To be honest, I have never considered myself a dog person. After all, dogs are stinky and noisy and demanding. But the picture of the dog I've always had in mind that I didn't want wasn't this dog.

Finnegan is smart and clean and gentle, and he thinks I'm a cool chica to hang out with. He sat by my feet last night while I balanced the checkbook, and he confided that he's actually quite good with spreadsheets and wouldn't mind reconfiguring our budget for me. I was tempted to take him up on it, but by then we decided it was time to run outside for some leaping Frisbee catches.

I am terrible at Frisbee. But Finnegan thinks that adds to my charm.

As husband and I were congratulating ourselves on bringing the World's Coolest Dog into our home and elevating ourselves to World's Coolest Parents status, we realized that with adoption fees, registration, vet visit, crate, food, leash, toys, etc… the set-up cost of Finnegan was well over $700.

Incidentally, $700 is the amount I recently decided to postpone spending on furniture for our living room because we couldn't afford it. And so, here are the top five reasons why Finnegan is better than a living room couch.

Top Five Reasons Why Finnegan is Better Than a Living Room Couch

1. While both have mastered "sit" and "stay," we're convinced that the couch would never "roll over" without assistance.

2. Both may swallow coins, but only Finnegan will return them in the end.

3. A couch does not wake me up at 6 a.m. and remind me to exercise. In fact, a couch encourages me to remain sedentary.

4. If spaghetti falls on the kitchen floor, a couch wants no part of cleaning it up.

5. No couch has ever gazed at me with big puppy eyes to tell me it thinks I'm a cool chica.

My 10-year high school reunion was this past weekend. Did I attend? For five minutes after receiving my invitation, I did entertain the idea. I mentally went through the checklist of things that keep people from going to reunions.

Have I gained a grotesque amount of weight or had a piece of my face surgically removed? No.

Am I unemployed, or employed by a gas station or government agency? No.

Have I been married more than four times? No.

Do I live with a family member? No.

And maybe I misjudged some of the people who served as a continual source of irritation. Maybe the people who made me miserable were just as immature as I was in high school, and now that we're grown ups we'll meet again as totally new people and have something to talk about.

So I basked in that idealized notion for a few moments, and then I read further on the invitation. The event would be held at a casino. A block of rooms would be reserved "for anyone who wants to hang."

Jesus, I thought. It's prom night.

And then the reality of it all came back, and I had a very strong urge to extend my middle finger to the entire high school experience, dye my hair black, skip dinner, and read complicated literature.

So no, I ditched the reunion. I stayed home with the people I actually care about and felt smugly superior to those who would look down on anyone who did not care to "hang." Hmm. Just like prom.

One of the defining moments of my childhood occurred on the evening of December 25, 1981. Like many girl children throughout history, I had both an irrational fear of the dark and a love of all things ballerina. My parents bestowed upon me a beautiful ballerina nightlight with a pink, illuminated skirt and a large DO NOT REMOVE tag affixed angrily to her panties.

"Caution," said the tag warned. "Flammable."

"What does this say," I asked my parents.

They told me.

I blinked in disbelief. "You gave me a nightlight that could catch fire?"

They assured me of the unlikelihood of such an event, provided the nightlight was used safely and appropriately. But it was too late. The seed had been sown. My world was no longer a safe place.

That night my dreams were filled with the melting faces of my dolls as they screamed and begged to be saved from the flames that engulfed my bedroom. My walls turned to black ash, my parents disappeared into a wall of smoke, and through it all I could discern the blazing nightlight ballerina, lazily turning on her toe to a tinkling tune of perverse horror.

I managed to put all of that out of my mind for twenty years. But this past weekend, we transitioned Youngest from crib to Big Girl Bed. We gave her a nightlight and a CD player that whispered gentle Good Night Music. All was well. Youngest fell asleep.

Then we noticed the distinct odor of burnt wiring.

"Unplug it all," I told Husband.

