and now for something completely different

if I was a better drunk Iʻd be an alcoholic

But enough about me, how have YOU been?

Wait…whatʻs that you say? Where have I been? What happened to all the sporadic and relatively witty banter? Why did I stop throwing all my words at you? Iʻm not sure I have a satisfactorily clever answer for that folks. Iʻve never been what youʻd call “good” at time management. Iʻm so what-youʻd-call “not good” with time management, that a whopping 4 years (and then some) has gone by with my poor little neglected blog just collecting dust in itʻs itsy bitsy corner of the web. Or net. Or whatever the youngsters are calling it these days.

So. Thereʻs that.

Yeah, after four years away Iʻm not really sure how to start out. I mean, although Iʻm relatively sure that not one was invested enough in my silly little blog to really care that I abandon it for FOUR FUCKING YEARS!!!, I do still feel some shred of responsibility toward the casual peruser of the blogosphere, should they land here for whatever cosmically fated reason, and feel like I should have a least SOMETHING interesting for them to read.

Fuckit. Iʻm out of practice. And I left my wit in my other jeans. Arenʻt blogs a “read-at-your-own-risk” proposition anyway?


at least there’s no asbestos…

… I mean, I think there’s no asbestos, they told me there was no asbestos, but what the hell is with all the cobwebs and why does all this shit keep falling on my head?

For the last three days, I have been slaving away trying to make my basement less of a Fear Factor event and more of a usable space so that my brand new shiny washer and dryer might have a home to call their own. Now, in order to understand the horrificness of my daunting task, there are a couple of things you need to know. Like the fact that the house is 110 years old, has a cinderblock foundation which, in the room in question, is pepto bismal pink and starting to shed because, well, it’s 110 years old, crammed full of miscellaneous crap (mostly belonging to The Husband because he is a non-un-packer and an un-puter-awayer; he’s a throw-it-in-the-cornerer), and hasn’t really been used for anything but storage and objectified disdain  for the last 5 years. And then there are the cobwebs. Cobwebs so thick and impressive they rival the creepiest halloween decorated heeby-jeeby houses. They cover the open beams and ductwork, cling to the walls, mix with the piles of dust and pinkness on the floor that used to be the walls, mingle with miscellaneous wires and pipes… you get the general idea. Feel free to twitch at anytime here, or throw up, or, you know, go take a shower to wash off the icky feelings I’ve just created for you (you’re welcome).

And so I have been shopvacing, swiffering, brooming, twitching and feeling nauseous, sweeping, and vacuuming from exposed beams to crumbling floor tiles. But you know, now that it’s all habitable and stuff, all I can think is “What if the deliverymen decide that they can’t fit the damn things down the stairs?” It’s a tight fit, I mean a REALLY REALLY tight fit, but if they take them out of the box, and they’re, you know, capable, I don’t see why a 27-inch appliance can’t fit through a 28-inch doorway. And yet… I fear my dream of bright shiny washing and drying in a room where I can also fold and iron may be thwarted by my house, which does, as we have established time and time again, hate me.

how do I love thee, mommyhood… let me count the ways (edited)

… but the experiment is only asking for five so,  I won’t be needing the abacus for this one.

While I was avoiding the laundry in the hallway that seems to slowly be growing sentient, and possibly carnivorous, I finally sat down and caught up on a few of my favorite blogs.

 –In regards to the laundry, I’ve developed a new theory that, given a high enough concentration of socks and other foot apparel, the pile of dirty clothes will develop motility and move itself into the washing machine. Consequently, I’ll be picking up some socks later tonight for the kids to wear to school tomorrow.

As I was saying, when I hit the end of one of my favorite blogs, there was a little note asking interested mommybloggers to participate in this rather expansive experiment of co-ordinating a global playdate: Around the World in 80 Clicks.


My kids would so cheat on me with Her Bad Mother. I mean, okay, wow. I have trouble coordinating a playdate with the kid down the block. But this I think I could actually do, since it doesn’t require me to magically produce some play space in our closet-sized house, nor do I have to clean up the oatmeal that has been drying on the floor/wall/table for the last (insert a number – ANY number) days. All I need to provide is a list of five things I love about being a mom. That, I think I can handle. So off we go!

  • I love that my kids make me laugh so hard I lose my breath and my eyes tear up when I tell my mom about whatever it was they said/did over the phone. And that she does the same.


  • I love how my baby boy, who is not so much a baby these days, crawls into my lap when he’s sad and says “I want to go home, mom,” when we’re sitting on the sofa in the middle of our own living room. Because I know exactly how he feels, and nobody else has ever empathized with me with the exact same words I feel.
  • I love that I now have an excuse for the stretch-marks I’ve had since junior high. The scars of motherhood – I came pre-marked. A little odd, I know, but there it is.
  • I love knowing that these two amazing little people are in the world and that I had a hand in their making. I know that MY world is much more Technicolor for their being in it, and from what I hear, they seem to have the same effect on other people, too. I feel like the world in general may be a little bit better for the addition of these two amazing, beautiful, brilliant, as yet untainted little bits. And if I can love them the way they need to be loved, without trying to compensate for what I didn’t get when I was little, if I can not try to undo my childhood knots through their years, then these amazing little people might just grow up to be incredible adults – the kind who really make a difference. And I love that I will be a part of that.


  • And most of all, very most of all, I love how the tears come unbidden when       I try to hold all of that love in my heart. The love I have for them, from them, and the strange, magical combination of the two that only mothers can feel, even if we don’t quite understand it. I am theirs, and they are mine, even if my dominant genes stepped aside and let the recessive blond hair and blue eyes run away with the show so that they look nothing like me. And no matter how much we dislike each other, no matter who says what, or who made who cry, I am their mother, they are my children, and we will claim each other. Always.


Although, The Girl does really like her daddy

And now, as per experiment instructions, here’s a link to another one of my favorite mommybloggers, this one from across the pond: whoopee 
And domestically, in sunny CA: Girl’s Gone Child