i obsess.

generosity by which i'm befuddled. also, humbled. also, apparently, drunk, but only on fumes of embarrassment. (and maybe wine.)

I was driving to one of my many therapy appointments this week and thinking, "It's always darkest before the dawn."  (My head goes on cliche-autopilot during the dark spans.  Makes for very kicky water-cooler talk.  I sound like a cross between June Cleaver and the adorably zany neighbor on Valerie.  You know.  That show in the eighties that starred Valerie Harper [or, as you may remember her more immediately, Rhoda, whom I also adored, who also happened to be a zany neighbor herself, earlier, on the Mary Tyler Moore show.  jesus.  This may never end.  Didn't Dick and Laura have a zany neighbor, too?  No.  That was covered by Dick's comedy teammates.  But, Rhoda -- oh, the accent!  oh, the head scarves!  Lovvved].  Valerie, the show, also starred my favorite at the time, the appetite-for-the-eyes Jason Bateman.  Edie Clurg played the zany neighbor.  She was righteously zany.  Not quite as good as when she was the secretary with the endless number of pencils in her 'hive and her "oh, Ed"s on FBDO, you know, the one who sniffed glue and swore under her breath with perfect comedic timing, but -- I'll take my Edie Clurg where I can get her.  Well, unless it's on Hannah Montana, which I just found out she's recently done a guest turn on, because I looked at her page on imdb, because, dude.  I don't have cable.  Or a tweenage daughter.  Or any desire to know anything about Hannah Montana beyond its mere, burbling existence.  Etc.

June Cleaver and Edie Clurg.  Yep!  You betcha!  Fucker!

Wow.  My devolution of/war on clever conversation proceeds at its stumbling-yet-regular rate. 

*pats self on back*)

I am, quite obviously, stalling.

See, there are these bloggers, these people who came outta the woodwork and got together and sent me some gift cards that arrived today in the mail, that will buy this week's groceries, and a free-wheeling trip to Starbucks for treats and delicacies and non-necessaries -- oh, the frivolous things one can buy at Starbucks! -- and a card that is specifically for fun items only. 

They did this, these people, these amazing, incredible, thoughtful, beautifully kind people, because I've kind of been a massive fucking headcase-y mess of all hot messes, well, the broke-ain't-no-joke kind, and you have no idea how embarrassed and humbled and grateful and awed you can be until you're standing in my slightly-worn flats, shivering with shame and blessedness. 

There's simply no way for them to know how opportune it was, this gift, this kindness.

My darkest has, seemingly, broken up and is being replaced by the first lovely beams of pink-and-lavender-hued dawn.

Also, you fucking beautiful wenches made me cry.  Twice.  Then and now.

This week's groceries and dinners and lunches and breakfasts and mealtime toasts will all go to you, since you've made them happen.

Thank you so much.

I really wish I could think of something else to say, something to make you understand how depthfully you've touched me, touched my family, your kindness.  (Aside from making up words in your honor.  Words like "depthfully."  And "happy-diddliferous."  Although, quite honestly, that second one sounds more like something Ned Flanders would say, or maybe the zany-neighbor/La Cleaver would come up with.  Not as honorful as "depthfully."  However, "honorful" is kinda working for me.)

Shit.

(Maybe I could just swear a few more times and call you some more filthy names?  That's always *my* preferred form of thanks.)

You beautiful fucking wenches.   Love to each of you.

Er, that is, to

you

and you

and you

and you

and you

and you

and you

and you

and you

gutted.

So thoroughly unprepared to write anything personal at the moment; am beyond grateful to everyone who stepped in and kept the home fires burning (and emptied out my liquor cabinet, which you were welcome to do since you provided something so much worthier -- is that a word?? -- than what you probably got in exchange; cheap booze leaves the worst hangovers invented) while I was away in Denver.

My brain is still choppy like I just stepped off the tilt-a-whirl at the local fair, and our finances are in such a state of upheaval that it's all I can do to not puke when I look at my (sort of kind of working) 'puter that won't stay on long enough for me to access the financial information I have stored in its memory banks, UGH.

I wanted to send personal thank you notes to everyone who posted here in my absence; I wanted to send gifts.  Flowers.  Chocolates.  Call-dudes.  (Or, you know, call-girls if you're into it - no judgement.)

Instead, I have to just say how beautiful each of you are to me and that I would be your personal call-girl if you didn't live so darned far away.  Well, except you, Mel.   *wink, wink - nudge, nudge*

More as my brain settles back into its original(ish) location.

traditions of hangoverness.

Me and mah freend, Cyn.  LOVE THIS GIRL.

