Please do not be confused by the "pizza porn" below. I was issued a challenge and did my best to meet it. Loyal readers, I have not descended into the depths. I am just responding to a request. I will write something intelligent tomorrow. I promise.

I'm gonna give it to him. All the pizza porn I could find... for now.

Look! It's Cuntzilla!

I really need to read this article about anger management. Things are not good, my lovelies, not good at all. I'm not ready to talk about it just yet.

I did look into revenge, but I'm not interested.

Maybe reading this will help, but I'm not holding my breath.

If anyone has any happy, funny stories to share, I'd appreciate hearing/reading them. I'm in need of good cheer.

To demonstrate how responsive I am to my dear readers, I am reporting how to spot an alien hooker simply because Miss Sarah requested it.

-- A box of female human masks used by alien prostitutes.

Since today is Memorial Day in the United States, I will pause to remember a moment from my past.

While my first marriage to TEO (The Evil One, for new readers) has largely faded into the deep recesses of my memory, from time to time I am reminded of it.

Luckily, most of the memories are humorous or bittersweet, like this, this and this. Recently, an episode of MythBusters reminded me of another.

In episode 31, Adam and Jamie test an urban myth that a vacuum cleaner can explode after ingesting combustible materials.

I watched with interest, because if it was true, I left a potentially explosive device behind in the possession of TEO.

While removing some items from the former marital abode, I opened the trunk of my car to discover that my gas can had leaked. I went back inside, grabbed some kitty litter to soak up the gasoline, vacuumed it, and returned the vacuum cleaner to the house.

No trace of gas smell was left in my trunk, so I can only guess the kitty litter did its job. I can only wonder if the explosive vapors did theirs…

The Uberhubby and I landscaped today. Well, a small rectangle around the light post in the front yard, anyway. I know nothing about the outdoors, so I just took directions from hubby. He's not Mr. Green Jeans but he knows a little more than me. The lifting, bending and digging tired me out.

Too tired to write about how to spot an alien hooker. Too tired to rant on politics. Too tired to think of what I'm too tired to write about.

I will write some bad poetry:

Whither the chipmunk
Who lived in the gutter?
I think the coyote ate him.
Good riddance
He clogs our pipes no more

The girls take a bath
In melon-scented water
Heaped with bubbles
While Ariel the Mermaid
Swims beneath

When Spaghettios are smeared
Under dining room chairs
They cement with remarkable strength
It's my job to clean them
They try hard to hide
But to find them I go to great lengths

By the way, Titanic is on tonight, compounding my bliss. Have a nice night.

A busted pipe? Shakes the Clown? Your burrito-loving co-worker with a newspaper under his arm?

Think again, my lovelies. Satanic bathmats were only the start of things that can go wrong in your bathroom. Consider these possibilities:

Your toilet could explode.
"The momentary relief I felt quickly vanished when the rescuer told me the door was padlocked on the outside. There was worse news, too. A sign on the door said that hydro blasting was about to occur, and the organizers didn’t want anyone in the head because raw sewage would spew from the toilet bowls."

Your tile could explode.
"Connie in Fort Lauderdale, Fla., described a similar event in her home, except she was IN the room when the tiles let loose. She was hit and suffered cuts and scratches from flying pieces. Her words: "My husband and I noticed at one point that the floor had a hollow sound to it when it was walked on or tapped. Several days later I was standing on the tile when it started to rise up and then -- bang! It exploded like a gun being fired. So now you know that a tile explosion IS possible."

Every bottle in your cabinet could explode.
"The patrolman who answered the call, James Hughes, went to the house very skeptical and perhaps wondering how he managed to wind up with the nutcase calls. Within a few minutes though, he had changed his mind about the nature of the case... when several bottles in the bathroom popped their lids and fired them in his direction! He quickly concluded that the Herrmann’s did indeed need help."

I post these warnings as a public service for you, my loyal readers.
Be careful out there.

Thanks to my Australian friend Loz for bringing this story to my attention.

Contrast Corby's sentence to that received by one of the architects of the 2002 Bali nightclub bombings, and you'll see why Australian citizens are angry.

Side note: the two men who actually carried out the bombings did receive the death penalty.

I love my husband. I really do. And my daughters do, too. In fact, most of the time they think of him like this:


Tonight’s dinner, however, made them think of him like this:



Why? He bought the side dish at the healthy food store.

Now, I’m all for getting the kids to try something new. But you have to know your audience. For instance, I swapped the regular graham crackers for chocolate ones without a problem. And I do incorporate new vegetables from time to time, but they need to be smothered in something like butter, cheese sauce or ranch dressing.

But my husband brought home orzo salad with big chunks of roasted zucchini, peppers, mushrooms and … tofu.

Ubergirl elder looked at it and said, “I don’t want Chinese food with my hot dog.” She poked at it. “Ewww,” she said, “It’s cold and slimy.”

Ubergirl younger, who loves tomatoes, picked up a red pepper and munched on it. Horrified that it was not a beloved tomato, she spit it out and refused to trust anything else on her plate. Including her hot dog. She deconstructed it and spent the rest of dinner pounding her bun flat against the table.

My husband, whose intentions were entirely noble, was crushed.

