i obsess.

Life IS a Highway (... Is Probably the Hands-Down Corniest Post Title I've Yet Written. Yet)!

I couldn't help observing this morning as I raced to work, my heavy right foot urging my oil-thirsty car on and on, ever rapacious, ever burning and smelly, that people drive just like they are.  I mean, okay.  This is probably a terribly obvious overarching statement on the nature humankind.  But I'm still going to attempt to extrapolate the overtness.  FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO ARE SOMEHOW, IMPOSSIBLY, DUMBER THAN I AM.

For instance, take my driving; I get beyond a pack of cars and there's that gap, and instead of reveling in it, I race ahead toward the next pack because (and here's where it gets silly-stupid) I AM AFRAID I WILL LOSE MY PLACE in the herd.  I only just realized it today.  It's mind-bogglingly inobscure.  And of course this is how I behave in my life.  I get ahead of one pack and instead of saying, oh, AHHHHH, this-here space around me is NICE, I can't wait to get to the bottom of the next group where I will itch to pass them.  Plus I'm paranoid while in their midst because just pushing my rude ass through isn't uncomfortable enough.  I have to worry that they think I love myself more than I ought.

To take some of the heat away from myself, I shall now introduce some other types.  Like, for instance, that guy.  You know.  That one.  The one who cruises in the far-left lane like he holds the title with the state *and* federal departments on left-lane purchases.  Or however one would describe that sort of thing in Real-Estate-ese.  That guy inflames me.  Why do I always have to go around him on the right?  WHY IN BLOODY MELTED-DOWN STATUES OF JESUS' NAME DO I HAVE TO DO THAT?

And then there's the lady who's doing her make-up while also far-lefting.  Or, you know, more likely, middle-lane-holding-her-own but SO sloppy, and when I want to move past *her* I have to skirt her side whether it's left lane or right.  (This ain't LA.  We only have the three lanes up here in the sticks, aka Portland.)  I dislike her for being so vacuous that she speeds up and slows down in time to my attempts to move away from her, and becomes the moving obstacle when she aligns her car with a three-trailer semi, at which point she refuses to budge.  AM NOT A FAN OF MAKE-UP-LADY DRIVER.

The typical old-people drivers are obvious, but somehow, I have more sympathy for those types than I used to.  (Shut up.  It's not because I'm getting old.  NEIL.  It's because I'm just nicer. 

I AM.

*ahem*)

The fast-food-chompin' people bother me but not nearly so much as the twenty-something that hovers behind my bumper like a silent metallic moth; all shuddery and random.  They're often, if not always, driving a late-eighties Honda or Oldsmobile and they're THE WORST DRIVERS IN THE WORLD.  Bumper-hugging is like a dance-move or something, it's so popular with them.  I HATE THAT DANCE MOVE.  I want to squash it.  I want it to die.  I'm not the world's most pleasant driver to have to encounter in freeway combat but I try to give people some freaking space between our cars.  (Except for make-up lady who seriously can't be counted on to let the space exist.  I blame her entirely.)

The last type I'll mention, because I'm already bored by this whole conversation I'm having with myself, and want to move on to stuff like WHY THE FUCK AM I SO STONE-TIRED RIGHT NOW, and HOW MUCH COFFEE X MOVEMENT WILL BE REQUIRED TO SNAP OUT OF IT, is the middle-aged luxury-car Pud.  This guy kills me.  He's so proud of himself for having finally managed the merger that scored him the pile o' dough that got him at the controls of this hot-ass bitch of a car that he's forgotten why he wanted it in the first place: TO SCORE THE BEAUTIFUL LADIES.  And then he snubs them when he's driving his new beautiful lady of steel.  Guess he's too fascinated by how good the make-up mirror in the luxury car reflects the phresh George Hamilton tan he acquired on that recent Costco cruise in the Bahamas.  He's a rude driving bastard, he takes the middle or far-left lane and then kicks back in it, and can sometimes be confused with title-holding far-left-lane guy, but then he'll slow down and move to the middle and enjoy the drive long enough to let a few people by, only to realize he's SHOWING HIS AGE AND NOT IMPRESSING EVERYONE WITH HIS LUXURY SEDAN'S PROWESS, jumping back into far-left mode long enough to impede progress because he's sort of forgotten how to merge.  In traffic.  (I'm certain his board-room merger skillz are still highly impressive and in-demand.  Or whatever.)

There.  That's enough.  None of us care enough to finish this *sentence* let alone another paragraph about some dumbass on the road.

Seeing as how we'll all be walking to work (if we weren't smart enough to invest in a good bicycle already) pretty soon, thank you VERY VERY MUCH BRITISH PETROLEUM.

The end.

Love,

The Make-Up Lady

why i started blogging.

Thanks for the (much-needed) reminder, Mrs. C.

rememberies.

I'd quite forgotten how inspiring it is to suggest I'm gonna disappear from the blog; inevitably, there's a gush of things to say to you eight people who straggle by on the random odd weekend to peep and see whether I'm still just as seriously incapacitated by insanity as I've always been.

(The answer is yes.)

Feel free to keep reading!, though. 

About bloggers I'd like to hump.  Or, rather, who you'll want to hump.  But you'll have to wait in line behind me.  I brought snacks, though, so that's okay.  I'm a sharer.  As my son has recently informed me that I must be if I'd like to survive socially.  (Unless you don't eat nuts.  Because it's trail mix.  Jack already picked out most of the fake m&ms, and most of the dried berries, so the balance is kind of -- nuts.  Apropos, non?)

Anne Nahm.  Read her.  Well, I mean, it's not a fucking *mandate*.  Just - a hearty recommendation.  If you like to laugh.  Which I do.  But what do I know?  I'm insane.

Mithras.  He's kind of a pompous ass with a sex-blog fetish, and I suppose that's why I like him so much.  Also, he's rather overtly taken with politics.  (Probably a direct result of having a sex-blog fetish.  Once you've gone down that road, it's all cattywampusness from there.  As you've probably observed with other equally sinister types.  Plus, he needs some assisting, I understand, in winnowing down the stale links in his sex-blog links section.  Maybe you could do him a solid on that.  You know.  As a favor.  To me.  Remember?, about the trail mix sharing?  Yeah.  You're that much closer to already-handled nuts.)

better now.  Kristin's writing is more attractive than television.  I do not say that lightly.  Nor should you take it lightly.  Televisions are very, very heavy, and can ruin feet and other limbs for generations.  Or at least days.

