Wicked pissah

Mr. Chicky and I had an actual date yesterday. A date! Where there was no child clinging and crying and wanting and demanding! No cries of "Cah Cah!" from the backseat (that's 'cracker' for those of you not versed in toddler-ese, not a plea for a diaper change). It was sublime.

It was a mid-afternoon date, but still... A date's a date. We went to an open house (more on that later this week when I get around to purging myself of it) and then we saw "The Departed".

Or, The Depaahhted, as we like to say around here.

It may have been the golden glow around the whole outing that made me really like the movie but I did, I really liked the movie. There were some problems with it (a few funny cuts, some hanging story lines that were never resolved) but overall it was good. Since movie reviews are usually boring I'll sum it up in a few bullet points:

(Get it? "Bullet" points? Mob movie? Lots of guns? Sheesh.)

• Jack Nicholson - Excellent
  (well, duh, he's Jack. He's always stellar.)
• Inside jokes about the region - Good
  (if you're from here, that is. If you're from anywhere but New England they'll go right over your head. Poo poo to you.)
• Accents - Surprisingly Good
  (except Alec Baldwin's, Mr. Chicky thought his was pretty bad. And since Mr. C is from one of those tony, monied towns outside of Boston where no one has a distinguishable accent he must be an expert. Right?)
• Leonardo DiCaprio starting to look like a grown man - Good. Very Good. I applaud this new stage in his development.
  (I never found him to be that attractive but after seeing this movie I could be persuaded into thinking otherwise)
  
• Hot sex scene involving Leonardo DiCaprio and someone else I won't divulge here as to not ruin it for you if you haven't seen it yet - Excellent. Fantastic. Fabulous. Rwaaawr. Worth the price of admission.
  
• Incorporating so many big name actors into one movie without any one actor being the obvious scene stealer - Pretty good.
  (Except when Jack was on the screen. The director could have stuck him into that sex scene and he still would have stolen the spotlight from the hot action. Did I mention it was hot?)
• Violence - Not my favorite part but necessary to the plot and not usually gratuitous.
  
• Soundtrack - Good
  (Van Morrison and the Band doing a cover of Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" - I know. That one had to grow on me - Dropkick Murphy's. The Rolling Stones. 'Nuff said.)
  
• The Ending - Hmmmm....
  
  The Ending. I'm still on the fence about that. If you've seen it let me know what you think. There's still parts of it that I just don't understand. Now I have to wait for the DVD to come out so I can watch the deleted scenes and then I can piece together what happened.

Over all I'd give "The Departed" two thumbs up and a rating of WP - for Wicked Pissah, as in:

"Dood, bang a u-ie and meet me at the packie on Wistah Street. You need to come see The Depaahhted with me. It's wicked pissah."*

Heh


** Translation: My friend, turn your car around and join me at the liquor store on Worcester Street. We will attend a screening of The Departed. It's phenomenal.

_______________________________

Remember: Keep those declarations of love coming!

_______________________________

And over at Dog Gone Blog: The safe and efficient way to housetrain your dog.

Every party has a pooper and that's why we invited you

We interrupt this lovefest for a particularly bitchy moment.

I refuse to bring my 18 month old daughter trick or treating.

That's right. I'm not doing it. She's 18 months old, has adverse reactions to things being put on her head and scratchy, cumbersome clothing. I have an adverse reaction to buying a $20 or $30 costume, no matter how cute it is, that she'll wear for 15 minutes to carry her up to a strange house where she will immediately start to tear up when she feels forced to interact with a smiling stranger offering her candy that she can't eat.

Yes, I am Halloween's equivalent to a scrooge this year. And apparently I'm in the minority, at least where my friends are concerned.

I love Halloween, I really do. I love handing out candy to kids of appropriate age (that's a hint for those kids who are over the age of 14 who throw on a hockey mask and an old sweatshirt and call it a costume) and truthfully I do get a kick out of seeing the littlest of revelers in their wee costumes that make them look like walking stuffed animals. But let's face it, at this age is the holiday for the kids or for the parents?

My group of mommy friends wants to get all the kids (all the kids? Four kids, it's not a big group) together to go trick or treating. Okay, fine, have a great time but I'm not going. It's not something that interests me and besides I have to work that evening. I have told them on numerous occasions that I can't swing it. But my friends, being the rah rah sisterhood they are (and I should say here that they are wonderful in that way, always making sure that everyone gets included in activities and drawing out those mothers - ahem, me - that aren't natural joiners) keep coming up with ways, however misguided they are, to make sure we take part in the fun.

I love them for doing this but they're starting to tick me off.

I'm starting to feel pressured to join the crowd and I hate, Hate with a capital H, being pressured into doing things that I don't want to do. I have already decided that trick or treating this year is out of the question. Next year, sure, we'll be there with bells on. To me a two and a half year old can begin to understand the concept of trick or treating, or at the very least can say "Trick or Treat!" (my kid's still working on "up"), and they can eat some of the candy. But this year, no matter how much my friends want to include Chicky Baby and me, we're going to gracefully bow out of the festivities.

But they won't let me. I've done everything I can to make it painfully clear that I can't/won't be joining them and yet they insist on trying. It's starting to make me question my conviction. Am I really being a horrible mother if I don't stuff my toddler into a store bought costume and try to make her take candy from someone she doesn't know, candy that I later will consume (like I need more temptation in my house)? Am I missing out on some important milestone for my child by being a Halloween scrooge this year?

Do you think they make Scrooge costumes for adults for Halloween? Or maybe I can just dress myself as a large black cloud.

Love is all you need

(Yeah, this post is long but really, what were you going to do anyway? C'mon, take some time and read. It will be worth it)

** Edited below because really? Why not?

If you've been reading my blog with an regularity I think you would agree that it's not in my nature to blog about blogging. Yes I do reference my own posts from time to time (Oh, I've gotten so sappy - flog flog flog - oh what is wrong with me - flog flog - I promise no more moonbeams and rainbows - flog.) Sure, I do a Meme every once in a while and I reference other bloggers when the occasion calls for it but I'm not one to fall prey to the subjects circling the blogosphere, specifically the ones from the parenting world. I didn't jump in to the feminism debate or the working vs. stay at home mom discussion. I held my tongue as much as I could when "blog politics" was the subject du jour. It's not that I don't like to jump into a good debate or join the vox populi but for the purpose of this blog it's just not my bag, baby.

However, since I love to contradict myself there is a theme in the parent blogs that has ruffled my feathers and I feel the need to write about it:

To Blog or Not To Blog.

