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As Finn will turn three in about six weeks, we are fast pursuing the poop goes in the potty concept.  Finn likes to sing the song - while he poops in his diaper.  For months now we’ve been talking about using the potty, but so far no porcelain goddess has been graced by the sweet little heinie of  Finnian. 

Recently we were discussing the issue and I asked Finn why he wasn’t ready to use the potty.  After all, Dora uses a potty; Diego uses a potty; Hannah Montana uses a potty!  He replied with the most patient, reserved-for-complete-morons look: 

“Mommy, I love to sit in poop!”

How do you argue with that one?

The other day we went to The Dump to buy furniture for the dump.  (Stay with me now.)

As we got out of the car, Finn said he had to use the potty.

Nathan and I looked at each other and for a split second we considered that this might be the turning point.  Then we both got distracted by a really cool leather sectional and the moment passed.

Three minutes later the stench in the air made it clear we had made a mistake.

Crap.

Finn came this close to taking his first big boy dump at The Dump while buying furniture for our dump.

I was excited to write a post today about all the super cool bargains I got at a thrift store recently, the best being a brand spanking new pair of black, hightop Chucks in Nathan’s size but it turned out that only one of the shoes was in his size while the other one was a size and a half smaller, so there goes that post.

Then I thought I could write a post about my late arrival to Facebook and all the things I really hate about it like the poking and the food throwing (Maura) and the causes I’ve never heard of like join my cause to stop housewives from blogging but then I saw this, so there goes that post.

I thought maybe I would write about how this weekend Nathan chased me around, pinned me down and farted on me and then laughed about it all weekend but some people from his workplace read this and it probably crosses a line and might gross everybody out, so there goes that post.

I guess that means writing about sex is out too.

I could write about how Nathan really does squeeze every last drop out of life and how he went sledding at midnight last night, but when he went to leave for The Hill there was no gas in either of our cars and he couldn’t go, so there goes that post.

I could write about how my sisters spoil me and how jodi took the big kids on Saturday while Nora took the little kids so Nathan and I could go out without signing over our house to a babysitter, but they both let all four kids stay up so freaking late that Sunday turned out to be a day full of meltdowns and sniffles and fights and sour throats, so there goes that post.

I had thought I’d write about all the commercials that drive me crazy like the soft porn Dove lotion commercials and the one where Penelope Cruz endorses some kind of cream that makes her pores look very small but leaves her with a mustache or the “I want a footlong” ad campaign that is just creepy but I could only think of those three, so there goes that post.

I could write about all the awesome blog awards I’ve gotten in the last couple of months but that one would take a lot of time because of all the linking and I don’t have the time because it’s a snow day and all of my kids are downstairs chewing the plaster off of my walls while I’m holed up typing and it would also be a little boring, not that I don’t love to toot my own horn, so there goes that post.

I could write about all the friends and family who are so sweet to comment all the time on this blog and how it totally motivates me to keep going and makes me feel loved but - oh, nobody leaves comments ( aside from Maryann who is now my favorite cousin) - so there goes that post.

I could write about the fact that I think the first rule to successful blogging is keep it short and don’t write if you’ve got nothing to say, but, well, there goes that post.

I could write about how clean my house is but that would be a big fat lie.

I could write about how filthy my house is but then maybe nobody would ever want to come visit us.

One can’t be brilliant every day, you know!

A shitty poem:

On a shirt. 

I meant it when I said I give up.

With love.

I’d like to thank Gwen for the awesome inspiration!

Okay, let’s put our nation’s demise aside for a moment, because I have something else on my mind.  Are Manny and Kelly an item?  I mean, he goes to that hardware store every single day and he doesn’t buy anything in bulk.  This can’t be economically sound for crap’s sake - he’s a small business owner!  So I’m thinking he must be doing it to see Kelly, right??  But I just don’t feel the chemistry.  Maybe she’s not into men, and I’m not stereotyping her because she’s into hardware or because she wears her hair short.  Maybe he’s holding out for a Spanish girl, and if so I think a whole lot less of him.  Dude in the Baseball Cap could do a lot worse than that little Irish girl. 

I think they’re just dragging the inevitable out, trying to create an arc, like on The Office.  Alice didn’t fall for Sam the butcher in season one, now did she?  Think how long it took Monica and Chandler to get together, although they both sort of dated other people and Manny doesn’t seem to have anything else going on except a little banter with Dusty the Saw, but I just don’t think she’s his type. 

Now Manny’s singing about Kelly on the radio.  That has to mean something, albeit it’s a commercial about her hardware store which isn’t exactly serenading, but there’s a southern twang to his voice that has to come from heartbreak in love.  All country music is about heartbreak in love, right?

The thought of their future together has my mind wandering to naughty places.  I mean, talking tools and all.  Whose mind wouldn’t wander there…

I hope that little redhead gets her man!

Lately I’ve been meeting people who already know me from reading my blog.  Although I find it sort of flattering, it has its problems: Inevitably, soon after the formal introductions are made, I notice these people straining their necks to assess me for chin hairs.  If that’s not distracting enough, instead of listening to their polite get-to-know-you questions and comments, I’m thinking about what they’re thinking of me considering I included the word bl*w-j*b in a post last week.  (Editor’s note: my mother’s computer is on the fritz.)

I’m almost always socially awkward to begin with, unless I’m plopped in the middle of a family gathering where I feel cocooned by the warmth of my huge extended family and surrounded by blood relatives who are far crazier than me; but being in the presence of perfect strangers who know the intimate details of my life, like what I sleep in, my worst parenting bloopers, and my propensity to over-use the word crap, is daunting.  Worst of all, I can’t revert to my roll as the funny lady because they’ve already read every bit of my material. 

This is also why I hesitate to meet other bloggers.  You can’t imagine how freeing it is to get to know people without the ramifications of chemistry, unless you are one of those people who is addicted to dating men in prison.  It’s a lot like that, really.  You don’t genuinely want to meet that ax-murderer/rapist for fear he won’t find you as adorable as he does in your long, thought-out, edited letters or your photo-shopped pictures.  Because you know that prisoner does not include your cellulite and bad breath when he calls up a mental image of you that he’s created in his head from just your words.

Oh, crap.  This is not to mean that I have cellulite or bad breath.  Okay, a little on the tops of my thighs, dammit!

See?  It’s best if I just remain behind bars, trading cigarettes for kinky favors from the other inmates.  

“Pull my finger.”