Halushki.  (But we've been promised to one another for after our husbands die, you know, so we can hold hands in the nursing home and shit, iow: don't bother barking up that particular tree.  Just love her from afar.  There's to be no snack-sharing on this one, either, yo.  Unless you're her sister.  In which case, heh!, I was only kidding.  I have but the most platonic brand of love in my heart for Jozet.  Girl scouts' honor.  *three-finger salute*)

Lotta and Gwen.  Although my envy for their neighbor-status has lately outweighed my ability to appreciate them as much for their individually incredible qualities.  You can have all the snacks in this queue.  I'm off pouting in the corner, and will be doing so for some time.  (Plus I get to talk to them both on the phone *almost* enough to sate me.  Enough, anyway, that I don't need to stand in a fucking queue for them.  You can jostle to the front here.  Unless Lotta's doing a ring-giveaway, in which case, back off, bitches, 'cause I want me one a' them rings, and I'll do whatever it takes.  InCLUDing pay actual money for one.  Yes.  I know.  I'm a wild thing.)

Nora's taking two this time.  She's rather greedy.  And I'm ecstatic for her.  Also, my mind is kinda blown regarding how amazing science is, but then, my mind fails over simplistic shit, so, you know, no surprise there.

Cristina's rabid fan base needs to rediscover her.  Her writing, albeit far less frequent of late, is still sharp as a goddamn sushi knife.  Go.  Go forth and read.  Here's a fresh bag of trail mix for you (Jack finally decided to eat the nuts, since the fake m&ms and dried berries were depleted).

Oh Joy! doesn't need any bumps from me, but I do find that my heart feels lighter when I read her blog.

Jenny needs help from me even less than the last blogger.  She needs help from me like a dog needs a flea's assistance on matters of -- any kind.  It's possible I may even *damage* her shiny rep by including her, but I'm a loyal, little bag of pathetic, so she's on the list.   (Also, I may be wrong, which means I *am*, but isn't it a little *overtly* coincidental that "bloggess" so clearly imitates "i obsess" -- yes.  You're right.  They rhyme.  Obviously, Jenny came up with "the bloggess" after having fallen fathoms-deep in love with my blog name's sound.  Rhythm.  Feel.  Touch.  Scent.  The way its hair looks just after a dip in the ocean.  The way its ass swishes when it's walking through the mall in adorably sassy* high-heeled sandals.  The way it can carry a tune and bowl every.damn.body. in the room at the karaoke bar OVER with its moderately acceptable quality.  Them bitches is SCREAMIN' when the song is through.  And this blog?  Oh, it just bows.  And smiles.  Quiet.  Assured in the knowledge that Jenny's blog wants it so damn bad.  So. bad.  But we won't tell, it says.  It says this with its eyes.  Its woebegone, knowing eyes-that-are-actually-just-streaming-code, like in The Matrix.)

*Yep.  Bringing sassy back.  It's needing a good airing, I'm thinking.  I'm Irish, so leave that last sentence alone.  Mostly German, really.  A wee bit o' Irish.  Mostly just the whiskey I drank earlier.  It wasn't actually Irish whiskey, though.  It was American-made.  We can't afford the Irish kind.  Those SNOBBY, STUCK-UP FUCKING IRISH BITCHES THAT THINK THEY'RE SO RAD because they make whiskey in IRELAND. 

Fuckers.

Uhm.

Ruth, of the exploding-tampon-Ruths.  You may remember her; she's kind of TOTALLY FABULOUS.  Her blog still, in fact, exists.  She's awfully busy with something she refers to as "a job," not sure what she means by that, I think it's some vaguely-worded insult she made up on the fly to pretend she wasn't just blowing me off all those times I called, but it's cool.  The point, people, is that you need to read her.  She won't write you back, and she most CERtainly won't call you back, or even answer your calls, and at some point you may not even be able to call her at all, because her number will have been disconnected super-randomly, and you may be inspired to drive to her house, all the way across the country, and snuggle down in the grass nearby with some binoculars and an industrial-sized box of Easter peeps, already ripened, just to discover what the deal is with her phone (or you can use whatever excuse you like; that was mine, but it's been used, so I highly recommend inventing a fresher one, or she'll see right through you, and if you're in the field eating those peeps when you do it, she'll DEFinitely see through you because those bitches can make you radioactive, which shines out of your fucking pores, so maybe just stick with Cadbury cream eggs if you insist on eating Easter candy while stalking Ruth).  You may never find out about the phone, though, but you will seriously enjoy the tour of the local police station; it's lovely.  You can't go wrong with that restroom, and those people know how to FRISK. Let me tell you.  It's a hell of a trip.

n+1 = a very good online publication.  I enjoy it, but not nearly often enough.

Mary writes like Faulkner, if Faulkner fucking RULED as much as Mary.  Read, and thank me later.

There's funny, and then there's Melanie.  I'll let you decide what's what.

Did you know the fucking stellar/brilliant Cho blogs?  I did.  And now, so do you.

Got any tips for me?   Post 'em in the repository.  And have some sticky nuts, along with my undying gratitude.  *bows*

Just Post. (which is often, if not always, my goal.)

Only, this time, it's something other than my awful, tepid blather comin' atcha.  It's Jen's blog round-up of compassionate, community-focused, change-the-world (and every little bit counts) posts.

Please visit One Plus Two and contribute a post you've read that inspires you or makes you think about how we can keep moving forward as a whole.  Or just read the ones already there and allow yourself to be provoked and prodded.  In a good way.

And know that I think you rule if you do it.  (Yes.  I'm willing to be completely cheesy and shamelessly beggerish in order to help out my friend.)

(Because it's all a pushback against the bastards who hate mothers.  Just in time for Mother's Day!  Every. little. bit. counts.)

please understand.

You guys know why I don't comment much, right?  Or why I barely even make my way to anybody's blog, ever, at all, even on the rare occasion?

(This is where you tell me it's okay and pat my back and walk away, thinking, what a needy mess.)

Anyway, I was attempting to reverse that whole business a little bit in the last few days, and I not only read many good posts, I even got a chance to comment a little.  Mind you, I shouldn't have been doing so.  I have work to do.  There's a job, which = actual money, sitting on my desktop immediately beneath this very open mozilla window full of my blog's business.  I've adroitly ignored it for the last two and a half days.  I won't make excuses, though.  I just -- needed to see some of you.  It's pretty selfish of me, given my current life situation.  But I had to know how you all are.

I found out some amazing things.  I read Mrs. Chicky's interview in the Boston Herald, pride rippling through me, face beaming, as I scrolled down.  I lingered over Ruth's and BubandPie's and Jana's accounts of summer, regret interlaced with pleasure because our summer has so little resembled their experiences.  (I'm sorry, baby boy - next summer will not be this -- harried?  Rushed?  Ugly?)  I made the usual leap from giggling to sighing to teary-eyed (corny but true) while reading another in the very long line of beauteous, vision-inducing, literature-worthy posts by Binky.   I felt moved by Suebob's meta-discussion about comments, and Mrs. Chicky's excellent addition to the conversation. 

