I forgot how much fun antiquing can be! What had once been a weekly scour had turned into a distant memory. But dang if I didn't score some treasures right away; including what I anticipate to be a welcome addition to someone's pile of Christmas presents. Woo-hoo!

And I'd also like to add how lovely it is to spend time alone with friends, be they relatively new, or hail from such days of yore that you can speak in shorthand. And sitting in my Mom's kitchen while she bakes Christmas cookies never loses its charm. And my new favorite drink just may be the winterberry mojito.

Merry Christmas.

Morning Mort

"Mommy, do people turn into angels when they die?"

"Well, no one knows exactly what happens, but I believe they do, "I replied. "What do you think?"

"I think it would be really cool! You'd get to fly! And be magic! And turn invisible! And shoot lasers!"

So, I yelled at a kid other than my own during practice for a Christmas play last night. In a church. Is your karma better or worse if you do something like that in a church? But wait--listen to how I have justified it! If my child was doing something like that, I would have yelled at him. So, since there was no other mom available to yell at this little boy, I was doing everyone a favor.

Mort is playing Joseph. What's that you say? That you thought we didn't attend any particular church on a steady basis so how the heck is Mort portraying Joseph in a church play? Well, true enough my friend. Furthermore, aren't you Catholic? True again. And I don't know what kind of Catholic you are, but I come from the school of Catholicism that would never want kids to enjoy God to such a degree that they deface the altar by having fun near it in a Christmas play. Just sit in your pew and pray that the devil doesn't possess you for sinning. And fork over some dough while you're at it. The priest needs a new Caddy.

Anyway, we have lovely friends who do attend church regularly and their play was short a Joseph. And Mort hear the words "costume" and "stage" and he was on that like white on rice. Win-win.

Anyway, one of the three kings kept standing behind Joseph and tapping him on the head and then pointing at an innocent shepard when Joseph turned his head to see what was up. And under normal circumstances, that would have ticked me off, but Mort would have handled it, so I would have been forced to defer to what he deemed appropriate. It could have been anything from laughing to hitting back to a verbal lashing that would have shut that kind DOWN.

However, Mort was in zombie land. If that boy misses his bedtime by even a few minutes, his eyes glaze over and he goes somewhere else inside his head. And last night he missed his bedtime by an hour and a half. Even someone who doesn't know the signs couldn't miss the fact that he was not all there. And so I had to sternly tell the king to keep his grubby hands to himself. And to also chide him for bringing a shivering baby sleeping in a manger some freaking frankincense and gold. Bring the Son of God a blanket, big shot, okay? Don't be dumb.

No one enjoys waking-up at 5:30 am to the sound of a ringing telephone and their former typing teacher's voice on the other end announcing there is a two-hour delay.

Perhaps under other circumstances, I'd welcome the heads-up. But I don't have other circumstances. If I awake prior to 7:30, it's a very early day. And also, we are denying our children the excitement of watching the very slow school postings on television. The waiting with bated breath to see if our school district is one of the lucky few to get the small reprieve. Inevitably, you would have narrowly missed whether or not you won the delay lottery and you would have to sit through the entire alphabet of schools, only to have it confirmed that per usual, your school district was the only one operating on a regular schedule.

Spell-check sometimes baffles me. The solutions offered seem to bear(bare? No, bear.) little resemblance to actual words. Do they have it programed to make themselves laugh? Haha! When they type in "hve," I'm going to put up "hippocratic" as a possible spelling solution! And yes, I cannot spell and I cannot type. So how my typing teacher has ended-up in such an exulted position is indeed puzzling.

Wow. I am a rusty writer this morning.

I didn't want to have to address this, but I also don't want to get on the treadmill. So, here goes:

Dear makers of the brassiere,

Once upon a time, bras did the job they were made to do. Period. No one had to give them a second thought except to make sure you weren't wearing a black one under a white shirt and vice versa. Now, however, I can not find a good old-fashioned bra to save my life. I do not want to "increase your bust by a full cup size!" I do not want to look as though I have gotten implants. I do not want to jack my chest-up to such ridiculous proportions that I cannot button a shirt. (That one is a true story, by the way, and should demonstrate how ridiculous the padding in bras has become.) Dude. I am fine with my natural self. Luckily, I have 107 years (in bra years that is) of wearing normal pre-Wonderbra, pre-Victoria's Secret proportioned bras. So, I know there was indeed a time when it was considered okay to look like yourself. Please, please, please can one stinking company return to that time? Or at least make a line of bras that hearkens back to the early 90s? You can call it The Prude line. For women who want to button their shirts.

On one of my marathon bra searches, I thought i had finally found normal bras, tucked away down in the corner of the store, closest to the floor. I laid flat on my stomach and reached back into he bowels of the bra rack, finally extracting what I thought was my size. Just a bra. No padding. No enhancing. No looking like I'm saving my pennies until I can finally afford those implants.

However, my hand emerged grasping...a training bra. The only bra that wasn't padded to high heaven was a mofo training bra. Good grief.

And the best tale from the Secret Santa Shop is courtesy of Mort.

Volunteer: "What do you want to buy for your mommy?What does she like to do?"

Mort: "Well, she likes to go out at night and get her hair colored."

Highlights from the Secret Santa Shop:

Volunteer: "What do you think your daddy would like for Christmas?"

Kid:"My mommy and daddy don't live together."

Volunteer:"Well, that happens. Do you think he'd like a coffee mug?"

Volunteer: "Let's look for something for your cousin Sherman."

Kid:"I just want to buy things for myself."

Volunteer: "What does your Grandpa like to do?"

Kid:"Mainly play whatever I like to play. We should probably get him stuff for me."

Hi! I know that you are reading this blog because the large sign outside your business stated that you are a psychic advisor. Therefore, I feel certain that you could feel the grave disturbance in the force that occurred when I saw your sign proclaiming, "Walk-in's Welcome!"

Now, because you are psychic, please either read my mind and/or look into your crystal ball and repair this crime against grammar. I can't trust you to advise me on how to best live my life if you can't fix this. Thanks!

Final exam is submitted. Cookies are baked and decorated. Flour has been removed from the floor. Some cookies look suspiciously like blobs with icing squiggles, but it was our first time using a rolling pin and cookie cutters for dough rather than play-doh.

Waiting on an author to fill in some blanks.

A shower is looking like a real possibility.

I'm very full of Mort tales, apparently.

Mort walks into a bar...except it was really the living room of our house and he and Duke were wearing vampire teeth. Duke decided that given the choice, he would not want to be a vampire because he wouldn't want to drink blood.

"But if you were a vampire," Mort explained earnestly, "you would think blood tasted really yummy!"

Correct, as usual, King Friday.

Another Mort-ism.

He wanted to know what my job was and he wasn't pleased when I replied, "Mommy."

"No," he said with exasperation, "your real job."

"That is my real job. That's my most important job. Ever."

Stony silence.

"The one I get paid for?" I asked.

"Yes."

So, I tried to explain to him what I did as an editor and how I fixed other people's words.

Mort was nodding sagely. "Like if someone wrote 'dog' but they meant 'cat,' you would put a red X over 'dog.'"

And so I agreed that that was pretty much the gist of it.

A couple of months later, Mort was telling people he was an author (he's very busy writing books that have chapters, so I'm going to have to agree with him on this one).

"You're a writer like your Mommy!" a lovely grown-up said to him.

"No. My Mommy is a fixer."

Duke and I had an event to attend this weekend that required us to don dress-up clothes. Mort studied me for a bit and then asked, "Why do you look so beautiful? And clean?"

I am so close to finishing my current job, so close to finishing my last exam before the final...I know that this is true because I am wearing my glasses and working on this year's Christmas card. And checking to see if the Foo Fighters are touring anytime soon.

I must take a moment to post a note of happiness. You may suspect that this is because I'm thinking I can convince everyone to have pizza for dinner. You would be partially correct.

I am happy because I have a job that I love. A job in which I can work whatever hours I choose so long as I get said work accomplished. And that means that today I got to help out in Mort's classroom. And I love doing that. I love the kids that pass me in the hallway yelling, "Hi, Mort's Mommy!" I love the kids who respond so joyously to the slightest amount of encouragement and praise. I love the kids who look worried and watch their faces shine when they realize they have correctly sounded out and spelled every word on their own with no hinting on my part. I love their sticky little hands waving good-bye. I know that I do not have what it takes to be a teacher, but when everything goes as it should, what a rewarding job that must be.