I was originally going to get into how a blog is just that - a Blog. And writing that blog, unless you draw a majority of your income from it (and if you do how'd you like to share that info with me? Hmmm?), should not take over your life to the point that you feel torn between family and computer. I was going to write that yes, this little blog of mine has gained me access into a community that I never dreamed I would be a part of but the thought of not being part of that community has woken me up from much needed sleep trying to think of what I was going to write the next day to stay active and relevant (sad, I know). I was also going to write how, because of those sleepless nights, a few months ago I seriously thought about chucking the whole thing and closing the door on this chapter of The Life and Times of Mrs. Chicky.

But I didn't and I won't and I'm not going to write about that.

Instead I'm going to write about how others deciding to close up shop, even the one's who have decided to announce that they need to take a break and not write or comment as much, has affected me and what I'm going to do about it.

Wait! Don't go. It gets really good. It's not one of those posts (the feelings. The feelings! Ack, more rainbows and ponies!). I promise.

A number of bloggers (you know to whom I am referring so I'm not going to post links) have called it quits, or called for a time-out, due to a number of reasons. Blogging burnout, stolen content, other endeavors, you name it. The bottom line is that people, perhaps writers that you have started to consider friends, are not going to be around anymore, and I don't know about you but that's made me kind of sad. And sadness, my friends, breeds sadness. It doesn't help that in most of the northern hemisphere we're experiencing a change of seasons and that, combined with that afore mentioned sadness, is spreading negativity like wildfire throughout Bloggingland. More and more posts are about the War on Toddler-ism (or Kid-ism in general, but Toddler-ism sounds better) and how we're getting worn down by it, unhappiness about the state of their current life or living situations, body image, cankles, scurvy, leprosy. It's all gotten to be so... so... Depressing.

What has depressed me the most, however, is the idea that people are pulling out cardboard boxes and newspaper to pack it up and others are picking this time, when the person is saying 'See Ya Later', to tell the blogger how much they've loved their writing and that they're really going to miss them. Why do we wait until the end to tell other's how much we really enjoyed having them around? Why do we wait for that final post, or the one threatening to end it all, to say "No! Don't go! I love having you around! Your writing means something to me."?

Why don't we tell someone that we care about them, or dare I say "love" them, before they're walking out the door?

No offense to the people who fall under the categories above ('cause I'm one of them) but if we continue on this path we're going to be writing ourselves a one way ticket to a large barrel of antidepressants. What we need is a little pick-me-up - of the non-alcoholic/pharmaceutical kind - to lift our spirits. So I'm proposing this to you, internets:

Write a post, a shout out, a holla, to your favorite blogger of the moment to let them know how much you love what they're doing. And then once you've written it drop me an email or a comment and I'll compile of list and post it on November 3rd.

Now, before you get all squeamish about that word I just used let me first tell you that as a dyed in the wool New England woman I do not throw around the word "love" all willy nilly like. Sure, I'll throw around terms like 'willy nilly' but love is a word I reserve for special occasions. Like Birthdays and Anniversaries and when I want something expensive. If the word "love" is too scary you can use the safer "lurve", "luv" or "loooove", or for those of you who are really squeamish about it, "Gosh, gee, I really kinda like you". You could love this person for anything from a particular post (Jozet, I really loved how you wrote about bats) or something as silly as their profile picture or their site design (T. that 60 foot woman on your header? Rwaaawr. Love it!). Tell them you love them for anything, just tell them that they mean something to you. Don't wait until they're gone.

This blogger doesn't have to be another parent or even someone you comment on regularly. Hell if you want to give a lovey shout-out to Dooce I say go for it. Superbloggers need love too. Do you want to write about how much you love Waiter Rant? Okey dokey. It's still love. The point is to spread some cheer at an unexpected, but necessary, time. Don't save your love for February. Don't wait until Thanksgiving to say how much you're thankful for this person. Do it now.

So go, dear friends, and write about a blogger you love. Spread some cheer and sunshine and rainbows (Ha! Fooled you. I said there would be no more of that but I lied.). Because someone might be a little down in the dumps and need that bit of a lift that you can't get with a prescription. And, please, spread the word. Tell others about this and get others to join in. Spread the word and spread the love. Spread some creamy peanut butter on that love, I don't care, just say something nice about someone.

What are you still doing here? Go, spread the love.

(Disclaimer: Mrs. Chicky and Chicky Chicky Baby are not responsible for stalkers, messy blog breakups or awkward moments as a result of this lovefest. If your latest blog "love" starts leaving you 20 comments a day and 50 emails you may want to seek professional help. If you think you may need help please include a "safe word" with your comment or email and then use that word when it's time to move on from the blogging relationship. Someone will be dispatched to aid in your blog divorce.)

** I know there are some of you out there who love every single person on your blogroll. But what you really have to ask yourself is "Is it love or just infatuation?". Try to narrow it down to either someone you're really all hot and heavy for, and not just a passing fancy, or someone (or maybe even two or three people) who really needs a shot in the ass of love. Scratch that last one, it sounds too dirty. How about someone who really needs some cheering up? Yeah, that sounds better because for a second there this Lovefest was turning into something else entirely.

Five more hours until bedtime

That melancholy funk has returned and it's brought along an army of reinforcements and nothing, not even that hot sex dream I had last night about Tyler Florence and an inflatable mattress covered in sour cream and chive smashed potatoes, can lift this heavy gray veil of dread from my eyes.

I'm just kidding I didn't have a sex dream about Tyler Florence. It was about Neil Patrick Harris and a chocolate cream pie. Hey, don't knock it 'til you try it.

Even my Susie Sunshine posts of late (that are heavy on tangerine hued imagery and the liberal use of edible verse which are less food for thought and more half-done TV dinner) are helping. It has not escaped my attention that my recent writings have been, shall we say, sickeningly upbeat. But, dear reader, lest you think my life is all rainbows and puppies and apple cider donuts let me put your mind at ease.

(well, I did just eat about seven of those suckers in less than 24 hours - donuts not puppies - so I guess it is a little bit about donuts. Anyhow...)

I've needed to highlight the brighter parts of my life with a militant dictator in training in my blog because I need to have something to remind me of the good times. 'Cause living with a toddler with a 'tude and a slight Napoleon complex? It suuuuuuhhhhhh-cks.

