Leading off with the TMI news of the day, it's that time of the month and not only do I feel compelled to eat everything within arm's reach, coincidentally none of my pants seem to fit.

So I'm crabby. Because the pants I wanted to wear this morning looked like sausage casings. And I dreamed incessantly about a gay couple down the street throwing out perfectly good bar stools because they'd gone out of style, and I really wanted them to give me their old bar stools, but they told me I wasn't cool enough to pull them off. Instead, they gave me a chair shaped like a high-heeled hooker shoe. So here I am, in fat pants, feeling bloated, dissed, and unworthy of nice bar furniture.

But thankfully today is not about me! It's happy-birthday-day to my sweet husband, the one who makes being married new and fun every day, who laughs at the same twisted humor I do, and talks to me about important stuff like feelings and ideas. He's the kind of dad other kids wish they had. His girls always come first, and you can see it in his eyes how much they mean to him, and how he'd do anything to make sure they grow into beautiful, smart, happy human beings.

He also has this annoying knack of guessing what his presents are with spooky accuracy, or wheedling the secrets out of me. This year is no exception. But I think I've kept him in the dark on at least one thing. I hope he at least acts surprised.

Tonight is dinner at Bandana's ("We hand rub all our meats!") followed by Angel cake, as Gert calls it, and cool whip. Draw your own conclusions.

In the meantime, birthday boy has tagged this blog for its first ever Meme:

Immediately following there is a list of different occupations. You must select at least 5 of them (feel free to select more). You may add more if you like to your list before you pass it on (after you select 5 of the items as it was passed to you). Each one begins with "If I could be..." Of the 5 you selected, you are to finish each phrase with what you would do as a member of that profession. For example, if the selected occupation was "pirate" you might take the phrase "If I could be a pirate..." and add to it "I would sail the 7 Seas, dating lasses from around the worlde." See how easy that is? Here's the list:

If I could be a scientist...
If I could be a farmer...
If I could be a musician...
If I could be a doctor...
If I could be a painter...
If I could be a gardener...
If I could be a missionary...
If I could be a chef...
If I could be an architect...
If I could be a linguist...
If I could be a psychologist...
If I could be a librarian...
If I could be an athlete...
If I could be a lawyer...
If I could be an innkeeper...
If I could be a professor...
If I could be a writer...
If I could be a llama-rider...
If I could be a bonnie pirate...
If I could be an astronaut...

My answers:

If I could be a linguist... I would have done the college professor who taught the classes, because lordy was he hot. In a patched-jacket, unkempt, intellectual, language-wrangling sort of way. See, you think I'm kidding but I'm not.

If I could be a gardener... I'd be able to figure out a better method for starting seeds than setting them out in trays of dirt on the windowsill of my bedroom where my cat might easily mistake it for a place to take a crap. Because, you know, there ain't nothing like crapping in front of a window when the opportunity presents itself.

If I could be an athlete... I'd want to be the sort of creepy, circus-performer type of person who can bend over backwards and stick his or her out head between his or her knees.

If I could be a librarian… I would wander around all day opening books at random and smelling them. Mmm, bookish, inky, musty, papery, nostalgic smell. Let someone else reshelve them, my eyes are too crossed from lack of proper oxygen.

If I could be a scientist... I'd find a way to bottle that bookish smell and market it to English majors and linguists as an aphrodisiac.

In return, I shall tag one of my favorite people whom I selfishly declare don't post nearly often enough: Momma-YaYa.

And I would also tag Carol if she had a blog, but as far as I know she does not, and she should, because she has interesting things to say. If Carol were to start a blog, the above material would make an excellent first post… Just sayin.

I am going to refrain from selfishly tagging a certain very pregnant person because you don't want to do anything to irritate a person who would rather be having a baby than doing just about anything at the moment.

Thank you, and good night.

It's okay, I'm still alive!

But I'm sure you knew that, because if you read Gary's site you surely know that he wouldn't be talking about a zebra penis if his wife had just checked out. Not right away, at least.

I'm not going to say anything about the new pope, because no matter how unCatholic a person may be, it's just not right to mention any religious leader, including Benedict XVI, in the same post as a zebra penis. The fact that I have just done so is merely my own little "score one" for the altar boys. End of nondiscussion.

I was brought up Catholic, and I attended 12 years of Catholic school. When I think about how much money my parents spent on tuition they couldn't afford, it makes me sad. They really couldn't afford it. We were always in debt, and I went to school with a bunch of stupid rich kids who made me feel like crap for wearing K-Mart tennis shoes with my plaid uniform. And they dragged us to church every morning where the other kids would laugh at anyone who even half-assed participated in the service. I went to 3 different Catholic grade schools and Catholic high school, and the climate was the same. It was cold, oppressive, cliquish, and uncaring. Anyone who had a problem fitting in or doing well academically was made to feel like they were the problem.

I'm sure my parents are still paying off that education, and I'm still trying to feel okay about myself.

Every time I hear anyone with a conservative political agenda talk enthusiastically about the "Catholic youth" I feel a little bit like throwing up. But I guess that's just me.

We met with our friends at Alternative Mortgage Solutions (highly recommended) yesterday to see about refinancing our house. Gathering up all the pay stubs, tax returns, and such brought back all the horrible, heart-palpitating anxiety of two years ago when we were buying our first house and trying to keep the deal from falling through two days before closing due to sudden, complicated financial circumstances.

The preliminary stuff went smoothly, and we brought up the idea of paying off a few bills with the equity in our house, depending on what it might reappraise for. The loan we were investigating would let us borrow up to something like 85% of the equity in the house.

(Just so you know, when I say things like "reappraise" and "equity," I'm totally talking out of my ass.)

I thought to myself, wouldn't it be cool if our house had shot up in value so much that the equity would entirely wipe out our credit card debt? So I started adding up in my head how much the house would need to appraise for.

Turns out, we would need to live in the only eight-story, fourteen-bedroom Victorian mansion on our modest block of suburban split-levels.

Coming back down to reality, I pointed out a few of the nastiest creditors of whom we would definitely like to be rid, and that seemed feasible.

("Feasible" is a word I use only when speaking of financial matters, and I'm not sure why.)

But I'm not even convinced any of this is really going on right now because two days ago I cracked my head on the corner of an open cabinet door. For all I know, I'm lying on the kitchen floor bleeding out of my skull, and all recent events have been a very vivid, mildly unsettling coma dream. And you were there! And you. And you. And Uncle Fred. And little Toto…

I made several life-and-death decisions this past weekend.

Specifically, I spent a lot of time on my knees in the strip of dirt I call a garden, hearing arguments from both sides of the perennial ground cover debate.

I have this weird yet somewhat attractive (if you're into that sort of thing) perennial plant that refuses to give up its territorial hold on a certain spot of land. I've pulled it out, tilled the soil, mulched over it, and no matter what it just keeps coming back. If only the rest of our lawn were so resilient.

Not surprisingly really, with the warm weather we've been having, the damn ground cover has sprouted right up, invited friends, and chilled a few six-packs.

I went in Saturday morning with the mindset that I was going to pull everything (yet again) and really stay on top of it this year. I have a lot of plans for that strip of dirt – tomatoes, peppers, pole beans, cucumbers, and a variety of herbs. We're not set up to accommodate decorative foliage.

As I started mercilessly digging out hunks of earth and roots, I noticed something. Mixed in among the annoyingly persistent greenery were happy little strawberry plants sporting bright yellow blossoms.

So here we had a dilemma. I have an "arrangement" with plants in my garden: I will offer protection in the form of watering and weeding you if you make it worth my while and repay me with some form of produce. The strawberry plants seemed quite amenable to that sort of agreement.

And yet, they were so inextricably interwoven with the other stuff. It would take hours of meticulous work to try to separate them, and knowing that ground cover I'd be out there doing the same thing week after week.

Reason spoke up, reminding me that if I did have to have strawberries I could simply purchase a new flat of them for several bucks, thereby sparing myself the pain and frustration of salvaging these plants.

But I have a soft spot for growing, thriving things (unless you're the ground cover that I've tried unsuccessfully to kill, and then you can just get the F out). I also am irresistibly compelled to root for the underdog. The strawberries gazed up at me hopefully and brandished their fuzzy yellow flowers.

"Oh, all right!" I said. The strawberries erupted in celebration, and I proceeded to spend the next 14 hours squinting at root clusters and cursing.

And now the damn birds will have a nice crop of well-groomed berries to dine on. Trust me, I harbor no false illusions.

I'd like to propose that days of the week be given a different numbering system than weekends. If something is due on April 1 and I get it to you on April 4, for example, it's only one day late. But that's not how it looks on the status report.

This weekend I learned why I am not allowed to bake cakes.

Because I eat them.

I made the cake Friday because Matilda was starting to emerge from marathon puking, and as we were sitting there watching TV, she saw someone pulling a cake out of the oven. And Matilda said, "Cake sounds good!"

When your child has refused to eat or drink anything for three days, as a mother you start to get a little crazy. I pounced on it. "What kind of cake?" I asked. "Do you want icing? What kind of icing? And ice cream? With strawberries? And chocolate milk? And cookies?"

Matilda shrugged and settled back into her ketone-laced food indifference. I, however, now wanted cake almost as much as I wanted her to eat something.

There's something about having a big, fat, fluffy cake in a 9x12 pan sitting in your kitchen all weekend. No matter what you're doing, you're acutely aware of it. It beckons you in from working in the yard just to hack off a chunk of it and shove it in your mouth. It draws attention to itself when you're stacking dishes in the cabinet. You can even hear it calling over the roar of the vaccuum cleaner.