I knew how he felt. After all, it was my delicious and nourishing beef stew that prompted Ubergirl elder to say, in a perfect Simpson’s comic book store guy accent, “Worst dinner EVER.”

I will not be online today, because Ubergirl Elder is sick.


Nothing serious, but she needs mommy. And soup.

Tonight's bedtime story was:



It was Ubergirl Younger's turn to choose.

I had no idea working in a funeral home was so interesting. I especially like the story about the Druids.

"The last thing you expect to have happen when you drop the soap is to fight with your own drain," he told us. "The stopper grew teeth and tried to bite me. And the bath mat was laughing the whole time!"

Make sure you don't get this:

When you want this:

My 10-year-old nephew is in fourth grade. When he came home from school today, he told my sister, "They put the boys in one room today, and the girls in another room. They showed us different movies."

"Oh?" said my sister, feigning surprise. "What movies?"

"They showed the girls a movie about girl body parts," he said, giggling like a goof.

"Hmmm," my sister said, knowing full well where the subject was going.

"They showed us a movie, too," he said.

"Really?" she said. "What was it about?" To her surprise, he answered, "Harriet Tubman."


"I think I would rather have watched the girls' movie," he said.

This was my 23rd post. Seriously. As you can see, it did not contain 5 lines or more. That doesn't stop it from being a classic:

If you need further warning of what could happen if America continues to dumb down, look on if you dare:

You've been warned.

“Girls have four general ways in which they can react to the cultural pressures to abandon the self. They can conform, withdraw, be depressed, or get angry. The best way for girls to productively fight back is for them to explore and begin to understand the effects of American culture on their lives. Intelligent resistance keeps the true self alive.”Reviving Ophelia
by Mary Pipher, Ph.D.



I have never taken a women’s studies course. I have never joined a feminist group. I reject the notion that all men are responsible for the unjust actions of some men. I continue to think Beethoven was a good composer and Shakespeare was a good writer; if some woman’s talents were ignored at the same time theirs were celebrated, it doesn’t change the quality of their work.

But as the mother of two daughters I still worry about gender differences and what it will mean to them. “In early adolescence,” writes Dr. Pipher, “studies show that girls' IQ scores drop and their math and science scores plummet. They lose their resiliency and optimism and become less curious and inclined to take risks.”

It’s hard to stay a smart girl. It takes guts and determination. A recent study showed a high I.Q. hampers a woman's chance to get married, while it is a plus for men. The prospect for marriage increased by 35 percent for guys for each 16-point increase in I.Q.; for women, there is a 40 percent drop for each 16-point rise. Standing up to those expectations will not be easy for my daughters.

Of course, men feel the same pressure to downplay their intelligence. A good argument could be made that Bush was elected on an anti-intellectual platform. But that’s a blog for another day…

With apologies to anyone of Japanese ancestry, I now present a collection of horribly bad haiku. Why? Because it's all I've got today.

Two SpongeBob waffles
One eaten, one turns soggy
Why is breakfast hard?

Laundry makes me cry
A thousand pink socks are lost
Daughters have small feet



I want chili dogs
Yet I cook chicken instead
Nutritious food sucks

Drinking chocolate milk
Keeps oldest daughter quiet
So I give her lots

I sincerely hope you continue to read my blog despite today's entry. Thank you.

Earlier, I asked the Incredible Hulk why someone would feel the need to burst throught walls. Here's his reply:

"Hulk is sorry Hulk did not write you back real fast, but Hulk forgets to
check his email for days and days and days. Why do people who are not Hulk
like to go through walls?

TO GET TO THE OTHER SIDE.


KEEP ON TRUCKIN'
HULK"

Isn't he the nicest? You can visit him here.

I am one happy Ubermilf today. I found out that my favorite party band of all time is getting together AGAIN!




Yes, Los Borrachos (in English, The Drunks) will be playing at Martyr's on Lincoln Avenue on Saturday, June 18.

For those of you in the Chicago area, you must attend. For those of you outside of the Chicago area, hop on an airplane. Here is a description:

"You haven't lived until you've heard these guys do their salsa version of Van Halen's "Panama" or the Rolling Stones' "Paint it Black" as a tango. There was talk of including their version of Filter's "Hey Man Nice Shot" as a hidden track on that band's next album, but that fell through with Brian Leisegang's departure. The band is a who's who of at least one segment of the Chicago music scene, featuring members of Dovetail Joint, EXO, the now-defunct Cassius Clay and Liquid Soul."

Plus, you stand a good chance of seeing Ubermilf quite tipsy.

I love going to the YMCA. It's one of my favorite things in the world. First, it provides the means by which I stay healthy and able to wear cute clothes. Second, childcare is included in the membership fee, which means I can get my exercise with a minimum of planning on my part. Third, I can take a shower there in peace.

Not a quickie shower, either. I can shave my legs, slather on lotion, style my hair, apply makeup -- just like a non-mommy!

Now, before any hetero males reading this story get themselves in a lather (sorry!), I have to ruin your mental imagery. This is not the scene from "Porky's" you may be picturing. Because I typically work out in the morning, I tend to share the locker room and the showers with the octogenarian swim class called "Rusty Hinges." Any college co-eds or other nubile young things must work out in the afternoon or evening. I apologize for any disallusionment.