Twiggies come in multiples.  (Nora, Gwen, Julie.  STOP BEING SO FUCKING FABULOUS, BITCHES.)

Suebob, you're so dreamy.  And that's our new friend, head-on-a-stick.  (I'm certain this person exists, and is nice, so no dissin'.  All love.  And feel free to come forward and alert us to your existence.)  (Also, who said I was allowed to go out in public with that chin?)

Sarcastically cute.  Especially with head-on-a-stick.

Her boobs make my booblets appear nonexistent.  (Well, and also, just, they are -- kind of nonexistent.) 

I'm hungover and shouldn't be typing.  The shakiness is difficult to overcome.  I'll live.  Somehow.

More updateys later, lovers.  (If the shaking doesn't cause me to inadvertently step into the void situated b/w the hotel's elevator and its doors.  Whee!)

 

i still make things. (in no way an attempt to subtly suggest the current state of my sex life. *wink*)

For Nora's sweetie-pie girl, who just turned a whole, big !three! last week:

larnin disabilatee, yor on notis!

I have decided to subpoena adhd with a cease-and-desist warning.  In other words,

I'm through.

Done.

Finis(h).

O.v.e.r. it.

Got that, adhd?  Your days, or possibly hours, are numbered.  (Maybe this would be a good time to sit down and figure out the finer details of counting.)

*****

My therapist has given me an assignment; anytime someone compliments me, I am expected to write it down, long-hand, using a writing implement *other* than something with an electric cord attached to its keys, iow, yes, a pen or pencil-ish item, and paper.  Or, you know, whatever's handy.  Like a receipt.  Those are generally the most handy.  I *have* notebooks and scads of paper in this house, I just don't necessarily know how to locate them.  But the important thing is to trick my brain into thinking I'm worthy.  And stop being so focussed on the negativo.  Which means I'm allowed to go back through all the comments I've ever received on this blog and pull the nicer stuff that you've said to me (even if they were all a heap of lies, real purty ones, but lies, nonetheless), and write it down, with a pencily thingy, on the back of a bar tab a receipt for milk and cereal and local, organic produce.  Also, what Caleb says to me that's complimenty.  And what Jack says to me, like when he tells me I'm nice, and when he says I'm pretty pretty.  Etc.

Now if I can just remember how to fucking write.

fluffy faces.

I've always referred to cats with whom I am familiar as "fluffy face."  I'll mutter it as I bump noses with the particular down-headed purring beastie I'm speaking to.  It's just like anyone else, I'm sure, who has made up a name they think is beyond all clever things ever invented by another human, and simply can't let go.

To the fluffy faces out there who have recently let go, to the detriment of the hearts of those humans left here without them to call them silly, adoring names by, with empty laps and wrung-out hearts, I say, oh, Fluffy. Face.  Sweet fluffy face.  You'll be missed.

So sorry, darling Dodo, lovely Nancy, Jenny doll.  And sweet Steph - you're in my thoughts, too.

Those fluffy babies are, I hope, now flanking the sides of my old, lost loves: Stan and Ollie.  I hope my little furry boys know to help the recently-arrived ones along as they get used to the new place.  Show 'em the ropes; where the best catnip is hidden, where the best corner to curl up and snooze, warm and soft, resides, how to refresh and learn to romp and gallivant anew.

Stupid heart pain.  Stupid, necessary evil part of the process.

What do we do when we go outside?  We put our collars on. 
What do we do when we come inside?  We take our collars off. 
Stan and Ollie!  Stan and Ollie!  Stan and Ollie!  la la la! 
Stan and Ollie!  Stan and Ollie!  Stan and Ollie!  laaaaaa laaaaaaa laaaaaaa!

today's blogging temperature brought to you by: hoarfrost.

Which is also, I'm pretty sure, the punchline to a joke.  The last bit, not the whole sentence.  I can kind of imagine it. 

What.  Surely you didn't expect me to tell you what I was imagining?  The joke, I mean.  Because, uh, I didn't *actually* have one in mind.  I just thought that the word "hoarfrost" really oughtta be a punchline.  You totally know I'm right.

Sigh.  This post is making my head hurt.  Worse.

