Wanna hear about it? Here goes:

*Tonight we went to Subway, me, Jim and George. And I found myself splashed over with sadness just ever so briefly at the fact that Hank wasn’t there. This happens to me a lot when Hank is off for the weekend with his “second dad.” The family moves on without him, and suddenly I miss him so badly it can make me want to cry.

Then, as I was lost in thought about my eldest child, I looked up to realize that George was standing on his seat, licking the picture of lettuce that was bolted to the Subway wall. Suddenly, I had more important things to do than wallow — I had to hide my head in shame.

*As has been well documented, I tend to really hate commercials. Not because they ruin my favorite episodes of Fringe and Law & Order and whatever Kardashian show is on, but because anything can pass as plausible ad material these days. Yesterday, I saw a spot about the new, hip designs for Playtex packaging. Because nothing says “man I love when my uterine lining leaks out my lady parts in a bloody shower of nastiness” like neon colors on my tampon wrapper.

*Speaking of commercials, has anyone noticed how HAPPY men are when they have erectile dysfunction? Commercials seriously make me want herpes and my period every second of every day, while my husband battles with rising to the occasion and how his gray hair prevents him from getting a job. Because with all those issues, we would be a couple of dancing, cartwheeling, bike riding, road tripping, laughing, walking on the beach fools! Oh the joy!

*Bud Select 55 isn’t just light on calories and taste. It’s light on standards for the bottle. Because if you drop one of those babies, it will shatter into 8,000 tiny pieces… right before your bare feet.

*It’s totally cool to be excited about spending your Saturday night watching House Hunters.

*There’s such a thing as too comfortable with someone. And it’s when you apologize to them, and they have to wait to figure out what it is for. Only to find out it was for your stinky fart that you know is wafting their way. Too. Comfortable.

*According to some random website that no one in their right mind should ever look at (except for those growing children in their enormous bellies), the most popular girl name last year was Isabella. There are also several other names that seem to be on the list most years — Emily, Grace, Ava, Sophia. All names I really, really like. But you know what’s never on there? Marney.

Growing up, I actually was fond of having an uncommon name. Marney is not common, but doesn’t sound so unusual as to make people think “wow, how much pot did your parents smoke?” Which, we all know, is untrue anyway. Mom is a boozer, not a druggie.

But the consequence of having an uncommon name is that you are then associated with every person who shares that name, as if the common trait of your moniker makes you somehow connected to that person.

There was the Alfred Hitchcock movie, “Marnie,” where Tippi Hedren plays a thief and a total lunatic named, well, Marnie. And she is always lying about her name, but when she finally confesses that her real name is Marnie, her psychiatrist, played by Sean Connery, scoffs at her, “Well, that fits.”

WHAT THE HELL, SEAN CONNERY?

I thought it had reached a pinnacle with the infamous Marney Thanksgiving Letter, the one that people really thought was from me. But no.

Enter Marni Yang. Several weeks ago, Marni Yang was convicted of murdering the pregnant girlfriend of former Chicago Bear Shaun Gayle. And let me tell you — this woman is a prime WACKO. Total freakshow land. Killed this woman out of some weird fit of jealousy, but she was crazy obsessed with Shaun Gayle.

Of course, the story of the murder and arrest and trial was top news here. But last night, it was featured on an episode of 20/20. Once again, Marni Yang — MARNI — is on my teevee.

My favorite part was when the interviewer, one Ms. Juju Chang, first said her name.

“Marni,” Juju says, sarcastically, raising both an eyebrow AND the corner of her lip, apparently disgusted.

“Marni!” repeats Shaun Gayle, equally disturbed at the sound of her name.

PEOPLE. She is not a crazy person because her name is Marni. And for real — Juju? Someone named Juju is cocking her head funny to the name Marni? Juju. I’m not 100 percent certain, but it’s possible that just saying Ms. Chang’s first name is slightly racist, but she sneers to Marni.

Gah!

I heard many times from various folks, ohhhhhhh, the murderer is named MARNI. Oooohhhhhh! Oh my! Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh yeah shut the hell up.

When my sister named her son — the family’s FIRST grandson — Jonathan, no one shrieked, “Oh my God, you’re naming him Jon? But what about John Wayne Gacey? OH THE HUMANITY.”

No one ever stared an interview with Ted Kennedy by saying, “So… Ted. You and Ted Bundy. That’s a rough one, huh?”

No one ever said, upon learning that my husband is named Jim, “Oh my God, you mean like the Jonestown Massacre? Don’t trust HIM with the Kool-Aid.”

But somehow, Marney = Marni Yang.

“What’s in a name?” Shakespeare wrote.

Well, apparently, if the name is Marni/Marnie/Marney/Marny/Marnee, what’s in that name is a murderous, lying, thieving, villainous psychopath.

Of course, Shakespeare should have known better. Being named Bill, he obviously knows that THAT name carries a lot of weight with the ladies.

*My husband and I Tivo Teen Mom and 16 and Pregnant. What the hell?

*Beer can help you sleep. Sleeping pills can also help you sleep. Mixing them will make you sleep until 1 p.m., and will make your husband really pissed off at you.

