Rox and Roll

My diatribe against Prop 8

Prop_8

**UPDATE: Please click here to read our friend David Hornik's "no on 8" piece on Venture Blog.

Fundamentally, I am an honest person, so I'm going to actually put out there that I didn't always know what to make of gay rights issues.  Growing up near the Bible Belt, no one I knew was openly gay, so the issue was something I occasionally heard of as a Hollywood thing... Liberace, Elton John, etc.  Fortunately, my parents were hippies, and they taught us that bigotry toward anyone is fundamentally wrong.  So I didn't ever think people who were gay were somehow defective, despite what I think the majority of our neighbors and their churches believed.  That said, even after I attended "Diversity University," I thought: I don't really care if people or gay or straight, but for them to have children... won't that mess up the kid?  Won't the kid have to endure endless hours of teasing (because they sure would've had they grown up where I grew up)?  Won't the kid suffer?

And then two things happened that changed my mind -- or, as my graduate school professors would say, "liberalized my thinking" -- on the issue of gay rights overall, and on the issue of gay adoption especially.

First, I had my own child, and I realized how very lucky the Guv and I were to be able to have a child at all.  We had friends who had been trying to conceive for years, and ours came quickly and in a perfect, easy little package.  Sure, she was hard work but the joys -- oh, the joys! -- I can't imagine denying anyone that happiness. Would I have loved her any less if I had her as a single parent?  Would I have loved her any less if she came not from my body but from someone else's?  I can't definitively answer those questions, of course, but I feel like Petunia (and, later, Dash) was born as much from my heart as from my body.  She, and Dash, rounded out my life.  As much as they are the most demanding bosses I'll ever have, I can't remember my life before them, and I don't think I want to, for they have made my life great and complete by their very existence.  Parents reading this will understand exactly what I mean.

Secondly, when Petunia was 2, I began attending graduate school, and I met my friend Ron (not his real name).  Ron was one of the kindest, gentlest people I had ever met -- so thoughtful, so introspective, that just being around him gave me an inner peace.  I soon learned that Ron was gay; he had known he was gay his whole life, and his family accepted and supported him regardless (something another friend I met in graduate school did not have; her family kicked her out of their home and disowned her when she came out to them).  Before coming to our school, Ron was in a committed, long-term relationship with a partner.  They had made a life commitment to each other at a time when gay marriage wasn't even on the table as a possibility.  They had also reached the stage in their 30-something lives and relationship where they wanted to share the joy of raising children, and they began fostering kids.  After fostering a child for a couple of years, they wanted to adopt her and came to learn that in their state, they could not adopt her as a couple.  One dad could adopt her, but the other would have no rights.  Worse, the state could -- and would -- challenge the suitability of a gay home for the very same reasons I pondered for years: could a gay home be suitable for a child?

Now -- warning, this is where I get on my soapbox -- is there really anybody, anywhere in America that thinks that the foster care system is better for a child than adoption into a stable home?  In Ron's case, he and his partner had raised a child together for two years -- two years monitored, with no problems, with a supportive extended family around them -- and that child, in the span of a days, lost everything she had because she lived with two dads who loved her.  The story doesn't end well, either.  The girl was not a "perfect" child (she had some disabilities) and remained in foster care.  So Ron and his partner weren't even trying to adopt a child that other families sought (sadly).  I can't imagine how anyone "won" in that situation: not Ron and his partner, not the girl, and not the state and its overrun foster care system. 

The point of telling this long story is to say that I came around on this issue myself because I met someone whose grief I felt as a mother.  Had I enjoyed two years with Petunia before having her ripped out of my home, my heart would have been broken as Ron's was.  At that point, we weren't so different.  Even though his state never legitimized Ron as a parent, without question, he had been one, and he was living every parent's nightmare -- only his could never end.  He and his partner could never legally have children as a couple in his state.  I had my second within a year of our graduation.

