Soboclassifieds

>A blog sage once said, “Never discuss work on your blog.” Since that ‘sage’ probably had more than five people reading hers and since I never give the address out to clients…

WORK: Here come da flood. Seriously. We just took on a project of enormous proportions. It could be one of the biggest and most comprehensive we’ve had in our three years of existence. Very cool. Now we just need to figure out how to delegate some pieces/parts. (I am very bad at delegating.) But for the time being, there’s not much to hand off. It’s all upstairs in the vault for the b-partner and me both. (We’re still in the kick off and brainstorm phase.) And so last week we had our first big meeting with the client. We came prepared with an official-looking document. I even spent the day before researching copyright law. (My summation was reviewed by a staff attorney who actually agreed with my conclusions. Shocker. I knew I should have taken the LSAT.) You’re getting the picture here, right? Mama goes corporate. Tries to shake off the baby poo and act like I know a thing or too. And as we are talking — meeting going well — I start to say “brainstorm” and it comes out “breastfeed.” Oh my. The good news is that we got the project anyway. Won it over two other agencies in fact. So there. Mamas can sling hash and bring home some cash. (What is up with my rhyming today?)

NON-WORK: We just made it through the busiest Memorial Day weekend on record. Friday was the big pasta dinner at Miss 6’s school. The grand finale to fitness club. We made a gallon of sauce and Miss 6 won a medal. She’s slept with it every night since.

Then Saturday was…are you ready for this?…the last Saturday morning ballet class. Yes. It’s true. Miss 6 has her recital this coming up weekend. So we could have weekends with nowhere to be. (Ha.) After the last ballet class, we met our New Orleans friends at the Creek Festival. (They were in town with their five kids for the weekend.) Then it was back home for a birthday party for the youngest offspring of Neighbor Jane. I took the blender over and we had pina coladas while a magician pulled things out of his a**.

Sunday it was back downtown for more festival festivities with the NOs. (Did I mention that they have five kids?) We hit Whole Foods on the way home and spent the rest of the afternoon watching Miss 6 do laps on her bike.

Monday was the Bolder Boulder. (For non-townies, this is Boulder’s biggest event of the year. A 10K/6.2 mile race that brought in over 50,000 participants this year.) For a mere $35 you get a full day of torture. And a number to pin to your chest. This year they threw in a chip to strap to your foot. Next year I am hoping for a hat with built in GPS tracking. The shoe chips didn’t work right, meaning thousands of Boulder’s most anal and avid athletes had to wait a whole two days to get their race times. For us, we were lucky to get ourselves, Beanie, Miss 6 and her friend, Jamesy (one of the NO 5), into the stadium before the parachutists. Walking a race that brings out the competitive nature in the most casual runners can be a hoot. I’ll admit to being one of the crazy racers over the years. But this year it was all about a day with the family, plus one. As it turned out, the kiddos did great and Beanie slept the whole time. There was no torture to be had. At least until we crossed the finish line and the much anticipated snack bags had run out. But we had our memories…the running banana, the cartwheel guy, the belly dancers, the Elvis impersonators, Miss Tutu, and the many water gun squirts and high fives along the way. We topped it off with our annual trip to Red Robin with TRPL TRBL and fam. Followed by a party at Purse Girl’s house. Oh yes. Fun to be had by all. (And I ended up buying yet another Ric Rac. I now own three. I’m a Ric Rac Ho.)

Then, yesterday a guy showed up in a white coat to take my blood. Three vials. Then he asked me to suck on this swab for two whole minutes. In exchange I got a signed letter to mail in and collect $20. And the knowledge that by handing over my bodily fluids, I could be helping rid the world of West Nile Virus. I also found out that my extreme fatigue may not just be extreme fatigue. It is probably the virus. Now I have the ultimate excuse to nap at will. Life is good.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: 16 Military Wives. The Decemberists. …if America says it’s so. It’s so.

>I should be preparing for a big meeting tomorrow, but no. Why get work done when there are oh-so many options available for procrastination?

