One Potato, Two Potato, Sweet Potato, Floor

Yesterday was the "Thanksgiving Feast" at Jack's preschool. Picture little kids and their parents sitting in too-small chairs at teeny little tables... eating sliced turkey and a potluck spread of whatever the frazzled parents could prepare.

I got up all bright and early to prepare the mashed sweet potatoes I had been planning to make for over a week. I had purchased the raw yams a few days in advance, just so I'd be totally prepared. Then? Well, first, my sour cream went missing. So I had to fudge the recipe a little to figure out how to make them taste right. You see, they're one of Jack's favorite foods, and I was working on improving the image I managed to gain when I officially became "The Mom Who Forgot To Pick Her Kid Up From Preschool" last week.

In my defense? I thought T was picking him up that day, and I was wrapped up in a photo shoot. But? I am now "that mom". You know the one -- she shows up with her hair in a frizzy mess, two different socks, and the shmear of baby puke on one shoulder. And she sometimes forgets to pick up her kid. Because, you know, she's a little flaky and the other moms kinda think she's maybe a drunk, but she's really just a bit scattered and it's totally the ADD and this is why I am in therapy so just get off my back, will ya?

Phew. Um... yeah. I might need to cut back on the caffeine again.

SO! I finally get the sweet potatoes made and in the crock pot. I get Toby, myself, and our plethora of gear into the car. We head down the road. And then? And then I have to slam on the breaks to avoid hitting some ... um... (deep breath) "very inconsiderate person" who slammed on their breaks in order to take a left turn off the main road without so much as a signal. And the crock pot? You guessed it. Not anchored well enough. So it flings sideways, the lid flies off, and sweet potatoes end up all over the floor of the car. Well, maybe not ALL over, and I did manage to stand it back up before too much of the orange mush escaped.

In fact, maybe it really wasn't so bad. I mean, I didn't even have to pull over -- just used the dish towel that was wrapped around the base to scoop it up and dump it out the door onto the side of the road. Not so bad, right?

I call T to tell him I'm now running a bit behind, and luckily he is almost at the school already. I'm breathing a sigh of relief as I drive down the road, telling him that I think maybe I'm not cut out for this whole Classroom Mom thing when - suddenly - I realize the construction on Route 9 has begun anew and they have stopped traffic. Unfortunately for me, I realized it about a second before the guy in front of me did, and ended up slamming on the breaks again.

You already know what happened next, don't you? Oh yes, my friend. Over went the crock pot, out came more potatoes, and Toby learned some brand new words, which - thankfully - he is too young to be able to repeat with any clarity. ("Look honey! The baby says "donut" now! Isn't that sweet?")

So there I am, scraping mashed sweet potatoes off the floor mat of the car and dumping them off on the shoulder of the highway, right where it ran across the river. All I could think was, "Man, the deer are absolutely going to get nailed trying to get out here to eat this mush." Then, hands sticky with what was fast becoming orange super-glue, I finally came upon the idea of using the picnic blanket we keep in the car as padding to keep the crock pot upright.

SO, a long-ish period of time, several dish towels, and one yam-soaked picnic blanket later, we finally arrived at the school in time to see the high school students who help with the class give a rousing rendition of "5 little turkeys" with enthusiasm at a level falling somewhere between "emergency root canal" and "Diagnosis: Murder marathon".

All in all, though? Jack had a terrific time, it was sweet to see his classroom in action and meet the teenage girls (who, by all indications, are totally smitten with my kid), and the look on his face when I let him push Toby's stroller back to the car was absolutely priceless.

Next time? I might just skip all the beginning stuff and go straight to letting him take his brother on the joy-ride. With all the bells and fanfare, it's still the simple stuff that brings out his biggest smiles.

Ah, to be 3 again.

21 Days, 22 Questions

21. Hugs or kisses?
yes, please.

22. Cherry or Blueberry?
Cherry, but I wouldn't kick Blueberry out of bed.

23. Do you want your friends to email you back?
Seeing as how I am skipping the whole "email' part of this? likely, no.

24. Who is most likely to respond?
Sara-Sara! She's as obsessed with this blogging illness as I am....

25. Who is least likely to respond?
Hmmm. Probably Mom. I don't think she's ever done one of these things.

26. Living arrangements?
Really? Okay, here we go... T (the hubs), Jack (kid #1), Toby (kid #2), Chloe and Casper (the cats), Gizmo (the boxer puppy), Ultra (the Beta fish).

27. When was the last time you cried?
Last night in Therapy. But they were happy tears. Yeah, I said it. Now move it along, nothin' to see here...

28. What is on the floor of your closet?
Shoes. Shoes. And more Shoes.

29. Who is the friend you have had the longest that you are sending this to?
Well, again, not technically "sending" it to anyone, but either way? Allie. She's known me since before I had boobies, and can still remember when I was a natural blonde.

30. What did you do last night?
Good question. Worked on Photog stuff, blogged, and contemplated my navel. It gets very linty this time of year.

31. Favorite smells?
Baking bread. Baby Magic baby wash. Baby Bees baby lotion. The smell of a campfire on clothes. Fall... that sweetly cloying smell of decay that brings memories of childhood afternoons walking home from school and crunching through the autumn leaves.

32. What inspires you?
Exceptional music. T. The boys. The stars. Evening breezes. A fresh pot of coffee. The sound of the ocean. Too many, many things.

33. What are you afraid of?
Phone calls. Death. Door-to-door salespeople. Spiders. Dentist visits. Screwing up my kids.

34. Plain, cheese or spicy hamburgers?
Cheese! Preferably with carmelized onions and sauteed mushrooms. At Five Guys would be perfection.

35. Country you would most like to visit?
France. I know, I know.. the French? They have a reputation. But I didn't study the language for 5 years for nothing, and the food makes me drool just in contemplation. And the wine? Oh My, the wine....

36. Favorite dog breed?
Boxer, of course.

37. Number of keys on your key ring?
5 with a purpose I can remember. 2 or 3 that mystify me. But you can't throw them away, because you never know.... you know?

38. How many years at your current job?
3 years, 4 months. The photog a good bit longer... since - oh, 1995 or so.

39. Favorite day of the week?
Friday. The weekend is just getting started, and I can look forward to Saturday without reservation. By Saturday, I'm dreading Sunday because it means the end of the weekend.

40. How many states have you lived in?
Eight. Wanna know which ones? Washington, Michigan, Virginia, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, California, and West Virginia.

41. Favorite holiday?
Christmas

42. Ever driven a motorcycle or heavy machinery?
Are you insane? Just working as a secretary on a neuro ward, I saw enough motorcycle head traumas to last me a lifetime, thankyouverymuch. I like my brain. I just don't want to actually see what it looks like. I prefer to keep it inside my skull, and my limbs intact. I'm funny that way.


And there you are. I was going to tell you all about my comedy of errors in venturing out to the Preschool Thanksgiving Feast today, but I ran out of steam somewhere around the part where I got to "so I was scraping mashed sweet potatoes off the floor mat of the car and dumping them off on the shoulder of the highway, right where it ran across the river. All I could think was, "man, the deer are absolutely going to get nailed trying to get out here to eat this mush..."

See? Something to look forward to for tomorrow.

Twenty Days, Twenty Questions

Since my sister-in-law made me all warm and fuzzy by naming me "the friend you have had the longest that you are sending this to" on this meme yesterday, and in honor of this being the 20th day of continuous posting... I have decided to post my replies to the first 20 of the 42 questions. I may post the remainder tomorrow. Or the next day. Or not... who can say? I'm very mysterious like that.

1. What is your occupation?
Domestic Goddess. Mommy. Photographer. Beck and Call Girl.

2. What color are your socks right now?
I know not of these "socks" of which you speak. Haven't you heard? I'm always barefoot and in the kitchen. (Though, blessedly, not pregnant at the moment, thankyouverymuch.)

3. What are you listening to right now?
The hum of my laptop and the clickety-clack of the keys.

4. What was the last thing that you ate?
Pork Tamales from Anitas. I'm such a sucker for good tamales.

5. Can you drive a stick shift?
Bet your sweet booty I can. I'm classy like that.

6. If you were a crayon, what color would you be?
green

7. Last person you spoke to on the phone?
Photo client. Getting the stats for her baby to put on the sample birth announcement.

8. Do you like the person who sent this to you?
Very much, actually. It's really awesome having sisters-in-law who ignore the whole "in-law" part. And she likes granny crafting as much as I do, so I know we would totally have each others' backs in a brawl. You can put your trust in someone who knows what a french knot is, baby.

9. How old are you today?
27 going on 104

11. What is your favorite sport to watch?
Hockey if it's in person. If I have to watch sports on TV I usually stick to the Super Bowl and sometimes watching a season game with T.

12. Have you ever dyed your hair?
Me? Never.

...

What?

Why are you looking at me like that?

Oh, alright!!

Yes. My hair color changes have been known to be frequent and sometimes violent. Happy?

13. Favorite curse word?
Frak. (Thanks be to Battlestar Galactica. So say we all.)

14. Pets?
2 cats, a boxer puppy, and a beta fish named "Ultra". So yes, quite.

15. Favorite food?
Ethnic foods... Indian, Ethiopian, Thai, etc....

16. What was the last movie you watched?
Cars. Actually, I think you could safely say Cars is the last 4 or 5 movies I have watched. Jack is just a teeny bit obsessed with it. But he can quit anytime he wants to. Seriously. It's not a problem. Don't be misled - the shaking hands are probably from the entire package of snow-man peeps he ate and nothing to do with withdrawals from not watching it again today...

