Well, it has happened. I truly have nothing to say. If I hit Publish now, then I will be saving both your time and mine. But those who know me best know that I just can’t do that. I’m a verbose longwinded Wordy Wordenkiller.  I can kill almost anything simple by describing it to death.

So let’s talk about yesterday. You want to? Sure. Let’s do that.

It was a nice day over all. The weather was so completely perfectly perfect that it was almost like God carefully laid the perfect day down in the Tampa bay area and allowed me to walk around inside it. I daydreamed all day about the beaches of the Florida Panhandle, where I spent my childhood. It was the kind of day that needed a lounge chair, a beach umbrella, a good book, a cooler of Diet Mtn. Dews, a friend, and no cell phone.  I took SnuggleMonkey on a walk in a stroller. By the end of that walk, she was waking me. Pushing the stroller, shoving my hand off the handle if I tried to keep her from wandering into traffic.  I played a friendly little game of Monopoly with the kids while SnuggleMonkey was napping. I was surprisingly shrewd in my real estate dealings. I don’t think the kids knew who they were dealing with.  I enjoyed listening to Mamasboy constantly spelling out the things that he wanted, as we played the game. He had snacks on the brain.

J-U-I-C-E-B-O-X?  Yeah, ok. Sure.

G-O-L-D-E F-I-S-H?  Well, nice use of the silent e…there isn’t one, but okay. Yes on the goldfish. He figures if he cocks his head to the side and spells it, he has a greater chance of obtaining it. Mostly he is right.

As that game ended, I looked at my watch and realized that I had one hour to accomplish dinner, baths, room cleanings, and a shower for myself. Last night was date night for us, so I needed to at least feel like I tried. If I were to now type “To Be Continued” and then allowed you all to guess in the comments section how I resolved most of the to-do list in that amount of time, I bet at least a few of you would come close. Here’s how it went:

• I sent the kids up to clean their rooms. This is always a stupid thing to attempt, because only the boys can even come close. So I followed them up and dashed madly around to put away about 32 dresses and all of the clean clothes.
• The boys went out to play frisbee while I cleaned up the girls’ rooms.
• Frisbee went bad. Really, really bad.
• I called Todd as he was making his way home from the office and said, “Um, hey. I played a rousing game of Monopoly with your kids and completely lost track of time. Do you mind stopping through McDonalds for 4 happy meals?” Happy Meals are $1.99 on Tuesday and Thursday. This means you still get unhealthy, non-biodegradable meals and worthless toys that cost 14 cents to produce, but you pay less. On Tuesdays and Thursdays.
• The kids’ baths got skipped. All of them. Skipped. Dirty kids. This is really going well for my Good Housekeeping portfolio.
• I washed my hair and was VERY clean.  You know, because it’s all about me.
• And frisbee was still going bad. So bad, that I could hear Mamasboy screaming from inside the house with my door closed.

Screaming is a hard, fast rule around here. We may skip the occasional Tuesday bath and we may eat kangaroo burgers from McDs, but screaming at your brother in the front yard is a definite  “nope”  and I had to go out and nip that one. So I did. I made them come in and gave them a stern speech that I expect they didn’t hear a word of.  And I went off to do something that wasn’t on my to-do list but that somehow had garnered my attention.

And then the doorbell rang.  Before I knew what was happening, Jackson (again, names are changed because I’m pretty sure his mom wouldn’t appreciate me putting him on the internet) was standing in our foyer.

“Oh, hello, Jackson,” I said. As I came around the corner to greet him, I saw that Mamasboy was crumpled on the bottom stair in semi-fetal position. He looked like he had post-traumatic stress disorder. That frisbee thing must have REALLY gone bad.  “We’re inside for a few minutes because people were screaming out in the yard.”

“Uh, yeah,” he said rather sheepishly, “I heard the whole thing from my garage.”

“Ahh,” I said, “You see, guys? When we scream, people hear us and think we are crazy. And though we are crazy, we need to keep our crazies on the inside of the house.”

Jackson proceeded to replay the entire frisbee fiasco like he was a Sports Center commentator. Some of it I tuned out, but I tuned back in on the phrase, “And then he was going all Rampage Mode on him…”

“Who? Mamasboy?” Jackson nodded. Rampage Mode. Yeah, that’s about what it was, all right.