"But it's so dark! She'll get scared. It's just the funny-smelling plastic on the new CD player."

Sidenote: Husband is the one who gets up five times a night to double check the lock on the front door, turns the car around mid-trip to make sure the oven is off, and insists that all bedding be moved well off the floor vents. Paranoia is his domain.

"We can leave the bathroom light on. That's enough light. We can't leave the nightlight plugged in."

Youngest woke up crying at 3:30 AM, and I reluctantly replugged the electronics for her. And spent the rest of the night mentally working out escape routes and contingency plans.

Tonight I'll buy us each our very own fire extinguishers to keep under our pillows.

Three things I learned from watching an episode of The Swan last night.

1. It's true! Any average-looking woman can realize her dream of looking like a drag queen.

2. When you try to be something you're not, you end up as just that: something you're not. Only now it's painfully obvious to the rest of America.

3. Trying to be pretty is like trying to write poetry. It's pitiful and sad when you're not successful, and makes us think you have too much time on your hands. Here, Swan, do my laundry.

I know I was supposed to feel uplifted and inspired by these women overcoming "life challenges" and emerging from averagedom all spiffied up. Life challenges?

In fact, I found the whole thing sort of depressing, yet reassuring. I mean, this is the best we can hope for? You're going to spend thousands of dollars to reshape your face and come out looking like a different brand of average? Well okay. I'll pretend I used to look like a monkey and now I look fantasgreat! No one cares what you secretly wish you looked like.

If I lost ten pounds, not a single person would notice. Unless my left ass cheek literally fell off.

More people should have pudding for breakfast. When you can drag yourself out of bed with the knowledge that there's a container of pudding in the fridge with your name on it, that's a good day in the making.

Last night I mixed up a batch of good old vanilla cook-and-serve and rummaged through the Tupperware pantry in search of vessels. (PS, I don't actually have any Tupperware, but I have a heck of a lot of mismatched Gladware and repurposed Parkay containers.) It so happens that these little yellow tubs that once held spreadable margarine are the ideal size for individual, half-cup servings of pudding. And some of them actually have lids!

This morning I packed my lunch and dropped a homemade pudding cup into the bag. But by the time I got to work, I had convinced myself that pudding was the ideal breakfast food – creamy, sweet, and packed with vitamins A &D (or so says the dairy council).

Now I'm sitting at my computer looking a whole lot like a girl eating a tub of butter with a spoon.

Anyone got a problem with that?

Let it be known that if you are putting Youngest to bed, you must not, under any circumstances, disturb the Blanket Order.

To anyone other than Youngest, the Blanket Order is a complex and seemingly arbitrary set of rules that specify when and how each of her sixteen-thousand blankets should be utilized. It is as follows:

Big Pooh is folded in thirds and goes over the back and seat of the rocking chair. Little Pooh is folded in half and goes over Big Pooh on the back of the rocker ONLY. Shawl is used to wrap Youngest during nighttime rocking. At the conclusion of rocking, Shawl is placed over Little Pooh. Shawl is a Rocking Blanket should NEVER be used for sleeping purposes. Once Youngest is transferred to her crib for tucking, Blanket Bears must drape over the side of the crib facing her nightlight, blocking out all light and negating any effects of having the nightlight on at all (but the nightlight MUST be on). Fuzzy is then placed over her and tucked in between the edges of the mattress and crib rails. NO OTHER BLANKETS, TOYS, ETC. ARE PERMITTED WITHIN THE CRIB.

Really, as long as you don't touch the blankets at all during the day, it's fairly simple to follow. And we all recognize the obsessive compulsiveness as a developmental stage necessary to Youngest gaining a sense of mastery and control over her environment.

Something happened recently that interfered with the Blanket Order and almost caused a bedtime catastrophe and the collapse of our household as we knew it.

Youngest peed on Fuzzy.

It wasn't her fault. I put her down for a nap without realizing she was wearing underpants instead of a diaper.