And then I went shopping for the 742 upcoming birthday parties Mort is attending. And then I received the results of my latest exam and I finally did well. Maybe because it was the closest thing to actual editing that we have done this semester and I wasn't required to identity any phrase or clauses or parts of speech. The professor actually wrote "Good job" on my exam. You are never too old to be immune to the smiley face sticker equivalent. And as much as I've wrung my hands over this course, it has absolutely improved my skill set.

And then I worked. I caught errors and rewrote sentences and marveled at my good fortune. I'm nearly done with this particular job and I'm feeling confident that I will be hired again by this client. At least I feel that way today. Because today is the day that I shall suggest pizza for dinner. A very good day indeed.

wow. Wacky tired today. went grocery shopping and then worked my editing arse off for hours upon hours. I honestly thought at one point that the book I'm editing was a joke, like maybe it's really some kind of editing test. because that is the only reasonable explanation. and the when I was done, I went to pick-up Mort. We drove home behind a car that bore a sticker reading: Jesus May Come Today. Were will you be?

Apparently my life is one bad editing joke today.

1)It's WHERE, not were.

2) Do they mean to say "where will you be going?"

Because if Jesus came right then, I would be sitting in the car behind someone lacking in basic English and I would probably get to see Him shake His head in disbelief.

And while I was laughing, Mort, of course, wanted to know what was so funny. So, I tried to convey my amusement to him, ie, I read the bumper sticker and explained that it wasn't even close to proper English and I had been editing all day and it struck me as funny. As in , on the verge of hysteria funny.

Mort thought it over for a bit and then said"Oh! I know; you'd be going to Heaven. Is that what they're asking?"

I agreed that pretty much, yes it was. I left out the part where the person who has that kind of sticker on their car obviously feels that THEY are going to Heaven; the rest of us, probably not so much.

"Why do they have that on their car?" Mort asked. How much do I love my son?

I actually tried to explain about fanaticism before just downgrading it to a lyric in a Beck song: Some people just like to get crazy with the cheeze whiz.

And then we went home and cut back the fall foliage and made a turkey-in-disguise for school.

Have I shared with you all my dictionary woes?

I have had the same dictionary since I received it for Christmas when I was in...7th grade or so? To be more accurate, let's just note that is a fourth edition and currently they are up to the fifteenth edition. Which I needed for my class. I've been wanting to invest in a new dictionary anyway, as mine is in two halves since the spine fell off. A couple of pages have floated away as a result of this, as well. But really, who wants to buy a dictionary when there are much better ways to spend your money? yes, I know that in my line of work, a dictionary is a tax write-off. I still don't want to spend $42 on one when I could buy a new outfit and pair of earrings, magazines, 12 pack of socks, and giant coffee at Target for the same price.

Anyway, I had to have an updated edition for my class. So I went to Amazon. Because I'm lazy. Plus, it's fun to have things delivered to your house. Breaks up the monotony of the day and is like receiving presents. A secondary bookseller on Amazon offered a slightly damaged/used dictionary for significantly less. As the damage was a mangled corner, I accepted. Hell, I've lived with a dictionary that is in two separate halves. I can handle a dented corner.

So, I was flipping through the new slightly banged-up dictionary trying to determine if the word I thought I wanted to use was the correct one, and I came across a picture shoved into the middle of the pages. It was obviously from someone's vacation as everyone was wearing those wrist bands you sometimes have to wear at certain resorts so that you can eat at the buffet and get into the comedy club and use the snorkeling equipment. And apparently it was a "clothes-optional" resort because all the people were enjoying their water sports sans bathing suits.

Needless to say, Duke and I got weeks of entertainment by hiding that picture in each other's shoes and under the toothpaste and on each other's windshields.

Today, I went to look up a word in my dictionary and it wasn't listed. It wasn't listed because it falls somewhere between page 281 and page 344, all of which are missing.

If I am able to successfully have the secondary seller pay my shipping and handling costs and refund me my money, I will be buying a new dictionary at full price. Or at least out of the discount bin where I can scan it for miscellaneous pictures and missing pages before I buy it.

I am going to go out on a limb and suggest that perhaps caterpillars were not meant to live with our family. That's right all; we lost FuzzBall. And by lost I mean that when I picked-up his jar today to change his grass and leaves, he was lying on his back with all his grossy legs pointing in the air.

Oh the return of insomnia! Grrr. I have so much to do today. I suspect a link.

I also just had a minor heart attack when Mort told me his apple "had blue spots inside."

At first I brushed it aside, but then I went over to look and it truly did have blue spots. And then I started thinking of all the various horrors and poison possibilities. And then I noticed he had blue marker on his fingers that was transferring onto the apple.

I'm waiting for my 60 second nail polish to dry so that I can start chopping up green peppers to use as fingernails atop the mozzarella " fingers" I'm making. I just had a flash in my head of how I used to assume mozzarella sticks were always deep-fried, because why wouldn't they be? But then I became a mom and now I assume they are just sticks of pure cheese with no funny business. You should see all the typos I've got going on because of my probably-not-wet-anymore nails. Yay spellcheck.

What I really wanted to document was the card Mort had made for me that read: "Friends forever, Mort and Mommy." Yeah, I got all choked-up, too.

Hmm. you would think that 60 seconds would be over by now. Maybe I should have done all my important stuff BEFORE painting my nails.

Also, Courtney Cox really needs to lay off the Botox or plastic surgery or whatever it is that has made her face so immobile and waxy.

And if you are going to plaster your automobile with a giant banner that reads "JEEP GIRLS DO IT ON ALL 4'S," please note that fours does not have an apostrophe and should be spelled out. I will be using that as an example when I'm helping with the literacy centers in Mort's classroom.

I'm interrupting my exam to bring you this very important news: Fuzzy Wuzzy has been replaced by Fuzz Ball. I thought Mort took the news of Fuzzy Wuzzy's demise rather well. Except the first thing he asks upon seeing me is, "How is Fuzz Ball?!" Like I'm some kind of caterpillar killer. Um.

Reason # 4,723,982,135 that I love Duke: When he goes for a run, he stops to pick-up any snakes that are sunning themselves on the road and deposits them safely away from traffic.

Today's Benjamin Franklin words of wisdom: When it rains, it pours. And no, I don't know if we can attribute that one to BF, but I think it was in The Little House on the Prairie series, so I know that we can NOT attribute it to my mom.

Hey, speaking of series, I saw that Diablo Cody (Juno) is in talks to write a Sweet Valley High movie!!! If you don't know how awesome that is, you are significantly younger than I and/or a boy.

I guess I should have made this my headline: And scene. Fuzzy Wuzzy is full-on dead.(I know, right? After all the work I put into that freaking bug?) Now the big dilemma is do I tell Mort or just replace it? Either way, Mort will eventually notice and blame me and have to be in therapy when he's 32.

Oh, and back to the rain and pour, (which it is actually beautiful outside as of late in the most amazing fall way and I have blisters from walking so much with Stella) so, my steady editing gig has kicked back in. A new editing gig is currently on my table(the world of books, holy guacamole!). Those two things alone would be enough to freak me out with the amount of work, but wait, for an additional $19.95, you can have volunteered to spend one day a week helping out in your son's classroom! We'll also throw in having volunteered to assist an additional day at school for the Halloween party/parade! and to bring in healthy snacks! Because your son is only young once! You're making memories! And don't forget your class with its weekly exam, the two after school Halloween parties, the night of trick or treat, and the normal things like cooking, cleaning, running errands, paying bills, spending time with the fam, possibly talking to my friends every now and then? Keeping abreast of the Christmas decorations at Target...so much to do. So little time. And I forgot that I need to scour the countryside for the piece de resistance of Duke's Halloween costume. And I made the mistake of sewing part of Mort's costume (and when I say sew, I mean I have a needle, I have thread. That's it.)So now Mort is under the impression that I know what I'm doing and he wants me to sew everything. EVERYTHING. Why use a tape or a paper clip or staple when you can sew?

Time to do other stuff. Ain't nuthin but a g thang baby. How thrilled would Dr Dre be to know that a suburban housewife quotes him on her blog?

Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

It's possible that that quote may be attributed to someone else, but I always attribute it to my Mom.

On today's first day of the rest of my life, I dropped Mort off at school and then agonized over whether or not he was dressed warmly enough for today's field trip. But first I stopped the car in the middle of the road and gasped, "I forgot your lunch!"

Mort calmly started to unzipper his backpack. (Yes, this is why I was blessed with a laid back child. If the entire house consisted of the high-octane fuel of Stella and me it would implode.) "No, it's in here," he called and went back to singing Blondie.

And then Stella and I went for a walk. When she and I were in our primes, we used to be able to tear-up 3.5 miles in just over 30 minutes. Walking. You don't have to be impressed. I'm impressed enough for us both.

