My son will begin middle school this year at the middle school I attended. It’s the same middle school my brother, my eldest daughter, and two of my nieces attended. My son will likely be a fourth generation graduate of St. Joseph High School. And it is on that beautifully renovated and fully updated stage where I, and some 160 others from the 1950s through the 90s, will return this weekend for our ENCORE Variety Show to benefit the St. Joseph Public Schools Foundation. I’m among the very proud alumni of a school system in which I staunchly believe, and for which I am a proud advocate.

I haven’t sung in ages except for the occasional family wedding or funeral and alcohol-infused Karaoke. I’m mortified each time I recall when Jeff and I attempted to sing Islands in The Stream after neither of us had even heard the song since we'd rehearsed sufficiently and performed it with a band backing us for Showtime thirty years ago. There’s a reason neither of us volunteered to revive that performance for ENCORE. If you saw Sunday’s Herald Palladium, you are as excited as I am that Jeff is appropriately reviving a comedy skit, The Old Prospectors. He performed it back in the 80s with Jim Bartalone, and will again, hopefully to a welcoming and supportive full house.

Though he didn't graduate, Robin Williams was classically trained at Juilliard. Times are hard and cuts are prevalent for performing arts programs in schools across the country. Whether or not we shine brightly or fizzle hopelessly on our old stage this Friday and Saturday, it’s only a small piece of what this week means. It’s about supporting the future of St. Joseph Public Schools. It’s about continuing to provide programs that are sometimes the only lifeline for kids who desperately need to succeed and to shine and to have control of something when they often have so little control over what happens in their young lives.   

2014 has been a turning point for me. I wanted to stop being angry. I wanted more, so I decided, and I got it. I put myself “out there,” owning the title of Writer. In the winter, I took a train to Montana to attend a writers’ retreat. In the spring, I auditioned and won a spot reading one of my pieces for Listen to Your Mother in one of thirty-two shows across the US. This summer is almost over, and I am at the editing phase after completing a draft of my first GANE Possible Publication for release late this fall. I accomplished that through the #Write2TheEnd program I co-facilitate with my friend and fellow writer, Ami Hendrickson. We can’t wait to begin our fall session September 15th.  We hope you’ll join us and claim the title of Writer for yourself if that’s something you’ve always wanted to do. In 2015 I plan to learn to play the guitar my husband bought me over a year ago.

The idea is to stop dreaming, stop worrying about failure, and start doing. A foundation of my #MOREin2014 philosophy includes going back to my roots, to the things I enjoyed when I was young; before poor choices, responsibility, jobs, family, kids, new friends, or a spouse with different interests allowed me, little-by-little, to push my passions aside. Before I knew it, I'd allowed myself to make the choice to stop doing what I once loved: singing.

I can’t wait to grace my home stage with old friends and fellow alumni. The idea is thrilling. It’s exhilarating. And I especially can’t wait to honor the many years of Showtime and the teachers who made the spotlight, writing, comedy, music, and drama possible for generations of kids who desperately need the outlet and pure joy performing was and will be again. Whether it’s with us or at us, take time out to laugh this weekend, and do it while supporting a great school. 

Tickets are available online or in person at Edgewater Bank at the corner of Broad and Main streets. Get yours today! 

You know you're tired when you scroll down to see how long a post is before you decide whether you'll read it.

You know you're tired when you can hear your eyes blink.

You know you're tired when you look in the mirror and see yourself yawn and it makes you yawn again.

You know you're tired when the dust bunnies are so big, the dog thinks they're new toys.

You know you're tired when you can still fall asleep immediately after your second cup of coffee.


You know you're tired when you fall asleep at your desk, sitting up, with your fingers poised over your keyboard.

You know you're tired when your eyes burn so bad, you can't read more than a paragraph without falling asleep.

You know you're tired when you find your keys in the fridge and the cheese in your purse.

You know you're tired when you can't retain a thought long enough to write a complete sentence, let alone a paragraph.

You know you're tired when the only thing you seem to be able to write is a ridiculous post about how tired you are.

