All About The Bass

Two and a half big girls

My two and a half year cracks me up.

She talks. Constantly. About absolutely everything. She hams it up like it's her job. She likes pretending to be scared of things, although I'm pretty sure she doesn't understand the concept of fear. She loves telling jokes, but her jokes are about as sensical as an episode of Spongebob. They're cobbled together from other "jokes" she's heard her sisters tell, but he delivery is spot on. My favorite?

"Knock knock!"
"Who's there?"
"Who!"
"Who who?"
"Don't cry, it's just a joke!"

When her sisters are at school, she vaccilates between asking over and over again when we can go get them, "Is it time to pick up my sisters?" to DOMINATING television viewing. (Pocoyo is her favorite.)

But as brilliant and verbal as she is, I admit I am not even close to keeping up with my own expectations for her when it comes to one critical area.

Potty training RH has been a COMPLETELY different experience than potty training my twins.

This is my fault. Entirely my fault. The fact is that my house is ten times messier than it ever was when I had only two kids to keep up with, so I'm nervous about having RH run around pants-free. That's what worked for the twins, but...

So we've been trying something different. Mainly, not potty training.

We talk about the potty a lot. And our conversations tend to go like this:

"RH? Do you want to sit on the potty?"
"I don't want to."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm drawing."
"Well let's stop drawing and sit on the potty."
"No thanks, I want to watch minions."
"How about we watch minions after using the potty?"
"Nope! Bye!"

It's frustrating, because all of us, RH included, know she CAN if she wants to.

She just doesn't want to, and I'm too frazzled to push the issue.

But it does mean that the constant awareness of potty processes is yielding some interesting and entertaining results.

My personal favorite?

RH has started announcing that she's soiled herself in song. Rather than say, "I pooed!" she's decided on the perfect soundtrack for dropping a load in her diaper.




Yup.

All about it.



----
And for those of you keeping track- you'll note RH is representing four giant parenting "nevers" I ascribed to pre-kids. She is wearing pink. She is wearing pictures of licensed Disney characters. She's holding a plastic piece of crap toy that is ALSO a licensed Disney character. And she's singing a pop song.

If I'd seen this six years ago, I might have slapped myself.

The Big Book of Parenting Tweets

I was given an advance copy of the book, and all the opinions are my own

I love twitter.

I do, I really enjoy the challenge. Not that you'd know it from some of my longer posts, but brevity? That's something I really appreciate. It takes skill.

There's an old Samuel Johnson quote: "I'm sorry I'm writing you a long letter, I didn't have time to write you a short one."

I actually spend a fair amount of my non-blogging writing time writing haiku.

But one thing that twitter (usually) has over books of haiku? It's hilarious.

This little book is a treasure trove of 140 character levity. I was that weird combination of lucky and ridiculously unfortunate to catch one of the billion bugs swarming through the kids' preschool, and that gave me ample time to curl up and read this thing- including every single bio. Because it's that hilarious.

It should be noted though, that this might not be advisable. Apparently, the sound of my guffawing outloud through my sinus congestion reminded the children of the baboons in their Planet Earth dvds, and I may have set off a minor panic as they scoured the house for hidden exotic pets.

I've been enjoying the tweeted humor of many of the contributors for some time, but now they're ALL on my feed.

In addition to what is essentially a brilliant collection of parenting one-liners, the brilliant minds of Science of Parenthood illustrated some of the tweets. And it's comedy gold.

I'd say The Big Book of Parenting Tweets has joined my incredibly short list of go-to gifts for new parents. It's a great book to keep in the diaper bag, or, if you're the rare parent who actually gets to pee alone, in the bathroom.

Because let's be honest, when you're a new parent, 140 characters is about all you have time for anyway.

You can buy the book on Amazon, and you should. Buy it for everyone you know. Either in solidarity or as a cautionary tale.

Happy Reading!

A Very Scary Story

It was a dark and stormy night. Lightning flashed in jagged arcs across the sky. Thunder shook the walls and rattled the windows.

In the attic of an old dark house, three children lay peacefully sleeping. Their mother slept in a room only feet away, dreaming peaceful dreams. Her last peaceful dreams. Her husband was gone for the weekend, away to drink and laugh with old friends in a cabin on the Maine coast. Fleetingly, she had worried that he might be walking into a classic Stephen King story, but this was the real world, she told herself. Horror stories aren't real.

The floorboards creaked as gale raged on, masking the sound of thousands of tiny feet, even closer than the hallway beyond the bedroom door.

Dawn broke, and she heard light footsteps rushing past. A chill ran down her spine, and she shivered. It's just the children, she said. They're going to wake up Grandmommy and Poppa. I can sleep a little more...

She woke lazily, with no idea of the terrors the night had wrought upon her.

She scratched her head, lamenting how rarely she showered these days, and thinking that it must be catching up with her in the form of worsened dandruff. I'll be sure to take a shower today, she thought, ominously.

She entered the guest bedroom and curled up with her three beautiful children. Her fingers played in their thick mops of long curls, and she pressed her cheek against theirs as they laughed and kissed her good morning.