I've decided that living with a toddler, especially a melodramatic girl who is gunning for Meryl Streep's job and the honor of being the first winner of an Academy Award to receive her Oscar in a Prada diaper, is exactly like living with an escaped schizophrenic, bi-polar patient from the local state hospital who has been off her meds for weeks. You never know who you're going to encounter at any given moment. Will it be Happy Chicky Baby? Cranky Chicky Baby? Mike Tyson-like Chicky Baby, complete with teeth to bite delicate ear tissue, a hair-trigger temper and fists-a-blazing? The Chicky Baby who acts exactly like your junior year drunken college roommate, kissing and hugging everyone in sight only to dissolve into a major crying jag when she finds out the cafeteria is no longer serving American chop suey?

Chances are I'll see all of those Chicky Babys and more today. Raise your hand if you're feeling my pain.

I need something to help me remember the highs. The wonderful, jubilant times when it feels like the warmth of her smile could keep me cozy all winter long, because the lows are so, so low around here. How low? This morning alone she had five tantrums before 11am. I could only identify the cause of about three of them. The other ones I'm chalking up to the fact that Elmo came on about five minutes earlier than usual (most days she only gets to watch the Elmo part of Sesame Street) so she had five minutes less of Elmo-rifficness to enjoy. Or barometric pressure. It could have been anything.

These days by 2:30 in the afternoon I'm starting the countdown to bedtime. Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle stick! What do you mean there's still four and a half more hours until bedtime?!

It's not just my dear, precocious daughter who's causing my mood to swing to the dark side, it's being a parent in general. The stress of being on duty 24/7 with no break in months, the monotony that is my "job" these days (really, what's the point in vacuuming up all that damn pet hair? It's just going to be there again in a few minutes.). Then there's the question: To go back to work or not? Part-time or full-time? Who the hell is going to hire me?

That is a post in itself. Later this week, perhaps.

It doesn't help that winter is fast approaching. I see long days stuck in the house stretched out before me. If I were in a better mood I would try to wax poetic about red noses, woolen hats, and pulling sleds down snowy streets but honestly the thought of all that is making me nauseous.

I wish I had something profound to say so I could wrap this post up in a pretty package complete with red velvet bow, but I don't. I've got nothing. N-O-T-H-I-N-G. I'm also a bit afraid that if I continued with the psychotic toddler train of thought I'd start getting into that whole rage/fury thing and I'm not ready to go there yet. There's enough guilt in my life without releasing the demon that is my temper these days.

And the beast is starting to stir from her nap. Damn. Nap is over already?

How many hours until bedtime?

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I'm not living with just two-legged dictators in this house, the four-legged ones exert their power too. Over at Dog Gone Blog - shwag for your canine intent on world domination. And, later today, pweshus puppy pictures.

Eureka!

This is what I'll do with all that dog hair!


Learning to knit is on my list of 40 things to do before 40, so why spend the money on expensive yarns when I can knit with the hair my dogs insist on leaving on every surface of my home? Seriously, why is dog hair any more icky than sheep's wool or alpaca fleece? My dogs are clean, they get bathed regularly. Probably more regularly than a llama. Just because it came from the same animal who repeatedly licks his nuts (or the place his testicles once were) day after day, does that make the fur any more unclean? It's not like I'd be repurposing his tongue. Or his balls for that matter.

Although, I'm sure there's a market for that, too. And I bet if you dry them, grind some up and put it in your coffee it will make you an animal in the sack.

What I want to know is this, if one gets good enough at knitting with dog fur to start hitting the craft show circuit does one have to divulge the nature of the material? Can't one let the unsuspecting buyer think it's angora when it's really Snowball the Samoyed? I suppose there would be a conflict if someone was allergic to dog. Or allergic to the idea of wearing an animal that eats his own poop.

Yeah. Maybe knitting with dog hair isn't such a great idea after all.

(Thanks Kristi for the heads up about this book!)

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And speaking of dogs (Alert! Shameless promotion time.): Over at Dog Gone Blog - Important information if you're thinking of adopting a dog.

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The silent enemy

It greets me at the door when I come home. It's with me still when I leave.

It follows me where ever I go.

If you come to my home it will follow you as well. You won't be able to shake it.

It's in the food my family consumes. In the liquid we drink to quench our thirsts.

It's in the air we breath. Underfoot, overhead, in every direction we turn it's all around us.

And just when I think that I have rid myself of it I turn to find it's still there.

There is no escaping it.

What is it?





Dog hair.

For the love of Pete, the freakin' dog hair. My Dyson Animal was empty when I started. Can you see how high the level of hair is in the canister? It's almost at maximum capacity. In case you think I'm a lousy housekeeper I did a thorough vacuuming the day before yesterday. Less than 48 hours and one brushing session since I vacuumed last and this was the amount of hair on my floor. Alright I am a lousy housekeeper but I vacuum pretty much every day, dammit. Now you know why.

The problem and the solution

Forget what I said before, I hate fall. The dogs are blowing their coats like crazy. When the hell is winter going to get here? At this rate these damn animals are going to be bald before the snow flies.

Hmm... Bald. I wonder what a lab would look like bald?

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The Depends company stock just went through the roof

There are times in a blogger's life when they, by happenstance or good fortune, stumble upon a particularly inspirational, life changing post by a fellow blogger that changes their outlook on the world forever.

This is not about one of those.

It is, however, about a very funny post by a very funny blogger, one Ruth Dynamite, who rocks my world with her wit and humor. Her post about excrement, or lack thereof, was so funny and, to use the word for a second time in one paragraph, witty that I just had to nominate her for a ROFL award.

Congratulations, Ruth, never has poop been so damn humorous!

Christina and Izzy for coming up with another way in which bloggers can add more flare to their sidebars! You can see other ROFL award recipients on their sites.

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Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.

No other season brings to mind images of small towns, white church steeples nestled among red sugar maple, hayrides and jumping in leaf piles quite like fall. Crispy leaves that crunch under foot while out walking on moonlit nights just cold enough to see your breath. Breath it in, fall has a smell all it's own: dried leaves mixed with just the right amount of wetness and a bite of frost. Wood smoke and ripe apples. Dried hay and cornstalks. Never has decomposition smelled so comforting than on an autumn evening in New England.

Autumn is a glorious time in this part of the country. It's our crowning glory. The pretty girl, a few months older and a bit more mature, casting aside her summer glow and gauzy dresses of sea blue for a crown of red and orange leaves set upon her golden hair. Her coat a field of brown and green festooned with the bounty of the late harvest, stitched up with corn silk and orange gourd buttons. She is a sight to behold and people come from far and wide to take in her beauty.