*****

When it comes to Prop 8, which would eliminate the right of same-sex couples to marry in California, I have some very strong feelings, brought about not only by knowing Ron but by my own marriage and parenthood.  The courts of California have accorded gays the right to marry.  The voters have California also have already voted in favor of gay marriage.  I'm not sure why the hell the issue is even on the ballot except for the technicality of some folks raising enough signatures to put the question on the ballot yet again -- ensuring that even if Prop 8 fails, the question will keep coming up unless and until the Supreme Court rules on it.  Needless to say, I will be voting "No" on Prop 8, because I believe that bigotry in any form is wrong, and, yes, I believe that denying gays marriage is bigotry.  Some, like our Presidential candidates (shame on both of them), have a problem with the use of the word "marriage."  After all, "it's a sacrament," someone told me, as if to say that sacraments are only for heterosexuals.   Even if someone's Biblical interpretation is that the sacrament of marriage is a hetero-only institution, there's the history problem -- as in, a lot of time has passed since Jesus walked the Earth.  The Bible also says things like women are subservient to men, and people can hold slaves, and men can beat their wives... No one believes in those things anymore!  Why is it such a stretch to believe that times have changed enough that the definition of marriage can expand?  And how does it really hurt anybody?  Arguing over its definition, to me, is very Bill Clinton-esque, like arguing over the definition of what "is" is... It's the theory, not the word.  And the theory is that people in our nation deserve fundamental equality.  My gay friends deserve the same civil protections and rights that I enjoy in marriage.  So call it marriage, call it whatever -- but call it fair.  Prop 8 needs to be voted down on November 4, once and for all.

Dash versus the Potty, the ReMix

Dash's potty training has all but disappeared since our move to California.  On the one hand, I could have been a more strict about it; on the other hand, he's been sick quite a lot, and I've had my hands full with that... As in, when he had toxic synovitis and couldn't walk, it didn't seem quite right to yell, "WAIT!  GO TO THE POTTY!"  I thought that preschool would help further potty training, but nope -- quite the opposite.  Few of the boys are in underpants.  So I don't have the "but your friends Bob, Larry and Archie are in underpants!" argument. 

I've been thinking it's time to restart the process, and then Dash furthered that thinking by spending the last two days taunting me with his pull-ups and diapers -- purposefully pulling them aside and wetting his pants, then removing it all and screaming at me to get him clean, dry clothes -- RIGHT NOW!  So, Dash is going to start using the potty or else Mama's head's going to explode. 

Today, I watched as he snuck out of the room.  Dash has to conduct his business in private and, if intercepted, just won't go.  This time, I intercepted him and took him to my bathroom, in which one of his potties conveniently waited for him.  I pulled down his pull-up and said, "Dash, this is where you go to the potty.  Not in your pull-up; in the bathroom, on the potty. OK?" 

He grudgingly muttered, "Okay, Mama," and then demanded that I leave.

When he went, I made it out to be The Greatest Thing that Ever Happened in the History of the World.  And he ate it up.  (This is not necessarily good, since the kid expects escalation for each subsequent feat.)  I said, "Dash, guess what?  I'm going to give you an Almond Joy for using the potty!  A piece of candy!  Right now!"

"I don't want an Almond Joy, Mama," he said.  My jaw hit the floor.  He and Petunia have decided that the Almond Joy is the greatest candy ever invented, and they have culled almost all of them out of our 150-piece Halloween candy bag.  I thought he'd be amazed that I found one at all -- but no, he had bigger plans.

"Mama, I want something else," he stated plainly, "I want a cannon to blast the monsters out of my room.  The cannon requires adult supervision, and I am an adult, so I can have it."

"You're not an adult, Dash, you're only 3," I said, "So no cannon today.  But an Almond Joy...!"

"I'M NOT 3!  I'M 7!" he replied, angered.  He wants to be exactly like his sister, who just turned 8 (so he's still thinking she's 7). 

"Even if you're 7, which you are not, you are not an adult," I replied.  "Mama and Daddy are adults.  Kids are not adults."

"But I went potty," Dash countered.  "Adults go potty."

And there, he had me.  No adult, no cannon, no potty.  So I did what the best mothers do in these situations: I acknowledged that I was outmatched, and I caved like a sissie.  "Okay, Dash, fine.  Where is this monster-blasting cannon?"

"You have to get it from the Army!" he announced.

"Dash, I can't buy a cannon from the Army," I answered.  "You have to be an Army guy to buy Army cannons.  I'm not an Army guy, and neither is Daddy."

"Call PK," he said, "He's an Army guy.  He can get me a cannon.  I need a cannon, Mama, to blast the monsters."