First up, let me address West Nile Virus. It’s a serious disease. One bite from the wrong insect and you die. (Or sort of.) I am the exception to that. Four years ago I was sitting outside, licking my wounds after a particularly brutal critique of my writing — drinking wine, whining to the hubby, and minding my own business when WHAM! Damn mosquito. A lot of my Boulder friends protested and said that it “HAD to have happened during the Wyoming camping trip.” That’s just self-preservation, people. It happened —TO ME — right in my own backyard. And I’m not even one of those particularly delectable types that gets singled out by the aforementioned insect…so there.

Bottom line is, I was feeling particularly vulnerable at that moment and the damned thing sensed it and attacked. I didn’t even know until three days later when I had flu aches/dizziness and then got a belly rash. The hubby, who always remains calm in the face of anything (I do check his pulse regularly), freaked. His eyes flew open into large-saucer-size as he reached for the phone. “You’re going to the doctor. NOW.” (He NEVER speaks in capital letters, so I knew he was serious.)

I should also explain that this was back when the virus had not struck many and was mostly honing in on eliminating the weak and infirm. Which I wasn’t. So the doctor thought I had rubella. German measles. Like someone from King Arthur’s freakin’ court or something. But I knew not since I had been vaccinated. Next I hear them conferring in the hallway, “It could be HIV. We should test for that.” I’m thinking, oh my god, poor dude in the next room. Has the Big A. Then they open MY door and walk in. Sh**. And the questions start: “Is it possible that you have HIV?” “No! I’ve been married for almost 10 years!” “Well is it possible that your husband could have contracted it OUTSIDE of the marriage?” “So, wait, are you telling me that you think I have AIDS and that my husband is cheating on me?” “Possibly. But mostly we’re telling you that you have West Nile Virus and that just doesn’t happen to people who aren’t immuno-suppressed.”

By the time I left there, tracked down the hubby and Miss 6 (Miss 2 at the time) at the park, I was having a hard time breathing through sobs. Once the hubby had a moment to process it all, he let me know — in no uncertain terms — that he had been 100% faithful. And then, “West Nile Virus? What the hell?” Now breathing normally again, I went on to explain that in between the shock and awe campaign waged by the good doc and his staff, they had made it clear that I was to severely limit my activity level. They knew better than to suggest that I miss James Taylor at Red Rocks that night, but other than that I would be limited to ONE BIG THING per day — like walking to the kitchen — and that was it. Otherwise, my mild-ish form could turn worse and I’d die. And since we had officially ruled out AIDS as the cause, I was hoping to have a go at living a bit longer. So we stocked up on books and the hubby manned the girlie while I stayed in bed. For THREE WEEKS. I was officially Typhoid Mary. And it was freakish.

It was so long ago now that I barely remember it all. Except on rainy days like today when the tricky ‘West Nile Finger’ starts to ache. Then I go, Oh Yea. But just that one lonely digit is my reminder of what could have been. That and the phone calls I keep getting from researchers. First came the CDC. Then there was some local group. Now, for what’s been well over a year, it’s the University of Texas at San Antonio. They started calling before I even knew I was pregnant and after various missteps and missed messages, I’m eight months post-partum and they were JUST coming to do the blood draw today. The nurse called to confirm and to make sure I had the kit they sent — OVER A YEAR AGO. Who the hell keeps stuff like that just lying around for years on end? Am I right? So the lab was called off while they send another one. By the time it’s all said and done, my blog will have been picked up by a big publisher and I’ll have my life running on the big screen across the U.S. (and I will have had to move to either Manhattan or Hollywood to be closer to the powers that be.) Seriously, the odds for completing this test appear to be about the same as for either of those scenarios ever happening…

And now I am watching more lightning out of my window — this after the house around the corner was struck on Monday. Last week a bear was prowling the neighborhood and before that was the mountain lion pack that had Miss 6’s school on lockdown. The b-partner says, “Just add in the endless feet of snow that never got cleared off of your street this winter and it’s starting to look like you need to move to the mountains just to get away from it all!” She has a point. And the people who live up there actually CHOOSE that life.

I am nearly bursting with pride. Miss 6 won the Principal’s Award this week for “the lovely and thoughtful way she tells us about her life in her writing.” I wonder if I should just let her take over the blog. Call it a day. Then when those book and movie deals come pouring in, she can quit school and do the book tour while I stay home and savor the quiet. (Okay, that really was a joke.)