Mostly, though, I experienced a deep sadness for this horrid business of the growth (brazen!) of our children.  While reading Mama Tulip's complex, lovely post about her son's second birthday.  Slouching Mom's depth of feeling for her sons in the many tributes to their acceleration through life.  Wordgirl's explanation about her behavior regarding her firstborn's college-bound momentum, her inner turmoil palpable (although she manages the writing of it with grace and humor and the lightest, deftest touch, a la her usual astonishingly brilliant style).

How do we allow our babies to grow up, to become fully functioning adults?  To leave our sides, never to return to the soft, fragile beings that needed us so desperately?  Okay, fine, so maybe the desperately needy part is a little overkill, but -- god, it tears me APART to think that there will come a time when my son won't place his glorious little hand in mine and squeeze my fingers, and look at me, his sweet face inches from my own, and shout MAMMMMAAAAAAA!!! ear-shatteringly.

How will I live after these days have passed through my hands?  These hands, so willing to rush past every moment because it is too much, almost, this existence as it stands, this constant nightmarish pace, slap-slap-slapping my cheek (quite rude, actually) as it flits through the middle of the hourglass?  I berate myself for not taking every drop of perfection in the moments we have here together and swallowing them whole, because I'm too tired, too dismally self-centeredly exhausted and fucked up in the head to really manage it.

*lays head on desk and sobs quietly*

show and tell.

A few mama sites I've lately been stoked on.

PDX Mama and Slouching Mama, who are both relative newcomers, and my ex-pat pal, Jennifer, at No Place Like It. 

You've seen mine, now it's your turn.  Include a link to your new diggy reads in the comments and I'll update here.  Especially if they're nkotb - let's give 'em some link-loaf.

**************************

Linky-loaf, just like I promised:

A Crack n' Life

The New Girl

take it! it burns!

I'm so not good at accepting compliments, there should be a non-compliment clause in my social-interaction contract.  And while I'm shudderingly grateful to Binky, aka ecr, aka the grande dame at 24/7 for awarding me a thinking blogger award, devised by the big brain blogger over at the thinking blog, I can't wait to get it passed to the next person, for fear that I may feel worthy for any longer than a streaker-at-a-major-sporting-event's worth of milliseconds. 

                   

                                       

Without further ado, here are the nominees, and kudos for being smarty-pants enough to get this award from me, your less-than-worthy blog buddy.  Know that I admire you, I envy you, I wish I could borrow your brain oftener than I'd care to admit -- so I won't.  Borrow it, or admit to as much of the envy as I actually possess.  You rule.  (And I don't want to be accused of mussing your brain if I were to have it loaned to me for any length of time.  I worry about these things.)

Rock the Cradle

Thought Concoction

Exiled in Toyland

Woman on the Verge

The State of Discontent

Now take your damn award and post it, and let me return to wallowing in the miserable pile of uncomplimentary items of my choosing.  (Don't I sound like an ungrateful wretch!  Please say I do.  I'm trying so very hard to convey that.  Even though I really am secretly ridiculously pleased.  But don't spread it around.  Keep the knowledge stashed in a nice hidey-hole, like under your toupe.)

*******************

Update: Evidently, the inimitable GingaJoy has also been misled into thinking I think.  And I'm damn grateful again.  But seriously?  You people are the thinkers.  Not me.  I'm a feeler, at best.  And some days a feeler-upper.  Heh.  Yeah.  I *did*.  Because going the sleazy route is just so much easier than reveling in compliments.  Although I think we're treading on recycled ground.  Oh, and for Catherine's** sake, I'm going to resize the teensy words at the bottom of the post, as I'm caring enough to want to spare her eyes.  Eyes.  Resize.  Somebody call Poetry Central.  I'm doing groundbreaking work, here.  Maybe even the Lord's work.  (That is, if the Lord plans on spending an eternity rubbing her/his/it's lordship's hands gleefully over the fiery inferno.)

**Please say I do.  I'm trying so very hard to convey that.  Even though I really am secretly ridiculously pleased.  But don't spread it around.  Keep the knowledge stashed in a nice hidey-hole, like under your toupe.

louder!

Why isn't my kid smaller?  Younger?  Littler?  Babier?

Sigh.

I know.  I get it.

You don't need to explain it to me, okay?  I understand how the process works.  (Sorry - I'm a tesch cranky after a day involving almost incessant whining.  And that was just the dog.  And me.)

In the meantime.  While he's shooting into the stratosphere, and standing on my heart throughout, I can wish ardently for him to be little enough to wear one of the spot-on-funny designs by KidsAloud.  Like this one.  Or this one.  Or even this one.

*whimpers quietly enough to hear biological clock ticking steadily amidst the hum of background noises, like the dishwasher*

p.s. I'm a mommy-blogger!!  Wheeee!

thursday-itis.

That subject line reminds me of the line from Office Space; "Does somebody have a case of the Moooooonnnndays? (said all simperingly)"

But I have it.  And I have to know how you people, all eight of you, can stomach my depressed verbal sabre dance on such a regular basis.  So today I refer you to three great blogs, penned by bloggers who write (oh, so very much) better than me, and who deserve your readership much more than I do.  (I deserve nothing.  Please step on me and leave me for dead.  Is it any wonder I didn't do super-well in the dating world?  Not that I've ever cracked *that* scary-ass oyster open for you all to see and pity me for; oh, the things I have in store.  I've read too much Seuss lately.)

Thing One.  (Exhibit Two re: too much Seuss; and I refer to my entitling of this list, not the blogs to which they link)

The night was perfect. It was the air that moved only slightly to chill her, it was the silence of the shore. She had glowing particles on her breasts, her hands, in her hair. It was the smell of salt air, the sounds of the ocean, the darkness of the horizon. 

Thing Two.

I discovered something that moment. I thought about it as my mom yelled at my dad about the pipe while he tried to maneuver galvanized steel into the trunk of the car. I looked in the rear view mirror at them, their gray hair bright against the prairie sky, the sunlight emphasizing their mismatched clothes, my dad’s overgrown eyebrows and the purse my mom clutched under her arm.

I discovered that for certain people, introspection is a luxury item. To them, lamenting change and lost love is a waste of time. I discovered that my dad grieved over someone throwing away plumbing conduit more than the end of his daughter’s 26-year marriage.

Thing Three.

Many years ago, around the dawn of time, Jeff and I went to a bar, to our bar. I can claim it was our bar because Chicago is a town of neighborhood bars, and this one was in our neighborhood, less than a block away. We belonged in the pleasantly stale rat hole that is a Chicago neighborhood bar. We lived within stumbling distance.  We frequented it regularly. It was ours. One night, a weekend, we were crowded out of our customary spot by interlopers, a splinter group of the homogenous hordes that ventured like tourists west across the river, back when across the river was regentrifying, before it became It to point and stare at all the indie sons-of-bitches who dared to live somewhere besides Lincoln Park.