When I was pregnant one of the things I looked forward to the most was sharing these experiences with my daughter. I've always had a love/love/hate relationship with fall. I love the traditions, I love the weather, but I hate that the lazy days of summer are coming to an end opening the door for old man winter. I hoped that having a little person around to educate on the finer points of fall would help alleviate the melancholy I was always left with once September arrived. So far I have not been disappointed.



Every weekend there is another destination. Another farm, another orchard, another stand by the side of the road where people snatch up brightly colored mums to pay homage to the glory of this season by decorating their front porches with the roundly shaped plants. There are festivals and street fairs, where we gorge ourselves on fudge and food on sticks, perusing the wares of local artisans and merchants. I buy a blue tile with a relief of a Labrador patiently sitting with tongue out, a dog belonging to the potter's neighbor so I'm told. My husband puts it up on our kitchen wall.


Then there's the fields of orange pumpkins. Round, fat pumpkins that will join the mums in their place of honor on front stoops. Or soon to become grinning jack-o-lanterns, their innards used for pies and the seeds toasted for snacking. Adults bring their children to pose amongst the tangerine moons or set their new babies down on a pile of the oddly shaped orbs, to take a picture of a sleeping pumpkin in the patch. My daughter finds a pumpkin that is just the right size and proudly carries it as long as her small arms will let her. She tries to pick up a much larger one, questioning the strange heft and covering herself in dry soil. Unable to lift the fruit that is as large as she is she happily toddles off in search of others to conquer.



The trees are full of ripe, red apples that we pick from the branches. Willing limbs that relinquish it's offspring because they have started to weigh the branch down. The tree knows when its time to let go. We eat enough apples to keep a million doctors away. Straight off the tree, rubbed on a pant leg to uncover a perfect shine. Baked in pies and crisps and covered with vanilla ice cream. Pressed into cider, sipped both cold and hot with mulling spices that fill the house with fragrance. The first taste of a caramel apple, the warm goo dripping onto our hands and covering our faces from chin to nose. And when our faces are wet with juice and sticky with sugar we share sweet, sweet kisses.


Pick a road, any road, and take a long, meandering drive at just the right time of season and you'll be rewarded with vibrant hues of orange and yellow that envelope the highways. The sky is no longer the outrageous azure as it was during the summer but instead a lighter aquamarine, as if acquiescing to the riot of flaming crimson. Why compete when you can compliment? I love our long drives in the fall when our only destination is another orchard almost an hour away that sells the most amazing apple cider doughnuts. We eat two each right out of the fryer, the crispy, sugary outer layer and soft interior making the greasy hands well worth it. Our little girl sitting in the pack on her father's back waits patiently with mouth wide open for her bite. We have to stop ourselves from buying too many and making ourselves look like gluttons, but apple cider doughnuts come but once a year. We buy more and enjoy them with our morning coffee, the ones that make it home that is.

No, I have not been disappointed with Autumn this year. It's hard to feel melancholy when sitting on the lawn of our favorite orchard and winery, sipping the cool liquid made from local fruit, watching my daughter maneuver the small hillside down to the steps of the public gazebo. She turns to see me but she can't since the sun is at my back. But I can see her. The light and the warm breeze playing with her hair. She holds onto her father's hand until she feels comfortable enough with her footing to let go. The apple of my eye. Sweeter than all the fruit in the orchard. She takes her father's hand again, not entirely ready to let go. His arm is strong and not worn down by her weight at all. We're not ready to let go, she's not ready let go. We'll have plenty more Autumns to celebrate together.

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Link-a-dink-a-doo...

... a Link-a dee, a Link-a doo.

No, I'm not losing my mind. Yet. Chicky Baby seems to be coming out of the haze of teething pain, but not before she had four full-blown tantrums in a one hour period yesterday. The first one started when I tried to pick her up because playgroup was over and we had overstayed our welcome. The last was in a parking lot as we were making our way to the car after deciding that the middle two tantrums were enough to call our park visit over. That one was a doozey. Limbs flailing, falling down onto the pavement, food and drink flying everywhere, screaming, crying... And Chicky Baby was worse. Oy.

I wanted to write something about this racket we call 'Fall in New England', and I will on Monday, but until I get back that important piece of my sanity stripped of me by pweshus wittle baby teefs I'll instead share with you some linky fun.

A-link-a-doo, a-link-a-dee

- Have you heard about those Daily Photo Projects circulating around YouTube? It's when someone takes a picture of themselves everyday for an extended period of time and then edits the pictures together, with accompanying music, to show how they changed. I personally could never commit to such a project because I have such a short attent... Ooh, shiny!
(psst, this one is a good one)

- Before Chicky (B.C.) Mr. C and I loved to travel. I'd spend hours surfing websites devoted to whatever destination we were headed to try to find out as much as I could about the place so I would be an informed traveler upon arriving. We don't travel as much now, but I can live vicariously through Destination 360. Wanna feel like you're in the Mayan ruins at Chichen Itza (or, as I like to call it, Chicken Pizza)? You can virtually be there with Destination 360's 360 degree viewer. I think this afternoon I'll spend some time in St. Martin. Or...

- ... I could spend some time trying to make a love connection with my Dead Celebrity Soulmate. The good (and obviously twisted) people at the Biography channel came up with a way to help you hook up with just the right Dead Celebrity for you. Later today Edgar Allen Poe and I are going to meet at a cemetery to do some graverubbings.

- Have you ever wondered how to get your kid to give up the pacifier? Over at Dog Gone Blog (I'm shameless, I know) a mom had a great and effective way to get her youngest son to let go of his 'noonie'.

I think before I head over to St. Martin I'll take a little jaunt to Italy. Have a great weekend. Ciao!

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Waving the white flag

Stick a fork in me, I'm done.

Chicky Baby had an awful day today. She refused to nap, decided to wage a physical war on the dogs (taking a page from Shanna Moakler's book of bar etiquette, perhaps?) and was just a huge crank all day. Cranky Pants, that's her new name. Pussface Pissypants was the other choice. I can do little more than huddle in a corner in the fetal position, whimpering, and clutching a glass of riesling (from a local winery, no less. It's quite nice).

Maybe it's all the teeth she's getting all at once. Six teeth! Six, people! Six motherslappinwhilenotnappin teeth! Four molars and two incisors. I think I'll add a shot of gin to that bottle of wine I'm going to finish tonight. I hope it's not an ear infection brewing. I noticed that her ear was a little red while putting her to bed tonight. I sincerely hope it's red because I dug my finger in there to clear the canal of all that wax we always miss during bathtime.