And it seems like no matter how much of the cake you eat, there's still about half the cake left in the pan.

"I had cake for breakfast," Gary confessed yesterday.

"So did I," I said. "And I'm also planning to have cake for lunch."

If it keeps up like this, we might be able to feed several impoverished nations with one cake.

There's a loaves and fishes parallel in here somewhere, but I'm not drawing any grand conclusions.

Hi there, today because Matilda is still sick I've decided to clean out her closet. And can I just say. Sweet. Holy. Christ. The child keeps every scrap of paper she has ever scribbled on. Every McDonald's toy. Every sticker, gum wrapper, and plastic pencil topper that has ever crossed her path.

It's my fault, I think. No, actually it's my mother's fault. My mom can't throw things away. She assigns sentimentality to everything her kids have ever touched or even thought about touching. My room was always full of crap because I thought it was all valuable and worth keeping because it had memories attached to it. Come to think of it, it's her mother's fault. This is a totally learned behavior.

I'm breaking this cycle. Stuff is not going to run my life.

If Matilda could get off the couch without vomiting right now, she'd be horrified at what she saw in the trash. Yes, I'm kicking her when she's down. I'm horrible. But she'll thank me for it when she's not cleaning out a basement full of her kids' first-grade papers someday. She'll just have to find something else to blame me for. Like the fact that I threw out a plastic cricket in a soda bottle that she's been hoarding in her closet for six years.

Does this happen to anyone else? One of the kids stays home sick, and instead of being attentive and doting on the sick kid you decide to start fifteen different projects.

I seem to forget that a sick day is still only about five or six hours. One cannot remodel a living room in six hours.

But that doesn't stop me, and by the end of the day I have half-peeled wallpaper hanging off the walls, half-sorted boxes of junk spread out all over, and piles of dust sitting in the middle of the floor that I hadn't quite gotten around to sweeping up.

On the last sick day I baked cookies, scrubbed out the fish tanks, and folded all the laundry while Matilda napped off a fever on the couch.

"You can never just stay home," Gary observed.

Today I took Matilda to the doctor for some antibiotics and then parked her on the couch so I could clean out her dresser drawers.

Part of me feels guilty. On the other hand, it's the only time I'm ever actually motivated to accomplish things.

They're threatening to take away my iMac at work, which has me a little rattled.

Granted they've been talking about putting all the writers on PCs for years now, but this time they're bringing in a PC to put in our common area for us all to "try." This sounds like IT's way of saying, "Here, you stupid, whiny Creative crybabies. Acclimate yourselves to the inevitable so we don't have to listen to your Mac bullshit anymore."

I love my iMac . Not just because it makes me different and special in a wide sea of uniform PC users. But because the iMac is beautiful and elegant, sophisticated and loyal. It's kind to small animals and homeless people. It often donates to the March of Dimes. How could they take such a loving, affectionate machine and replace it with a cold, soul-less PC?

Besides, if they get rid of my Mac before I get an iPod, the Mac would be heartbroken.

Oh, you were wondering about the iPod link over on the left? Funny story, that.

It all started several years ago when the iPod was born and I began to lust after it.

The iMac and I have grown to develop a deep, shared appreciation for all that is sleek, elegant, and efficient. We love birch trees. We love spheres. We love the Dodge Viper. We love evocative, austere color palates. We love Scott Patterson.

One day, a coworker of mine came into the office and set something small and white on her desk. My iMac gasped.

“I love her!” he whispered.

“You love Mandy?” I asked, thinking it might take a lot of convincing to get me to see that point of view.

“No! Her.”

I looked closer.

There, upon her desk, was a small, white, elegant iPod with its striking circular control and long, spindly earpieces. And I loved it. I loved it so much that when Mandy told me she'd paid $500 for 5 gigs it actually didn't sound that bad. Not that I had $500 lying around. And then three months later, Mandy was cursing because the 10GB iPod came out for the same price. Then the 20. Still… not like I was any closer to having $500.

All the time I watched Mandy playing with her iPod, the "free iPod" spam taunted me. The banner ads mocked me. They almost wore me down, but I held out.

I work in advertising. I know the lingo. Promises are relative. Nothing is free. I tried to put the iPod out of my mind.

Then, a few weeks ago, I got to talking with my brother J. Somehow, the subject of iPods came up. I joked, "Hey, we should just get 'free iPods' by clicking on those ads!"

"Yeah, my roommate actually did that," said J. "It does work. He got one."

Huh???? It's not a scam? Why, then, do I not have my iPod?

I felt a little dirty, but when I got home I went ahead and clicked through one of the banner ads. It turns out there is a hoop to jump through, but there's an iPod at the end of it. Sign up for an offer and refer five people who also sign up for an offer. Okay, that sounded painless.

So I signed up. And it was remarkably painless. But because I do have shame, I'm not going to go around asking people to sign up for stuff on my behalf.

My blog has no shame, however. Especially that sidebar. I've seen it take off its shirt for a longneck and dance on the table. It also sings karaoke. So it has graciously volunteered to hold the link for me.

And if you're like me and you'd do just about anything for an iPod, go ahead and click over there because it beats dancing on a table.

Two things. Three, actually. Number one, I'm incredibly high on Tylenol Cold Daytime right now, and it seems to be causing short-term memory loss. Number two is. Um.

Moving on, then.

We had Easter at my grandma's house, in a manner of speaking. We don't actually go inside my grandma's house. My dad pulls an RV up along the side of the house, relatives mill around in the yard waiting for Grandma to make an appearance, and at some point Grandma will emerge from her house for several minutes, offer observations and a bit of unsolicited wisdom, and then go back in to feed the cats.

It's all very oracle-like.

And then when we got home, Gertrude became so wrapped up in watching a bizarre stop-motion animation Little People video over and over that she apparently lost track of her bladder function and urinated on the couch.

Meanwhile, the dog learned that if a jelly bean falls on the floor, all he has to do it lick it once and the kids will throw it in the trash. From there, it can be dug out and consumed at his leisure when no one is looking.

This may explain why I later found the dog lying in the middle of the floor moaning, while his sugar-spiked eyeballs jittered around in their sockets.

Matilda's idea of a good time on spring break is coming to work with me and filing stacks of papers. The only thing more fun is three-hole-punching them and placing them in binders.

This immediately makes her everyone's favorite. She takes big, ugly stacks of paper and makes them go away, and she always manages to do it right. I don't know why she finds this fun. Maybe she's keen on having finally discovered a practical use for the alphabet. Or maybe, judging from the state of her bedroom, she's suffering an organizational deficit that only filing can fill. Perhaps she's a case of OCD just waiting for the chance to bloom.

Yesterday I think she was a little bummed because she barely had any chance to dig in on the filing before Mommy dragged her along to a photoshoot. She got to do some amateur modeling. She got to hand out freebies and collect photo release forms. She had several middle-aged women fall in love with her and ask if they could take her home. I would have considered that a good day. But it wasn't until we returned to the office to find a looming stack of filing waiting for us that she really got excited.

I can only hope she still holds this task in such high regard when her college friends invite her to Florida. I want to believe my daughter will say to them, "Are you freaking kidding me? What are you going to do down there, lay by a pool and flirt with boys? Drink, vomit, and flash your titties? Whatever. I'm going to file some shit, baby. Yeah!"

Guess what I'm doing right now.

Did you just say, "Sitting on the couch between a laptop and a pinkeye-infected nine-year-old, trying to ignore the cartoons on TV long enough to write back cover copy for fundamentals book on maternal-newborn nursing"?

Wow. You'd be right.

Yesterday I tricked my fever-stricken daughter into eating a banana. I came into the living room with a banana in hand. "Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring. Bananaphone," I said, and handed her the banana. She actually answered it.

And now she's irritated with me because it's been stuck in her head ever since. I'm just irritated because typing on the laptop makes me cranky. The dog is irritated because I'm sitting here not playing ball with him.

The only one seemingly not irritated is the cat, who really doesn't give a shit.

Peanut butter. And banana. On white bread. I am five years old again, only this time I’m not picking off the banana slices.

The only member of this family more addicted to peanut butter than me is the dog. If he so much as hears me touch the plastic lid on the Jiffy jar, he attaches himself to my leg and rolls his eyes up at me in his most pathetic, mommy-don’t-you-love-me plea.

Today I scraped the last bit of peanut butter out of the jar for my own sandwich and looked down at his pitiful little face. “Sorry, bud.” I said, and his peanut-lovin’ heart broke right in two.

Caught (as I often am) in the middle of a struggle between Right Mom and Righteous Mom, I contemplated the empty container. Behold, here in the palm of my hand the two things Finnegan adores: peanut butter and plastic.

Now he’s curled up in his crate with his front paws wrapped lovingly around the jar, his tongue snaking around after the last smears of creamy goodness. The expression in his eyes reminds me of an Atkins dieter on a carbohydrate binge.

Most of the time I'm just one bad day away from lying in the middle of the floor with my own nose embedded in the recesses of a peanut butter jar. Don't act like we all haven't been there.

Belated birthday greetings to my little brother D who turned 27 on Wednesday. D has just taken a job as assistant manager at a very large chain drugstore location, and so I'm very proud of him and I hope he doesn't have to take too much crap from bitter old ladies who would rather argue for three hours before paying eight cents more than the sale price of Metamucil as stated in the weekly ad.

I used to be a register girl at said chain drugstore, and very nearly had to bite my own hand a few times to keep from gouging out their bitter, old eyeballs. Good times.