 

Read them.  Laugh with them.  Love them.  Love them and leave me for them.  I'll understand.

Seriously.  I would if I were you.  (Only, I wouldn't, really, b/c I'm a freakishly loyal, annoying, tail-smacking-the-head-of-the-nearest-toddler fur-shedding tongue-lolling Irish Setter like that.  Truly.  But don't be like me.  I'm a pathetic mess.  Imitate someone cooler than me -- e.g. anyone else.)

Love, Debbie

in the thirteen spare seconds i've got today.

Quickly, too quickly to make it interesting/funny/wacky/verbose/whatever the hell it is you seem to find attractive about my strange revelations brought forth from my brain's inner sanctum of brainy parts, in outline format:

a) Nonlinear Girl and Melanie are fabulous mates to take to a book reading for Portland mums.  Also, they're both hotties.  Which made up for the fact that we had shown up and proceeded to announce that we're all bloggers, which brought that funny, quizzical look people give you when you drop that on 'em.  Heh.  I especially loved that I turned purple in shame when I explained lamely to the host that I was the blogger from I Obsess (which I felt was important, since I assumed that's how I'd been e-vited in the first place, because I'm listed on the UrbanMamas blogroll, and I felt sure that everyone present been culled from that list) and she began explaining that she, too, obsesses about blogs.  I shriveled up and turned into a small, shriveled version of myself, and almost swallowed my gum.  I tried to sort of whisper, due to the sudden laringitis I was experiencing, that my blog was called "I Obsess."  It didn't really work, though.  My voice, I mean.  So instead, I took the gum out of my mouth and held it inanely in my fingers, trying desperately to formulate the question about where to find the bin in which to deposit it, but never got that far -- no, I only got far enough to wander in the direction of the kitchen, where I was sort of hoping such a thing existed, only to bump into the woman whose book was being touted, mumbled something about looking for the bin, and then realized I was being given her hand to shake.  I attempted to avoid it, since I had GUM in my hand still, and she said, "Mehhh.  I have kids."  So I let it go, and shook her hand.  (Well, after I'd transferred it to my other hand.  I'm not THAT rude.)  We then discussed whether she might be interested in chewing my gum later, and, yeah.  I'm fun to bring to parties.  I make good small-talk, non?

Anyway.  I don't really know why I feel like that's the thing I should be dropping in this post, when I have no time to write it and my fingers are already itchy to get back to handling J, who is currently wreaking havoc in this HOT MESS of an office.  Rarrr.  Um.  Did I mention that I'm a really piss-poor driver on a good day?  And that Mel and NG probably would've liked to take over the driving while they were trapped in my car with me?  I'm sorry, you guys.  I should've warned you.

Also, I cannot avoid being terrifically late to every thing ever, apparently.  Sorry 'bout that, too.  You were both very gracious, and god bless ye.  You made *me* feel better, even if your stomachs were in your shoes.  Thoughtful. 

Lastly: I fidget like a first-grader when expected to sit in a quiet place and listen to someone read.  I'm awful.  It's part physical discomfort, and part hyperactive freakshow.  Fun.  I'm fun.  Loads.  Mel and NG deserve awards for putting up with my boreish arse.  (Is that even a word?)

b) The photos below are some of the fabrics for the Xmas stockings I'm going to concoct for Fadiddle.  The stockings will be customizable, and purchasers will have the option of a few different designs to opt for embroidery on the stockings, along with their chosen names (or, hell, they can request that the stocking read Merry Fucking Christmas for all I care -- I'm reverent about Christmas like that).  We're only gonna do a limited series of them, something like one hundred, or thereabouts, because I'm making 'em all meself, and there'll be an order list when I've got the prototype worked out. 

c) We launched the merchant account for the shop, I know, all I ever talk about lately is that damn shop, but I did say I would let you know when that happened.  And it has.  In other words, you don't gotta sign up for paypal if you don't wanna.  Which I personally am glad of, because I don't really like using paypal.  I'm just so damn lazy and hate the extra steps I'm required to take.

d) I'm whipped, dudes.  So. freaking. tired.  Please bear with me as I try to get to all of the email and questions and stuff.  I'm trying, really.  Swear.

e) To those of you who have linked to me, and to Fadiddle, in an attempt to boost the shop in search engine ratings, your efforts will not go unrewarded.  And I'm not just talking about cookies, either.  (Even though you know I'd 3-d fax if I could.  You.  Know.  This.)

f) Pictures, already!  Geez.

 

"Awww, mom?  Do I hafta get down?  But I'm developing my,um, diving into this expensive wool and ribbon and scissor pile of divinity skills right now!  That's important for my, um, ability to make you lose your mind!  C'mon.  Even you, oh mother mine, can see the logic in that.  Right?  No?  Listen, lady, I can take this party from cutie-smile-mccharming-pants to tantrum in thirty seconds or less.  So why don't we just talk this out, nice and slow.  Whaddya mean, you don't give a @#$% whether I throw a tantrum or not, that threats won't work?  Just you wait, lady.  Just.  You.  Wait."

icing.

I've always referred to my son within this medium as just that.  Or sometimes baby, toddler, kidlet, kiddo, nightmare-in-the-form-of-deliciously-soft-child, etc.  You get the picture, and if you've read anything I've written about him, you already knew this.

I think I'm gonna start referring to him as J.  That's the first letter of his name, and it's not super-duper creative, but I have sort of emptied my creative pockets recently, and while I want to discuss certain aspects of how his existence impacts mine, I am suddenly really tired of saying "my son," "my kid," "the kidlet," and so forth.  And I don't have time to wait for the creative pockets to re-enrich themselves in order to come up with something really brilliant and pun-tastic and double-entendre-ish with which to delight your deserving eyeballs, because I just don't.  I's tired.  (Get it?  "I's" tired?  Eyes tired?  I -- heh.  Sorry.  Please fling moldy veg at my head, now.  I demand it.  Do it!  Godammit, fling the moldy veg!  Um.  I think I may have a problem in my upper-story.)

So, J.  J is my son.  I love my son.  God, but I love him.  And yet, that love doth not interfere, for some odd reason, in my lack of resistance to his angry squawking lately.  And by lately, I mean the last few days, where I've had little sleep, and am dragging my sorry tail around, just trying to get the bare minimum taken care of, and have discovered the truthiness in the idea that if one can stand, one can surely sit, and if one can sit, one can certainly drape oneself lamely across the sofa and pray for early, painless death.  And this kid, this son, this small person who has become, in some ways, my taunting, secondary conciousness?  He somehow manages to weave his general frustration with his lack of superhuman skills to do things like !fly over the tops of the kitchen counters and pick up and mangle every item he encounters! and !land on the ceiling and, fly-like, clamber all over the light fixtures, gnawing on their every angle, then tearing them away from their fixed positons in order to see them crash satisfyingly on the floor! !etc.! into the tapestry of my almost all-pervading exhaustion that seems to crescendo at around four 'o clock in the afternoon, at which point I am forced bodily into a prone position, something I am powerless to resist.  And the crying ensues.  The angry, angry crying.  And that crying?  Makes me angry, too.  If I didn't love him so much, I would almost believe I hate him in those moments.

