New-ier and improve-ier for 2007.



Remember when Jennie (IPT) told me that she'd work me so hard it would hurt to brush my teeth?

Apparently, she thinks I brush my teeth with my ass.



Completely and Totally Hypothetical. Yup. No Basis in Reality Here!

You know, it might be kind of embarrassing if you were out with a group of friends at a pool hall, and were making the walk back from the bathroom to the pool table on the exact opposite side of the building, and one of your friends shouted, “Look at her shakin’ her sassy thang,” making everyone in the place turned to look at you just as your funky chunky shoes caught a snag in the tacky-ass carpet and you totally tripped.

I’m just sayin’.



I blame Martha.

Martha is a swell gal. She's smart and pretty. She's funny. She even hooked me up with Gmail.

But yesterday? Martha was firmly ensconced on my shit list.

I read Martha's story about ruining her lucky pair of shoes by stepping in excrement. I laughed.

I read Martha's entry about diapers. I laughed.

I read Martha's entry about poop. I laughed.

Apparently, my Martha-induced laughter irritated some Great Universal Force of Diaper and/or Poop. Because karma? She took a nasty bite out of my ass yesterday.

The Small Child, being two-ish in age, is currently flirting with the idea of potty training. Small Child loves the idea of wearing underwear with Dora on them. Small Child loves climbing on and off the potty. Small Child loves wiping and flushing and hand-washing.

What Small Child *doesn't* like is actually producing on the pot.

The Small Child and I were hanging out at home last evening. She had requested to wear her "beyoooful Dowa undahwee-ah." Since I am A Good, Encouraging Mother (and since we will soon be moving to Case de Weez II, so I have a lesser emotional investment in the state of my carpet), I agreed.

The Small Child scampered around happily, clad in Dora briefs and hookerish dress-up shoes.

After a time, the Small Child began to get a familiar far-away look in her eye. The Small Child also began to engage in a prodigious amount of farting. Because I am a Good, Observant Mother, I picked up on her cues and asked: "[Small Child], do you need to poop on the potty?"

"Yeth, mumma!" came the enthusiastic response.

So we trundled into the bathroom. We placed the potty seat upon the big toilet (all child-sized potty seats being an anathema to the Small Child, who insists that she is sixteen, and therefore old enough to drive). The Small Child is situated upon the seat, grunts and strains for approximately .00008 seconds, then announces, "No worting! Me doh poop in die-puh."

Because I am a Good, Supportive Mother, I chirped, "Okay! You don't have to poop in the potty if you don't want to. You can poop in your diaper for now. Someday when you're ready, you can poop in the potty like a Big Kid." I smiled beatifically, and diapered the Small Child. Because I am a Good, Independence-Fostering Mother, I encouraged the Small Child to engage in some creative imaginary play, and moved on to my own activities.

Now, because I am a Good, Domestic Goddess-like Mother, I turned my attention to the household chores that awaited me. I went into the laundry room and started folding the clothes that had just finished drying. Because I am a Good, Efficient at Housekeeping Mother, I was putting the folded clothes into a laundry basket, so I could then take them into the various rooms in the house to put them away.

In the midst of my folding, I heard a distressed cry of "Mumma! Whuh'ARE you?" from the Small Child. Because I am a Good, Responsive Mother, I stopped what I was doing and called for her. The Small Child peeped around the corner of the laundry room door with a very chagrined expression on her face. "Poop, Mumma!" she intoned. And she held up her foot.

The bottom of her instep? Caked with crap.

The reason she was peeping around the door? Because she had removed her diaper, and was now completely naked, the hooker dress-up shoes also having been discarded.

Because I am a Good, Having-Read-All-The-Right-Books Mother, I did not want to freak out at my child and cause any kind of trauma in relation to her excretory functions. So I took a deep breath to compose myself, picked her up, and headed into the bathroom to clean her up.

I turned the corner into the bathroom. And the heel of my right foot planted firmly into something squishy. However, unlike Martha in the subway, I did not ruin my lucky shoes. That is because I was not *wearing* any shoes.

The warm squishiness caused me to startle. And when one startles suddenly with something slightly viscous on the bottom of their foot, and when their center of gravity is slightly off because of a wriggling 27-lb bundle in front of them, they slip.

So, because I am a Good, Gravity-Obeying Mother, I slipped. However, because I am ALSO a Good, Selfless, Child-Preserving Mother, I didn't do the thing that would've saved me, which was toss the Small Child out of my arms so I could steady myself. I managed to twist my body in such a way as to neither whack the Small Child's head on the counter, nor to tumble to the ground and crush the Small Child's body beneath me. However, this act of martyrdom wrenched the ever-loving hell out of my back.

The Good Mother facade was slipping fast, I'll tell you that for free.