Snuggled up against them on the floor, talking with Poppa about their plans for the day, when Grandmommy emerged from the shower.

Her shadow fell long and black upon the carpet. The mother felt her skin grow cold, and shivered again as she reached up to scratch her head once more.

"I have some bad news," Grandmommy said, and the mother felt her heart freeze in her chest. Somehow, she already knew.

"No!" she gasped, "Please! Don't say it! Please no!"

Grandmommy dropped to her knees, her face ashen. With a shaking hand, she extended a wadded
tissue.

And inside...

"AAAAIIIIIIIII!!!!!" The mother shrieked, her shock and fear immediately plummeting to the horror of resignation. "Please no! Please, I beg you!"

But there was nothing Grandmommy could do. The mother opened the kleenex, her own hands trembling, and saw...

Lice.

The three children, their gorgeous, thick ringlets bouncing ominous close, ran towards their mother.

"What's in the kleenex? What is it? What's in there?"

"NOOOOOO!" screamed the mother. "GET AWAY FROM ME!"

"It's too late," Grandmommy lamented, her cheeks hollow, "You've probably already got them too."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

In a frenzy, the mother ran to the store. Without hesitation she grabbed every box of NIX, every store
brand bug killing shampoo, stacks of combs, jars of mayonnaise, saran wrap... she stopped herself before adding lighter fluid to her heap.

She came home and stripped the bed. She stripped everything. Load after load after load of laundry, an ever growing mountain that she climbed with monstrous heaps of plus toys strapped to her back- a hopeless Sisyphus with itchy scalp.

She and Grandmommy shampooed the children, combed their gorgeous locks. Bug after bug tumbled out, caught by the sharp metal teeth of the combs.

Grandmommy smiled hopefully. "That should do it, right?"

But it was not to be. Day after day, the mother toiled. Picking nits, always picking nits. Changing sheets, spraying car seats and couches and tossing beloved toy after beloved toy into the hot dryer.

Grandmommy left, but the bugs remained.

Each time the mother thought she had finally rid her house of the pestilence, nits appeared. And the shampoo came out again, its acrid stench burning her nose and causing her heart to race in panic.

Grandma sent her and the children to a heat treatment salon, where they had their hair vacuumed and burned, and sent them home to boil their brushes and combs. And at last, the house seemed to return to normal. Finally, the bugs had gone.

OR HAD THEY?????

MWA HA HA HAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!!!!


Happy Halloween!

Motherhood: May Cause Drowsiness

Hello, lovely readers!

I am thrilled to announce the publication of a new humor anthology-
Motherhood: May Cause Drowsiness

I'm honored to say that yours truly is a contributor with two pieces in the collection.

It's a wonderful book of stories and essays about one of the great unifiers of parenthood- exhaustion. Be it sleepless nights or sleepless days, anxiety or cluster feeding, let's face it. We don't get to sleep as much as we'd like. We live in a fog of sleep deprived confusion, which is probably why this morning I called SI by my childhood cat's name by accident.

She was not amused.

I'm so excited to be a part of this project. It's been such an educational experience to watch the collection come together. Lisa Nolan, the editor, kept all of us intimately in the loop through the whole process, and it was really cool to see how an idea becomes a book.

I've loved getting to know all the other contributors, and I can't wait to finish reading it!

You can get your copy here. Or you can get your Christmas shopping done early and just get a copy for everyone you know. ;)

Happy reading!

Take Me Out To The Ball Game

A windy day for a ball game

You may have noticed that the blog has been relatively quiet this summer.

There's been a lot going on for the SuperMommy family. A week and a half in Minnesota, a few trips to Michigan, me- traveling solo not once but twice in the course of a single season.

But so far, one of my favorite of our many chaotic excursions has been our trip to Target Field in the twin cities.

M is from north of the twin cities, and he's a big fan of the Twins. Which normally I don't make fun of him for, being a Pirates fan, but the last couple years have been nice. The kids love going to baseball games, but this was the first time we've been to one where the kids really paid attention.

DD sat next to me the whole game, double and triple checking which team were the good guys (that would be the Twins, in white), and which team were the bad guys (that would be the White Sox, in grey. You can see how confusing this is for a four year old.).

It was a really exciting game. The Twins held onto a lead for the first couple innings, then the Sox tied it. And then it was just time to bite our fingernails and root root root for the home team until they had a killer inning and tripled the score.

So I did what any self respecting baseball fan would do when they have their four year old daughter trapped in the glow of a tight ball game. I taught her to heckle.

"Swing, batter batter batter!" she shouted. The little old ladies two rows up from us turned around, grinning.

"Hey, batter batter batter! SWING! Batter batter batter!"

Aunt Engineer joined in the fun. "Hey DD- say, 'We want a pitcher, not a belly itcher!'"
"We want a... what is it again?"

And two innings later, "WE WANT A PITCHER! NOT A BELLY ITCHER!"

RH got in on the heckling, too. "Hey, badoo badoo badoo! SING BADOO BADOO BADOO!"