Though Kristen Lamb, guru, incredible WANAMama to all things WANACon (online writers conference of her creation), says here that Being Tired Can Make You a Better Writer...I may have gone beyond that point, and am looking forward to a coaching conference in San Francisco this weekend to re-energize me and help to recharge my batteries. 

My point?  The Judy Blume Project is far too big for two moms from Colorado and Michigan to do justice to in a mere month (without child protective services being alerted, and husbands complaining loudly about there being no clean underwear), and Judy deserves SO much better than sleep-deprived zombies for partners.

Dana and I are delighted to report that we've gotten so much terrific feedback, we feel compelled to expand the project and extend the deadline.  We are STILL ACCEPTING SUBMISSIONS!! ...Maybe it even remains a living, breathing thing...who knows? 

So visit your local library.  Re-read your favorite Judy Blume books, enjoy the memories they spark, and let us know what a wonderful and necessary contribution she made to your pre-adolescent and adolescent survival. 

For many of us, Blume's characters and their life events allowed us to experience scary things without actually having to suffer the consequences.  She helped us to feel normal, to understand things we couldn't speak to our parents about, and to understand that we were perfectly acceptable amid a persistent fog of zit-infused angst and uncertainty.

You can review our submission guidelines here, as well as check out all the other fabulous pieces to date.  WE HOPE YOU'LL JOIN THEM.  Established or not, young or old, student or teacher, mother or daughter or father or son; all the above, or none of the above--this means YOU. Let us know you're getting to work on your Judy Blume Project Anthology submission, thanking and honoring the fine lady for her amazing contribution to MG/YA fiction. 

At the start of one of the last couple sessions of my Creative Writing class, one of the few men in attendance asked me to sit next to him.  I didn’t want to offend him—because I was raised that way; to be polite at all costs—I said, OK. 

“Wait, are you single?”

I showed him my ring, “Nope, sorry.  I’m married.”

“Oh, well leave that seat open then.”

K.  Thanks.  EVER so.

He then went on to ask whether another female in class was single, and lament how he just wanted to meet a nice woman who wasn’t crazy. 

Er, reap what you sow, much? 

And then his writing was really genuinely funny and entertaining, so I had to forgive him, and even like him just a little bit.

Fast forward a few weeks to the first meeting of our invitation-only writers’ group…and there he is.  And my project, that I will have to read aloud, is smut-filled.  ***Warning, warning, Will Robinson!  You may want to stop reading now, daughters & nieces.****  It isn’t really.  But by way of introduction to the characters, it’s kind of right there in your face in the first two chapters.  Sex is a part of life; an important part of life.   Do I relish the idea of reading it aloud to a mixed group?  Nope.  Not one bit. 

In this age of tablets—which have changed EVERYTHING about the Publishing Industry, including a rapid growth in women’s erotica, because no one knows what you’re reading or downloading—and Fifty Shades, however, I want to write a better version of the sexy novel.  I want to tell a great story, with dynamic characters who engage in believable dialog and who appropriately engage in consensual, grown-up sex.  I don’t wish to glorify the sex, or gratuitously slather it all over every chapter, but it’s an important part of all our stories. 

It’s how we all got here, whether we like to think it of our parents or not. 

Sex is how partners connect and remember they love one another, even when life gets all other kinds of messy and sometimes ugly, in between.  Americans don’t easily acknowledge sex and its appropriate place in our collective rites of passage growing up, and they don’t like to talk about it much.  Even grownups snicker and laugh about it behind their hands, and we’re too often mortified at the idea of discussing it with our kids. 

While I don’t see myself reading the Fifty Shades series, due to the many reviews that suggest it may be poorly written and filled with too much purple prose, the fact that I just don’t enjoy the S&M (nope, not taking any chances linking to that!) idea myself and I don’t really want to read what I’ve heard referred to as “wall-to-wall sex,” I must allow that perhaps it’s had an important place in modern literature if it’s gotten people to talk and read about sex more freely, and thus created more opportunities for its consensual enjoyment.  I’m all for that.