Maybe I'll save that gin for tomorrow. I'm sure I'll need some extra liquid fortitude if she's as cranky as she was today.

So what I'm trying to say is... I've got nothing fun to post about. Unless you want to talk about teething tablets and Tylenol (or maybe share some of your pain numbing secrets? Hmmm?) you should go over to Dog Gone Blog and check out some ways you can show your support during National Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

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Anniversaries, awards, and existentialism

Some of you thought it would be a good idea to make me this week's CHBM Mother of the Week. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I feel a bit like the Grinch at the end of 'How the Grinch Stole Christmas' - not the hideous movie with that Jim Carrey guy, but the television show that I still watch every year at Christmas time 'cause I'm really six years old and I refuse to grow up and you can't make me, so there - when his heart grows and grows because he's all wrapped up in the spirit of the holidays and the Whooville-ians.

Or maybe he was happy of the prospect of baking that insipid Cindy Lou Who in a Christmas pie.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. My heart was growing with love and thanks.

I found the quote that the Pajama Mama used in the sidebar a bit funny since she must have had to have dug deep for that one. But I'm glad she used it because as I was going through my archives the other day to find something to write about - being as October is my one year blog-iversary. Technically it's October 12 but if I waited until then to write about it I'd forget and the day would go by without acknowledgement and we wouldn't want that to happen - I stopped and reread that one happily. Those first few months (okay, first 6 months. 8? Fine 12 months) were dark days in the ol' writing department and that was one of my few shining moments. So I think I'll re-post it.

Okay, in my mind it was a shining moment. If you think it's shite, well, you are certainly welcome to your opinion but do me a favor and save it. 'Kay? This is not, after all, a democracy, it's a blog-ocracy. One ruler (that would be me for those of you playing at home), under blog, indivisible ('cause there's only one of me and it's hard to divide one person. Hard and messy.), with Chicky and Cookies for me.

So, again, thanks to those of you that voted for me, thought about voting for me but then got sidetracked by an episode of the Oprah show, or at least didn't send emails to the CHBM site with jpegs of my likeness burning in effigy.

So here's that post.

A Moment of Clarity

There are moments in our young children's lives when one look from them speaks volumes of clarity, enlightenment, and knowledge. These are the times when you know deep down in your soul that this little person is much more than a baby who has spent a mere few hundred days in this world, that they, in fact, have been here before - again and again. Its a look that says that they know the meaning of life, whether God is a man or a woman, what the Dali Lama's middle name is, and how the last season of 'The Sopranos' is going to end.

Its times like these when I meet my daughter's strong gaze that I think to myself...

"Damn. She knows I'm full of shit."

I know something you don't know. Bwahhahahahaha!

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Serious stuff over at Dog Gone Blog. Do you know what to do if your dog were to get into a fight with another dog?

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Shock and aawwwwww

It pains me to do this but you said you wanted to see pictures of what Mr. C did to Chicky's hair.

First I'll show you the pictures that my husband shocked me with - under the premise that he was doing me a favor by not making me wait until morning to see what he had done - soon after walking in the door.

I really don't want to do this. Are you sure you want to see them? They're pretty bad.

You might want to put your hands over your eyes.

Ohhhh-kay, here it goes....

Huh?

What the...?

NOOOOO!!!

(shudder)

If you're still here after witnessing the heinous act of hair mutilation that my husband inflicted on his daughter - my sweet, beautiful child who is more gorgeous than all others. The child whose sheer beauty I am not ashamed or embarrassed to profess my awe for, nor am I ashamed or embarrassed to base whole posts on the exploitation of that beauty, especially when I am fresh out of witty blog repartee - then I have another picture that I am begrudgingly going to add.

It hurts me to do this because it is evidence that the haircut was not as bad as it first seemed and I am worried that Mr. C will wipe those other pictures out of his mind (or, at least off of his hard drive) and get the inkling once again to take shears to precious golden locks when I am otherwise unavailable to protest.

I guess the haircut didn't turn out too badly, Mom. Now we don't have to fuss with those cute hairclips you just bought me.

Sure, it looks like she's finding the whole thing funny but inside she's crying.

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We want the funk... Gotta have that funk

Last night I was going through some old pictures of Chicky Baby. Old in comparison to her time on this earth so far, that is, which is to say ones taken maybe 300 days ago. She's beginning to look so much more like a little kid than the wee, snuggly baby I used to rock to sleep...

(who am I kidding, she never went for that whole rocking-to-sleep thing. I had a better chance of teaching her the rumba than getting her to sleep before the age of five months. She was a stubborn little thing. Anyhooo.)

... that I'm beginning to forget the look of her sweet little baby form and her pink baby lips and her soft, downy baby head (which we're seeing a lot more of these days - pictures tomorrow, I promise.). I guess it put me into a bit of a melancholy funk.

Melancholy Funk. Wow. That's a great name for a band. I can see this band covering Nina Simone songs and maybe some Sly and the Family Stone. After this year's Grammys you just know Sly Stone needs a decent gig. Does anyone know if Bootsy Collins is available? To pull off the whole melancholy thing he'd have to leave the Bedazzler at home, so he probably wouldn't go for it.

Uh, where was I?

Oh, yeah. Melancholy funk.

The last couple of days I've gone back and forth between feeling like I'm really in serious love with this new toddler stage and praying to any higher power who will listen to please, for all that is good or unholy, please give me my sweet baby back.

I want my baby back, baby back, baby back.

So I thought I would post one of my favorite pictures from Chicky's infant days. This one never fails to make me smile. If you're having a melancholy funky day I hope it will make you smile as well.

Geez, Ma, can we turn off this Nina Simone now? Maybe we could listen to something from The Cure to lighten the mood?

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New at Dog Gone Blog: Kong stuffers (no, not things you'd put in the Christmas stocking of an extra large ape with an attitude) and dog tag silencers. Good times, good times.

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The Cunninghams we ain't... Wait. Maybe we are.

I came home from work last night to some disturbing news.

Mr. C - "Um, honey?"

Me (Having just walked through the door, totally distracted and coming off of my "teaching high") - "Yeah?"

Mr. C - "Um, I need you to see something."

Me (exasperated) - "What?"

Mr. C - "I cut Chicky Baby's hair tonight and I want you to see pictures of what I did so you won't freak out when you see her in the morning."

Huh? Whaa..? He did what?!