We're home from Cali.  The trip was good.  I saw my luverly fry-end, Cristina, and I got to hold her little, soft, sweet-as-the-sweetest-thing-in-the-universe baby, and J and her M were all crack-a-lackin' in the restaurant where we went for lunch, cutting up and being little crazy people, and Caleb chased them around, which meant C and I had a few minutes of (voice drops into a whisper) actual conversation.  It was thrilling, and really nice, and I miss my dear friend a lot.  Wah.  Your house is too far away, C.  *stomps foot petulantly*

The ninetieth birthday party for Caleb's grandma was great, and pretty impressive.  Most of her offspring were there - the living ones, anyway.  And that's a lotta people when you consider she had five kids.  She looked lovely, as always, and I don't just say that lightly.  She not only does not look her age, but she is whip-smart.  Can join any conversation and participate with ease.  She's apparently invested in a wardrobe full of smartie-pants that won't quit. 

J was wild with glee over the time he spent with his older cousins - the two boys, C, age 4 1/2, and E, age 8 1/2, trying to maim one another relentlessly, but with these ridiculously detailed rules involved in said maiming, and J stood and watched, clapping and giggling and guffawing and bending over with his hands pressed to his mouth, laughing fit to kill.   He would occasionally rush in and involve himself, but the bigger boys knew to sort of gently move him aside, which he was totally okay with, because he kind of also understood implicitly about the maiming business, and how much he really didn't want to get hurt.  He's just SO much more -- little, I guess, than they are.  He's really just this side of a baby, at least to me, the mommy, and I was darned relieved to see that he wasn't into joining the death brigade of boy children.  His big thing was playing the hat-ar-mod-aka (harmonica) that Uncle Dick, Caleb's aunt's husband, kindly gave to him, tootling around on it all day long, besides.  Honestly, he's pretty good with it.  On the way back to Caleb's dad's house, a drive of a little over an hour, he squawked away, and if Caleb and I tried to have a conversation in the meantime, he'd stop playing, annoyed, and state, pretty yell-y, "Guys!, You need to be quiet!  I'm playing my hat-ar-mod-aka! right now!" and then get back to business.  At one point, we just gripped hands and listened as he played an alarmingly almost-song, with a rhythm and nice-ish melody, and it creeped us out because it was - kind of, well - good.

Are toddlers supposed to be able to just know innately how to play the hatarmodaka?

I don't think they are.

Whatever.

Anyway, sinister harmonica prodigies notwithstanding, the weekend kicked ace.  I feel rested, I ate food nonstop, good, beautiful food, because my step-mother-in-law?  CAN.  COOK.  Damn Sam, that woman is a testament to the potential for art in a kitchen.  And she does it effortlessly, and being at her house is like being on vacation.  Those people don't let us lift a finger.  I try, I do, I mean it.  I request that tasks be given to me, and lately I've taken to just swooping in and folding laundry as it lands on the gigantic oval dining table, which reminds me of a story that I have to interrupt myself with:  yesterday, there was a fresh, cozy-warm pile of assorted linens and whatnot in its usual place on the well-worn wood surface.  I was sitting on my keister in the family room, reading my FIL's copy of JD Salinger's Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters (the only Salinger book, incidentally, I've not yet read and also don't have in my personal collection, so you can understand, naturally, my joyous excitement at being able to finally sit and read it, undisturbed, in a very comfortable recliner near the fireplace, rather, uh, UNDISTURBedly).  Suddenly, I'm being pulled into the dining room, against my will, you know - uh, why is this happening?-ish, because I don't withdraw my brains away from books easily or quickly, it takes a little time for me to recognize my surroundings, I'm usually confused for a minute or so, and can't quite connect the faces with why they're in the room with me or whatever - like, hey, youuuu look famili -- you're that guy I'm married to!  oh.  right!!  etc.   Seriously.  I'm constantly amazed at the depths of potential for me to get real stupid, yo.  So there I was, being stupid, but not stoopid-def, just the plain, old regular-stupid version, and J was pulling me toward the table and muttering something about "pwetty, pwetty wahm, mommy" - and then we arrived, his face triumphant, next to the pile of laundry.  He smiled up at me and said, "mommy, you needa wpoeirjsdfj dis wandry, because it's pwetty, pwetty wahm.  It's cozy, mommy!"

So I folded.  I mean, what else was I gonna do?  He was right - it was warm, and cozy, and I felt good helping.

Also, I think he's been informed, somehow, as to my general duties.

Other than folding a little bit of laundry, though, I mostly just sat around and ate, and snacked, and drank wine, and took this insanely long bath in the deep soaking tub in the hall bathroom, still with the Salinger, because the SMIL, she watches our child and plays with him and keeps him entertained for HOURS, and we -- yes, both of us, simultaneously -- get to just chillax (and thanks, Ruth, for getting that one stuck in my head lately - dude!  it's been there all weekend!  *shoots narrow look at Ruth from thousands of miles removed), and I napped and drank and ate and watched movies and ate, and then I ate some more.  I also went to bed early every night and slept like a dog.  Long, snore-y, deep.  It was a thing of beauty, our weekend.  I want to frame it and hang it and look at it adoringly in the months to come, when I need a respite from the harried life that is our lot, currently. 

