My Balding Bro and his Gentle Wife and Darling Daughter are moving to our neck of the woods in a couple weeks. (Yippee!) They are in the thros of packing and getting rid of stuff. They gave each of our kids a bag of doo-dads (excuse me, treasures), and Mr. Handsome and I even received our own little bag. We got: a can of Spam, a huge Rubbermaid spatula, a stale, giant-size marshmallow burger, and a can of Coke from Iraq. I was pretty excited about the Coke. Just the night before, while weeding the beans, I was fussing to Mr. Handsome about how I craved a Coke and Doritos. We even lightly toyed with the idea of running over to The Glen to the little store there.

My Balding Bro did not go to Iraq to get the Coke. I believe it came from one of his students whose father is in Iraq. Anyway, I was very intrigued by it.

Look how small it is. I think we would all be better off if they sold sodas in such small cans.

Here, you wanna see the nutrition label?

Mid-afternoon, after chilling the Coke for a couple hours, I decided it was time to imbibe. When I tried to open it, there was an exploding sound and the tab popped off. The Coke would only drip out.

So I took my rolling pin to it.

The can flipped over and a bunch of Coke fizzed down the drain.

It still only came out in a slow trickle.

But it sure was refreshing.

Mr. Handsome and I like to make deals and to place bets with each other. Once, when I was feeling unloved and uncared for by Mr. Handsome (yes, yes, our marriage is not without issues), I forced him to make a deal with me: Each person would try their best to meet the other person’s needs for a whole week—only think of the other person and not of themselves. It was actually a pretty fun deal.

Another time, we made a bet to see who could go the longest without spending money (outside of the basic, pre-determined expenditures). I won.

Yesterday morning, after a rough night with The Baby Nickel, I made a deal with Mr. Handsome. He gets The Baby Nickel out of our bed and I’ll get him potty-trained (something that’s been bugging Mr. Handsome). Right at this exact minute, 5:15 am, The Baby Nickel is upstairs crying and Mr. Handsome is doing his best to get him back to sleep. I’m ignoring them both.

Potty training isn’t going so smoothly.

Here he is, first thing in the morning, so he’s still in his diaper. He hides when he has to poop. If he knows he has to poop, why can’t I get him to just go do it on the potty? Why the aversion? Maybe if I offer to drape him with a blanket…

The guilty culprit emerges…

Last evening, unbeknownst to me, he pooped in his undies, pulled them down to his ankles, and then duck-walked from the driveway up onto the porch and into the house where I finally realized what was happening and snatched him up and plopped him in the tub. Mr. Handsome had to help clean up that one.

Do you know about the Willie poems? I grew up with this stuff. My mother used to recite them to us.

Willie found some dynamite,
Couldn’t understand it quite.
Curiosity seldom pays:
It rained Willie seven days.

And another one:

Willie, with a thirst for gore,
Nailed his sister to the door.
Mother said, with humor quaint,
“Now, Willie dear, don’t scratch the paint.”