RH in sparkly shoes and Batman pants, ready to rock the ball game

But maybe my favorite bit of heckling the kids enjoyed was when DD and SI screamed together at Paul Konerko- "Hey Paulie! Go back to Bronzeville!"

Sad though I am to say, the Twins have taken the spot of "favorite team" in the girls hearts, stolen right away from my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates.

I harbor no ill will. Sharing in the jubilation and misery of their father's team is something I never experienced. Poppa kindly shielded me from becoming a Mets fan, and I will forever be grateful. Instead, I formed a lifelong abusive relationship with the team from my first home town, where my father took me once in a while to attempt to reconcile that the Pirates were actually the good guys, when they were... well... pirates. Even after we moved to New Jersey and the Mets were so much closer, even when we moved to Detroit during Cecil Fielder's prime... my love lay with the Pirates.

And that's kind of what baseball is about. Blind faith. Unfathomable and illogical loyalty to a team who plays whether or not you're watching, who trades you favorite players and falls apart at the end of August.

It's about falling in love with being in the ball park, and reveling in the insanity caused by a stomach full of ice cream and pretzels, and the smell of spilled warm beer.

I remember vividly when I was about their age, my father's best friend taught me to heckle the players. Somebody on the away team had been caught corking their bat earlier in the season, and under Alan's careful tutelage I leaned over the rail at the old Tiger's Stadium and screamed, "PUT A CORK IN IT!!!"

I had no idea what I was saying. And yes, I recognize that in general, being the loud, screaming, oblivious fan in the stands is not something you want to do. But there is something magical about the belief that if you scream loud enough, and clap hard enough, and heckle thoroughly, you can actually help your team win. You can be part of the victory, or the defeat.

It's addictive. And glorious.

We're taking the kids to another White Sox game this month. I know, we live on Chicago's south side, and they should be our team... but M is a Twins fan, and being a Pirate's fan makes me entirely sympathetic to the Cubs, so if we must pick a Chicago team, it's going to be Wrigleyville any day of the week. But there's never a bad reason to go to a baseball game, and teaching the kids to heckle with delight is as good a reason as any.

Slowly but surely, they're learning the rule. Maybe next year I'll teach them to scream obscenities at the ump.

Okay, maybe I'll save that for when they're in high school. Or college.

M and the twins watching the Twins win

For now, I'm happy to keep taking them out to the ball game, buying them peanuts and Cracker Jacks, and root root rooting for the home team.

So long as it's not the White Sox.

The Truth About Sex After Kids

People like to joke that once you have kids, you stop having sex.

Obviously this isn't true, or there would be no such thing as younger siblings or vasectomy parties. (Yes, I contemplated throwing my husband a party to commemorate his vasectomy. I am certain this is actually a thing people do, and I'm not just a lunatic. There are menses parties, for god's sake!) I sometimes think this is a myth created by people who just don't want to imagine that their parents actually had sex for pleasure on a regular basis.

Movies like "Date Night" perpetuate this myth, with such hilarious scenes as the mouthguard incident, or the look of shock on Tina Fey's face when her friend says she's getting divorced in part because she and her husband were only having sex two or three times a week. And yeah, I laughed my ass off, because I'd recently had twins and my husband and I were living in shifts in order to take care of two sets of dirty diapers and whatnot 24 hours a day, and yeah, we weren't having sex every night. But judging all of parenthood by the first six weeks is like judging all baseball teams by the Cubs, or judging all of "Up" by the first ten minutes.

So I'm going to set the record straight.

Sex is a minefield at first. First off, there's the awkwardness factor of attempting to move in concert with another person in such a way that both of you can avoid making strange and humiliating noises (and not just with your mouths) and trying to look sexy while you do it. Then there's the goodie-bag of body issues most of us go into sexual relationships with, making things just that much harder by necessitating a completely dark or poorly lit sex environment. On top of that, there's shame based indoctrination, that tells men they're never big enough and they don't "last long enough," and tells women they should be capable of half a dozen orgasms pretty much all on their own with no help, or that they're not really supposed to like sex to begin with, depending on their cultural backgrounds.

Basically, until you get comfortable with your partner, sex is kind of... awful.

That's not to say it doesn't still feel great. Because let's be honest, most of the time it does. But parts of it are embarrassing and confusing and involve lots of talks about what it all means, and whether you're having enough of it, and you avoid the conversations that might actually make it better.

After kids? Forget all of that. Sex is completely different. Why?

Because you have completely lost all sense of shame or embarrassment towards your body and what it does. The fears you used to have about whether or not he'll stop liking you if he notices your fat stomach are replaced by the knowledge that this person has watched you screaming in pain while you carried multiple human beings around inside of you, with random parts swelling up and growing hair no human should grow and with that wild hormonal glint in your eyes that threatens actual physical violence, and you know what? They still love you!

So fuck it!

Once the realization that your partner loves your body and what it does, regardless of what you think of it, really hits?