*When ordering food through a drive-thru window, you shouldn’t be allowed to even GO to that drive-thru unless your window rolls down. You know what is aggravating? Waiting for the mom with 18 kids and equally as many bags and drinks try to collect all that stuff from the cracked open door of her 1999 rusty beige Suburban which she naturally pulled a little to close to the window number two. Seriously woman, get your tie-dye wearing, scrunchie-haired self INSIDE the restaurant. You’re holding up the line.

*My baby is turning five years old this week. I suppose it’s time to stop blaming the little bastard innocent boy for my big fat ass.

*My other baby will be nine in just about a month. So while I REALLY can’t blame him for my big fat ass, I am going to start blaming him for my gray hair.

I read somewhere that there’s a special place in heaven for a mother of boys. And someday, I hope my friends and family members with boys will leave heaven to visit me in hell to let me know what that place is like.

The truth of it is, there is an election coming up. And while I have no idea which of the candidates in my own town who are best suited for the job, it’s the election in the fabulous city that I cover for the local newspaper that is keeping me stressed and excited all at once. Tuesday isn’t just election day, it’s the day we lay out the paper. So my usual one-week deadline has dissipated, and it’s like I’m back in big news-land, where I have to get my reporting as accurate and quickly as possible.

Why this has me so wound up I do not know, it’s not like I cannot handle it. But I think part of the issue is the fact that while the election has been smooth sailing for months, it appears that in the last three weeks or so, someone trucked in a big bucket of mud and all the candidates picked up their best shovels and started tossing. It’s typical, on one hand, but still creates a lot of excess news for me. When it comes to small town news, there is a fine line between news and gossip. And I am standing on it like it’s a freakishly thin tightrope.

Anyway, it’s my preparations for next week that have turned me into the mother of the year. Because you know what? It’s spring break, and Wii is a good babysitter. Jim pointed out that there is a picture of Anakin Skywalker from the new Lego Star Wars game burned into the TV screen. I replied by telling him off. He did not like that.

Today, I let them play while I was doing some other various work, when I suddenly realized that the smell in the room was, in fact, me. So I hopped in the shower, and when I got out, I realized that the one really cute part of my body — my toes — needed some work. So for the first time since last summer, I slapped a coat of paint on my little piggies. Instant cuteness. If it wasn’t so chilly, I’d put sandals on.

So I head down to where the boys were being babysat by Wii again. The conversation went like this:

Hank: “Man, do we have to turn it off already?”

Me: “No. Look at my toes.”

Hank, not looking at my toes: “Looks good.”

Me: “You didn’t even LOOK, look at my toes!”

Hank, glancing down briefly: “Yeah, looks good.”

Me: “YOU ARE NOT EVEN LOOKING AT THEM! Don’t they look cute?”

George: “They look BEAUTIFUL mom!”

Me: “See, that’s how you answer! Who’s winning the favorite son award today?”

Hank: “They look good.”

And that’s how you torture your kids.

Hank: “Mom, I think I know why we have wieners and butts. ‘Cause when you drink, the drink takes bad chemicals and it makes it go out (makes pee gesture). And when you eat, it carries on and it takes bad chunks and it carries it out of your butt (makes pooping gesture).”

Me: “What made you think of this?”

Hank: “Our teacher. It’s about what we’re learning about water, like how it goes up in the air and how it goes back down. I already knew the whole thing.”

As usual, thanks public school!

Hank walked into my room unexpectedly today, as I exited from the shower.

Full. Frontal. Mom.

From his reaction, you would have thought he’d had a front row seat to the dropping of the atomic bomb. It went something like this:

Poor thing. The image of Mom’s double-D’s now seared into his brain for life.

Sorry kid.

Of course, I am a good lefty liberal, so screw that crap.

Christmas is all about PRESENTS!

Let’s check out the awesome that hit our home this year:

Star Wars was again a recurring theme for my first born, which makes sense, seeing as he is a Jedi Knight in training. But it seems this year, the fever has spread to Number 2:

Don’t let the look on his face fool you. George is crazy excited about his new Darth Vader action figure, which, surprisingly, was not easy to find. I am not sure how to feel about George’s newfound love of the dark side, other than to say, probably should have seen that one coming.

But who cares about the wee ones. What are the chances that they’ll even have vivid memories of this Christmas, anyway? It’s the ADULTS that made out this year. And man are we happy with Santa:

Zumba for the Wii!!!! LOVE IT!

 Happy holidays everyone!

I mean, Merry Christmas everyone! Because we all know when you say happy holidays, the terrorists win.

To my brother, at his wedding, which yes, was his second wedding: “This is the best wedding you’ve had.”

Same day: “I hope you don’t divorce this one, because I like her.”

Same day, upon exiting the dance floor: “Not only am I having the night of my life, but I’m getting great exercise.”

Watching Faith Hill sing the Monday Night Football song: “Ah, if only she was 8 years old.”

Waving his hands at the automatic doors at Walmart: “I’m getting good at using the Force.”

I think it is fair to say that while the boy did not inherit my looks (and seriously, if you look at this photo and do NOT see his other biological contributor clear as day, you either don’t know the dude or you are messed up), he at least got my sense of humor.