So from pride to pissed, I also have to mention that one of Miss 6’s best friends (italics used for sarcasm) told her, “Tell your mom that I said if you wear your Crocs again, I am going to kill you.” How’s that for getting an education. I said, “You tell HER that your mom said YOU will wear whatever you WANT to wear.” That’s after I told Miss 6 that I had sent an e-mail to the police. (I didn’t.) I admit to not really knowing what to do. I thought I had at least until middle school before Mean Girls happened.

Lions and tigers and bears and bullies and lightning and mosquitos…oh my!

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Hey There Delilah. Plain White T’s. 1000 miles seems pretty far, but they’ve got planes and trains and cars.

>I am seriously sleep-deprived. And it appears that — at least for the time being — my mother’s once seemingly imminent divorce ain’t happenin’ — so that leaves me high and dry in the “help is on its way” department. And, as always, it’s all about me. Even if it means my parents’ marriage has to end just so I can get some sleep. Seriously. (Sorry Poppy ☺.)

My children just don’t get it. You DO NOT wake up the parents before FIVE A.M. under ANY circumstances. (Save maybe a severed limb. And even then it depends which one.) And Beanie just keeps using that tired old “but I’m just a baby” excuse and enough is enough. I mean, really.

The reality is, I do feel bad for the little bundle. Teeth-growing is serious business. But she lulled us into a state of “we have it made” and we were getting used to it. Now she’s pulled the rug out from under us and — lo and behold — there was an abyss under it that we fell straight into. The hubby at least had the sense to take two business trips back-to-back so he could enjoy some five-star peace and quiet during the onslaught. It appears that I am just too stupid to have chosen a career that I have to travel for. But that Chicago blog conference is looking more and more enticing every moment. And surely there’s something shakin’ in the ad world that I just shouldn’t miss too, right?

Waaa me. Some evenings I do feel like giving in and having a full-blown Lucille Ball-esque bawling session. “Ay Loooss-eee! I’m HOO-OHMMME!

Today wasn’t Saturday. But it was. Here’s the deal. On the real Saturday I woke up to the Beanie alarm just in time to grab my latte and vacate the premises. I headed to Denver to work at the Ballpark Market with Jewelry Jane (aka Neighbor Jane). We met in the driveway at 5:45 a.m. (almost like sleeping in!) to get downtown in time to set up and be ready for the early bird looky-lous. Instead we were surrounded by some street-weary homeless chaps looking for breakfast. Once they got the message that we had no bacon to spare, we had a fun day outside selling JJ’s creations. (Her website will be live again soon, so keep checking.) And we made friends with the booth next door: Bruz Wear®. A very cool product with a noble cause.

These markets are a whole sub-culture. There was crazy gay guy yelling random things, cracking jokes and selling some sweet vintage cruiser bikes. There was the taco vendor circulating with rubber bulb-style clown hooter horn. There was the guy strolling the booths with a South American iguana on his shoulder — making me acutely aware of my reptile phobia when I suddenly couldn’t breathe. I also saw a guy wearing an ATF hat and I quickly looked away. It couldn’t be, could it?

Everyone had a story to tell — including the cute little man wearing the Leinenkugel hat who said, “Oh, I collect beer hats.” “Oh really?” JJ and I replied — thinking at his age the collection would be fairly extensive. “Oh yea. I have a Coors one AND a Budweiser one too!” Well geez already.

I came home and collapsed into an out-and-out fall-asleep-and-drool-on-myself slumber. We didn’t even make it to our friends’ BBQ. We ordered take out Thai and planted our behinds on the couch after the kiddos were down.