The sex is incomparably better. You can simply ask for what you like. You can explore your fetishes and kinks and preferences, even the ones that previously embarrassed you, because nothing embarrasses you anymore. Not when you've both sat staring at each other at the crack of dawn, covered in the same infant's vomit and feces. Not when you've had more conversations than you care to count about the kids' diarrhea and whether or not the shits you're both experiencing indicate a virus, something psychosomatic, or yet another side effect of prolonged fatigue. Not when you've been responsible for popping each others' back pimples, harping on each other to get to the gym, and sitting on the couch after the children are FINALLY asleep, each eating your own entire pint of Ben and Jerry's. Once you hit that point, the sex is epic.

And that makes people feel icky. To know that their birth heralded in a new and exciting era in boning for their parents is beyond uncomfortable.

So stop making it about them already, and make it about you.

All that said, there are still some deep truths when it comes to the levels of exhaustion a couple with children experiences come the end of the day. There is nothing quite like going to bed utterly exhausted and already covered in four people's fluids to make you NOT want to be covered in another variety.

There are levels of bone weary tired that only appear when a kid woke you up at three in the morning the night before because they had a hangnail, and then another woke you up at dawn because you promised they could have scrambled eggs for breakfast. SCRAMBLED EGGS. It's not like you need an extra hour to prepare them, for God's sake! Followed by a whole day of wrangling into carseats, evacuating from car seats, pushing around loaded strollers while doling out snacks and keeping tabs on space cadet kids who forget to follow you in the middle of a park because they thought they heard a dog somewhere.

That kind of exhaustion comes only with having children or providing instructions to astronauts in a busted space ship for what to do to keep their air breathable until they can make their descent back through Earth's atmosphere.

So when it comes to post child sex, there are really two varieties, and for your reading pleasure I will sum them up to you with the following entirely theoretical definitely not real certainly not from me and M conversations:


"Hey, remember that thing you did the other night that made me see God while I was orgasming? Can you do that again, only this time can I be blindfolded and can you use some ice?"
"Sure! Only you have to promise that tomorrow you'll do that other thing. Twice. And I want you to wear that thing we got on Valentine's Day while you do it the second time."
"Do we have to wait until tomorrow? Can we do it now?"
"Yes please!"


"I'm so horny. But I'm soooooooo tiiiiiiiired."
"If you decide you're more horny than tired, I can rally."
"You can rally? Okay... these pajama pants have a hole in the crotch. How about I just lie here and you make this happen through the hole in my pants, and we call it a night?"
"I'm not doing that."
"Probably for the best. That would make the laundry extra gross."
"snooooore"



So the truth is that it's inconsistent. Like almost everything in life. But it's not the sad, exhausted, infrequent joke it's made out to be.

Which is why vasectomy parties should totally be a thing.

Go get your freak on, people with kids. You have more than earned it.

How to Humiliate The Most Important Person In Your Life, or, Happy Father's Day

I melt.

My husband is a committed father, a loving husband, and I'd wager a pretty decent son. He is everything I ever wanted in a partner, even when I didn't know I wanted it.

He is my everything, as far as humans are concerned, and he inspires me constantly to be the best version of myself.

That said, one of my favorite of his many endearing qualities is how willing he is to be made to look silly.

That's why when I found this extra awesome sale in April- yes, April- I knew I had located a perfect Father's Day gift.

It tread that line between hilariously wonderful and mortifyingly horrific.

Like I said, perfect.

And so the children and I ambushed M before he could get dressed, to give him a Father's Day present.

The blurry look on his face clearly says, "W.T.F."

His reaction was all I could have hoped for. Shock and hilarity, followed by dread at the revelation that all his children now had identical t-shirts. And all of them were thrilled to put them on, just like Daddy's!, to go out in public for the entire day. (I confess, I neglected to include myself in the purchase of family magical unicorn tees. Mommy's prerogative.)

My unicorn family

At first he was a little self conscious. I can't blame him. After all, he was a six and a half foot tall adult man wearing a purple magical unicorn t-shirt.

But embodying the very qualities I've always loved about him, he quickly embraced his role as a dedicated father and consummate joker.

Thank you, M, for teaching our children yet another way to postpone eating

As we do every year, we went on an outing for Father's Day- this year to The Field Museum. M is a bit obsessed with the Columbian Exposition of 1893, and the girls have caught a bit of his fervor. After all, we live practically on the grounds of the original fair, so the kids are familiar with a few important World Fair landmarks. They were utterly rapt when presented with an entire animated display of the Spirit of the Republic- known 'round these parts as "Big Mary."

He's indoctrinating his children with a lifelong love of all things Chicago

We had a spectacular day, M getting more and more confident that he was completely rocking the unicorn tee- as stranger after stranger grinned at him and his kids, wishing them, "Happy Father's Day!"

So many smiles

As for me, I can't help myself. There might be no more knee-weakening sight than the handsome rogue you married, confidently striding among a sea of neo-ravers on their way to SAMF with Skrillex blaring through the air, displaying a watercolor-y, rainbowed, castle bound unicorn across his chest.