17. Favorite day of the year
Christmas Eve. I'm all about the anticipation.

18. What do you do to vent anger?
Screaming is always good. Vacuuming helps too. If I can combine to two, so much the better -- the vacuum drowns out my yelling.

19. What was your favorite toy as a child?
The stuffed bunny rabbit I got for my sixth birthday. I just passed it down to Jack, when he started having trouble with fear of the dark again.

20. What is your favorite - Fall or Spring?
Fall. Like I said, it's all about the anticipation, and there is so much to look forward to in the fall -- beginning with the fall harvest rituals (the Renn Faire, the apple cider, pumpkin patch, corn mazes and hay rides...) and ending with Christmas and New Years. I love good food, holiday magic, and lots of company. I was made for the last 3 months of the year.

Lazy Days, Crazy Ways

This evening I will attempt something truly... um... mundane? Well, shoot. I'll just chalk up the tally of weekend events, for your viewing. If you can't sleep? This might just do the trick.

Look! I'm human nyquil!

Photos finished: 5

Tears shed: Umm... altogether or per photo? Yeah. Might have lost count.

BUT!: The Baby shoot from last week is almost good to go, and a few of the photos make me very, very warm and mushy inside. This job? It doesn't suck.

Shows watched with T: only 1 total show that I can recall... Friday night's BSG, which we watched last night. The rest was bits and pieces, and lots of running around and snippets of football here and there.

Thanksgiving Turkeys Purchased: 1. But. Oh. My. What a turkey. As my sister-in-law would say, Birdzilla is coming to dinner. All 22.46 pounds of him. Thank heaven I am not expected to actually cook this bird, as it would likely refuse to fit in our comically tiny oven. T will drop it at my brother's tomorrow morning, where it will live until the gorging feasting on Thursday.

Family members we'll be spending Thanksgiving with: 11.5 - the .5 being the fetal bundle currently renting space in the belly of Mrs. Doctor Budworth. Doc Bud being my older, and unforgivably cooler brother. A doctor who sings and plays mean guitar. I know, right? But at least I can knit. I totally have that on him.

Pounds of Potatoes to be turned into mashed, homemade goodness for Thursday: 10
We were raised on instant mashed potatoes in my family, and I still make them frequently. But for Thanksgiving? T nearly had to be shocked back to consciousness when he found out my family eats instant potatoes for Thanksgiving. He has since gone on a one-man crusade to convert us to the home-made variety, at least for holidays. Poor guy... he is in deep deep denial after being told that we actually like the instant kind. Though, at least in my case, not as well as his from scratch variety. I'm guessing it has something to do with the pound of butter and cream cheese that goes into the mix. How can you go wrong with that???

Hours of sleep I have missed by being up, yet again, past bedtime? Where's the dang infinity key on this box....?

All About The Quickie.....

Because tonight? I am all about the quickie. This wifi has reached new heights of horrid when it comes to reliability, and will be replaced at the first opportunity. I will have to hurry and get this in before it crashes on me yet again... So here you are.

I will leave you with my thought for the day, and a Thanksgiving haiku.

First, the thought... Husbands who buy themselves things in November that are ON THEIR CHRISTMAS LIST because they are too impatient to wait for another month to see what Santa will bring them? Are highly likely to find a lump of coal in their stocking on Christmas morning.

Not that the above was targeted at anyone in particular. Obviously not my husband, who would never, ever do something so despicable.

Cough.

Oh! And so? A Thanksgiving Haiku.

The weather turns cold
Air scented sweet with decay
Thank yous and laughter

Friday Night Live

Before I get started? Mom... Please avert your eyes. Seriously. You won't approve.

So women and "adult" toy parties. Tonight my friend and neighbor hosted a party for 'the girls' and I went, in my smokin' new Isaac Mizrahi boots from Target (pronounced "tar-zhay" for the unenlightened) and had a blast. I ended up with some goodies for the hubs and me, which are none of your business, thankyouverymuch.

But it brought to mind a toy party of yore... right before we got married, I went to my very first bona-fide adult toy event. The hilights of the evening included a beautiful African-American woman with a day-glo white reproduction of a certain male body part attached to her head with a suction cup. The lowlight? Well... I didn't find out till weeks later that the low point of the evening was when I paid for my purchases with my credit card. You see, I had just quit my job as an assistant to a Senior Director at an ISP. I was engaged, just a month or so from my wedding, and I was starting a new semester in my Nursing program. (which I didn't finish, because T got laid off and I got pregnant, but that's a whole other post.)

SO... I made a few purchases and paid with my credit card. I wrote the number down from memory. The only problem? The number I wrote down from memory was, thanks to my faulty brain, not my own. It happened to be a credit card number I had used almost daily for the previous 2 years. It was the credit card number of my recently-ex-boss.

So when the representative from the party called me a few weeks later to tell me that, when she finally attempted to run my card, it came up as belonging to Mr. MyExBoss... I had a very small apoplectic fit. You can imagine the phone call that followed, wherein I had to explain to my boss that I had written his number down by mistake when I made a purchase and convince him that I was not attempting to rob him. Especially not to make purchases from a company selling Adult Novelties.

Lucky for me? He was quite understanding, and mostly relieved that the only purchases made on his card at such an event included foot massage cream and body lotion. Because anything else? Would have been.... akward to a degree usually reserved for Ben Stiller movies.

And there you have it. The official "most embarassing moment" of my lifetime to date. Accidentally using your EX-Boss's credit card number to make purchases at a sex toy party, and having to call and explain to him what happened once you find out what an idiot you actually are. What's your most humiliating experience? C'mon... go ahead and share. I dare you.

Mending The Invisible.

I’m walking into a local department store with my one-year-old son, Toby, on one hip and his three-year-old brother, Jack, at my side. It’s a hazy, gray November day and Jack decides that the drizzle is sufficient for him to require his “invisible” (read: imaginary) umbrella. It’s a new game he plays, and every time there is the slightest hint of a chance for rain – out it comes. So, he carefully opens it up over his head and grips it tightly in his little fists.

We’re in the crosswalk to the entrance when Jack notices an armored truck idling in front of the store. Because he has been warned to the point of stark terror that moving vehicles are a danger, he stops dead and points – screaming – at this perceived immediate threat. Of course, this means he doesn’t notice the actual danger of the ’86 Lincoln Town Car barreling down on us.

I grab his arm and unceremoniously drag him out of the road and up onto the curb. In the process, Jack informs me with a wail, that I have somehow managed to totally destroy his imaginary, er “invisible” umbrella. He is broken hearted and deadly serious, and melts into a heaving puddle on the sidewalk.

I hesitate for a moment. It’s cold, it’s wet, and my adrenaline is still racing from our near miss. In a split second, I weigh my options. I am exasperated, and ready to chastise him for stopping in the middle of a traffic area… but we have had a tough week. Make that a tough year. Life has been on an up-and-down roller coaster for a good long while, including my own battle with postpartum depression after Toby’s birth. Jack has had to cope with more than his fair share of uncertainty, and this vivid imagination of his is something I can relate to. It’s something I treasure in him, and I have always promised myself I would nurture it along and encourage it.

I stand there in the rain, with an ever-heavier baby on my hip, and look into those weepy brown eyes. In that moment I know I have to connect with my son, to let him know that I am here for him and that everything is going to be okay.

Luckily for me, I happen to have packed my Invisible Umbrella Repair Kit (for just such an emergency). I shift Toby to my other hip, reach into my pocket, and pull out the necessary “invisible” tools.

A few flicks of the wrist, a quick turn or two, a flourish…, and the umbrella is as good as, er, new. Jack beams at me, suitably impressed with my prowess. Then he solemnly accepts his mended treasure, and we venture on into the wild jungles of commerce with nary a care in the world.

Some days you just need someone to pause, take a moment, and help you fix your umbrella. Even when it’s “invisible.” Even when they have their own pressing matters to attend to. Even if they don’t understand the significance, the gesture alone may be enough to ward off the loneliness that can creep in when we’re going through difficulties that others cannot completely understand.

As a mom, I want to learn to take more of those opportunities, especially while my kids are young. Their hurts will not always be so easily mended, and the day will come when a few moments of my time and a little creative ingenuity will not be enough to repair the damage inflicted on their tender hearts by an often uncaring world. It’s up to me to show them now, while they are learning to build trusting relationships, that I will always be here to help put the pieces back together—no matter how big or small the hurt, or how “invisible.”

For Your Consideration...

Otherwise known as "Once Again Bucking For Mother Of The Year".

The montage before my acceptance speech must include the following scenes from the recent past:

- Jack drinking Diet Pepsi. Out of a souvenir shot glass. From "Dirty Dick's Crabhouse" on the Outer Banks.

- T, in response to my complaint about the spyware choking my laptop, casually shrugging it off with a "Sure. From all that porn you've been downloading."
***Aside to my mother, in anticipation of her mini-stroke: Don't worry, he was kidding. Obviously. I mean, everyone knows I download all my porn to his computer.