There are two sets of showers at my Y. One set is basically a row of nozzles without any partitions or curtains between them. Typically, these are used by women either entering or leaving the pool, wearing their suits.

The second set have partitions and curtains, allowing for privacy. As you might have already guessed, these are used by women for actual cleansing purposes. The two sets of showers face each other, parallel along two walls.

One morning, as I was luxuriating in my peaceful steamy retreat, I heard the Rusty Hinges ladies rinse and depart. I was alone in the locker room. Then, I heard someone using the nozzles. It was an unusually long nozzling, but I didn't think anything of it until I opened my shower curtain and was confronted by some woman in an all-out assault on her pubic hair. She was hacking at it like she had crotch gnomes living in there or something.

I wrapped my towel around me and headed back to my locker.

As I was getting dressed, I thought longer about this woman's behavior. The more I pondered it, the odder the woman seemed. Why didn't she use the private shower? There were plenty available. If she liked the freedom of movement allowed by a partition-free environment (which is not at all out of the question, with her vigorous approach to shaving), why did she have to pick the nozzle directly in front of my shower? And why not face the wall, instead of outward? I can only conclude that she may have wanted me to see her. To what end, I know not. She never looked up to see my reaction.

I relate this story to my husband, and his first question is one I cannot answer ("What did she look like?), because I averted my eyes too quickly. I cannot say that I've seen her again, either. The only thing I can say with any certainty is that she did not have rusty hinges.

When we last saw my brother he was being ushered into a car by Cuntzilla and her mother. She needs a name … let’s see; we’ll go with The Mother of All Cunts – MAC, for short. So Cuntzilla and MAC whisked my brother away. But he started opening up more, and keeping secrets less.

I knew some disturbing things about my brother’s marriage even before his disappearance that night. For example, he was not allowed to use the same bathroom as Cuntzilla. She used the master bath; he used the bathroom down the hall. We knew that they lived somewhat separate lives, which some people can do successfully. In those successful relationships, however, one person may be playing golf while the other goes shopping with friends. In my brother’s case, she would be shopping with friends while he was washing the floors or trimming the bushes. My brother’s defense of this practice was, “She already finished her weekly chores. I have to do mine.” The fact that she worked one job, four days a week and he worked two jobs, six days a week apparently didn’t figure into the equation.

While those scenarios were mildly disconcerting, they were merely precursors to what we learned later. I could catalogue example upon example of unhappy circumstances, but in the interest of brevity I will relate the one that prompted me to suggest counseling, with or without Cuntzilla, to my brother. It’s not the worst of her behavior, but while her other actions primarily indicated selfishness, this performance demonstrated downright cruelty toward him.

My brother’s birthday followed soon after his coma-induced disappearance. Cuntzilla had a birthday dinner for my brother. Neither my sisters nor I were invited; she was angry with us since my sister called the cops. My brother’s friends weren’t invited; she had deemed them the “wrong sort of people” and driven them off long ago. The invitation list included her family and my parents. If she could’ve figured out how to cut them out, too, I’m sure she would have. Anyway, for my brother’s birthday, she gave him a reservation for the fifth Harry Potter book. Not the actual book, mind you, the reservation.

That’s not such a bad present. As I’ve mentioned, my brother is a huge sci-fi and fantasy geek. It’s just that HER birthday is a two – to – three-weekend extravaganza with several dinners and a definite bar set for presents. It’s not set low, I can assure you. So the discrepancy was a bit noticeable.

But here’s the bad part: she TOOK IT AWAY from him. Why? Because he would, “Spend all his time on the couch reading a book.” Yes, ladies, that’s the worst, isn’t it? When a man reads? You thought YOUR husband’s drinking, carousing, and gambling were bad? Kid stuff. Wait until he starts the REALLY bad habits, like reading.

I found out about this when my brother dropped off the Order of the Phoenix for me to read. (Yes, I am a sci-fi geek myself.) He had DISOBEYED Cuntzilla and purchased said book with a gift card given to him by her father (a nice man who is no longer married to MAC. She dumped him when he got colon cancer.) He begged me not to tell Cuntzilla about the book.

I was confused. “I thought she gave you the book,” I told my brother.

Yes, he admitted, but she took it away for the reasons stated. I asked if she had given him something else. She hadn’t. I asked him if he thought that was how someone who loved him would act. He said there were “complications.”

The complications turned out to be that she wanted him to make more money. Reading a book, while enjoyable, does not pay for Cuntzilla’s manicures and Kate Spade purses. That’s why his gift, or, more accurately, promise of a gift, was taken away. If he didn’t start making more money, she said, he’d have to move out.

Did he move out? We’ll find out in the next episode of The Cuntzilla Chronicles.

If you have, don't panic, but it could be the elusive Mongolian Death Worm. Nomads in the area claim that the Death Worm can spit yellow saliva that works like powerful acid, and that it generates electrical discharges powerful enough to kill a camel. I'm sure you'll be fine, though.

The Ubergirls and I attended a preschool field trip today to a nature area where wild animals are rehabilitated.

Some animals are unable to survive in the wild after their medical treatments, so they are put on exhibit like a mini-zoo.

One of these lovely creatures was the turkey vulture, which you see pictured. To enhance appreciation of his beauty, Ubergirl's teacher helpfully explained that the vulture's head is bald so that it doesn't get entrails stuck in its feathers when it shoves its head into the dead carcasses on which it feeds.