Today, we did it in 45. Which is not too bad, all things considered.

I cleaned-out Fuzzy Wuzzy's jar and gave him fresh grass.

I got the go-ahead to be a parent volunteer once a week in Mort's classroom where I will undoubtedly be known as Mrs. Mort's Mommy.

And now I'm going to try and cram in an entire week's worth of classwork into this afternoon so that my schedule is clear to do actual paid editing work. It's really a very good thing I already have a year's worth of copy editing under my belt, because this class would have convinced me that I just couldn't cut it. Luckily I know that there is not a client int he world who is going to ask me to identify the indirect object in a sentence. Because they don't care, as long as I fix it.

And at some point I plan filling up my bike tires with air so that Mort can not go bike riding with me after school. Life. First day.

F you Fuzzy Wuzzy! F YOU.

I had no idea how much poop a caterpillar could generate. It makes a rabbit look like it's constipated.

So, yes. I had my brilliant idea yesterday of popping a caterpillar Mort found into his bug container. It seemed like a thing one does with her son. Except Mort really really likes Fuzzy Wuzzy. And has deemed him his new best friend. And he talks to the thing like it's Stella. I overheard him explaining stuff to the caterpillar. He told him he would really like our friends because "they're really nice and really funny." He takes it places with us. And he admonishes the caterpillar to be on his best behavior.

"What are we going to do with that thing?" Duke asked.

"I'm thinking a re-release into the wild tomorrow is a good idea," I replied.

"Yeah. I thought that too. Until I broached the idea with Mort and he said we should absolutely release Fuzzy Wuzzy. After he turns into a butterfly."

Shit.

If Mort didn't speak so nicely with that little bug and didn't make a sign for his bug carrier bearing Fuzzy Wuzzy's name and if he didn't love the damn thing so much and we didn't love Mort so damn much, I wouldn't have a fricking caterpillar in my house.

So, last night I looked up how one cares for a caterpillar. That's right. We've got a new pet until spring.

Apparently Fuzzy Wuzzy will require fresh grass every day. Hence my soaking wet socks as I hobbled around in the frost filled yard trying to get Fuzzy Wuzzy's ration for the morning. It will need sticks on which to crawl and later make a chrysalis. It will need to be tricked into hibernation by storing it in the garage. It will need a glass jar with holes punched in the lid.

And since I haven't had an ice pick since I used it to pierce my nose, ear, and belly button, I tried to punch holes in the lid with: a knife. a corkscrew. A bottle opener. And finally under Duke's suggestion, a hammer and nail. Sure.

And then came time to move Fuzzy Wuzzy from his bug habitat into his new glass home. I feng shuied the sticks and grass and it was time. Except that when I opened the door to the bug house, black something smeared across the wood. Of course I screamed because i thought it was Fuzzy Wuzzy's gross little head. Duke yelled down to ask if I was okay. I yelled back NO as I think I just killed Fuzzy Wuzzy. However, apparently it was just more caterpillar poop. Oh. My. God.

By then I was thoroughly disgusted and done being a cool mom and asked Duke to handle it. However, Fuzzy Wuzzy apparently really likes his bug habitat. And he refused to budge. We tried shaking him out. We tried poking him out. We tried bonking him out. Fuzzy Wuzzy would not be evicted. He was holding a sit-in and was waiting for a return call from his lawyer. He would not curl up into a ball and practice passive resistance. He was holding a sign that read "Hell no, we won't go." He held onto the screen in his habitat with all 13 sets of his grossy insect legs. (No, I have no idea how many sets of legs he has. Nor do I care.) What did come out of his bug habitat was poop. Lots and lots of poop. (Care to wager how many times I have washed that are with bleach since this incident?)

Apparently when you make a bug habitat at Home Depot, you are really making a more attractive roach motel. They go in, but they don't come out. So we got out scissors. And we cut open the netting. And that mofo caterpillar walked himself on out the front door of the bug carrier. Now I'm going to have to explain to Mort why we destroyed the netting. Let's just say Fuzzy Wuzzy will be receiving the full blame.

I feel like the entire house smells of caterpillar poop.

So. I used to be fairly scared of the swine 11H% flu. We can give it whatever titles we want. It will still be called the swine flu. You should have named it H1N2T$ or whatever in the first place because you cannot give the public a name like swine flu and then try to take it away. Really, how many times has Jennifer Lopez said she doesn't want to be called JLO? And that she doesn't want her husband to be referred to as Skeletor?

So, much like the West Nile Virus and SARS and uh...various bacterial food outbreaks, I tucked the swine flu away in my constant bag of looming anxieties to be pulled out and mulled over when things seem to be going too well.

But then it was helpfully pointed out to me by a non-American that statistically, the swine flu just doesn't have much on the regular flu. No real leaps in deaths, or outbreaks. Which is not to say that I don't make everyone who enters our house immediately remove their shoes and wash their hands. But how much of this is media driven great white shark attacks? Did you know that more people die each year of bee stings than shark attacks? But that's not making the cover of the magazines and newspapers.

Yes. By all means, cough into your elbow. Stay home when you're sick. Wash your hands until the skin cracks and bleeds(uhh, not that I've done that.) But I'm not going to inject my kid or myself with some rushed through "vaccine" that is unproven and contains live flu. And I'm not going to stay indoors. Because I've gotten alot of mosquito bites and no West Nile Virus. And I think there is still a shortage on face masks after SARS. And have we ever again heard of SARS? Until it shows up on VH1's "Where are they now?" I think it was a one hit wonder.

Time to feed the caterpillar.

My hands really hurt because I was using the giant chomper scissor type thingys to cut down weeds. Alot of them. Because Mort wanted to cut stuff. So I tried to kill two birds with one stone. Also, we found a woolly bear caterpillar. It's definitely a woolly bear caterpillar and NOT a tomato horn worm. Don't worry. So we(I) immediately ran and grabbed Mort's bug catcher that he had made at Home Depot and put in a nice bed of grass and basil leaves and a couple of sticks and popped in said caterpillar. And he(she?) seems happy enough. It's crawling on the stick and eating some basil.

I have had many firsts since becoming a mommy. First middle of the night trip to the ER...oh, well, okay maybe that one has happened a time or two prior to being a mom. First time using spit to clean someone's face...um, okay, no that wasn't a first either. Well, the point isn't what I HAVE done, the point is what I HAVEN'T done. And that included bowling. I had never been bowling. Yesterday, however, it was a gross and yucky endless seeming type of day. And it ended up rocking. Mort and Duke (the) and I went out for really ridiculously good burgers. And then we went bowling. And then we had ice cream. It was a super fun time. And I wasn't even horrible at bowling. Typically I don't like to broaden my horizons because I am very competitive, yet can't do much well. So it's sometimes better to just not do anything. But I beat Mort. So, not too bad, Mommy. Not too bad at all.

I recognize that this is going to sound a little preachy, but I promise: it's not about you, it's about me.

Mort and I have been having alot of problems getting along recently. With others he seems to be as I would hope: he's friendly, kind, polite, generous, and joyous. At home he is sarcastic, defiant, and downright mean.

I have been walking around with the weight of the world on my shoulders wondering what to do and how to get my little guy back. I recognize he's got a lot on his plate right now with full-day kindergarten. But I have a lot on my plate too and I really don't need to add my mean and hateful offspring to the list. I do everything I can! I whine to myself.

But y'know, what? I don't. Mort has been such a sunny child for so long that I had forgotten about time-outs. I had forgotten about giving him a chance to get himself under control. I had forgotten about speaking in a calm voice and refusing to stoop to his level, because y'know, I'm the adult. I had forgotten about consistency and calmness in the face of his anger.

I am the parent. I need to parent him. He needs me to parent him. From what I understand, he is at an age when alot of frightening realizations are coming to light. He is recognizing his own feelings and his power and lack there of. He is identifying with the emotions of others(btw, Don't write freaking books about donkeys and magic pebbles in which the donkey turns himself into a rock for years on end and his parents think he's dead. Who the heck slapped a big 'ol award on that one? Asshats.) Plus, he is in a situation where 5 days a week, 8 hours a day, he is coexisting with a bunch of other kids(many of whom I would never let him interact with, much less interact with on a daily basis) and under the thumb of adults who are not me. He is learning, for better or worse, to be a part of society. Which, for the most part, is for the worse.

This will be boring. You've been forewarned.