"Okay, Dash, I'll get right on that, I answered," noting his distraction as I snuck Bill Nye the Science Guy into the DVD player.  If chocolate won't work, movies usually will... "And meanwhile, son, here's an Almond Joy."  He ate every delicious bite.  Now, let's just see if he'll go potty again when he realizes that not even PK can score us a real cannon...

I get knocked down, but I get up again

YesWeCarve

The "Yes We Carve" website is just fantastic.  The pumpkin on the left was carved by Ruben Rodrigues of Chicago; check the site for many other works of pumpkin art, Obama-style.

Meanwhile, so, where have I been?  A friend wrote to me that she knows someone is sick when I haven't posted to my blog for days.  Well, she was right, but this time, I was the sick one.  And I never get sick anymore, so, of course, I caught a doozy -- either the stomach flu or food poisoning.  I'm coming around, but it was a long weekend, one I'd like to forget on every level.  Now, of course, I'm behind on everything, especially laundry, so, as much as I need to spend another day in bed, I'm knee-deep in it.  At least we finally decided to call in a housekeeper, once I find one...

P.S. The title of the post is from a song called "Tubthumping" by Chumbawumba... Fabulous song, fabulous anarcho-punk British band.

Where there's no smoke, there's no fire

Is there something more ironic than ALL of the smoke alarms in your house suddenly going off at once while you’re on the phone with your insurance company?

Tonight, as the Guv talked over our auto insurance policy with our home insurer, all hell broke loose.  The dryer was running, I was cooking… but there was no smoke, no fire: just every last alarm in the house squawking, loudly, out of nowhere.

To the Guv, that didn’t matter; the alarms sounded a call to action.  He threw the phone at me, said, “Talk to this guy.  Put him on hold…” (I know: WTF?) as he ran around the house like a chicken with its head cut off, opening cabinets for God knows what reason.

“M’am?” the agent asked.

“Yes?” I replied.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Yes, all is well,” I replied.

“Is that a smoke detector?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered, “Actually, it’s all of them.  They’re all going off.  But no worries – nothing’s on fire.”

“Don’t you think that you should leave the house until you’re, umm, sure?” he pressed.

“Thanks for your concern.  Seriously, nothing’s on fire.  Our alarms are just short-circuiting or something,” I calmly replied.  “I think my husband will be back on the phone with you in just a second.  He just has to find the switch to flip, or whatever it is, to shut the thing off.”  (A couple of minutes pass.)

“M’am, I think you should exit the premises,” he suggested.  I could hear him sweating on the phone.  “Just to be safe.”

I paused.  I didn’t want to get into a fight with our home insurance agent over the safety of our home.  But there was really no reason to leave, save the deafening beeping all over the house.

“M’am, are you there?” he pressed.  “M’am, GET OUT OF THE HOUSE.”

“Alright, alright,” I acquiesced.  “Is there a number where we can call you back?”  I think I heard a thud as his head hit the desk.  Clearly, he thought he had a total idiot on the phone.

“M’am, just call the same number.  I’ll save the file.  Now go,” he whispered.

“You have a good night,” I spoke into dead air.

No sooner had I disconnected than the Guv ran up to me, hands and arms waving in the air.  “Get the kids out of the house!” he cried.  “And where are the fire extinguishers?  I think I smell smoke!”

Ahh, that’s what he’d been looking for: fire extinguishers.  Then it hit me: WHY THE HELL IS HE LOOKING FOR FIRE EXTINGUISHERS???

He read my mind.  “CALL 911!”  And then he started running all over the house again, sweating, to the attic, to the crawl space, to the garage.  I stopped him long enough to ask him if he thought something’s on fire.  “I don’t know!” was his response.  So, I dialed.

“What is the address of the emergency?” the dispatcher asked.  I responded with the address.  “What’s the emergency?” she asked.

“The fire alarms are going off,” I told her.  “All of them.”

“Is there a fire?” she asked.  “Smoke?”

“Not that we can tell,” I answered, suppressing the urge to add “but my husband’s freaking out.”  Instead, I offered, “We just moved into the house a couple of months ago, so we’re not sure how the fire alarms work.  There’s no central system, but they all must be connected, but we can’t figure out how to shut them off.”