Wait, wait, wait, wake up. It’s not that boring.

As a purchasing manager, Jim basically bargains for a living. When he tells me stories about work, two things happen: 1) I try desperately not to fall asleep (seriously, it’s purchasing) and 2) I flash to that scene from A Christmas Story, when Ralphie’s old man is bargaining with the Christmas tree salesman — “The old man loved bargaining as much as an Arab trader, and he was twice as shrewd!” That’s Jim. When I paid full price for a cheap, $10 handbag in the Bahamas, I thought he would divorce me on the spot. And once, a bubbly Jim who’d said okay to one too many cocktails at the hotel bar at the Holiday Inn still managed to utter the phrase “you can’t do any better than that?” to the late night check-in clerk, who I’m sure loved finding rooms for drunken holiday party-goers.

Anyway, in the ongoing installment of nature versus nurture, today’s lesson is bargaining, and here’s how Hank did:

Hank, through tears: I’m sooo sooo soooo sooo sorry.

Me: Well, you’re paying for new ones.

Hank: How much?

Me (taking three $5 bills from his wallet): $12.

Hank: Can I have the change?

Me: NO!

Hank: Why?

Me: Because you kicked your shoe into the pond.

That’s what we get for moving into a house on the water, limited water as it is. Also, it appears nurture wins again.

For those of you who have children, you know that there is “the story.” For my mother, there are five of them. With Carrie she was so drugged up she couldn’t point her out in the nursery. Tommy I think is the one where every doctor, nurse, cafeteria worker and janitor in the hospital took a peek before she finally delivered him. Laura — 10 pounds, two sets of forceps, double-episotomy, born arm first with a tooth (that’s a good one). Amy was born during Monday Night Football. Me? Well, I shot out so fast she almost left me right there on the hospital floor. Nice.

My stories are lame. I was totally drugged up and had both my children removed from me — against their will — in a nice, sterile operating suite. Hank refused to come out. George didn’t get the chance to even try.

Everyone can chip in something here. What you or your wife or your girlfriend went through. But no matter how you tell the story, to you, it seems fairly unbelievable. I mean, you DID that. You made that kid. Cool.

But, as far as baby stories go, no one can top the delivery of one Miss Lilah, born to my friend Nancy and her husband Mark (and big sister Cara) this week. In Nancy’s own words:

I delivered my own child. Yes I did.

Lilah Jane was born yesterday morning around 9:10. My contractions were still 6 minutes apart, so I told Mark to take Cara to daycare. I figured I’d get dressed and we’d head for the hospital when he got back. As soon as the van door closed I knew I’d made a bad call. I figured the best thing to do was get up, get dressed, and go sit with next-door-neighbor Jen until Mark got back.

I went and sat on the potty, and my water broke. I yelled out the window for Jen, but she had gone into her basement to work out. I told myself not to push, but my body wasn’t listening to me. At that point I realized the baby was ready to come out. I gave one good push, and most of her was out. One more good push and there she was. No I did not drop her in the toilet (but I think her feet got wet). So now I’m stuck on the in the bathroom with no help and a waxy, blue baby. Fortunately I had read just the night before what to do if you accidentally gave birth at home. I did what I could to clear her airway, wrapped her in a towel draped her cord over my arm since the placenta hadn’t been delivered yet, and walked over to my bed.

After calling 911 I ran over to the window and called Jen again, which still did me no good. I couldn’t call anyone else because 911 wouldn’t let me off the phone. The EMT’s were there pretty fast, but Mark had locked the door (ever safety conscious). Poor Jen – just about to get in the shower and wrapped in a towel -was running around her house looking for my house key.

They didn’t break down the door because they knew I was ok, so they found an open kitchen window and climbed through. They grabbed the baby, cut the cord and sent her on her way to the hospital. Right about this time Mark turned down our street and had a mini cardiac episode when he saw all the emergency vehicles at our house. He came up to see his blood covered wife starting to kind of pass out on the bed, with 6 EMT guys standing around. One of them offered me a sheet to cover myself with. I looked around and asked if anyone really thought my modesty was an issue at that point.

I had a partial placental abruption, so my upstairs looked like a crime scene (which my poor mom cleaned up) – which got even grosser when my placenta delivered. Then they packed me up (tromping around in the blood all the while) and sent me off in my own ambulance. Lilah is fine. She spent the night in the NICU. I feel great and aside from lots of blood loss I ended up in pretty good shape.

Dudes… she delivered her OWN child. Alone. In the bathroom. And not like, I’m at the prom and my mom doesn’t know I’m pregnant so I’ll push it out and leave it in paper towels in the corner then go dance with my boyfriend. More like, I have a bag packed and names picked out and I’ve called the maternity ward ahead of time and I STILL managed to have her on the fine radiant heat tiles! She’s like a genuine case of “I didn’t know I was pregnant” only she TOTALLY KNEW she was pregnant!

Holy. Crap. On. A. Stick. With. Beans.

Nancy is absolutely, 100 percent, the world’s most bad ass mother.

Today’s actual statement to the boys:

“Please don’t kiss each other’s butts.”

Boys.