I've been having dreams this week that when I awake I can't remember if I had the dream last night or long ago and just incorporated it into last night's dream. I told you this would be boring. Because seriously, how boring is listening to other people's dreams? And we all want to describe them to our audience in great detail . And no matter how unique the dream was, it was a dream. It wasn't real. And they never really make any sense to the listener, especially because one typically forgets half the details as they fade with sleep and there's lots of, "Oh wait! I forgot that when I was flying I was also holding a sandwich and drinking a pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks that I got for free because it was the tenth punch on my punch card." As in, boring. By the way, that was NOT what my dream was about last night. My dream was infinitely more exciting. There was jogging and roller skating involved.

First fire of the season in the fireplace. Bolognese sauce simmering on the stove. September Vogue on my lap. House Hunters International on the television. (Are you impressed by my multitasking?)

Can I just tell you how much I love the fall advertisements in the September issue of Vogue? All the shiny new things to covet? All the glamorous campaigns?

Perhaps you are doing a quick calculation. It's October. Which means that the Vogue is...two months old. That's right. I 'm all about the library. Because there's not a damn thing to read in Vogue, so it's just not worth buying. I just like to look at the pictures. Like Playboy for chicks, I suppose. Except in Playboy, the articles are really good.

I made a bit of a promise that I was going to keep you all up-to-date on Mort's lunch progress. And then I forgot about it. Because I was trying to determine the difference between a phrase and a dependent clause. And because my sister got married.

So, a quick update: It's not going well. I bought a Batman thermos thing-y that swears on Robin's life that food will stay hot for 5 hours. Which is not really an issue as Mort eats lunch at 9:45. I made Mort soup in the thermos. The same soup of which he can consume two entire pots in the privacy of his own home. The thermos returned home full. Fail. I filled the thermos with mac & cheese, a dish that Mort had been requesting. He didn't like it. I broke down and bought Mort his favorite sandwich from Subway and put that in his lunchbox. It made Mort cry tears of rage with how much he hated it. Yesterday, Mort's snacks returned home uneaten as well. Why? Because he felt there were too many crackers in the snack container. And then he proceeded to eat in the span of one hour: a plate of pineapple, a sliced apple, a yogurt, a glass of milk, a grilled cheese, a handful of baby carrots,a granola bar, a piece of raisin bread, and an ice cream cone. Had I put any of that in his lunchbox, he would have shown me no mercy.

He is also angry because the women who help out at lunch encourage him to eat what I have packed for him because" it's a great, healthy lunch!" Can I tell you how furious he was with me for making him a healthy lunch that people admire?

Should I just give in and let him buy lunch so that he can see how good he has it? Because no one there is going to slice his goulash surprise into triangles like Mommy.

I just made my first meatloaf. Meat loaf. Who freaking eats that anymore? I'm feeling very Mad Men. So I made a gigantic mixed drink to go with it. Because if you're having a Mad Men kind of night, you should embrace the fun parts. Not the parts where women were second-class citizens. But definitely the part where it was always 5 'o clock somewhere and you wore heels and your leopard fur coat to the grocery store. And to make meatloaf. And you could plunk your kid in front of the tv all day long while you smoked and drank and wore outfits and no one was any wiser that that could be construed as shitty parenting. Speaking of which, I need to go interrupt Mort's television show so that he can make Mommy another drink.

If I start Breaking Dawn, I will not finish the laundry or go grocery shopping or call the jeweler or the seamstress or run my errands or study for my mid-term.

If I start Breaking Dawn, I will finish Breaking Dawn and then my Twilight experience will be over. And then I will be sad.

Huh. So that was creepy. I was prompted for my email address and password and I put in one of my many. I have at this point...half a dozen e-mail accounts. One for school. One for work. One for friends. One for sending large picture files. and darn if I can remember them all. And I was up late last night doing strategic wedding planning and general talking and then I woke-up again at 4 to a coughing child calling for water and complaining of a hurt head (aka burning-up with fever) so I "slept" for an hour and a half squished into a twin bed with a twitching, whimpering Mort using my stomach as his pillow. The general gist being that my head is usually not the swiftest under the best circumstances, and is especially foggy right now.

So I typed in what I thought was my email and password and found myself on someone else's blog. A blog I've never read nor heard of. How bizarre is that? Could we really share the same email and password? I hastily logged out and could never recall exactly how that happened int he first place, but now I wish I could because I should probably warn that person of a glitch somewhere, right? Geez.

I decided to be a grown-up and transplanted the dinner plate hibiscus. Only I woefully misjudged their root situation and it will be a miracle and a half if they return next year. This spring I decided to tackle my boring yellow daffodils by carefully marking all the spots where I wanted to add more colorful and greater variety of bulbs. I of course could find only two of my sixteen little copper plate markers when I was planting this week. Wonder exactly what this mess is going to look like?

I finally received the score on my first test. Let's just say I did better than expected (a B) but still received the lowest grade of my post-high school career. Insert sad face.

Have to get ready to take Mort to the doctor.

I have no doubt that I drive my husband nuts because I fail to put the dishes in the dishwasher. I rinse them. I place them in the sink. And I walk away. What's so hard about taking that next step? The dishwasher is RIGHT THERE. Why can I not make the transition from rinsing off the dish, and op, up, ack, not placing it in the sink this time! Instead I could bypass the sink and place it in the dishwasher. Yeah, I just can't do it. Mort's teacher told the class that he does not believe that "can't" is a word. I was all, Aw, that's so cute. And a giant lie. For instance, men can't get pregnant. Even when they are really females living life as males. Nope, sorry, if you're pregnant, you are a woman. Even with that goatee. So, no, I don't think that deserves media coverage. Also, I can't be duped into believing that American Idol or Not Quite a Celebrity Can Dance are legitimate television shows.

And so, back to Duke. Who would like you all to know that he requested I refer to him in this blog as "The Duke." I chose No. As in, you can't be referred to as The Duke. I just finished reading Twilight. I didn't think I would. I had started reading it once before and couldn't do it. The writing was too Sweet Valley High. But this time, I did it and I even get the appeal. Hint, it's not the writing. So, my point being that maybe Duke isn't a vampire, but he doesn't harp on my dishes in the sink. And that is true, everlasting love right there. And seeing as how vampires don't eat food, can imagine how annoyed they would be by dirty dishes left in the sink? And having to wash them for all of eternity?

I just submitted my first graded assignment for class. It was hard. Freakishly, frustratingly hard. Hard enough that it makes me question my ability to have a career in this field. (Would you per chance like to read some more sentences that contain the word hard?)

I knew that I didn't have any formal training in the world of editing, hence undergoing the process of becoming professionally certified. However, I was unaware that I apparently also have no skill or background in the English language. Seriously. Duke was better able to dissect the sentences than I. And his last brush with English was 20 years ago. Ugh.

Someone has been returning home from school each day (cough*Mort*cough) having gotten in trouble for a repeated insistence on talking out of turn. Yesterday, however, he made it through the entire day without having to be spoken to about his speaking AND he won an excellence award for having written an complete sentence constructed and correctly spelled without any assistance. Hmmm. Maybe Mort should help me with my assignment...

I don't tend towards the hysterical. At least, I don't think I do. Maybe my loved ones would disagree. Anyway, I have had a small red irritation on my face for over a month now. Originally, I thought it was the start of a zit. Because wrinkles and zits are fun, fun, fun for the almost 40s! In fact, I said to my sister, "Look at this stupid zit." See, that proves it looked like a soon-to-be zit. But here it is a month later, and it is still here. Except now it's puffy and irritated looking and just never subsides. And I never touched it and it never became a zit. So that makes me wonder if it's time to see a dermatologist? Really? Have I reached this stage in life?

Another procrastination post. As much as I love words and love correctly fitting them together like a puzzle; well, I've got NOTHING on the people with whom I'm taking this course. They make me look like the kid who skipped English to go smoke in the bathroom. Because my whole deal with taking this course is that I'm a fly by the seat of my pants, edit from the gut crazy kind of gal. And it would be helpful to have some book learning method to my madness kind of skills.

But I am not as ...um, excited as my fellow classmates in debating subordinate clauses and what not. Who knew? In fact, just doing the readings is making me very very tired. Which is also not good. Because quite frankly, the last time I was this tired, it turned out I had mono.

I thought at the time that I was just depressed and needed a change, so I cut off all my hair and dyed it black. And then it turned out I was just suffering from mono. Falling asleep on the stairs while only halfway up probably should have clued me in, but really, when you're 18, you don't devote alot of time to wondering why you are too tired to walk up the stairs. At least I didn't. So then I had to have bad hair for the next three years. because I had to grow the black out and then cut it off again. Because black is impossible to get out of hair. At least then it was. Nowadays they have that fantastic color oops stuff that could take the color out of anything. So, yes, I had really bad hair. Plus, my hair was so damaged that I used to sleep with my hair drenched in olive oil and wrapped in saran wrap. So, I also smelled like a salad. Good times.