The plane today was small.  There was much turbulence.  I cried a little when we landed, because immediately prior to that I'd begun muttering, please, no, please, my son.  Please.  He's here, on the plane, he's too small.  We can't -- yet.  Please.  Please.

So the tears came of their own accord, I was powerless to stop them, and I ground them out with the corners of my parched-skin hands, before my husband spied them. 

The house was 52 degrees Fahrenheit when we came in because I had the genius revelation to turn off the heat before we left.  It took all afternoon to warm the house up to a reasonable temperature.  I probed my brittle nose gently at one point to determine whether it was about to simply disintegrate from being in the midst of the frozen tundra for too long.

J's crying right now, which makes perfect sense, because it's almost 10 o'clock, and he ought to be asleep and lord only knows why he isn't, but he just said my name, or, you know, mommy, and I suppose I ought to find out for the eleventh time just what he needs.  It's sure to be a blanket or beverage or I-dunno-mommy issue but I'll go.  I'll go.

We're home. 

It's good to be home.

I think.

*****

And Jenny, my sweetest Jenny, her kitty had to be put down, and I'm so sad for her loss.  Please go give her some hugs and kisses.  So long as they're air kisses.  And air hugs.  No one is allowed to come within a certain distance of her except me.  So, you know, you can probably guess at how much more she loves me than she does anyone else including but not limited to her only daughter and her husband.

But seriously, I am sad for her, jokes about her being my stalk-ee aside.  I want you to make her feel better.  Yes.  You.  The person who read this.  Please?  For Jenny?  Solace?  Love?  Comfort?

Thanks.  She'll appreciate the visit.  I'm sure she'll notice my directing a reader her way, too, given she gets so little attention or readership of any kind.  She's an island, that one.  Nobody named Guy Kawasaki has ever heard of her.  And she hasn't made any words up (today, anyway) that have landed in the urban dictionary.  She's really boring like that.  But still, she's sad, even given all her boring, island-like isolation in the blogosphere.  So be a chum.  Go give Jenny a distant embrace. 

Just remember that I'll be monitoring it to see that it doesn't get too embrace-y.  Because I saw her first.

query.

What's your favorite topic for me to get all rambly about?  I was stewing over what that might be, out of some random need to be a pleaser, and then - doy!, it occurs to me to just ASK you.

So.

?

(And recognize that I may very well run directly in opposition of your choice, because, as I've stated previously, IT'S WHAT I DO.  I'm sorry.  I'm an immature toddler person who knows how to write complicated words that even she doesn't necessarily understand sometimes, or even always.  Ever.  Never.  Uh.  ?)

(Did you know I have friends who are so smart they're becoming librarians?  And some other friends who are attorneys-at-law?  And some other friends who are the most articulate orators of forever with the writing, and the words, and the articulating?  And some other friends who are having third babies because they are that fucking tough?  Tough-as-nails?  Bad-ass motherfucker, uh, mothers?  Yes.  It is a bragging point, K.  Also, that some of my friends have already raised three babies into, well, mostly, full-grown men who attend college already?  Impressive colleges, too?  And they're now working on finding out who they want to be in this beautiful part of their lives, because they are faced with such a range of tantalizing options, even if doesn't really seem so to them, but it's true, because their talent is awesome beyond belief, and they will do, not just one thing, but MANY amazing things?  Such is their talent?  And, also, other beautiful, brilliant friends who have three babies and are simultaneously tour de forces in their writing and their staggering genius while ALSO RAISING THREE KIDS?  Yes.  I bow to the three-kid-raising mommy friends.  I do.

Did you know that these people actually don't mind associating themselves with me?  I know.  I don't really get it, either.)

somebody oughtta slap me.

I get not one, not two, but *three* good things in one fell swoop.  This after bearing no deserving mark of any kind, and instead, earning merely a box on the ear.  Or three.  For one thing, I wrote that lame, whine-encrusted post earlier, and now I have brand-new, perfect, hump-able countertops in snow-white (the color is, in fact, named "blizzard") manufactured quartz.  They are, well, they're making me breathless.  And not just because of the epoxy used to adhere their sleekness to the cabinets.  Although that may have something to do with my spinning head, and not just the beauty. 