“Okay, I can send some guys out,” she offered.  And I braced myself for the sirens and the lights.  I rang the neighbor’s doorbell to warn them.  They didn’t answer, and they were very clearly home.  (Note to those elderly neighbors: You’re old, and YOU may need ME some time.  So ANSWER YOUR FREAKIN’ DOOR when I knock on it.  Especially when you hear an alarm going off.  I’ll be following up with them tomorrow with that explicit suggestion.)  Since my neighbors didn’t give a crap, I sat in the car with the kids to wait.  Fortunately, the truck pulled up with no lights, no sirens.  Three guys ambled out.  They read the situation right away.

“Is there a central panel for the alarm?” the guy asked.

“No,” we replied.

“No panel?  Nothing with buttons, an off switch?”

“Seriously, dude, we don’t know how to shut this thing off,” I offered.  “That’s why we called you.  Actually, that’s part of the reason.  I’m also freaked out a little because our dryer vents to the attic, and the vent fan’s been getting louder and louder, and I just want to make sure that there is no real fire,” I added.  “So, you know, we want the alarm off, but we also want to make sure that there’s no reason it’s going off.”  I felt like I should follow that up with, “Duh.”

They were very, very nice, these firemen.  They didn’t laugh at us at all.  They took our situation seriously, and they checked out the whole place – attic, crawlspace, furnace closet… And they showed us that if we disable three linked smoke detectors, the alarm stops.  We need to replace all of the batteries in all of them every six months to make sure that a “weak link” doesn’t cause this chain reaction again – because that’s all that it was, a chain reaction from one dead battery.  Thank God.  

The kids took it all in stride, except for one minor freak-out from Petunia about the guinea pigs being left inside to burn despite my constant reassurances that there was no fire… But that was quickly forgotten when she realized that she has quite a story to tell her class tomorrow.

Me, I have bigger problems.

The Guv has disappeared.  I’m fairly sure that he’s at Home Depot buying fire extinguishers.  

And after my long hunt for Dash’s Bob the Builder costume, after he wouldn’t change his mind for over a month and refused to be anything else, after finally caving in and buying Bob on-line for nearly fifty bucks, guess what he wants to be for Halloween?

A firefighter.  Now, how can I say “no” to that?

Caribou Barbie

Click here to see a Republican going where few others have dared set foot: the NBC studios. 

Katie Couric may have won Obama the election with her tough interviews of Sarah Palin -- but I have to say that it took big, huge brass balls for Palin to make this appearance on SNL.  While I continue to oppose Palin on most issues, I have a wee bit more respect for her today than I did yesterday.  Then again, she was acting -- I just hope that voters remember that this election is real, not as seen on SNL (but as seen on Katie Couric?  yes, yes, yes).

ISO Bob the Builder

When I say that we've looked high, low, and everywhere in between for a Bob the Builder Halloween costume, I really mean it.  We've been looking for a month, and there is nary a Bob to be found.  Considering that "Hit Entertainment" seems to be spewing out Bob videos at a rate of one per month, still, I wonder, WTF?  From what I hear, mine is far from the only disappointed little guy out there.  The stores' responses are always: We have "Handy Manny."  Well, my kid doesn't even know who Handy Manny is.  We don't really watch TV anymore.  (Mama got sick of the "I want I want I want I want" that seemed to accompany each TV advertisement.)  We watch videos.  Bob the Builder videos.  We own ten.  We need a Bob costume, yesterday.

I could order the costume on-line, but they're nearly $50 and wouldn't get here in time for his preschool's fall carnival on Sunday.  They also vary widely in size, and he's almost 4 but little -- so what size do I order?  Thinking on my feet, I realized that we have a Bob helmet and toolbelt; maybe I could talk him into those things being the costume.  When I dressed him in overalls and a red shirt, Dash made the astute point that Bob's shirt is orange and red, and Bob's overalls are more blue.  I showed him how I could stick orange squares on his red shirt.  His response?  "That's not real." 

Hit Entertainment, this mom thinks you suck.  WHY did you have to make the character's shirt orange and red checked?  Do you think the kids would love him less if his shirt were solid orange?  red?  or a normal plaid?  By crafting Bob the way you did, you've backed us moms into a corner: quilt a shirt, or disappoint a kid.  I don't sew.  And my kid is not backing down.  Something's got to give, and it might be the Bob videos, which might suddenly disappear.  He likes Popular Mechanics for Kids more, anyway.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to get Dash to change his mind, something I don't like to do because of its near-impossibility.  He tried on an awesome policeman costume today.  It wasn't "real" either -- his complaint for that one being the sewn-on eight-pack abs.  If I every saw a policeman who looked that ripped through his shirt, I'd... well, I'd be in trouble with the Guv.  I thought maybe he could be what he calls "an Army guy," but I don't want him toting a gun and fake-killing people, and the two are inseparable to his three year-old mind.  He wants to be a fireman, maybe, but only in a red suit that's not plastic.