I set the Small Child on the bathroom counter and surveyed the damage. A fresh and perfectly clean diaper lay on the floor beside what looked to have been a tennis-ball-sized pile of toddler turds, prior to the smushing.

"Me poop on floor," explained the Small Child.

"Yeah. Got that, thanks," I replied.

By this time, the offending substance had dried slightly on both the Small Child's foot and my own, and it was obvious that toilet paper was not going to cut it as a removal mechanism. I couldn't stomach the thought of using one of our washcloths, even though that would've been the handiest method.

I decided that wipes were the thing that was needed. However, all the wipes were in the Small Child's room. And I still had crap on my foot. So I made what was, in retrospect, a terrible, horrible decision.

I hopped. Into the Small Child's room. On one foot. This made what should've been a two-second errand into a thirty-second or so production.

And when I returned to the bathroom, the Pile o' Crap? Was no longer there.

"[Small Child]," I growled, "where did the poop go?"

"Tevie EAT it, Mumma. All up."

Kev, my rottweiler, was lurking around the corner, with the barest trace of a shit-eating grin on his face.

It was at this point that any last vestige of the Good Mother lit out for parts unknown.

I am not proud to tell you that I totally lost it and yelled at both my kid AND my dog for a good five minutes -- the time it took me to remove the last traces of shit from my foot, my kid's foot, and the bathroom floor.

The Small Child was relegated to her room, the Large Dog to the laundry room. Both were firmly instructed to THINK about what they had done.

It was then that I noticed the floor.

The Small Child had apparently not come directly to find me in the laundry room. She'd made a complete circuit of the house. With the befouled foot. My carpet was now replete with poo polka-dots.

Because I was desperately trying to maintain my self-deception of being a Good, Mature-Adult-Type Mother, I took a deep breath, got out the Resolve and a roll of paper towels, and got down to business.

I had just finished removing the last traces of munchkin muck from my flooring, when I heard a familiar and wholly unwelcome sound.

The composition of human offal was apparently incompatible with Kev's stomach lining. So he puked it up.

And, since I'd been punishing him by gating him in the laundry room, his horf receptacle of choice was my basket of freshly-folded laundry.

Payback is a bitch, Martha. Make no mistake.



Random lists, the hobgoblin of lazy bloggers.

  • I just got off the phone with Jennie (IPT), and she assures me that starting next week, she will work me hard enough to make me tear up a little when I brush my teeth.

  • Eclipse “Lemon Ice” gum has a flavor that’s simultaneously repellent and addicting.

  • Taking a big-ass quantity of multivitamins and following instructions to drink at least 100 oz of water a day leads to an awful lot of Mountain Dew-esque peeing.

  • Work flirtage is an outstanding way to pass a summery Friday: it’s calorie-free; it’s beneficial to mental sharpness; it’s good for the ego; and it’s entirely harmless, since both parties are happily married and live half a continent apart.

  • Casa de Weez II: The Weezening now has concrete in the basement and garage. La la la!


Indecision, yet another hobgoblin.

The Weez? Is killin’ me, y’all.

The Communards among you know that, after two years of mixing stay-at-home-dad-ism with valiant (and largely successful) attempts at growing a consulting business, The Weez has struck pay-dirt with a fairly large-scale and long-term contract. (I apologize for the hyphen shortage brought on by the previous sentence.)

However, he still has some of his short-term, smaller gigs pending. And this wealth of work is stressing him the fuck out.

The Weez’s buddies (Kitty, Titanium Ass, DeathWish, Mafia Guy, and My Old Roommate) are going up to Titanium Ass’s cabin to shoot guns and play paintball this weekend. Now, there is nothing that my husband likes more than actual opportunities for marksmanship, with the possible exception of pretending to gun down his dearest friends. And since I am SUCH a kick-ass wife, I encouraged him to head up into Da Nortwoods for the weekend to be a Manly Man (and really, I KNOW you know how funny that is).

But, because he’s super-stressed, and still adjusting to the demands of working 40 hours a week in addition to all of his other commitments, he feels like he can’t go.

But, because it’s fun, and also a gathering of all of his friends, and also a fine way to spend a summer weekend, he really WANTS to go.

If the boy waffled any more, he’d be a fucking Eggo.

For my part, I am not relishing the idea of spending the weekend with a Weez who is both burned-out from staring at a monitor 20 damn hours a day, and also resentful because his friends are all out having a good time. However, if he DID decide to stay home, it would mean that I would be virtually guaranteed a night with my girlies at The Big Gig tomorrow, because once The Small Child was put to bed, it would be better for everyone’s sanity if I were out of the house.

What’s a kick-ass wife to do?



Consistency is the hobgoblin of my palate.

