kdiddy.org

As of this morning, I am the mother of a second-grader. Excuse me while I gather my internal organs. They seem to have exited my body.

Part of this morning’s first day of school activities included the annual picture. Every year for the past four years, we’ve taken a picture of the baby on the front porch. And every year I screw up the perspective entirely so that it’s hard to look at the pictures from year to year and get a good sense of his growth. Case in point:

Top row: pre-K, kindergarten
Bottom row: 1st grade, 2nd grade

You have to adjust and notice that his legs are about 500 feet longer than they were last year. Other things of note are the brand new Chuck Taylors and the flat-brimmed hat. These were both very specific choices of his. The Chucks are low-tops because the high-tops were the shoes for first grade. The flat-brimmed hat indicates assimilation into the fashions of mainstream hip-hop. Whatever.

I, of course, had an annual first day of school picture growing up. My mom would cart me to my grandmother’s house and they would take my picture in front of this tree in my grandmother’s front yard. Nearly every picture has me squinting fiercely because those pro photographers had to have their backs to the sun. I think the last one would have been 10th grade because after that year I started my ballet program that had me at ballet class first thing and not going to school until later in the morning. Also, by that time I was far too sullen to bother with such nonsense.

And I’m pretty sure that tree is dead now.

We stopped by the baby’s school Tuesday night for their welcome-back event and got to check out his classroom and meet his teacher. I need to take a moment and gush about his school. It’s just wonderful and we’re so lucky to live some place where a progressive and outstanding public school exists. And the building itself is amazing. It is always spotless and it’s decorated so warmly, you can’t help but cheer up a little bit when walking through the halls.

The husband and I both went to struggling Catholic schools for elementary school and we both recall them as being very drab, which is weird since Catholic churches are always so campy and over-the-top with their decor. You would think that the decorating bug would carry over to the schools. But I guess the priests and nuns who didn’t have the gift of knowing which gold chalices would go best with stained glass window depicting some anguish and naked people are assigned to education detail.

Anyway, another awesome thing about the public schools here is that they do an excellent job of providing everyone with school supplies. The only downside to this is that it eliminates the need for the annual school supply shopping.

We decided to hit up Target that night anyway to get the baby a new backpack and a big thing of pencils for our house. While we were there I decided to poke around the bedding section to check out their duvet selection.

We have these comforters from Ikea that are about four years old. They’re still in good shape, but are rather dingy at the top where our greasy hands and faces come in regular contact with them. Despite my best bleaching efforts, the faint yellow remains as evidence of many good nights of sleep and drool.

All of the duvets that they had in stock were at least $70 so I decided to wait and order a cheapie version online and grabbed some new sheets while I was at it. I went with these two:

I’m going with the chocolate/blue combo because I totally have my finger on the pulse of the color scheme trends of 2003.

ANYWAY, all of this duvet talk kept making me think about Fight Club and how silly it is that I am even concerned about such things. And then I also started wondering if duvets were also mentioned in Raising Arizona when H.I. and Ed are giving Nathan Jr. the tour. But that was a divan.

With that sorted out, I think I can move on with life now.

By the time you read this, it will be August 31st. I’m writing it on the 24th and on the 24th, it is a very stressful day at work for me. And I miss my kid and my husband terribly. On the 24th, they are at the beach for five more days.

On a day like the 24th, what would keep me going is the thought of coming home and hugging my kid and then curling up next to my man at night. On the 24th, I can’t do that and due to poor cell reception I might not even be able to hear their voices.

On the 24th, I realize this and burst into tears at my desk.

What makes it even tougher is that I can’t make this post public and reach out to the people who help to hold me up. “I’m alone in my house and emotionally vulnerable and therefore probably drunk!” doesn’t seem like the best thing to post to the internet.

This week has really worn me out. Busy at work, busy at school. Plus, my cat started harassing me at 5:30 this morning, flopping butt-first onto my face, knocking my glasses off of the nightstand, and pawing at my hands and head when I buried myself in the covers. It’s a dreary day here and combined with the early morning, I’m really ready to curl up at home.