Back in my day, my grandma would sew my Halloween costume.  I remember being a bride, a Pilgrim, a clown... I don't remember these plasticized un-real costumes.  Petunia will be a witch this year, but not an old-school witch -- an American Idol-style "young lady you have to wear a leotard under that you can't bare your belly" kind of witch.  And then there's Dash.  I'm off to check another few stores for Bob, because I don't want him to go as Disappointed Kid, which is how this is all probably going to end.  Me, I'm thinking of going as Joe Sixpack.  Forgive me if the cans are empty; this Halloween has done me in!

New post on the SVMB

Please click here to check out my latest post on the Silicon Valley Moms Blog, called Failing Motor-Voter Registration.  Alan Keyes for President!

Forget the debates; I'd rather watch the Dash and Grammy show

(Yes, I watched the debate.  Yawn.  I'm waiting for "the moment."  It's not coming, is it?)

My mom, "Grammy," formerly known as Meemaw, is in town visiting.  Grammy has no bigger fan than Dash, who knows that his likelihood of scoring a new matchbox car each day skyrockets with Grammy around.  He knows who butters his bread!  (Of course, he doesn't eat that bread, because it has butter on it... a post on his eating disorder is forthcoming...)

Meanwhile, with Grammy around interacting with the kids, I can't help to think back to my own childhood and how we're continuing some wonderful traditions, like pepperoni rolls.  I fondly remember taking pepperoni rolls in my lunch, and now Petunia loves them more than anything; they're #1 on her favorite foods list, followed closely by broccoli.  (There will be no post on her eating, as it's perfect, like pretty much anything Petunia does.)  Grammy baked four dozen pepperoni rolls for Petunia's lunchbox today; they should last until her return visit in December, unless the Guv starts getting into them, in which case they'll last until Sunday.  (I wish I had the nerve to post on HIS eating disorders, but they are too numerous and give me indigestion just at the thought.)  I'm also hearing a lot of the rhymes of my childhood, like the "you must pay the rent" routine.  It's nice, her passing things along to my kids that I enjoyed.

But there's continuity, and then there's change.  In my childhood, we couldn't really say words like "suck" or "crap."  It's not like we got our mouths washed out with soap or anything; we just knew not to say those words.  Well, Dash and Petunia are the children of the Guv and Rox, and let's just say that we have a "you can only swear inside our house and sometimes the car" rule.  (I'm not the only mommy blogger with this rule.)  The rule doesn't exactly work when people come to visit, but, well, teaching a kid how to swear appropriately is important!  So we're working on it.  Part of the problem with our teaching, though, is that we are funny, funny people.  Meaning that if our kid starts dropping f-bombs, we should probably scold them, but we can't; we're hiding our laughing faces, especially if they've used it in either a very appropriate or a very inappropriate way.  It's our fatal parental flaw: we laugh when we probably shouldn't.  The shame of it...

Case in point, this afternoon, I had to tell Dash that a playdate was cancelled because he had a fever.  Dash took all of two seconds to start repeatedly screaming "YOU SUCK!" in my face.  I cried for my own mommy, through my tears of laughter, asking "What do I do in this situation?  What do I do?"  And her response was basically, "It's too late to do anything because you're already laughing" -- which made me laugh harder.  Eventually, he stopped (appropriately, and for the first time ever -- well done!) yelling that I suck, and we moved on to other things, like tracking snails. 

Thinking off and on that I really have to start cracking down on my kids regarding proper speech, lest they morph from saying "you suck" into saying horrible things like "Joe Sixpack" and "drill, baby, drill" (that was NOT appropriate for PG television!), I resolved to talk it over with the Guv tonight. 

And then Dash went to tell his Grammy goodnight.  He yelled down the stairs, "Goodnight, buttcrack!"  (his favorite word that he's only allowed to use in the house).

And Grammy promptly responded: "Goodnight, buttcrack!"