He is much beloved

I'd marry that man over again every couple of months, if we could afford the parties.

Happy Father's Day, M.

A Non-Stop Lovefest - Highlights from Blog U

Me with Science of Parenthood, From Meredith to Mommy, Urban Moo Cow,  Momopolize, Not So Super Mom,
Pickles Ink, My Dishwasher's Possessed, Ava Chin, Mommy Needs a Martini, and Her Royal Thighness, among others!

This past weekend, I was fortunate enough to attend Blog U- a Blog Con in Baltimore. The whole two days were a nonstop lovefest, sharing hugs and selfies and stories and laughter and tears with nearly all my favorite women of the internet.

They're real people! Not just avatars and cartoons and logos! And not only are they actual human beings, and awesome ones at that, but getting to know them has completely changed my internet experience. Now, when I go around reading blogs... I hear them in the voices of the brilliant people behind the keyboard.

And that is pretty freakin' sweet.

For me, there were a few moments that stand out more than any other.

1. Hearing some of my favorite bloggers read some of their best work at the impromptu post-cocktail party open mic.

Sharing our best

This was, in a word, amazing. Sitting back drunkenly with thirty of your new friends, sharing your work and your words, all of that is incredible. But seeing people you've admired from a distance for years speak their own words in their own voices? AMAZING. AMAZING AMAZING AMAZING.

I'm sure you remember last year when I bugged you a million times to vote for me for Blogger Idol, and you read all the posts and got to know a couple really incredible bloggers? Well, one of those in the top three with me was Real Life Parenting. And you know what? That lady is a class act. And utterly hilarious.

This lady is hilarious.

Seeing her read was truly a thrill.

It was such a great way to start the con. Every time I met somebody, a lightbulb clicked on over my head. "You read about your son pooping in the car! It was so funny!" "Your bit about the pumpkin crap... brilliant!"

And the thrill of the occasional person coming up to me and saying, "Was that true? Is M okay now?" was also kind of awesome.

It's hard not to be instant friends with somebody when you already love each other's writing.


2. Getting inappropriately drunk and dancing like a maniac with some of the funniest ladies on the internet.

Who's that drunken blogger in the stripes? Oh... wait...

Seriously, Pickles Ink and Something Clever 2.0 are lunatics on the dance floor, and I love it. I conga-ed like an oncoming train wreck, one hand flailing a camera around, and managed not to concuss anyone. Jenn and I did the Thriller dance, because why the hell not? And Karyn and I shared an entirely awkward moment that may or may not have been intimately related to the Spice Girls. Because that's what happens when children of the nineties drink half a dozen margaritas and put a million pounds of product in their hair.


3. The way strangers on the internet can come together to help other strangers.

The Blog U faculty- they are a fun loving bunch.

I'm not just talking about putting together an entire conference, for strangers, for free. Because that is astounding to say the least. I'm not just talking about two dozen women from across the country working tirelessly from a distance to create a spectacular, immersive experience for hundreds of other women (and one very brave dude). I'm talking about everybody, all the time.

I'm also not just talking about the half a dozen women who happily opened their doors to share AquaNet with me. Because no 80's prom is complete without it.

The day before Blog U started, one of the local commuters had to cancel her plans. So in the course of a day, she and I transferred her ticket to Old School/New School Mom. Some other bloggers helped me get her a bus ticket, and some of her friends back home- writers as well and contributors to her Stigma Fighters project, helped her find childcare so she could come to the conference.

Once there, people helped her with last minute things- including a bed to sleep in after the prom, and a ride back to the bus station in the morning. That lady deserved a break, and now she's better prepared to help Stigma Fighters thrive as an NFP. And that?

Old School/New School Mom, me, and my spectacular roomie- Woof Tweet Waah

That makes me cry happy, happy, happy tears.




...there was one other thing. A little thing. I can't help but get a little glow every time I think about it.

During the keynote panel about writing for others, HuffPo Parents put up examples on the big screen of what to do- what notes to aim for, what subjects to address- in order to get a successful post.

What's that on the big screen?

Do you see what her example is over there?

Who is that attractive blogger?

Yes! It's me!

I would say I didn't learn anything, because OBVIOUSLY I've got this whole thing figured out... but that's a lie. I learned tons. I learned so much, and I'm taking it all and putting it to good use.

Look out, world, I'm coming to take you by the horns.

I'm a Blog U graduate, hear me roar!

April Fools

I'm a clown, what can I say?

I love pranks. LOVE them. But, sadly, my love of pranks usually eliminates any hope I might have of actually pulling one off.

There was one time, back in my wild and reckless youth, that I had a nasty fight with Aunt Something Funny. I have no idea what it was about, but it was ugly. After a long night of drinking coffee and complaining about big sisters with a friend, I came up with a plan.

I bought a pie. I would stay awake all night, waiting for Aunt Something Funny to come down to the kitchen for breakfast. As she came down, I would offer her a slice of pie. Naturally, she would say yes. As I carried the pie across the kitchen, I would accidentally slip, stumbling forward, and smashing the pie into her face.