I took Fuzzy and her sheets down to the laundry room, intending to run the load later that afternoon. Then I promptly forgot all about it until bedtime.

I knew Fuzzy was going to be a problem, so we took it slow. We talked it out, weighing the pros and cons of sleeping with a wet, smelly pee blanket. She decided that Shawl would do as a temporary Sleeping Blanket until the return of Fuzzy.

But little did I know that sheets also factored into the Blanket Order.

I pulled out the crib sheet that matched Blanket Bears, riddled with pastel little teddy bears, and stretched it over her mattress as Youngest watched suspiciously.

"What that?" she asked.

"It's your new, fresh sheet!" I declared. I thought this would put me on her good side, since she's just emerged from a fixation on fresh sheets that had her demanding "new fwesh sheets" every single night.

"But I want my Pooh sheets!"

"Well this is your Blanket Bear sheet. It matches, see? Pooh sheets have pee on them like Fuzzy."

"But…I don't want Bear sheets!"

She protested a few more times, but I sidestepped and suggested a story to see if avoiding the issue would resolve it.

So we entered the ritual. We wrapped in Shawl. We sat on the Pooh blankets and rocked. We read. We talked about our day. Then I carried her over to her bed and started to lower her onto the Bear sheets.

When she looked down, she screamed and planted her feet on the rail, clawing her way up onto my shoulders like a cat about to be dropped into a swimming pool. "NO! I don't WANT the Bear sheets! Get them off!"

I saw then that there was no way to pretend I was in control here. I rummaged through her closet and located another Pooh sheet while Youngest sat on the floor with tears in her eyes telling me that she hated the Bear sheets and didn't want them in her bed.

When she finally settled down with Shawl tucked around her, I staggered out of her room and sank down on the couch beside Husband who had just kissed Oldest goodnight.

"Rain Man's having a rough night," I explained.

"At least she didn't make you drive to K-Mart for new underwear, too."

"Yeah. 400 Oak Street."

Add comments to your blog, they said. Well, all right. There. I don't know how to use it or what to do with it, but now if you feel moved to comment, an appropriate venue has been provided for you.

First, three promises to myself about the comments feature:

1. I will not check back to my site every five minutes to see if someone has left a comment.

2. I will not stop to consider whether a post is comment-worthy before posting it.

3. I will not have my feelings hurt when no one comments on my posts.

This I do swear and doubly make note of, so help me, etc.

Summer wardrobe essentials for the approaching-thirty mom.

Well-padded bras.
Because nipples that have breastfed two children have no shame, and most buildings nowadays are enthusiastically air-conditioned.

Hip-hugging shorts.
Not because I'd like to flaunt my hips at you, but because my stomach doesn't like to be reminded that it's supposed to fit inside a waistband.

Capri pants.
Because the less leg I have to shave on a hot day, the better. Actually, forget it. No one's looking at my legs anyway.

Sleeveless tanks.
Because arm flab likes its time in the summer sun, too, you know.

Now it's time to go flip through the Urban Outfitters catalog and pretend I'm a bulimic suburban teenager with daddy's credit card in hand.

Sorry.

I know, I know.

I haven't been posting.

If I had time today to post, it would go a little something like this...

Youngest is distraught about a certain coloring book page that she colored for me and then attempted to tear out of the book. It ripped in half.

"I so sorry, Mom," she told me, handing me one half of an Easter bunny's head, scribbled with deliberate strokes of yellow and green crayon.

"It's okay, really," I assured her. "I love it! I love how you colored just above the bunny's ear with this little swirl here. Looks like a butterfly."

"I was making you a present," she explained. "I ripped it."

"I don't mind that it's a little ripped. It's beautiful. Thank you!"

More to herself than me, she went on, refusing to let it go. "I colored it for you, and then I ripped it. I so sorry."

"It really IS okay, honey!"

Jeez. We really are our own worst critic.

Easter. A belated post.

