Ode To Damage Control:

At 4 am, there ain’t nuthin on T.V. except Lunesta and Mystery Depression Medication commercials. I hate sleepless nights.

::Gasp:: Two steps back!

Friday, I put up my last post and went to check my RSS feeds just as I was running out the door for date night. DOH! Remind me to check the RSS feed before I post anything!

I offer up the following Ode To Damage Control:

“There's a blog theme thing going on, NaBloPoMo, a post every day in November thing. I signed up, and because I battle anxiety about everything, I planned out what I was going to write every day for the whole month and posted it on my blog.

Then I went back today and wrote a post with the theme of “I'm gonna post before I check all the other blogs on my rss feed” and posted a depressing “I got nothing to say because I don't want to spew all my personal anxiety, depression, and family issues on the net” post. And THEN I checked my RSS feed, and saw that Mrs. Kennedy from Fussy (a relatively Big Fish blogger) plugged my blog on her site today. This is exactly the kind of social situation that makes me a nervous wreck!

Look at that dumb luck!? Hoooooooooooooow could I be so dumb? Mrs. Kennedy is sending who-knows-how-many people to my blog and I've just posted a “woe is me” post!?

My dilemma is, do I pull the post down before *everybody* sees it, and repost it later when it's funny? Or do I leave it up like it is: Hi, welcome to my site, I have no self-esteem, you want to bookmark me, right?”

I sent out this panicked email to DH, several non-blogging friends, and a few bloggers I met at Blogher. Most of the feedback I got was in the vein of “It’s your blog about you, leave it up!” I did leave it up with a minor change in the wording of the paragraph about our marriage. I’m feeling pretty good about that. I can’t believe I’m blogging that I called Fussy a Big Fish.

Date Night did totally rock. I got a fair amount of me time on Saturday because DH slept in until noon-thirty. Moose’s band was really good (if you think screaming and growling=music).

Sunday, I remembered to pick up a birthday gift for the boss, and I had some time to try my hand at canning applesauce. Speaking of canning, remind me not to take on new projects armed only with directions from the internet.

And It’s All Ghetto!

We chose this apartment by process of elimination. As in: we eliminated the possibility of living anywhere else located between his office and my office, because its all ghetto!

Don’t get me wrong, I love this neighborhood. People cut and water their grass, sweep their porches, decorate for holidays, the whole nine yards. The few blocks surrounding us are all very pleasant, you know: houses, trees, sidewalks, warehouses, railroad cars, houses, trees, sidewalks… Oh, wait! See, that’s the thing. Its an industrial town. Every few blocks there’s the remnants of what used to be a familiar chain super market, ice-cream shop, video rental store. There aren’t enough residents in this town to support the familiar favorites that you can find in a half-mile radius in other suburbs. This is the last Los Angeles suburb that only has ONE “Fourbucks” coffee joint within the city limits. Not that I’m a fan of “Fourbucks,” but come on! Fourbucks is everywhere, why not here?

Where does a 20-something newlywed meet her girlfriends for a chat in this town? The local cocktail bar with the Grandpamobiles parked out front? I think the secret handshake involves a Pompadour comb-over!

There’s a high school down the street, we could smoke cigarettes and be melancholy behind the gym… except that I don’t smoke!

Like, we could like so totally go hang out at the mall in the next town, that would be like so totally righteous… but I like stopped saying “like” like six times in a sentence when I was like eleven years old. That’s like so like 1987.

Chinese food? Sure, we got that, its the restaurant with the big blue B on the front window! Not the kind of place you take a friend!

There is one thing that this town does right, and that is Mexican restaurants.

So: Who wants to meet me down the street for a hot cup of taquitos?

I Have Pink Hair! Ha!

 I hemmed and hawed for years, then I finally did it.

I have pink hair. The husband, he has not disowned me! We’ll see about the boss tomorrow morning.

UPDATE! When I checked DH’s site this morning, he had updated my avatar… its pretty accurate.

And no, the boss didn’t fire me either.

Pink Hair

Pink Hair. If I want Pink Hair does not mean I'm Staid!

I want to be perfectly clear. Staid is a of settled or sedate character; not flighty or capricious.


“Characterized by sedate dignity and often a strait-laced sense of propriety; sober.”

I drank more at Blogher than I did in seven total years of college, and my blogher peeps think I’m “staid!”

