*Insert voice of an adult in a Peanuts cartoon here*

Okay, I need to address the elephant in the room - Why I'm not writing anymore.

What? You don't see an elephant? It's right there. It's soiling the rug as we speak. It's an abomination! You just see a lumpy, smelly couch in need of replacing? Elephant, old couch. Toe-may-toe, Toe-mah-toe.

Yeah, I'm busy. The kids are kicking my ass. They take up so many more hours than I was prepared to give up and most days I just don't have the time to give to my own creative outlets. Blah, blah, blah.

Honestly, I just don't have the words. I use so many words every day - words to admonish, to soothe, to share, to order, to read countless board books and sing even more songs - but mostly my words seem to bounce back at me, refusing to stick to the intended receiver. It's maddening. So when I sit down to write I find that I have no more left in me to give.

When I started this blog my tagline was something like, Why am I always repeating myself? Or, Doomed to repeat myself. I forget exactly but that's the basic gist. It was a joke and a play on the title of the blog but I could never see how true it would become. As a dog trainer I had taught many people one of the cardinal rules of having a well trained dog was to not repeat things over and over. Give a command, mean it, and follow up if the command is not followed. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Now as the mother of a four year old, an almost 17 month old, and wife of a man with a taxing job who travels frequently and always seems to be rushing out the door, I'm constantly repeating myself. Just further proof that I'm better with animals. My dogs listen to me but my family? Not so much.

These days I seem to be talking at my family more than I'm talking to them and some days - okay, most days - it gets to the point where I want to throw up my hands and say, What's the point? Usually followed by more than a few expletives but always to myself. Who's listening anyway?

I don't like this feeling of not being heard. As a stay at home mom I'm already in a position of not feeling like a respected member of society, no matter how many times Oprah tells the world how wonderful and necessary we are, so the compounded frustration of talking to people only to be ignored is not sitting well with me. Now I find myself reserving my words and saving them for when I really need them. I could have a great discussion with friends or chat up new people in the checkout line at the grocery store... Or I could save my strength for when I need to get two little people dressed and out the door, buckled in the car seats, sing Wheels on the Bus fifteen times and bark order to Don't Kick the Seat and Stop Annoying Your Sister and I Said No Snacks and NO WE'RE NOT THERE YET for the hundredth time. Lather, rinse, repeat x infinity.

And that's just when we're in the car.

I guess I should take my own advice from the dog world and tweak it just a bit for those of the two-legged variety. Maybe.

These days I feel my words bear no weight and honestly, seeing them here next to the blink, blink of the cursor is not really helping. Do they mean anything? Do they matter?

Come to find out, yes. I guess they do matter.

I took some time to go through my archives and I was surprised by what I found there. Moments I had forgotten, absolutely, and I was so grateful to my earlier self for having the foresight to write them down, but there also were actual pieces that I was proud of. There were posts that made me go, Damn, woman, you hit that one out of the park. Good for you! I was a little pissed off that I don't write like that anymore but still pleased that those words, at least for a period of time, came from me. Proof that I could string to sentences together! I'd like to say I was struck by inspiration and the words flowed like a mighty river from then on... But they didn't. More like a trickle from a leaky faucet, calcified and sort of stagnant, but I'll take what I can get at this point.

I may bitch and moan, it may be repetitive and dull, but they are my words and someday they'll all add up to something. To that point, someday my words will start sinking in with my kids too (Dear sweet Jesus, someday they will, right?) and my husband may look away from his work long enough to acknowledge my pleas for help (That's actually already working - Huzzah!). And my words here on this blog, no matter how trivial, will become precious to me when I look back on them.

And in the meantime, I'll start talking to the dogs more. They're great listeners.

Shit, I just realized this post sounds a lot like the whining from this post. Sorry, I suck. Um... Who wants to teach their dog to balance a treat on their nose?!

I know as their mom I should have warned them their faces would freeze this way

But as the woman who vomited for a combined 18 months while carrying them in my womb, I'll take the silly where I can get it.

This is what happens when I say, "Make a silly face!" Wow.

But if I do lose I'm totally going to rock it Olivia Newton John style.

Apparently, it takes another bet to force me out of hiding and writing on my blog again, but this is so worth it.

But let me back up a bit.

There comes a time in every person's life when they see the handwriting on the wall, where it is written in HUGE BLOCK SCREAMY LETTERS -

HEY, COTTAGE CHEESE ASS, PUT DOWN THE DOUGHNUT!

I've never been one to pay much mind to HUGE BLOCK SCREAMY LETTERS, especially when they're being insulting, so I kept eating the doughnuts. Lots of them. Because I love them dearly. Mostly the apple cider type because it is apple season around here and, oh my sweet jeebus! Have you ever tasted a fresh out of the fryer apple cider doughnut? Lightly sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar?? That's a little piece of heaven on earth right there, I'll tell ya. Uh huh. A little piece of doughy on the inside, crispy on the outside, fried in lard and covered in sugar heaven...

[Insert picture of me with a thought balloon over my head with a picture of a warm apple cider doughnut and a big goofy grin on my face here]

What I'm trying to say is, I may have partook of the baked goods a little too much lately. I've gained a bit of weight (a small child) and my jeans don't exactly fit anymore (sausage thighs) and after going through all that torture to find jeans that fit, well, that's just not acceptable. Also, I'm cheap and instead of buying new jeans that do fit I'm squeezing myself into jeans that don't fit and it's amazing I make it through the day without passing out at least twice from lack of oxygen.

I wish I could say this was a gradual process and it sort of snuck up on me but the truth of the matter is, most of my weight gain has happened since BlogHer in July. I had lost some weight before the conference (mainly to fit into those new jeans and as not to embarrass myself too much in front of size 0 boutique sales associates named Kimmy) but since I've been home it has been a nonstop baking and gorging extravaganza around here. And also more than a little late night Nutella eating. Straight out of the jar. Maybe a spoon was involved, but probably not. I have no shame.

And did I mention I broke my toe in June which made putting on a pair of sneakers really difficult? It's hard to exercise when you can't put on sneakers. May as well just sit on the couch with a full jar of hazelnut spread and practice my french kissing technique.

(No. Shame.)

I'm not the heaviest I've ever been but I'm close, and this is certainly the saggiest I've ever been. I waved at CC the other day while I was getting ready when I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. My hand stopped saying hello but my upper arm flab was still flailing enthusiastically. Guess how I dealt with my sorrow.

Now, you might be saying to yourself, But Tania, why don't you stop eating so many cupcakes, and cookies and doughnuts and for heaven's sake take your head out of the Nutella jar and start working out. And to you I say,

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

I love food and I love to bake, and as strongly as I feel for all things fatty and sugary I have equal hatred for working out. I hate the gym. I loathe everything about it. I lack the inclination and desire to go and honestly that steep monthly price tag for a gym membership is not enough to guilt me into dragging my saggy parts to a facility that smells like body odor to work out on weight machines that are really torture devices in disguise. Torture devices that may or may not have been wiped down after the guy with the back 'fro used it before me.