- Toby taking a bite of buttered toast. Then holding it down next to his high chair so Gizmo - the eater of dirty diapers and other unspeakable horrors - could have a bite. Then continuing to eat the same toast.

- Jack. Sitting at his desk. Playing a Reader Rabbit game on his computer. At 6am. Stark Naked.

- Me at the grocery store. Purchasing condensed chicken noodle soup for my sick husband. In an extra long, comfy black sweater... and pajama pants. With fuzzy pink bedroom slippers. At 11 o'clock in the morning.

And if that doesn't make you think I should totally teach parenting classes at the YMCA, you have not tasted my Sunday morning blueberry crepes. They may even be worthy of redemption from the whole dog-slobber-toast thing.... well, nearly anyway.

Keep On Truckin'

Thanks to all the folks who passed along computer help tips. I finally managed to get things settled down today, and my beloved laptop is running with much greater ease, speed, and efficiency. So all is much better with the world.

Which is fantastic, since after tomorrow I'll need all the processing power I can get to do after-work on 2 shoots I have scheduled for this week.

Don't get excited, these aren't paying gigs yet... however, they will - hopefully- result in images I will be able to put to good use in advertising. Both are with newborns, and both will give me ample opportunity to try out a few new props and some new retouching techniques. Very cool, indeed.

I finally got the basic form for the business website hashed out, and now I'm just filling in the details. I realized, rather quickly, that although I am doing as much on my own as is humanly possible (and beyond, in some cases) I am most decidedly not a gifted copywriter. I have a feeling I come off sounding vaguely creepy while attempting to convey convincing things about why people should let me take pictures of them that will hang on their wall for eternity. (Seriously. Remind me to tell y'all about the "Mental Ward" some day... Senior Pictures preserved in infamy through 19 years of graduations. Adolescence was not kind to most of us.)

And if anyone besides my relatives understands that last paragraph, I will totally send you a gold star.

And now? My brain is fried, my laptop needs rebooting, and I'm getting this post in under the wire. I'll catch y'all on the flip side.

And yes, I do realize I've been using "Y'all" a lot lately. It's growing on me, and rolls of the tongue (or fingers, in this case) so much more easily than "you guys" or the dreaded "you people". So get used to it, because it looks like I will be here in the South for a good while yet.

Y'all come back now, ya hear?

Spy vs. Spy

For the past few weeks my beloved laptop has been running slower and slower. It was as though it was choking on a ham-bone, and I had forgotten my heimlich maneuver. (Which would never happen -- I'd be very handy in a choking emergency, having been certified 3 or 4 times over the years for reasons that are not abundantly clear to me now. But it's not the "why" that matters... it's that I know what your zyphoid process is and how not to send it back into your chest cavity to puncture a lung.)

Ah, but I digress.

So back to the laptop. Which has been slow.

Now, because I am very cheap, I have been attempting to avoid actually paying to get a spyware remover. Which we decided I needed after T took a look at my Task Manager and silently imploded. Because apparently there are several totally unnecessary things running in the background which are more likely to explain the slowness of my computer than my own theory -- which had something to do with buying the computer a helmet and putting it on the short bus.

And so? I sit here. Installing a second program. Because the one I thought was free before was only free for scanning. So it told me I had 64 items to remove, and then sweetly asked for $40 to remove them.

It was like being at the auto mechanic. Or the Dentist. Either way? I felt mildly violated and more than a little regretful at the lack of ability to pummel the creators of said program with a Nerf bat.

So many conflicts in life would be better addressed with a good Nerf Bat fight. Hitting things with one is decidedly satisfying, and yet very unlikely to end with a summons for assault and battery.

But, alas, the only person in Nerf-Bat-Striking-Distance was T. And he was busy studying for his classes... hence, I was disarmed by the cuteness of his intellectualism.

So now I have to eat some chocolate and install this program. And do a ritualistic dance of appeal to the computer gods to please PLEASE make the evil programs go away so I can design the HOA website in peace.

Oh, I'm sorry. Was that boring? Frustrating, perhaps? Was it mind-numbingly banal?

Misery loves company, baby. Find you some chocolate. It helps. Trust me.

Whatcha' Got Cookin'?

Excerpt from a conversation with a friend of T's for over a decade... who breaks out in a violent rash at the mere prospect of marriage.... (Paraphrased, just a bit, here and there...)

Him: [marriage bad]

Me: What about the guaranteed sex?

Him: Variety is the spice of life.

Me: Hey, it's not like I'm eating the same food all the time. It's just that every gourmet meal happens to be prepared by the same world-class chef...

Him: Hm. Interesting perspective. I'm making a concerted effort not to conjure the mental image that suggests.

Me: Ooooooh... it's sooo too late now. That image will be burned in your brain for eternity...
T. Totally nude except for one of those big white chef's hats.

Him: NOOOooooooooo!

...

This would be a prime example of one of the reasons my husband adores me so very much.... My ability to simultaneously amuse and nauseate his oldest and dearest friends.

You know, for those days when he just doesn't have the energy to do the honors himself.

Because I Am....

Because I am, first and foremost, a Mommy... This is a total cheat post, like punching in just before you run across the street to grab a coffee and a muffin.

But it's Saturday night, it's been a hellacious week, and in the other room? The hubs and the Jack are watching "Cars" and munching twizzlers with the dog. And since I am, at the moment, entirely without words of any value to impart... I'm going to join them.

So NaBloPoMo THAT, fo' shizzle.

And for the record? I have no idea what I meant by that. I blame it on the Thai Iced Coffee I had with dinner. No accounting for what that stuff can make a person do.

Political Swan Song....

I swear this is the last post (at least for a while) in which I will attempt to pretend that my opinion on things political should matter to anyone who is not dependant on me for hot meals and clean underwear.

But as I watched a few clips on the news networks today talking about the direction the US should take things in Iraq, now that there's the whole massive overhaul of government going on... I couldn't help but compose a brief tirade in my head. The pundits on both sides were talking about things like "how to extricate without worsening the situation" and "not abandoning the country until we have established viable democracy", etc, etc, etc.

My brief and totally unpolished statement for the evening is this:

Democracy is not something that can be handed out like holiday fruitcake, or imposed in a parental fashion. True populist rule, true democracy, true freedom... is something that must be carved out of the flesh of the people by whom it will rule.

A nation cannot be taught democracy, or groomed to govern according to the dictates of a western-guided ethic. The nation must cry out for democracy - not to a powerful global "savior" but to itself. The population must cry out for it, must demand it, must fight and bleed and die for it. No nation can serve as a mentor. The U.S. cannot "spread" democracy like so much apple seed.

There will never be a true democratic government in Iraq with the U.S. camping out to "assist" them. One need only look to our own revolutionary war; it was not won by way of the French supporting the cause to spite the Brits. It was won because farmers and merchants and noblemen, for reasons each their own, raised musket and pitchfork in the name of their own determined cause. It was won because passionate individuals - with a vested stake in the dream of a free nation - opened their vaults and their veins and gave everything in the cause.

We will never secure a stable Iraq. Not long enough even to merit a passage in future elementary textbooks. The seed of "democracy" will not take root unless the people of that nation are left to make a choice - to ride with the current of the tide in the vacuum of a U.S. withdrawal, or to richen the field with their blood and sacrifice - to flesh out the dream of a better future of their own making. To find their own path, fight their own civil wars, and find for themselves an identity- untainted by the architects of a nation such as ours.

After all, Angkor Wat is undeniably a structure of immense beauty and fantastical imagination... but would it be considered a work of beauty if it were reconstructed in, say, downtown Tuscon? For true freedom to find its form in a country such as Iraq, it must be a democracy of their own design - not a hollow clone of our own less-than-flawless system.

Santa Baby...

This week Jack officially "helped" write his first-ever letter to Santa. For a three year old, he certainly has a very specific grasp on what he wants.. no, expects to see under his tree come Christmas morning.

The mustang! The red one! That I drive it!

Translation: Red Powerwheels Mustang from Wal-Mart that costs about $250 and that he would outgrow in about a week. Needless to say, we're hoping he somehow receives a very small but specific blow to the head in one of his many many falls (boy inherited his grace from me, quite obviously) which will magically remove any memory of the red plastic monstrosity.

So now that we're beginning to get this whole holiday shopping ball rolling, T asked me if there was anything specific I wanted for Christmas this year. Which is one of my least favorite questions, up there with "do you have dental insurance?" and "is that a girl or a boy?"* It has been many years since there was a single item that I so lusted after that I could triumphantly state of a certainty that "THIS! This is what I want for Christmas!"

I found myself pondering the question. I realized that I do, in fact, have a wish list. It just happens to be of the non-commercially-available variety. And so I present, for sake of posterity, my Christmas Wish List Top 5.

1) A hot bath. In a tub big enough for a long-legged amazon such as myself to stretch my legs comfortably and still have enough room to lay back on one of those terry-coated inflatable bath pillows. There must also, of course, be bubbles up to my nose, misty candle-light, and my favorite "mellow mix" playing softly in the background. The lights will be out, the water will be hot and - other than the aforementioned musical sedative - the room will be silent.

2) An evening alone with the man, wherein he is required to watch the black-and-white classic cinema selection of my choosing whilst we share a jumbo-sized box of soft-centered, hand-dipped chocolates. Especially the ones with fruity centers. And big mugs of something hot.