The children acknowledged their Easter baskets, sorted their chocolate, and located all plastic, Whopper-filled eggs within the first ten minutes of waking.

And then what.

We’d done the official Easter gathering with my parents Saturday. With the exception of Oldest’s biofather picking her up after lunch for their events, the day was clear. And I felt the Easter letdown settling in.

The Christian holidays are a result of my upbringing, a faith that 12 years of Catholic education managed to beat out of me with a vengeance. When the Jehovah’s Witnesses come to my door with Watchtowers and Bibles, I shake my head kindly and say with the conviction of someone who’s finally come to her senses, “Thanks anyway. We’re not religious.”

But I do envy them the enthusiasm. I said to Husband, “It’s Easter. I want to celebrate something.”

He patted my shoulder kindly. “Well, I’m sure you could walk into any church down the street and celebrate the nailing of a man to a stick.”

“That’s not what I want to celebrate.”

His solution? A nature walk with the girls.

We saw a black snake sunning on a log at the edge of a lake. Youngest expressed a desire to swing from vines. Oldest complained that her feet hurt. And there were dragonflies.

We stopped at a bridge crossing a creek and peered over the splintery wooden rail at the trickle of water passing over smooth stone below.

“Are there fishes?” asked Youngest, clinging to my shirt like a baby gibbon as I held her up to look.

“There might be,” I told her. “Anything’s possible.”

So there's this guy I know. He'd go out of his way for someone he's just met. He stretches himself so thin helping people out that all his own projects always get put aside.

If he sees a little old lady having car trouble, he worries about her for days. "There was someone helping her," I point out. It doesn't make any difference. She looked confused and upset, and that upsets him.

When we lived at the apartment, he was the substitute dad for neighborhood kids at the bus stop in the mornings. One day, one of the supposed tough boys knocked on our door. "I got pushed into the lake," he said, looking on the verge of tears, looking as if for whatever reason he couldn't knock on his own door just then. His socks were soaked. The kid was sent back to the bus stop with dry socks on his feet.

This guy rearranged his entire career to stay home and freelance so he could meet his daughter at the bus stop after school. He makes dinner, does the dishes, shuttles the kids, folds laundry.

And he'd rather spend time talking with his wife after the kids are in bed instead of going out to a movie or to a bar with his friends.

I mean, come on. Of course I married him. This guy is amazing.

So since today is his birthday, I just wanted to let him know that he's the best thing that's ever happened to me. He's my best friend and my true partner.

He also makes really kick-ass coffee, which I think is important to any lasting relationship.

Prayer of the Agnostic 3rd-Grade-Talent-Show-Costume-Sewing Mom

Dear God(s)/(esses):
Please grant me the serenity to imagine for just five minutes that if I were to promise you Never Again, you would enact such divine authority as to prevent my thread from breaking, hems from bunching, etc. long enough for me to sew four stinking, glitter-ridden costumes for a group of children who have long ago lost interest in the whole endeavor.

PS, also please tap me on the shoulder periodically and remind me That’s Good Enough.

Thank you, Amen, etc.

A friend of a friend had twins four months ago, a boy and a girl.

When they went to pick them up from daycare, they were both napping. Dad woke up the little girl first and tucked her into her carseat. Then he went to wake the little boy. He wasn't breathing.

They did CPR. But he died.

I don't know what I would do if that happened to our family. I really don't. I still put a hand on Youngest's back every night to feel her breathing before I turn off her nightlight. I'm always relieved when I wake her up in the morning, and in the moment before I smooth the hair off her warm forehead, there's always a tiny nagging dread that whispers, What if she isn't sleeping?

I don't think that ever goes away. I feel the same relief every morning when I pat Oldest's shoulder and rub the goosebumps on the arm she's thrown out of the blanket, glad that she pulls away and burrows into her pillow for another five minutes of sleep.

I think if anything ever happened to my kids I might stop breathing too.

