Skip to main content


We are in the throws of potty-training. The rabbit is succedding nicely -- however she has been prone, a bit, to 'holding it in" -- at least on the poop side of things. Unsure what to do after three days of abstaining, I called my sister in a panic. She recommended taking one of the rabbit's thermometers, rubbing some Vaseline on it and, yes, trying to loosen things up. The rabbit needless to say was not thrilled. And while it did the trick, she has understandably developed a horror of the "tamometer."

We are again back to square one. Three days out and nada. This morning as we stood in line at the post office, she howled out, "I don't WANT to go poop! I don't WANT to go pee! I don't want a tamometer in my bootie!"

Nice. Nothing like giving your neighborhood ammunition for the "bad mommy" looks.


LOL. Poor rabbit. But my real sympathies lie with you, MM. Potty training is torture, even when they're willing - did I tell you the Small(er) One has just decided to potty train herself at the grand old age of 18 months? It sounds great but there is the major drawback of having to stand next to her while she's perched on the loo - she won't use the potty- for up to 20 minutes at a time so that she won't fall off. She has grand ambitions that she is unable to fulfill on her own...
The Daring One said…
Oh, the joys. I've been working on this sort of thing off and on (okay, more off) for about 8 months. Hopefully they'll be potty trained in time for junior high. That could get really embarassing.

Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...)Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

Recommended & the Mahiki dance-off

My GFs and I went to Mahiki last night, great fun as usual but made me feel a bit old; it seems that Thursday night is the playground of the just-past-pubescent. Oh well. Good tunes though, so whatever.In between taking over the dancefloor - the youngsters may have youth on their side but frankly that shrinks to insignificance in the face of two decades of clubbing experience - one of my GFs and I got into a conversation about why so many people are full of bull.It appears that many people we come across are content to live their lives in a superficial way, skimming the surface of what life has to offer and equating the ownership of stuff (cars, houses, boats, jewelry, designer clothes) with happiness. They converse in terms of status, strut their possessions as a measure of their own self-worth, take themselves far too seriously, are quick to judge others, easily annoyed, complain a lot about very little and their worries seem to far outweigh their joys. Personally, I think all that…


Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T.

Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands.

Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring, …