I still find myself mortified, however, at the idea of reading aloud in [a mixed] ‘Group’ next week—and I will likely request an all female escort to my vehicle at the end of it.    

I’ll let you know how it goes. 

If I don’t die of embarrassment, that is. 

[Author's Note:  This essay has been ACCEPTED for inclusion in the upcoming book, 51%: Women and the Future of Politics.  The editors have expanded it and renamed it to include the theme from my piece, The Enlightened Middle Majority, and Why 'The Sides' Are Alienating Us.  You can follow this link to their website http://www.womenandpolitics.us and/or their Facebook page at womenandpolitics.us.  They have also conducted a survey, the results of which will be included when the book is released before the upcoming presidential election.]
The following represents the essay, as originally submitted:

An image that has persisted in my mind during President Barack Obama’s Administration, is that of a bunch of fat white men sitting around a paneled room smoking cigars, nodding with the one who says, “That boy will never see another term.”  Sure, President Bill Clinton had the ‘Grinch Mob,’ but as a president, despite his obvious flaws as a husband, he still enjoyed a good deal of support.  A circle of life concluded between Republican Abraham Lincoln freeing the slaves and Democrat Barack Obama becoming president, and in contrast, he has conducted himself with the utmost class.  I suspect, however, that the Obamas navigate Washington circles amid an undercurrent of discrimination.  I’m not ready to commit my vote yet, but never in my awareness of politics can I remember a president being so vehemently opposed and, God help our country, I feel strongly that it’s because he’s black.

This seems to be the only ideal the Republican Party is united about these days, and the desire to squash a sitting president does not an effective campaign make.  The GOP does not have it together, and that’s what scares away those of us in the middle.  As proven by the disastrous McCain/Palin ticket, you can’t just dress up an ill-prepared hockey mom, put lipstick on her, shove her onto a national platform and expect her to save your party.  She may walk like a duck and squawk like a duck, but she’s still just a good ol’ boy dressed in drag.

The Democrats, however, are guilty, too.  They sit back quietly on their laurels, and when the GOP begins to take too much ground, they occasionally throw out the reminder that still gets many women to vote their way: “Watch out!  They’re all out to take away abortion!”  The Democrats seem to think it’s the only winning card they have to play.  We have to ask ourselves whom it really behooves to keep throwing the right to choose up for fisticuffs.  I said it as Poky Puppy ADD It Again, in my featured piece on BlogHer.com, The Enlightened Middle Majority and Why ‘The Sides’ Are Alienating Us:

     “But that's all any of us really want, and it’s the very foundation on which this country was built. We still don't want         anyone to tell us whom we must worship, where we must worship, or that we have to worship at all, nor do we wish     to stop anyone who wants to do so. Freedom of religion must also mean freedom from religion, and religious doctrines     simply cannot enter into a political discussion of our rights as Americans. I believe in God. But I don't want anyone to         tell me that I have to.”

So uphold Roe vs. Wade, take the right to choose off the table, as it must be, and see what kind of progress we can make on all the other issues.  I believe suddenly the discourse would become far more productive.

The only other cohesive message that seems to come from the Republican side is from that ultra conservative Christian sector, which isn’t what this country wants or needs.  What we are aching for, what this whole 51% thing is about, is the hope and the desire and, dammit, the demand for a voice of reason; to speak out and say, “Enough already!”  I suspect that voice will be a woman’s; to represent the middle majority and do what’s really good for this country as a whole.  In the meantime, if everyone would stop opposing so vehemently and start participating in bi-partisan cooperation, great things could be accomplished now. 

Women hold treasures far more valuable than brute strength:  flexibility, common sense, diplomacy, the ability to multi-task and keep entire families together, to balance and stay within budgets, to go Momma Bear, Tiger Mom, and even Hockey Mom and fight to the death for our clan when we must.  We do this while our men-folk bump chests, bully and bluster and attempt to bend the world with their military prowess.  We are cut open or ripped open to give birth, yet the entire problem both parties have can be summed up in these few words:  They Under-Estimate Us.  We survive rape and breast cancer, poverty and oppression, and we possess strength beyond imagination.