The thing I've recently learned about D is he's allergic to aluminum, which means he avoids all products containing any amount of it. As I understand it, this means he can eat mainly garlic and broccoli, bathe in distilled water, and wear clothing hand-woven from natural fibers he's cultivated himself in a small, sterile brick pot of toxin-free soil. Deodorant? Um, no.

Talking to my mom, he's not minding the lifestyle change a bit because it's such a relief to be free of all the allergy symptoms. I guess if I were losing my hair and scratching my skin off too, I might gladly say farewell to processed cheese. Well, not gladly.

But the problem I'm having is we're celebrating his birthday at my folks' tomorrow, and I always bring desserts to birthdays. Fabulous, creative desserts. This whole allergy thing sounded to me like a challenge.

"What kind of flour can I use?" I asked my mom. "What about whole wheat flour?"

"He doesn't really eat anything that's processed at all," she said.

"Dairy?" No.

"Soy?" No.

"Raw sugar?" Probably not.

"Christ. Is he outside right now gnawing the bark off a tree for sustenance?" Well, he has lost about 30 pounds...

"Fruit???"

Yes! D can eat fruit. It's not terribly creative, but a simple fruit salad is topping my list right now. I wonder if walnuts contain aluminum.

I wonder how well tree bark would work as a binding agent.

The subject of leprechauns came up at my house this morning. "If you catch one," I informed wide-eyed Gert, "you'll get three wishes. You can wish for any three things you want!"

Gert didn't miss a beat. She clearly not only grasped the concept of wishing for things, but the idea of a leprechaun granting them was no further fetched than any other genetic aberration we foist on kids during the holidays. She was game.

Gert told me, "I would wish for," and she held up her fingers to count them off, "a baby. And money. And a lamb chop."

A baby, okay. Gert's been on a crusade for a younger sibling for many months, so this one comes up a lot. She frequently asks me if I have a baby in my tummy, which is most awkward when we're in the presence of other people who are expecting us to have another one, and they always seem a bit let down when I tell Gert no.

Money. That seemed a bit sophisticated. I wondered if her sister had been coaching her.

But what the hell. A lamb chop! I asked her why she would wish for a lamb chop, and her reply was just as cryptic. "Because my old lamb chop I would give back to the baby and I would wish for a new one for me."

I told her those were very nice wishes and I hoped she got to see a leprechaun today.

Several minutes later, it occurred to me what she was talking about. Not lamb chop. Not Lambchop. Lamb Chop! Like the stuffed version her grandma had recently given her, which presumably would be handed down to the new baby when the leprechaun came through. So she'd need a spare. Duh.

Holidays make so much more sense when you think like a three-year-old.

About the hair transformation? A short Q & A session is in order.

Q: Has short hair made you more carefree and spontaneous?
A: Why, this morning after tweaking and shaping it, I spontaneously rooted through Matilda's drawer of hair junk and dug out the cutest little carefree butterfly barrette to stick in my hair.

Q: Has short hair made you a better parent?
A: Aside from barrette theft, yes. Matilda commented that I now look like "the nice kind of mom she'd like to be around." Apparently long hair made me a crabby, haggy, vindictive mom. Vast improvement.

Q: Has short hair made your nose smaller and cuter?
A: Shut up. That's what glasses are for.

Q: Has short hair made you more creative?
A: It did inspire me to change the default font on my outgoing email. That should at least rattle a few people.

Here's one definite plus… no one who was at the presentation yesterday knows I'm the same person who tripped over two rows of chairs and got her heel stuck in someone else's shoelace on her way to the front of the room.

T minus twelve hours to PowerPoint time. Ladies and gentlemen, the freak out has begun.

Hours before I am scheduled to give a presentation: Seventeen.

People who will be attending presentation: Two hundred.

Preparation I have done: Zero.

Although... I was given two PowerPoint slides by last year's presenter. That should help. But it doesn't. They contain very helpful bullet points like "Best of the Best!" Hmm. Yes. I'll elaborate with, "It doesn't get any better than that! What am I referring to? I haven't the faintest idea. Next question!"

On the bright side, I can't be bothered with freaking out yet because I'm too busy thinking about what my hair will look like after I get it cut tomorrow.

Hours until fabulous, life-altering haircut: Twenty five.

Hair has been on its best behavior, as if it knows.

Did you know I've had essentially the same long/straight hairstyle thoughout most of my teenage/adult life? My hair and I had an agreement. You don't bother me, I won't bother you. So for many years it's kept me away from hair joints that don't begin with Great or end with Sam's.

Lately, the hair has failed to uphold its end of the bargain. It's been in my face when I bend over to pick something up, when I try to buckle Gert into her carseat, even when I'm eating. I'm pushing it out of the way more often than the dog, which is saying a lot.

I announced last night that the long hair is not working for me anymore. So my supportive husband went online and bookmarked countless sites full of inspiringly short hair styles.

Now I have a hair style but no stylist. Being prone as I am to impulsive decision-making, I tell Gary that we're going to get my hair cut TODAY even though that probably means putting my hair into the dubiously trained hands of a Custom Cuts girl. I printed a photo and decided anything would be better than living another day with long, heavy, annoying hair.

I wasn't expecting the receptionist to be mean and snippy with me when I told her I wanted a haircut. But that's okay. I sat down to wait, and then watched one of the stylists argue with a customer over what he wanted.

Okay, that doesn't bode well, but we're already here, so fine. Then the stylist argued with her next customer over their pricing structure. Loudly. And the customer walked out.

So the bitchy receptionist and the loud stylist spent several minutes talking with each other about how valuable their time was, and that was just Too Darn Bad for everyone else.

Gary had been giving me the eye this entire time. "You want to bail?" he asked me. I said no. The bitching and shrill self-righteousness continued. Customers exchanged looks. "You sure?" Gary said.

We bailed.

I am still stuck with my long hair, but at least Shrilly McShrew wasn't going to be the one to cut it.

I got up this morning, and honest to god I ironed a shirt. I don't know what came over me. This is not a pattern of behavior to which I am accustomed, in fact I think I've almost convinced everyone at work that the "maybe-I-slept-in-this" look is an intentionally cultivated aspect of my creative eccentricity.

I don't know, today I just looked at this particularly wrinkled shirt hanging in my closet (the way they tend to get when you leave them in the dryer for three days) and thought maybe it would look cuter if it weren't wrinkled.

None of the kids were awake yet … I might be able to slip downstairs and iron under the cover of early morning darkness so as not to upset the delicately established precedent that Mommy Doesn't Iron.

Despite my unfamiliarity with the process, it went rather smoothly. And the shirt did look much cuter. So I proceeded with the morning routine and hopped off to work feeling extraordinarily crisp.

Then I got to my office and happened to look down at my supposedly crisp shirt.

The wrinkles are back.

This reminds me of those joke birthday candles that keep relighting after you blow them out.

I think the lesson here is that three days of sitting in a dryer cannot be undone by five minutes of furtive ironing.

Maybe when I'm domesticated I'll cross-stitch that into a sampler and hang it on my wall.

Since I'm sick and the baby is sick (someday I'll stop calling her that – maybe when she's 40), I'm most amused right now by cuteness.

Whenever Gert means to say Lincoln Logs, she calls them "Lincoln dogs," and I am never going to correct her on that. Because what's cuter than a little, brown, log-shaped puppy in the palm of an earnest three-year-old's hand?

It's just about as cute as her insistence that our neighborhood swimming pool is called "the fwimmin cool." It makes sense, right?

I've also learned that it's great fun in the winter to overfill the bathtub, put a swim suit and flotation device on her, and let her relive her summer's glory while I sit on the can and knit.

I don't really knit on the can. That would be gross.

But I could.

If I wanted to.

Here's one more example of why I must have sucker written all over me.

I took the girls to McDonald's for dinner so they could play on one of those slightly terrifying indoor hamster-tube playgrounds. We ate greasy food and then they disappeared. I get very paranoid in playground settings, even those enclosed by big panes of plexiglass. I sit next to the exit, keep a wary eye on any potential abductors, and freak out every time one of them leaves my line of sight for more than 5 seconds.

I picked up the sweater I was knitting and tried to reassure myself that just because I hadn't seen the children inside the giant hamster tubes for 5 whole seconds, that didn't mean they had been abducted.

Then a kid crawled under my table.

I think it was a girl, but her short hair and gender-ambiguous clothes made it hard to tell. She was probably about 6 or 7 – old enough that one really wouldn’t have expected her to be crawling under other people's tables.

I spent a few minutes being indignant at the girl(?)'s parents for not teaching her social boundaries, or (supposing she was retarded or something) for not keeping a better eye on her and making sure she didn't make an ass of herself and piss off other people.

The kid stared right up at me from under the table and watched me knit while I watched my children not be abducted.

Then I realized that kids who don't get attention from their parents seek it from total strangers. Perhaps this kid's parents were fuckwits and I was her only chance for some positive adult interaction.

I stared back at her. "You're under my table," I observed bluntly.

"Do you have any money left? Or is it all gone?"

"Nope," I said, leaning a little further toward the fuckwit parents excuse. "It's all gone."

"My grandpa doesn't have any money left. He tried his card but it didn't work, so we had to go home, but then I was hungry."

I scanned the tables around the play area for anyone who might have been called Grandpa, but didn't see anyone. Unless Grandpa happened to be uncommonly young and worldly. Or an overweight, middle-aged woman with a mullet.

"Hmm, that's too bad," I said. What the hell? Had someone just dropped this kid off at McDonald's hoping someone would feed her? Fuckwits!

Just then, Matilda came over and stuffed a few more fries in her mouth. "Hi, Mom," she said.