And now I think I'm tired because I am depressed. Or some other reason. Maybe it's the cold I've had for three weeks. But getting out of bed is so hard. I only manage to do so because I would never be able to function enough to drive Mort to school if he missed the bus. But I slept for eight hours last night. Granted, I only slept for four the night before. And my to-do list is growing and nothing is getting crossed off.

Thank God for my wonderful friends who keep me tethered to reality. They call and e-mail and hustle me along like we all do with our children or like border collies with sheep.(Have you ever seen those dogs work? They are fantastic). They make me leave the house and keep involved in their lives and keep involved in my own. Whatever did I do before I knew these people?

Must. Care. About. Lie. Vs. Lay.

And I do. In theory. But really, I would much rather LAY down. Ha! See how I brought that full circle? I don't need no learnin.

Now, I may be inclined to agree that 65 does seem a bit old to become a first time parent in many situations. However, when the 65 yr old in question is Elton John, I'm going to go with the thought that age is not an issue. Because I feel certain that the nanny he hires to raise the child will not be 65.

C'mon Ukraine, let's go. Elton John and his husband want to adopt an HIV positive child and the Ukraine has said no because Elton John is too old and in their eyes, not married. So, it's better for this child to live out his days in an orphanage? Really? It's one thing to reject Elton John because he didn't pass the home visit, but realism please. You are denying this child a family, a home, access to the best medical care money could buy because you don't like old British queens. Dude.

Okay, well Mort surprised me. He ate the hummus and the star fruit. The yogurt, however, remained untouched. Today's offering to the volcano god was a green pepper, warm from the garden, Fig NEWmans, and a replica of his favorite Subway sandwich. A testament to my love and/or OCD is that I reshredded all the lettuce the way he likes it.

I have a lot of reading to do for class. I'm having a hard time getting in the groove. I also need to start day 2 of trying to find khaki colored cords. You would think that is easy. But for some reason, no one has those buggers in stock in the size I need. I'm guessing every 5 yr old boy in the tristate area must have a pair save for us. And if anyone is looking for a niche that needs to be filled: dress shoes for boys that cost under $60. I'm not even talking anything fancy, I'm talking just not sneakers. Because apparently no one has thought to make them. Why are there a wide variety of platform heels for little girls and only sneakers and flip-flops for little boys?

Actually, don't get me started on the platform heels for little girls that some misguided parents must be buying or else they wouldn't continue to be made. Do you know how old I was when I started wearing heels for non-special occasions? 26. I was not 4. I was not 5.Parents should be as concerned with their girls having the freedom to run and jump and climb in comfortable footwear as their boys. Weird-o-rama. And yes, I'm stalling for time to avoid the mountain of books sitting to my left and glaring at me.

Oh goodness, and however did I forget about this one? Last night, Mort and I made pumpkin muffins. The same recipe as the pumpkin bread, just poured into muffin tins instead of a loaf pan. After dinner, Mort asked for one. I gave it to him. He took a bite and declared he didn't like it. This is the same boy who ate an entire loaf single-handedly last week.

"I don't like the shape," he said mournfully.

"Would you like me to make it look like bread shape?" I asked in a faux patient, helpful voice.

Big sigh worthy of someone named Mort, "No thank-you. I just don't think it will help."

One more thing and then I promise I will start studying. Or doing something else productive. Or watching E!True Hollywood Story. It's a ll a toss-up. I saw Inglourious Basterds this weekend and it was great. GREAT. I did want to see it, but I thought it would mainly be a "eh, yeah, it was alright" kind of film. I didn't love Kill Bill part 1 or 2. I liked From Dusk Till Dawn. I didn't really like Pulp Fiction (too violent). Jackie Brown was...eh. I can't help it. I like what I like. Mainly I like things that are nice. There's enough sorrow and violence to be found in every day life. I don't need to seek it out for entertainment. Anyway, I was surprised by how great the movie was. It was long and I didn't get squirmy or look at my watch even once.(Although I did have to look away from the screen with some frequency because of sad/violent scenes. But they weren't gratuitous.) Brad Pitt was doing a French Stewart face and goofy accent and I didn't even hate him. I cared about the characters. I was surprised by the plot. (I read like nobody's business, so most plots are as obvious to me as to anybody who reads a ton because they recycle the same five ideas over and over.) It was a good movie. In fact, it was the best movie I've seen in a long time.

In the tradition of Julie vs. Julia, I am going to start documenting what I make my son for lunch and whether or not I was successful in creating something that he is willing to eat.

Today I packed Mort a cut-up star fruit, hummus with crackers, and yogurt with blueberries.All things he clamours for in the privacy of his own home. I'm thinking he will eat the star fruit and the rest will return untouched in his lunch box. Stay tuned.

Mort has been playing school all morning. He is writing the names of his friends and relatives on a piece of paper and then grading their behavior. I'm afraid that most of the people we know have received only a check mark(good but not great) for their pretend efforts. My sister's cat, however, has been awarded 5 stickers and a smiley face, Mort's highest marks in his ranking system.

My cold has progressed to a full-blown head cold, but is still not a sinus infection. I don't know if that's even good because at least with a sinus infection you take antibiotics and it gets knocked out of your system. This feels like my head is stuffed full of cheap toilet paper. Duke feels certain that I simply have allergies. Because I haven't suffered from allergies my entire life so I couldn't possibly tell the difference between allergies and a cold. But he did get up with Mort this morning and make him pancakes while I slept for several more hours. So, I guess as long as I get to sleep he can call this what he will.

Mort woke us last night by hacking up a lung and when we gave him some homeopathic cough syrup, he announced, "My throat feels grouchy."

As we were falling back to sleep, Duke asked, "What was the adverb he used?"

"Grouchy," I replied.

"Oh, I guess that's a noun," he muttered.

"Well, really it's an adjective," said me, "unless you're referring to Grouchy one of the seven dwarfs and then it's a noun."

And for some reason this made us laugh hysterically. That seems to happen alot when Mort wakes us up.

At least Stella wasn't disturbed. Oh and on Mort's ranking system, Stella received a check and an x for less than good but not terrible behavior.

I sometimes wish that I was more crafty and hands on and could make beautiful things instead of just buying them. I do so admire people who have that gift. I guess that I should just be grateful to know such people. Because I benefit by proxy.

My sister is amazingly talented. I can't wait to see the magical land that she will create for her wedding. I think it will blow our minds with its sheer awesomeness. I feel certain that someone should be photographing it and filming it for design mags and HGTV.

It is rainy and I have a decent cold that I'm trying to stave off from turning into a sinus infection. And I thought I'd tackle the enormous project of sorting all of my hundreds of books by color and rearranging them. I was only a couple piles into it when I realized that I like them better just jumbled together, classics with trash and great works of literature with torn paperbacks.

Packing Mort's lunch has been a consistent struggle. I've toyed with letting him buy lunch, but I know that he will not eat the unfamiliar tastes that accompany familiar names. In trying to raise a child with leanings towards, fresh, organic ingredients and minimal processing, I have limited his palette towards the greater world. (We once tried to order him a pb & j at a restaurant. It was peanut butter made of many things other than peanuts, jelly made of more than fruit and white bread. He gagged.)

Mort has rejected all of the lunch items that I pack for him that he deems acceptable at home because they are the wrong temperature. On the list of items he will not eat in his packed lunch: grilled cheese, peanut butter and jelly, turkey sandwiches, wraps, and quesadillas. Yesterday, I packed him pb&j crackers and a slice of homemade pumpkin bread.

At dinner last night he announced out of the blue, "See! The pumpkin bread was just perfect! I could eat the whole thing!"

I started my course work last night. It took me a very long time. Probably because I was sharing my workspace with Mort who needed me to look at his drawing and/or magnetix creature every couple of minutes. Or to retrieve the magnetix pieces that kept "falling" onto the floor. Or to tell me how and why he built what he built and drew what he drew.

After I did all the stuff to assure the folks in computer land that I knew how to operate my computer and could thus pay them the exorbitant fee to take this online class, I printed out the 18 page syllabus because I read better when I can hold the material in my hands. And I have short-term-mommy-memory loss. I can tell you when show and tell is and when Mort last had steamed broccoli or received his booster shots, but I don't know anything on the schedule for Duke or for me. Or Stella, for that matter. Because my brain plays the all Mort channel all the time. Which is undoubtedly why I awoke at 1:30 am full of what-ifs and couldn't fall back asleep until 5. And then I had to get up at 7. And I've lost weight, but my jeans that fit when I was heavier no longer fit. Or it's entirely possible that I couldn't figure out how to button them and gave-up. I'll try again later.