So I lost the Good Housekeeping interview, but I’ve since been to the store to remedy some of the above. And I had a nice date out with Todd and a squeaky loom.

Today I am meeting with The Informinator.
That sounds promising, doesn’t it?
Don’t worry. Whatever she imparts to me, I will pass along.
Now you know. And knowing is half the battle.

Dear Reader,

The pressure I’m feeling from all of you is just enormous. Kill the doll. Keep the doll. Dress the doll up like Shirley Maclaine and play light as a feather. Show me your kids. Don’t show me your kids. Show me your kids but never say the word vomit. Don’t talk about anything that comes out of the body, even if that is sold gold coins or Diet Mtn. Dew that falls from your eyes like tears.

And though I now have the sweats (telling you this is violating one of those rules up there) from it all, I did receive a bit of threatening advice that I intend to adhere to. I received the following email from The Informinator:

Todd and I were watching a video of Jenna crawling last night. Todd’s comment was “Aww. That’s when she was sweet.” And we laughed. Please don’t pity her for the statements we make. They are completely honest. But she is still completely adored. In those early days, Jenna was such a happy, perfect little angel. I mean perfect. Quiet. Sweet. Smiley. Compliant. Non-Fussy. Totally unopinionated. Laid back.

Then she put shoes on and walked away from all of that.

We still love her dearly. And because she can still work us like marionettes and can shake her big Chaka Khan hair to reinforce her point, she gets by with what no previous child in the family has.  Just yesterday, I ran across an incident that occurred while she was still in her Perfection Phase. Unfortunately for her, I was not in that phase. Hence, the following.
_________________________________________________________

I knew the day would come. I knew The Shopping Fiasco was coming. It’s bound to happen if you cross the threshold into the land of Four Babies.

It was a quick stop at CVS. A quick, less-than-five-items stop. Faces were beaming. Tiny little voices escaped from little mouths like the air flying from a tightly-wound balloon. We were happy.  SisterTinklePants had been fed, so she was plump and content. But the stop at CVS was necessary in order for her to be plump and content at the next feeding. We were out of formula. Armed with two coupons and good attitudes, we held hands and crossed the parking lot. 4 items, one old lady from church, and 45 minutes later, we were standing in line to check out. SisterTinklePantswas doing her best Mona Lisa, as usual, strapped in her seat and perched on the shopping cart. Mamasboy and Beloved were doing their thing as only they can. They remind me of what I have heard said of twins. They share a language and private jokes and interests like none of my other sibling combos. It is both endearing and a tad frightening.

As the cashier finished scanning my items, I very innocently handed her an Enfamil coupon, because STP’s allergen-free formula costs about the same as a kidney transplant. The moment I passed those coupons across the counter is when things took a subtle, but noticeable, turn for the worse. I was zoning. The cashier was trying to figure out why the coupon wasn’t working. Mamasboy and Beloved were getting more and more funny to each other.
I should’ve zoomed in on that one.
But I didn’t.
Because I was zoning.
And as has been my custom at some very crucial moments in life, what finally brought me out of the stupor I was in was the sound of an intense crash directly behind me. When I turned around to see what had happened, I reacted like a person submerged in wax. Is that the shopping cart I was just pushing? Are those my children on the floor? Is that THE BABY on the floor? Is Mamasboy underneath the cart? Did they take out an entire kiosk of energy bars? The scene was horrifying. Utter carnage.

I guess I must have made some improvements in my tendency to instantly react in irritation, because I did manage to set STP’s seat upright, observe that–as is her custom–she wasn’t going to cry, and ask Mamasboy, “Are you okay?” A few months ago, I’m quite certain the first question would have been “What were you thinking?” I didn’t have to ask what he was thinking, because it was painfully evident that none of us had been doing any intentional thinking. I would almost wager an arm that all the people in line behind us had some thoughts, though.

So STP was on her side, safe and happy and stoic, still strapped snugly in her car seat. Beloved was inside the shopping cart completely traumatized. Mamasboy was under the cart, traumatized, horrified, frightened, and overwrought with guilt.
Two of the three were screaming.
The two screamers were now in my arms.
The coupon still wasn’t working.
And the line behind us was stacking up.
From this point forward, it was my job to put out fires. Convince Mamasboy that it was okay (“I didn’t mean to, Mama” he said as he buried his sobbing face in my leg). Console Beloved and try with mighty power to get her to cry slightly more quietly. (Sometimes all you can hope for is to lower the volume.)  Assure the cashier that I no longer cared about the price of the formula or the value of a coupon (as it turns out, she gave me an extra $5 off after having already given me $5 off so I ended up saving more than I intended…). Pick up the energy bars that were laying around us like witnesses to the shameful negligence. And then get out, heads down, and back to the car without kicking or touching anything and without locking eyes with anyone taller than 45 inches.