No, what I need is outside motivation - for instance, a) a team sport or b) a personal trainer who is waiting for me to show up, or c) someone to work out with each and every day who also has the same messed up schedule as I have. Since none of those are readily available since a) Team sports for women of a certain age (ahem) are hard to come by, b) did I mention I was cheap?, and c) okay, that's a possibility but that still requires actually going to a gym. And did I mention my broken toe that isn't broken anymore...? Do I need to continue? I've got a million excuses, none of them good. Bottom line, there is one thing that can properly motivate me to work out and that one thing is my desire to WIN.

And also to fit into these again.

My favorite jeans. I bought these for BlogHer '07. Then I got pregnant and haven't really worn them since. Sigh.

And maybe if I'm really good, maybe these.

Zexy. I'd like to order the ass too. Size small.

What's really not sitting well with me is the fact that I am of a certain age (ahem) and I can't shove cupcake after cookie down my gaping yap while washing it down with a big juicy steak and not expect that it's going to affect me adversely. I've been having some health concerns lately and it's high time I start taking care of myself better so that I can live long enough to be an annoying, pesky, meddling burden on my children.

Which brings me to the bet.

After chatting (okay, bitching) with Matthew from Childsplayx2 about how many pounds we've both gained since BlogHer (My misery! It loves company! Huzzah!) we realized the only thing that was going to motivate us to lose weight was our ultra competitive spirits and threats of public humiliation.

So we made a bet - Who can lose the bigger percentage of weight in six weeks.

Yes I realize I've already made a bet with him recently and I lost but this time the bet is more interesting and the stakes are higher. Much higher, and possibly wider, but without a doubt, more embarrassing.

The wager - The loser has to post a picture of himself (or herself, but let's face it it's going to be him) on their blog wearing spandex. And maybe a neon pink headband.

(Psst, anyone know where I can find a neon pink headband? You can send it directly to Matthew. Heh.)

The threat of not only stuffing my thighs into stretchy shorts but also posting photographic proof of it for the internet and friends and family to see is more than enough motivation to get my ass in gear and get healthy. Skinny jeans are a powerful motivator but fear is BETTER.

We started our bet yesterday, Thursday, October 8. I have until November 19th to lose a higher percentage of weight than Matthew. Since everyone knows men lose weight more easily than women, I'm going to need some help from the internets to keep me focused. I'll take suggestions for weight loss plans (I already know about the Shred. I lasted 3 days. That should tell you something.), diet tips, disgusting pictures to tape to my refrigerator... Anything.

Also, excuse my crankiness. I'm starving.

Wish me luck!

--------------

Starting weight as of October 8: 139.5 lbs

It would be cheaper to tape his mouth shut

How to guarantee you'll need a new car:

Sit down with your wife to discuss your finances. Talk about how certain things will be paid off by a certain date as long as your car keeps running well, therefore keeping you both out of a second unnecessary car payment. Specifically point out that there shouldn't be anything to worry about in that department unless "the transmission goes".

Watch your wife visibly cringe because she thinks you jinxed things.

Scoff at your wife's unreasonable jinxing fears.

Maybe make a crack about how she worries too much.

Come home from work one afternoon less than a week later and mention how your car won't go into reverse anymore.

Start making plans to purchase a new car.


How to keep the peace in your marriage:

Start listening to your wife more. Or invest in a lot duct tape.

[No Title]

I think I may have lost the ability to write.

No, really. It's lost. I swear I just had it but then I went to pour myself a glass of water and now I can't figure out where I put it... A month ago.

Who am I kidding*? Maybe it's been longer than that. A year? More? It's probably with that red sweater I've been looking for forever.

It could be that I'm lacking in inspiration. It's hard to get inspired when all I do is go from preschool drop-off to playgroups to gymnastics class to Mom and Tots music class and back home so my spawn can get rest. Me? I get laundry.

I'm not complaining necessarily - I signed up for all this stuff. Hell, I signed up for this parenting gig. No one forced me into it, no one tricked me, but I'd be lying if I said the redundancy, the mind-numbing monotony wasn't starting to get to me.

(And for the record, I wrote "MOM-otony" before spell check caught it. True story.)

(Uh Tania, there's someone on the phone for you. A Mr. Freud? Oh sorry, Doctor Freud. He'd like to talk to you about your lingerie? Sorry again, your slip.)

Okay maybe I'm complaining a little. I really don't want to be one of those "What About ME???" people but Christ on a cracker... What about ME?????

(It's safe, I'm done. You can come back now.)

The thing about this here blog o' mine is it's supposed to be a true and honest account of my life, both with and without children (and by that I mean, my life beyond children. I always have them because, well, they won't go away.), so if I were following with that theme I would be honest about the fact that life is kicking my heiny these days. So here goes - Life? Is kicking my ass with its size 12 boot. There's tread marks back there that no amount of miracle creams will remove. And by tread marks, I mean cellulite.

So that's why I'm not writing - I'm waiting for inspiration to come back. In the meantime, I will tackle Mount St. Laundry and play chauffeur and be the seemingly happy-go-lucky, iced coffee swilling, kids-overscheduling, yoga pant-wearing, Uber-mom. But without the closet meth habit. And I will write again when inspiration decides to come out of her hiding place among the lost socks and misplaced grocery store cards and single earrings and random My Pretty Ponies. Which at this rate should be right around 2011.



*Really, who am I kidding? It was gin. Water? Pssh.

What's next, life? Kicking kittens?

Hi, internet people. I've missed you.

I wrote a post - really, I did! And then Blogger ate it. Gluttonous bastard.

Two weeks with no posting - TWO WEEKS - and when I finally sit down to write something... Poof! It's gone. Off to the great internet junkyard in the sky. Or something like that. I can't even think of a decent metaphor, that's how ticked off I am.

It was brilliant! And pithy! With lovely descriptive images that would have made Hemingway weep! As far as you know, the damn thing is lost now so I can talk it up if I want to.

I give up. I think I'm going to go eat another leftover birthday cupcake and wallow. Peanut butter frosting is equally good for celebrating 37th birthdays and for wallowing.

Well Rope, it seems we've reached the end.

My daughter and I are at war. All out, nuclear missile, weapons of mass destruction, war. W-A-R, WAR. What is it good for? That's right, absolutely nuthin'.