Oh! So, can I just tell you how quickly my heart beat when I saw that the first assignment was an editing test? I LOVE that sort of thing. A Where's Waldo of grammatical errors. First I gleefully ripped through it, switching out apostrophes and changing words like "arouse" to "rouse" and matching up verb tenses. But then I started to over think things. And I became uncertain if I should really edit the sentences or just minimally clean them up. If I knew the sentence would read better by switching the phrases would the professor think I was taking away from the voice of the piece or was she looking to see if we were aware that the sentence structure could be improved? It took me about three hours to do 40 lines. It generally takes me three hours to do about five or six full page articles. I agonized over things such as whether or not I should change north east U.S. to Northeastern region of the United States (I did.) In the end, I went whole hog. Because if I was getting paid to do that piece, that's what I would have done. I would rather have the professor tell me that I over edited rather than that I missed too many extraneous bits and bobs. I think? I don't know. Neither scenario is great.Was I just showing off, hoping that when we dissect sentences and I have no memory of what a dangling participle is the professor will remember that I knew it's a Canada goose and not a Canadian goose? Probably. And of course, I am now checking my online grades every two minutes to see how I fared.

Yesterday, all of the mommies at the bus stop were summoned by the bus driver who informed us that one of our wayward children had repeatedly opened the window, thus setting off the alarm. (I am so old that when I rode the bus,there were no window alarms. You were allowed to open the window and get fresh air. And throw stuff outside. And write the name of boys you liked on the foggy glass.) The bus driver said none of the kids would fess up, so she yelled at us for awhile instead. Which would have been fine, but it had started to rain. And I had to hold my mail over my head because it seemed like a good idea at the time and it got all wet and I couldn't read it. I could tell right away by Mort's face that he hadn't done it. (I hope that kid keeps wearing that kind of stuff on his face, it will make my job so much easier.) And sure enough, he was the lone kid who had not participated. I praised him for choosing to not do something that he knew was wrong, but it was all reverse psychology. Because I know damn well that had he been ABLE to reach the window, he would have joined in on that action in a second.

Gotta go check my grades again.

Do you know Rachel Zoe? I mean, not personally, or heck, maybe personally, I don't know. Anyway, I have seen her in various magazines touting what is "hot" or having picked out clothes for someone or being slammed for being too thin. And I always think, "Ooh! I like what she's wearing!" However, yesterday I took a nap (I'm really getting into the swing of this kid at school gig) and while I was waking up with my second round of coffee, I turned on Bravo to see if perhaps they were showing any old Project Runway episodes. They were not. But they were showing The Rachel Zoe Project. And I think she may be brain damaged. Um. Isn't she like 40? Because I have 16 yr old cousins who are more articulate and less teeny-bopper than she. Is it a joke? Does anyone really speak like that? I am so disappointed that her seemingly flawless taste in clothes does not translate to a cool persona and instead translates to a 12 yr old imitating a Valley Girl from days of yore.

If I could think of any other pop culture stuff I wanted to discuss, I could call this the Hollywood edition and be on my way.

I got something fun for my sister's not-bachlorette-party. That's all I can say because she may read this. But it's not going to drive the Jersey boys insane for lifesavers and I think she will really like it and find it to be cute.

Our country, man. What's up? Is anyone really debating the merits of the President telling kids to work hard and do their best? And schools really didn't want to show that speech? It's called a democracy. That is the person for whom the majority, the VAST majority of the people in our country voted in the presidential election. And so if you want to cry because he's trying to lead our country out of the mess caused by previous yahoos, TOO BAD. Do it on your own time. A good lesson for children would be that regardless of where you stand, this is our President. And this is what he would like to say to our children. Not showing his speech? Are you kidding me? Can you imagine anyone getting away with that shit under the Shrub? Sometimes, my fellow citizens really scare the beejeezus out of me.

I need a dermatologist.

Duke and I have noticed an alarming trend in the very few television shows to which we devote any of our time. And it's a seemingly small pool, especially as we don't have anything fancy that would allow us to watch any of the good shows real time and we rent them in bulk and power watch them. We watch Weeds, the Tudors, Mad Men and Entourage. And although we had previously watched Californication, it was pretty eh/bad this time around so that one is off the list. Anyhoo, LIZZE from a now defunct college show keeps showing up on our programs! (Isn't that a bizarre word? I can't leave the house right now. I'm watching my program.) And because Lizzie, ie Carla Gallo is neither talented nor quirky , we are flabbergasted at her repeat appearances. Taking the cake was last night when she showed up on Mad Men. Seriously, she is either Steven Spielberg's kid (is he still relevant?)or she has compromising pictures of one of the Weinsteins. Because there are a lot of actors out there. There is no reason to keep casting her.

Speaking of Mad Men, is Betty Draper the worst mother since Joan Crawford or what? I wish Don would leave her pregnant ass ("I'm your little girl Daddy. You shouldn't bother me with this." and "Go watch TV." ) except then the poor kids would be stuck with her and poor Carla who is a significantly better mother to them. I assume there is a rationale behind her current plotline( being pregnant and an asshole), but ugh, she is entirely devoid of sympathy this season.

So, I've used up my blogging interest this morning, but I have enrolled in a program to become certified in editing. I think it should take about two years. And the cost of books has NOT become more reasonable since I graduated from college.

I've been trying to make brownies for the past hour. Not from scratch or anything. And yet every time I do the toothpick test (if you don't know what that is, you are even worse off than I and I can't help you), the brownies are still liquid. I was puzzling over this, and Duke said, "Oh! You only have the oven set to 325. Maybe it should be higher."

So, I dug the box out from beneath the coffee grounds (yes, still not composting. it's on the list.) and mused, "No...it says 325 for a dark coated pan."

To which Duke explained I was not using a dark-coated pan. Just a metal pan. Who knew there was a difference? Okay, probably everyone but me.

And what brought on this little fit of domesticity? Well, Mort had a dentist appointment this afternoon and instead of returning him to school, he and I went out to lunch. Because he missed lunch anyway. And then instead of returning him to school, we went to the playground. Because he missed recess anyway. And then we made brownies. Because it was a great day. And Mort may be the only child in the world to utter the phrase, "Going to the dentist is fun!"

What a week. I am generally not a tgif person as my job  knew no weekends, but today, today I say "TGIF."

I know that eventually this shall become our normalcy, but right now I feel suspended neither here nor there. I am looking forward to seeing my people this weekend and reverting to what previously looked like our life.

Although I suppose I do have more of a schedule now. Maybe that's what is throwing me off. Also, I seem to be requiring a lot more coffee. And I keep losing and gaining the same five pounds. And I was cleaning yesterday, marvelling that the house was dirty after I had just cleaned it, and realized it had been two and a half weeks ago since that actually happened. My time is alternately molasses and warp speed.

Jay is definitely dragging. I can tell because he's bouncing off the walls like he snorted a bag of pixie sticks. Not that he knows what those are, but I couldn't come up with a better anaolgy for the sugar high people now insist doesn't occur in children because of sugar. Have you heard that one? I know that I get crazy and  then depressed when I od on sugar, so you can throw out as many studies as you wish, but if my significantly larger body cannot handle it, there's no way a child is immune to it.

Also, on the topic of food and because I have yet to bring up our Italian friend in this post, here is a subject that incorporates both. There has been much speculation that carbs are Bad. Carbs make us Fat. I, however, do not believe that. Because when I go to Italy, I eat. I really eat. I have biscotti and bread for breakfast. I have plates of pasta with full-fat cheese for lunch. I have something carb-y at 11 at night for dinner. I drink wine. I eat snacks. I eat fruit and veggies and tons of gelato. And I always lose weight. ALWAYS. My activity level also drops when I am there as my activity generally consists of lying on a beach and/or sitting and eating.

Now, our friend Luigi was here and he ate things that I shun, but that Duke does not. The two of them ate steak and "pizza" from Pizza Hut (I put this in quotes as Luigi thought it was  funny to call that pizza) and cinnamon bread I had made for breakfast and two fast food meals. Luigi gained six pounds and his pants became very tight. Duke's weight didn't fluctuate at all. So, in conclusion, I think it's not carbs, but rather any non organic, processed food that we eat in our country. Thank-you for your time.

Hey, so apparently in my new phase of life, I am Taking Charge. We have had a slight plumbing problem for a very long time. Slight enough that we have chosen to ignore it for almost a year, save of course for when our Italian pal tossed his silk scarf over his shoulders and whipped out a wrench and demanded I hold the flashlight while he attempted to fix it. He's a neuro-physicist who has a cleaning person and a gardner and whose mother still makes him lunch. And he's a truly great guy. Hard not to love anyone who can make your husband laugh that hard. Anyway. That conversation went like this:

Me: Why do you know how to do this?