3) An entire day to spend in bed, with a stack of novels and a bottomless cappuccino. The sheets would be freshly washed and pressed, my pajamas would be of the crisp cotton variety, and the interruptions would be nil. Just slip a tray under the door at mealtimes and keep the biscotti coming.

4) A long weekend in Las Vegas with Dr. Allie. Texas Hold'em, horrible concerts, and two old girlfriends marveling at where the time has gone. A BSG marathon would be a must, and the chocolate chip cookie dough would be copius enough to choke a camel. (Thank heaven for pasteurized eggs.) Walks along the strip, long conversations on the "Robert Jordan vs. Terry Goodkind" debate, and laughter to the point of puking.

5) A campout with T in the mountains. The colder the night, the better - we have a sleeping bag for 2. A raging campfire, cooking hotdogs on a spit, and of course making s'mores. Wool socks, thermal underwear, wool caps, and lots of snuggles. The peace of mind of the kids being someplace safe and warm with someone who loves them while we hike around the woods and fish in icy cold water. And more snuggling. And talks about where we've been, where we're going, and what we'll do when we get there. A chance to remember why it is all worthwhile in the first place.

So skip the sable this year, Santa. Forget the platinum mine, and maybe just give me one perfect moment for Christmas this year. I just want a brief snapshot of time in which to forget all the trials of the past few years, the heartbreaks and family breakups, the medical and mental, the space between friends and loves. I just want one moment in which to stop time and enjoy the here and now.

Of course, I still wouldn't say no to the 54 Convertible, too. (Light Blue.)

Happy Hump Day!

It's Wednesday. Wednesdays are always bizarre, aren't they? I mean, it would have to be a Wednesday in order for me to be able to list off the following events with a straight face and total honesty:

*The Gizmo, he is officially castrated. Which is good news, really, because if I have to be outnumbered this badly gender-wise? At least I now have the animals on my side: 2 female cats and a totally neutered boy dog.

*Speaking of totally neutered animals? I'm still reeling from the AP report that Webb has taken Virginia. It's sorta like finding out that what you thought was cancer is really just a raging case of herpes -- not at all fatal, yet still totally inconvenient... but nobody to blame but yourself. But if I'm going to wax political, I can at least back away slowly from this messy semi-victory in order to focus on the real meat of today's political headlines...

*Rumsfeld is history. Just a bit too late on the whole "make nice with what the public demands" front. Had this happened a few weeks ago it might have saved a few red seats from their unceremonius turnover in yesterday's crucible. But hey, I'm not going to complain about that.

Note to the White House: Please feel free to continue to be soooo ten minutes ago when it comes to having a clue about the political climate of mainstream America. In fact, if you can somehow forget about Rick Santorum totally getting the smackdown (in the face of his venemous and vocal hatred of gays) and just figure maybe it was something else about him that gave people nausea? That would be great. Don't listen to Nancy Pelosi calling the President "the emperor with no clothes"... I mean, hey... what does she know? After all, she's only the most arguably powerful woman in the history of American Politics. And I bet she only got there because she has such great hair. So you go ahead on and continue to oppose things like funding new lines of stem cell research and an increase in minimum wage. This whole "Do what's best for the most people" thing is probably just a fad, anyway.

*As evidenced by the fact that I just loopy-looped around my own cynical dialogue so many times even I'm not sure I got the point of that little diatribe, I am getting too little sleep again and attempting to accomplish many more things than can reasonably be executed in a single lifetime.

To which I say to you... I'm going to go to sleep now.

In a world much more able to give me hope than the one I woke up in yesterday.

Citizen Canine & Words Not So Divine...

Yesterday I used the word "orgasm" on the internet, gave a repeat shout-out to my mammaries, and today I'm talking about my dog's testicles. You see, Gizmo went to the vet's this morning for neuter surgery.

So in the midst of all of this socially appropriate and very cerebral discourse, it makes sense that I would break my own rule and check webstats one more time this morning. (Honestly, I left the window open last night, so I just hit the refresh. It was barely even intentional.)

I have received a lot of hits from Utah in recent weeks. Not that that was surprising -- my family is pretty familiar with the series of tubes that is the internet, and quite well versed in The Google. And anyone googling my actual name would find this place at the top of the list.

But I have so much family in Utah, it was impossible to be certain who was actually frequenting the site - especially since I had only mentioned it to a very few relatives.

That is, until this morning. Because? I'm quite certain that I only know two people who could be surfing the net from "Ghana Telecom's Customer - Latter Day Saints Accra". And somehow I don't think Dad is a big surfer of the blogosphere.

So... HI MOM!! You've been outed. And please stop foaming at the mouth over the whole Nancy Pelosi thing. I promise the country is not going to fall apart without you here to shape the political landscape by the sheer force of your will. Glad we cleared that up. LOVE YOU!! :)

Statistical Improbabilities...

Oh dear oh dear. It's the NaBloPoMo Randomizer, and it's bringing on a raging case of paranoia.

So I have decided I must not look at stats again for at least a week, because those numbers? They're growing exponentially. I can totally attribute a few of them to some very funny search randomness - Hello to you folks who keep finding me in by googling spanking euphemisms! (If I ever go broke, I'll just open an online store catering to Spanking Fetishes. Undertapped market there, apparently)

But the rest of you? You who came here because you thought that people participating in this event were perhaps dedicated writers with articulate voices and unique perspectives? To you I must apologize. I can only offer you my condolences and a link to the illustrious Lisa Stone over at Surfette. Because she is those things and more.

Me? I pretty much talk about my neurotic personality tics, my inability to mature into a functional adult, my departure from mormonism, and my spectacular breasts.

Hey, my target demographic totally gets that. And the rest? Well, most people appreciate hearing about someone crazier than they are. Also? Very few people don't appreciate a shapely bosom - and they're busy buggering congressional pages, and decidedly not clued in to the power of the Mommy demographic.

Then again? Regardless of your love or hate for Nancy Pelosi... some of that disinterest in the Mom Clout may finally be resolved now that the US will be having our very fist Woman Speaker of the House.

I think I may have just had a tiny little orgasm at the joyous shock of that notion. Either that? Or the frozen pizza at dinner is backing up on me.

Either way? A woman is about to be but a few heartbeats from the presidency... So yeah. Probably not the pizza after all...

Short, Sweet, & To Da MuddaFuddin' Point.

I just spent an totally indefensible amount of time watching political news coverage, and capped it off with by tappping the vein with a little Jon Stewart.

I have to admit that I voted for the very first time in my life in 2004. Totally pathetic, I admit, but it was also the first time that I had paid any attention to politics, let alone educated myself enough to make a few informed decisions while punching my ballot card.

So all I really have to say at this point is this...

*Clears throat. Pulls out suspiciously new-looking soapbox. Climbs aboard. Ignores people giving weird "what the hell is that already unseemly tall woman doing standing an additional 18 inches above street level?" looks*

You, the teeming word-spinners of that fickle mistress "The Blogosphere". You are plugged in to the Nth degree, you check your email 30 times a day, and your blogroll has reached the point of total unfathomability. Hopefully? You also read at least a few news sites, because if you're technologically savvy enough to be on the razor's edge of the whole "Web 2.0" thing ... well, my friend, then you have absolutely no excuse not to be "up" on that whole 1776 "we the people" thing, either. You know, that whole idea that you have the right to a voice in your own destiny? Yeah, that thing.

Okay, I know you're thinking "but this whole process is screwed anyway, and the politicos make a mockery of the whole concept of the electoral process, and chances are those electronic voting machines are even less reliable than the local weather report...". And I totally agree with all of that.

But here's the thing. This is the only option we have. Whether or not the system is broken, whether or not you think mid-term elections are a waste of time, and even if (like me) you think your options seem somewhat akin to choosing between an electrode up the pooper vs. a sharp blow to the head with a bread board.... You. Must. Vote.

Because whether you know it or not, there are issues out there that you care about. And there are more issues to come in the next 4 years that you WILL care about. And what happens tomorrow will determine, in a very real way, what your life is going to be like over the next 3 years.

So when you wake up tomorrow morning, linger over your coffee. Take a few deep breaths, maybe surf the web a bit and find out what candidates are running in your district. Then go to your local polling place, and exercise your right as an American. Take ownership of your citizenship and cast your ballot.

Vote.

*steps carefully down from soapbox, catching clumsy foot on the corner and landing in a fleshy heap in the dirt*

"I mean to do that."

Youthful Angst Of A Different Sort...

The elusive adolescent journal continues to elude me ... however, I have discovered a metric butt-load of stuff packed into some boxes my parents have offloaded to here the past few years. In fact, I found my fourth grade journal. We were required to write in it as a "learning exercise".

And let me tell you... I was a very weird kid. Let's just put that out there from the start.

And so, in the spirit of fairness, since I am as yet unable to provide the much-hyped tragic teen drama that was my high school experience, I give you selected excerpts from 1988-89. Misspelled words and all.

September 6, 1988

There isn't much I want to write about because I don't feel very good today, but I just want to say that so far this year has been o.k. and that I hope it will keep that up.
You will certinly see a change in me after Christmas because I will have been with [siblings who were away at college].

And of course, what childhood anecdote would be complete without recounting the time I had plantar warts burned off the bottoms of my feet...

