The price of dignity.

Why is it that dignity, like trust, is so difficult to earn and so easy to lose all at once? Last night I was enjoying a rare latte with a writer friend at Starbucks. I ordered our drinks and my friend excused himself to the bathroom. When he came back we chatted for a bit and then I stood and announced, not quietly mind you, that I was "going to go potty, too."

He turned an admirable shade of cerise and the commentators in my mind were quick to run the replay. I turned and headed for the bathroom--panicked--and turned back to the table where I dropped to my knees.

"I just want to say I am really sorry for saying the word 'potty' to you so loudly. I promise I am just as embarrassed as you are, and if you like we can leave right now. I'm so sorry."

I was clearly worsening the situation by a) bringing attention to my discretion and b) repeating the offending word. He cast his full attention on his apple cider and I made my ungraceful exit to the bathroom. When I came out he was still there at the table, so I assume all was forgiven; thank goodness for small favors.

Just a word to the wise out there, you never know when the potty talk will strike.

Walk a mile in these eschews.

My daughter insists upon spending a statistically significant portion of her day lounging around the entry to the catbox. She cannot be deterred; it's starting to worry me.

I'm betting the reason she loiters there is because my computer desk is right next to the 'kitty potty' and the reason for that is--well, I live in half a shoebox.

My husband's in the military, and contrary to popular belief he is incredibly underpaid for a mindblowingly stressful and lifethreatening job. Personally, I am of the opinion that someone who takes a hit for the country should get a little more than a purple dangly to pin on their chests--what say how about a million bucks? Even a ten dollar "I'm sorry for the shrapnel" gift would have been appreciated. In reality, however, we're living in half of a duplex in Texas, where everything is bigger including your electric bill. I thought I'd seen it bad in Arizona during the summer or the couple winters we lived in Colorado, but I was wrong. Over the summer we shared a modest house with some friends and our half of the electric bill was more than I ever paid living in a pretty big house in Arizona. Phooey. When we left that living situation, we found a tiny duplex in a tiny suburb-of-a-suburb and tried to think cool thoughts all through September. We were unsuccessful.

I'm considering eschewing all this blogospheric effort in favor of making one of those beg-a-thon websites, like the one that lady made where she snookered everyone else into paying off her credit card debt. Mine would be called IAMPATHETIC.COM and I would plaster it with .jpgs of those big-eyed children from the seventies. I would use covert guilt-mongering tactics to summon money from people's checking accounts, and then maybe I could afford to rent a whole shoebox...

...or maybe even a pair of Manolos.

Bathtime is not for the squeamish.

Man, there is nothing like bathtime to make your kid have to pinch a loaf.

Today Uncle Nate is coming to town on business--well, not my town of course, because I live in hicksville and I doubt there's one single server in this whole county. What this means in the life of weaktoast is accomplishing nothing short of an improbable alignment of Sun, moon, my daughter, and my managing keeping her hair and clothes undishevelled between now and the time my husband gets home from work--no, between now and the time we get out of the car in Austin. Right now, faithful readers, as I write my very first blog, my daughter is in the bathtub. I am sitting beside her, eternally grateful for wireless internet access and my 9 month old laptop, not to mention inspiration.

Let me tell you something about mothering: I promise you're better at it than I am, even if you aren't anatomically fitted for the job. I've known moms (mine, for example) who have bragged about potty training their daughters in one day. One day, and at the age of two even. It took me a year and a half to potty train my kid, and let's just say we're not bowling a 300 in that lane yet.

In the course of this bath, she's gotten out three times to use the toilet. Keep in mind that she used it right before she initially climbed in, and you understand my surprise. Three times she's declared to me, loudly, "MOMMY I HAVE TO GO POOP!" This sort of announcement sets the gears in motion. I stand and lean first to the sink (where I have to put my dear laptoasty down) and then spin on my heel back to the bathtub to help her scramble out onto the ridiculously slick tile floor. I then pick her up--no small feat considering she's spread shampoo all over herself to "shave"--and plunk her down on the toilet. She makes ungodly faces, then proudly stands and looks into the toilet only to say:

"Awwwww, look! It's so cute. A baby poop and a mommy poop."

I shit you not.

Prescriptions for Life.

Okay people, seriously.

I'm new to blogland. Really new--but I'm going to rock this shit, I promise.