The second thing was that I screeched more at my poor, sweet puppy-muffin this morning, in a vain attempt to quell my anger over things that are out of reach of my clutching, dried fingers, because she leapt onto my bed while the countertop installers were here and I'd trapped her into our bedroom to keep her from pestering them with her overly-personal greetings (she *is* a dog, but still -- it's rude, the crotch-sniffing, if you're not a dog; people don't like it, and by people, I most certainly mean me).  Afterward, as I was cleaning the surface of the bedcovers with a rolly-tape-thingy one uses to remove dog hair from clothes, and in my case, many, many other random surfaces that are probably not what its intended use is for, not that I'll let that stop me in my endless search-and-destroy mission re: the dog detritus within our living space; I realized that, in terms of her cost-benefit ratio, Ella is mostly all +s, with the only negative being that she sheds enough to build a new planet constructed entirely of her shedded material and it drives my crazy just that much crazier.  Well, and she can be whiny if within 100 yards of a tennis ball, but that's pretty much it.  Otherwise, she's a pet amongst pets, and with the prettiest, softest brown eyes I've ever peered into, and guess what that dollfaced dog did for me, just a few minutes later?  While I tried to vacuum the stairs, but instead encountered a spider bigger than my hand walking, yes, WALKING down the stairs, because it *could*, I suppose, but then.  Oh, my, yes, then.  I summoned SHE.  And she came.  And the spider stopped walking, and froze.  It knew.  And I said to her, Ella?  C'mere, girl!  C'mere, sweetie!  And she wagged, and smiled, and ran up and down the stairs, until I pointed, shaking, at that thing.  And she stopped.   And pointed at it.  Until I said, Ella.  GET.  IT.

And she did.

And I love her.  She is my shining, white dog in furry, shedding armor. 

Do you think eight treats is too many?  Do you think I'll regret my choice to reward her thusly at a later point, say, this evening, when her anal glands begin firing a round of fishy bullets into the air? 

Probably.  But, hell.  Girl-sweet-face deserved it.  I couldn't have done anything but wait for the end of time, or my husband, whichever came first, shivering low in a corner while the spider circled me, ever closer, its fangs dripping.  *ewwwww*

And the third thing.  The thing that has already provided me with much commingled shame and embarrassment, because my ADHD is in full dudgeon today, what with the kitchen stuff all happening, both good and bad, and the spider-attack, and the epoxy-sniffing, and my burgeoning appointment with the therapist where I have to disclose that the medication thing was a bomb, and now we have to talk about it and I have to describe things and finish sentences and try to avoid crying, all on one measly cup of coffee and zero food because that would require my doing dishes in the bathtub and I'm holding out until the dishwasher's installed, tomorrow, and don't look at me like that because you'd do the same thing, and you know this. 

Um.  There was supposed to be a third thing included in that last paragraph, somewhere.  Did it make it in there?  Can anyone else look?  I'm afraid to.  I can't remember quite where I mentioned the part about the spider-attack and I tremble at those words so I can't look back or I'll turn into a salt-lick for spiders to trod upon.

So Jozet gave me this award and I don't deserve it and I lost control of my bowels all over her comments section because I have no control over anything, ever, but especially in the face of being honored by someone so - someone whose abilities defy description, in the better/bigger-than-life category.  So.  I feel bashful and unworthy and thankful. 

And I'll write another post later about who I'm passing the award to, plus the pretty button will be revealed, which will hopefully prompt me to belatedly post the other buttons I've been given in the last few months but I keep forgetting to do it, and I apologize deeply to the givers, for I have dissed thee, please forgive.  Please. 

But first I have to run or I'll be late to my appointment for ADHD, a thing that causes tardiness, among other resulting disastrous effects.

Sweet.

it's perfect.

Nora, I've thought all day about this business of composing a post in honor of your composition, the one about the Three Acorns.  I want so much to provide the exact-right quality of regard for your story, but I'd rather let you have the opportunity to say it for yourself.  Your words are put together the way everything should be: deceptively simply, in a way that makes it seem as though it was the easiest thing in the world.  Only, there's so much complexity there.  And beauty.  The kind you see when you look through a window covered with a streaming rain.  You weave with your skillful hand, an open hand, that gives clarity, but also allows for one to peep into the cracks and beyond them into a whole, spectrum-of-colored world.  Kaleidoscope-like.  With a musical accompaniment by Cat Power.

So I'll link to you, but not before I present you with a Perfect Post award (so generously bestowed on a monthly basis by Lindsay and MommaK in the first place) in front of the whole internet.

I hope there are more Acorns in your future.  Although I'm very glad for your current sapling.  She is a thriving whirlwind of beauty.

i heart Robin. (a love note if there ever was one.)