Yes, my friends, my husband went ahead and cut our child's hair without checking with me first. He did not consult with me. We did not come to an agreement together that one of us would be cutting the child's hair. He just went ahead and did it and he did a poor job. Why? Because he didn't know what he was doing and he didn't think it out before he started snipping away.

"Um, I forgot that hair shrinks when it dries, so it's pretty short in the front."

Yes it does and yes it is. Sorry there's no pictures to share, but the pain is too fresh to post a picture of the debacle. If you want a visual think little Dutch boy meets Jim Carrey's character from Dumb and Dumber.

It sounds like a bad sitcom, one titled "Return of the Mullet". The bumbling husband does something silly but harmless while the wife is out and they spend the next 30 minutes (22 without the commercials) hashing it out. Merriment ensues. But in the end the husband and wife make up, and in the last scene the two of them embrace while the child walks around with a paper bag over her head. The husband and wife give each other a funny look and then they smile and hug again.

Roll credits.

Unfortunately, I am not living in a sitcom.

After being faced with this news I seethed. I stomped around. I fumed. I tried the silent treatment and then, when that didn't work, I started yelling. I was, in a word or three, royally pissed off. I was so angry that I wanted to yell, scream, and throw things. I was channeling my inner toddler, and if I could have bit him I would have. I didn't know what to do with my anger.

Because this really wasn't just about a bad haircut. It was the culmination of my frustration over my husband's inability or unwillingness to share parenting duties, except the ones that he felt suited him or his idea of fun fatherhood. Cutting our daughter's hair wasn't a task, it was a whim, a lark. I'm sure he thought it would be, if not fun exactly, at least entertaining.

Ever since the day that Chicky Baby was born, and subsequently became colicky and needed to nurse every hour as an infant, I became solely responsible for her care and feeding. There were a few times that out of total frustration and desperation I would shove the screaming newborn at my husband and say "Here, you deal with her." But for the most part if the baby needed something it fell on my shoulders to provide it. She wants you, he'd say, she doesn't want me.

Guess where that got us?

As much as the division of responsibilities in regards to our home bugs me, it's the division of responsibility for Chicky Baby that bothers me more. If you ask Mr. C what his biggest contribution to his child's life so far has been (besides being there at her conception) he'll probably tell you "I've taught her to kick a soccer ball".

That and three bucks will get you a coffee at Starbucks but it doesn't make you a candidate for father of the year.

Like a lot of women I took on my new role as mom thinking I would have a partner who would help without asking and share responsibilities equally. Okay, maybe not 50-50, but maybe 60-40. Co-parenting is the term, I believe. And like a good percentage of those women I am finding out that, so far, co-parenting is an unrealized dream. So far our division of parenting responsibilities has gone like this: Me - care, feed, clothe, clean, diaper, teach, soothe, comfort, and discipline. Him - play fun games, teach bad habits, pitch in when I am otherwise physically unavailable. That last part he does very well, but like I said he pitches in when I am physically not there. Or when I just refuse to do something or guilt him into tasks. I guess now we can add to that "make poor decisions about Chicky's appearance".

Now that I've had a day to think about this and I've cooled down a little bit I am willing to admit that my husband is not completely to blame for his lack of natural parenting ability. During the months that followed Chicky's colicky stage she and I fell into a rhythm. It was just easier for me to do things than to train her to start trusting her father to do things for her. And I didn't force myself to leave the house more often and and her in the care of her dad. Today all three of us need to re-think how we're doing things. We need to find what's working and what's not. I have not completely given up on the idea of co-parenting. I still have hope that we'll find our rhythm and our parenting groove and start sharing more responsibilities, but if the last 17 months is any indication of what the next 17 months are going to be like I might have to go on strike to make my husband realize that I need more help from him.

Ooh, a strike. Now that would be a great idea for a TV episode. If he touches my kid's hair again I think more than a strike would be in order but I don't know what. I wonder what Mrs. Cunningham would do?



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New stuff at Dog Gone Blog, a post where I compare dogs to vases. I know, it's a stretch, but you have to read it yourself to find out why.

Also, over at The Salad Days Chronicles Alisyn writes about the passing of her beloved dog. Go over and give her some love.

It was fine, fine, fine

I've never been so glad for a weekend to be over.

On Saturday Mr. C and I hosted a birthday party for his grandmother who had just flown in from her home in Wisconsin. We didn't so much voluntarily host it as we were volunteered to provide the house for the occasion by my mother in law. Yeah. She called a few weeks ago and told us that she had offered our home for the party.

Okay, no stress. I just have to make sure that all the dog hair is banished and the house doesn't smell like a barn. I suppose this is a good time to get rid of all that clutter. And when was the last time I cleaned the bathrooms? I guess now's a good a time as any. Sure this is a party for Mr. C's family and I don't even really know some of them and I'm doing most of the work to get the house ready, whatever. This is fine. No problem.

It was supposed to be a casual party for 10 and it ended up being a sit down lobster dinner for 12. My 87 year old grandmother in law wanted lobster on her birthday. Who can blame her? Did I mention we don't have room in my house for 12 people to sit down and have lobster? So we decided to have it outside. It will be fine, said my husband the eternal optimist. Fine, fine, fine. If he said fine one more time I was going to hit him with a lobster pot. I wanted a united front of misery and he wanted to be Miss Mary Sunshine. It will be fine, fine, fine...

Yeah, it rained most of the day. The steam was beginning to seep from my ears by about noon.

By 1:30 I was calling my lawyer to draw up the divorce papers.

Thankfully, the weather cleared up in the nick of time. By 4pm when all the guests were arriving the rain had stopped and the sun actually came out for a while.

It was fine, okay, now shut up.

Um, Mom, what am I supposed to do with this thing?

I thought I ordered the chicken?

It was better than fine, actually. We had a wonderful time drinking boat loads of wine and gorging ourselves on crustaceans. We layed newspaper on our tables and got our faces and fingers messy with melted butter. And for dessert? The most heavenly carrot cake you have ever tasted. Chicky Baby was a huge hit, and just a bit clingy due to the amount of strange people in her home, and even the dogs were on their best behavior.

The carnage.

Yes, a good time was had by all. I spent more time helping my mother in law cook the lobsters (Poor little lobsters. They valiantly gave their lives for our dinner. And they were dee-licious.) than actually visiting but it kept me busy so I was happy. My kitchen is still a mess and we've got a bag full of lobster skeletons stinking up our garage, but the butter made my skin so soft and Mr. C's grandmother was thrilled by her birthday celebration. I guess it all worked out in the end.