My heart hurts, my head is pounding and my throat is sore from yelling. And I'm pretty sure my neighbors are wondering who that crazy bitch is who moved in last year, the one who screeches at her kid. I've reached the end of my rope on more than one occasion over the past year and nothing I do seems to make any bit of difference. Not that screaming helps. Nope. That's just to release the frustration so things don't actually get broken. It doesn't work either.

Maybe it's the age? Her personality? My personality? It doesn't start out bad - I'm positive. I'm zen-mother-goddess. I praise, I reward, I praise, I reward, it devolves, I warn, I punish, I punish, I punish, I lose control, I scream. I do everything the experts tell me to do until it becomes clear it's not working and then it turns into a horrible shouting match. Doors are slammed, things are thrown. Everything, and I do mean everything, is a fight.

Hey Chicky, it's daytime!

No! It's not and you can't tell me it is. Hmmph.

But, but, the sun is shining. It's day. Really! Look! It's daytime.

NO!!! *screaming, crying, tantrum, slamming door, The End*

She's four, for Christ's sake. What's going to happen to us in the coming years if we can't get this sorted out now?

We don't have good days and bad days anymore. We have a good ten or twenty minute span followed by a few hours of hell. Or maybe we go a whole hour or two without arguing and I get comfortable and cocky and then she sets me off with her repeated insolence and rude, defiant behavior.

I want to wrap this up nicely with a pretty pink bow but there is nothing pretty or nice about ending the day with the both of us in tears. There are no learning moments, no future seen in soft-focus, only pain and frustration and fear. I fear that I'm failing her and by virtue of that, her sister who witnesses it all. These are essential years and I can't seem to get it right. It doesn't really bode well for the rest of their childhoods, you know?

I'm so tired. I was hoping by writing this I'd get some of this pressure off my chest and I'd feel better. Turns out, no. There's a list of child development specialists on my fridge that I can call, that I should call, so why does it feel like admitting defeat? Like I can't properly parent my child.

I sound like a broken record at this point. Feel free to move on. No humor, no cute stories. Nothing to see here. Move along.

And please ignore the screaming.

Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, sometimes it rains

I am a baseball fan. More to the point, I am a Red Sox fan, but I'll root for any local team even a Little League team. And when one roots for the local team sometimes a wager or two needs to be made in their honor. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, blah blah blah.

Anyway, I lost a bet. To this guy. A Padres fan. You have no idea how much that pains me, but I always make good on my bets.

So I'm over at his blog today. I always pay my dues, but I don't give up that easily. Heh.

Bad Mommy Confessional - Part 275,398 in a continuing series

I've made some pretty magnificent fuck ups when it comes to my kids in my four years as a parent. I'm pretty stellar in the fuck up department anyway but when it comes to my kids I try to keep it to a minimum, which only makes each fuck up more of a train wreck.

Also, fuck up.

Take for instance that time two weeks ago when I got Chicky hyped up on the promise of Summer Camp. After being away from it for three weeks due to vacations and trivial things like dwindling bank accounts, she was desperate to go back to her preschool, where summer camp was being held.

For a week I counted down to that damn 3-day camp like it was the end of days, but way funner.

Then when the day finally came we had a spectacularly bad morning where no one (read: Everyone but me.) (Okay, everyone including me but I had to so the choice was taken out of my hands.) wanted to get ready to actually get out of the house and to the summer camp even though everyone (read: Chicky. And me. Please for someone to be taking my child.) so badly wanted to go but apparently not enough to actually get dressed or eat breakfast or willingly have their teeth brushed or anything.

Then the baby slept late. So I had to wake her up in order to get her fed, dressed and out the door.

Let me repeat that - I had to wake up the baby. On purpose.

And then, as we were just about to head out the door - Bowel movements for everyone!

Yes I just went there and I am unrepentant.

So we were late and I was snappy and Chicky was sulky and CC was stinky (Three of the lesser-known dwarfs that were cut when casting the original gang of seven. True story.) and none of this would have been bad or even out of the ordinary if I hadn't messed up my days and brought her to camp ON A WEEK SHE WASN'T SCHEDULED TO BE THERE.

Mother of the Year right here, baby. Now where the hell is my medal?

In front of her friends, their parents, and her teachers - and let's face it, God was probably there to witness it too, judging me. The preschool is in the bottom of a church, of course it is - I had to convince my child, who by now had backed herself in a corner like a frightened doe facing a shotgun, that she had to willingly leave her most favorite place on earth EVER, the place where she gets to run in the sprinklers and do crafts and have snack, to come home with me and her sister to do unfun stuff. Like play in the sprinklers and do crafts and have snack.

Uh uh, she was not going. She wasn't going and nothing anyone could do could convince her otherwise. She's stubborn, that one. Not sure where she gets that from.

So I cajoled - Come on, honey. Please come with Mama? We'll do lots of super fun stuff! We'll watch movies! We'll bake cookies! Anything! Just ask! A pound of flesh? You've got it! Take two, there's plenty where that came from.

And her teacher stood there, giving me that look. You know, that look? That, Aw, this kind of sucks for you, huh? But don't worry, we've all been through it and that alone should make you feel way better about screwing up your child's whole life forever and ever, look?

Okay I may have imagined that last bit. I doubt it, but maybe.

Please baby, Mama loves you. I'll buy you a donut! I'll buy you a toy! I'll buy you a damn pony, just please come with me so I can drown my shame in a chocolate frosted and large iced coffee.

The donut must have been the key because she came with me. And we drove to the nearest Dunkin Donuts while I heard all about how much she wanted to be at summer camp with her friends. How much she really wanted to go to school again. How much she really hated my guts.

Again, maybe I imagined that last part. Maybe?

And as we drove away from the donut shop I handed her the bag that held her precious sugar fix... and she immediately informed me that I had bought the wrong donut. Gee, what are the odds?

That kind of set the tone for the rest of the week. On a scale of one to ten, ten being accidentally mistaking my children for speed bumps and one being not washing a favorite blanket in time for bedtime, this fuck up fell probably around a four. Maybe a five. In the grand scheme it wasn't that bad and I'm sure I'll probably do much worse before my children finally flee the nest. As a matter of fact, I'm positive I will.

This? Was not so bad.

I try to remember the good moments when I'm going through a rough time. Like when I'm missing my mom I try to recall a happy memory and hold on to it because I don't have the real thing. When it comes to my kids, for the sake of this blog anyway, I try to put the good before the bad. This is a sort of diary for them as well as for me and I want them to know that no matter what, I love them fiercely. That's not to say I don't include the ugly bits here. I see no reason to shield anyone from the nasty parts of motherhood and I have always been forthright about this family's low patches.

That being said, things are not easy around here right now. Today was a particularly bad day, and it's not even 3pm. I'm too tired to write about it so I took a reasonably banal moment and documented it with a touch of tongue-in-cheek humor thrown in to make me, if not anyone else, laugh. It's not anything specific, maybe just a case of growing pains, but when people thank me for reminding them that this parenting gig is not so bad most of the time when I'm the one in need of reminding... I don't know. I guess I feel like a bit of a hypocrite.