Boy, am I doing my friend a disservice, putting this post on the heels of my recent insane ravings (though not the last one - the last post about putting the topic of rape on the front burner?  Proud.  Damn proud.  But I digress). 

See, I've been filling her head with lies for weeks heaped upon weeks that I would post about her at-home business, the one she began after she had her baby.  Btw, she's also my ex-neighbor, and I've known her since before she even *had* the baby.  She's given my son all of his hair cuts, and several to me, too, and she's listened to me sob about motherhood and its difficulties, and eaten birthday cake with us on J's birthday (although we missed her son's first birthday, due to new-house-awfulness, and I'm still sad about it).  I've watched her delicious, blue-eyed boy go from teeny-tiny to blossoming and full and sweet as a juicy apple straight from the tree, oh, he's absolutely amazing, with his great, big baby chuckles and his lovely smiles.  I'm so proud of her, how she manages her life with a baby and still, somehow, keeps a smile perched on her own lovely face - I can't think that I've ever seen her not smiling, in fact.  Also, she's still dreadfully hip in a way that I totally resent because I just can't manage it anymore, what with all the other demands on my time, but she has the same demands to handle and she always looks lip-smackin' cute.  (My resentment runs shallow, because I'm more proud that I know her and can call her friend than that I can't keep up.  It's a choice, see?  I'm *letting* her be the cute one.  Uh, yeahhhh.) 

Last night I dropped by Nora's blog to say hi, and she'd linked to this story the local alternative paper wrote about Portland's crafting scene (oh, and she posted a few projects she's sewn recently that are really pretty - I love the orange silk she chose for the skirt, and that bag?  Totally looks like she bought it at Saks or something.   Nicely done, N).  I already knew Robin might be included, because she and I had talked about it last week, about the interview, and I was really excited about it, but then, thanks to the adhd and other brain-retardation-related issues, I plumb forgot.  Good thing Nora linked.  I clicked through and there was my gorgeous friend's photo, right at the top of the piece.  It's not just your run-of-the-mill gorgeous, either.  They emulated the iconic Rosie-the-Riveter image for the photo, and Robin is ridiculously beautiful, so she just looks AMAZING, all hottt and burly-yet-glowing.  And there's a link below that goes right to her site, which makes me get gleeful all over again, 'cause I think she has super-cute/useful products to sell and deserves every ounce of attention she gets.  She's already been written up by Cool Mom Picks (they got there before me -- brazen!  *shakes fist*), so obviously she's worthy x 30. 

Then I'm driving by the local Trader Joe's this morning, after dropping J off at daycare, and I see the Willy Week box.  And the cover photo.  Of my friend, Robin-the-Really-Fabulous.

Holy smokes.

I'm friends with a cover girl, dudes.

 

Also?  Seriously - MotherMade, her joint, already sells two of her brain-pearls that are incredibly ingenious, 'cause they're useful AND cute-as-sin.  The Spitty, and The Bandana Bib.  Darling.  Good, useful products that'll make you wish you'd had 'em two years ago (or more, depending on your kids' ages).  Made by the hands of a mommy, so she knows what's up.

Brilliant.

And -- what's your excuse for still being here, reading?  You should've already clicked through to her site, because it's loads of interesting/quirky/lovely/impressive/whimsical/amazing.

Just like Robin.  (Contact her at mm@mothermade.org for a piece of the action.)

a plug for the much-deserving.

When I mentioned that ad I bought a few days ago, I failed to point out that fadiddle had also been recently included in the back-to-school campaign produced by the internet's coolest pack of moms, those arbiters of underground, uber-progressive chic, CMP. 

And they didn't even make me give them anything (re: money, blood, hair -- although I would've totally given them hair if they'd asked; I have plenty to go around).  They RULE. 

Go on and peek.  See for yourself.  It's quality, isn't it.  (Random segue alert:  that totally reminds me of the editor in Funny Face - the QUALITY girl!)  Oh, and if you post a button about the campaign on your blog, you'll automatically be entered to win two hundred pieces of lettuce in goodies.  Not bad.  Not bad at all.

tres coisas.

um:  I am moving tomorrow.  I am leaving this house behind me, leaving it in my wake, with not an overwhelming amount of sentimentalism (which is pretty crazy given my typical richtering levels of such over just about everything in my world).  This house is merely a box we've lived in, because we wanted to buy in and it was the best house we could get for the money at the time.  I'm not bummed to leave.  Even though we brought our wild monkey-boy home to it as a newborn, and there are all those memories of his first two years bound up in its walls.  You know what?  I'm transporting the memories, and the crazy kidlet, with me when I go, and this house?  Can be someone else's box for livin' in.  Welcome to it.