Him: Because I'm a man.

So, the sink was still leaking and I called a professional. Who quoted me such an outrageous price that I sent him on his muttering-under-his-breath way. And I called someone else. Who was over $300 cheaper. And now we have a beautiful new faucet that doesn't leak.

Also, I just weeded and cut back annuals and made note of where I want to plant more bulbs. It may not seem like much, but it is alot for me. Seeing as how I am really not adult enough to be a homeowner.

Nonsequitur alert.

I love fall!!! Transitional seasons are the best.( And fall trumps spring.) I bought boots and nail polish in anticipation. And the gigantic magazines are starting to clog my mailbox. And my green peppers are still growing as fast as Mort demands them.

Surprisingly, or not, I am having mucho trouble waking in the am to walk Senor Mort to the bus stop. Also not sure why I'm breaking out my seven years of high school Spanish. Luckily for you all, that about covers all the words that I retained. I can only imagine that as it becomes darker and cooler outside I'm going to sleep later and later...But by then, he should have the hang of it, right?

I had to pull over to the side of the road yesterday because there was a yellow jacket in my car. Under my water bottle. I kept trying to crush it with a piece of wood that I found but it refused to be smooshed. Then I found a heavy rock and the sucker grabbed a hold of it so that it could flatten its poisonous grossy body against the rock's surface and escape death. But that is okay because I chucked the rock as far as I could, rolled up my windows (well, I didn't roll them per se. Do cars even come with that option anymore?), closed up the sunroof and was on my way. I almost had to pull over again because I started retching and shaking at the thought of the yellow jacket in my car. And I kept imagining I could hear a buzzing or something brushing against my foot. Ick.

Hey, so I managed to score a trial editing gig for a publishing company. If I do well, I will have some decent steady work between the magazine and the books, and still be able to be volunteer and bus stop and soccer and lunch time mommy. I need to work because I would go out of my head just hanging out waiting for Mort to return each day. Can you imagine? It seems lovely in theory, but horrid in reality. I mean, there's definitely lots of stuff to accomplish around the house, but I certainly don't want to be the one to do them.

I am two cups of coffee and one cup of iced tea in and still I cannot fully open my eyes. I feel like it's a weeble day.

I haven't really found my daily rhythm of life on my own as of yet, but who cares when the weather is this outstanding, when the windows are open and I'm eating  arugula, tomatoes and a hard block of Parmesan cheese?

So basically I've been too tired and too busy to write. Or do anything except look-up at the end of the day and go, "HUH? Where did the time go?"

On on hand, Mort is super excited to head off to kindergarten. On the other hand, he didn't realize he would have to go every day. "What? When will I see my friends?" he demanded. I keep checking his birth certificate, but he really isn't a teenager.

Our house has been a balmy 80 degrees because we have a very dear friend visiting from Italy and truly, central air is one of the things that makes America great. I can't imagine finding another country as enchanting as Italy, but it is beyond hot there.However, we love our friend very much, and so we have the ac bumped up to 80 degrees and are panting and vying with Stella for the privilege of lying on the cool kitchen floor. Our friend, meanwhile is wearing pants, a sweater and a scarf and shivering and complaining about how freezing it is. However, our sink is leaking and damned if he didn't immediately take it apart and start trying to fix it. Maybe it was because I told him I would turn on the heat if I didn't have to call a plumber.

I am not a proper grown-up. I do not have sensible hair. I shop in clothing stores whose fashions are featured in the latest issue of Seventeen. (Is that still a magazine? I used to read it when I was 13. Does that mean girls today pause briefly to scan its pages at the age of 7 before they jump over to Cosmo to learn how to use double-sided tape so that their backless dresses stay-put on the playground?) I tend to ignore things that need to be fixed around the house as opposed to handling them. I love cookies for breakfast.

Anyway, tonight I met Mort's kindergarten teacher. I wanted to present myself as a grown-up. As a parent. As a sensible, mature person who does not let her son sing any of the lyrics to MIA's "Paper Planes", so I dressed-up a little. Not job interview level.( Although I did break out my heels. ) But not my standard tank top, cut-offs, sandals summer sloppiness. I actually had on a tank top and changed . Because you could see my shoulders. And I felt that was unseemly for a mom. Of course, every other parent there had on shorts and t-shirts and flip-flops.

I could barely stammer out a sentence to the teacher. Other people were talking to him like he was any old normal person and not their child's kindergarten teacher, but not me. I was revved so high my words came out all twisted and wrong. I undoubtedly made the "Do not let this mother volunteer" list. With any luck, the teacher just thought I was drunk, and not the possibly crazy mom that I actually am. I was writing notes like I was in college, trying to capture every word that fell from the teacher's mouth. And then I noticed that one of the sheets of papers he'd given us had a full outline of everything he was saying.

I mean, I know that all my dippiness comes from a basically good place. I just don't want to mess up anything that has to do with Mort. I want to be perfect, thereby ensuring that life for him will be perfect. Don't bother trying to follow that train of thought. There's no logic behind it.

For instance, the parents were asked to list two of their child's strengths and two things they needed work on. Can I tell you how I agonized over that? I looked around me like I was taking a test that everyone knew the answers to except for me. Pencils down. But I was still trying to figure out the angle. Where was the catch? What answers would ensure that Mort was accurately represented? If I raved over him, would he be ignored or dismissed as the spoiled son of an overzealous mom? If I was honest with his faults, would he be negatively labeled before his first day?

Good Lord, how will my nerves survive this milestone?

And also, don't you hate people who tell you what kind of person they are? Inevitably, if they have to tell you how they are, it bears little resemblance to how they actually are. I just thought I'd throw that out there, seeing as how I've begun my last two blogs telling you what type of person I am. Yeah.

I'm the type of person that cleaned her entire house top to bottom in two and one half days! Woo! I'm the type of person that now has velvet ropes around every room and is wrapping Stella's paws in saran wrap and making her shed over the sink.

I am a reasonably intelligent person. In college, I was a member of three honor societies and I graduated with honors. However, I just spent 21 minutes and 38 seconds trying to have extraneous charges removed from our phone bill and I am so turned around that I no longer have any idea to what I have agreed. For all I know, I've had our phone service shut-off and/or switched out for tin-cans and a string.

Really? Should something this base be so difficult? 

It should have been a three minute conversation:

"I've been charged for calls that are covered under my current calling plan."

"Oh, yes! I see that. Let me credit your account and make an adjustment so that doesn't happen again."

"Okay, bye! Love ya!"

What the hell took 21 minutes? What was all the talk about maybe it went to the long distance building instead of the local building and that plan wasn't recognized at that building? What was the talk about putting a freeze on something to prevent that from happening again? Why must they hurt my brain?

Isn't there some joke about asking someone what time it is and they answer blue? Because I think I was just involved in it.

Hi. So, here's today. I just realized that I forgot to turn off the stove after I made Mort's quesadilla. He's having a quesadilla, carrots, celery and organic fig newtons. By Paul Newman. Should they not be called Fig Newman's? Maybe they are. Let me check. Dang. They are. I thought this was my big break; I could copyright the name and sell it to the Newman Foundation for a gazillion dollars. Because it's not wrong to rip-off charities. Or non-profits. Or whatever the heck that company's deal is. What do I know? I actually forgot to turn off a stove. Really, who does that?

The thing is that I fell asleep at 11. I woke-up at 3. Mort woke-up at 5:30. Even though I had stressed that he could play quietly in his room, but he was not to leave his room until 7. Because Mommy and mornings just don't mix. But I still was woken from my semi-sleep state by a whispered, "MOMMY? CAN I GET UP NOW?" a mere 1 1/4 inches from my face. And then Stella leapt to attention. Kid is up! Time for breakfast! Watch me spin so fast I'll make time reverse just like Superman! I'll make it time for dinner and then spin back to breakfast again!

Then I took Mort to get his moppy-Mommy-I-want-a-ponytail-hair trimmed so that he can see whilst growing said ponytail. Now he has a bowl cut. Same difference.

So, every morning at my house looks about the same.

I am generally the last one up and at 'em, having spent some part of the night awake. Stella is always the first. I have two cups of coffee and then at some point start to realize I am functioning. I may or may not have had full conversations and/or written out my daily to-do list, all of which I will have no recollection. Stella spends her time sleeping and smashed against my leg. It's the closest she comes to cuddling, so I try not to move. 