Then we ate lunch.

It has come to my attention that some drinking establishments may start charging patrons a vomiting tax.

This may be cause for alarm for a couple of my worthy constituents. Mr. Underhill, Lo Lo -- I'm looking at you.

For fun, says this researcher. For fairness, says Ubermilf.

Before I continue with the Missing Brother story, I have to interject something. I don’t spend my days thinking about Cuntzilla. I was spurred to write yesterday’s story because my sister called me with Cuntzilla’s most recent irritating antics. But I couldn’t launch into THAT story without giving you some context. So, without further ado, on to the context…

The next morning arrived, and, filled with hope, I called my parents’ house hoping for good news. Instead, I found out that not only had my brother NOT been found, but also that Cuntzilla was not doing anything else about it. In fact, when my mother called her earlier that morning, she had curtly cut my mother short saying, “I’m on my way to work. I’ve got to go.” When she heard nothing but a shocked pause from my mother, she said, “You know, I’ve got responsibilities.”

When I heard this, I thought there were two possibilities for her behavior: one, my brother was with another woman, Cuntzilla knew this and therefore didn’t care; or, two, she didn’t love my brother. Oh, how I hoped for number one. (No kids were involved, so she would’ve been the only one hurt.)

Just to give you some perspective on her “I’m going to work. I’ve got responsibilities” attitude, my two brothers-in-law and my husband all volunteered to stay home from work that day, in case we received gruesome news.

Anyway, I got off the phone with my mother and got the little Ubergirls ready for a trip to Grandma and Grandpa’s, where the family was meeting for a base of operations. As I was packing the diaper bag, my phone rang. It was Cuntzilla. “Can you call your family and tell them all to meet at my townhouse at 2 this afternoon? We can talk about what to do about this. Maybe we can call the police officer I talked to last night or something.

“You know, I’m getting off work early for this. I didn’t tell my boss why. I don’t want to air my dirty laundry at work.” So I hung up and did as I was told. With the “dirty laundry” comment, I went back to thinking my brother was shacked up with someone else. But, it didn’t make sense … with all the teary messages he received, would he let us all worry? That didn’t fit my brother at all. In fact, cheating didn’t fit my brother. My brother’s a bit of an oddball, as in sci-fi convention-attending oddball.

The girls and I arrived at my parents’ house; I bounded up the stairs (as quickly as one can bound while carrying a one-month-old and a diaper bag while helping a two-year-old.) I opened the door, and the long faces that greeted me told me my brother had not yet been found.

As we were going over possibilities for the hundredth time, my mother said, “Sssh.” We all listened. It was footsteps coming up the stairs. It was my brother. It was 10 a.m.

We all ran to him and smothered him with hugs and exclamations of joy and relief. We talked about his medical condition. We helped him make medical appointments. He called his wife to tell her he was okay.

She showed up at 2:30 a.m. with the Cuntzilla prototype, her mother (more interesting stories, including how she accompanied my brother and his wife on the second leg of their honeymoon, will no doubt appear some time in the future.)

They shoveled my brother quickly into the car and took him away.

But the incident loosened his tongue somewhat as to what his home life was like. It prompted memories in me of the First Husband. You remember, TEO? I’ll tell you why in the next installment.

I try to be nice, I really do. I try not to be judgmental. But I often fail. When it comes to my sister-in-law, I fail on a regular basis.

Just to be clear, if this manipulative, punitive, demanding, controlling she-troll actually loved my brother, I could shrug my shoulders and say to myself, "Well, she's not MY cup of tea, but at least she loves my brother." Alas, I can't say that to myself because it's not true. I base this conclusion on events that took place a couple of years ago.

My brother (who is secretive as hell) apparently developed a couple of medical conditions, namely high blood pressure and a malfunctioning thyroid, that when taken together caused him to pass out. Actually, he was passing out for longer and longer periods of time. In fact, he was gradually falling into a coma. We didn't find out about this until he went missing for a day and a half. Cuntzilla called my parents' house at 10 p.m. asking if my brother was there. When my parents found out that my brother was missing for as much as a day, and that he had PASSED OUT BEFORE in his car for hours, they were understandably upset.

They asked questions such as, “Did you call the police?” “Have you checked his cell phone records?” and “Have you checked his ATM/credit cards?” The answers were all negative.

My parents called my sisters and me. My sisters sprung into action; since I had a 1 month old and a 2 year old at home, I wasn’t very springy. And Uberhubby was working late. My oldest sister called Cuntzilla again and told her to make sure to give the cops the VIN number of my brother’s car when she reported my brother missing.

Cuntzilla said she wasn’t going to call the cops and she didn’t know the VIN number even if she did. As oldest sister was telling her, “It’s on your car insurance…” Cuntzilla hung up. Oldest sister called police and told them the story.

Meanwhile, Uberhubby came home after working late and found one distraught Ubermilf. I told him the whole story, including her refusal to call the police, and suggested that maybe she was in denial or too upset to think clearly. Uberhubby drove over to my brother’s house. (We lived closest to them, anyway.)

When he got there, the cops had arrived. They were talking to one pissed off Cuntzilla.