Can you imagine a more gratifying scene? Me neither.

So I stayed up ALL NIGHT, giggling with my friend and NOT eating the pie.

And finally, she appeared, bleary eyed and foul tempered.

"Would you like some pie for breakfast?" I asked, trying not to grin.

She scowled, still angry about the previous night, or maybe just not a morning person. "Fine, sure, I'll eat pie. Whatever."

So I lifted the pie from the counter. And I turned towards her, and put one foot forward.

And then I attempted to put my other foot forward. But I was stepping on the opposite leg of my pajama pants.

And I fell.

And landed face first in my own pie.

My friend and I howled with laughter. We laughed so hard we couldn't speak for so long that Aunt Something Funny turned around with a confused, disgusted look, and went back to bed. Pie free.

I never got any better at practical jokes.

One ridiculous attempt to prank M ended with me giggling in the trunk of our car while he drove circles around a parking lot, pretending not to notice I was in the trunk, giggling, getting ready to pull some kind of prank him.

The only person I can successfully prank is SI, who at four and a half years old shares my love for being startled. I have a tendency to hide behind doors and just jump out at her for no reason.

Seriously. I'm winning all the parenting awards over here.

The only prank I've successfully pulled on another person was while M was going through chemotherapy. I posted an update to my friends online that I was finally going out and getting that tattoo I always wanted. A purple crescent moon. On my face.

The fact that they believed me really says more about my inability to make good life choices than my prowess at coming up with a good joke.

So no, you can't expect any April Fool's surprises from me. I guarantee they would backfire and I'd end up with a face full of whipped cream or something.

There are worse things.

Happy April!

Know Thyself, or Why You Should Definitely Come See Listen To Your Mother

Photo courtesy of Balee Images

Those of you paying attention to everything I do (Hi Jenn! Hi Laura! Hi Aunt Genocide!) already know that I'm in the Chicago cast for Listen To Your Mother this year.

I have to tell you, I am SO excited! I'm thrilled!

About everything except one teeny tiny thing...

Pictures.

I have unfortunately inherited my mothers total inability to hold still for a photograph. It's not self-loathing or poor self esteem, it's just fact. I take TERRIBLE pictures.

Truly, amazingly bad. My wedding photographers had a HUGE job, and accomplished MIRACLES.

This gets worse every single year, as I'm sure my mother will attest. The two of us understand what happens when a camera comes out. As they say, "Know Thyself." Well, I know myself. And Grandmommy knows herself, too.

My mother is a lovely, charming, beautiful woman. She is not the most graceful person on earth- she did manage to break her wrist pogo-ing into a car once. But in pictures, she looks like either she's a deer caught in headlights, or like she's being chased by a cement mixer.

Likewise, I know that I am an engaging, emotive, and dare I say moving public speaker and performer. But I know myself. I know that in real life, I don't look like somebody standing behind the camera just tore open their chest to reveal that instead of organs, they have a collection of doll shoes.

And I assure you, I do not REALLY look like this when I perform:

You know what? That's not true. I TOTALLY look like that. Pretty much all the time.

Suffice to say, I catch a lot of flies.

I don't just take ridiculous, open mouth photos either. I have an amazing array of really dumb expressions caught on camera.

Okay give me a minute- I'm going to pee my pants laughing.
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Moving on.

At each Listen To Your Mother rehearsal, there are an AMAZING duo of photographers from Balee Images immortalizing the magic. And I assure you, it is magic in the room with these fifteen incredible writers baring their souls together for all to see.

But no amount of talent can make me stop doing things like... well...

Courtesy of Balee Images
I believe the word I'm saying here is "whole," but it could be "beluga," or, "Help me I've choked on my own tongue."

Keep in mind, I was dressed like a pirate gypsy an hour before this picture. So yeah, I'm a delicate flower, yo.

The fact is that I'm a performer. I perform when I read, when I speak, and that means abandoning all sense of self consciousness and just GOING FOR IT. And that means that I look like I'm utterly unhinged when you take still moments of it all out of context.

And it's not just me. I promise you, a google image source for the phrase "actors making ridiculous faces" will have you in stitches for the rest of the day. It's facial aerobics. People who perform, they stand up and they perform, and that means running the risk every single second that somebody is going to snap a picture and make you look like you got a quick lobotomy on your lunch break.

At any rate, I THOUGHT no amount of talent could keep me from looking like every muscle in my face moves independently from each other while I talk. But I was wrong. Those rock stars from Balee Images made some magic happen.

Don't be distracted by the remarkably photogenic brunette with the green glasses.

Really what I'm getting at is this. You do NOT want to rely on pictures alone to experience Listen To Your Mother in Chicago. Because I will foul up those pictures with a vengeance, regardless of the brilliance of our photographers. If you rely on pictures, you'll have a series of funny faces that represent tiny moments of comedic or emotional brilliance, without the context of... say... a gesture.

It's like Ani Difranco says, "It took me too long to realize that I never take good pictures 'cause I have the kind of beauty that moves."