You may have noticed that it was my birthday two weeks ago. The fact that I am now 29 does not bother me in the slightest. The fact that I gave birth to the Small Child two years ago, and am still carrying the “baby weight” around on my midsection, ass, and thighs? Extreme bother.

So, The Weez, being both an extremely stand-up guy, and also an astute marital mathemetician (who has figured out that Veeg who doesn’t hate how she looks = happy Veeg = increased likelihood for nookie), got me personal training sessions for my birthday.

I started this week.

Jennie, my Impossibly Perky Trainer, is a very sweet girl, who looks damn good. I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating crackers, I’ll tell you THAT for free. However, she hasn’t really done a lot of actual, y’know, training.

Thus far, I’ve been: pinched, prodded, poked, weighed, measured, measured again, measured some more, and photographed in a level of undress that is not generally thought to be for public consumption

What Jennie (IPT) has explained to me is, nutrition is 80% of the equation when it comes to weight loss. And the ultimate key is to make your nutrition as consistent as possible. This, as far as I can tell, is done by a) taking a shitload of multi-vitamins and b) eating the same.exact.thing every goddamn day of your life.

Jennie (IPT) assures me that, as I “get comfortable with” the nutrition program, we’ll work on branching out and “exchanging” food.

This is good.

Because seriously, I *like* all of the things that I am eating, but if I have to only eat them for the next three months? I will kill someone. And that someone stands a good chance of being Jennie (IPT).



Houstonian Letters.

Dear T. Berry Brazelton, Baby Whisperer, Dame Poppins, and all other advocates of getting your child on a predictable schedule:

You were all totally right. Thank you for a lovely long holiday weekend almost entirely devoid of meltdowns (with the one notable exception of the complete flailing freak-out by the pool on Sunday morning), with a reasonably well-behaved two-year-old. I had a first-hand glimpse at the lives of parents who DON’T follow this plan, and believe you me, it’s not purty.

Dear Houston Police Department Officer in car #32330:

No, “mah Daddy” was not in the car when you pulled me over for driving around the construction vehicle that was completely blocking traffic. I do apologize for shocking you by not only being a female behind the wheel while my husband was in the car, but also by wearing shoes, standing somewhere other than in the kitchen, and completely defying convention by not gestating a child.

In the future, I suggest if you’re going to declare a street closed you either put up, you know, “Road Closed” signs, or, alternately, get off your ass and out of your car to direct traffic. You misogynist asshat.

Dear Venemous Feminist:

It was so excellent meeting you. I’m sorry that I wasn’t much of a conversationalist – laryngitis sucks. You are an adorable preggo, and hardly mean at all, no matter what the whacks say about you. Thanks for getting my back about the credit card!

Dear Nate and Cynthia:

Congrats on your wedding! It was beautiful. You two grew up so damn gorgeous – you’re going to make incredible babies, once that med school thing is out of the way. I hope that you always love each other even more than you did on your wedding day.

Dear Dad:

Even though you freak the fuck out when driving in urban traffic and also totally subvert my attempts to keep you from spoiling your granddaughter, I wouldn’t trade you for all the ice cream in Vermont. Thanks for doing the best thing that any dad can do for a daughter – providing an example of a man that truly respects and admires women for their abilities and intelligence. The Small Child is so lucky to be able to get to know her Dzia-Dzia. You are theee bestest.



ATV Poetry

The Kiss
Two bodies
Scuffing hand-in-hand
On that crisp almost-November night.
Under the full moon’s golden caress,
Two souls entertwine.

Adult Veeg says: GAG! Why not just say "October?" And "entertwine?" Does that mean that we were swapping spit for others’ amusement? Oooh, a portmanteau!

Also? It’s just a kiss, ATV – hold off on the whole "intermingling souls" schtick for the big stuff!

On the other hand, although this is utter treacle, it makes me smile a lot, because I have fond memories of kissing handsome young JD under a streetlight as dry leaves scuttled around our feet.



Hee! And also, "Hey!"

Birthday card from my brother [with picture of elderly wizard on front]:

Happy Birthday from Gandalf!

Inside card:

You actually got a little bit excited, didn't you?

God, what a geek.

Shu'up, Craigee. I resemble that remark!



Wordy McWordsworth

I’m blatantly ripping off Martha with this one, but it’s so good!

Some of my favorite words:

Hirsute: Someone who is hirsute looks like they’re wearing a hair suit. Hee!
Sonorous: “Sonorous” is an especial favorite when said in a sonorous voice.
Cacophonous: It sounds so percussive, and percussion is inherently cacophonous.
Titter: because I am twelve.
Triskaidekaphobia: Why is there a word for this? I don’t know, but it’s funny.
Dongle: Again, because I am twelve. And because it is proof that tech geeks are all twelve, as well.
Weiner: Surprisingly, NOT because I am twelve. But because it’s so fun to say – the verbal equivalent of a superslide – first, the sudden drop: “Wheeeeeee!” and then the long flat deceleration: “nerrrrrrrrr.” Weiner! Weiner! Weiner!