I’m not staid! Really, I just have a giant stick up my hmm-hmm. Not that that’s any better… but still.

I’ve always had this false sense of delayed gratification. This isn’t so bad when we’re talking about saving for a house, and paying off the car loan. Its become a way of life. I got through grad school on a wing and a prayer. But, after years of living off ramen noodles and peanut butter, I can’t break it!!!

Nah – Let’s not go to Rome for our honeymoon, we could do it for our ten-year anniversary.
I wish I could take my favorite teenagers to the water park, ::sigh::
Oh, Honey, we don’t need cable tv.
I wish I wasn’t too old to buy a pair of Heely’s
I wish I could have pink streaks in my hair…
DH is very supportive of all my wacky ideas. When I whine that I wanna go to a water park, he says “lets go!” Even Heelys. He walks me around the parking lot holding me up so I don’t fall, just like my uncle Gil did when I was five years old.

I’ve been on a thing lately. Why do I need validation and approval before I can do something self-indulgent and wacky once in a while? I am an adult. I have a paycheck. I’m out of debt. I’m a dink. What is my problem!?

MiniMartha has to tell me to click the send button when I put bras in the shopping cart at Vict*riasSecr*t.com.

I have to use a little kid’s birthday party as an excuse to buy Paint-by-Number posters.

I “ask” DH if I can have pink hair, only because I know he’d never say no – and then I have to ask my hairstylist if she will do it!? I’m paying her and I have to have her permission to have pink hair? What the??

I’ve been looking for an excuse to make Shrinky-Dinks for over a decade. Does anyone know where I can order them online??

Marriage, Morning Sickness, Mommy ~ Obsess Much?

Marriage, Morning Sickness, Mommy ~ Obsess Much?

Whoohoo! I’m going to Blogher the world wide web! I’m all up and registered…

Hello! I feel like its the last week of August. School’s about to start! What’s my class going to be like? Who will I sit next to at lunch? Will they like me? What should I wear? What should I pack? I wonder if clickmom will be there? I hope Collie will be there, so I’ll have someone I know, and maybe she’ll sit next to me at recess so I don’t feel so alone in the crowd! Would one of the card-carrying mommy bloggers snub me if I tried to sit at the cool table? omigawsh! whoamigonnaroomwith?

Except that its not the last week in August… school isn’t gonna start next week. Blogher is still 173 days away… and I am already totally consumed, panicked, worried, obsessing, completely friggin freaked out, nervous. I’m paying careful attention to how many days until blogher for, for crying out loud!

This kind of post belongs in the middle of July, a week or two before the conference. Why do I do this to myself? Why does my mind work like this? Why can’t I get off this train of thought? Everyone else posts witty, funny, “Hey, I’m going to Blogher posts” and then they get on with their merry lives. I’m the one who is sitting here with Flubber in my head.

Its not just Blogher, its anything. Horseshows were the worst. Everyone else just showed up and rode their horses. I was the one up at dawn repacking my showbag, cleaning my saddle, reorganizing my locker, and falling all over myself trying to keep up!

Whatifwhatifwhatifwhatifwhatifwhatifwhatifwhatif? Ok, good!

Now that I know you’ve googled “roommate for Blogher ,” and I’ve got your attention: I’m looking for a roommate (or two or three) for Blogher in San Jose! Come on, you know you want to go!!

Yes, I know, the conference isn’t for another 6 months… did I mention I’m a little bit Type A? Planning and looking forward to stuff is half the fun! Hotel rooms are filling up, and I ain't paying $75+ per night! I’m registered to attend both days. Drop me a line!

I had a friend from out of town come to visit me this weekend. While I was waiting for her, I wondered: at what point does a blog become a mommyblog? Is it when you start blogging about peeing on little plastic sticks? Is it when you start asking the Internet to refer a good OBGYN? Is it when you slap your official "It's a baby boy jpeg pic on your homepage?

No. Chill out already! This hasn't become a mommyblog, yet.

When do I get to join the club and start soliciting mommyblogger advice? Is there a junior membership? A mommyblogger equivalent to a Brownie Girl Scout?

Today I had to make a decision. Lord help me, I have no idea if it was the right one.
I was surfing “the latest reconnect with friends website,” clicking on links, and flipping through pictures. Each thousand-word-tale was some adventure or party, some perfect day or goofy pose. Its neat to see what each person picks as their shining moment to show the world, the things they are most proud of.