When she saw my husband, she snarled, “Why are you here? Checking to make sure I didn’t bury him on the ninth hole?” (They lived next to a golf course.)

“No,” replied hubby, gently, to calm her down. “I’m here to help.” He offered to take her driving in an attempt to find my brother. She refused, with Cuntzilla iciness. He offered to stay, but was forced to leave before suffering from hypothermia. From that night forward, Cuntzilla has harbored bitter hatred for Uberhubby in her heart. You’d have to ask her for the exact reason; I suspect it’s because hubby was the only person besides the cop to actually see her that night, and was thus in a position to dispel the distressed wife tale she tried to weave.

Since this story is running long, I shall finish it another time. Suffice it to say, Cuntzilla gets worse. And worse.

Advertising in the 70's was much more violent than advertising today. Remember "Hey, Kool Aid!"? Remember what would happen? Kool Aid Man would burst through the wall.

Remember the Schlitz Malt Liquor Bull? Remember what he used to do? He used to burst through the wall.

How about the Honeycomb Hideout. Anyone remember what happened there? That's right: someone was always bursting through the wall looking for a "big, big taste." Because Honecombs cereal, remember, was big, big, big. It's not small; no, no, no.

Even something as benign as candy involved violence. Someone eating a chocolate candy bar while walking down the street would bump into someone (inexplicably) doing the same with a jar of peanut butter and - BOOM- an altercation would break out. Were it not for the exceptional deliciousness of the resulting candy -- Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, of course -- someone might have called the police.

Was the trend meaningful, somehow? Did it feed into some sort of American appetite for destruction?
Or, was it simply a matter of advertising executives stealing each others' material? I have invited The Incredible Hulk to respond, since he has firsthand experience breaking through walls. If anyone else has insight, feel free to leave it.

My favorite, and today's her day! Patron saint of the mentally ill, St. Dymphna ditched her pervert father (who happened to be king) when he wanted to "marry" her. She ran away with the parish priest and the court jester and his wife. Her dad found them in Belgium and cut all their heads off. She's one cool chick.

If you want the ideal shape, face etc., it's probably more like 1%.
That's an excerpt from this study.

For Uberhusband's birthday in March, I bought him a book of pin-up art by Varga. Despite the obvious sensual nature of the art in this book, it didn't bug me the way today's pornography does. I realized why: Varga depicted all sorts of women -- different hair colors, facial structures, body types. Today, a very rigid set of definitions is at play. Frankly, I think MEN enjoy women in all their beautiful variety. It's some sick marketer somewhere who decided that skeletons with blobs of fat-like substances surgically attached to their ribcages was the new beauty ideal. No, not ideal -- ONLY OPTION AVAILABLE in order to be attractive.

This woman really knows how to defend herself. ¡Usted va, muchacha!

As a mouse drowns in Cheez Whiz
I am engulfed by your love
I am pulled under
Yet why resist it
When I would die for your cheese

My ubergirls ate cereal twice today. Sometimes it’s three times a day. In fact, I don’t think it would be too long of a stretch to say the gain most of their nutrients from cereal and the milk that goes with it. Why? Because cereal is their compromise food.

I don’t have any empirical evidence to back up this claim, but I believe most if not all parents of children old enough to eat solid food have a compromise food -- that food that falls somewhere between candy and vegetables on the food continuum. The food that, when mentioned as an option, both parties grudgingly agree upon. It may be cheese for some, peanut butter for others, or applesauce for yet another. Whatever it may be, it has some nutritional value but some fun factor like fat or sugar as well.

Not everything in the uberhousehold is subject to compromise, of course. Some behavior is simply not tolerated. Hitting or other violence, rudeness or refusal to follow instructions all result in discipline. Spanking is not a discipline tool in our household, but not for soft-hearted reasons. I do not spank because I learned from the masters, my parents, how tortuous other forms of discipline can be.

For example, when one of us kept slamming the door or jumping on the stairs despite being repeatedly told to stop, we had door closing or stair climbing lessons. Obviously, the logic went, we didn’t know the correct way to do these things, so we’d have to practice doing it right. About 50 times or so.

Or, when we misbehaved in public, my father would start singing at the top of his lungs. When we protested, horrified, pleading embarrassment, my father would say, “Well, you’re embarrassing ME. When you stop embarrassing ME, I’ll stop embarrassing YOU.”

Worst of all was the LECTURE. My father had this ponderous method of explaining our offenses to us, droning on and on ad nauseum. We didn't bother to try to whine or plead your way out of this agony; any interruption was met with, “Now I lost my place. I have to start over. What were we talking about? Oh, that’s right: ir re spon si bi lit y.”

I envied the kids who received a swat. It was over so quickly. The torment of these nonviolent punishments was excruciating.

I have it relatively easy. Both girls crave social contact so much that being isolated in a bedroom is anguish to them. Thus, time outs work for us, although they are certainly not universally successful.

No matter the means of punishment, consistency is of utmost importance. Severity is no guarantee of deterrence. After all, murders still take place where capital punishment exists. But surety of getting caught, that makes a difference.

If all else fails, take the Cocoa Krispies away.

First, this. Then, this. What next? Perhaps Ubergirl should add a bulletproof vest to her school uniform for kindergarten next year.

