it be even better to watch a peasant-skirted, hippie girl pad her bare feet past one, you can practically smell the patchouli through the tv, and the bush she flits by gets even crazier?  Now I think that's a message that cannot be denied!

So this is how it is going to go down, eh? The twilight of our great American experiment will be memorialized with Rock of Love Bus, Perez Hilton and commercials on beaver-shaping.  Awesome.