Sigh.  I can't believe I just said that.

But there it is.  Black.  White.  Raw.  Red.  Barf.

I want to distance myself from that ugly truth, so I'm gonna abruptly change the subject.

So!  Fresh topic!  This:  the designs you see in the online shop of Fadiddle-gasmic gloriousness are just our early, initial efforts.  There's an ass-crack load more of that a'coming.  A really, really big ass-crack.  Maybe even multiple ass-cracks.  (I can't stop saying ass-crack, and I'm not even particularly pleased I began saying it to start.  Grrr.) 

We're going to eventually unveil an adult section, for the parents who want Fadiddle-icious gear to throw on their upper torsos.  For moms, we're gonna have these really yummy chenille robes and velour sweatsuits, complete with dashing, irreverent, cheeky embroidery included.  As well as super-cute, comfy shirts from Alternative Apparel, a company I really dig.  They make presh stuff, and they do it well.  (I keep trying to order this but it's always outta stock, and you can kinda see why; it's so DARN cute.)

For dads, we'll be using a really sweet hoodie from a company that my husband, Caleb, thinks is frighteningly cool, and for once, I agree with the man.  We'll also use some stuff from Alternative for the tees.  We've got some pretty hep gear coming down the chute pretty soon, and I'm excited as all get out to get it ready to photograph and sell.  That includes appliques, using wool with really sumptuous colors and patterns, houndstoothy and plaidtastic and fabu, and a whole lot of screenprints -- we just have to decide whether we're going to try and build a screenprinting press in our garage, or whether we'll hook up with someone local to press the stuff for us.  It's still gonna need some ironing out, this brainchild of ours, but we're trying to get it together, rocking slow but steady.

We're even gonna have a contest soon, and it's a groovy one, and I'll piece the details of it together in a post within the next few days, but just know this:  I want you to dredge up your very worst memories involving any/all aspects of your personal work/career history.  Have it at the ready.  Because, for the first time in your life, you may find it useful to have been employed as a retail sales assistant in a pet shop where the only tasks you ever performed involved a lot of tortoise- and bird-cage detail.  You may even find yourself being proud, button-bursting proud, to have spent a summer employed in the kitchen of the cafeteria at the local rest care facility.   From whence you were fired due to smoke breaks that resulted in your total inability to accomplish anything for hours.

You dig what I'm layin' down.  I'll save the rest for the contest post.

If I could just convince my son to take a break from crying until I get some of the initial details of this business-running, um, business worked out.

Andrea, I think I'll take you up on that faxed babysitter proposition.

twenty-three skiddoo!

Mrs. Chicky says we oughtta say nice things about somebody we love.  Lurve.  Loooovve.

I feel a strong sentiment of sorts -- in fact, it may very well be love -- for the exquisite brain of Dodo.  It sends mine into a shame spiral, and the urge to hide in a corner.  It wants to crawl beneath the stem and pray to not be noticed, it's so embarrassed to be seen trying to think anywhere near hers.

This post in particular is brilliant, profound, heart-achey (achy?  Or does that just end up being atchy?  yar), and just plain readable.

So read it, already.

But, please, people.  I ain't done spreadin' the love like smoove-ass peanut butter.  Just 'cause I don't want to deal with the business of comments doesn't signify death to blogging.  No.  Oh, hellll, no.

There's always more where this came from.  (Just like cake.  Always.  More.  Cake.  Which is why I can keep on living, knowing that.)

now see here.

Look.  I know, I know.  Blog etiquette, blog shmetiquette.  I don't have an obligation to visit people who keep blogs.  I don't have an obligation to leave a comment if I *do* read. 

But.  I am guilt-ridden when I haven't had the opportunity to visit people who take time out of their busy schedules, time spent avoiding the pants-leg-tug by a toddler (or a gaggle of 'em) in order to read my thoughts, my words, my selfish internet vacuum; I feel, in my stomach, in my gut of guts, that I owe.  I am indebted to those who warm my blog with their company, their words of humor, of kindness, of response to my vacuum, making it far less vacuous. 

Right now?  I'm in the red.  My checkbook is so unbalanced it's like a knife in my brain, twisting slowly.

You know what else feels knife-like?  My arm, beginning at the pinky, and running all the way up to my hairline.  My entire right side is lit like an electrical wire, with a red-hot center coursing through its length.  I have been working almost non-stop on designs for the shop we're about to launch, and stealing away from that to watch my son and do laundry and slop some food together and clean up the food detritus in between times. 

It makes a girl want to grab hold of Mama Tulip's hand and jump, jump off this busy, hectic bridge of words and URLs and cute pictures and witty dialogue and comments and concern and affection and whirly whirl whirl.

But I won't.  I'll resist the urge, like the bright Sunshine Scribe, and instead stay focused on the little red dot in the middle of the screen (that I won't allow to freeze me up, like Cindy Brady, when she and Bobby were contestants on the trivia game show and Cindy couldn't respond to anything once she saw the little light on the top of the camera switch on; she simply froze, dumbstruck).  I'll post when I can, and I'll visit and read blogs when I can, and I'll comment if I have time, and I'll try to fight off the guilt when I can't.  I have to prioritize, and I know I don't need to provide apologies for doing so; we all have busy, multi-task-required existences, and sometimes more opportunities for blogging are afforded than others, etc.  But my feelings are still there, the ones that urge in a stage whisper to read! and comment!  and I!  want!  to!

And I will.  When I can.  I am going to be available far less than I was these last several months, because of a confluence of events - my son is running, and climbing, and opening doors and drawers and Pandora's box is always just out of his reach, I'm afraid, and that requires my almost-constant supervision; the webshop, once I've finished working with my husband to establish it, will require my attention to fulfill orders and sundry; and my house will continue to beg me to take a towel to it once in a while (and I'll continue to blithely ignore it most of the time -- that's one guilty feeling I've managed to almost totally silence, a knowledge that fills me with a shiny, squeaky sense of relief).

I'm not gonna quit; I'm just gonna downsize.  I know I don't owe this manifesto on my status as blogger, but I feel that I do.  And I like to acknowledge my feelings.  It's one of the things in life that inspires me, after all.