So quick, quid pro quo - tell me how great this parenting gig really is.

It won't always be this way

We pack the bags, the beach toys, the towels, the snacks, the drinks, the shade tent, and the kids and we head to the beach where we unpack the bags, the beach toys, the towels, the snacks, the drinks, the shade tent, and let the kids have their way with rocks and bits of dead crab parts found while the baby tries to shove great handfuls of sand in her mouth and Chicky complains there's sand in her Goldfish crackers. Soon we're covered in sweat and sand and the rocks have taken their toll on our tender toes and we're tired and wiped out and the kids are cranky and we're cranky and we still have to repack the bags, the beach toys, the towels, the leftover sandy snacks, the bottles with the dregs of warm drinks, the shade tent and the kids and we tell ourselves -

It won't always be this way.

At the ice cream shop, one girl is jumping out of her skin in anticipation, bumping into unsuspecting customers in her excitement, while the other toddles toward the busy parking lot. Ordering takes much longer than it should because we're scolding and admonishing and chasing, we look apologetically toward the college-aged girl behind the counter. Soon both girls are sticky from head to toe with a combination of pink and green ice cream and as a result we're both covered with ice cream too. Over their heads I say to him -

It won't always be this way.

At dinner, CC is not content to sit at the table, she needs to get down and make her own discoveries on the well trodden floor. Chicky whines for her supper. Why is it taking so long? she asks mournfully. The food finally comes and they pick at it like they weren't just starving a moment ago while we devour our food in shifts, first him then me. We leave a pile of discarded napkins and french fries on the floor behind us. As we're buckling both overtired girls in the car he says to me -

It won't always be this way.

It's been a long day and we get the girls undressed and ready for bed. We inhale the scent of their suntanned bodies, the salt in their hair. As we put her in bed, we ask Chicky what her favorite part of the day was. Everything, she answers emphatically, a contented smile on her face. Bedtime stories read, she holds tightly to our necks - I love you Mommy, I love you Daddy. So much.

In the quiet of her room I rock with CC in my arms. I pepper her silky hair and her rosy cheeks with kisses. She sighs contentedly and tucks her arms and legs underneath her while snoozing on my chest. I rub her back before finally, begrudgingly, placing her into her crib. She grabs her lovie and closes her eyes and for a moment I linger, watching the rise and fall of her chest before leaving the stillness of her room. I fall, exhausted, onto the couch next to him and lay my head on his shoulder. I'm quiet while I think about our day, the highs and lows, the difficulties and the triumphs. But most of all, I think about the last few minutes. I think about the love and the need, both theirs and mine. And I say to him with a heavy heart -

It won't always be this way.

Grandma's little helper

While preparing to grind my coffee at Trader Joe's this afternoon a nice older woman approached the adjacent bread section.

"I'm sorry," I said, smiling, moving my cart out of the way. "Let me move this so you can get to those muffins."

"Don't worry about me, honey, nothing's going to stop me from getting to my sweets," she replied with the biggest smile. "What you're doing there is important work. And, ooh! I love that coffee! Good choice."

"Yes, I love this coffee too. I'm kind of addicted to it."

She laughed heartily. "Addicted, yes, I can be that way too. Although, these days I drink more tea. Do you enjoy tea, dear?"

"I do but I have two little ones, so I need my caffeine," I explained with another smile. "These days I seem to drink a ton of it."

"I've been known to overdo it a time or two myself," she confided, chuckling.

She was so likable, so easy to talk to! Such a sweet, grandmotherly type. Wow, I thought, apparently I need to come to Trader Joe's more often. It's the happiest place on earth!

The grinder hummed along.

"How old are your children?"

"Four and fourteen months."

"Ooh, you've got your hands full." Her face was full of understanding. She had been there. Long ago, but she knew where I was coming from. She seemed to be remembering her time as a mother, as she stared off into space for a moment. Okay, a long moment.

"I hope you take care of yourself in other ways," she nicely admonished, snapping back to today. "To keep yourself going? Supplements and, you know, things like that?" She had a curious look on her face.

"I do," I assured her. "I try to take care of myself. Can't keep up with two active kids with just coffee in my system, know what I mean?

"So, where do you get your, um, product?"

"Excuse me?" The grinder was still humming along, and it was fairly loud. Maybe I didn't hear her correctly?"

"You know, your product."

She can't be asking me what I think she's asking me. Can she?

"Uh, that little health food store near the independent book seller?"

"Oh yes, I know the place. There, huh?"

Oh God, what the hell is she getting at? "Yes, they're very nice there. Very helpful. You know, with supplements?" If she is asking me what I think she's asking me, maybe she'll get the hint now. Yeah.

"I'll have to try there, then. Yes, I'll go there now. Right... now. Yes." She turned her head slowly toward the exit.

The coffee machine had run its course and I was standing there, slightly gap jawed.

"Ooo-kay then. Well, nice talking with you."

"Yes," she said, slightly absentmindedly. "Very nice."

And with that she wandered away.

I'm not sure but I think I just send a nice, little old lady to my favorite health food store to ask for drugs. But worse, I'm just sorry I'm not a fly on the wall to see that conversation go down.

But I'm keeping my black shit

Friday afternoon, in the car:

Me: So, you heard John Hughes died, right?

Him: Who?

Me: [head threatening to explode] John Hughes? The man responsible for The Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Planes, Trains and Automobiles and many, MANY other excellent movies? The man who created Duckie and Bender? And "Blane? His name is Blane? That's a major appliance, that's not a name."? The man responsible for the shaping of our formative years?? THAT John Hughes???

Him: Oh yeah, that guy. Yeah, I think I heard something about that. Too bad, huh?

Me: [Boom]

Me: Yes it is too bad that he died - but kind of ironic in a way. I was just writing a post drawing a connection between a character in The Breakfast Club and personal blogging, more specifically my personal blogging...

Him: Come again?

Me: I know, weird, right? But let me explain. You know Allison, how she's always carrying around that big bag...

Him: Allison?

Me: [Boom again] Ally Sheedy?

Him: Right. Go on.

Me: ... She's got that bag and she keeps it really close to her at all times until that scene with Andrew and Brian - sorry, Emilio Estevez and Anthony Michael Hall - where they compare what's in their wallets with each other...

Him: And Anthony Michael Hall's got the bad fake I.D.?

Me: Right! Very good. You were beginning to make me question this whole relationship of ours.

Him:

Me: So, Allison steals Brian's wallet and then gives it back and then the guys start comparing the stuff in their wallets and it's kind of personal and kind of silly but most important - they're connecting on a more intimate level...