I’ve been taking the bus to work and listening to Pandora on my phone. This morning it selected a few Beatles tracks for me. I haven’t actively listened to the Beatles since perhaps high school. But this song came on this morning and it made me feel very serene. Thanks, randomized internet radio, for knowing what I needed to hear. Have a good weekend, kids.

Due to the aforementioned *#(Y&(&@#(&) brand of busy that I have going on this week, I decided to outsource posting to a few people. If I had had this idea sooner than Sunday, I would have asked more people, but I think you’ll find that the two people who I did recruit are veritable goldmines of lulz and all-around rad writing.

This post is from JiveTurkey. I wish I could remember how I came upon this lady. But I’ve been hooked on her blog for some time. She never fails to crack me up. Bonus: she works right down the street from me and a few weeks ago I asked her out on a little blogger playdate, which was a really fantastic way to spend a lunch hour. We have plenty in common, including our subsidization of our more artistic pursuits with administrative jobs and tenacious commitment to big, old Pittsburgh houses.

During our playdate, Ms. Turkey told me this tale that nearly made me pee and I’m so glad that she’s recreated it here for you. Now, without further adieu…

Now Is The Winter Of Our [Rectal] Discontent

Wow. A guest post on kdiddy? Me? Really? Well, I suppose the only way to fully deserve this honor is to talk about rectal bleeding. No, seriously.

A tradition I think (and hope) is approaching its slow and painful death these days is the mailing of the annual Christmas letter. Ah, the annual Christmas letter – where you learn all the details you never wanted to know about the people you only see at large funerals and weddings. I don’t recall my parents ever sending out such a letter (although my mother still religiously sends out Christmas cards. And Easter cards. And Thanksgiving cards. AND HALLOWEEN CARDS. For real. You have not lived until you have gotten a card from your mother that reads “Happy Halloween to a Wonderful Daughter and Her Husband! You’re Loved So Much, It’s Scary!”), but I know for sure that we always received these inane letters from other people in the outskirts of our family and social circles.

Obviously, we have email, blogs and social networking sites to thank for facilitating the end of the Christmas letter. Even my most technology-backwards relatives are online these days, which makes it easier to stay in touch, but harder not to reply to my aunt’s 150th “I Said a Prayer for You Today” forward with “I did not die for your sins so that you could fill your niece’s inbox with bad clip art and sentences that begin with >>>>>. Love, Jesus.” Now that everyone can communicate so easily and immediately, there’s no need to send out three typewritten pages on your family’s yearly doings every December. The most I get these days is a handful of red and green cards with maybe a school picture or two thrown in, and that’s just fine with me – especially because I don’t send Christmas cards to anyone. It’s not that I’m some kind of cold-hearted motherfucking Scrooge, it’s just that I’m lazy, I don’t care, and I think it’s a waste of money. In other words, I’m a cold-hearted motherfucking Scrooge.

But as absence makes the heart grow fonder (…of mocking things), I’ll be damned if I don’t JUMP at the chance to get my hands on a real, live annual Christmas letter these days. Because, honestly, the only people who still write these fucking things are either a) dinosaurs, or b) arrogant enough to think that people still give a shit. Either way, the result is COMEDY GOLD.

Case in point: the distant relatives of my in-laws who took the time to detail – on watermarked, cream-colored, holly-bordered, 100% cotton resumé paper – that their cat had learned how to use the toilet. Let me repeat that: the news that these people decided to share with one and all in the Jesus-reason-season was that THEIR CAT COULD SHIT ON THE TOILET. Happy Holidays, y’all!

But nothing compares to the gem that was bestowed upon us this year. Actually, it was more of a “Christmas in July” thing, because my mother-in-law had forgotten to forward us the letter until she ran across it this summer. I usually only glance at the things my mother-in-law takes the time to fold into threes and mail to us (usually it’s just misspelled clippings from her local paper or a panel of “Howard Huge” that she found especially poignant), but this letter – in all of its typewritten glory – drew me in. And I’m so very glad it did, Internet, because now I have the distinct pleasure of sharing this marvel of the written word with you.