It's sure to get a little lonely around here, now that I've declared my intentions.  I'm trying to tell myself it won't hurt.  It will.  But my feelings haven't changed about all of you.  Only my schedule has interfered.  Unlike my mom (and my dad, too, but it's never bothered me quite so much about him), I refuse to allow something like this to take precedence over my son in the scale of priorities.  My mom has always chosen church, and church-related activities, over me and my brother.  Just today, I asked her if she could help me with the baby kidlet a little more than usual this week, so that I could really throw myself into the last push to get the shop ready for opening up, and she explained that she had already scheduled a lot of events with her church this week, due to a missions conference they're putting on.  Her participation includes helping set up chairs, and tables, and going shopping for food with several other women, and assisting in food preparation, etc.  She's an extra body, in other words.  I'm guessing, too, that if she were to explain that she couldn't help quite so much this week as she'd originally committed to doing, because her daughter needed some extra help with the grandchild, that her friends would not only release her from her commitments, but expect her to choose to help us over helping them.  Because that's the usual routine, especially with church people.  Family comes first -- family values, non?

At least, you'd think that.  My mom, however, explained that she had committed to this, that she'd already enlisted her aid, and couldn't back out now.  They are counting on her, after all.  To unfold chairs.  And slice bread.  And exchange pleasant banter about whose cancer is worsening and who needs prayer for some burgeoning disaster. 

I'm sure, too, that she'll reference her daughter's family at least a few times during all the chit-chat exchanged over the gigantic vat of boiling pasta, and industrial-sized cans of tomato paste, can openers a'cracking; something to the effect of our dark, doomward-advancing souls, because we've not chosen to declare open war on Satan.  I'm sure she'll lament the future soul of her grandson, because of our non-declaration.  How that must surely negatively effect him.

I wonder if she'll mention how she could've been right there with us, influencing our little family for good, by simply providing her presence, by playing with that doomed grandson, by acting out the love she says, in so many words, she feels for us so strongly.  Or is it more important for her to play the role of the concerned, loving grandmother?  Does that feed her soul at the end of each day when she tries to fall asleep, to no avail, because she does not sleep well or deeply?

Regardless, and of course I've gotten away from my original point (!), which is to bow low before you who have troubled yourself to peer into the musty recesses of my brain and care about it, and me, for even a brief moment.  To be grateful to you for that slice of your time and attention.  I am.   Even if the only way I can show it is through this post, and subsequent posts where I deliver a similar thanks and apology.

I've gone on too long, and my son is begging for my attention and I have to give it.  I want to have a good relationship with him as an adult.  This, for me, is what will bring that about.  Ignoring teh internet's stage whispers and hanging out with him.

I know you all understand.

(so why do I feel like crying?)

*********

I know why.  I skimmed over the post quickly, after publishing, to ensure that there were no glaring spelling mistakes or grammatical eyesores, and it hit me: I'm sad because I'm basically ending about a zillion awesome friendships with the only people who really understand; understand me, my situation, this exchange between my son and myself, between the triangle that is this family, my need for this outlet, the blog.  My need for communication with like-minded individuals.  I realize this isn't an end, but it's change, and I hate change.  I'm afraid of change.  Change is a constant, yes; but it doesn't mean I'm good at handling it, or that I've gotten accustomed to its abrupt arrival, no matter how often it gets here and smacks me with its shiny, new glove.  I owe Misha's recent similar announcement some credit, too, for my comprehension of this alteration, of my newly realized inability to fulfill my end of the bargain I initially made, the contract I signed, with the provision that I would complete the requirements included therein.  That I would maintain the relationships I began, and not slack, and it's a big, fat lie if anyone tries to tell me that's not part of the contractual agreement made in the communication between bloggers.  I only get as good as I give, and frankly, that's friendship in a nutshell, so for anyone who tries to hand me the pablum suggestion that I can relax, because people will still like me and be my friend, even if I can't play along, just hold on to that little jewel.  I'll keep believing what I already do, which is that we're friends, and I have to back off in the friendship, and I'm sad about it.  It hurts, cuts to the quick, in that sharp, immediate sense, but it's also gonna hurt as I go along, too.  I've relied on the friendships I've made through this process so heavily in the last months, and I feel as though I'm cutting the hand off to suit the arm.  I need that hand!  Arm, why are you so demanding?  But I made a choice to become a mother, and the logical step for me right now is to give him my best, despite my desire to keep a lot of it for myself and my adult friendships.  I have to cut off that hand, or at least remove it temporarily, and maybe I can reattach it occasionally for kicks, just like the old song about the penis (just like it!  except it's about a hand and blogging, and not a penis!  so not really like it at all!  except for the attachable aspect!).  And I'll be itching to talk to you guys when I can't, and I'll post and realize that I deserve to have none of you read and discover what's been happening in my little corner, because I haven't caught up with you, or have, but haven't been able to take the time to say some witty, friendly thing in response to your stories.  And I do believe that the cat's tail is being effectively swallowed at this point in the scenario.

I miss you all so much already.

a weak-knee'd moment.

Mrs. Chicky nailed it.  Jim Halpert is probably one of the dreamiest guys I never had the chance to date.  If he existed, and in my social circle at that, I don't know that I could resist throwing myself at his head (going old school here).

                                                

I'm on pins and needles about tonight.  Will they?  Won't they?  Did Pam break off her engagement?  Is Roy still working at Dunder-Mifflin?  Is Jim going to leave if they don't work out?  Because I don't think I could watch any more if Jim left.  (And I realize that's part of the ploy of this plot thread; to allow the audience to wonder whether he'd leave, and to use that as a maneuver to sharpen the already ravenous loyalty to both Jim *and* the show - ain't no way Jim's going anywhere, with chemistry this incendiary.  It's too damn audience-keepin'.)

Oh, and if you haven't, you really ought to read Dwight's blog.  It brings me unspeakable joy.  Which is why I must now cease speaking.

Okay.  I'm back.  Silence is difficult for me, people.  Difficult.

It crushes my head like a little walnut.

Ouch.

drive-by entry. (you might want to duck.)

I was out of town until last night, and a myriad of business details, household and otherwise, require my attention at the moment, which means my blogging, erm, duties are being postponed (you like that?  I knew you would.  I did it for you, special-like), as a result.  Forgive me, o grand internets, for my heart belongs to thee, but you must abide by my haphazard schedule.

Coupla things, before I split and careen madly about, in the manner of the dog when she's chasing my son, toddling happily before her, brandishing the doggy crack, i.e. a small flashlight; first, I had a fabulous time this weekend with mah ladies, and I think they'll appreciate the all-out flourish of love that I shall now demonstrate through the subtle use of a specific term of endearment (did I lose you all, yet?):  my hos.  Because, yes, they are just that deserving and fabulous.  Second, I am floored -- my tongue's been disabled -- from having been passed the crown of CHBM as MotW.  I don't know who to thank or where to wave, so I'll just do it randomly and scare my son, the dog and the neighbors into thinking I really have gone off the deep end.  (I don't think anyone was doubting it previous to now, but this makes it so. very. official.  Also, so. very. sad.)