So true, everyone. So true.

I'm incredibly grateful there will be pictures of this process. I will look back on them for years to come, and no doubt feel the same pride and humility to share a space with these women, and tell stories, and experience the family of a cast. I will look back on every goofy face with love and joy. But nothing will convey the experience of being there like being there.

So make sure you buy your tickets soon- don't rely on pictures. Don't trust me, or any performer, to have any ability to convey the humor and honesty and rawness and most importantly beauty of this show in a single moment, frozen in time.

Get your tickets and come see it live. Because live? I rock. And so do the other fourteen ladies in this cast.

Come and feel the magic.

Best Worst Weekend Ever

I'm a huge fan of Valentine's Day.

Wait- let me rephrase. I'm a huge fan of the day after Valentine's Day, when all the chocolates go on sale. As for the holiday itself?

Let's put it this way. I collect stuffed gorillas, and I love chocolate. So when I have an excuse to sort of make a thing out of it, I do.

I have a tendency to go really overboard with presents for M. Ever since our very first Valentine's Day, when I screen printed a hoodie for him with the phrase "Grover Hungry" on the front, and "Will Defenestrate Bohemians On Sight" on the back.

Shut up. It's funny.

At any rate, this year, I decided to go big. I don't mean just expensive, although frankly it was that too. I mean BIG. I bought my husband a new bed frame.

You're going to get a whole post this week on the details of this bed, I promise you that (and it has been a LONG time coming), but let's say I may have had a bit of an ulterior motive. You know, I get him a bed, and then spend the majority of the weekend... shall we say... in it.

M was also feeling romantic, I guess. Because he got me a collection of my favorite things. He sponsored me my own very real pet gorilla through the African Wildlife Fund (his name is Charles, and he's a Rwandan mountain gorilla!), gave me a big box of chocolates, and took me out for Ethiopian food.

Now, I love Ethiopian food. This seemed like the best Valentine's Day ever. But things went wrong starting the moment we opened the door.

Standing there, performing at about 80 decibels, was a trio of Rastas performing what I can only describe as "Lounge Reggae." They had a microphone, a Casio keyboard, and a tambourine. They sang (and I'm being generous with that description) about Jesus a lot, which was, you know, fine I guess, while M and I waited for our food. And waited. And waited. And waited. Every few minute a horrific screech of feedback would blare into the room, and I would scream and jump.

No, really.

The Lounge Reggae grew steadily louder, with increasingly more feedback, and finally our appetizers arrived. Only when I took a bite of my second sambusa, I discovered it was filled with beef, rather than lentils.

I sent the food back, and we prepared to leave and find another place to eat, when the Lounge Reggae suddenly stopped. "We were supposed to have a storyteller come tonight, but he didn't show up," the frontman declared. "But I know a story, I guess. It's called Plato's Cave."

I raised my eyebrows at M. Having been (briefly) a philosophy major, I can tell you with absolute certainty that the story the frontman Lounge Reggae Rasta related was not what Plato had intended, as I'm abut 99% positive the story doesn't end with the residents of the cave killing people for trying to tell them about Jesus. But by the time the story ended we were laughing our asses off, quietly I hope,

Artist Facsimile

Our food arrived and we thought we might finally enjoy a totally normal, albeit fast, dinner. When the frontman suddenly shouted, "Oh wait! I do know another story! It's about the time my car broke down on 394!"

And he proceeded to tell us about how his car broke down, and he had to walk down the freeway.

You'd be amazed how long somebody can tell a story about that to a slow, smooth, Reggae beat.

"And then I was chased by bats! And wild dogs! And bees! And then came the spaceships."

Mike and I stared at each other. Surely, this must be a joke.

But no, the story went on. All about the spaceships saving him from the bats. And the wild dogs. And the bees.

And then the Rastas finished the night by singing us a song about the return of the mothership.

At this point our parking had long expired, so Mike and I paid and made a dash for it. But our car hadn't even reached Lake Shore Drive when I started feel queasy. And before we were halfway home, I had begged off our favorite ice cream parlor, so we could just go to bed early.

And not in a fun way.

I crawled into bed and went straight to sleep, at quarter to ten. Which is kind of awesome when you've got three small children, but...

Then I woke up in the morning, nibbled on a piece of toast, and hopped into the car to go to my audition.

Yeah, you heard me right. Audition.

As I belched up increasingly more horrific flavor combinations, I quietly prayed that I would make it through my piece before feeling the full wrath of whatever was happening in my gut. I gritted my teeth and put on a smile, and I performed my piece as best I could, before zipping home and straight back into bed, where I passed out again the moment my head hit the pillow.

I was awoken an hour later by the overwhelming need to spend forty five minutes being sick in the bathroom.

And that was how I spent the rest of the weekend. A few minutes in bed, resting, half an hour in the bathroom, crying.

I still haven't touched my box of chocolates. But I guess I got my wish. I spent basically my whole Valentine's Day weekend in bed.

However, today I can tell you that I KILLED IT in the audition! I'm happy to announce I will be performing in Listen To Your Mother!!!!!!