October 26, 1988

Yesterday I got my warts burned off. First the doctor put in the needle. That was the most painful part (It was also the most painful thing I have aver gone thrue.) Then I couldn't feel my toe any more. Just to make sure he put the needle in one more time. It hurt so much I cried. Then he took a pen like thing and touched it to a wart. I coulnd't see anything but sparks. It was scary. I have medicine to take for my infection.

Ooooh Honey. You thought those shots were painful? Just wait another 15 years, when you'll get to push out a 10 pound baby.

And yes. I did warn you. I was a very weird kid. And if you are at all surprised by that? We should really chat because I totally need to talk to you about "Amway"....

In Which I Continue To Toy With Your Emotions...

So get this.

I know that nobody will believe me, but girlscout's honor... I have misplaced the diary.

I know that it is in one of the book boxes that we packed up from the old apartment. I know it is. I just don't know... um... which box.

If you have seen my basement, you understand how it is that I could be confused by the mountainous pile of unmarked boxes all containing various kinds of crap for which I will surely someday have a use.... (Hey, I've already scavanged an old windshield sun-reflector to use in the studio. See? My crap is highly useful crap!)

Any-who.. the diary is, in fact, MIA. I will valiantly continue the search efforts, but in the mean time allow me offer this as an opiate to the masses....



For the moment? Looking at what I have in the here and now actually wins out over meandering down memory lane. So it's a good day.

That Allegory Every Yosemite Even

The subject above means, in case you were wondering, absolutely nothing. It just happened to be the best of the subject lines in the spam I got in my inbox today. And I just happen to be mentally occupied with email.

I know I promised to get to the totally humiliating and juicy details of my high school diary, but I just don't have it in me tonight. I know, I know.... I totally deserve smack-down that is undoubtedly being mentally focused in my direction.

But it was a very long day. After I pick up the long rod (*snort*) at Home Depot tomorrow from which to hang my backdrop, I will officially be ready to adjust my lighting and take my first test shots in my new studio. That is, as soon as I figure out where to move this inordinately inconvenient queen size bed. Apparently? The bed is still under the impression this is a guest room. Which it is, decidedly, not. As evidenced by the ecclectic mix of jerry-rigged photography fixtures throughout the room.

But I digress.

You see, tonight brought two very different events to the forefront of my brain.

The first is that the former HOA board has decided to surrender, in a manner of speaking, and let the new board take over and begin to see if we can't do a job of uniting this divided and confused community. A bittersweet victory, since it will be far from easy to pull together our neighborhood and begin to foster some sense of community fellowship and pride... but I am still willing to try.

The second, and more poignant, event of the evening is that I received the first communication from my parents since their arrival in Ghana on Tuesday. More specifically, my Mom sent out an email to the family and extended relatives describing their trip, arrival, and first impressions.

It's funny that I see things so differently now than I did a few years ago, and even a few months ago. I went from anger to bitterness to peace... and back through the cycle again. Possibly more than once.

But to hear my mother who, though she has been to Western Europe and Australia, has still always come across as a small-town Utah girl... Well, to read as she attempts to express what she is seeing and feeling as she observes an African country for the first time? It made me think... "She will learn so much. She will see so much I have not seen. And maybe, when she comes back, she will understand better what it is like to be me."

Not that I have been to Africa, or will ever experience what she has experienced... maybe precisely BECAUSE of that.. .Because she will understand better what it has been like for me to be a stranger in a strange land, an alien in this world outside of mormonism, and to walk back into old territory unable to sufficiently explain what it is I have seen and learned. She is changing, already, in a way and to a degree that I never would have believed possible for a woman who has stayed so much the same for so long. And yet, she has changed in recent years. She has evolved. And now she is taking the next great evolutionary leap in her life.

And as much as I still feel the sting at the loss of her constant availability as a presence in my life... my throat is a little tight when I think that she may finally have found a way to fill the empty space she has always carried in her heart. I finally have a spark of hope.. that the sadness that has been ever with her may be drowned in the ocean of exploration and adventure that awaits her.

I'm sorry if I'm waxing just a bit melancholy this evening. I'm sure I'm just exhausted. I promise to be back to my regular self by morning (with the help of a hot toddy and a good night's sleep.)

Besides, you can always console yourself with the fact that there's still my self-humiliation to anticipate for tomorrow. AND it's Friday night, which means minty fresh new Battlestar Galactica. If that doesn't make your night, baby, you have absolutely no soul.

Which Witch is Which....

So I log into my stats this evening and immediately notice a huge jump in hits to my other blog. Which would be totally cool except for 2 things...

1) Somehow or other, through some horrid twist of circumstance, Alternamom ended up on the blogroll for NaBloPoMo.... even though I didn't actually sign that one up for this experiment in self-hatred. This explains the increased traffic (which I am attributing entirely to the fact that it is under the "A" section) and would also be totally cool except for...

2) I have been so busy with all the HOA, Studio, Kid, Halloween, Medical and Dental stuff of late that I have not updated since... oh.... October 11...

Which means the people pleaser in me... the tormented perfectionist (who will never forgive me for refusing to study for 3rd Period Physiology in the 10th grade and getting that D) totally crapped her pants when I realized that today is NOVEMBER 2.

I mean, I didn't sign it up for this thing. I had no intention of updating a time-suck-shopping-blog daily for a whole month... but... but... but... THE PEOPLE. They come! And I just know they're all thinking "What the hell?? Not updated since October 11th?" And their imagined criticism is making me all dark and twisty inside, so now I have to go back and cheat-post for yesterday. Because the gauntlet? It has been thrown down. (Albeit by the probably inadvertant mouse-click of one of Mrs. Kennedy's helper elves) And I am sooo up for the challenge of updating TWO blogs every day for a month. Even though the other one won't qualify for any fabulous NaBloPoMo Prizes. Because I am absolutely that sick and demented.

Masochism, people. It's the new black.

Speaking of black... That inner "me-demon" I keep referring to? I let her out for a few hours on Tuesday night. This is what she looked like.



That "deer in the headlights" look? That's pretty much what I looked like through most of adolescence.

Which reminds me... stay tuned tomorrow for 1994's Greatest Hits. Oh yes, my friends. The diary is coming out. Be afraid... Be very, very afraid.

Fire The Starting Pistol....

Ladies and gents, welcome to National Blog Posting Month. You thought I forgot, didn't you? You thought I was going to completely drop the ball on the very first day. Well, I gots news for you, doubting internet, it is 40 minutes to midnight and BAM, here it is.

In lieu of starting with the self-humiliation (because, really, not a good idea to reveal all my secrets in the first act)... allow me to share instead that - the man? He is officially working on his degree. Yes, T is an officially enrolled college student and starts his first classes November 13.

Which totally means I can say I'm sleeping with a college freshman....

The New Math

What you would have read/overheard this morning as we carried on conversation both verbally and via AIM because he's working from the home office and yes, we truly have reached that level of dorkdom:

Him: Can you brew a fresh pot of coffee? I've got to go get on this conference call....

Me: Sure.

(1o minutes later)

Him: Coffee?

Me: Oh! Shoot. Totally forgot....

(2 minutes later)

Me: Brewing now. I'll yell when it's ready.

Him: No yelling! On a conference call.

Me: Oh. I meant yelling as in "CAPITAL LETTERS VIA AIM"... but I'll bring you down a cup. But only because you love me with the fiery intensity of a thousand suns!

(20 minutes later)

Him: Coffee?

Me: Oh shoot. Totally forgot, trying to design the web site....

Him: My love is diminished to the level of 500 hundred suns....

Me: 500 Hundred would be 50,000, which would mean you love me more when I ignore you. Which I have totally suspected all along....

Him: Seems to work that way....

The Plague Descendeth...

Ode to the sinus, how thickly it flows
Ode to the children, how whiny they grow
With crusts of green slime hardened thick on the nose
Of husband and children who wail in their woes.

Which is my roundabout way of saying that everyone in this house but me is in the throes of some virulent and exotic head and chest cold. And me? I feel like crap, didn't get enough sleep, and am stressed to the point of freaking out in a very "Mommy Dearest" sort of way because DO THESE PEOPLE NOT KNOW HOW LOUD THEY ARE BREATHING, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY?????

Good times, people. I tell ya.

On the up side? These pills might actually be the right ones, at long last. And thanks to my brother, I am one step closer to rocking the new business. And? My parents left for Africa today. Which is in no way good news for me, but the up side of that is that I made it through the day and DID NOT CRY. Well, at least not because of that bit of news. As for the rest? I plead faulty memory. Because you will totally buy that. Especially when I do this....

Hey look! The neighbor is dressed as a Naughty Librarian for Halloween again!

See? Totally distracted you. So predictable.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have humidifiers to refill......

To The Batcave...

The last week has been a flurry of everything and nothing. The HOA meeting was a resounding success, and ended with the ejection of the old board and the election of a new board. One that will, hopefully, be able to enact changes to the benefit of all. The new secretary, though? She seems a little wonky. And this morning, when it was a frosty 40 degrees outside? She could be seen running down the street in her bare feet and pajamas... carrying an infant... and chasing a very fast puppy.

In case you haven't figured it out yet? That would be me.