Stella has a good way to begin the day. She opens her eyes, does some yoga and scratching, sneezing and twirling, and then begins staring at a still-sleeping Duke with her Jedi mind trick focus. If during this time Duke has the misfortune of breathing, Stella will take this as a sign that she has indeed chosen the correct time to awaken and begins to whine. TIME! Time to get up! Time for breakfast! Time to get newspaper!Oh, newspaper's not here yet? Because it's too early? OKAY! SOUNDS GOOD! WOO-HOO!!! And then once she has eaten, she goes back to bed and immediately falls asleep. About an hour later, the neighboring rooster starts to crow. In case you were wondering, those suckers are loud. But not as loud as a terrier who wants her breakfast.

I am losing my identity, my job and my almost daily connection with my friends. In two weeks, my only child starts kindergarten. And life as I know it will cease to exist.

     Sure, I’ll still be a mom. But it seems a little silly to be a stay-at-home mom when your child is busy elsewhere. Now that I have the hang of cramming cooking and cleaning into the tiny space right between Go Fish and drawing aliens, how am I to fill my days? I’ve taken the scenic route, career-wise, meandering through a myriad of nametags and overly bright smiles before finally graduating from college at the ripe old age of 31 and heading straight into Mommy world.

    And now that I’ve finally gotten the hang of this job, (wait for it…) the most fulfilling and challenging job I’ve ever done (and there’s that cliché. Oh please, you think I can hang with my son for five and a half years and not believe it’s the best job in the world?) and my employer is letting me go. Oh, sure, he feels that I’m a valuable member of the team. I’ve gotten awards, raises and the occasional bonus. But unfortunately, my services are no longer needed as they once were.

      Losing this job means that there’s really no need for me to haunt my usual hotspots: the park, the library, and the playground. I’ve developed deep friendships with amazing women over the past several years. But when they get-together for playgroup, I’ll be the only one not toting a kid along with my shared dish. So, other than the occasional ladies’ night out, where will I fit in?

     I’ve been having full-blown nightmares as of late. Generally, I’m trying to save my son from some unseen evil, but my guess would be that I’m trying to save me, as well. Save myself from the what-ifs of the future and the regrets of the past. How much time have I wasted over the past five and a half years wishing that I could have just ten minutes to myself? And now that I’m going to have those ten minutes and then some, how much do I wish I had just one more year of interrupted showers and a constant companion?

      I know that he’s only going to kindergarten. But it’s only the start of a lifetime of learning to let go.

A herd of happy adults and children were hanging out in happy land yesterday. The kids dressed themselves in various bits and bobs of costumes.

"I'm not Sarah!" hollered one.

"I'm not Thomas!" hollered another.

"I like your costume, Mort," remarked a mommy.

"I'm not Mort!" he said.

"He's incognito," noted another mommy.

"That's right,"Mort agreed,"I'm Ed Cognito."

Now, as some of you may know ( and if you are reading this blog, my guess would be you're one of the ones in the know) I am one of those lucky souls who is paid money to do something that I do anyway: find mistakes in other people's writing. Call it a compulsion, call it an obsession, I just call it plain old fun.

And oh my Good Lord did I find a doozie of a mistake. I was reading "Sleep is for the Weak" and the foreword is written by the EDITOR IN CHIEF of Redbook magazine. And three paragraphs in, I caught a truly unacceptable error. The word "of" had been used when the author meant to use "or". If you don't find that as mindboggling and head banging as I do, that's okay. But just know in your heart of hearts that is such a horrific mistake that I would assume heads rolled all over the place. Whether it was made by the author or the editor, I don't know. But it's on the first page. And it's glaring.How could someone not catch that? Seriously? It pretty much kept me up last night. 

Although on the other hand, just as i was almost lulled back into the baby longing that could accompany your first born venturing out into the world, I read this book. And remembered all the hellish things I had conveniently forgotten in the face of "Babies are so beautiful! Small! Lovey! Wonderful! Miracles!"

Yeah. I forgot the whole crying for hours straight. I forgot that inevitable, inexplicable cranky period every night for months on end. I forgot the whole poopy diapers for YEARS until one day it's potty training time and you will have to dash to the public restroom if you are a)nowhere near one. ANYWHERE. b)just about to check out in a store having waiting in an excruciatingly long line. I forgot the teething. The endless middle of the night drama. The mind numbing act of pumping so that you can go grocery shopping by yourself. Their inability to tell you what they want/need. The boredom. The repetition. Exisiting on three hours of sleep for a year if you're lucky. Being unable to so much as take a shower  with the shower curtain closed without a playpen/bouncy seat/swing crammed into the bathroom with you. Oh my God. Biology man. It tricks you to keep you reproducing. But now I remember oh biological clock! And by the time I forget again, I will be too old to breed.

I was seized by guilt and shame yesterday(well, hello my old friends!) at my garden's slow demise and decided to salvage what I could and start planting for fall. I only was two wheelbarrow loads into the clean-up of blooming cilantro and rottign lettuce when mort appeared and wanted to play Frisbee, so I didn't get very far.

However, as I carried the first load of weeds and uh, compost down into the field where the fox resides, I was suddenly struck by the notion that what if the fox wasn't the friendly neighborhood Stella-like creature I imagine it to be? What if it was rabid? What if it had no fear of humans and felt threatened and attacked me? What if up close it wasn't cute and instead was all gnarled and gross?

I loudly announced my presence by yelling, "All animals that live back here, I'm bringing a bunch of food, I don't want to see you. Please just stay hidden!" It worked, but it's amazing how much more appealing seeing the fox is when I'm behind my camera trying to get close to it rather than the other way around.

On a whim, I grabbed a book at the library titled 101 Things to do Before You Turn 40.

I would be hard-pressed to sit down and actually read it, but I did skim the major points.  And in doing so realized that either I have had a very full life, or the author has led a very sheltered one. Regardless, it was fun to mull over my list, should I have one while on the treadmill this morning. 

Looking back at the past decade, however, does make me believe that most of my best adventures were had by living life, not by making a list. Hold On! Something by the swingset--is it my fox, need to grab binoculars...and,no. Just more rabbits. Good Lord, does every rabbit in the tri-state area live in our backyard? Also, do other states refer to the tri-state area or just where I live? 

Anyway. So, my time-capsule of the past decade seems pretty much like I couldn't have dreamed it up prior to its happening.  Marriage to my best, 400 mile move, became college graduate, sold a short story, was pregnant twice, became a mommy, actually needed to start coloring my hair for more than fun,learned to make good salsa and a proper margarita, overcame fear of travel to countries where I didn't speak the language, grew a garden,had to choose between surgery or physical therapy,got a job utilizing my actual skills and education, made true friends. What I would like to see happen in the next decade? Run a 5k? Gather more work?Take up Pilates?Learn to be handy? Travel across the country? I really can't imagine.

Apparently I have my own brand of morality when it comes to the creatures of the forest that we live amongst. Stella killing rabbits? Eh, part of the cycle of life. Stella going after a mourning dove that couldn't fly? Absolutely not and much to her horror, resulted in her being scooped up beneath my arm like a loaf of bread. Go figure.

I have been editing a piece that is so far out of my comfort zone that I am simply pretending that the words I don't understand are written in a foreign language. Because basically they are. Science. Don't get me wrong, I believe y'all that the world is round and gravity keeps our feet on the ground and that there are black holes and Bermuda Triangles (c'mon, they are sorta the same, right?) somewhere out there. But please don't explain it to me. Because I already have trouble keeping track of all the stuff I really want in my head. The rest of it, I'm counting on someone else to know but have no need to share that knowledge with me. Like Duke. Poor Duke. He tried to tutor me in my remedial math classes that I had to take before I could even move on to Math for Dummies in college. I think he may have tried to use Sex and the City analogies for awhile:

Okay, now if Carrie is X and Mr. Big is Y-

and I would interrupt with, "Which season Carrie? Because I don't like the season that she had really bad hair and Miranda was a man. Can she be wearing her fur coat?"

It's amazing that I was inducted into Phi Kappa Phi, is it not? Thank God for whichever side of the brain knows language.

Anyway, I have been on a tear lately. I've been doing a couple of miles on the treadmill every single day. I've started cooking again.

Speaking of Mort, he does so delight me in thoughts and deeds. We were running errands and because he cooperated, we were allowed to LOOK at the toys. He, not surprisingly, saw a new-fangled Bakugan that he desperately wanted.

"Buddy, you don't even play with the ones you already have. I just don't think it's a good idea to get another one." Don't I sound like such a parent?

And he stared at the Bakugan for a moment and then looked up at me and said, "Yeah. They seem so exciting when they're in there, " here he gestured at the package, "but then when you open them, they really aren't."