And after that lengthy ramble I almost forgot: the Sunday that was Saturday (kind of). So this morning, after being awoken to loud neighbors in driveway at 3:30 a.m., we were awoken again to screaming-mimi-Beanie at 4:30 a.m. (I have to add in the ‘a.m.s’ to make my point.) We opted for the pat-down-we’re-here-for-you-but-not-picking-you-up strategy. Enough IS enough. The bad news is that although the bean went back to sleep, Miss 6 did not. She went to the guest room bed only to come back into our room 10 minutes later to “check the clock.” And then 5 or so minutes after that had to loudly slam open the toilet seat to use the bathroom that’s closest to us. So it wasn’t long before she and the hubby were exchanging words…with escalating volume. “Daddy! I KNOW YOU LOVE BEANIE MORE THAN ME!!!” And, of course, none of this could wait until after the sun was up or, say, when she was 25 and seeing a therapist.

As she was screaming loudest, Beanie took one look at her and let out her baby-coo-laughy, to which Miss 6 responded indignantly, “Beanie! IT’S NOT FUNNY!”

So stressed out Saturday became Sunday this weekend and after some rounds of screaming and door slamming and my highly rational “SHUT IT!” at full volume, we packed up and went to breakfast at Southside Walnut. Walking and laughing on the way like we were the freakin’ Cleavers. If only.

We saw Purse Girl on the way home and she’s taking Ric Rac to Sweet William next weekend. To market, to market…and now I’m all an insider and sh**…

Next up: I’m a West Nile LAB RAT.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: The Rockafeller Skank. Fatboy Slim. Check it out now. The funk soul brother. Even endless repetition has a certain appeal at times.

>That stupid t-shirt: “Some days I wake up grumpy, some days I let her sleep” keeps running through my head. I think it’s because I didn’t let grumpy sleep. Grumpy doesn’t get to sleep. Grumpy must remain in a perpetual state of sleepless-induced grumpiness until, a) all of the children go somewhere for the weekend, or b) they grow up and go to college.

Don’t mind me. I may have been pooping butterflies last week and all with hubby away, but this week I’m just pissed. Even the Coronas at the park while the kids climbed a very tall tree and a cop kept walking by didn’t alleviate it. And when I said, “Screw it” to trying to be miss happy homemaker and went for frozen mac-n-cheese (Miss 6) and granola (me) for dinner (it’s organic!) I felt worse. Tonight I opted for ravioli. The fresh out of the bag variety. Mmm. Mmm. Good.

Beanie ain’t happy. And if Beanie ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. She’s still the sweetest little bundle, but even bundles grow teeth. And teeth-making makes for a crabby, red-rashed little Bean. That particular Bean variety doesn’t seem to sleep or do much besides grow more rash. It’s giving me one too. In my brain.

The best news I have is that the training started for real today. After not running for a year and a half, I hit the trail and ran four miles. Yee-ha.

And besides that and the fact that Bubble Girl appears to have sprouted wings and is now flying around on her happiness cloud, my only other stuff involves the family vault. Dare I? I think I do…

First, the MIL keeps calling about a family member’s wedding. The hubby finally called her back to remind her that we are the ONLY ones in the hubby’s immediate family that must fly to said wedding AND we are the ONLY ones with an infant. If we flew to the wedding (it takes a full 12-hour day), we would then have to drive eight hours south (with the infant and Miss 6) to complete our visit. I don’t know about you, but that is one particular brand of torture I aim to opt out of. While it would be great to see the fam at the big event, we do have an infant…remember? So amid increasing pressure to bring the infant east for the big meet-n-greet, we are opting out of adding additional torture to the process. Fun times. (The MIL is disappointed, but now understands. She just needed a little memory jog. ☺)

Then there’s my mom. Happily married for over 20 years and thinking she’s in the home stretch. When all of a sudden, my step-dad buys a Harley. And appears to be riding off into the sunset — alone. I’m not sure where Poppy has gone. He’s there, but not. I think aliens came and replaced his brain. Or he’s been out in the southern sun too long…

AND what would life be without the ATF? Two agents knocked on my 86-year-old grandmother’s door last week. “Hello. We are with the ATF.” “What does ATF stand for?” “Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.” “Well, I don’t smoke any more, but I do take an occasional drink.” “We aren’t here for you.” They were, however, there for my father. The one who died almost three years ago. He had apparently been in possession of a Claymore Mine at some point. They wanted to make sure it had been properly disposed of and that my grandmother wasn’t using it as a doorstop. (She wasn’t.)