Except that we imagine it.  We understand it--live it--we keep it close and we keep it quiet in order to keep peace, exercising it only when we must.  Well, my sisters, we must.  Whether we lean to the right or to the left, we can no longer afford to just hold our collective breaths and hope for the best.  We must act now.  We must be willing to mix it up with the boys and spar a little; to stand up and let our altos and sopranos and our keyboards be heard.  We are the 51%.  We are the Enlightened Middle Majority and we are the future; of politics, of our nation’s success and of the very continuation of our race. 

I can’t imagine what sort of resistance a woman president might one day be subjected to, but I know this:  ‘They’ won’t know what size Jimmy Choos hit them.


[Here's the link to the first post, "My Friends Think I'm The Only Liberal They Know.  I Don't Know What I Am," which was featured on BlogHer.com, before "The Enlightened Middle Majority And Why 'The Sides' Are Alienating Us," was featured on the same site.  Of course, they are originally posted here, but the comments of the many brilliant readers on BlogHer make for entertaining reading as well.]

My girlfriend’s adorable picture on Facebook of her son’s crazy hair for school today (not my kid, so I won’t share it, but here’s a pretty crazy one of my own from a few years back), and another mom-friend talking about doing seven crazy ponytails in her daughter’s hair got me thinking; and remembering.  I also had a nice telephone conversation with my oldest daughter, Sara, this morning and a blissful 70-minute one with my step-daughter, Rachel, this afternoon.  I didn’t get much writing done today, but it made me so nostalgic for when we were all together under one roof, in one state.  It was brief and it wasn’t always easy, but those were blissfully chaotic and wonderful years before Sara left to go off to college, and too soon after, Rachel graduated and got her own apartment.

My boy has never been one to let me do a thing to his hair, even when his sisters were around and wanted to spike it all the time.  ONE time he allowed me to spike it for his school picture, but when Grandma said she didn’t like it; never again.  Not once since.  Not even for Crazy Hair Day.  But it’s my very favorite school picture of him, ever.  And his big sisters would probably agree.

I now have my boy trained to tell his dad, “Not Your Department,” whenever his mop gets too long, which I rather like, but Dad threatens to get out the clippers.  This phrase came up because when Rachel was little, her dad thought she needed a haircut and thought he was just the guy to see it done.  Well I was totally in the ex-wife’s corner on this one:  SO Not Dad’s Department!  It looked exactly like his sisters’ did, in their typical 70s Pageboys.  In fact, he probably wouldn’t admit it, but I bet he took an old picture out of his wallet of one of his sisters to show the stylist at the time.  I would have been furious with him if he’d done that to my girl.  Of course, Rachel and her sunny smile were adorable regardless, but that phrase has lived on in our family, forever more. 

The craziest hair times typically occur when girls are in their high school years.  They begin experimenting, asserting their independence and, depending on what they’re into at the time, might come home with half a head shaved or a shock of hot pink running through it.  My own high school photos range from a Barbra Streisand Main Event perm to Farrah Fawcett feathered bangs; not so bad, I guess. 

When my girls were in high school, straightening was all the rage, or Goth, but thankfully neither of them went there, so not too much craziness to report.  Except (and I’m sure at this point, she knows this is coming) when Rachel needed her hair done for Competitive Cheerleading:   We had to put it up in a high pony tail, then twist and wrap little individually sectioned pieces around flaming hot rubber noodles to make a gagillion ringlet curls all through the pony tail; but not before absolutely COATING both sides of each little section of hair with AquaNet hairspray.  The stench was bad enough, but my hands, forearms and even the tops of my feet would get absolutely coated in the stuff.  I wouldn’t do it upstairs because of the bamboo floors, so we did it in the basement and would both be nearly asphyxiated by the time we were done.  And lucky her, she’d have to sleep in it all night like that. 