Him: High school boys do not connect on an intimate level.

Me: [stink eye] It's a John Hughes movie. The boys are very in touch with their feelings. Kind of. Maybe?

Him: Continue.

Me: Okay, so. Wallets, fake I.D., nudie picture... The whole time Allison is there clutching that bag to her chest like her life depends on it and you can see in her eyes that she wants to share so badly she can hardly stand it but she's been so quiet up until now that she's torn -- Don't give me that look. I've seen the movie so many times, I know that she's torn -- so she asks them, Do you want to see what's in my bag? To which they say, No. Like, emphatically. No. She's weird and there's that whole high school social pecking order thing...

Him: You need to get out more.

Me: [ignoring] Finally she can't take it anymore and she, like, dumps her massive bag out in front of them -- and there is, like, a ton of shit in there. Like, it takes forever to dump everything out of that damn bag of hers - and she has to defend why she carries all that stuff with her at all times while the two guys pick through it with this mixture of disgust and curiosity. And in the end you can tell she's totally relieved that she did it. Like a weight has been lifted off her shoulder. But at the same time she's horrified of what she just did... A woman's bag is a very important, very sacred thing, you know.

Him: Yes, I know.

Me: And in the end it's all worth it. She gets the guy and they kiss and she takes a memento...

Him: That scene always pissed me off. Right, in a fit of superhuman strength she rips the patch off the arm of his jacket? How did she do that? My patches were all sewn on by my mom and there was no way some girl was going to rip those things off with her bare hands.

Me: I think it was ironed on. You're mom really sewed on all your patches? Wow.

Him: Yeah, and you're, like, talking like a teenager, like.

Me:

Him: So how is this like your blog exactly?

Me: Dude! The bag is a metaphor for all my feelings and stories! People everywhere are comfortable sharing bits of themselves online. Don't you see? They're opening up their wallets! They're dumping out their bags! And even though I've been blogging for almost FOUR YEARS I still play things pretty close to the vest, you know? I keep the contents of my bag pretty secret. I stick to the fringe. Lay low. Keep my hair in my eyes.

Him: Are we still speaking in metaphors?

Me: Sort of. I can't wait until these damn bangs grow out. Anyway, now that I've been to a few of these blogging conferences, I've seen people who have shared intimate details of themselves building relationships with others who also aren't afraid to show their emergency underwear, so to speak.

Him: Did you ever think maybe not over sharing is a good thing?

Me: Maybe. I guess I wouldn't like strangers poking through my metaphorical tampons.

Him: Exactly.

Me: And then Andrew tells her she has problems.

Him: Yep.

Me: And then there's the thing of her being a pathological liar.

Him: Uh huh.

Me: And I never did understand why she had to get all pretty for the guy to like her.

Him: Mmm hmm.

Me: Why did she have to get a Molly Ringwald makeover? She was the same girl underneath all that black shit. Molly Ringwald should have let her keep the black shit! She liked the black shit! Although, I do believe the headband was an inspired choice.

Him: We're not talking about your blog anymore, are we?

Me: No, I guess not.

Him: Can we drop this subject then?

Me: Yeah, sure. I guess. But I'm totally, like, blogging about it.

Him: I wouldn't expect anything else. Will you warn me if and when you decide to dump out "your bag"?

Me: Like, totally. And for the record, your mom spent way too much time on your high school jacket. It's kind of troubling, actually. If at anytime you'd like to talk about it...

Him: Drop it.

Me: Okay, Sporto.

BlogHer '10 or 20th high school class reunion? Decisions, decisions.

When BlogHer announced the date and location of next year's conference two things went through my head:

1. Yay! It's closer to home next year. A bunch of us New England bloggers can take the train together and bond over mimosas in the club car and get to know each other better by chatting in our large, comfortable, non-airplane seats. Probably via Twitter but you know, still chatting.

and

2. Hmm, that date sounds awfully familiar, like I've already planned something for that weekend. But that's silly, I never plan anything that far in advance. It's an entire year away, I don't even know what I'm doing next week. Pshaw. I'm sure it's nothing.

And I swatted that notion away like a pesky fly. Until last night when I was checking my Facebook page.

I don't know what made me check Facebook. I hardly ever check Facebook anymore. I mean occasionally when Twitter is down I'll run to Facebook like a fickle lover. I'll whisper a few sweet nothings and send them out into the ether, just to get my fix. But for the most part, the people I have friended on Facebook are either the people I already chat with in on Twitter, friends I see every week anyway, or high school friends I haven't spoken with in almost 20 years so...

Almost 20 years. Wow. That's a long time.

Twenty years. Twenty years?

Shit, my 20th class reunion is next year. I'm not looking forward to attending that reunion.

My reunion. My reunion? My reunion!

My 20th high school reunion is the same weekend as BlogHer '10.

Okay, that's funny.

It's like the universe is absolving me from having to go to my reunion and mingle with people I didn't really much for when I was a naive 17 year old and will probably really dislike when I'm a much more worldly 37 year old.

Hey, I've had my passport stamped at least twice. Maybe more. That totally counts as being "worldly".

But still, I weighed my options. My 20th reunion should be something I want to go to, right? I have this girlfriend who didn't go to hers, and every once in a while, she gets this really terrible feeling--you know, like something is missing. She checks her purse, and then she checks her keys. She counts her kids, she goes crazy, and then she realizes that nothing is missing. She decided it was side effects from skipping the reunion. No wait, that was prom. And if you get that reference we can friends.

On the one hand, I told myself, I could go for four days to New York City and hang out with people I genuinely want to spend time with. Okay, they're people I met in the computer but as far as I know they're not going to slip me a horse tranquilizer and harvest my vital organs. Although, I do have my doubts about a few...

But on the other hand, maybe I should put aside petty differences and hurt feelings and resentments and all that and bury the hatchet - so to speak because, you know, not literally bury the hatchet, even though I may want to take something sharp to a certain girl who used to be my friend before she stole my boyfriend, bitch - and maybe reconnect with the few people I actually liked in high school.

I gave it a lot of thought (five minutes) and actually came up with a pros and cons list. Ready?

"Should Tania go to the BlogHer '10 conference in NEW YORK FREAKING CITY or go to her 20th high school class reunion and stand in the corner and muse over what happened to that hot boy she had a crush on when she was 16 years old and he never gave her the time of day's hair and probably leave after an hour?"

Going to Blogher -

The Pros:

- It's in New York City and despite being just a few hours away I've never been. And yes, I've just admitted that I'm really that lame on the internet.

- Overwhelming, but in a good way.

- Late night parties, good conversation, and you never know where you're going to end up at 3am.

- SWAAAAAG: The steel cage match. Two people go in, one person comes out with a trial-sized bottle of laundry detergent.