Next up, Thanksgiving dinner for 10. Bah. That's nothing. It'll be fine.

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Over at Dog Gone Blog - doggie pictures! Who doesn't love pictures of cute dogs?

More Wile E. Coyote than Roadrunner

I stunk at tag as a kid. I was never a fast runner and, let's face it, I was never as wily as I should have been for such a game. That being said, as an adult I've learned to appreciate a good game of tag, especially when it doesn't result in a large, red, hand shaped welt on my shoulder. Even better when it allows me talk about me. A meme, if you will.

The queen of Binkytown has tagged me for an interesting one about the book I'm currently reading. Actually, the rules are that I'm to grab the closest book and tell you about lines 5 through 8 on page 123. Why those particular lines on that particular page? I have no idea.

Now, a book. Hmm... There's a stack next to me so I'll take the top one.

"... responding to his menacing outbursts by saying things like, 'Are you being a guard dog? Are you protecting me?' In other words, she rewarded the behavior, sent him steady little signals that his aggression was warranted."

- from Pack of Two: The intricate bond between people and dogs by Caroline Knapp

You knew there had to be a book about dogs on top of my stack, didn't you? This is a good one. It's not a 'dog book', per se, but a book about a damaged woman (who isn't?) and the dog she loved. I love real life stories of people and their pets, especially when they're messy and real.

Have you got a book next to you that you'd like to share? Consider yourself tagged.

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It is a complete coincidence - I swear! - that my latest post at Dog Gone Blog is about dog aggression. More specifically about that whole fiasco with Joey Porter's (of the Steelers) dogs killing a horse. Yeah, it's opinionated. Did you expect anything less?

I'm doing this with both hands over my eyes...

... But I'm peeking through my fingers, of course. This is also my preferred method for watching scary movies.

The beginnings of Dog Gone Blog are up.

Gah.

If you love your dogs, are planning to get a dog, or just admire watching them from afar, go there now and give me ideas for what to write. Yeah, you heard me, give me material. You didn't think I was going to do this alone, did you?

In all seriousness, I hope you enjoy my new endeavor. Please keep the snickering to yourself.

Reunited

I just reunited with my long lost childhood best friend. Literally, we just got off the phone a minute ago. I'm floating with happiness. Floating I tell you, and I don't float.

How can I possibly describe these feelings of affection that I have for a person whom I haven't spoken to (with exception of the day that I attended her father's wake and the time that she attended my mother's) in seven years? It's truly amazing. I had no idea how much I missed her.

This is a person who knew my deepest, darkest 10th grade secrets. The girl who was with me when I bought my first pair of black pumps, the ones I wore with frilly socks and pinch-rolled jeans. She lived down the street from me and we were always finding reasons to go meet in the middle. We were together when we first fell in love with our boyfriends and subsequently got our hearts broken. We complained about our parents and dreamed of a future when we would move out of their houses into our own apartment where we would have fabulous parties and have our boyfriends sleep over whenever we wanted. We drank our first wine coolers together and if one was wearing blue mascara you could be certain the other one was too.

And the only reason that I can remember that Alf quote that I included in my previous post is because it was our little joke. If she called and asked what I was doing I'd say "I'm standing here wearing a blue dress". Then she'd say "I'm coming over, don't go anywhere." To which I replied "I wouldn't, I don't have the shoes." I know it's silly, but now you know why I still remember it fondly. (Serendipitous that she picked today to call me, wouldn't you say?)

We were inseparable.

Then we grew up, and we grew apart as old friends sometimes do.

It started gradually. First, upon returning home after graduating from college, my friend, J., would snicker at my choice of fashion. I had gone grunge and she was still sporting a modified version of the style we wore in the late 80's, but now it was 1994. She was still Def Leppard and I was decidedly Pearl Jam. She laughed at my sandals, calling them Jesus shoes. I told her that the ozone called and it wanted her to stop spraying her hair with Aqua Net.

That was the first rift. Small, yes, but it speaks volumes of the directions our lives were taking.

We both had fiances by this time and soon we would each get married. J. was first. She and her new husband set up house in a nearby town while I was dreaming of getting out. But then I, too, got married and settled into my own new home in my old hometown. Our lives seemed set. J. seemed to like it that way while I was secretly dying inside. But by this point I didn't feel like she was listening when I was trying to tell her that. Or maybe, in hindsight, I wasn't doing a good job of expressing myself.

She and her new husband were hanging around with people I didn't care for and I felt like I was getting pushed out of her life, so I started to back away on my own terms. We were still friends and contacted each other regularly but we were by no means as close as we once were. She got pregnant and I don't remember being there for her as much as I should have been. Then there was the final straw...

After giving birth to her daughter, while still in her hospital room, J. said to me "Now you have to have a baby." I didn't want children at the time and I told her that. She got angry with me. Wasn't this our plan? We were supposed to get married and have children and live close to each other so our kids could grow up together. To me those were the plans of a 15 year old girl. The 25 year old woman I had grown up to be wanted nothing to do with those plans. We didn't speak much after that.

Then I separated from my husband. I was running toward the exit and leaving everything behind. I wanted a clean slate, a new life. When the dust cleared I realized that I didn't really want to leave everything behind. I missed my friend so much, but as the years went on it got harder and harder to pick up the phone to call her. What if she's mad at me? It's been three years, then four, then five... How do you call someone after seven years and pick up where you left off?

But that's exactly what we did. After seeing my sister a week ago and getting my phone number from her she called me today, and it was as if I had been speaking to her every week for the past decade. Nothing had changed. It was wonderful. I told her that and she agreed. She told me that I sounded exactly the same. I think she was crying.

We're going to get together soon and I suspect there will be many tears and hugs when we do. I also suspect we will pick up exactly where we left off with the jokes and the old stories. And I bet that if I bring up Alf and the blue dress she'll know exactly what I mean. Because that's what best friends do.

That just made my heart jump. I have a best friend. Again.

A TV Meme

What is a lady to do when she's knee deep in another task and is trying desperately to hold onto her title as Biggest Procrastinator EVER?

Why, a Meme, of course.

(Although, I suppose I should also be supervising my kid who is simultaneously banging on the piano while trying to give the dog a pedicure with the emery board she stole from me. But why interrupt her obviously amazing multi-tasking skills?And it's been a couple of weeks since I trimmed the dog's nails, so why stop her now?)