Even with no fingerprints left to identify my cold, dead body (which could very well be a reality when she sees this example that shows her little brother isn't the only one in the family who will put on a crazy outfit from time to time), the unpleasant AquaNet arms, crusty nose hairs and my fingers literally sticking to one another, to her hair and to the rat tail comb, I wouldn’t trade those blessed moments with my spunky, funny, smart, loving and spectacularly beautiful step-daughter for anything in this world.  Especially on this long holiday weekend, far from home, I wish I could blink my eyes and spend an evening doing her hair and breathing AquaNet all over again.  I’d happily do Sara’s, too.  I know for sure my son will never let me do his, not even for Crazy Hair Day.  But he’d put on a crazy getup, have a blast and there would be lots of laughs with his Dad, sisters and all of us together under one roof again, if only for a moment.  (The things you can get away with when your daughters are an entire country away, however, can be rather fun!)

That's my new mantra.

As in:

I don't want to clean my son's bathroom (ew)...put on your Big Girl Panties, your rubber gloves and a face mask and just do it, preferably right before your shower, and maybe even naked.

I don't feel like walking today...put on your Big Girl Panties, your shoes and just do it.

I don't know what to write today...put on your Big Girl Panties, sit at your computer and just start typing.

I don't care to fight with my kid about eating his broccoli...put on your Big Girl Panties, make the damn broccoli and just set a good example and eat it yourself first.

And here's a big one:

I don't have a clue where to begin to help my kid succeed in school...put on your Big Girl Panties, talk to his teacher, and be willing to go in every day, STUDY THOSE MATH FACTS every day, and give him the opportunity to rise to the high expectations he is more than capable of meeting.  In other words, make him put on his Big Girl Panties.

Self-discipline has never been something I tap into easily.  But the payoffs are magical, numerous and probably limitless (I say probably because I only just started so I don't actually know for sure yet, but I have an inkling).  For instance, you won't be embarrassed when the Potty Queen is over, however briefly and unexpectedly, and must use your bathroom.  If you just put your shoes on first thing when you change your clothes in the morning, you'll be more likely to walk, which will feel great and your dog will love you even more and won't pester you so much when you're trying to write, which could eventually lead to something delightful and unexpected even if you didn't know in advance what you were sitting down to write that day, but that probably actually came to you while you were walking. 

And best of all, the kid who cried daily about math homework and took hours to complete five problems, suddenly answers, "Actually math," was his favorite thing at school, when, "Recess," was the usual answer to the daily question.  Not only that, he approaches homework enthusiastically, and completes it in a timely manner and has time to actually play after dinner on a weeknight.

So what if he still doesn't eat his broccoli with similar enthusiasm...neither do I.  But this recipe from The Barefoot Contessa might actually rectify that situation in the future.  And here you go, in case you need your own set of Big Girl Panties.

Never in a thousand dreams, would I have imagined myself a political blogger.  I may occasionally dangle my participles and I don’t know what up is.  I’m literally the farthest thing from a political pundit, and I’m just as shocked as my 7th grade English teacher, to whom I still owe a report on Greek Mythology.  I’m just a mom who wants to hear from someone who makes sense, who gets me.  Until very recently, when “My Friends Think I’m The Only Liberal They Know.  I Don’t Know What I Am” was featured on BlogHer, I wasn’t someone who wore her politics on her sleeve.  Maybe because of my waffling party alignment, and maybe because I was never sure people would still love me after a debate.  But the current political atmosphere no longer affords those of us in the middle the luxury to hide.

In the comment thread for My Friends Think, the brilliant Stacy Morrison, Editor in Chief at BlogHer.com said, “You know what I am? I am a woman, a mother, a worker, a home owner, a person, a voice, a collection of dreams and ideas, and I am proud to say that I truly believe people are allowed to think their own thoughts, all the time, even if I disagree with them. And, dammit, I am an American. Not a wave the flag American. Not a pointy-headed snob American. Just a person trying to make my life work and still have time for family, love and fun.”  That’s why she’s editor in chief.  In that one beautiful statement, she summed up what it’s like to be a woman and a mother in these difficult times.  She also said, “I think it's SO IMPORTANT that we find a way to lead the awful, ugly, unproductive political discourse toward this same idea of COMPLEXITY.”  Let me just say, I would switch teams, er…vote for Stacy Morrison.