I knew the day would come when that shopping cart finally went over. I guess I’m glad that, when it finally did, I didn’t yell at anyone. Even though all the people in line behind me probably wish I had.

I’m getting mixed reviews on the floating doll in the swimming pool. Some people love it. Some people are struggling to sleep at night as a result. Not that I will really listen, but do vote…if you care.

Ditch the baby doll or keep it?

Well.
Happy Valentines Day to everyone. Whether you are single or married or engaged or stalking a new love or wishing to be unattached and you are unable to creatively break it off with some persistent soul, there is some source of love in your life. Wish a Happy Valentine’s Day to someone like it’s their birthday and give the world a goofy grin. You can’t ever go wrong with a goofy grin, though it is a tad embarrassing as it’s happening.

I got an email response last night to the craigslist ad I had placed to sell a solid wood armoire. The response was as follows:

“Miserable Magnates.”

Huh?

Wow. Why so angry? Didn’t like the price? At least try to talk me down before you start name calling. I had to look ‘magnates’ up. Happy Valentines Day, oh slave to misery.

Take a gander at  my new menu and keep it in mind when you need help of any kind. Ask the Informinator now exists as a service to you, the reader.  I’ll try to set up a better comments system, but for now, leave your letter in a comment and she’ll answer. The really cool thing about this is that I didn’t even ask her permission first. I’m just forcing it on her. As Spider-Man says: “With great knowledge comes great power.” She pretty much has to answer us. It is her calling.

Recently we were reminiscing over the preschool carpool that took place when MamasBoy was just 4. What a quirky group of people that was. I found this, buried in a file:

Yesterday I picked up two extra kids from preschool. Everyone had a paper trail as we made our way to the car. Clumsyfeet was carrying a bear that was chickenpoxed up with tissue paper decor. Truthfully it looked like that bear had lost an ugly fight. At the beginning of our journey it had 2 eyes and a mouth. Halfway to the car, his sister said, “Hey, did you lose your eyeball?” To this, Clumsyfeet said, “No.” But then he looked at me dubiously and said, “Did I lose my eyeball, Miss Missy?” The whole conversation was kind of ridiculous. “Don’t you think you would know it if you lost your eyeball?” I asked him. And at that, I saw no point in further discussion. But as it turns out, his sister was the smart one. Bear had lost an eye. In the parking lot. I gave it one reasonable glance, just to look good, and then told Clumsyfeet that there are good surgeons and glass eyes for times such as these.

By the time I got all 5 yakkety-yaks into the van and all Bears and Paintings loaded in the trunk and all plastic runaway eyeballs searched for, we weren’t looking terribly organized anymore. But I was gripping securely to a shred of dignity as I backed out of my parking space. About this time my eyes wandered down to my left pants leg, where the longest, shiniest, greenest, puffy-paint-textured trail of snot that I have ever seen was lining my pants–up one side and down another. Oh. Now, that’s awesome.  No wonder I don’t have any friends.

And on the way home from all of that, Mamasboy looks at me very seriously and says, “Mama, do you know why I don’t like bananas?”

Well, I actually hadn’t been aware that he had changed his stance on bananas, but that seemed to be a ship already sailed, so I just went with, “Why, Boy?”

His answer: Because I don’t like the color yellow and because they don’t taste good.” That pretty much settled the matter.

I am typing on a tiny little Acer Aspire Teeny Baby Laptop, which means that the keyboard is also teeny baby size and my hands are like ham hocks trying to find the right letters. Every time I hit the backspace key, which is always, I get an equal sign. So I could be here awhile. I’m thinking about making this one a long one, just so it’ll take you as long to read as it did me to write.

Not really. Who has the energy?

Today was THE garage sale. Since November, I’ve known I was going to hold a garage sale 5 doors down in the garage of family friends who moved.  The garage was almost swollen with stuff. I could not believe how much we had both in the house and out of the house. At points during the morning, there was so much traffic on the street that people trying to actually get through were honking. Hey dude, take it easy. It’s Saturday.