So the week was wrapped up in working on and thinking about a variety of HOA matters. And for some reason, there was a completely out-of-proportion-to-reality sense of immediacy about everything I did. No matter what I was involved in - typing minutes, chasing the dog, feeding the kids, tossing in a load of laundry - I felt a sense of overwhelming urgency and guilt about all of the other things I was not doing at that very moment.

Apparently my psyche thinks I should be able to be in 54386 places at once. And do every one of the involved tasks to perfection at the same time. To the result that I accomplished very little, and ended up feeling very tired.

Last night I went to bed at a decent hour. And I slept. And I woke up this morning still grumpy, but after a cup of coffee and my morning trip to the medicine cabinet I was feeling very much improved. So much so that I started making out a grocery list, ordered a few more things for the business, and finally checked my blogroll (which has whimpered over here in the corner as the numbers kept cranking up and up with nary a perusal from yours truly.)

Which is when I read this post over at dooce. And then followed the link to this article by a New Orleans Times-Picayune reporter on his experience with depression as a person who didn't really believe in the illness.

And I came to two very sudden realizations.

1) My parents were very skeptical of mental illness, beyond outright psychosis, for most of my life. I have learned to admire them in a whole new light as they have evolved the past few years and, my mom especially, been incredibly supportive of me since learning of the struggles I have had.. and continue to have, really. It requires several deep, calming breaths on my part to keep from tearing up whenever I remember that they will soon be on the other side of the planet... which brings me to

2) It's time to stop telling the psychiatrist how well things are going and be more honest with him and with myself about what is still broken. I am doing so much better than I was in April, in so many ways, and I have wanted that to be it - to be able to say "see how well I am doing!" to myself and to others, that I have been reluctant to admit that there is still quite a distance to go before I am able to really cope with any effectiveness. Until I can open up about that, I am in denial and I don't believe in denial unless it involves counting the calories in a piece of birthday cake. (which totally don't count, because what kind of world is this if I can't enjoy my funfetti with blue icing in peace - I ASK YOU?)

I have got to work out some sort of sanity check on a real schedule. Because though my plate is very very full at the moment, there is no reason that it should overwhelm me if I can learn to prioritize and keep certain time sacred.

Which is why, at this moment, I am headed to the shower so that I can take the boys out for lunch and to do some grocery shopping. Time. Together with the boys. Out of this house. Sacred, indeed.

But fear not, my friends. I have not forgotten my participation in NaBloPoMo (as evidenced by the badge I finally have up here). In fact, I just got my copy of Mighty Maggie's new Book of 100 ideas for your Blog, and I fully intend to pad the pages of this little internet empire with my take on some of her suggestions.

Because you know you're dying to read an excerpt from the diary I kept in high school. It's full of deliciously angsty teenage meanderings and several exquisitely humiliating rants on my breasts. And I do have a photo of the ridiculously huge yorkshire pudding T made for Christmas dinner last year somewhere around here.... You're salivating already, aren't you?!

In Which I Continue My Race To Insanity...

Oh My Goodness.

I've mentioned in the past (probably repeatedly, possibly ad nauseam) that when I ride the crazy train I like to roll sans coulottes. (That's without pants if you're not up on your franglais, people...)

Because regular crazy is just...not quite crazy enough. We dooz it large, baby.

In that spirit, I just opened up a can of whupass on my brain.

You see, this week I officially filed the paperwork for my own business. As of November 1, I will be "opening the doors" so-to-speak, as a professional photographer.

Now, I know what you are thinking. You are thinking "I have seen the photos she posts around these parts and I'm hoping this isn't part of the long-term diet plan because those babies are gonna get hungry."

No? Okay, so maybe just "WTF?" Better? Yeah. Thought so.

I got my first SLR camera when I was 16. It was an Olympus OMG, and it was my baby. I had been accidentally assigned to photograph sporting events for my high school paper (mostly because there was.. uh.. nobody else willing to do it) and found I had a knack and a passion for it. So my parents encouraged me, and my OM and I went everywhere together. I even took some shots at my brother's wedding (along with a paid photog, of course) and, for a high school student with little training but plenty of enthusiasm, they were pretty damn good.

No, seriously.

For a few years there, my ultimate dream in life was to be a photographer for Sports Illustrated. I even took photojournalism at BYU and got to take a few photos for The Daily Universe (the university paper) while I was there. I also loved shooting musicians, mostly because the body language and facial contortions of a performing artist are so downright captivating.

I just loved taking pictures.

Then, nearly 8 years ago, I moved to Northern Virginia. I stopped taking pictures. Photography suddenly became something related to birthdays, holidays, and weddings.

Now, with a little help from The Benefactor (thanks again, Cash!) I am shooting again. And I'm loving every minute of it. Thanks to the encouragement of friends, family, and distant acquaintances... I have officially established my business. And I'm running around like my pants are on fire trying to get everything set up and ready so I will be prepared to start actually doing this.. you know... for a "living".

Which is a nice way of excusing myself for being absent for almost a week. Plus? My internet was teh broken. But it's all better now, and has strict orders to take daily vitamins and maintain excellent health going forward because I NEED THIS OUTLET. And the withdrawal shakes were making it hard to hold my coffee cup steady.

Ready for the crunchy coating on the crazy candy? I'm also a shadowy member of the coup d'etat being staged tonight in our HOA. Current Board = Rogue Agency, so I've been very quietly studying state codes, the declaration of covenants, and the bylaws so I can assist the vocal leaders of this mini-rebellion in ousting our shady board.

The goal of tonight's meeting is to wipe the current board and start fresh with Directors that will, you know... do things like tell us what they have done with our money. Riveting stuff, I know it. And you're just dying for me to lecture you all about things like fiduciary duty and conflicts of interest. Sadly, I must lay my heady down for a quick snooze, else I find myself drawing a blank at a critical moment... when I just HAVE to be able to quote Chapter 36B-3-103(b). Oh the humanity!

Stay tuned for complete coverage of the insanity. You know you wish you could TiVo this stuff...

Getting By On His Looks

He is incredibly lucky to have this face. If he had any other face? One that was ONE IOTA less edible? The four piles of poo on the rug from ONE incident which occurred about 10 seconds after I let him back in from the rain - after his mournful face and pathetic whimpering finally convinced me that just maybe he really didn't need to go? That would have earned him a one-way ticket to "a farm in the country". (Which, as we all know, is where your parents TOLD you they sent your puppy after it ate the new leather sectional when you were 9.)

Cuteness prevails the day. *sigh*

I am such a sucker.

One.

I couldn't post about it yesterday. I tried to. I really did! But I couldn't.



But now that the day is past, and it's simply an accepted fact and no longer a cause for me to ingest mass quantities of processed sugars in order to maintain my state of denial... well, it's actually quite okay, after all.

Happy Birthday (one day late) to Toby. We're planning a small celebration for him for next weekend, but we had to mark the actual day as well. And so.. we got a small cake, lit a candle, sang our horribly off-key song, and let him have at it. And have at it he did.



It was an emotional day. One year ago I gave birth to my healthy, 9 pound 7 oz little peanut. It was a painful delivery, not the least of which because I had expected the epidural to sooth the physical torment of the induction as it had with my first delivery. Which it did not.

I followed up the birth with an abscessed tooth, requiring percocet to control the pain while still in the hospital. For good measure, there was the stop at the dentist to have a root canal on the way home from the hospital. Followed by the onset of a depression that crushed my spirit for many many moons. Even I recognize the humor in the improbability of it all. (Tonight on "Mel-O-Drama"! The birth of the baby is complicated by a toothache, a painkiller, and a root canal. Hilarity Ensues!)

In the grand scheme of things, I am choosing to focus on the good. On the smiles, the snuggles, the much-debated choice to co-sleep this time around which allowed me to have my warm, squirmy bundle close to me at all times. The messes, the giggles, and the sparkle in those impossibly huge brown eyes. That sparkle... I have instructed the universe. That sparkle must never, under any circumstances, be allowed to dim.


I know, I know. All the syrupy gushing is giving you the distinct urge to vomit. And I promise to whip the sass back out ASAP. (I said SASS. You and your dirty, dirty mind.)

One year later, here we are. Forging ahead. Literally. And even my inner cynic is, for once, speechless. You see...

Toby took his first steps yesterday.

Happy Birthday, indeed, my little biped.

NaBloWriMo...

I have this dirty little secret. I'm a bit of a drive-by lurker.

What does that mean, you ask? Yes - you- over *there*. The one who reads me and CNN.com and leaves it at that because you think blogs are of the DehVeel.

It means that I read A. Lot. Of. Blogs. But I don't comment like I should, and when I do comment, I sometimes forget that I've never commented at a specific blog before and talk to the person like they might actually have the first clue who I am. Most likely, this has the effect of leaving the blogger wondering "Eh? Huh? What's this, now?" and leaving them further confused when they click my link and go "Who's this, then?"

SO, in honor of Mrs. Kennedy over at Fussy, I am announcing my participation in her amendment to National Novel Writing Month, which she has dubbed "NaBloPoMo" or "National Blog Posting Month".

On that note, I am setting myself a little goal. The first, and most obvious, is to blog every day in November -- even if I just post a recipe or my critique of the new UPS guy's calf muscles.