- I like to squee.

- Where else can you gush over someone's business card and mean it?

- Seeing friends I only see once, maybe twice a year. Even the ones who live twenty miles away from me.

- *add something here about cultivating my craft and building business relationships and blah blah blahdee blah*

The Cons:

- The price. Wowza. I think I need my own street corner to pay for next year.

- Overwhelming, but I'm working on my social anxiety. One drink at a time.

- Exhaustion. Come to find out, I'm not twenty anymore. Who knew?

- Four days of squeeing when I'm generally done after two.

Going to my 20th reunion -

The Pros:

-

-

.....

-

- Um.

-

- I'm sure the food won't be too bad?

The Cons:

- Really? Do I need to write it all down? I have kids to take care of before they go off to college.

So after much soul searching and wringing of hands and rendering of garments, I've decided to go to BlogHer.

Who wants to hit the nightclubs at 3am? Because if I'm going, I'm pretending I'm seventeen years old again... And paying for the after affects for the next year. I'll need the company.

Baby steps

We're at the playground on one of the first nice days we've had in what seems like forever, shaking off the fever, both cabin and viral, and slathering sunscreen. The bigger kids are playing make believe by the swings and climbing like monkeys on the aptly named bars. They're sliding down slides warmed by the sun and running through the slightly damp sandbox as fast as their coltish legs will carry them, golden locks trailing behind. CC looks on with longing, not quite satisfied with the mulch she's playing with, too small to run after her big sister. Too small to do pretty much anything within the confines of the fenced area. She doesn't like the feel of the sand on her bare legs today or the taste of it after she absentmindedly chews on a green plastic shovel, so she's crawled over to a shady spot under a tree where we sit and watch the glory unfold together. A small sigh escapes from her pink bow lips.

----------------

The distance between the table leg and the drawer her sister is digging through is only about four feet but may as well be a mile. She holds on to the leg with one hand, the other willing the plastic containers and odd lid into her chubby fist, each colorful bowl like the Holy Grail. She lets go and takes one step, then two, then down on her diapered rump she falls. Instead of crawling to the drawer she crawls back to the table leg and tries again. This time she only makes one step before plopping down on the floor. Then again. And again. The most she manages is four steps before she gives up. Her sister, in a rare moment of kindness, brings her a purple rubber lid and a wooden spoon.

---------------

She's getting the hang of this walking thing - Step, step, step, thump. Step, step, step, thump. She doesn't give up, she doesn't stay down - Step, step, step, thump. Step, step, step, thump.

I cheer quietly from behind her.

---------------

From twenty feet away they spot me in the crowded airport and she tries in vain to wiggle free from her father's arms. He puts her down on the industrial carpet and through a sea of people busy rushing here and there she walks toward me, small arms waving wildly over her head like an orangutan, a big smile on her face because she knows she's accomplishing something amazing. It's hard not to notice the amused looks on the people's faces around us, the appreciative stares from older parents and the childless alike, but my eyes are on her while my heart threatens to burst with pride. I throw my arms wide to catch her as she propels toward me. I can barely keep the happy tears from pouring from my eyes. She is a wonder; a perfect, tiny human being with the zeal and moxie of someone ten times her size. She is ready to take on the world. She couldn't be more pleased with herself. I couldn't love her more if I tried.

I'm too sleep deprived to come up with an interesting title. So: Post-BlogHer '09 recap post. Yawn.

Raise your hand if you've never said or done something you really wished you could take back.

The three of you who raised your hand, the ones who are either sainted, mute, or have lived alone in a cave all your life, you can put them down. Your prize is waiting for you over there - a lifetime supply of Turtle Wax and a map of the road to Righteousness. Sorry it's 2009, the GPS to the road to Righteousness.

As for the rest of us, we're human. We say dumb things. We DO dumb things. We have a finite amount of time on this earth to try and get things right but in the meantime we're stumbling around in the darkness, feeling our way along the path to being perfect, until St. Peter comes calling and we have to defend our lives in front of God and a choir of sparklingly clean angels with golden ringlets, floating on downy clouds. Or some shit like that. Feel free to insert your own dogma here.

This does not excuse us, however. It doesn't give us a free pass. When one has foot in mouth disease (as I do, and I was called on it this weekend and didn't do nearly enough bowing and scrapping) you learn to live with the nasty aftertaste. When we do something we dearly regret later, as we all have, we need to live with that memory forever.

Where it gets sticky is in the year 2009 we have this thing called The Internet. And The Internet never forgets.

As internet users and internet writers, we have the responsibility to use our words correctly, and in the presence of others we need to check ourselves because chances are there are people watching who aren't afraid to use their words. Words are mighty. Words are powerful. Things written or said - I'm not talking about specifics here - in jest or seriously can be judged and analyzed, blown out of proportion or taken in correct context. And those words that are said out loud or written will come back and hit you where [choose your deity] split you.

So whether your words are being directed toward a corporation or an individual person, keep in mind that you're not living in a bubble.

I don't judge. Like I said, I have occasional diarrhea-of-the-mouth attacks as well as someone-stop-me-from-being-a-dumbass syndrome. You did what you did because for the .02 seconds it took you to decide it seemed like a really good idea. We've all been there. You'll know better next time.

I guess what I'm trying to say, again without getting into specifics because chances are you know the specifics, is that from now on maybe we can start to remember that what we say, write or do is being watched by the world. And the world? It has access to The Internet and it's not afraid to use it.

------------

This was not the post-BlogHer recap that I set out to write.

What I set out to write was all about the positive aspects of this conference from my perspective because for me there were more positive than negative. But after three different revisions and too many rewrites to count, this is what you got. So if you came here for links to the more unpleasant happenings, sorry. You're not getting them here.

But I'll be happy to tell you about what was good about BlogHer '09, as seen by little ol' moi:

I decided to stay away from the panels this year, not because I wasn't interested in what was being said there - to the contrary, I was very interested and wish there was more time - but because I was set on attending the Room of Their Own breakout sessions. And for the most part I was very happy with my choice. Most were very informative and the ones that weren't, well, at least they were entertaining.

The best party had nothing to do with swag, it had to do with friends getting together and dancing like damned fools. To the ladies at MamaPop: Best. Party. EVER. To quote your honorary gay boyfriend, it was legen - wait for it - dary.

My bags made it to Chicago and back and didn't get lost once. Wheeee!

I had a gracious roommate who tolerated my late night tiptoeing (so as not to wake her delectable baby) and genuinely enjoyed her company, if for no other reason than because she's damn funny and she made me laugh and I'd like to think I did the same for her.

I had great non-conference-sponsored meal conversations with wonderful women that both set the tone for my positive weekend experience and nicely wrapped it up (and please let me know if I didn't link to you because I really want to! I just can't deal with sorting through these business cards yet.), and shared cheesy bacon fries and mutual admiration with someone I expected to like, just not as much as I did. I'm now planning on abducting her and moving her into my home.