I've just returned from the fabric store, which is a strange and surreal place in the middle of a workday. One finds it populated with an odd mix of old ladies making throw-pillows, stay-at-home moms making summer jumpers, one-armed women seeking toggle fasteners, and of course, the huge, construction-site type man in greasy denim overalls who was… actually I don't have any idea what he was doing in a fabric store.

The register girl was the most unlikely of them all. Mid-twenties in a baseball jersey, with long, stringy blonde hair, overweight. And a frantic pattern of cuts on the back of her left hand that simply do not occur without intent. Register girl was either a cutter or was in the habit of backhanding boys with braces.

I sidled up to the register, clutching my fabric, and mumbled, "Excuse me, where do you keep the razor blades?"

"The what?" she asked.

"For my Exacto knife! God! What did you think I was going to do with them? Is it a crime to need razor blades for your Exacto knife? You do sell them, right?"

"Uh, over along the wall," she said, pointing. She did not know where to take this conversation.

"Forget it," I said, plopping my fabric down on the counter. "I'm not in the mood anymore. Can you just check me out?"

When I got back to my car, I gleefully looked over my purchases.

Sequined fabric and a shimmer rayon blend glinted at me from the plastic bag. I am Costume Mom. If you tell me that you and your friends want to try out for the talent show, I will make four of the bad-assedest costumes your school has ever seen. In two weeks!

Soundtrack Dad will not only burn copies of the selected talent show song for you and all your friends, he will edit the track so that it slides just under the three-minute time limit. And then he will print copies of the lyrics.

Heck, it's stuff like this that keeps parents off the streets.

Today's episode: Girl Meets Worm

Just how fast can an eight-year-old go from squeamish, shrieking, worm-hating sissy to devoted worm caretaker and condo-builder?

In about the time it takes her to see that her two-year-old sister is gleefully hogging all the worms.

I was extricating some weeds from a patch of land in which I'm determined to grow something purposeful this season. The girls were enjoying the spring sunshine and jockeying for position on our tree swing.

"Hey, come look at this!" I called to them, shaking a small earthworm free from the roots of a weed onto my gloved palm.

Youngest was the first on the scene. "What?" she called in mid-run.

"It's a worm!" I said, holding it out to her. "Look!"

She did look, peering with suspicion into the hand I held out to her as Oldest trotted up and looked over her shoulder.

Oldest made a face and backed away. "Ew!" But Youngest was intrigued. She giggled as she watched it curl and unwind.

"Do you want to hold it?" I asked.

Following her sister's lead, Youngest backed away and started to whimper.

"Oh no, don't worry." I said to her. I have fond memories of digging up worms as a kid, and I was not about to let a little apprehension get in the way of a cool, wriggling earthworm. Childhood is not complete without it. "Worms are friendly. You can hold them on your hand. Like this, see?"

I took her hand and gently turned the worm onto it. She squealed and laughed.

"Now don't squish him," I said, as she ran back to the tree to rejoin sister and show off her fearlessness.

In about five seconds, Oldest was back kneeling beside me. "I want a worm too! Can you find another one? Are there more? Can I hold them?"

The two girls took the care of their worms very seriously, constructing a complex dwelling out of leaves, twigs, and grass.

I was proud.

I'm feeling behind on everything, and it's depressing. Birthday cards, baby gifts, doctor appointments, taxes, laundry, emails. All the little stuff that really shouldn't be any big deal is ALL seeming like a big deal right now.

I would rather take a nap.

Rather than take five minutes to cross anything off my list, I'd rather sit for five minutes and think about how much I'd rather take a nap than spend five minutes devoted to anything productive.

To make matters worse, I'm on my very last Luden's Wild Cherry throat drop.

I have meetings today at 10:00 and 2:00.

This is also the proper positioning of one's hands on a steering wheel as one maniacally drives one's vehicle off a cliff to escape unnecessary meetings.

Luden's Wild Cherry Throat Drops are fabulously soothing when one's throat is irritated by silent screams.