I’ve never thrown a garage sale anywhere but right here on this street, so I don’t really know how things are in other places. But I would imagine that the clientele is largely the same, no matter where you are. And I would imagine that every sale has at least one guy that needs an intimidating bouncer to escort him to his car. No soup for you! Today that man was Mr. Ferris. Names have been changed to protect the guilty. Mr. Ferris was a character. To this moment, I cannot determine if he was good people or bad people. I am leaning toward good people, but there was some evidence to the contrary throughout our exchanges. (Todd, after hearing this story, says Mr. Ferris was definitely bad people…or intentionally dishonest people, which equals bad. ) Mr. Ferris was one of those that I knew right off was not going to pay more than a nickel for anything. He had a wad of cash at his disposal, and yet his intention was to spend 0 dollars and walk away with $150 worth of merchandise.  He was a hawk. The first thing he did was walk up to me and boldly say, “I know you. Where do I know you from?” I was tempted to say, “Well, have you been reading my blog?” Ha ha ha ha ha ha. No, he hasn’t and no, I wasn’t really tempted to say that. It never crossed my mind. Although reading blogs is a free activity, so perhaps I should have suggested it. At any rate, it turned out that he was the husband of a first grade teacher at my son’s school. We have run into each other there in non-capitalistic events. So he made some chit chat to try to schmooz me and then he went in for the kill. He carted off a ridiculous amount of stuff for about $7. Then he offered me $10 for a coffee table that I said, “ARE.YOU.CRAZY?” to and I sent him away, kindly, while whispering ‘No soup for you’ as he got into his car.

And that was that. For 45 minutes.

Then he came back.

Really, Mr. Ferris? Did you just want to give me a few minutes to recover before you beat me up again?

So this time he prowled and slunk about, chit chatting pleasantly about his wife, the school, why the coffee table is worthless to anyone because it has a scuff ON THE PART OF THE LEG THAT SITS ON THE HARD GROUND, etc.  Do I have the look of a person that would neglect vaccinations or take a shirtless child to a grocery store? Is that why you think this is going to work? As he slunk and prowled, he was ‘gathering’ in a clear box. And on top of that box, as a final item, was a pillow. And under that clear box was an office chair. And over next to that clear box, generic hidden items, pillow, and office chair, was the coffee table. He motioned his arm in a cute little roundabout and said, “$10 for all of this?”

“You have GOT to be kidding. No way. 30.” I said. I wasn’t even kidding. That was immoral. Even $30 almost made me throw up.

“$10. No one is going to buy this stuff.” He continued.

“That’s kind of a silly statement, since you obviously want it pretty bad. No. $30.”

“OK. $15 for all of it.” At this point, I walked over to see what the lurking items under the pillow were in the clear box. Well, now. There was a surprise staring back at me.

“Dude! That’s my iPod. You’ve got my iPod. That’s not for sale! That’s a $100 item, again…not for sale…that you thought you could throw into a box with 2 pieces of furniture for 10 BUCKS? No. $30. I’m not selling.” So here he put his head down, with his proverbial rat tail between his legs, and started really trying to backpedal. He wasn’t trying to steal my iPod and the iHome speaker that was with it. He thought it was for sale. BLAH.BLAH. B-L-A-H.  After much parsing through and taking back items from him, I sold him a few nibs and nubs of no real value, and the coffee table, for $17. Nuggets, Mr. Ferris. Really. Or, as Ramona Quimby would say, “GUTS.”

As he wandered off, he said, “I was not trying to steal your stuff. If I get away with it here, God is still watching.” A truer statement has never been uttered. Which brings me to my next customer.