Miss Kathy keeps prompting me to continue my saga, so I will.

Thanksgiving comes and goes. Soon, it's Christmas. Now, every Christmas and Easter the Catholic Church holds big confession round-ups where you have a communal service, then you can see one of a half-dozen priests for an individual confession. (As an aside, I know people have had bad experiences with the Catholic Church. I respect that. That just hasn't been my experience. Call me lucky.)

Anyway, I attend one of these round-ups. When it ends, I get in line for an individual session. I wind up with a palsied, 80-year old guy whom I talk to face to face (you can also choose the old-fashioned hidden screen way, but I say if you're going to face things, face them all the way.) I spill out all the sordid details of my brief marriage, sparing the poor old guy nothing. His shaking increases. When I finally finish, he says, "Your penance is to thank God you're out of that bad situation. And start your annulment as soon as possible."

So I do. I get the paperwork from the diocese. One piece of information they need is First Husband's (formerly known as TEO in earlier posts) social security number. Hmmm. I don't have it. So my lawyer (oh, how wonderful that man was) tells First Husband he has to vacate the former marital abode while I search for the information I need.

Of course, when I get there I search for signs of First Husband's deviant behavior as well. I find nothing out of the ordinary (stacks and stacks of pornography and tubes of lube and such were ordinary for him.) And, he had changed the password on his computer (that's how I busted him in the first place, but that's a story for another time.) So, I give that up and go to the box where the tax information is kept. I open it and find a brown paper bag in addition to the tax records. The bag contains a box of condoms (his first sign of intelligence) and about 5 Poloroids of what appeared to be Joey Ramone in drag. In various stages of undress. In what presumably were meant to be erotic poses. I laugh my ass off.

Then, I get pissed. Earlier, when I informed First Husband I was leaving him, he wanted to stay together. His chats with men were just curiosity, he said (I had proof to the contrary, but he didn't know that at the time). He wanted to stay married. This new, irrefutable evidence infuriates me, because now I know he was willing to sacrifice MY future and MY happiness just to appear "normal" to his family and coworkers. So, I take one of the pictures, just one, so he could always wonder "Did I have 4 or did I have 5?" I choose the one with Joey Ramone bent over a chair in ladies' underwear. And I leave with all the information I need.

I call my lawyer the next day to ask if he wants the picture for further evidence. He says no, with what I think may have been a shudder. My sister puts the picture in a sealed envelope in her file cabinet, where it stays to this day.

The annulment goes through with flying colors. My friends and family get to put their fondest memories of First Husband down on paper for the diocese. I get closure. First Husband gets nothing but further embarassment. All in all, a most satisfying ending.

I was going to save this story for later, but I've received a couple of requests for it, so here goes.

My mom came of age in the 50's, so she doesn't talk about sex much. She never portrayed it as bad or dirty or anything, she just never portrayed it in any terms at all. My "birds and the bees" talk consisted of this, when I was about 12 or so: "Did they teach you about sex in health class?" Uncomfortable nodding from me. "Good," she said.

So, when I returned home for a brief period after leaving TEO for the reasons we've already covered, we didn't revisit the topic very often. This was fine with me, since I was focused on looking forward, not back.

I was living at home in November, when Thanksgiving hits. It was the day before Thanksgiving when some of TEO's friends called me, saying they wanted to see me and they didn't want to lose me as a friend. They promised TEO would not be present. Initially, I agreed. But then the thought of that brought back too many bad memories, and I started to cry.

Meanwhile, my mom was in the kitchen cleaning the turkey for the next day. She had her entire forearm inserted into the turkey's cavity when I walked into the kitchen. She glanced up, and noticed I was crying. "What's wrong?" she asked with maternal concern. "What happened..." Then, willing to do ANYTHING to comfort and cheer her wounded offspring, went straight for the dirty joke. "Does THIS remind you of TEO?" she said, arm still thrust into the turkey's gaping midsection.

I hope I can do as much to soothe my girls when they are down. She was also quite funny in the Department of Health office where I had to get my aids test, due to TEO's activities. Posted prominantly throughout the office was an anti-smoking poster entitled "Butts are Gross" and featuring photos of several animals' posteriors. "Maybe someone should've shown THAT to TEO," she quipped. My mom can be pretty funny sometimes.

If any of you want to buy me a present, or simply want to know what I smell like, here is my fragrance of choice

Since Miss Kathy brought up this story, I thought I'd flesh it out.

Before I was an Ubermilf, I was a dumb girl. While I was a dumb girl in high school, I dated The Evil One (TEO). While in college, I wanted to dump TEO, but he proposed. With dumb girl visions of pretty Cinderella dresses and happily ever after, I said yes. Needless to say, it was a tragic error. TEO turned out to be a self-loathing closeted gay man who became more and more abusive as time went on. So I left and have been happy ever since. But let's listen in as my mother tells my 89-year-old grandmother about the situation.

Mom: "... so she'll be staying here a little while until her apartment is ready. You know, he was using the internet to meet men."
Grandma: "Hmmm."
Mom: "And he was kicking her at his mother's wedding."
Grandma, shocked and angry: "He kicked our Sue?"
Mom: "And was meeting up with men."
Grandma, pissed: "OUR Sue?"
Mom: "And he had sex with them."
Grandma: "He KICKED OUR SUE?"
Mom: "Did you hear the part about the SEX with the MEN???"
Grandma, a bit condescendingly: "I know, Carol. I watch "Montel."
pause.
Grandma: "I can't believe he kicked our Sue."
pause.
Grandma: "If I ever saw him walking down the street, I'd spit on him." and scene.