That's right- if you enjoy the blog but you're fed up with all that pesky reading, THIS is the show for you!

May 4th, here in Chicago at the Athenium Theater! I'll be sure to post a link to buy tickets as soon as it's available. But for now- mark your calendars!!!!

To celebrate, I'm going to bust open some of that chocolate.

See you in May!

In Which ChiBeria Turns Me Into Flava Flav

In Chicago, we have been experiencing that rare and spectacular combination of weather phenomena- it is both really freakin' cold and insanely freakin' snowy. When winter hit with a friendly dusting of snow shortly before Christmas, the children began begging to go play in it.

"Please mommy? Can we please build a snowman?"

Well, a friendly dusting of snow is hardly snowman material. I explained we'd have to wait until we had more snow to go outside and frolic.

"When we go to Minnesota for Christmas, there will be lots of snow," I said. "And we can go sledding then!"
"Yay! Hooray! Sledding in Minnesota!"

Of course, once we were safely installed at my in-law's house, we were all hit with a monster virus. Nobody was going out to play. We sat around inside, playing games and sweating through fevers. And then we returned home, where there was no snow.

But snow came, by golly, and it came with a vengeance. On Saturday the children watched the blizzard winds sweep mountains of snow across the empty lot next door, screaming in excitement.

"Mommy! It's snowing! We can go build a snowman!"
"Not now, honey. See the wind? It would blow you away! We have to wait 'til the wind stops blowing."
"Will it blow away all the snow?"
"No sweetie, there is way too much snow for the wind to blow away. It's not leaving anytime soon."

From CBS Chicago

Sunday came and went, windier, snowier, and colder than the day before. And the emails from the school started coming.

PRESCHOOL CLOSED DUE TO LIFE-THREATENINGLY COLD WEATHER CONDITIONS.

"Can we play in the snow now? I see the snow! And there's no wind! Let's go play in the snow!"
"No way!" I yelped. "It's SO COLD you might freeze! You'd be childrencicles! You'd be little snow people!"
"But WHEN?"

I didn't answer. Because I had no idea. For two days past the long anticipated return date for school, they trashed the house in stir-crazy abandon, as the world devolved into weather obsessed chaos around us. My friend in Antarctica sent regular updates on how they were experiencing temperatures as much as fifty degrees warmer than we had in Chicago.

Then came... this morning.

This morning, when after five days of sitting in a block of snow and ice, I would need to dig out the car.

I prepared. I scheduled a sitter for RH- no WAY was I doing all this with a toddler in tow. I rushed the kids through breakfast and got them into all their gear. All their gear. And I herded them out to the car.

Of course the sliding doors were frozen shut. I waded through the thigh deep snow, clambered over the driver's seat, and wrenched the side door open from the inside.

Of course the snow shovel bent like tin foil the moment I tried to dig out the snow around the tires.

Of course the windshield wiper blades froze to the window. The blades snapped off like twigs when I attempted to free them of their ice, so of course I had twice as much scraping to do to create pockets of usable window.

Of course.

How we do in ChiBeria

But the car started, God bless it, and the children made their way in, mild panic attacks about scarves slipping off their noses notwithstanding.

And I began to battle the snow.

I fought it. I fought is harder than I've ever fought anything in my life. using my useless husk of a snow shovel, I stabbed and beat at the blocks of packed snow and ice surrounding my four tires, dug with my hands, crouched on my knees and dragged solid lumps of frozen snow into the street.

Every few minutes I jumped in the car and rocked it back and forth, drive and reverse, drive and reverse, hoping to ease it out of it's car-sized pocket in the snow and onto the street.

I swore the whole time.

I stood, panting and heaving, and nearly gave up. Then I remembered- today is an MRI day for M, I'd just have to get the car out this afternoon anyway. There would be no quitting. My kids were going to get to preschool, come Hell or high water.

Or half a week of snow plows burying my minivan thigh deep in sub-Arctic temperature snow.

Finally, I could take it no more. I sat in the driver's seat and I prepared to crush it.

I sped forward. Well, four miles an hour felt like speeding. The wheels came to a sliding halt.

I sped backwards. The car lurched and wiggled, and I cranked back into drive.

Back and forth. Seething and begging. Swearing and cajoling.

And then, one wheel jumped onto the street.

"Yeah, baby, come one now, come on..."

Back and forth again, back and forth, now two wheels slid onto the street,

"That's right, you sonofabitch, that's right, that's it, that's it..."

Back and forth, back and forth, and then sliding like Bambi getting onto the ice, the car went zipping into the avenue. Without pausing or thinking I opened my mouth and at top volume I heard the words come out,

"YEEEEEAAAAAAAH BOYEEE! WHOOOO! THAT'S RIGHT MOTHERFUCKER! HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW? HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW?"

I froze, panting, idling at the light, and behind me I heard DD and SI call out, "Hooray Mommy!"

So now I know.

Deep down inside, I'm Flava Flav.

My alter ego, ready to kick some snow ass.

Take that, ChiBeria.