BEHOLD! The most awesome Christmas letter of all time! These are actual excerpts, my friends. ACTUAL EXCERPTS:

“JON is still living with CATHIE, hasn’t found a job but continues to film his former high school football games.”

The all-caps gossip-column style? All hers. I’m entirely sure “JON” appreciates his unemployed status being trumpeted from the rooftops during this blessed holiday season. But no matter – if he’s upset, he can just complain to that whore with whom he’s still (still!) living in sin. (Also, does anyone else picture Uncle Rico from Napoleon Dynamite when they try to picture JON?)

“WILL is still at the metal shredding factory. CATHIE and I like his live-in girlfriend Amber very much.”

Ooo, snap! No caps-lock for you, Amber, you live-in hussy. “Very much,” indeed.

“CATHIE will finally have hip socket replacement on Dec. 22 and will likely spend Christmas in the hospital.”

Joy to the world!

“Brother GEORGE also developed peripheral neurology in his feet. He is enjoying get-togethers with his wife’s family.”

I submit that he is not enjoying much of anything right now because OW MY FUCKING FEET.

“ALICE and DALE went to Olympic National Park for a week. Unfortunately, I seemed to collapse after they left.”

Hold on tight, Internet. Things are about to get super fucking festive up in here.

“My feet burned as if I was walking on hot coals and the ointment I was using gave no relief.”

So…no wassailing then?

“On Nov. 8, a stroke in my right eye has left blurry vision.”

Oh.

“On Nov. 18 while in my doctor’s office I had what appeared to be a heart attack.”

Let me take this opportunity to remind you that you are not reading the Journal of the American Medical Association. YOU ARE READING A CHRISTMAS NEWSLETTER.

“An EKG showed some heartbeats with slow pauses. I left the office in an ambulance for the ER, had a pacemaker implanted the next day and came home the following one.”

Oh my. Well, here. At least have a Christmas cookie.

“This was another December with rectal bleeding.”

Nevermind.

OK, hold up: another December? There’ve been others? And when did it ever seem like a good idea to include the word “rectal” in a CHRISTMAS LETTER?

There are a couple other paragraphs after that one, but really. There’s no topping that. I mean, look, I get it – old folks like to talk about their ailments. My grandmother certainly did, and it used to really depress me until I realized that if you tried to get her to branch out into other topics of conversation, she’d just end up saying things like “That Barry Manilow is really talented; it’s too bad he’s a faggot” in public.*

So, Internet, promise me this: if, in my twilight years, I ever start blogging about my various and sundry medical conditions (especially those that contain the words “rectal,” “anal,” or “bum-bum parts”), please drive to my house immediately and push me down the stairs. The world simply cannot handle another December with rectal bleeding.

*Yes, she totally said that. IN PUBLIC.

I’ve been taking the bus to and from work. The driver that I’ve had in the morning likes to get on the PA as we cross the Smithfield Street Bridge into town and say, “Good mornin’ ladies and gentlemen. We’re abaht ta enter bee-YOO-tee-full dahntahn Pittsburgh.”

It never fails to make me smile.

I am super busy this week at work and my class (last one EVER!) starts today. However, I’ve recruited a few fabulous people to provide some content. Look for that over the next few days.

Love yinz. And have a bee-YOO-tee-full day.

Mandatory annual trip to Kennywood: completed Friday, August 14th (just under the self-imposed deadline)

High temperature on date of trip: 92 F

Humidity: 6 bajillion %

People in attendance: seemingly the entire population of the tri-state area. Apparently, there was a picnic happening that day for employees of Giant Eagle. This was funny to us because our last few trips to Idlewild have always coincided with Italian Day, during which you cannot spit without hitting five guys named Tony and the tarantella will haunt your dreams for weeks afterward. We managed to avoid that crappy timing this year, but were at Kennywood while Italian Day was going on at Idlewild. We’re subconsciously drawn to crowds, which is funny because we hate people. But I guess we need stuff to bitch about.