A sweet girl named Sarah showed up with her three small children and her mother. They live in the neighborhood and we know them. The girl and the children were visiting from Connecticut. They were shopping my books. Sarah picked up a cloth activity book called “A Walk with Jesus” that I have had for at least 9 years. And she was enamored with it until she realized that the key element was missing. “It’s missing Jesus,” she said to her mom. “How sad!” It’s true. None of my children were ever interested in that book because there was no Jesus figure to move from velcro station to velcro station. My husband was standing right there when she said that and commented, “Isn’t that what’s wrong with the world in general?” And we chuckled, thinking about velcro people and how to make an adorable little figure to go in the book and bring life back into it. But as I thought about it later, I realized how true that is. Without Jesus, there’s no value. Something essentially becomes worthless or purposeless unless He is there. And how does that happen? We just take our eyes off of Him long enough to forget. We look away from Him to the things that distract us and we forget that our talents come from Him. Our money comes from Him. Our houses, our children, our food, our strengths and gifts…all come from Him. Deuteronomy says to put His commandments on our hearts. “Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up. Tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads. Write them on the doorframes of your houses and on your gates.” (Deut. 6:6-9) Well, there’s a handy formula for living. I shouldn’t act confused about why things are unraveling, if they are. Just get back to Jesus. Find him. Put him back in the book.

Some kid, many years ago, looked away from that cloth book while they were playing with it. And they set the little Jesus figure aside. They figured they’d just come back and put it away later. But that created him being misplaced, which led to him being lost, which led to a valueless book being circulated for years, finally ending up in a garage sale, without the one thing it really needs. And all because some kid lost his focus.

Hmm.

Garage sale over. Money made (no thanks to Mr. Ferris). Lessons learned.

And I gave Sarah that book for free, because she said her mom was going to make a Jesus figure and put Him back in the book.

Everybody wins.

Remember that little dedication to runners I did a few days ago? What was that even? It’s like a large and very necessary portion of my brain just rotted and fell out through my ears, because instead of training for the Gasparilla 5K, I’m now in training for the Tostitos ChipsnSalsathon. And the way things are going, I have a shot at winning this one.

The only running I have done in the last 8 days is away from my 3 year old. (She can be very scary, and right now she has a snotty nose, which creates an adhesive on both cheeks and scary things stick to her. If you see her coming, the smart thing is to run.)

Seems sort of self-deprecating to announce to blog readers everywhere that I just stood at the table and ate leftover Taco Bell chips with the bottom of a jar of Tostitos restaurant salsa. But when I photographed and then posted my laundry situation, suddenly it got done and a path was carved into and through the scary room (this room is not unlike the toddler in the house…frightening, but with the potential to be quite charming). I gave myself a week to work through the house. Now I’m looking at the salsa/poptart/whatever is sitting on the table disorder that I’ve developed and wondering if you can help me through it. I wonder if by posting my problem, it will suddenly go away. Wouldn’t that be super awesome?

So the Gasparilla is in 2 weeks. And I’m running in it even if I have to stop at 150 Dixie Cup water stations and be dragged across the finish line by a hard body. Even if it’s 42 degrees and raining, like it was last year (no way did I go last year!). And so as I did with the laundry, I am challenging myself to see if I can end the madness. I want to lose 5 pounds and run it in 31 minutes or less. Unfortunately, that 5 pounds is not going to be part of the original 15 I was going for. That will just be the new 5 I gained tonight eating chips and salsa.

But no matter. Let’s do this thang.

My real name is Melissa. That’s a great name if you are a Melissa type. I clearly am not and I suppose the silly molecules that bump awkwardly into Fate until it makes an ugly move in some direction knew that I am clearly not a Melissa. So those molecules (so far, I am really impressing people with my scientific prowess) and Fate had to make a very split second decision while a marker was in the hand of a nurse who has less medical knowledge than I do and she scribbled ‘Missy’ on my eensy weensy hospital bracelet when I was one day old. Well now. I can’t control what she does. And I can’t control the fact that my brother, way too young at the time to be thrust unsuspecting into the role of my protector (now I am really laughing), could not pronounce the name ‘Melissa.’ And I guess I further can’t control the fact that my own dear parents, bless their souls 2 miles from here, did not seem to have a proper naming schema in place when their son and that nurse came together in an evil board meeting to name me. It always comes down to that one thing that I actually can control: my reaction. And here it is:

What? Really?

There. I feel vindicated.

Actually there are two things I could control: My reaction and the names of my future children (they were futuristic then. Now they are present tense and there aren’t any on the way. Go bug someone else…)

Because my name is Missy, I was beyond particular when developing the naming schema to be applied to each of our children. If you already know their names, then you can judge whether or not I did a decent job with that.  If you don’t know their names, pick a random fella as we discuss this topic and you’ll do fine. This entire process started for me the moment I knew I was expecting and lasted until the moment the babies were born. This was a full time job.