About the same post, one of the wisest people I’m lucky enough to call friend said, “When I think of politics I think of the polarized world that we live in today. We, the public, are very programmed to measure everything, including politics, based on that polarity. Everything is good or bad, black or white, in or out, light or dark. I believe we are also trained to believe that where ever our personal choices fall, we must believe we are at the 'better' end of whatever scale we are using at that moment. …we are always 'right' and the other guy therefore, must always be 'wrong'. I see little effort put into coming together somewhere in the middle. I believe a little (or a lot) of tolerance would help balance the scales.”  She’s also the one who said she would describe me as enlightened, which is where the phrase the Enlightened Middle Majority came from.

Well, a la Flavia, “If I could sit across the porch from [those who think they’re] God,” and in response to Stacy Morrison’s, “What DON’T You Want From The Election?  JOIN US,” I would tell them a thing or two: 

·         We women are busy, dammit.  But don’t think for a moment that means we aren’t paying attention.

·         You MAY NOT take away our right to choose, because doing so would be the antithesis of religious freedom: it's forcing religious beliefs unilaterally down the throats of every American.

·         The term is pro-choice.  No one is pro-abortion.  That sounds like we're all for handing them out willy-nilly, using them as birth control, and doing something less than painstakingly deliberating such a monumental decision.  Finding ourselves in a position that requires such a choice is not in the least frivolous, and babies deserve (and require) so much more than to merely exist.

·         Birth control isn’t perfect.  If my college age daughter found she had to suddenly choose between a lifelong dream of a softball scholarship or unexpectedly being a mother, I would want her to be able to decide her own future, not Rush Limbaugh.

·         And speaking of birth control, if a doctor who prescribes contraceptives is in my insurance plan, then it’s none of my employer’s business what kind of drug he or she prescribes.  That’s between me and my doctor.  In the absence of an equivalent form of male birth control, singling out contraceptives as not being covered singles out women, and that’s discriminatory.  Contraceptives should be no different than anti-depressants, Lipitor or any other drug.

·         Wake up and smell the fuel oil:  “Burn Baby Burn,” does not an effective campaign slogan make.  It pisses off those of us who care about the legacy we leave behind for our children on this earth.  And why would anyone so vehemently fight a future that provides jobs that take better care of our planet.  Don’t ignore us, don’t patronize us and don’t make fun of things that are important to us; it makes us angry.  And you won’t like us when we’re angry.

If The Pen is [indeed] Mightier Than the Sword, why is it that those of us in the Enlightened Middle Majority seem to use the pen (or our keyboards) and the facts and reasonable discussion in an attempt to be heard and to understand, while extremists bomb abortion clinics?

OK, that’s an admittedly extreme statement. 

But that's all any of us really want, and it’s the very foundation on which this country was built.  We still don't want anyone to tell us whom we must worship, where we must worship, or that we have to worship at all, nor do we wish to stop anyone who wants to do so.  Freedom of religion must also mean freedom from religion, and religious doctrines simply cannot enter into a political discussion of our rights as Americans.  I believe in God.   But I don't want anyone to tell me that I have to.

What I want is for our veterans who have been withdrawn from the battle fields where they've been fighting for this country to come home to good jobs and be able to feed their families.  Many of the same skills they have been using to rebuild the infrastructure that was destroyed in Iraq and Afghanistan could be employed on a high speed train system in the US.  JOBS.  I want people who have for generations now been on welfare, to be taught and rewarded for seeking and maintaining jobs instead of the dole.  There is no reward system in place to inspire people to want more, there is only suppression and perpetuation of poverty.  I know this, because I was a single mom who wanted just a small amount each month to help supplement my income.  I was denied because I had a job, but I didn't make enough to support my daughter and myself.  I want children who are born into poverty in this country to have enough truly healthy food to eat, to be warm, to be loved and to have the same opportunities to be educated that my children enjoy.  I want teachers (most of whom are women) to be paid what they deserve to be paid for building the very foundation of the future of our country in an environment that, because people are afraid and unemployed and angry and those feelings trickle down to their children, only becomes more and more hostile.  