And that last tidbit is simply a stand-alone-think-it-through-for-yourself glimpse into my family. I am so lucky that I have them to keep me from slipping away into the family-with-two-kids-a-dog-and-a-cat-suburban-doldrums…

Now grumpy is going to bed. You’d better not wake me up, hear?

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Cupid’s Chokehold/Breakfast in America. Gym Class Heroes. She’s got her very own ringtone. If that ain’t love, I don’t know what love is.

>By Miss Six
In Honor of Mother’s Day

I am wanting to be a Golden Retriever dog.
I wonder about how trees make food.
I hear my baby sister crying.
I see my dog getting up in the plant box[es].
I want a lot of different kinds of cheese.
I am wanting to be a white Lab.
I pretend to be Cinderella.
I feel happy when I play with my mom and dad and baby sister.
I like to touch my cat and my dog.
I worry about my mom and dad dying.
I cry when I get hurt.
I am wanting to be a Golden Retriever.
I understand that there are different cities.
I say “YES!” when I get my way.
I dream of my friends.
I try hard at new things.
I hope that I see my Grandmas soon.
I am wanting for the world to stay safe.
I am loving my cat and dog.
I am [Miss 6].

Footnotes from Mom:
1) First impression upon reading, “Oh! My heart!”
2) Then, upon closer inspection, “Seriously? CINDERELLA?”
3) And on the third time through, “Uh-oh. She has my ‘death fixation thing’. Oops.”

Happy Day O’ the Moms. I’m blogging and sipping bellinis. Oh yea.

TODAY THEME SONG: The one that’s in my heart from what I’m wearing around my neck. The hubby shoots AND scores. Jewelry is ALWAYS a good thing… ☺

>It’s time for me to eat some humble pie. And I’d really prefer apple. I got on that whole grupster kick and spent way too many hours last weekend researching the topic. I’m like that. Dangle a pop culture carrot and I’m off — never to return. So I read articles and blogs, watched videos, downloaded music…(I wonder if this all makes me a PSYCHO-anal-ist?) Now, after embarking on an immersion course in grubsterism, I’ve emerged with a reality check in hand. I’ll never be either a) cool enough, or, b) rich enough. It apparently takes a lot of free time and designer clothing (read: dinero) to be in that scene. I had myself all pegged in because I do share an affinity for hip clothes and trendiness. I also agree that Barney should be hung up by his purple-polka-dot tail. At our house, we’ve found common ground with Dan Zanes and the Black Eyed Peas, so why should I subject myself or those two girls of mine to Wiggles? I also hate Barbie, Disney princesses, Bratz and pretty much anything else that involves massive amounts of merchandising and/or self-esteem efface-ment with matching happy meals at Mickey D’s (hate Mickey D’s too – but for other reasons). I also hate flashing tennis shoes with superheros or Hello Kitty. And I just don’t see why they have to be intrinsic to your life when you have kids. So that’s where I found myself feeling ‘one’ with this new sub-parent group. My baby has a black AC/DC t-shirt (thanks, Tinners! And it actually reads AB/CD with the lightning bolt in the center.). Miss 6 has one with a skull that she LOVES, and why not?

So let me backtrack as I step off my soapbox. I cannot say, unequivocally, that I will never have any of this stuff in my house. Gifts are received and there’s no way around it. And I have this sneaking suspicion that little Beanie is going to have more than one trick up her sleeve. Which probably means screaming hissy fits in Target if she doesn’t get the damn princess shoes or whatever. I’m not totally stupid and naïve. I just like to think that I’ll do what I can to maintain my own identity while raising girls who are confident and don’t think big boobs get you through medical school.

If that makes me a grubster, then send me a check and I’ll sit around at any coffee shop you tell me to. And the Decemberists are a REALLY good band. So I guess the research wasn’t all for naught.

PS: The hubby has been away this week and I didn’t feel the need to rant even once. Aren’t you proud? I do feel compelled to add, however, that Beanie woke me up at 4:53 a.m. this morning and then spit up all over me at Costco. Luckily I was already in the process of storming out because they don’t take check cards. (And I couldn’t remember my PIN. Damn.) I promptly ran head-on into TRPL TRBL who offered me her checkbook. But I was too miffed and tired to queue up again. So while it hasn’t been all tulips and butterflies, Ava the neurotic hasn’t reared her ugly head once. Hip-hip-hooray.