dois:  I keep getting all of these spammy greeting card emails in my yahoo inbox, and I'm starting to assume that it's the new wave of spam.  It was kinda bothering me until I realized it was just a hoax, but I'm worried I might've infected my pc anyway with trying to crack one open before I put it together.  Argh.  Anybody else getting wacked over the email-head with these suckers?  So. annoying.

tres:  Slouching Mom and Binky both awarded me with niceties that make me scratch my head and wonder what I did to deserve their liking-of-me enough to think I merit such things, but I know - learn to take a damn compliment, Debbie, geeeeeez.  Thanks, you guys.  It really gets me right here.  I mean it.  I can't get treacly today because I haven't got time.  I'm moving tomorrow (oh - did I mention -- ??  also, hi!  I'm into redundancy!).  But I am so grateful. 

bonus points:  I'm also thankful as hell to all of you who comment on my blog even when I suck balls at getting around to your blogs or even just responding via email to say how much I appreciate your words of comfort, your time spent devising those thoughts for me to mull over and feel warm-fuzzied by, your big hearts.  I feel like my brain is about to spin off into the ether because of all the crazy shit we're treading into headlong, but I am so so thankful for your care and compassion.  I promise to either get back to you in some form in the next several days (but! we'll be sans internet until the cable people get over to the new homestead to hook that shit up, and you can't know how much it's killing me just to type that) or to have thought that you deserve crowns woven of roses and sweet peas for being so lovely as to write such ridiculously nice things to me.  Now go put your crowns on and admire yourselves in the mirror for a second.  You beautiful American foxes.

xo

fleshing it out.

I was thinking that maybe I should use the shirts I bought to sew the "tweet" design on for the conference to sell for my support-a-blogger idea instead.  Only, I need a little help concocting the just-right phrase-y bit (s?).  My clever pieces have all submerged indefinitely.  But let me 'splain little more, and maybe someone will want to lend a hand because it doesn't sound totally and completely lost and without merit, this little, weird idea of mine.

To wit:  I'd like to maybe sell some shirts to all eight of my blogger friends who are into buying a shirt for a worthy cause.  The shirt will have embroidered stuff on it, and I'm trying to think of how to best promote a contest wherein people volunteer ideas as to what the embroidered stuff should be, and whoever produces the best suggestion gets a free shirt.  After that, I charge a low price of somewhere in the $15 - $20 neighborhood (inc. shipping), and anything after my costs for the shirts/thread/machine time/shipping via USPS will go straight into a slush fund for the help-yer-fellow-blogger-a-month club.

Ruth said it's a good idea.  And she knows from good, that woman.

Help me out, please, in the comments section, because if you do, I'll possibly reward you with a free shirt, and definitely with love and gooey kisses if I ever get the chance to plant 'em on you IRL.

(And who doesn't want gooey kisses?  Well, other than my toddler child of delectable delight, who wipes kisses off like they've been doled out by a leper.  Super.)

a blogger love note gets passed.

The love note being from me (yeah, the one whose head is more largely ill-proportioned than Jon Bon Jovi's).  Cristina is the doll-faced babe with the luxuriously straight, mahogany-hued, shiny tresses and lithesome shape (and this with a baby in her adorable, wee belly), 'k?

K.

Also, she's totally awesome and funny and clever and brilliant.  At least, that's what she told me to say.  In reality?  She's better.

you know you want to.

There isn't one person I know in the blogging world who I'd rather see win this award.

Vote for Mel because she's awesome.  And I really, really, really want her to win.

Really.

R.E.A.L.L.Y.

P.S. You could also donate a few bucks to the coffers for said winner.  Pretty please?  I'll give you hugs and kisses if you do - cyber ones for now, but real, honest-to-goodness slobbery ones at Blogher (for I am -- probably -- going).

i follow orders.

As requested, an update:  J is (seemingly) much better today, if  general deviltry is any indication of good health.

I'm bankrupt of mostly everything, creative/emotional/etc., so that's all I've got.  Other than to thank you for your steady compassion.  It helps.   It really helps.

Community is a good thing, non?

because shots are awful. especially the daily kind.