Kristi from Texas over at Here In Idaho (you can go ask her yourself why she named her blog that) tagged me to list my 10 Favorite TV Characters of All Time. Holy Bejeebus, do you have any idea what this did to me? I've spent the past day and a half stressing over this damn list. Why? Because it's television, people, and I am a tv-aholic.

After badgering my husband and my sister about who they would pick I think the three of us came up with a good comprehensive list. It took the three of us to come up with it because, apparently, we share the same brain. And we were drinking copious amounts of wine. Anyhooo...

My list of my top 10 television characters (in no particular order):

1. Niles Crane "Frasier" - Was there a more perfect choice than David Hyde Pierce to play Dr. Niles Crane? Seriously, were there any other actors up for the role? It's as if the writers of the show wrote this character with DHP in mind. He embodied the uptight, social climbing, lovable sad sack. All those Emmy nominations and awards can't be wrong.

2. Jim Halpert "The Office" - I love the whole ensemble of The Office but Jim, for me, is the standout. If that character were a real person I would leave my husband for him. Enough said.

Okay, one more thing, John Krasinski is a Massachusetts boy. If I can blur the line between fiction and reality I think that makes me love him even more. So what if he's seven (cough) years (cough cough) younger than me (cough cough choke)?

3. Amanda "Happy Hour" - I know, the show is still new and the jury is still out on whether or not this show is going to hang in there long term, but Beth Lacke's character "Amanda" had me laughing out loud. Truthfully, I was laughing so hard I snorted. To me that is the mark of a good character. She's funny, raunchy (as raunchy as Fox will let her be) and she's not a skinny little toothpick. I like that in a woman.

4. Reverend Jim Ignatowski "Taxi" - Yes, there were many good characters employed by Sunshine Cab but Jim was my hands down favorite. To this day whenever I see Christopher Lloyd on television I have a hard time not seeing Reverend Jim in him. Thank the lord for those "funny brownies" because otherwise we might never have had someone to love like Jim Ignatowski.

5. Lenny Briscoe "Law and Order" - Lenny, how I miss you. I miss your sarcastic wit and your catchy one-liners that started every show. When Jerry Orbach died the world lost a beloved actor and a great character.

6. The cast of the West Wing - I'd like to pick just one but I can't. Individually almost every one of them is great but together they were spectacular. Screw it, it's my list and I'm lumping them all together. However, if you held a gun to my head I'd probably say Josh Lyman. On a related note is anyone else looking forward to Bradley Whitford's new show "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip" as much as I am? It's on tonight! I'm so excited!

7. Alf - You think I'm kidding? I loved that show and I loved that character. So it was about an alien named Gordon Shumway played by a puppet with a nose that looked like a penis, if you could look past that it was actually very smart at times. The relationship between Willie and Alf was hilarious. I still remember this give and take between the two of them: (paraphrased because my memory isn't that good)

Willie (on the phone with Alf) - What are you doing?
Alf - I'm standing here in a blue dress.
Willie - Well, don't go anywhere.
Alf - I wouldn't, I don't have the shoes.

Ha!

8. Archie Bunker "All in the Family" - Show me another character that got away with as much as Archie did and yet still continue to be lovable. Can't do it, can you?

9. Bo Duke "Dukes of Hazzard" - Don't get me wrong, it was a really poor show and some really horrible acting came out of it. But Bo Duke was the definitive character of my fifth grade year. I had a DofH lunchbox, plates, t-shirts, posters, fan magazines, you name it. What? I was 10 years old.

10. Jamie Buchman "Mad About You" - I'll admit it, I loved Mad About You and I loved Jamie. I wanted to be Jamie. She was flawed and smart and pretty... and she had a great relationship with her husband. And then they went through that split thing where they brokeup/didn't break up. I felt betrayed. I lost a lot of love for that show after that. I want my characters flawed but I still like happy endings. I suppose the show did end happily but I was still disappointed. I guess I got off topic, huh?


That's the list. I suppose I can't cop out and not tag anyone so I'll drop this one on Chicken and Cheese, Tony, and because three is a magic number Mother Bumper.

And the winner is...

Me, actually. After all it is my blog that got named.

I have to tell you guys, you all really outdid yourselves. There were so many great names and taglines to choose from. And that last round of voting really helped.

Last night Mr. C joked that I've obviously been watching too many reality performance tv shows where the audience calls in and votes for their favorite dancer/singer/has-been celebrity trying to take one more embarrassing stab at stardom. There I was, asking you all to vote for your favorite blog name. I did everything but sing a Taylor Dane song off-key or perform a really poor tango and give you a 1-888 number. But much like Rockstar Supernova the final say is left up to the band, and in this metaphor the band is me. Think of me as Tommy Lee, without the drums. And the tattoos. And the giant schlong.

Hopefully, this choice won't disappoint you and leave you with a nasty taste in your mouth, much like I had when they picked Lukas. Lukas f-ing Rossi? C'mon, Mr. Makeup? Am I the only person who thinks he looks a bit like an Oompa Loompa? I can tell you, that is one album I will not be buying.

Without further ado... Because of all your wonderful suggestions I've decided to name my new endeavor...

Drumroll, please.

Dog Gone Blog*

That name was the brainchild of the Irreverent Antisocial Intellectual. Go on over and give her some love. Not just because she named my blog but because, dude, she can use a machine gun. I'm just sayin'.

The tagline? Glad you asked. I'm going to use "Sit, Stay, Speak", as suggested by Kristen at Mommy Does It All. Yeah, I know it's my comment line on this blog but it's just too good not to use over and over again. Congratulations IAI and Kristen! Because she named the title, IAI gets the first choice of gift cards: Target or Barnes and Noble. Ladies, please drop me an email and let me know how to get your prizes to you.

It seems a little anti-climactic, not being able to link to my new blog. Unfortunately, I still need to finish some things on the new site. As I always say, anything worth doing is worth overdoing and overdoing some more, and then stressing out about and re-doing. I'll have it up and running some time next week and, of course, you'll all be the first to know. Just as soon as I figure out how to turn off the Blogger part of my brain so I can learn how Typepad works.

Thanks again for all your support! Cookies for everyone!

(yeah, don't think I won't work that into my new blog somehow.)


*When picking the name of the blog I had to take into consideration the tone I was trying to establish as well as search engine hits. As much as I wanted to incorporate a line like "Yo, where my bitches at" I figured it would send the wrong message and bring some less than desirable characters to my site. I already get the occasional hit from people searching for "doggie style" and "dog sex". Eeew.