We can no longer afford to be silent.  Those of us, who have never before considered ourselves activists, have no choice but to stand up and be heard, and we must be counted.  We must tell the politicians of this election cycle and all those to come, that we are paying attention, and that we will not be ignored.  That they may no longer take comfort in their "republican-ness" or in their "democrat-ness", but that they must pay attention to those of us in the Enlightened Middle Majority, stop being so divisive and find a way to promulgate change that really matters.  

I still don’t know what that makes me, but I know this:  Extremism will get no one elected.  Listening and debating RESPECTFULLY, tolerance, being open to compromise and ideology that sees beyond black and white, those are qualities of the candidate who will get my vote, and the votes of many who count themselves in the Enlightened Middle Majority.  

A quick look at my site stats tells me that I have drifted off into Blogosphere oblivion because, quite frankly, life has gotten in the way of my blogging.  But here’s the thing; blogging felt pretty damn amazing. 

Being a mom most days means living in a fairly constant state of oblivion.  As long as my son has a lunch to take to school, his favorite clothes are clean, food is on the table and there’s a ready ride to where he needs to be, I can go for days, weeks, years even it seems, pretty much unnoticed.  We schlep and we haul and we pack and we motivate and we advise.  We kiss the boo-boos, bake the cakes, vacuum the cobwebs no one else notices, all while fulfilling our “wifely” duties and trying to look our best.  My husband swears the other day he told me I looked nice when he got home, but he must have said it mumbling and walking away, as he does most things, because I sure never heard it.  I swear there are entire conversations that exist exclusively in that big head of his, especially if they are remotely appreciative, because I rarely ever hear words like that produced out loud.  To my face.  Voluntarily.  And God-forbid I should point out the fact that I got my hair done that day, because then I get the defensive, “I said you looked nice today!”  *grumble, mumble*

During March, however, when I was obsessively blogging and feeling a downright responsibility to do so, little of the above actually got done.  And I LOVED it!  I was using my mind, remembering words I hadn’t played with in ages, feeling appreciated by all of my readers (thanks Anna and Mr. B).  I had things to talk to my husband about that didn’t involve something needing to be fixed or purchased.  It was the least lonely I’ve felt since moving to California, even though most of the time I was very much alone.  I think because of so much time spent in front of a computer, I was more willing to seek out contact with actual, blood-pumping humans.  All of which would be amazing, if only I could figure out a way to seek out contact ($$--ahem) with an actual vacuum-wielding cleaning lady.  HEPA filtered.  Who does windows.  And laundry.  And uses green products. 

Not that blogging is all harp-holding cherubs all the time; there will always be those who disagree with me, judge me and laugh at me for all the wrong reasons.  And forgetting to pick up my son more than once in awhile is likely to get me the wrong kind of notice at school.  And apparently I needed yet another reminder today to COMPOSE IN WORD, because it REALLY blows when you lose internet connection mid-post.  Curse you, again, AT&T!!  April’s NaBloPoMo Poetry on BlogHer was a heroic fail.  Apparently an on-demand or disciplined poet, I am not.  Though I did love the idea—the romance—of it, I have come to understand that writers tend not by nature to be particularly disciplined people.  Huh.  So maybe that’s why I’m that way.  And when you don’t look in a mirror all day, or have anyone sitting in a cubicle next to you to tell you that you’re still wearing your jammies, have spinach in your teeth, or that your skin is flaking off your face, you might usually leave the house looking like a bit of a wreck, or hurriedly pull on shorts only to discover that you haven’t actually taken the time to shave in a week.  And, oh shit, you don’t have any clean pants to wear anyway. 

Wow.  Dry shaving sucks.