I approached a writer, who has long been a favorite of mine, after his moving keynote reading and at the risk of being a fan girl told him how much his writing touched me. I may have freaked him out but he didn't run away immediately, so there's that.

I spent quality time with someone who is becoming a cherished friend and met another who, though tiny enough to fit in my pocket, is a powerful force to be reckoned with and as genuine a person as you'll ever meet. Just don't try to get past her at a party.

I met my twin (okay, not in an outwardly physical way but trust me, twins.) and though we didn't spend enough time talking, we finally were able to speak face to face. And discussed the skunking of her dog. If I could I would take the train to her, rescue her from the stench and bring her to live at my house. I'm thinking of starting a commune.

I introduced myself to others I knew only by blog or Twitter name or avatar; in elevators, in bathrooms, in the hallways, just because. Shook hands and shared hugs, just because. Danced wildly, even though it's not my nature, and laughed hysterically, which is in my nature, just because. Was even coerced into going out to a nightclub at 2am (fer chrissake) against my better judgement and I'm glad I did, just because. But most important I made personal connections, just because I wanted to.

I talked with old friends and made new ones. Yes, the people in the computer are my friends. The gin was only a partial help because a majority of this was done during daylight hours.

All in all, swag or no swag, an experience I'm happy to remember over and over.

And now I need a nap.

The search for the perfect pair of jeans. Alternate title: The grass is always greener on someone else's thighs.

I am at war with my body.

After two kids and almost 37 years on the earth, not to mention the winter and long, cold, wet spring we just went through (or as I like to call it, Nutella-Palooza, '08 - '09), things don't look quite the same as they did back in the day. "The Day" being when I was a size 0 and my legs looked like tree branches. Skinny, knobby tree branches. Skinny, knobby tree branches that then were the source of much teasing but are now in style. Fucking tree branches.

I'm having difficulty reconciling the fact that my body is different than it used to be. I was always very skinny, naturally so, and I never had to work out (though I did, it's much more enjoyable when you don't have to) and eating a Quarter Pounder with Cheese with a side of large fries and washing it down with a 10 piece Chicken McNugget was something I never gave much thought to.

(Nary an extra pound nor bout of heartburn to contend with. Ah, memories.)

Do you hate me for writing that*? It's okay, I kind of hate me right about now. More to the point, I kind of hate the 22 year old me (and 19 year old me, and 15 year old me and...) for not liking the way she looked back then. I'd like to go back in time and shake her by her slender neck (the one that didn't have the beginnings of a waddle hanging over it) and tell her to lose the negative body image thing (Because, really? You're 110 pounds and 5'8. Suck it up, Buttercup) and enjoy going into any store she wanted to and buying whatever type of clothing caught her fancy without ever needing to try it on. I'd kind of like to tell the 30 year old me the same thing. I'd also tell her to wear more sunscreen.

My body, though still on the slender side, has changed. Things that were once flat are now bumpy and things that were once firm are now jiggly. Which is fine if you're a jello salad but not so much if you're a woman with body issues.

Pants don't fit the same and Spanx is not something kinky one does in the bedroom. And I certainly don't have the luxury of going into clothing stores and buying things without a trip to the dreaded changing room, with their flourescent lights (very flattering to dimpled thigh fat, by the way. If I wanted a diorama of the Grand Canyon I'd make one out of a shoe box and some modeling clay, thank you very much.) and institutional paint job designed to make sure you don't get all cocky in those new clothes.

But believe it or not, this post is not about negative body image.

(Really Tania? After all that this isn't just you bitching about your body? No really, you should thank me. What I've got on that subject could fill the entire internet and if I did that there would be no more room for videos of cats falling off of pianos, so I'll save it for now. You're welcome)

No this post is about denim. Or more to the point, the search for the perfect pair of jeans.

Like ROUS's, I don't think they exist. (Gosh, that joke never gets old, does it?) At least not for less than the price of a used mid-sized sedan. But still I search. I try on. I squeeze and tuck - you know, got to put the muffin top somewhere - and grunt and groan. And then I get frustrated and pig out on french fries.

All I want is a decent pair of jeans that don't make me look like I'm smuggling watermelons in my thighs. Except for cupcake top around my middle (I know it's a muffin top but cupcakes are sweeter. And they have frosting. And I love them with all my heart. And that may be why I have a muffin top.) I'm still on the smaller (read: medium) side and my hips aren't too bad, it's my upper thighs that always get me. I keep hearing Stacy and Clinton say, Look for a pair of pants that hits you at your widest point and then goes straight down from there. Yeah, THEY DON'T MAKE THOSE.

Two words - Skinny. Jeans.

Two more words - Fuck. Off.

Still, they have to be out there somewhere. I shop, I buy, I come to my senses, and I return. Lather, Rinse, Repeat. That's how I roll.

But let's take this step by step, shall we?

So here is how I shop for the perfect pair of jeans, in 18 easy steps

(Okay I know - 18?? It was 29 but I edited. You're welcome.)

Ahem.

Step 1: Go through your entire wardrobe and try on every pair of jeans you own. Chuck out the old, the tired, the out of style, the "What in the Sam Hell was I thinking?" and the "Not in a million years and an eating disorder will you ever fit in these again". Realize you're down to one pair of jeans that fits and you're only keeping those because picking up your child from preschool whilst nearly naked from the waist down is probably not going to win you any friends.

Step 2: Cry over the death of your youth and then give your children the stink eye for ruining your figure. Then hug your children because you feel badly for thinking that way (Oh, you're totally still thinking it, but with love.)

Step 3: Decide to shop for jeans online because poking at your thighs and squeezing your belly flap is more socially acceptable while standing in your own bedroom. While popping Hershey's Kisses.

Step 4: Ask lovely people on Twitter where they shop. Love the people on Twitter. On Twitter no one knows your thighs aren't as thin as they once were. Unless you tell them. Which you will because it's TWITTER.

Step 5: Take suggestions and then search every website known to man. Make disparaging remarks about the anorexic models and their nonexistent hips. Words "bitch" and "bite me" may be used. Liberally.

Step 6: Put a a bunch of jeans that don't scare you in your virtual shopping cart. You can always return the ones you don't like, right? Gasp audibly upon seeing the total while checking out. Decide you could stage a coup in a small third world country for that amount of money and delete a couple (read: all but two) from your cart.

Step 7: Wait for cute UPS guy to deliver a package. Chuckle over the word "package" in relation to cute UPS guy because you're a 12 year old boy. A twelve year old boy with 36 year old hips.