"Oh, hi," I said. "There's a kid under our table."

Matilda looked at me, then looked under the table at the kid. Then she almost wet her pants laughing.

"So why are you under my table?" I asked the kid.

"I was just seeing if you have any more money..."

Just five seconds longer and I would have bought the kid dinner, taken her home with me, and called Protective Services. But then, Grandpa returned from the restroom.

The little rodent scampered out from under the table and sat with great decorum at Grandpa's table, where she in fact had a half-eaten Happy Meal spread out before her. She grinned at me. I collected my children by loudly announcing that I would buy them apple pies for the drive home.

A year or so ago, with the chaos of summer break, summer school, and freelancing looming, my husband the Almighty Father/Professional suggested that it might be time to bring a laptop into our family to ease some of the chaos.

Coincidentally, I had always wanted a laptop. Even before laptops existed, when I was thirteen years old and plugging away at chapters of whatever novel I was writing at the time.

1988 A.D.: As I scrolled through the 3x5-inch screen of my Brother word processor – and believe me, that was plenty cool after spending several summers on my grandma's old typewriter – I dreamed of a sleek, futuristic, notebook-like device that I could take anywhere and write on whenever I felt like it.

I pictured myself typing contentedly in a field of daisies, as words poured onto electronic pages, and futuristic, rocket-propelled cows munched genetically engineered cud overhead.

Just as I felt that email was the universe's answer to my personal desire to never have to talk on the phone again, the advent of the laptop spoke to me as my own dream come true.

Of course we were going to get a laptop. Call it whatever timesaving, chaos-dispelling thing you want. Give me my laptop.

Then the magical laptop of my dreams became just another piece of computer equipment, a tool to get a job done.

For some reason, it all came back to me the other day. Gary was giving Gert a bath and he called, "Hey, can you bring me the laptop?"

The laptop. Cool, sliver, smooth, thin, and light as an undergrad textbook. I pulled it out of its padded case and suddenly it was like seeing it for the first time. Like a clean, white piece of paper, it gazed up at me begging to be written on.

I hugged it. (No, I'm not making this up.) And then I carried the laptop to the bathroom and announced that I needed to write a book.

"Okay," said Gary. "Um. Can I use it first?"

My three-year-old has better social skills than me, and it's a little creepy.

She was telling me about a dream she'd had about Miss Diana the Daycare Lady coming over for a visit.

According to Gert: "…And I would say, 'Diana, I would like you to meet my sister. Her name is Matilda.'"

Now when I'm in the position of introducing people, it would never occur to me to lead with the very polite "I would like you to meet…" Usually I jump in at awkward moments and blurt, "Um! This is…" and forget everyone's name. Where did little Gert (who has only been alive for 3 years but can navigate the Wiggles website using sophisticated computer skills like double clicking) pick up on such effortless, elegant phrasing?

Clearly she's not getting it from me.

And who taught her to say, "Daddy, I hope you have a very good day today!" on her way out the door?

Who taught her to stand at the top of a slide, turn to the pushy kid behind her, and offer, "You can go first."?

It wasn't me. In fact, I'm more likely to duck my head in the grocery store and pretend I don't see people I recognize so I won't have to talk to them.

Sometimes I pretend not to recognize people in the middle of a conversation.

This morning I walked into the kitchen and Gert was sitting on Daddy's lap, listening as he explained in all seriousness how to avoid one of the true pitfalls in life, the pyramid scheme.

"Now if anyone ever offers you the chance to be in their downline, what do you say?" prompted Daddy.

"No thank you..." said Gert. "I'm not in-un-an-est-ed."

Polite, yet assertive. I'm so proud.

My mystery seeds arrived in the mail! I'm so very glad they're actually labeled and I won't have to wait for the little things sprout to find out what they'll be when they grow up.

In the full sun of my front yard, I get to plant (/plant/ v. 1. to sprinkle randomly around the bare dirt and cross fingers hoping for the best) a Colorful Annual Carpet Assortment.

That's funny, I have a rather colorful assortment on the carpet of my living room right now, but only because lately Gertrude + "clean up your toys" = tantrum.

What would I do at this time of year if I weren't daydreaming about what I'll do when the weather warms up?

Here's the first thing I'll do: strip off all extraneous clothing and lay flat on my back in the sun. I don't care who points and laughs. And yes, that dimple was there last year. Okay, okay, I'm putting my clothes back on. You can stop laughing now.

This is me paying bills. I think I have ADHD.

Sit down at computer. Survey the situation. Realize the pile of bills is sitting across the kitchen on the counter. Get up, get bill pile.

Sit down at computer. Launch Money program. Tap fingers waiting for program to load. Glance out window and realize Sunday paper is here! Coax dog to fetch paper.

Sit down at computer. Good, program is ready and bills are within reach. Better reconcile receipts to see how much money is available to pay bills! Receipts are in purse. Reach for purse. Oh, forgot to bring in purse from car after grocery store trip this morning.

Walk out to car in garage. Let dog out to pee. Take out trash. Pick up bike helmets and skates. Glance at pile of Freecycle stuff. Realize forgot to reply to Freecyclers offering to come take stuff away!

Sit down at computer. Reply to emails. Hey, there’s pudding in the fridge – and Cool Whip! Get. Eat. Answer more emails. Get up and return to car to actually bring purse inside this time.

Sit down at computer. Get up and let dog back in. Get more pudding out of fridge. Notice leftover chicken still on bones. Decide to make chicken stock so as to feed family economically and retain more money with which to pay bills (related thought! see?!).

Spend rest of afternoon chopping vegetables, boiling chicken bones, and measuring stock into two-cup portions stored in zip-lock freezer bags.

“Are you making soup?” asks Gary, who thought I was paying bills.

“No, I’m paying bills!”

Did I ever let the dog inside…?

Children may not realize it, but any Valentine's Day candy not consumed within one week is fair game to parents. It's a cruel twist of fate. I only let them have two pieces per day after dinner, and at that rate, that's only 14 pieces of Valentine's Day candy. The average child in our household scores at least 121,000 pieces from grandparents, school parties, and (ironically) their parents.

And while we're on the subject, a pox upon whomever decided to disguise those nasty, fruit-flavored "creams" inside chocolate coatings in such a way as to resemble caramels.

I'm avoiding something right now. I'm avoiding the costume committee at Matilda's school. In a moment of weakness, I admitted to them that I can passably sew. Now I've been given a list of parents to call and interrogate about how they're planning to outfit their child for the fourth-grade musical.

"Hello, Mrs. Smith? I have here that your boy is slated to play a pioneer. How are you on period clothing? Do you need to check his drawer to see if his cowhide pants are clean? Oh sure, I'll hold on."

I hate, hate, hate making phone calls. So I'm wondering if I can just sew each child a brand-new costume rather than put myself through calling their parents. That's how much I hate the phone. If you don't hear from me for a few days, it's because I'm barricaded in my sewing room avoiding anything that threatens to ring.

I think one of the coolest things about having kids is seeing them develop into separate people and watching as they discover each new thing about themselves.

For example, Matilda comes alive on a stage.

This totally surprised me. Matilda is reserved, sensitive, bookish, and observant. She answers most questions with one-word answers.

I figured we'd ride out the musical theater class as a fun, after-school diversion and then move on to the next short-lived interest. There's nothing wrong with that. Nine is the perfect age to throw a bunch of stuff against the wall to see what sticks.

I mean, whenever she practiced the songs at home or talked about rehearsal, she just seemed so nonchalant about it.

I actually sat in the audience on Saturday, before the first performance of The Pirates of Penzance, hoping that she'd at least be able to keep up with the other kids or blend in and seem as if she knew what she was doing.

I was not expecting her to come skipping out onto the stage, arm-in-arm with one of the other Major General's Daughters, smiling from ear to ear and confidently projecting complicated lyrics. From her diaphragm! I didn't actually realize she had one until that moment.

Her face beamed expression. Her choreography was graceful, poised, and precise. She expertly downplayed a potentially disastrous wardrobe malfunction in which another girl's fan became entangled in the lace of Matilda's hat. I saw other performers flub their singing a few times. Not Matilda. She knew every word.

Proud doesn't even begin to describe how I felt.

Between shows, the kids had been instructed to "find a fun and relaxing way to unwind and recharge." Matilda instructed me to take her to Borders. She wanted to browse for a new book. Then she told me we would take the new book to Starbucks for hot chocolate.

As soon as we walked into the bookstore, she inhaled and said, "Ahh, I love the smell of this place!"

Is she the coolest kid, or what?

This time we’re trying something a little different in the garden (and by “garden” I mean the strip of exposed dirt along my fence line in which I attempted to grow tomatoes last year).

Instead of coaxing little tomato plants out of improbable little seeds in improper lighting on the window sill of my bedroom (last year’s approach), I’ve purchased some plants from Burpee. They promise to ship me healthy, happy plants just in time for Spring planting.

I’m more excited about it than I probably have a right to be.

On the offside chance that these happy little plants aren’t eaten by the dog within their first fifteen minutes of life in my garden, here’s what I’m looking forward to installing:

Burpee’s Tomato Hall of Fame

Sweet Pepper Collection

Blue Lake Pole Beans

And of course, the Hot Pepper Mix which I will lovingly grow so Gary can transform these various peppers into his own curiously wonderful blends of chili powders.

I’m sure it wouldn’t betray any confidence to tell you that if you enter BP53 at checkout you’ll save yourself five bucks. And spending more than $25 earns you a free packet of mystery seeds!

Life is good in the garden until everything fails.