I had a mom’s playdate after fitness club yesterday and Purse Girl is getting some big attention for her fun bags. Fresh Produce carries them already and they seem to be making their way into the Hollywood scene. I told her to remember the little people…very cool stuff happening for another mom trying to get it done. See for yourself: Ric Rac Designs. I am so happy for her.

Next weekend I’ll be with Neighbor Jane at the Ballpark Market in Denver. I am helping her man a booth there full of her great jewelry (see link: Get jeweled ). It’s supposed to be a really funky, Euro-style market. Should be tons of fun and I hope she’s a smashing success!

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Shine a Light. Wolf Parade. C’mon. All the grubsters are doin’ it.

>I started writing a new post a couple of days ago and I am just getting around to finishing it up. Life. It really gets in the way of my blogging habit. So here are a couple of updates to what’s below: Client concepts were presented yesterday and were very well received (yes!). We watched Charlotte’s Web last night and Miss 6 cried when she died (my heart!). Nanners came over for a play date after school and when her dad come to pick her up Miss 6 told him that she had taken her home already. In her car. And, thanks to my mom, I am now obsessed with Topo Ranch. I just ordered a red hooded sweatshirt with a winged topo on front. Just what I needed, right? AND I had coffee with Girl Friday yesterday which lead to my obsession with her necklace from Angie Starr. (I hope she doesn’t mind that I nicknamed her already ☺.)

So now that I have waxed not-so-poetically about my shameless fixation on material possessions, does this make me a grupster? And if I call myself one, does that mean I’m not cool enough to actually be one? I heard about them on the Today Show (wait for the opening ad) this week and while I take exception to the selfish component of this latest parenting label, I do agree that it’s okay to have an identity AND be a parent. And there’s nothing wrong with applying a little fashion sense and real music to both…so there.

And now, back to your regularly scheduled program:

Excerpts from a Thursday night
I may have just been called a dictator. By two members of my household. And you can probably guess which two. (All Beanie does these days is smile and laugh with that two-fangled mouthie. Her four teeth consist of the two front bottom ones and the top two fangs. Quite a sight.)

In my defense, things tend to come unglued around here when a deadline looms. Be it school, ballet or bedtime — deadlines send us all hurtling into chaos. Tonight was no exception. Miss 6 thinks “bed time” means “time to dance.” And proceeds to cavort around the house. Trying to squeeze in a boogie down before she beds down. Then it’s a quick attempt to color — which gets the mom kibosh. I decide to give her a toe pinch to send the point home. She responds by thrashing around and hitting her hand on the table. Big crocodile tears. Complete with watching herself cry in the mirror for full effect. Five minutes later we are able to determine that her hand has NOT been severed and that it is STILL time for bed. I say, “Take your clothes and put them in the hamper. Get your socks from the living room too.” To hubby, “Can you PLEASE brush her teeth?” (Note: I DID say please.) Next thing I know, Miss 6 is standing in braced attention and hubby is saying, “Jeesh, who’s the drill sergeant?” Translated: Someone’s on her throne again. Well. I say to Miss 6, “Good job, soldier. Dismissed.” She salutes and is off to bed. To hubby, “Don’t make me kick your ass.”

I hiked today. The knee came too. The b-partner and I decided that we needed nature’s inspiration to conduct our brainstorming session. When she left, she said, “We should do this more often. I guess winter got in the way.” “But it hasn’t been winter for THREE SOLID YEARS.” “No, I guess not.” Here’s to the next three (and some) being full of hikes and inspiration on the dusty (or muddy!) trail. We got three great concepts ready to present tomorrow. So there.

Did I mention that left hand turn client took a swift exit? I artfully composed an e-mail and that was the end of that. Wow. They took it rather well and we haven’t heard word one since. I think: learning experience. But haven’t I learned enough by now? Really.