So grandma had a good handle on the situation. Yes, I still would've divorced TEO after discovering he was gay; since I am heterosexual and wanted children, this would've presented an unresolveable conflict in our life goals. However, being gay did not make him evil. His abuse and refusal to get help sorting out his life did that.

This story ends happily, of course. Uberhusband is exceptionally loving and undeniably heterosexual. And, doesn't watch NASCAR.

Thanks to B.A. for bringing us more news from the Great White North. Maybe Gordon Lightfoot could compose his theme song.

Sometimes, a simple act like draining the bathtub can bring you joy:



Hee Hee! Nothin' says lovin' like somethin' from the oven! Hee Hee!

We never have arguments about chores at our house. Well, between my husband and me. Trying to get a two- and four-year-old to clean up their toys is like trying to get the Bush administration to clean up the environment. Only with my kids, there's a lot less hysterical nonsense involved. Anyway, my husband and I work very well together, and we've arrived at a joint conclusion: it's because he doesn't watch NASCAR.

Now don't get me wrong, Uberhusband enjoys cars and racing very much. He likes Formula One racing and road rallies. But cars driving around in a circle? Not so much. This, and voluminous coffee consumption, explains why Uberhusband gets things done.

You see, all those shiny objects going 'round and 'round while the observer lays prone on a couch very likely (now, I'm not a doctor, but that won't stop me from drawing conclusions) puts that observer in a state of hypnosis. So when the NASCAR fan's wife yells, "Earl! Come take out the trash!" And Earl mumbles "m'kay" from the couch, he can hardly be blamed for laying on the couch for another three hours while the shiny objects go 'round and 'round. Poor Earl is in a trance.

In fact, if you tape NASCAR and push rewind, the backwards-moving cars send messages like "Drink Budweiser!", "Chew Skol!" and "Eat pork rinds!" They never, ever say, "Get off the couch and take out the garbage!"

I shouldn't pick on Canada for foisting those three satanic songstresses on the world, when America has produced some of the worst musical abominations ever known to mankind. With that in mind, I'd like to start a debate. Who has wreaked more musical havoc, Hall and Oates or Lionel Ritchie?

Also in defense of Canda, Dash Bradley comes from Winnipeg. The two-year-old Ubergirl loves Dash Bradley. Actually, she can't read. She just loves the frog. "Froggy!" she cries, delightedly, when she sees him. She has a pair of pajamas with a frog on them that she refused to take off. When I try to put a different pair on her she stubbornly refuses. "No!" she says, pouting. "Dese. With Froggy." This lasted up until last night when I managed to get the pink bunny pajamas on her. She touched the little white bunny on the front, stroked it lightly, then said hesitantly, "Bunny." Then, brightly, with a smile, "Bunny!" Thus ends the reign of Dash Bradley in my little one's heart.

Of course, there's really no telling which blog she prefers. She did kiss B.A. on the cheek.

People love movies for different reasons. For example, I love The Blues Brothers for nostalgic purposes.

First, it captures my home town at a time when it was gritty, spunky and devoid of trixies. Second, I remember watching it with my dearly departed grandma (bushia, for my Polish friends.) She sat through the whole movie, without a word. She tapped her toe doing the music scenes (grandma always loved musicals) and smiled whenever they showed neighborhoods she recognized. She had no problem with flying Baptists, Ray Charles shooting a gun with precision, or Nazi vehicles falling through the air. These things she accepted. But at the very end of the movie, when the Blues Brothers make it to the Daly Center to pay the orphanage's taxes, she folded her arms and said sternly, "The tax department is on the SECOND floor." The movie's authenticity was forever tainted for her. It was almost as fun watching The Blues Brothers with her as it was watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail (Hey! They don't have any horses!)

Then, there are movies I hate. Simply being bad does not place a movie in the hated category. For example, if a movie promises no more than mindless escapism, then provides mindless escapism, I have no quarrel with it. But if a movie garners numerous Oscars, promises to be touching and poignant, and then is The Titanic, then I hate it.

Titanic had soulless characters for whom I had no feeling, a stupid storyline, not to mention a predictable ending (but I suppose it can't be blamed for that. You mean, the ship SINKS?) Yes, the Titanic was not merely bad, but eye-gougingly bad. With ear drum-poppingly bad music by Celine Dion.

Speaking of Celine Dion, I would now like to address our sweet, cuddly neighbors to the north, the Canadians (ou Canadiennes, si tu prefieres.) Why, Canada, why? Why Celine Dion? Why Melissa Manchester? Why Anne Murray? Oh, Canada.

One of the skills at which Ubermilf excels is cooking. And baking. And creating general yumminess. Tonight I am making cassoulet with fresh baked french bread and a green salad. I am not claiming to be perfect. But sometimes I kick ass.