Step 8: When UPS guy shows up 5 days later with your package (heh) answer the door side ways to give the illusion of smaller midsection and smile winningly. Try to ignore his bemused expression and his quick exit. Take box, slam door (but first, watch UPS guy's butt as he makes quick getaway), and then run to bedroom with box in breathless anticipation for Best. Jeans. EVER.

Step 9: Break a nail opening box. Swear. Lie about what those words mean to impressionable four year old who was helping you open the box.

Step 10: Take jeans out of box. Look at them quizzically. Hmm, they looked different online (after two glasses of wine).

Step 11: Try on jeans. Try to find place to put the jelly roll that is your tummy. Above the waistline? Below the waistline? Decide to try to tuck it in like blousy shirt.

Step 12: Detach flesh roll from zipper. Apply Neosporin.

Step 13: Look in full length mirror. Hmm, kind of tight in the thighs. Typical. Maybe heels are needed. Yes, heels are much better! Makes legs look slim! Grunt while running to closet to find pair of heels that don't hurt your broken toe. Give up and decide pain is worth it. Limp back to mirror. Ah, much better. Excruciatingly painful, but better.

Step 14: Decide to take pictures to send to husband who is in California (or Michigan, you forget at this point) to get his opinion.

Step 15: Look at picture in camera screen. Consider Photoshopping your legs before sending picture. Also wonder if your camera is broken. Or maybe your mirror.

Step 16: Cry while on the phone with your husband. I'm sure they look great, he says. Refuse to send him picture. What does he know? He's in Michigan. Or Florida. You forget.

Step 17: Package jeans to return. Suck up shipping fees both ways. Realize that was your iced coffee money for two weeks.

Step 18: Get frustrated. Feel hopeless. Decide after much denial you have no choice but to go to the Mall.

Oh yes, the Mall.

Sometimes, a woman has to do what a woman has to do.

And that is enough for now, lambs.

Tune in next time for THIGHS. IN. SPACE. Er, MALL.

(Okay not really, just part two of The Search for the Perfect Pair of Jeans. Or, If a 100 pound sales girl is murdered in the dressing room of an upscale department store and she totally had it coming but no one is around to witness it, will anyone mourn the loss?)

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*And careful about what you say about size in relation to image problems. Many, many years of teasing has made me what I am today. You picking on me for hating the way I look sometimes will only get you a beat down of epic proportions. Also, I'm fragile.

Not dead yet...

... Just busy. Very busy. And lacking inspiration to write anything in this blog. Which is great right before a blogging conference.

But the sun came out finally. So there's that.

So we've been taking advantage of the nice weather. For instance, we've been spending many, MANY hours in the car so we can drive all over the state to visit relatives. Yep, that's some prime quality outdoor time right there.

There has been some actual outdoor-not-in-a-metal-box-on-wheels time, though. Working on our tans. Playing in sandboxes. Oh and bike riding. Lots of bike riding.


I'm sure inspiration will hit soon. Until then, I'll be the one pushing my almost walking 13 month old around on a tiny scooter and then applying Icy/Hot to my poor, tired muscles in the evening. Well worth the pain, if you ask me.

And no, Christopher Cross is not invited

It's the Thursday before a holiday weekend - except for you Canadians, happy belated Canada Day! - and we here in the North East are experiencing a pattern of weather that I like to affectionately call A Hundred Pounds of Shit in a Five Pound Bag.

Too harsh? You should have seen what I deleted.

No one has any desire to do anything but stare slack-jawed out the window at the rain and thunder and wish for Mother Nature to throw us a freaking bone already and give us just a little peak of sun. Except for you in those states that actually have sun, but I don't feel like thinking about you right now. I may say something... unpleasant.

Anyway. In honor of the rain (seriously, I think I just saw a chipmunk on a tree bark boat go floating down my driveway) it's audience participation day! Oh goody!

I'd like to know what you would take with you on an ark.

Think of it as Ark-fest 2009. Or "Ark 2.0 - The New Millenium : Moses Noah* Returns. And this time he's pissed". Or something like that.

I'll start.

I would of course take my computer. I'd Twitter the whole thing -

Day 2, This isn't too bad. We're all getting along. Even the donkey's are cooperating. Hope we don't run out of carrots.

Day 11 - Okay, what the hell is that stench? I'm looking at you, elephants.

Day 19 - Planning on inviting the pigs to the lido deck for "dinner". Craving bacon.

Day 36 - Hey! Is that land? Nope, whale. FAIL. (Get it? Fail Whale? HA!)

The second thing I would bring is toilet paper. This isn't the BC's, people. We can put a man on the moon, we can certainly install terlets for the humans.

And the third thing I would bring is John Krasinski. He would be my "Plus 1". We could repopulate the earth with adorablely lanky babies who would have their father's quirky dry wit and my love of shoes. You can thank me later, world.

So, what would you bring on the ark when the flood waters finally overtake us? And they will. Oh yes, they will.

BWAHAHAHAHAHA...*cough**choke**gag**cough* Ahem... BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

(And yes, I know I'm supposed to bring my husband and kids. But I've been stuck in the house with these people for days on end. After this last month? They're fending for themselves.)

----------------

*Yeah, yeah... I said Moses, not Noah. Honest mistake. I mean, I know Moses and Noah didn't have anything to do with each other, but wouldn't that have worked out excellent for each? Hey, Moses. God's sending this great flood somethingorother to teach us all a lesson. How's that parting of the seas thing you've been working on? *looking over his shoulder* Wanna give it a go, uh, now? Moses? Where you going?

Seven years of Catholic school right here, baby.

Don't "Hon" me, Hon.

If you're significantly younger than me you have no business calling me "Hon".

Yeah sure, you're saying it over an intercom in the drive-thru of a Dunkin' Donuts and I am quite youthful (sounding. Some might describe me as "Juvenile", but not to my face), but after I've visited your establishment for my morning joe for the gazillionth time and we've exchanged pleasantries face to face, you can probably deduce by now that I was in high school when your mom and dad were doing the forbidden dance between the sheets (or in the back of a Ford Escort. Hey I don't judge).

Come talk to me when the hair on your head is a little more gray and the hair on your chin is a little more black. Bonus points if your girlie bits are stretched from the beauty and wonder of childbirth. Then I might even let you call me "Darling".

It's a really good thing my oven is electric...

... Because my head would be stuck in it right now.

It's been raining for weeks. WEEKS. The kids are going crazy, I'm going crazy. Everything is wet and don't even get me started on my frizzy hair. It's a really good thing I look decent in baseball caps, that's all I'm saying.

I wouldn't actually hurt someone, but if the sun doesn't come out soon I may know of someone, a certain stir crazy housewife for instance, who would willingly make a hit on someone if you need it. I wouldn't even need to get paid.

I mean, this person wouldn't need to get paid. Ahem.