Miss 6 came home this week regaling me with stories of a bully on the playground. I thought: What? In kindergarten? Apparently so. Two first grade boys told her and her friends that they were playing in THEIR area. So I asked, “What’d you do?” “I handled it Mom.” Well okay then.

Hubby makes pizza dough while I write. Girlies tucked in. Grey’s tonight. Even though the wind is a’ blowin’ outside, all is right with the world. And so it is.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Blower’s Daughter. Damien Rice. We’ll both forget the breeze. Most of the time.

>I just got an e-mail from my cousin (which I haven’t responded to yet — sorry E!) about the upcoming girls’ weekend in my hometown. The girl cousins and respective aunts are gathering for a weekend of what I’m sure will be inebriation and gossip. Damn I wish I was going. Too bad for me that I am the only, repeat: ONLY, one of the group who lives more than a two hours’ drive away. (Okay, ONE boy cousin lives with his family in OKC. But he’s in the FBI and is a BOY. So he can’t participate even if he wanted to. Besides, he might be forced to do a take down if things get out of hand — en familia.) I decided that rather than be an active participant (READ: HUGE hangover), it would be more fun to be able to watch it all from a web cam. Now I just need to figure out how to have one installed in my aunt’s house without anyone’s knowledge. Hmmm…

After over a month of a near standstill with work (yes, I was getting a bit worried), things have suddenly eclipsed warp speed. It’s a good thing. But it doesn’t bode so well for the blog. Having a 7-month-old with no sitter has seemed so doable up ‘til now. I can’t help but wonder if it was so easy because I wasn’t all that busy. The next couple of months will be a big test. Especially since the hubby now has to be out of town for half of May. THIS time I’m not even stressed about it. And I am determined not to be. But, again, everything has been simplified by that lack of work thing. My personal traffic sign has already started flashing: Fun times ahead.

I’m afraid to say it, but the knee seems normal. I even went so far as to register for the marathon. Hell, I’ve cancelled two years running — what’s one more year and one more $150? (Which I just may do in spite of the hubby’s bear down that, “Enough is enough. Run the damn thing already.”) Instead, I’ll ignore him and listen to the wisdom of the knee and see how it goes. The good news is that I was able to run some on Monday with Miss 6 during fitness club. For some reason she only wanted to run during the UPHILLS. Yes, we are opposites in more ways than one. And SHE wasn’t pushing an umpteen pound jog stroller with a beanie inside. I think I’ll hand it over tomorrow. ☺

The girls gathered again last week at Spark Plug’s house. It was one of those nights, but I was in surprisingly good shape the next day. Now that the body has had ample opportunity to adjust to no gall bladder, it’s amazing what I can accomplish! The wine was good, the take out Chinese perfect and the hot tub even better. Maybe I finally figured out how to pace myself. Or maybe my tolerance has just improved due to overuse. ☺

The weekend was melt down free. (I’m in shock too.) We survived a Friday night out at The West End with both girlies. We made it to ballet on Saturday with time to spare. The stroller was repaired at NO CHARGE. (Love Little Mountain!) I went to Target and escaped for under a hun-dy. (That’s a bona fide miracle.) Then, we had dinner with Nanners and her family at their house Saturday night. And since the outing came with built-in-older-sister-babysitters, we were set. The wine flowed along with the convo, Beanie went down in the pack-n-play without a hitch and Miss 6 and Nanners giggled themselves to sleep well before 9. Another miraculous evening to be had by all. (Again, wives both woke up alert — hubbies were not so lucky.) Our Sunday was mellow and topped off by celebrating the 2nd b-day of True Blue’s 3rd. Weekend comes to a close with girls in bed on time. Now THAT is a successful weekend.

WAIT! Did I mention that I’m scared to breathe? Things don’t just go smoothly for me and I get nervous when life flows too well. To make myself feel better, I’m going to assume that the work increase will be hell and I’ll be back to complaining in no time. AND I’ll keep obsessing about how to decrease my carbon footprint and how I can make a living only by writing this blog. (Anyone looking for ad space?) That should keep me going for at least a couple of days. Or until that record-scratching-sound happens again. ☺

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Kamera. Wilco. In celebration of their upcoming CD release on May 15th.