So I met this really nice woman at the Mothertalk thingy I attended with Nora and Mel a few weeks ago (and I think that's where I also picked up the awesome phlegm cancer I'm still rocking, but I digress), whose name is Michelle, and we spoke of blogging briefly, so of course I got her to give me her address, and she provided it, but simultaneously mumbled something about how it's "just a blog about diabetes and bmlkjblkb."  Naturally, I then had to peek, because a) she's a super-cool female, and b) I know next to nothing about diabetes, particularly of the dealing-with-it-as-a-parent variety, and I have to recommend that you read her latest post.  It has to do with something called World Diabetes Day, and about educating the public regarding a potential cure for type 1 diabetes, and oh, just read it because I certainly can't do the topic any kind of justice.  She's got a gorgeous, tough-as-nails kid, too, who is braving this disease like a super-trooper.  I weep at the sight of a needle on an annual basis, and can't fathom handling it daily.  Wish I had half one-sixteenth the gumption her daughter does. 

drive-by entry. (you might want to duck.)

I was out of town until last night, and a myriad of business details, household and otherwise, require my attention at the moment, which means my blogging, erm, duties are being postponed (you like that?  I knew you would.  I did it for you, special-like), as a result.  Forgive me, o grand internets, for my heart belongs to thee, but you must abide by my haphazard schedule.

Coupla things, before I split and careen madly about, in the manner of the dog when she's chasing my son, toddling happily before her, brandishing the doggy crack, i.e. a small flashlight; first, I had a fabulous time this weekend with mah ladies, and I think they'll appreciate the all-out flourish of love that I shall now demonstrate through the subtle use of a specific term of endearment (did I lose you all, yet?):  my hos.  Because, yes, they are just that deserving and fabulous.  Second, I am floored -- my tongue's been disabled -- from having been passed the crown of CHBM as MotW.  I don't know who to thank or where to wave, so I'll just do it randomly and scare my son, the dog and the neighbors into thinking I really have gone off the deep end.  (I don't think anyone was doubting it previous to now, but this makes it so. very. official.  Also, so. very. sad.)

This is a crap post.  I can't let it continue. 

*kills post dead*

The End.

p.s. I promise to try hard to invent a much better-tasting post in the immediate-near future.  But I have pictures from this weekend to sate the two or three of you who accidentally started reading this boringness to the third power, and you've earned something.  If not cake, which I already et up because it was delicious and yummy, and because it was in the form of a twinkie, which I assume will live on in my stummick for many years (one would hope), then at least a photo.  Feel free to eat it if you forgot to have a meal or snack recently.  Mmmm.  Decadent photos.

p.p.s. I totally got permission from my friends to post photos, which I'm over the freaking moon about.  I have proof!  There are people in real life who like hanging out with me are willing to tolerate my presence for an extended period of time!  Lookit!

p.p.p.s.  I'm insecure.  Shut up.

 

from left to right: Raquel, Tessa, Jen (the lady of the hour, aka the bride-to-be), Emily, Debbie, and Pattie. 

I'll share our super-power alter-egos in an expanded, tell-all post later.  I mean it.  You're getting the director's cut of the insanity.  Be prepared to cover your eyes.  I'm serious as a heart attack, bitches.

*******************************

I would be seriously remiss if I didn't include a heartfelt thank-you to both Jenny and Cristina.  I think you guys are wonderful.  Thank you for thinking of me and liking my writing and being my friend and stuff.  And -- yeah.  Really.  Thank you.

plodding along.

I'm tired of blogging.

It's really getting to me, lately.  I don't have enough time in the day for my work, let alone all things blog.  And then, just when I feel like I don't need one iota of extraneous anything to rock the already super-fragile blog-boat, I'm reminded of why I started doing it.

To make friends who have kids.

That Mignon is one hell of a girl.  Hilarious, genuine, cute as a bunny rabbit's ear, and her kids - oh, how I heart them.  Her daughter is the definition of sweet and polite (not to mention gorgeous), and her son is a delicious tornado of energy, along the lines of my kid.  They were instant pals, btw, and her daughter was a genius at guiding them.  Mignon and I actually had several whole minutes to talk to each other sans interruption -- utter bliss.  (And the coffee shop we wandered into after playing at the Jamison Square fountains this morning, a place called Sip and Kranz, has the greatest kid's room *ever*, complete with a flat-screen.  I'm moving in next week.)

We had such an awesome time hanging out, and later this afternoon, I felt a bit sad.  I wish I knew some people with kids my son's age - people who I click with, too.  That is, people who live in Portland.  Feel free to move back here any old day, M.

It's a reminder that, no matter how much fun blogging is, and no matter how many amazing people I meet and learn about through the medium, I still long for some local, kindred-spirit peeps who I can hang with during a (hate the term, but it's too late in the evening for me to invent a new one) playdate.