I could write a clever title or I could watch my cat stalk a chipmunk. Guess which one I picked?

Hiya.

Yep, I'm still here. Not writing but still... Here.

If I don't write, does that still make me a blogger? Probably not, huh? I'm going to a blogging conference in a couple of weeks, does that make me a blogger? Not exactly, right?

I love what blogging did for me in the past - the free therapy, the friendships, the support, I am much in debt to this space and to all who drop by. But being a blogger sometimes means sharing pieces of ourselves with friends and strangers we might not otherwise share and let's face it - I am not usually a sharer. As much as I hate the word, but use it I must even at the risk of sounding cryptic, there are issues I need to work out that most days take center stage in this rattled brain of mine and are making it impossible to write something breezy or silly, or even heartfelt and memory capturing.

It's like a big old yellow road block complete with flashing lights and sirens. Annoying sirens. Really annoying sirens that sound like a Ke$ha song on constant repeat. Yes, that bad.

When faced with that it's nearly impossible to write something coherent and coherent writing is kind of the name of the game in blog land. Otherwise, it would all be "Lollipops molecule sod halitosis Squirrel!" It's already kind of like that around here.

I could also go on about the ways blogging and bloggers, specifically Mommy Bloggers, have changed since I started writing in 2005. Five years may not seem like a lot of time but it is light years away from where we started. But I'm not going to go on about it. It's been done, let's move on.

Maybe I need to quit or maybe I need to change my blog name or maybe I need a new scene. Maybe I need Prozac or Xanax or Wellbutrin or Red Bull or whatever else all the kids today are taking. Maybe I need a writing class to get the juices flowing... Okay clearly I need a writing class because, Juices Flowing? Ew.

Maybe I need to grow a set, stop being afraid, admit how I feel. Maybe I need to find my voice again.

Yeah, that's it. I need to find my voice again. It was here a minute ago. I'll go check the dryer lint trap and see if it's in there.

Vacationitis

I'm all better now. I don't know if it was something I caught or something I ate but I'm leaning towards a case of vacationitis.

Wah? You don't know about vacationitis?

It affects everyone in different ways but in my case vacationitis is brought on by my natural predilection towards being a stress bag every other day of the year. I thrive on stress, I eat it for breakfast. Stress is what keeps my body moving. So those rare times when I let my defenses down and actually stop and enjoy myself for a change every germ and ailment that was beaten back by my stress force field now has a way in.

Stomach bug? Sure, c'mon in! Migraine? The more the merrier! Pinched nerve? The water's fine!

I have a history of chronic vacationitis. Take, for instance, the summer of 1997. My honeymoon with husband number 1. After working for a few years as an morning DJ at a local radio station, getting up at 4:00am five days a week and clocking 55 hour+ work weeks, I took a well deserved vacation in Jamaica. The first few days were fine because I was still de-stressing. But on the next to last day of our trip - Wham! - I got that inner ear thing that gives you vertigo when you try to stand up.

Have you ever been on a bus with no air conditioning in 90 degree temperatures and a Jamaican bus driver with a death wish at the wheel? With vertigo? The only thing I remember is getting on the bus, closing my eyes, and praying. And then I had to get on a plane. I just closed my eyes and cried. That was fun.

Then there was the time in 2002 when I was on my honeymoon with husband number 2 - Mr. C., for those of you scoring at home. We were both completely immersed in our jobs at the same large corporation and we had just finished planning and executing our at-home wedding, so the stress was palpable. Three days into our trip to the Napa Valley and I got the worst pinched nerve in my neck. Pinched nerves are no fun under the best of circumstances, but this one was so bad that I could hardly enjoy the romantical day my new husband had planned for us at a spa in Sonoma.

I know the casual observer might think that I should just give up on honeymoons, but this past vacation was no honeymoon. Believe me.

So maybe I should just give up on vacations in general. Just hide in my home with the shades drawn and the doors locked. Besides, who would watch my TV if I went away?

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Thankfully, I was well enough today to go visit with some of my fellow New England Mamas.

(I was even well enough to eat pizza! Organic pizza with barbecue chicken! Without having to run to the bathroom immediately after! Yippee!)

I don't know how I got to be lucky enough to be affiliated with these incredible women, but I am. I can't wait to see them all again. I wish we had more time to talk because I know from this short meeting that we could all be bestest friends forevah and evah.

I'd gush some more but I'm from New England. Gushing is not our thing. We do not gush.

Except maybe in private with other New Englanders. Then we gush with dignity.

Humiliation, thy name is "Mall"

I've just returned from a trip to The Mall.

I hate The Mall.

I hate the mall with a fiery passion that rivals the heat of 10 million suns. Or is it the heat of 10 million sunless tanning beds?

I'm tired. I'm cranky. I just found a new zit on my chin. My hair is a static-y mess from pulling my sweater off and on in arid dressing rooms. And I'm hungry. I'm hungry because I decided to skip the food court to get Chicky back home in time for a late nap. But will I eat? Hell no. I just saw myself half naked in the fluorescent glare of a full length Banana Republic mirror.

(I guess I'll be jumping on the ol' elliptical trainer this evening. Someone please put me out of my misery.)

I hate the mall. The mall is a 21 year old girl with perfect highlights, high heels and perky boobs. She doesn't have Cheerios stuffed into her jacket pocket or graham cracker crumbs stuck to her sweater. She can try on a pair of pants without worrying if the material will stretch oddly over her saddle bags or if it will create an even larger muffin top. She doesn't cringe when she sees what the harsh lights do to the cellulite on her legs or the bags under her eyes. She doesn't stand in front of the mirror - while her toddler runs around behind her wielding a clothes hanger like a weapon - pulling the skin of her face back towards her hairline, trying to create the illusion of her younger self...

Not that I would do that either. I'm just saying...

Yeah.

I hate the mall. And because of one innocent trip to find myself some weather appropriate clothing (which is a joke in and of itself since it SNOWED last night) I'm now feeling really, really sorry for myself.

And I would like to go bury my sorrows in a pint of Ben and Jerry's, but I can't. Because I just saw my half naked body in a Banana Republic mirror.

I think I'll take a nap instead. You know, so I won't feel myself starving.