Recently my 5 year-old daughter told my mother-in-law that I don’t put toilet paper down on a public toilet seats. Thanks, Dylan. I really appreciate you having my back like that.

For the record, it’s not true.

I often do put toilet paper on the seat but by the time I get the girls up onto the seat, half the paper has already fallen into the toilet. It’s not an ideal system. When do girls learn that fantastic skill of squatting over a toilet so their butt cheeks never even skim the seat?

Nothing about public restrooms is ideal.

Take our recent trip to Cape Cod -  we stop at a local coffee shop so I can use the bathroom. I swing open the door to the ladies’ room and there indeed is a lady sitting on the toilet right in front of me. She looks at me. I look at her. That millisecond felt like the length of a James Cameron movie.

I utter “I’m so sorry” and slam the door. And then I go into the mens’ room and lock the door.  I pee and then wait.  I try to allot enough time for her to finish up her business, wash her hands, grab a cup of coffee, leave the establishment, write a full length novel and train a Shetland pony before I exit.

I am not interested in having small talk with this woman about her preference for sitting vs. squatting and whether she puts paper on the seat.

I join Rick and the girls out front. I mention nothing to them. We pick out snacks and then turn to pay the cashier.  And OF COURSE the cashier is the same woman from the bathroom.

As she handles our food, I think, oh I really hope she did wash her hands in there.

And I really wish this had been my only awkward moment of the week but I finally took those boots (the ones that Summer threw-up in) to the shoe cobbler to be cleaned. Are we all still using the word “cobbler” or did I just time travel to 1834? Anyway, I had cleaned them extensively at home (inside and out) but felt they needed the hands of a professional.

When I pick them up (all shiny and buffed), the shoe guy says to me, “What exactly was in those boots?”

And because I believe in total honesty and serving as an example for my children, I look him in the eye and say, “I don’t know.”

Thankfully, my children aren’t with me so I am able to lower the honesty threshold just a hair.

And the shoe guy looks at me with an expression that clearly says – Don’t lie to me, lady. I’ve been cleaning shoes for decades. So just go ahead and tell me the truth.

So I add, “My kids were playing with them. I don’t know what happened.”

Because I think every shoe cobbler knows that’s code for “vomit.”

mama bird notes:

A couple reminders on the BlogHer 2010 front…

Last chance to vote for us (yes, I’m groveling)! The Mouthy Housewives and Mommy Wants Vodka have put in for a Room of our Own on how to create a super fabulous, entertaining advice site.

So please just click here, log on to BlogHer and then click “I would attend this session” (it’s just above the title: Dear Abby 2.0). After you click it, it will miraculously say “I would not attend this session.” This means that your vote for the session has been successfully registered. Thank you!

And if you like cocktail parties… The Mouthy Housewives are throwing a happy hour party at BlogHer this summer!! If you want to find out all the details and how to sign up when the time comes, join our Facebook group by clicking here.

On Sunday, we headed to Cape Cod for my dad’s surprise retirement party.

Frankly I wanted to find out what he was doing with his new found freedom other than consistently sending me Calvin & Hobbs cartoons from Go Comics. Can you make a day of Calvin & Hobbs? My dad can.

My dad knew he was having dinner with close friends but had no idea that Rick, Dylan, Summer and I and some other out-of-town friends were coming.

So we all gathered at a friend’s house and our look-out man (a 10 year-old by the name of Samuel) gave us the sign that my dad was approaching. All the out-of-town guests (including us) rushed into the bedroom so we could surprise him. And then there was a slight hiccup with our plan.

5 year-old Dylan refused to come into the bedroom. Suddenly, she was all Miss Anti-surprise.

I pleaded with her to come back. She cried. I told her to come back into the bedroom or she’d get no dessert later. She sobbed harder. (Why do my brilliant parenting ideas never pan out?!) I pulled her back into the bedroom and she howled. I hugged her and tried to calm her down while scanning the room for duct tape. Her deep sobbing reverberated through the entire house.

You might have concluded at this point that Dylan is not the best person to invite to a surprise party.