I’m wondering if my neighbors who are trying to sell their house would like me to rake my front lawn. I bet they would.

I did accomplish one yard-related task today while the weather was nice. I built a compost heap!

I bet you’re thinking I must know my shit to be throwing terms like “compost heap.” The truth is, if I’ve learned one thing about myself in recent years it’s that I would rather do something half-assed in the heat of inspiration than to wait two weeks, buy the proper materials, and learn the proper techniques.

Thus, I have a half-assed compost heap beside my shed that took me one hour to throw together. And I’m immensely happy with it.

In the spirit of Just Doing Things because the weather’s nice and you feel like it, I offer you today’s DIY tidbit:

Squeaky Composting System

Materials:
Several pieces of concrete landscaping border
Because that's what I had laying around
Um, that’s about it
Are you still reading this list?
This isn’t a list
It’s really just one item
And yet, with all these words here it does look like a list

Instructions:
1. Pile border pieces on top of each other, roughly forming a box shape.
2. Dump old mulch and other yard waste into the makeshift box.
3. That’s it. And damn if it doesn’t look and function very much like an actual compost heap.

I mean, honestly. If I were expected to think these things through first, I’d never accomplish anything.

I'm happy to report we've had a V-Word breakthrough! I am no longer held hostage by the V-Word. In fact, I think I'm going to try to work it into most conversations I have with random people from here on out.

Here's what happened:

Matilda was off school today, so I swung by at noon to take her out to lunch and give Dad a break from the long day of Bored Matilda standing behind him at the computer silently watching him work. I am not insensitive to his plight.

We went to lunch. We were chatty. We joked. On the way home, Matilda picked up one of the dolls Gert had left in the back seat.

"Ew!" she shrieked. "This doll is not wearing any clothes!"

"So what?"

"This doll has… NIPPLES!"

"Well, so do YOU!" I giggled. "Just be glad it doesn't have a VAGINA!"

That's right, that was me. You should have heard how casual I sounded.

You might have thought I regularly shout "hey, vagina!" at passing cars.

Perhaps you would have thought I'd named my cat Regina Vagina.

You might have been inspired to discuss Georgia O'Keefe with me because you'd be confident I wouldn't bat an eye before wondering out loud if she intended this to so closely resemble a vagina (of course she did).

Now we can watch The Vagina Monologues! As well as any other Eve Ensler project!

I feel like I should be thanking the Vagina Fairy for bringing me the ability to discuss girl parts. But I know how she likes her anonymity. Hey... so would you, if you were the Vagina Fairy.

One of the nicest things about knitting is the built-in guarantee* that if I simply pick it up and work at it from time to time, I'll end up with a finished object.

*May not be combined with any other offer. Guarantee does not extend to any implied quality of work, utility, or aesthetic. User assumes all risk and liability.

I'm not saying all knitting is automatic, but if you put one knit stitch after another knit stitch, and another, and keep making stitches, eventually you'll make something.

The same cannot be said of other things in life, say writing, parenting, love, baking, auto repair, or animal husbandry.

I find it soothing, the simple act of making one stitch after another, the same way putting one foot in front of the other in a routine of daily life is therapeutic in its own way.

As long as you have the occasional metaphoric equivalent of some lace gloves or a bikini to keep things interesting, it's fine if the rest of your life is one long, snuggly, garter stitch afghan. In fact, I think I prefer it that way.

I woke up with so much anxiety but no identifiable cause. Everyone is healthy, we're employed, and we have a place to live. So what do I have to be worried about?

I hate when I can't pin feelings down because it usually means there is a reason but I've just pushed it off and forgotten about it. (Repression: the other white meat) Now it's probably been kicking around all night, generating metaphor-rich, anxiety-producing dream sequences.

Oh well, la la la, out of sight out of mind! Everything's rosy.

I'm heading to the craft store at lunch to pick up some beads for a sweater. I'll probably stop and pick up dog food.

And speaking of the dog… there's a strange power play going on between the dog and the three-year-old. For example, I'll walk into the living room and find one of Finnegan's squeaky toys perched high up on the back of the couch, with Gert sitting innocently beneath it. Then I'll find a rawhide bone under Gert's bed. And his tennis ball in the basket of her bike, deliberately out of the dog's reach.

"Gert…?" I said, holding the rawhide I'd just retrieved from her room. "How did Finnegan's bone get under your bed?"

Gertrude has this sinister, gleeful smile that comes out spontaneously when she knows she's being evil. "I took it, and I put it there," she sang, sporting the widest evil grin I've ever seen.

"Honey, you can't take Finn's toys away. He's not allowed to take your toys."

Then the grin burst into an evil laugh. "Heh! Heh! I know!"

Oh, brother. So I went through the house and gathered up all the dog's toys and returned them to his toy basket. Finnegan watched me with a look that spoke of long-suffering persecution and injustice.

Perhaps it's not time to introduce a younger sibling quite yet. Gert's tormenting time is booked solid.

It's remarkably beautiful outside today. The fact that I have to be inside is just wrong. All this time I've been holding my breath and waiting for a break in the miserable cold, and this morning I stepped outside and it was warm. The air smells fresh and clean. It's so blissful it defies explanation. But don't mind me, I'm just sitting over here in my office missing it all.

I hope it's still nice at lunch, because I'll take my chicken-salad-on-whole-wheat-pita outside and pretend it's not going to rain and get cold again later.

It charts on today's list of Things I Currently Like, presented here in no particular order:

• Asymmetrical ponchos
  
• The Gilmore Girls "soundtrack" constructed for me by my husband, following his successful "soundtrack" to ABC's Lost.
  
• Unseasonably warm weather
  
• Silver jewelry
  
• Children who wake up in a decent mood
  
• Knitting tonight
  
• Possibly going out to dinner tomorrow for a belated Valentine's Day event
  
• Neil Young
  
• Billie Joe Armstrong, all of a sudden. I don't know why. Maybe it's the dark circles.

Plenty of strange things can happen when you're making pizza dough in the morning. For example, you might find yourself loudly singing "Peeeeee-izza crust.... Soooooo-uperstar...." to the tune of Jesus Christ Superstar. Your youngest daughter might come screaming out of her room in a panic claiming that there are strange bugs under her bed. The dog might suddenly develop a taste for raw flour and begin systematically licking the kitchen floor searching for another hit.

I'm not really surprised. I know that later this morning I'm going to find myself in a gradeschool Plinko booth handing out plastic rings and whistles. Nothing qualifies as weird anymore.

The best part about working the Plinko booth is I know I'm already guaranteed to embarrass Matilda. She knows I'm going to do something wildly inappropriate or parentlike, such as call out from across a crowded gymnasium, "HEY MATILDA, COME HERE! THAT BOY YOU LIKE IS NEXT IN LINE FOR PLINKO!"

Incidentally, here's the recipe we've been using as a pizza crust base lately. I like it because it's so elegant in its simplicity. You can tweak it mercilessly and it doesn't show bruises, which is handy because you don't want to lose custody of your lunch.

Squeaky Pizza

2-1/4 tsp yeast
1 tsp sugar
1 cup warm water
2 cups flour (approx.)
2 tbsp olive oil
1/4 tsp salt

Activate yeast in water and sugar (i.e., mix the first 3 ingredients together and let it sit until the yeast starts popping into little bursts of froth - my favorite part!). Mix in olive oil and salt. Add flour gradually until it feels like you could start kneading it. I'm about as exact with flour measurements as I am with following knitting patterns. Not very. Anyway, knead the dough until it's nice and smooth, then cover and let it rise until double. Punch it down (like I said, it resists bruising), and shape it into crust on a cookie sheet. Spread it really thin because it'll thicken up when you bake it. Add toppings, bake at 400 degrees until edges are brown and your toppings are done.

For the record, I like pizza much better than Plinko. And I probably always will.

Do I want chocolate so badly right now I'd consider stealing from Tsunami victims?

No. Well… kind of.

You see, this morning I brought in a big jar of change to donate to the Change for Change drive. The company offered to match donations, so we all decided to pool our spare change into something substantial.

So all of my change is sitting in the Change for Change jar. There is absolutely no change at all in my wallet. Or at the bottom of my purse. Or in my desk drawer. Or wedged into the seat cushion of my chair (I've checked).

There's apparently nothing like being utterly changeless to make you desperate for vending machine food.

But I'm not so evil and heartless that I'd go retrieve three quarters from the poor families who lost everything. Really. Besides, everyone would see me do it.

I'm not saying I didn't have a wardrobe meltdown in my closet at 12:06 a.m…

I won't say I didn't contemplate running to a department store at the asscrack of dawn to find something new and cute to wear to a pitch meeting today…

I also won't confirm or deny a brief flirtation with Harajuku street style or even EGL…

Anyway, this afternoon, I sat in a room of women wearing varying combinations of black, black, and black. They were all full of corporate sass. I was not in black; in fact, my wardrobe highlight was a completely unexpected scarf knotted around my neck featuring a color palate that has not been attempted since 1972.

Losers. Don't they read K.1? Color is the new black.

I am Creative Services. My image is supposed to be, by definition, creative, edgy, whimsical, and nonconformist. If I were my client, I wouldn't trust a creative in a black suit.

The best part was the message Gary left me on my voicemail this morning: Your presentation will be fine. You look amazing. He is the greatest.

Take a look to the left and you'll notice I've cleaned up the links. No more broken or inactive blogs over there! Nothing but good, solid blogginess. In fact, I highly recommend you take a moment right now to go discover someone new. It's like making a new friend!

Just when you think your neighborhood is settled and you have a good sense of who is cheating on their spouses with whom, someone has to go and put their house up for sale.