I am totally burned out on writing. It's hard. It requires effort, thought, energy, and no shortage of sugar.

Here's a list of all the things I currently hate:

Transitions

Special offers (that aren't all that special)

Bullets

Edits

Making shit up

That last one deserves emphasis through repetition:

Making shit up

I feel like that's all I ever do. Marketing hands me a work order for a direct mail letter. Okay, a four-page letter. You do realize that's four full pages of nothing but words. What am I supposed to say in this letter? Don't know! Make something up! But make it compelling enough that the reader will stop what they're doing, jump online, and pay $54.95 for a professional reference book! But why would said professional want said reference book? Don't know! Make it up!

Here is list of features I hate:

Vibrant illustrations!

Up to date information!

Expert author!

Comprehensive coverage!

These pretty much describe every book I'm ever asked to write about. Seriously. Enough with the comprehensivefullcoloruptodateauthoritative shit. Give me something real to say. But since no one (including the author) actually knows what purpose the book serves… make it up!

All creative writing electives in college shall hereby be renamed Copywriting 101.

I expected to post today with some sort of horror story.

Saturday night, I had a group of friends over to my house for a book club meeting.

Two things: 1) I’ve never been involved in a book club of any sort. 2) I make friends reluctantly and sparingly, and participate in so few social activities as to consider myself gathering-challenged.

I have no horrors to report. It went well.

But here, I’m about to get all profound.

I was cleaning my house, and as I swept dust bunnies the size of grown cats from under my couch, I thought back to my mother’s style of house cleaning: ignore what you can’t see. We fervently ignored unseen corners of closets, boxes of clutter, papers and dust shoved under our beds. We ignored it all, the corners growing more and more horrifying, until they reached critical mass and began to spill out into the clean, clear center spaces.

Such a wonderful metaphor.

My mother has recently come to the same conclusion I have, that maybe a proactive approach is the way to go. As we speak, she’s pecking away at a lifetime of unaddressed issues in the basement. I like to think I cleared out most of my own baggage when I moved out, but it’s likely she’s still keeping a few pieces, ready to drag them out for re-examination whenever I visit.

I’m hoping to teach my own kids not to avoid the dark places. If they’re filled with dust, it’s your dust. And if you wind up covered with it, well, you can always shower later. Own the corners, or they’ll own you. Dust bunnies don't have teeth. Even if they did, Mr. Clean is one mean mutha-effah.

Could I just take a moment to address a few points of bathroom etiquette?

I am regularly offended by people's behavior in the restrooms here at work, and it occurs to me that perhaps (and I'll give them the benefit of the doubt) they are entirely ignorant of the psychological havoc they wreak. Allow me to elucidate.

The courtesy flush
I know that in civilized society, we like to avoid unnecessary contact with our own crap. But I assure you, you will have far fewer dealings with it if you flush thoroughly. And if one flush doesn't get the job done, it's not an admission of weakness to give it a second go-round. I know a few men who might consider it a source of pride.

Eye contact
It is okay to recognize and greet someone washing her hands at the sink as you enter the restroom. It is not okay to peer through the cracks of the stall door to see if someone you know is sitting with her pants around her knees. Honestly, I thought that was common knowledge.

Identifying vocalizations
Some people may think that all grunting, heavy breathing, sneezing, and humming sound the same as anyone else's. Not true. And that's a picture of you in my head that I don't want to carry around all day.

Congratulatory affirmations
I don't know about you, but I've been using the big-girl potty all by myself for a good twenty-six years. I've become quite skilled at having successful bowel movements. Applause is not necessary. (Again, honestly!)

And finally, please consider the following topics off-limits for stall-to-stall conversation:

What you had for dinner

Undergarment brands and stylings

Menstruation (in general)

Tampons (in particular)

Yeast infections

Bikini waxing

Marital intimacy

I understand that men have their own rules about restroom behavior, and gentlemen, I applaud you. But certainly not when you're least expecting it.