Overheard: Text Message Edition

Last night, I went out again to hear a rock show -- this time at the Comet Tavern.

I'm starting to get the hang of it, I think; you mostly just stand there with a bunch of other legal adults and sway a bit or tap an appendage, ice cubes thwacking inconsequentially within the plastic cup you're holding, while the bands play. The bands also thwack, though with plenty more persistence than the ice cubes. Never stop learning, friends.

Also, they won't let you bring your plastic cup outside of the bar when taking the air between sets, just so you know. You're welcome.

Anyway, Brandon was playing with Hearts Are Thugs and I was there.

On a related (trust me) note, I have Potty Progress to report. After toilet training advancement and regression, then more regression followed by even more regression, followed by Oscar announcing that he would not be sitting on the potty until he turns sixteen, followed by my subsequent despair and complete surrender of the entire process, we now have a potty trained boy. Holy Mary, Mother of Diapers!

We stumbled onto a foolbroof method, friends. And the beauty of it is how darn simple it turned out to be. Curious?

Two words:

iPod Touch.

Yes, we did. Yes, we did. We bought him an iPod in exchange for seven straight days of before-purchasing potty and a lifetime of potty ever after. How do you like them apples?

There have already been many unintended bonuses.

Texting with my four-year-old while drinking a gin and tonic and watching Brandon onstage, listening to unearthly loud music in a slightly seedy bar: priceless.