Despite Dylan’s persistence, we did end up surprising my dad (he thought the crying was someone else’s salty granddaughter) and he was thrilled to see us when we bounded out of the bedroom.

And we got a lot more details on his plans for the future.

Turns out his retirement plan so far consists of watching every moment of the Olympics, which is a pretty good plan except for the 3 years and 48 weeks of off time when the games aren’t on.

So during those rare moments when the Olympics are on hiatus, he wants to relive his college glory days by joining the recreational senior ice hockey circuit. Ice hockey at 67.  What could possibly go wrong?

The next day, we all went bowling where I finally smartened up (upon your recommendations) and used the gutter guards myself.

And I STILL lost. To my 5 year-old and 3 year-old. It’s humiliating, people. But then I did whip Dylan’s arse in air hockey so I gained back a morsel of self respect. I really showed that preschooler.

And judging from the comments on my last post, you all think I’m the only one wearing a tiara in our family.  And I just want to assure you that is most definitely not the case.

P.S. I really wish this photo had been “staged” but the guy actually put this on without my input.

P.P.S. Obviously this is not an endorsement to drive while wearing a tiara. We all know how dangerous that can be.

mama bird notes:

Do you like to do good? If yes, here are a couple great opportunities….

Help out a fellow blogger, Utterly Chaotic by visiting MSNBC today to read more about Rett Syndrome. Her 13 year-old daughter suffers from this serious disorder. And if you’d like to donate, click here.

If you are in the New York City area, The Children’s Cancer & Blood Foundation is holding a fundraiser at American Girl Place next Monday (March 1st) to raise money to treat children with cancer and blood diseases who can’t afford care. American Girl is underwriting all the costs, so 100% of the money helps out these kids.  Tickets are $75. Get more information here and buy tickets or donate here. Thank you!

Visit to the aquarium. Check.

Trip to see old dinosaur bones. Done.

Showed girls Olympic pairs skating. They were delighted. Showed girls Olympic curling competition. We were all confused. Check.

Wore tiaras and made finger puppets. Yup.

Gymnastics at the Y. Done.

Visit to the library. Check.

Trip to see Ellen Watermelon perform. Check.

Summer refused to ever take off her coat at Ellen Watermelon. Double check.

Outing to the grocery store. Went again. Maybe one more time. Went out for pizza. Visit to the local toy store. Got smoothies. Had play dates. Ate ice cream. Read books. Naked flashlight dancing after dinner (just girls, not Rick and me). Painted pictures. Ate snacks. Ate more snacks. Puzzled as to why no one is hungry at dinner time. Played Candyland. Told Dylan for the 157th time to stop cheating at Candyland. Picked up toys. Picked up toys again. And yet again.

Check. Check. Check.

Condition of mother at the end of the week?

Days until the next “vacation?”

35.

Rick and I have decided that in all likelihood we will become Olympic pair skaters. He wants us to skate together so that some other man wearing a flashy, sparkly jumpsuit doesn’t have his hand supporting my lady parts during the lifts.

I, on the other hand, think we should have different partners because can you imagine skating with your spouse? And then he falls? When you’re in medal contention? How do you work that out in couple’s therapy?

I guess you’d meet your girlfriends for a coffee and complain, “Not only does my husband consistently forget to empty the dishwasher but did you see how he fell during his double toe loop and killed our chances of even a bronze?! 10th place in Vancouver? Who needs that crap? I really could kill him sometimes.”

If for some unexplainable reason we don’t become Olympic pair skaters, then we are going to, at the very least, try to work more snowboarding lingo into our daily conversation.

For example, when we go out, I would normally say, “Are you going to order a martini?”

Now I’ll say, “Your usual double Mctwist 1260?”

Or when we’re driving, instead of saying, “Look. There’s a parking spot. But it’s small. Do you think you can parallel park it?”

Now I’ll just say, “Honey, that parking spot is tight. Do you think you can frontside double-cork 1080 it?”

I can only imagine how much cooler everyone is going to think we are with our new fancy Shaun White inspired vocab. By the way, I showed Dylan and Summer Shaun White’s snowboarding performance at the games and Dylan said, “SHE’S really talented.”  Since he won gold, I doubt he cares.