At that moment, I had an urge to e-mail my siblings, because I'm confident that neither of them has ever heard our mother say "buttcrack."  Realizing it's bigger than them, than us, here it is in a blog post for posterity.  My kids swear, and now my mother's saying "buttcrack."  The battle's lost, and so's the war, and hell's frozen over, and we're all going there... laughing all the way, ha ha ha...

More SNL, and a note on "post turtles"

For those who missed it, click here.

My favorite "Biden" part is the rant on Scranton at around the 5:30 mark.  Have you ever been to Scranton?  The picture he paints sounds funny -- but it's gosh-darn accurate!

My favorite "Palin" part is the last "Maverick" she tossed in at the end, mostly because I'm pretty sure that some of my kin were playing that game. 

*****

While suturing a cut on the hand of a 75-year old Texas rancher whose hand was caught in a gate while working with cattle, the doctor struck up a conversation with the old man. Eventually, the topic got around to Sarah Palin and her bid to to be a heartbeat away from being President.

The old rancher said, "Well, ya know, Palin is a post turtle."

Not being familiar with the term, the doctor asked him what a post turtle was.

The old rancher said, "When you're driving down a country road and you come across a fence post with a turtle balanced on top, that's a post turtle."

The old rancher saw a puzzled look on the doctor's face, so he continued to explain.

"You know she didn't get up there by herself, she doesn't belong up there, she doesn't know what to do while she is up there, and you just wonder what kind of dumbass put her up there to begin with."

I just can't help it...

... I can't get over this moment from the VP debate, described on the liveblog of Megan McArdle at TheAtlantic.com:

9:08  Sarah Palin winks at the camera.  I didn't believe it the first time I saw it; thank god for TiVo.  I think all three million viewers are supposed to come up to her hotel room with a bottle of champagne after the debate.

*****

It was a real privilege to watch the debate with some friends from the Silicon Valley Moms Blog and Momocrats.  My "official" assessment is that I have some great friends.  My "unofficial" assessment of the debate is that Sarah Palin didn't screw up as much as I'd hoped.  Look, I never root against people, but she is my exception.  She is undereducated, inexperienced, misguided and unworthy of the second highest seat in our government.  I would think the same if she were a man with the same curriculum vitae.  It is an embarrassment to our country that she has been given a national platform because she has boobs and religion (don't raise your eyebrows -- you know it's true).  I respect John McCain's service to our country, but I question his judgment now more than ever. 

But that's as off-message as I'm going to get... I am so proud that Joe Biden is running for VP at Barack Obama's side.  HE deserves that platform.  HE is someone I trust to lead.  HE is someone who I believe offers straight-talk.  HE knows the difference between crossing the aisle to call himself a "maverick" and crossing the aisle because the American people expect bipartisanship.  I have NO qualms about him becoming President one day, God forbid that should be needed.  We must make sure that Sarah Palin never has that chance.

And might I just add that when Biden talked so much about fundamental differences, I couldn't help but think: Democrats think; Republicans wink.  Time for change, n'est-ce pas?

Click here to read my post supporting Obama on the Silicon Valley Moms Blog.

Love, by Dash

"I love you monster truck," Dash gushes to his monster truck.  And to his mail truck, Dash professes "I love you too, mail truck."  He pauses to play a little, then yells to me, "Hey Mama!  I love my trucks!"

"That's nice, Dash.  Do you love Mama, too?" asks Mama, who rarely seeks validation, especially since Dash isn't one to be all lovey-dovey, unlike Petunia, who always was.

"I said I love my trucks," replies Dash.

"I know you love your trucks.  And I love you!  Sometimes it would be nice if you said you loved Mama, too," I added with a forlorn sigh. 

"Mama!"  Dash exclaims.  "I love you up to the ceiling lights!" 

My jaw dropped.  He understood!  And he might not love me to the moon, but I'll take to the lights.  That's progress!

"I love you too, Dash," I said, so happy, hugging him.

"That's right, Mama," Dash continued, "I love you, Coffee Crotch."

"What?!"  I exclaimed.

"I said I LOVE YOU COFFEE CROTCH!" Dash proudly repeated.

You see, a couple of weekends ago, the Guv drove over a bump while I was drinking coffee, and it spilled in my, ummm, lap.  I vaguely remember exclaiming something like "Jesus, Guv, now there's coffee all over my crotch!"  Whoopsie.  At least I didn't say va-jay-jay, I guess!