The house across the street from us seems to have sprouted a "for sale" sign overnight. I swear it wasn't there yesterday. They must have snuck out under the cover of darkness and planted it so no one could get an early jump on the gossip.

This is really only interesting because it's one of the Swingers' houses. This particular couple and the couple next door to them always seemed to have an unnaturally neighborly relationship. In a subdivision where people raked leaves side by side without more than a cordial nod in each others' direction, where a friendly wave satisfied the month's requirement for casually exchanged greetings... (let's just say we're not the lean-over-the-fence-and-chat sort of neighborhood)... these neighbors raked each others' lawns, strung Christmas lights on each others' houses, distributed Halloween candy from the same bowl, pulled each others' kids in wagons, etc., etc., etc. It was sickening bordering on incestuous.

But they seemed to be happy in a way that we envied. The husbands would stand outside drinking beer together while their comparably aged children played and their wives smiled and talked on the porch swing. I'll admit it. We wanted what they had. We wanted a couple next door who liked the same music we liked and who didn't give a crap about what teams were playing in the next televised sporting event.

So how best to cope with our jealousy? We decided they not only traded meatloaf recipes and babysitting, but sexual favors and spouses. Because that shit is funny.

Then we imagined that things went sour between them. Maybe one of the wives was a tiny bit hotter in the sack, and the other one wanted to call off the extracurriculars. The tension! The fury! The inevitable discomfort of living in such close proximity to temptation and sin!

And now one of the houses is suddenly up for sale. Interesting...

Hi, I have your sunglasses. Those prescription sunglasses you thought you lost last summer? They're in my desk drawer.

I found them in the parking lot and thought, "Boy, I'd sure hate to lose something as expensive as those." So I picked them up and brought them inside with the intention of dropping them off at HR.

Then somehow a week or so went by with the sunglasses sitting in my desk. After a week, I felt like it would have been embarrassing to admit to having had them for a week. The person who lost them would wonder why I hadn't turned them in immediately. So I started putting it off, and they stayed in my desk, and I looked at them every day with twinges of guilt and self-recrimination.

Now it has been more than six months and I'm beyond embarrassed to have these sunglasses in my possession. I wholeheartedly regret the act of consideration that prompted me to pick them up in the first place. But what should I do with them? I have a feeling they'll stat in my desk drawer until the day I die. Maybe I'll ask to be buried with them to avoid the uncomfortable questions.

On a related note, last night I took a trip with Poppymom to a small town where we spent some time driving around and scoping out the school districts. (This made a lot more sense to me when I woke up and realized it was a dream.) As we were driving, I told her all about PTSD, exposure therapy, regression, and hypnosis. "Are you insane? Shut up," I said, accidentally out loud. Robin thought I was talking to her, which was awkward. Then I awkwardly tried to change the subject by pointing out a couple of cute, small-town boys riding their bikes up a hill toward a huge refinery of some sort.

Conclusion: My subconscious is a ditz. I've decided to name it Bambi so when it flips out and acts all flighty I can say, "Shut it, Bambi."

Of course, I'm apparently the one hoarding other people's sunglasses. That's got to be a criterion of something in the DSM-IV-TR…

On health, hygiene, and other frightful topics… The link Anon posted below bears reposting: Think twice before reusing that plastic water bottle!

By all accounts, I should be dead.

Maybe my New Year's Resolution to Eat More Fruit is keeping the bacteria at bay. For now.

Regardless, I've added plastic water bottle reuse to this list:

The Great-Big List of Things
Squeaky Weasel Has Been Propagandized Out of Ever Doing, Volume I
(A Random Sampling)

28. Eating beef
2. Prolonged tampon use
14. Donating to the March of Dimes
12. Wearing copper jewelry
189. Wiping counters with sponges
47. Leaving contacts in overnight
88. Taking aspirin on an empty stomach
299. Receiving a foot massage during the later stages of pregnancy
60. Clashing patterns
8. Cleaning the bathroom with the door closed
365. Giving honey to babies and young children
44. Touching public toilets
217. Eating more than one type of starchy food in the same meal
153. Wearing underpants made of synthetic fibers
71. Looking directly at a running microwave oven

Lest you get the wrong idea about me (if the incessant list-making on this site hasn't already done that), let me assure you that I do abide by the 3-second rule for certain foods, and my cat has occasionally licked her own girl parts while sitting on my lap.

Yesterday I discovered a small, white surveillance device in my office. It was either that or a grain of rice stuck to the wall, and which do you think is more likely? That's what I'm saying.

Who are they and what do they want? Is it a group of grandmas seeking insight into my mad lunchtime knitting skills?

Is it the Dasani® purified water loss-prevention group seeking evidence that I've been refilling the same bottle of water from the drinking fountain for over three weeks now, at a minimum of three refills per work day? (That's about $45 so far I've yanked from the mouths of their hungry families.)

I'm thinking about this too much.

Maybe I'm overreacting, but just in case it's not a grain of rice stuck to the wall here's some useful information on how to avoid Jose Feliciano, diablo de la federación de la lucha del mundo.

Be careful out there.

'Tis Groundhog Day!

Shall we all collectively take this opportunity to retreat from any fears or personal shortcomings we are unwilling to address head-on?

Here, I'll lay a few of mine out there for you.

• I find it very difficult to make and maintain friendships. The truth is, I wear myself out trying to do it right, build up lots of unrealistic expectations, and then blame other people for my own problems with intimacy. I don't see myself addressing that one any time soon.
  
  
• I avoid confrontations. To the point that I allow tiny little annoyances to build up and become huge, looming issues. I've tried, tried, tried not to be this way, but it seems to be a personality defect or something. Perhaps ignoring it will fix it!
  
  
• You've noticed the lack of photos on this site? It's because I'm lazy. I'm not too lazy to take a picture, but I'm too lazy to figure out how to get it on my website, or to get it printed. Or if I happen to have prints, I'm too lazy to put them into albums. Consequently, I have tons of photos that no one can ever look at. It's on the giant mental list of Things I Should Do. I hate that list.

Ah, groundhogs… They're kind of weird looking but we love them anyhow.

Last night I dreamed I met a psychic at the airport. He reportedly had a 100% accuracy rate in his predictions, but with a twist. He gave predictions by making three statements. Two of those statements were always false, and one would always be true. You just had to guess which was the true statement.

Gary left to get a pretzel, and I found myself chatting one-on-one with the psychic.

"The plane you're about to board will crash," he said to me. "You'll be chosen for a key role in an upcoming off-Broadway play. And you're never going to fit into those cute brown pants you bought even though they were unrealistically tiny."

"Hold on a second," I said. "You're 100% positive only one of those is true?"

He shrugged and cracked open a can of Diet Dr. Pepper (more product placement, no doubt). "You might get into them, but they'll never really look that good because you're not eighteen." Then the asshole made a very unflattering motion with his hands. "You know…bulges."

In a huff, I left him sitting in his hard, plastic airport seat and went to find my husband. I told Gary the three predictions. He looked concerned. "We should take a different flight!" he said.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I said. "But he's right. Those pants are a lost cause."

So we took the flight. Cut to a very tense moment of Gary and me clinging to our armrests as the plane takes a sudden dive.

Gary muttered a few expletives and something about having told me we should have taken a different flight.

"Don't you realize what this means?" I cried gleefully.

Just then, a lady from the next row leaned over to me. "Excuse me," she said. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I was just wondering. Have you ever done any stage acting?"

I looked out my window last night, just as I was turning out the lights in the kitchen to go to bed. It was late. I was tired.

Holy crap! There's someone standing in the middle of my front yard!

He's short, motionless, and he's wearing the blue and green hat that I knitted.

No wait, that's our snowman.

Fifteen minutes later, Gary had the same reaction, so I felt slightly better about all the Sudafed I'd been taking.

I've been told being sick makes me stupid. Though in my defense, less air through my plugged-up nose means less oxygen to my brain. Physiology! Suck on that, eh.

And then I spun around in my desk chair until my eyes crossed.

But none of that stopped me and the girls from building a snowman on Saturday. It was perfect, packable snow, all wet and dense. We started rolling the body in the back yard and then decided he would be best displayed out front. So we rolled around the side of the house, through the gate, over the driveway, through the front yard.

At that point, I asked Matilda to go locate the dog because it was quite possible we had rolled over him and encased him inside the Snowball from Hell. It was the size of a ten-year-old child and we were only halfway done.

Throughout the entire process, Gert chattered about using a carrot for the nose. We had to use a carrot for the nose. Did we have a carrot for the nose? Because we needed a carrot for the nose! I fricking hoped and prayed that we had a carrot somewhere under all our lettuce and uneaten celery. Matilda ran inside and got her Snowman Kit, which is a really nifty collection of wooden eyes, a scarf, the whole deal. It included a wooden carrot for the nose, but Gert was offended by the very idea.

So Matilda decked him out and I went and got a carrot out of the fridge for Gert. She was so excited. It was like she was finally taking her rightful place in the great snowman-building legacy. Filled with purpose, she grasped the carrot in her mittened hand, walked right up to him and, well, aimed low.

Let's just say that if Stumpy wanted to blow his nose he'd have to loosen his belt first.

How to terrify a room full of preschoolers in three easy steps.

First, find yourself a big, black, ugly crow-type bird.

Next, convince it to fly into the chimney of your unsuspecting home daycare provider while the children are innocently having their afternoon snack.

Finally, run around the room trying catch the bird in a shoebox while bird shrieks and thuds into walls, careening and flapping over the heads of the children who have all just wet themselves with panic.