Meanwhile, I’m currently on a radio strike because I turned on NPR for two minutes the other day and they announced who had won the gold in the women’s downhill skiing (before I had a chance to watch it that night).

Dear NPR,

I’m very nice to you. I give you money. I listen to your long arse stories about water rights issues in Washington state. I put up with your callers that are so long winded that it take three days to finally formulate their question or comment. The very least you can do for me in return is to give a spoiler alert before you announce Olympic results because I (like many fans) are watching the competitions at night.  Just give me a couple seconds to lunge towards the radio and change it to my favorite soft rock.

Because I no longer trust you during the Olympics, I won’t be listening for the next few weeks. Tell Leonard Lopate that it’s nothing personal. Still a fan, Kelcey in New York.

mama bird notes:

Seems like weight loss is a big issue these days with everyone running from the thin mints. Contributing mama Erin Butler is determined to do something about it and she found a super cheap personal trainer. Click on contributing mamas to read more.

By Contributing Mama Erin Butler

I hate working out. I am not even going to dance around that statement. It’s pure hatred. I dread it. I count the seconds until it’s over and have been pretty good about avoiding it.

Until now. I find myself in the worst shape of my life, wondering how a few years ago I was able to do a marathon and now I can barely find the energy to get the mail.

I made a New Years Resolution – with 8 trillion other people – to get back into shape and I thought I was off to a pretty good start until a girlfriend kindly pointed out that walking up a flight of stairs five times a day to change my daughters diaper isn’t exactly cardio. As if?

I am pretty sure I have at one time or another belonged to every gym in Connecticut. A few times they’ve overlapped – with a duel membership you would think I would be buff. Not the case. And while I want to believe that LA FITNESS really truly wants ME back, as their twice a day emails suggest, with a toddler and a husband with an unpredictable schedule, working out at a gym is just not in the cards right now.

But with 2010 in full swing, I realize unless sweat pants make a big comeback as everyday fashion – it’s do or die. So I head to Target. No, not to shop. To get a DVD. Stay with me folks!

After perusing the vast selection of 10 minute to toned legs and 7 minutes abs, I decide on Jillian Michaels Shred. I absolutely heart the Biggest Loser. I’ve been following this show since the beginning – yet I have spent every season enjoying it from the comfort of my couch – eating ice cream.

Oh come on, I know I am not the only one.

Well, it turns out you don’t actually get into shape just watching, you have to actually participate. Ooohhhh!

After a week of completely avoiding the existence of the DVD reflecting on my purchase I dust off my sneakers.

I love Jillian, I do. But the woman has no mercy. There was no easing into it. I thought she would talk about getting in shape and how important it is for your heart. But in the first 10 seconds she has me doing jumping jacks! As. The. Warm. Up.

I try to channel my inner Jane Fonda but all that is coming through is a whiney, pudgy Richard Simmons. I want to quit. I want to flip the channel to Oprah, get a cookie and live in my world of denial but I look down. And find I am not alone.

There on the floor is Katherine.  Doing abs.

Doing push-ups (Girl push-ups like her mama).

And the dreaded cardio -  although hers resembles more of an interpretive dance.

And nothing can deter her. Not stickers, not Elmo shaped cookies, not even her baby doll. It’s now strangely one of her favorite parts of the day: “Mommy, lets exercise!” she says every morning. She clearly did not inherit my dedication – err, lack of dedication – to fitness.

“Go mommy” she cries as Jillian switches up the routine to butt kicks.

So I go. I jump. I crunch. I sweat. And I hate every single minute of it. But she is looking up at me with such excitement so I smile to please my audience.

Unbelievably, day after day, this little 27 pounder of mine is slowly whipping my butt into shape. The key word is s-l-o-w-l-y. And strangely, with her, it’s actually fun. I can tune out Jillian screaming at me to feel the burn and just enjoy this unique time with her.

And even though I am far from America’s Next Top Model, I am finally starting to envision a spring wardrobe without elastic waist and that’s definitely worth a little sweat.