This is a crap post.  I can't let it continue. 

*kills post dead*

The End.

p.s. I promise to try hard to invent a much better-tasting post in the immediate-near future.  But I have pictures from this weekend to sate the two or three of you who accidentally started reading this boringness to the third power, and you've earned something.  If not cake, which I already et up because it was delicious and yummy, and because it was in the form of a twinkie, which I assume will live on in my stummick for many years (one would hope), then at least a photo.  Feel free to eat it if you forgot to have a meal or snack recently.  Mmmm.  Decadent photos.

p.p.s. I totally got permission from my friends to post photos, which I'm over the freaking moon about.  I have proof!  There are people in real life who like hanging out with me are willing to tolerate my presence for an extended period of time!  Lookit!

p.p.p.s.  I'm insecure.  Shut up.

 

from left to right: Raquel, Tessa, Jen (the lady of the hour, aka the bride-to-be), Emily, Debbie, and Pattie. 

I'll share our super-power alter-egos in an expanded, tell-all post later.  I mean it.  You're getting the director's cut of the insanity.  Be prepared to cover your eyes.  I'm serious as a heart attack, bitches.

*******************************

I would be seriously remiss if I didn't include a heartfelt thank-you to both Jenny and Cristina.  I think you guys are wonderful.  Thank you for thinking of me and liking my writing and being my friend and stuff.  And -- yeah.  Really.  Thank you.

regarding Mrs. Robinson, and other sundries.

I've posted almost every day, lately, so why interrupt such a regular flow?  (Why, indeed, she queries, as she scans her neglected kitchen, shrugs, and returns to the keyboard.)

It's just that I have these delicious links, and I don't want to waste 'em.  First, there's one that a lovely, thoughtful friend alerted me to, and it features some downright *fabulous* stuff for the peeples with the babies.  I borrowed a snap of a product from the parenting section, because it's sort of bizarre, but I will more than likely find myself slapping down the duckets for the thing if/when another seedling appears on the uterinal horizon.  Because, sleep.  It's what's for dinner, if I don't manage to get some in the appropriate time slots.

 

See?  Weird, but strangely compelling.  The site is called Babygadget.net.  Check it before you, er, well, just go look at it, already.

The second link I must direct you to is for a breastfeeding site, called Mom's Milk Anywhere (I believe the anagram is MomMA).  A Portland, Oregon woman who was harrassed for b'feeding on a bench in a local Fred Meyer (Kroger's) grocery store recently, decided to activate, in the shape of an organizer extraordinare, for breastfeeders here, there and everywhere.  I think she's awesome, and would probably get involved if I weren't already so consumed with blogging that I am at a loss as to how to disconnect the places where my fingers/palms/wrists have become one with the keyboard.  Is that the saddest excuse, ever?  Probably somewhere down near the bottom.  No, actually, it's probably just average-to-middlin' sad, because that's how sad it is.  It doesn't merit status near any extreme.

And now, to the Mrs. Robinson section of this post;

I'm so undersexxed that, when I saw a homeless man today, on my way to drop off my car at the dealership (because there's been a recall on the fuel lines on the specific year/model that I drive; they found that there was a combustibility issue due to leakage in the fuel lines, after the car is parked - which is really sweet, considering that I chose the vehicle for its supposed top-rated safety provisions), I wanted to leap out the window and throw myself at him.  Yeah.  Um, and it's not because I'm generally drawn to the outrageously sexxxy homeless types, so much as the specific guy I saw kinda reminded me of an old beau.  An old surfing, beach-loving beau.  IOW, not so very different in dress from the homeless dude.

I'm kind of thinking of starting another site, of the variety that Dawn and MotherGooseMouse/Mayberry Mom and Her Bad Mother have already cooked up; only mine would be more about naughty thought confessions.  Y'know, stuff that falls outside of the bounds of what people, as parents, ought to be thinking about, even in regard to the more healthy aspects of sex topics.  Because I sort of think that moms and dads, you know, we're not only supposed to only do it with our partners (the opposite sex ones, natch - you mean, there are gay people in the parenting world?  *gasp* -- /sarcasm), we're supposed to only want to do it with them.  So.  I don't really know if my energy for this will extend beyond merely suggesting it to the eighteen people who read this blog, and gauging whether I should make it happen (or run for the hills) based on your reaction (which could involve the lobbing of a lot of moldy vegetables at my head, which would necessitate my hilly escape), or if I'll be motivated by the (shockingly) positive response.

And, I am spent.

But I must depart with a little bit of the pretty in my wake.  There's a boutique in town that reminds me of cashmere, but not the kind from Costco.  No -- this cashmere is the kind that you see in the display windows of Barney's.  And it's the softest, most decadent stuff, and it's just a little bit sparkly, it's such quality wool, and it's in the nicest, press-your-cheek-lovingly-against-its-snugness color of lavendar that you ever saw.  The exact hue that you were besotted with as a kid, but would be loathe to confess to still possessing a deeply-buried hankering for, now that you're a mature, practical, beige-and-black-rocking woman (or man; not trying to alienate anybody - it's cool with the obsessed crowd of me if you fellas are into the purple, too).  Right  in the very center of pink and blue, this shade of lavendar is. 

That's what The English Dept. reminds me of.

                                           

A shot of some of their latest, one-of-a-kind, pretty-pretty wares.

867-530 niiieeeiiine.

Jenny, Jenny, who -- is this gorgeous, brilliant, comedic genius-infused woman I'm confronted with whenever I read your posts?

Well, whoever you are, I have to give you props.  In the form of a perfect post.  You deserve it for many of your entries, but this one really stands out.  You humble me.  I'm so glad I've had the opportunity to meet you, through the magic of the interweb, and learn about you; the good, the bad, and the beautiful.

Thank you for your raw disclosures; they embolden me in my writing, as well as my life.

And for those who are interested in where the perfect post awards originate, and would like to know who else has been nominated for this month's awards, please visit the delightful and benevolent Momma K and Lucinda.  Who really deserve their own, separate awards for being so lovely as to host such warm-fuzzy dishing-out to begin with.

**************

I owe a mumbley thank you and a blushey face to both Andrea of Littlebalddoctors and Mamatulip, for nominating me for a PP award for July.  I never feel deserving of awards, but I am not going to turn my nose up at it if you be givin' it, ladies.  I'm just so glad/relieved that you didn't think I was an idiotic bitch for what I wrote.  Thank you.

in-between days.

I am seriously considering disabling comments on my posts, because I feel weird about the whole dependency I'm developing on them for my continued posting abilities' sake.

Seriously.

(In a few months, when I've never mentioned it again, and it's never been followed through in any aspect of its disablingnessishness, we'll see just how serious I was.)