Miss Diana called her husband at work and asked him to COME DO SOMETHING about the bird while she herded the children into another room.

This was the scene when I arrived to pick up Gertrude from daycare. Little Gert was shaking and sobbing, and she had a look on her face that told me she would never again throw breadcrumbs to the birds at Grandma's house with the same enjoyment.

I tried to be comforting. I scooped Gert up in my arms and she just clung to me. "Is that poor little bird trying to find his way outside?" I said soothingly.

THUD. Crash. Flutter. Thud.

Diana said, "It's not exactly a little bird." She obviously had no intention of throwing any breadcrumbs in the near future, either.

"Okay, well, let's get your coat on and go home. I'm sure birdie will be gone by tomorrow."

THUD.

"No!" said Gert. "I don't want to go out there!" We would have to pass by Death on Wings in the next room in order to leave by the front door, and abject terror was preventing Gert from thinking sequentially.

Fortunately, it was only a few minutes before the bird was caught and released outside. The little boys went out to watch it fly away. Gert, however, insisted that I carry her all the way to the car in case the bird decided to come back for more, and she buried her entire head in the hood of her coat.

All the way home, we talked about how scared she'd been, and soon she had herself convinced it was a truly fantastic adventure that she couldn't wait to tell to Dad and Sis.

"Was the birdie really that scary?" I asked.

"I was scared," said Gert, "because I thought it was a crab!"

Well sure. Because a giant, winged crab flying around your house is scary as shit. Who can argue with that?

The idea of having Tigger and Piglet stuck inside your ears is good for a quick laugh at the doctor's office, but as an extended gag it really blows.

I asked Gert to pick up her toys, but she ignored me. "Gert, did you hear me?" I asked, doing my best Mom impersonation.

"My ears are not working," she said.

"That must be because you have Tigger and Piglet stuck in there," I said.

"That's what the doctor said," said Gert, amused but somewhat concerned.

"So now that we're engaged in an audible verbal exchange, how about picking up your toys?"

"Okay."

Later, I was making dinner (spaghetti and meatballs – and by the way, a friend recently gave me THE PERFECT meatball recipe. If you need it, let me know .) and Gert came and stood beside me, silently tugging on one ear.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Mom…? How am I going to get them out?"

"Huh?"

"Tigger and Piglet are really stuck waaaay in there. I can't reach them." She then tried to fit her hand into her ear canal, one finger at a time.

My grandma has a morbid mistrust of the medical profession, and I wonder if we're seeing the groundwork laid for that kind of thing right before our eyes.

Bathroom update: Vanilla scent seems to be migrating toward more of a cherry vanilla. A subtle yet upbeat fragrance featuring pleasantly understated notes of hickory and ass.

Two things almost made me cry before 10 a.m. today. First, we took Gertrude to the doctor for her 3-year checkup. She was very nervous about it. She packed up her own doctor kit and brought her doll Shashanti so she could show Shashanti what was about to go down.

(Yes, Gertrude named her doll Shashanti. I had nothing to do with that. Matilda's favorite doll for a while was called Tina Babonza and I had nothing to do with that either. But I did get a kick out of hearing them say it in public.)

But anyway,

Gert waited on the padded table in her socks and underpants, kicking her chubby legs and chatting with Daddy and Shashanti. She giggled when the doctor located Tigger and Piglet inside her ears. She smiled proudly when the nurse told her how well she was doing.

All I kept thinking about was how she used to be such a tiny, fussy, squirmy thing, and now look at her. When she was a baby I used to try to imagine what she'd look like as a kid, and I couldn't picture it. Now it seems so obvious.

The doctor remarked that he rarely saw any perfect kids, but this one seemed perfect. Bright, friendly, happy, and with a killer immune system to boot. We agreed that she was perfect. Matilda has always been perfect too. I have perfect kids. Sniff.

So Daddy headed back to work and I drove Perfect Gert to drop her off with my mom and grandma.

I hadn't seen Grandma since before Christmas, and I'd given her gift to my mom to give to her. No big deal, I just knitted her a scarf. It was the only scarf I've made for anyone, and only because I didn't think Grandma already had one.

When I saw her this morning, she told me she couldn't thank me enough for the scarf, from the bottom of her heart. I was a little caught off guard. She said, "You always do just the perfect thing," she explained. "You see, when Grandpa died, I had to leave him at the hospital and I was real sad. And I said to him, 'Austin, I like this here scarf real, real much but I'm going to leave it here with you.' So I think he must have wanted me to have a scarf back."

I didn't even know I was trying, but I'm glad I got the message right.

Email is down. Long live word of mouth.

I've just taken part in my first grown-up game of telephone.

Without email, how do you let everyone in your department know that the Monday Meeting is cancelled? If you're my boss, you tell your assistant to go spread the word. Then she tells all the supervisors, and they tell whomever they happen to pass in the hall. Those people filter it back to their office neighbors, and they call out to random passers-by.

I am a passer-by. I am the last link on the telephone chain, the one who repeats the garbled message out loud so everyone can have a good laugh. I can only guess at what the original message might have been. All I know is, I'm glad no one brought a monkey to work because there's really nowhere for it to sit.

Bathroom update: Now it smells like pipe tobacco. Curious.

Attention coworkers: Please eat the candy in my office.

This will ensure that the Smooth Chocolate Truffles and Royal Cherry Chocolates are sent to a good home.

Instead, I'll just eat this fabulous Clementine, containing a mere 35 calories and countless vitamins and nutrients not found in any variety of chocolate.

Also, when lunchtime rolls around, please go to Tomatillo's and order yourself a grilled chicken burrito with spicy cheese sauce, sour cream, and their signature salsa. And chips, lots of chips. I'll stay here and be content with my ham sandwich (lettuce, no cheese!), Gala apple, and baby carrots.

Really. I mean it. Go.

Vanilla scented air freshener does not belong in a public restroom. For one thing, it reminds me of the time a few bulimics in our building took care of a case of Nilla Wafers. Also, aside from that unhappy visual, vanilla smells really good. When something smells good, you can't help but be aware of the smell. And smell is the last thing I want to be aware of in a bathroom, because it inadvertently draws attention to bathroom odor, even if it's being covered up by cookie-like scent.

Okay, we're now changing the subject.

In terms of free stuff, KnitPro is the greatest thing ever. Put in a picture and it spits out a chart to knit. Oh, this is so much fun. Try it! Such possibilities.

If you are as captivated by that as I am, you need to go spend some time on Craftster. I get these people. They make things like Converse-style baby booties.

Guilt and inadequacy can sometimes be found in the most surprising places.

At work, birthdays are a big deal. Because morale is a big deal. And certain people here believe that receiving trinkety shit on your special day generates enough sunshine and happiness to last all year.

And I like the people I work with, I really do. They all deserve their sunshine. The problem is, everybody has a birthday, and that's a whole lot of birthday cake, handmade cards, and thoughtfully wrapped trinkety shit to come up with throughout the year.

PS, I'm really bad at remembering birthdays anyway. I've probably lost friends over it. I'm not the type of person who always has The Perfect Card on hand for any occasion, it's just not what I'm good at.

When my department grew from 7 people to 13, I felt my stress level getting out of control over birthdays. I was running to QuickTrips on my lunch break for cards and lying about having "left your gift on the kitchen counter at home – can you believe it!?" I made a decision. I would no longer participate in the Birthday Recognition Program. NOBODY was getting anything more from me than verbal wishes on their birthday.

That went really well until my birthday, when I came in to the office to find gifts from all the people I had nongifted all year.

So I made another decision. I would ride out 2004. Then in January 2005 I would buy gifts and make cards for EVERYONE at once. I would wrap and file gifts by month. If this whole thing was so important to everyone else, then I would treat birthdays just like any other job responsibility.

Well, today is Connie's birthday. I found myself rushing to Target this morning before work, grabbing a card and a gift to shove into a gift bag, and apologizing for being late because I "left your gift on the kitchen counter at home – can you believe it!?"

But it didn't matter, right? I was on board! I was doing the birthday thing! No more guilt or unreciprocated gifts for me!

I set Connie's gift down on her desk and exclaimed "Happy Birthday!" Then I noticed the two December Birthdays who had gotten nothing from me a month ago, standing right there by Connie's desk, looking at me with that pointed oh, so SHE gets a gift from you…? glare.

When the dog isn't busy sticking his nose into someone's crotch (because that's his job and all), he can usually be found gnawing on his favorite yellow, rubber ball and trying to catch your eye so you might be tempted to throw it to him. Unfortunately, his ball is just the perfect size to roll off and get stuck under the entertainment center.

There he is, lounging in the den, getting his gnaw on, when all of a sudden the thing gets away from him. With his head flat on the floor, he can see the ball. He scratches and paws as far as he can under the four-inch clearance, but can't reach it. He needs help. So he finds the nearest human. And stares. He stares until he captures the human's attention. Then he throws an urgent gaze over to the entertainment center. Back to the eye contact. Back to the ball. The eye. The ball. Throw in a whine and a little fidget for emphasis.

That's where Gertrude and I came in yesterday afternoon, in between episodes of Dragon Tales.

"What is it, Finn?" I asked. "You have to go potty?"

Whine.

"You need some love?"

Haroo. Fidget.

"Timmy's stuck down the well?"

Earnest glance at the entertainment center.

Gert said, "I think lost his ball." She hopped off the couch and crouched down to look. Finnegan joined her, squeezing his nose as far as he could into the little space. Gert's entire arm disappeared. "I can't reach it!" she grunted.