The second part of this little exercise is that I will be attempting to comment more regularly on at least the top 10 blogs that I read. Maybe even more - we'll see. I can't bring myself to comment just for "comments" sake, and usually reserve it for when I feel I really have something to add to the conversation. Then again, I think that a lot of YOU people do the same thing, which would explain a lot about the number of comments around here. Either that, or I just ain't hittin' those hot topics, y'all... But, hey. Maybe the UPS guy and his rock-hard calves will fix all that. Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?...

So here's my challenge to you teeming dozens. In the month of November, comment like crazy! Even if it's just to say "Hi. I just ate a bagel." And leave a link (if you have one) and I'll follow it to you. And maybe? Just maybe I'll leave you a comment, too. I know... I can hear your gasp of anticipation. Please attempt to contain your excitement.

Perhaps in a thimble?

(Note: Edited to correct in-body references to "NaBloWriMo" that should have read "NaBloPoMo"... But I left the title alone so as not to totally futz with the link-backs. And because I'm not so proud that I can't leave some of my mistakes out in the open. Which, if you've been around here for any period of time, you already know. )

Just the basic facts - Can you show me where it hurts?

It's strange how easy it is to get so caught up in the business of living... only to find you've been so busy dealing with the day-to-day you failed to see that the strength you worked so hard to build up has been quietly eroding.

The ADD meds have worked wonders in getting me moving. I get up in the morning, I get breakfast crack-a-lackin', I let the dog out, feed the dog, let the dog out again. I make coffee (or at least reheat yesterday's coffee still in the pot... for which I can actually hear Mocha gasping in horror.) I get T out the door to work, and Jack with him on preschool days. I check email, read the news headlines, and attempt to straighten up the kitchen. I catch up on a few blogs from ye olde blogroll.

For a while, just staying in motion was enough to keep the depression at bay. As Dr. WonderShrink predicted, the meds had an antidepressant effect in addition to keeping my ferret-on-crack brain focused on the tasks at hand. For a while.

The last week I have felt the misty gray hand of sadness closing around my chest again. I have fought it, railed against it, and sought that quiet place in my thoughts where I can find calm. It's elusive, but when I get there I can breathe deeply and think clearly.

I haven't been a very good mom this week - I haven't given the boys the attention and interaction they so desperately need. I have not gone to bed at a decent hour, either. I'm procrastinating, but what exactly it is I'm avoiding is impossible to put into words. Because I don't know? Because it's the same old sob story? Because I am totally ashamed of being sad when there is so much to be happy about?

The new camera is a treasure trove of promises for creative growth and professional success. Jack started preschool and is growing into this amazing little person that any sane individual would be totally gobsmacked by, simply basking in his presence.
And tonight? Some sweet neighbor tagged our porch with "the phantom ghost".. which is a neighborhood chain letter of sorts. It consists of doorbell-ditching a basket of halloween goodies on the doorstep of 2 neighbors, along with a copy of a cute little poem instructing them to each follow suit within 24 hours. It's a neighborhood tradition, but this is the first time in the 3 Halloweens we've lived here that we've been tagged.

I have every reason to be ecstatic, or at least content, despite the never-ending roller coaster that is our life. And even so, in a way that makes no sense, I am sad.

This feeling has nothing to do with what is going on externally. That's the rub, isn't it? It's what makes a depressive person feel the chilling breath of despair - the self-guilting over each realization of what they're missing, what they are "squandering" by not feeling the full joy of the joyous things in their lives. The feeling of being disconnected, and the pain of that disconnect. Then comes the emotional withdrawal from the pain, leaving just the isolation of it all.

I've been to that place, and I have no desire to go there again. I am determined not to cut off the ones I love from my unprotected, squishy underbelly. I just wish I knew how to break down the gauzy barrier that has erected itself, before it is allowed to grow, cancer-like, unchecked, into a wall. (I have now officially ear-wormed myself, and will commence humming Pink Floyd tunes until I sag into unconsciousness in my bed.)

I am trying to make allowances, to take into account the things that have thrown us for a loop of late. T's professional future is uncertain. My parents are leaving for Africa in 2 weeks. We are gearing up for a battle royale breaking out at the HOA. Jack is 3, and has already figured out that he is probably smarter than his parents. And he knows something is wrong with me.

It is normal for these things to cause upheaval, even feelings of mild panic.

And I am not sleeping enough.

Even so, I fear the darkness, the wasted days and weeks that I can never get back, and the ones I could yet miss if I don't find a way to fight off the swirling, foggy sadness.

Then I read this. And this. And then this. And this.

My inner cynic snerked a few times, reading my own thoughts and feelings over and over and over as so many others confess their demons. It's like we all fell down the rabbit hole, and are all trying desperately to get the mad hatter to shut the hell up already about the tea cups and door mice because please, we just want to know how to get back to where we came from.

Because back in the real world there may be no groovy talking caterpillars, but at least the things that matter made sense.

But there is hope. There is always hope. And when I read something like this I realize that, though the spectre of depression will always be hovering just around the bend and out of sight, there are many many good days yet to come.

It's the letting go. The letting go is hardest to do, because it means giving up the illusion of control.

If I can just allow myself to stop moving for a minute and loosen my death grip on life... to push cars around with Jack even when I am tired or there is vacuuming to do... to let Toby attempt to use his spoon, mess be damned... to let the dog go ahead and lick my chin without immediately thinking of all the unholy things I have seen in his mouth. To go to bed without checking email just 'one more time'.

I hope...I may just find that the chaos I fear most is actually the good part.

Post-A-Thon 2006 Continues....

I swear to walk away from the computer as soon as I post this. SWEAR! Because, ya know, my kid is running around half-naked and just peed off the deck for the third time today. Apparently, Jack has decided he will help me housetrain Gizmo... by way of "leading by example". He has a very impassioned little spiel explaining why he believes this is a good idea.

The message I'm taking away from his little appeal? Time to do laundry, because he is out of clean underwear. And? My child is quite possibly going to end up in the adult film industry if I can't convince him to keep clothes on past noon. At least there have (so far) been no calls from preschool to complain of his public disrobing. So I score a few brownie points for Motherhood, right? RIGHT?! Okay, I'm turning off the computer. I swear.

But before I go, I only tapped the vein one more time because this was just too good not to share.

If you haven't already received your share of delicious life-imitating-art-imitating-life by way of The Colbert Report (and my beloved Daily Show, of course)... please to be tuning your TiVo to Comedy Central before you find yourself on the inflatable raft to H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks with the likes of Ann Coulter and Bill O'Reilly. Oh, and Mark Foley.

Why an inflatable raft, you ask? Because the points on the top of their heads are sure to puncture it along the way. And apparently hypocrisy sinks faster than a lead weight...

Beauty In The Breakdown...

With the new toy, Proof that Autumn is here.

Say Click, Take A Pic

Cash (whose name is Robin, but I know too many of those, so we'll use a nickname) has been friends with T since high school. I met him through T after we started dating, and shortly moved in with Cash and several other guys to a townhouse in Centreville. We shared a townhouse, then all rented a single family home together where one of the roommates threw wild parties that infrequently ended in police being called by angry neighbors. Finally, Cash and I got an apartment in Alexandria and were exclusive (and very neat, quiet, and tame) roomies (when I was there) until T and I officially moved in together in 2001.

He was a groomsman at our wedding, has been at every major family event, and is really family himself. Jack calls him "Uncle Robin". Even though I have 5 brothers who share my DNA, Cash is the "brother" I am the closest to and have had the most profound conversations with.

He came over on Monday and did something so totally amazing I am still reeling from the impact.

He gave me his digital SLR.

I did not cry. I wanted to cry. But I didn't. I might have squeezed him so hard I ruptured a few internal organs when I hugged him, though. But, hey, I didn't cry.

Thanks to him, I suddenly have the tools to begin compiling my portfolio. Which means I can begin to put together my business. SO, I will be - in the not-so-distant future, running my own company.

Out of a clear blue sky, I have something to look forward to for myself. Something which has nothing whatever to do with housework, or motherhood, or keeping my husband employed. Something that fulfills a totally selfish need in me, but also has a potential to contribute to our income.

On so many levels? Family rocks.

Happy Hump Day!

The indubitable CrankMama posted yesterday about Sex - specifically what happens to it once the babies come marching along. So I, of course, commented on this topic - which is very near and dear to my heart.

So today? She pasted me and my kink on her internet billboard for the world to see.

I'm having my own little Sally-Field-Accepting-An-Oscar moment. Totally geeked. I may, in the privacy and quiet of my own kitchen, have giggled and bounced around like a giddy pony. MAY have. I can neither confirm nor deny.

I will confirm that having coffee go up the back of your nose? Painful. And incredibly messy.

Weaning, Weight, and Wookit Me...

Ever since I joined the legions of breeders, becoming an unwitting pacifist in the so-called "Mommy Wars", I have heard more than I ever wanted to know about breastfeeding.

There were a lot of reasons it made sense for me to breastfeed my boys. Beyond all the well-known health benefits, I was staying home with them (accessibility) and it was free (affordability). But I was also told, over and over, how this wonderful gift of nature also meant losing the baby weight faster. Boy, oh boy, was I ever on board for that. Especially after I had put on 80 pounds over the course of my pregnancy. (And no, I didn't go on a Krispy Kreme diet or anything like that. Best medical explaination? It's genetic.)

There was just one problem. I realized very quickly after Jack was born that I was not losing the baby weight. Oh sure, there was the instant weight drop that came from delivering a 10 pound baby and all the other "stuff" that goes out with that. But once I left the hospital? Not an ounce did I shed.