Also? Hirsute Weiner. *titter*




They say it's your birthday! It's my birthday, too, yeah!

Whee! I'm 29. That seems, paradoxically, both "old" and "way too young." Old in the sense that, when I was a kid, 29 seemed to be a very glamorous age -- it was the age of the star reporters, the feisty female PIs, the leading ladies.

And yet. . . I am not any of those things.

I'm a professional, yes, but that role pales in comparison to my lives as wife and mom. And in that way, I feel like I should be out of my twenties. I'm wasting valuable twenty-hood Friday nights folding laundry and watching a DVD, instead of dancing on bars and drinking hard liquor. I'm blowing precious third-decade Saturdays eating peanut butter sandwiches at the park or reading "Tlifford" for eighty-kajillionth time instead of combing chic secondhand stores for bargains, or, hell, sleeping until 2:00 in the afternoon.

Would I have it any other way? Not for all the world.



It was bound to happen.

VG [singing]: The itsy-bitsy spiiiiiderrr. . .
SC: Noo! TOP it, mumma! ME sing it. You wait. Be twiet.

I eagerly marked this first diva moment in her baby book. Sing out, Louise!



Weekend Observations.

Reservoir Dogs: great film.
Michael Madsen: Hot.
Godiva, Caramel Cask & Cream, half and half, and club soda: damn fine adult beverage
Sleeping in: Glorious.
Intelligentsia Black Cat: best coffee ever.
His Dark Materials: AWESOME book series.
Dancing until your feet bleed: Not as fun as it sounds
Squinting and STILL being unable to tell if the guy across the bar is hot: depressing harbinger of old age.
Red markered autograph across breasts: uplifting confirmation that you’ve still got “it.”
Noggin programming: salvation for hungover parents
Two year olds’ defiant, aggressive stages: good argument for drinking heavily.
The Sopranos finale: exhausting.



My little Southern Belle

Lisa's son A speaks in a Bostonian dialect. The Poppins brood have miniature cut-crystal English ones.

The Small Child, denizen of the upper Midwest, should by all rights speak like an extra out of Fargo. However, in her continuing quest to defy all expectations, she's developed an absolutely hilarious Southern Drawl.

A fictional (but representational) mini-script:

SC: Mama, whay-uh me bay-uh?
VG: Your bear is over there.
SC: Ovah they-uh?
VG: Yes. Behind the chair.
SC: Haahn the chay-uh.

While I do have a tendency to pick up the speech patterns of those around me, I have absolutely no clue as to where The Small Child has picked up her faaahn Suthuhn affectayshun. Ah do dee-clay-uh!



ATV Poetry.

That’s “Angsty Teen Veeg.”

While going through my boxes of files as part of the Great Crap Discarding of Ought-Four (aka moving), I found a spiral-bound notebook that I used as a journal when I was in high school. I was quite a prolific little poet back then.

Because there are no levels of personal humiliation to which I will not stoop for you, my beautiful little buds, I am going to share some of the choicest gems with you. And by “choicest gems,” I mean “embarrassingly God-awful tripe.” In the spirit of Wing Chun’s Bad Teen Novel, I’ll also include my current critique of the piece, and a little background information.

Shall we begin? Oh, let’s!

Unrequited Sonnet
Too close to me to become closer yet
You laugh and tease me because you don’t know.
But time, it seems, will not let me forget
So I can cease from putting on this show.

I’ve held you while despair tore at your heart,
You’ve smiled with joy when good things come to me.
The empty space I feel when we’re apart
Has made me realize that I’m not free.

Although the face I show you is quite real,
It masks my discontent, for I want more.
I joke rather than tell you how I feel:
That when you’re near my heart drops through the floor.

For I would rather share my feelings never
Than risk the loss of your friendship forever.

Adult Veeg says: BWAH!

This poem is particularly amusing to me on two different fronts:
1. My use of “iambic” “pentameter.” So sorry, Will!
2. I actually hooked up with the subject of this poem when I was home for a weekend one summer during my college years. Over the course of those two days I learned that my secret crush was not-at-all secret. Worse yet, I had pinned all of my adolescent lust and longing on a guy who was a HUGE disappointment in the *ahem* physical department. Sure, he was hot, but his “passionate” kisses were far more appropriate as a response to a request to “stick out your tongue and say ‘Ahhh’” than as an entreaty to further carnal pleasures. How cruelly disillusioned ATV would’ve been!



What's German for Six?

Thanks to the German-speaker who Googled "veegee," I now know that I'm the sixth-most-popular Veeg on the web.