With a sigh, I got off the couch (which I like to do as infrequently as possible) and crouched down behind Gert. "All right, let me see if I can get it."

"Okay!" WHAM.

That was the sound of Gert's head connecting squarely with my nose at point-blank range.

Gert started to wail. I waved off those little cartoon birds circling my head and felt my nose, which I half expected to come off in my hand. Finnegan whined and sniffed and stuck his nose in my face and then Gert's.

After Gert had calmed down and the dog's ball had been retrieved, I felt slightly cheated. No blood, no bruising. I should have at least gotten a black eye out of it. All we could do was eat Tootsie Rolls until we felt better.

I have two things to say about cleaning out the fridge.

First, it's awfully thoughtful of mold to be the most unpleasing colors of grey, blue, and black. This way it's easily spotted and sufficiently repulsive to ensure that no living person would ever purposefully ingest it.

And second, if you thought a container of turkey gravy left over from Thanksgiving couldn't survive three months in the back of your fridge, well... you don't even know how correct you are.

It's pretty clear that Gert is a daddy's girl. Sure, she loves me, and her sister, the dog, the cat, the fish, her "silky" blanket, cookies with sprinkles, and many other things with Gert-like intensity. But that daddy is something else.

I think maybe it's because they do things like this:

Most Tuesday nights are "Daddy Nights." Matilda and I take our yarn out for coffee (and brownies), and Gert hangs out with Dad.

Sometimes they make popcorn and watch a movie. Sometimes they head to the mall for orange soda and a run on the indoor playground. Yesterday as Matilda and I were leaving, Gary asked me for construction paper. And yarn. They had decided to make clouds for Gert's room.

I didn't know what to expect, but when we got home Gert proudly showed off her clouds.

They were fluffy, stuffed, cloud-shaped, construction paper pillow clouds! Hanging from brightly colored yarn taped to the ceiling, they could also have been upside-down posies or suspended lollipops. Gert stood under them on her tip-toes, straining to bat them like cat toys. I lifted her up to touch them and they swung around wildly.

"This is the coolest thing!" I said.

Always the optimist, Gary said, "I just hope they don't fall in the middle of the night and freak her out."

If they do, I have a good guess who she'll want to come and save her.

Marking the sad passing of a very angry and apathetic cat…

He was a mean, yellow stray who terrorized Grandma's three other cats, Bear, Annie, and Two-Bits and managed to win her over simply by eating the food she set out for him every night.

She named him Anthony after the patron saint of lost things.

I loved the other cats and I spent most of the summer before I started high school trying to win his affection, or at least come to some kind of understanding with him. I'm lucky I still have any skin left on my forearms.

Anthony hated everything and everyone. He routinely kicked Bear's ass and made inappropriate moves on Annie. He'd rub up against your leg as if to make nice, and then savagely sink his teeth into your ankle, cling to your sock with his front claws and scratch mercilessly and repeatedly with his hind legs.

He outlived the rest of the cats (even Two-Bits who could hold her own in any throw-down), thereby further endearing himself to Grandma as the cat who was decent enough to still be alive when she needed company.

Toward the end of his life he'd mainly glare at everything with vague threats. He lived on the screened porch, and if I ever visited with Gertrude I'd warn her to keep her fingers away from the holes.

Well apparently, despite my warnings and despite never actually being allowed to have physical contact with the cat, Gert grew to share Grandma's brand of appreciation for Anthony.

"Mom, guess what!" she told me yesterday. "Great-grandma's cat is gone!"

"Yes, I know," I said sadly. "He was old and he died. We miss him, don't we?"

Gert then spoke to me as if she were addressing a small child. "Mom. Anthony did not die. He had to go to up heaven."

"Oh!" I said. "That's right." But I still felt the need to soften the religious programming since we are not a Sunday School family. "When kitties get old and die, then they get to go to heaven."

Gary leaned over to me and muttered something about Baby Jesus needing a cat and choosing Anthony to come and live with him.

"Anthony would eat Baby Jesus," I said.

"WHAT?" said Gert.

"Wings!" I blurted. "Now he can fly around up in heaven! With the angels! And God! Because Jesus loves all the little children and cats."

Later I heard Gert relay the news to her sister: "Guess what? Anthony's dead."

Stop, you're encouraging me.

I have to report that Phase One of the Fruit Hair Experiment yielded mixed results.

The bottle said "Plum." And the model on the box was sporting fabulous, dark red hair with glossy purple highlights.

I showed the box to Gary (who, by the way, had earned himself 500 Husband Points for secretly cutting out hair color coupons and slipping them into the weekly coupon stack) and he deemed it sassy. It seemed an excellent "baby step" to the bright Jolly Rancher-ish colors I really want.

Shortly before dinner, I informed everyone I was going to be in the bathroom a while. Gert asked why. I told her I was going to take a bath and make my hair change color.

"Oh!" Gert said. "I like to do that sometimes too!"

We were confused, until it occurred to us that dunking your hair in the water does make it appear darker. We praised Gert for the keen observation and she ran off to play, chatting to herself about how sometimes she makes her hair blue, and sometimes she makes her hair orange… She's been hanging out with me too long.

Something I learned: If Mom is going to try to lock herself in the bathroom at 4:45 on a Sunday, EVERY CHILD IN THE HOUSE WILL NEED HER from 4:46 until 5:32 when she finally throws open the door and says, "What???" Then they will all look confused and shrug, and proceed to play contentedly by themselves for the rest of the night.

What I ended up with is not exactly what I would call "Plum." It's more of a warm chestnut brown with hints of red, and in the right light it might lean more toward burgundy. Oh well. It's nice, in a this-just-might-be-someone's-natural-color kind of way, but not very unusual. I should have expected as much from supermarket color.

But that's okay, it's a start.

It makes me want a piercing.

I have really, seriously got to get over my obsession with punch-colored hair.

I see a girl with hair the color of Grape and I desperately want to be the kind of person who could rock that.

I'm too freaking old to turn my hair into shiny, glossy, awesome strands of purple. Or orange, I could do orange. But no! That's the problem, I can't do orange! I'm the mother of two daughters who would never stop laughing at me. I couldn't go to a parent-teacher conference and talk solemnly about math and social studies with Grape hair.

On the other hand, I'm 99% sure it would keep other parents from trying to make small talk with me in the hall while I waited for my parent-teacher conference.

That's appealing.

I don't like other mothers of fourth-graders. With very, very few exceptions, they are a bunch of old married women who think their husbands are retarded and that swapping canned tuna recipes is a good time. They all smile a little too wide and chat in a voice that's too high-pitched to be authentic.

The worst part is, I turn into them when they talk to me. Because I don't have any other defense. I can't really say, "Are you serious? You actually give a shit about PTA politics?"

I'm taking Matilda to a school-sponsored skating party tonight where I'm going to rock my mental purple hair and knit a lot, which hopefully will make me seem odd and unapproachable.

Hot.

I am so doing this.

And not just because I'm cheap. Only somewhat.

And then I'm making this because garter stitching should be as dirty as it sounds.

I love rainy weather so much it makes my fingertips tingle, and no, I'm not being sarcastic. I love everything about it, from the charge it gives the air, to the sound of it, to the feeling of being warm and dry in your own little spot while everything around you is drenched in a downpour.

When we heard that it was supposed to rain nonstop from yesterday afternoon well into tomorrow, Gary worried about water in the basement. I solemnly voiced concern as well, and then I got a little giddy and rummaged around in my closet looking for my coziest rainy-day sweater that I might hole up with somewhere while rain pounds the roof and threatens its structural integrity.

So many things to be concerned about in a rainstorm. Tree limbs could fall. Yards could flood. Basements could leak. And at this time of year it could all quite possibly freeze, causing all kinds of turmoil.

I'm concerned, I am. But… rain! How can you not want to just curl up and listen to it, or daydream about running out in it and splashing through it barefoot, grinning like an idiot?

Gert sat in her bed last night as I was tucking her in, and I pointed out how lovely the sound of the rain was. She started to whimper. "What if there's thunder?" she asked.

"Then you can just come snuggle in bed with me!"

I knew she'd be sound asleep in five minutes and would never hear any thunder unless it was loud enough to wake me up too. Except now I'm thinking the only thing better than laying in bed listening to the rain would be to have a warm, chubby little girl in your arms who feels safer in the rain because you're there.

In the spirit of the new year, there are a few things I'd like to address. It's important to note that these are not resolutions. These are pinky swears.

I do hereby and in the witness of my peers solemnly resolve to:

1. Eat more fruit.

2. Post more often.

3. Occasionally put down the knitting.

4. Be myself.

5. Pay attention.

6. Let go of things that don't matter.

Not mentioned in the list above is my weight loss goal for this year, because to fret about weight would violate Solemn Resolve #6. But I'll just say we bought a new digital scale and I lost 3.5 pounds during the fifteen minutes it took to calibrate it properly. Shut up, that counts.

My total goal is divided into little goals, and each one is tied to a reward. And when I say reward, I mean:

Reward 1. A new knitting magazine

Reward 2. A new knitting book

Reward 3. Yarn for a new project from elann.com

Reward 4. My own knitting blog

I realized I need to have a blog devoted to knitting as I was making a list of things I want and discovered this surprising trend.

What did I do with myself before knitting? Oh yeah, I took on crazy projects like this.

And speaking of, if you say the words "musical theater" around our house nowadays, a certain oldest daughter breaks into songs from The Pirates of Penzance. Meanwhile, if you say the words "costume check is next Monday" to me, I'll pull out sketches and schematics of dresses and nightgowns I'm planning to complete before costume check.

I am the very model of a modern major gen-er-al…