Last night, I celebrated my friend's 40th birthday with the aging vanguard of Chicago hipsters. As my friend and her husband are primarily musicians, the room was filled with people who had played with bands like the Smashing Pumpkins, Filter, Dovetail Joint as well as many bands who deserved to go national but never did. Also included were actors who had had bit parts on "Seinfeld", jewelry designers, and a hodgepodge of workers from the nonprofit sector. Consult your history books if this sounds unfamiliar, kids. See the last paragraph for amusing Smashing Pumpkins tidbits.

Yes, Ubermilf was kickin' it old school last night. Actually, it's the only way Ubermilf KNOWS how to kick it, since she IS old school. My only problem with getting older is this: Baby Boomers have ruined aging just as they have ruined most things. Before, there was something of a template to follow for getting older. No more. Baby Boomers, in their fervor to deny that they are no longer the cool kids, have viciously clung to youthful pretension. Like Dick Clark, they insist on eternally remaining teenagers. They have effectively eliminated that middle ground between the club-hopping 18 to 34-year-old demographic and the golfing retirees.

I don't want to pretend I'm still a young hottie on the prowl. I want to be a smoldering sophisticate sipping martinis at a jazz club. I want to attend art openings and view foreign films. Then, I want to go home and pay the babysitter, get up and make cinnamon rolls and coffee, and read the Sunday paper. I know, who says I can't (or don't) do these things? I do. I just can't find clothes to do them in. I know this sounds shallow. It is shallow. But part of the fun of going out is getting dressed and coiffed, at least for me. And I don't want to wear hip huggers OR Floridian resort gear. I want elegance. I'm not getting it unless I'm getting really fancy, like for a wedding. Where are my jazz club clothes??!!

Anyway. Back to last night and amusing Smashing Pumpkins tidbits. The band that played was "Los Borrachos," my absolute favorite party band of all time. They were formed as a pick-up practice band and gained a loyal cult following. They take hits from the 70's and 80's, change all the words to Spanish and put them to a salsa beat. This includes bands like AC/DC, Van Halen and various disco artists. They have a segment called "Stump the Borrachos" where the crowd yells out a song and they have to play it or buy you a shot. Caveats: no Swedish disco a la Abba, and at least 2 other people in the crowd have to have heard of the song. I stumped them with "Master and Servant" by Depeche Mode. I've never stumped them before. They've now added "no Depeche Mode" to their caveats.

Billy Corgan of the Smashing Pumpkins actually had Los Borrachos play his birthday party in the mid-90's. Let's just say it's a good thing he doesn't speak Spanish. I'm going to leave it at that. Another tidbit: way before pumpkins became famous, a group of my friends saw them play the Metro. They were ... not good. In fact, they became a benchmark for us. When someone went to see a band, and gave a negative review, the question was always, "Were they Smashing Pumpkins-bad?" And the answer was typically, "Well, not THAT bad." And lo and behold, who makes it big? Again, no justice in this world.

I bid you adieu. Oh, yes, Happy Mother's Day to all.

I know that's hardly a unique sentiment. But I hate them not only for the havoc they wreak on the lives of their innocent victims, but also because they restrict the freedom of every parent and child. I can't post an adorable picture of my 2-year-old in her ballet regalia on my blog. Pedophiles. I can't keep my eyes off my kids at the park. Pedophiles. I will worry about my daughter and her friends riding bikes together, even when her age is in the double digits. Pedophiles. Coaches, teachers, troop leaders, even clergy -- I am now wary of them all. Pedophiles, pedophiles, pedophiles!

And it's not just the pedophiles themselves; it's the dirtbags who will do anything for a buck that must be guarded against as well. Speaking of that, where do pedophiles get all their damn money? They hop planes to other cities at a moment's notice to have sex with a kid. When's the last time you knew of a normal person who did that? Who could do that? Then, when the cops search their creepy lairs, they find tons of equipment and find out that these perverted lowlifes spend 8 hours a day wanking to child pornography. How can they hold down a job with a schedule like that? I know plenty of lovely, wonderful people who have trouble making ends meet. Yet these demented sons of ... where is the justice?

I hate pedophiles.

Thank God for T.V. Without it, I don't know what would fuel the fury which keeps me going. Specifically this morning, a diet commercial gushed "I went from a size 10 to a size 4 in 2 months!", and my 4-year-old daughter turned to me and said, eagerly, "Does that sound like a good idea, mommy?" I became so pissed off, I made blueberry pancakes for my entire family.

Now, the Uberfamily is not your typical obese American family. We joined the YMCA, we live by the largest park in town, Uberhusband bikes to the train -- so we get exercise. Although we put both cream and sugar in our coffee, we do not drink soda or eat much over-processed food.

We are medium-sized people. Depending on height, a size 10 can either belong to a medium-sized or a thin woman. I have never met a woman on whom a size 10 would signal obesity. That includes the 4 foot 8 inch nun who teaches kindergarten at my daughter's school. So I'm pissed. I'm pissed that T.V. alternates Burger King commercials with weight loss commercials. I'm pissed at the suggestion that a size 10 is so horrible that one must attend a weight-loss clinic to shed its shame as quickly as possible. I'm pissed that, in a country where obesity is a serious health problem, the aim of good health has been replaced by the aim of becoming skeletal. The fact that my 4-year-old is already getting this message pisses me off beyond belief. The fact that I happen to be a size 10 has nothing to do with it.