I wandered to the site of a woman who I went to school with but knew only by name. Cute pictures. Cute kid. Each picture accompanied by a comment filled with pride.

They're the same pictures our parents took of us, and we (will) take of our kids. First missing tooth, first day at school, first yearbook picture. It doesn't matter who's kid is in the picture, who took the picture, where it was taken.

When you look at that picture you don't see someone else's kid, someone else's memory. Your mind doesn't absorb the details of the picture so much as your mind's eye reaches back through your own memory. The feeling of running your tongue over that first bloody hole in your gum. The day that someone bent down and gave you the gift of your written name on a piece of construction paper cut out in the shape of a pencil. This is yours. Let me show you, this is the letter. I can still feel the paper, wrinkled slightly, and pinned to my shirt.

That's why we take pictures; to catch that moment. That's why we share them with others; to help hang on to that emotion which is specific to that time and place. That's why we stop to look at a picture we don't belong to; to remember the moments that we do belong to.

I didn’t even see it until after I had gone on to read another website.

I missed the details of the picture I was looking at, because I was lost in the details of my own memory. Big black Sharpie-marker-letters, first name, last name, construction paper, safety pin, big smile, photograph, uploaded on the internet. Mom’s pride and joy.

I had to flip back at the site and stare. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing: First Name, Last Name, Big Smile, posted within one click of the page that listed the city and state that mom (and kid) live in.

The Internet makes the world smaller. Talk to your friend who is serving in the army in Kosovo. Make friends with a penpal in China. Send pictures of your pride and joy to Grandma on the east coast. The Internet brings everyone within your reach, but it makes it difficult to figuratively lock your doors at night.

I was so shocked. I panicked for her! I had to stop myself from yelling out loud at my keyboard to tell her “Look out! You forgot to crop your kid’s name out of this picture before you posted it!” As if I were literally warning her that someone left the swimming pool gate open.

This is the part where I had to back up and say “Not the Mama!” I don’t know her. Can I email her and scream that the sky is falling? Will she think I’m a stalker? Will I terrify her into changing her phone number, and getting a PO box? Will she think I’m trying to tell her how to raise her kid? Am I being paranoid, assuming something horrible will happen to her kid? Is it really a big deal to post your kid’s picture on a website? Did she intend to crop the name out of this picture, but simply forget? Would she appreciate the reminder? What do I say to her? Do I really even have the right to say anything? I sent the email. I guess I’d rather be a stalker than an enabler. Where are the lines drawn?

 A couple of days later she emailed back and said thanks, then she took the picture down.

Not only does he accuse me of being a blanket-hog, he accuses me of hogging up the middle of the bed!

I woke up this morning with the edge of the bed jabbing me in the side. The only way to roll was off the bed, so I went and got the camera. Now we all know who the bed-hog really is!

Am I Really That Ugly?

Am I Really That Ugly? Or Am I really that old?

Am I really *that* old? Is it really *that* time?

BlogHer is tomorrow. I’ve been packing, running errands, and shopping to for the trip.

I usually sport the “Lazy Au Natural” look. I really don’t feel like spending my life in front of a mirror. I did decide that I’d better get my eyebrows done and find a better concealer before this weekend – since there may be lots of digital cameras floating around.

Yesterday, I walked into a salon and asked for an eyebrow waxing. The asthetician looked at me, and without blinking said “And your mustache and new highlights too, right?”

HOLY COW! How rude! Yes, I know. I need new highlights. It’s been months, and I just don’t care. But a MUSTACHE!!!!!? I have a mustache? Wait, I do not have a mustache! Do I??? Am I the only one who doesn’t know I look like Charlie Chaplain? Is this chick playing me because she’s just trying to make a buck? I hate it. I know she’s gotta make a living, but making a living by getting other people to feel insecure about their God-given bodies? DOOODE! that just sucks.

Later, I walked up to the Clinique counter and asked the saleswoman to pick the shade of concealer that I need for the acne scars on my chin. Again, without even blinking… “Here, let me show you how to put concealer under your eyes too.”

I can not be *that* old, can I? Or is this a revisit of the misguided pre-teenage notion that big girls wear blue eyeshadow? How am I *already* being groomed for the next twenty years of trying to pretend that I’m still 20 years old?

Today, I’ve looked in the mirror 4 times, and it’s only 8:00am. Fabulous. I haven’t done that since I was 18 years old.