I love Sarah Silverman.  I have a HARD-ON for Sarah Silverman.  She's brilliance tossed with a fine melange of insane and batshit crazy, for a savory palate burst with notes of honey and vomit.  Really.  I want to squeeze her into an eau de parfum bottle -- the fance kind, with the old-fashioned, flowery, plasticky bulb -- and spritz her onto my wrists and neck, then lick it off.  She's unreal, she's so real.  Iffen you don't believe me, watch her latest ode on plastic round disc-thingy, Jesus is Magic.  If you have the nerve.  She ain't for the faint of heart, baby.  She's an equal-opportunity offender.  I am putty in her hands.

I am psyched about my friend, the divine Miss P-starr's, burgeoning craft fair this weekend (July 29th and 30th) in San Diego.  I wish I could go.  She's the real deal - gorgeous, brilliant, a genius with her hands, *and* she does crafty shit.  Heh.  That sounded dirty, so I went with it.  I'm five, remember?  So.  Yessss.  My friend and her crafty fare.  Fair.  To be specific; The Punk Rock Craft Fair.  It's in San Diego.  If you're within a few hundy miles of le Diego du San, I highly, HIGHLY recommend that you hit this.  It's going to be, how do the kids these days phrase it? -- off the chain.  Yes.  There's going to be cool stuff to see, hear, do, be, etc.  AND -- personally, I think this is the clincher -- it's free.  Basically, I'm jealous as fuck of anyone who has the opportunity to go, since I won't be able to.  Sigh.  So, go, and allow me to live vicariously by informing me of your experience post-haste.

May you all have highly productive, non-sucky days that begin with the letter M.

smooches, darlings.

no.

I just finished reading this post over at Julia's joint (and btw, Julia, I am humbled by your kind words about my former post), and you know what?  I'm just gonna put my money where my mouth is.  I've so had it with the giant creation of the need for cosmetic enhancement.  Created by conglomerate corporations with board members who pant after their ever-increasing stock options, who insist that the bottom line grow!  grow!  grow! as their insatiable thirst grows right along with it.  Who are convinced that it's acceptable to diminish human beings in their own minds, using ruthless marketing and advertising campaigns to charge against the defenseless spirits of the common people in the field of battle, the field that is littered with the land mines of airbrushed, glossy ads featuring anorexic, cigarette-and-champagne diet monsters,  monsters that the people being advanced upon simply cannot mirror, because they are not actual beings; charged upon with all the force of a tsunami, unprepared as they attempt to go about leading an ordinary, happy life, bowled over by their inability to meet the monsters in their indomitable, albeit imaginary, force.  Force that is given depth and breadth because the people believe it, and so it exists.

I won't let them bowl me over.  I like me.  I'm not a supermodel, but by definition, not even the women who represent that status can uphold the image without the vaseline lense positioned between the viewer and themselves.  I'm pretty.  I have pores that are getting bigger, and I have hair that is at times unruly, and at times curly and full of life.  I have stupid, too-thin eyebrows from the period in my twenties when I thought they were ugly and I tweezed them to ribbons.  My ass isn't much altered from pregnancy, but it was never "perfect," whatever that means.  It's a little saggy, and it doesn't sit really high -- it never has.  My legs, they are, to me, too muscular.  Too much like a soccer player's - a male soccer player's, that is.  My calves -- oh, how I've lamented them.  And yet, they take me where I need to go.  They are dependable.  And I can chase my son when I need; my calves are a swift and sturdy aid.  My stomach - once my favorite feature - really, my upper torso was quite nice.  Now, my shoulders cave from balancing my own shape to allow my son's body to cling and not allow gravity to interfere.  My breasts are like tube socks with points at their tips.  My spine slopes in a gentle curve from below my neck to just below my waist.  My stomach -- my belly button looks like it has descended into a permanent state of depression.  My washboard stomach.  Is.  No.  More.  I look gangly and awkward when I attempt to stand comfortably, and when I stretch my head up and raise my shoulders, I feel broken.  It's uncomfortable to stand that way; the way I was accustomed to, in my past life.  My unbaby life.

I don't care.  I see the lines growing on my face.  I watch the shiny, white hairs, soft from their lack of keratin, proceed into the river of brown on my scalp.  I watch as the river grows slightly grayer, as the weeks slip past.  I see the pimples that rise and fall, still, on my chin and nose, my forehead and neck.  I watch the veins on the backs of my hands begin to protrude ever more prominently, the skin on my legs become less satin and more paper-like. 

I am pretty.

I am not perfect.

I am not a magazine ad. 

I am a woman.  I am a mother.  I am a full, complex, multi-faceted person. 

I deserve to believe that I am worthy of what I have worked to better about myself; not on the exterior, because that is a facade that will crumble no matter what improvements I make; but on the interior, where I grow ever stronger and brighter and wiser and more humble and more able to love.

I want to be remembered for who I gave love to, who I gave friendship to, and who felt strength because of that love and friendship; not for how stylish or hottt I was.

I am pretty.

why I love blogs.

my stomach feels like someone just ran it repeatedly over a cheese grater.  I am open.  Bleeding.

The shockingly beautiful Jenny linked to this site, and I looked, and was abjectly humbled by the strength of character that the women of the blog possess; I read some comments on Jenny's current post, and was emotionally piqued by the variety of thoughts on the subject; I read MamaTulip's comment, and was shocked, and angered by a society that could make us ever begin to think something so wrong about our amazing, life-giving bodies.  And now, I sob and type simultaneously because I must purge the knowledge that I, too, feel that my husband shouldn't have to look at me in this new, lacking-in-elastic state that my body has moved to.  Why?  What do we possibly gain by allowing ourselves to believe something so negative?  When we have moved mountains to create new life?  Why are we so malleable?  Why does advertising impress us to the point of belief -- belief in the negative?

And yet, when we share these things, in our blog posts, in the comments section, I feel as though there is some kind of uprising occurring against this massive infection of marketing campaigns that rage against our natural, evolving beauty, an uprising of pitting ourselves against that infection, linked together in a cyber arm-in-arm, blog-to-blog stance.

Fuck that.  We made HUMAN BEINGS pour from our bodies like a lavender rain of baby flesh.  FUCK ANYONE who makes us feel less than worthy of our positions on the steps of the palace on Olympus.

Fuck 'em.

*********

Updated to add that, while I am a neanderthal for my perspective on the as-is vs. surgery/extensive cosmetic enhancement face-off, evidenced by this emotional, shoot-from-the-hip post, I'm really grateful for women like the ones who blog on Shape of a Mother, and Jenny, and everyone else who takes a peaceful approach in dealing with the dilemma.  I wish I had that kind of adult persona.  Instead, I'm five when I'm upset.  Or excited.  Really, just in general, I'm five.

My kid's gonna be onto me fairly quickly, I'd imagine.