Meaning: I was personally a very Picky McPickenpants about what a name meant. This meant that several names beloved by my dear husband were immediately tossed into the trash can of bad baby names. If your child is named something that ended up in my can of bad baby names, please know that this name is just fine for your child. Just not for mine. In fact, I left it open just for you. Mary meant bitter. I know there are some VERY special Marys in the Bible and I have nothing but the utmost respect for that. I just couldn’t get past the ‘bitter’ thing. Tristan meant tumult. Kennedy? Misshapen head.  Cameron? Crooked Nose. So there were a few in there that just didn’t make the cut. I didn’t want to call my crooked nose to dinner.

Graduation Roll Call: There are people that would call this one obscure. But it has merit. Take your child’s name and call it out. Call it out slowly. Like you are wearing a silly little capngown and standing at a microphone. Melissa – Ann – Snapp. Actually that wasn’t my maiden name and I wasn’t married at my high school graduation. Joshua James Snapp. Wow, that’s a mouthful of zs and ss. Jimmy Jack Snapp. That one has the dreaded glottal stop AND a nursery rhyme collision. This little test will come in handy at graduations and weddings. Think about it. Your child will thank you. If they are thoughtful. Or weird.

Good name, Bad name: Now this one pretty much just allowed me to say no to any name I didn’t want. This is the one that drove Todd completely crazy, because I used it often and with no consistent rationale.  Evelyn. (Again, I support you in naming your child Evelyn. I just couldn’t.) I still have yet to determine if he was truly serious about Calvin Fletcher and Evelyn, but I was forced to pull the good name, bad name card with these, and many other, choices. Calvin Fletcher? Dead President. Evelyn? 80-year-old grandma who lost on Price is Right. She lost bad, too. Harper? Sounds like a harpie. Or a boy. Or a unisex kid. Adrian? Drug addict.

Playground Smack: What can be done with a name on a playground? Ridiculous things. Twists in words that should never have occurred. Simon? Simple Simon. Simon says. Oh, I know my name is Simon, and I like to make Drawrings.  Charlie. Charlie and the CHOCOLATE FACTORY? OK, that one never happens. I’m reaching.

Telephone Solicitation/First Day Roll Call: James Darleson? Um, yes ma’am. Here. It’s Wesley, please. I actually wanted to break this rule, because I’m irrational that way. But Todd insisted we keep to it. And I think I see the point. Take Uncle Cletus for example. His name is Roberto Cletus Lastname. He gets formal sales calls all the time for Roberto. Don’t you know that’s an easy way to spot a call from the Police Benevolence Association. In my thinking, that is a !POINT! in the favor of naming your child and calling them by the middle name. You can tell your friends quickly by what they call you. But alas, our first names are first and middles are middle.

Rhymes With: This one should be obvious. Take the name of your precious cherub, and take the alphabet, now GO. Every single letter in front of that name you are picking. Be very sure about this one. Or your child will be angry. And blog about it. Forever. I mean it.

So as I was reaching back into the mindmaze of our babynaming process, I did what any woman needing clarification would do. I instant messaged my husband.
He’s upstairs.
We do this a lot.
Some of our best talks have been on IM.

Here was, verbatim, our conversation. You can hear the bitterness in his tone as he two-finger types this message…

M: We ran our names through the following tests: rhymes with, playground smack, meaning, Graduation roll call, anything else?

T: not called middle,
Not preemptive middle (by this, he meant, don’t name a kid John David if you already know you are going to just call him David).
Not preemptive Nick — (by this he meant, don’t name a kid Elizabeth if you know from the beginning that she’ll be a Betsy. And though I know now which test he was referring to, I still have no idea what the words “not preemptive middle” mean or why they were squashed together in a phrase of any kind.)

I thought we were done.
He kept going.

T: Doesn’t coincide with anyone you (meaning me) have ever disliked slightly. Or an overweight person.

M: OK. This made me laugh hard, but cannot be written on a public blog. Also, it isn’t true. You are angry. We should talk about this.

T: I know.  If their names rhyme with any part of the body.
Or anything that comes out of the body.
Or any activity done in the bathroom.

M: Well, there went Dave.

T:Another rule. Never a last name on a soap opera. Never in a movie. Doesn’t end in –ess. Two or more syllables.

M: Are you mocking me now?

T: Just providing research content.

There is no moral to this story. But if you haven’t yet named your child, you’re welcome.
Indeed.