At 9 months old, Jack suddenly weaned himself - rejected the boobies in favor of the bottle and the freedom to crawl and eat simultaneously. As sad as I was for that chapter to be over, within a week or two I noticed something very interesting. The weight? It began to fall off. It was as though my body had been hoarding all those extra pounds "just in case". In case of what I can't be sure (it must be a holdover from those scottish highland genes, maybe an inborn resistance to famine or a cattle shortage. I blame these same ancestors for that whole 80 pound weight gain thing...).

But just like that, I started to see myself emerging from behind the layers of extra mass. I didn't quite make it back to my prepregnancy weight, but that was just fine with me. I embraced my new curves and moved on.

Then I got pregnant with Toby. This time, I put on only about 50 pounds over the pregnancy. And again, after the initial drop in weight after the birth, I watched my weight stay miserably the same. By the time he was 9 months old, I had managed to drop about 10 pounds before my body steadfastly refused to do more.

I had put very little thought into this whole issue as we went through the weaning process over the last month or so. I occassionally stepped on the scale out of idle curiosity, but that infuriating little needle never moved. And then? Then one day I realized, as I stepped off the scale, that the needle was not quite returning to zero anymore. I readjusted the scale to zero it out and BAM - just like that, I was 5 pounds lighter. After verifying at the doctor's office, I heaved a sigh of relief because... apparently the trend will continue.

Weaning Toby was extraordinarily emotional and difficult, but now that it is done? I suddenly get a consolation prize. The fat jeans have been put away, and I even managed to slip into a few pairs of pre-Toby pants.

This long - and totally irrelevant - missive has served the purpose of leading up to the following photos. Of myself. Which is a rare event, by the way, in case you hadn't noticed.

2001 - The Cubicle Dweller

July 2003 - Gestating A Jack

January 2005 - That twinkle in my eye? That's Toby.


October 2005 - Gestating A Toby

April 2006 - Smuggling Midgets In Those Cheeks


October 2006 -Hey, She Looks Familiar...

I'm not a petite little thing, nor do I ever aim to be. That said, getting this extra weight off means less back pain, less hip strain, and more energy for living. And if I can reach a healthy weight, be confident in my appearance, and occsionally squeeze into a little black dress to remind T why he forsook all others? Baby, that's a big win in my book.

So there you are. I will now go back to posting photos of people who are much more fun to look at than little old me. At least until I change haircolors again. Because someone out there is playing "Mel Hairdo Bingo" and they're just panting for me to turn up with a blue mohawk so they can win the toaster.

School Daze...

The first day of preschool was so typical that I couldn't help but let my inner cynic mock, just a little. There were nervous looks, a few tears, and a little bit of the old "don't leave me!"... but T gave me a good shake, and I cut all that out made my reluctant way back to the car.


Jack was a little nervous, too, but that subsided the moment he was surrounded by pretty high school girls and plenty of legos. By the time I returned to pick him up, he took one look at me and said "I want to go to preschool again! NOW!". I told him he'd be back in 2 days and smiled, while internally I cried, just a little, that my baby was grown up enough to be so independent. But I firmly shook it off because, hey, Toby will benefit from the alone time with me and Jack is already much happier for the experience. And I might actually get to finish a hot cup of coffee in the morning.

Besides, I consoled myself all week with help from my new boyfriend. Yup, I am having a super-hot, steamy, dirty affair. Oh, no worries all... T knows all about it, and he's totally okay with it because he knows that this fling fills a very necessary space in my soul which has stood empty until now.

You see... we bought a SteamVac. (*rimshot*).

I have spent the last week scrubbing every visible piece of carpet in our house. And let me tell you, this is one instance where my intermittent OCD tendencies come in VERY handy. That stain from T's dad and his spill with the Christmas wassail two years ago? GONE. Spot Shot couldn't get it out, OxyClean couldn't get it out, but the SteamVac? Sucked it up like it was dollar margaritas in the last 10 minutes of happy hour. It's a thing of beauty.

And now that the carpets are getting back into condition, I can start working on clearing out the basement for our yard sale in the spring. Because life is too cluttered as it is, and physically making it less so seems to help to clear out the mental clutter as well. And let me tell ya, when it comes to physical clutter? We. Need. Less. Stuff. Or at least, less useless stuff and more of the "good" stuff. More stuff that Maggie would approve of, and less that appears to have fallen off of the back of the bag lady's shopping cart.

Not that the whole house is cluttered - no we've carefully sequestered most of the "miscellaneous" to the unfinished basement. You know, where the SPIDERS live. So going through all the piles down there should be good times... if I can avoid gangrene or the need for a tetanus shot.

Apparently, I'm developing my own "play at home" version of Fear Factor. Pick a scary chore at your house, and join me! Once the intensive Fall cleaning is done, let's meet for Martinis. You know, to wash off the stink. And disinfect the spider bites. And to forget that - the babies? They are growing up. Quickly, and irreversibly. Now if you'll excuse the crying
the watering of my eyes, it appears I need to adjust a contact lens... or ... or... something.

So yeah - about those Martinis.

Don't Call It A Comeback, I've Been Here For... Oh, You Know...

Welcome, welcome, one and all! It's that time, once again: Time to play "Lather, Rinse, Repeat", in which I outline all of the various adventures of the recent-past into neat, bulleted, yet still totally useless form. Strap on your adventure shoes, because away we go...

* Last week we attended the Open House for Jack's preschool, which officially begins tomorrow. It was so sweet to see him get so ramped up about going, I nearly went into spasms of denial. My child. Is going to school. Okay, it's preschool, and it's only twice a week and only half a day... but still! Teachers? They talked at me. Like I was a parent. Like teachers used to talk to MY parents. I wanted to scream "Stop treating me like a responsible adult! Do you want to see my tattoo? DO YOU?! Are you prepared to be responsible for my hair returning to an ungodly shade of purple so that I can cling to my desperately dwindling, misbegotten youth?!!!" But I didn't. I smiled, and nodded, and pointed out the awesome playground dinosaur slide to Jack - who squealed in delight and damn near chewed his way through the chain link fence in order to reach that playground mecca of pure joy.

So preschool starts tomorrow. I still have my fears that mine will be the kid who gets sent home the first day for messing in his pants in the first five minutes, or that he'll scream for his Me-Me until they are forced to call me and ask What, for the love of pete, is a "Me-Me"??? (his security blanket)

Or, worst of all, that he'll have such a good time he won't miss me AT ALL and when I come to pick him up he'll tell me to go away and can't I see that he is trying to play with that cute blond girl who was about to let him sit on the beanbag seat next to her? But alas.. All a Mama can do is check for fresh batteries in the camera, pack a photo in his Thomas the Tank Engine backpack (so he remembers what I look like by noon) and hope for the best. And maybe hit the mall for a consolation latte at Starbucks.

* That thing I can't talk about? Still can't talk about it. It's percolating, though, and I'll talk about it soon. Now stop asking. Seriously. Else I will be forced to start vLogging video of my dog attempting to eat dirty diapers or something equally horrific. Amen.

* Toby has reached a new level of cuteness. His sense of humor is contagious, and he smiles so much more easily now. And last night? Last night we put him to bed an hour earlier than usual (7pm instead of 8pm) and I'll be darned... he slept until 8am this morning. 13 HOURS, PEOPLE! 13 blissful hours, and no nursing this morning. My littlest bean is growing up...

Just don't ask me about his first birthday in two weeks. Unless, of course, you enjoy listening to hiccuping sobs and snorty sniffles broken up by intermittent, indiscernible wailing. I'm not ready for my baby to stop being a baby. The cord may have been cut 11.5 months ago, but he is still firmly attached to my insides. Especially right around my chest... it gets sore every time he moves on to the next milestone. I think I developed a small heart murmer yesterday, when he clapped and quite possibly said the dog's name. We're not sure. It may have just been a hiccup...

* Oh, yes...The dog... For all his inconsistent potty success and bad habits, and his refusal to venture outside on his own if the temperature drops below beach weather, Gizmo has wormed his way firmly into my heart. He is a stubborn, mischevious, manipulative little ball of hair and muscle and very sharp little teeth... and somehow, he has bamboozled me into adoring him. So much so that I just spent half an hour finding a pattern to sew him a little doggy coat to keep him warm when we go out to potty at sunrise. I might even make him a halloween costume.

I may need to mention this in therapy.

* Last but not least, I got my copy of Arianna Huffington's new book, "On Becoming Fearless... In Love, Work, and Life" and I will be reviewing it in the next week or so, once I have finished reading it and had time to absorb. So far, I am riveted - partly because it is well written, includes contributions from the likes of Nora Ephron and Diane Keaton, and it makes a lot of very intelligent references... and partly because the subject matter is so incredibly timely for my life right now. I don't always agree with the Huff, but I never fail to admire the woman for her solid brass cajones. If she has a spare pair I could borrow for a while, I think I could enjoy going after what I want from time to time - without letting the crippling doubts stop me before I've started. Note to Arianna: If you need a new part-time flunky who works remotely, grills you incessantly about good literature, and will never forget to tell you that you have spectacular hair? I am soooo your girl.

* Recent lapses notwithstanding, I am, most definitely, back. Rev up those feed readers, baby...