Hours at Kennywood: 9

Rides enjoyed: only 10 (see also: People in attendance)

Vomit puddles spotted and narrowly avoided: 2

Buckets sweated: At least 35

Potato Patch fries consumed: about 10, personally. Chewing and digesting made me sweat more.

Other fried goods consumed: sadly, none

Children whose lives I changed (probably for the worst) by shoving him onto the Phantom’s Revenge with me: 1 (mine)

How I accomplished that: we told him we were in line for the Turnpike. (This charade didn’t last that long, but I did have to convince him that we would come out the other side alive and days later I’m not sure that he believes me yet.)

Number of times I saw that lady that I always see at Kuhn’s who kind of looks like the Cryptkeeper: 1

Minutes I blatantly stared at her: too many

Number of stars for that night’s post-Kennywood shower and slumber: Five. With a bullet.

I’m overweight.

Writing that out is really weird and honestly I think I have an easier time saying it than typing the words.

My BMI puts me firmly in the overweight category, though I don’t put much stock in the BMI. We can look around and see that these categories are very questionable and they really don’t say much, if anything, about a person’s actual health. I am actually leaning toward the obese category and while I will admit to some bad habits that have led to weight gain, I just don’t consider myself obese. I think.

Herein kind of lies the problem.

I was a ballet dancer and, not surprisingly, that really messed with how I ate, how I viewed myself, and how I viewed others. Much of my worth as a dancer (and, therefore, myself) was tied up in whether or not my instructors thought that I was thin enough.

Ultimately, I was fired from my first dancing job for being too fat. At the time, I believed them, but looking back at pictures of me from that time, and knowing that I was maybe 105 lbs. (I’m 5’4″) makes me realize that maybe they were a little…insane. What was especially upsetting about that firing was that they had told me at the beginning of my time there that I needed to lose a lot of weight. And I worked really really hard to get down to their standards. My body just couldn’t do it, though. I’m really just not cut out to be 95 lbs. (which is where I needed to be for them) and be able to, like, dance or sit upright or whatever.

But it wasn’t just that instance that gave me trouble. Because I started dancing when I was very young, I’ve been concerned about my weight and/or actively dieting since I was six or seven years old. Yes, I’m serious.

After I was fired from that dancing job, I decided that ballet wasn’t for me, after all. I wasn’t looking forward to having to move every year and always worrying about having a job. And I realized that my weight would always be an issue and, frankly, I was hungry. After I quit, I kind of just reveled in being able to eat whatever I wanted. I had many happy reunions with hot fudge sundaes that I hadn’t seen in years.

But that lifelong deferral to what someone else determines “thin enough” has stayed with me. I KNOW that it’s all about what you feel comfortable with and what is right for you, but for the most part, my brain believes that there is an objective standard. I’ve been working really hard to shake that belief off, but it’s really hard shutting up a voice that’s been in your brain since you were a kid.

I’ve gone back and forth between wanting desperately to meet this standard that I’m so sure exists and just doing whatever I want. Obviously, what I need to do is find some middle ground where I look out for my health but celebrate my body for what it is.

Lately, I’ve been doing whatever I want. Part of the reason for this is because I have too much going on in life and I know that I don’t have time or energy to obsess over my diet and weight the way that I know I will. As of two weeks ago, I was very, very close to my 9-months-pregnant weight. Granted, I had my son in my early 20s and I’m 30 now, so some extra pounds are to be expected. But I’ve been blatantly ignoring what I eat and how much simply because it is comforting to not think or worry about it.

The thing is, I’ve gone through this cycle many times before. Most recently, in late 2007. After I did Weight Watchers for a few months and lost about 15 pounds, other stuff got in the way and I abandoned the diet. I told myself that if I ever worked on losing the weight again, I wouldn’t publicly declare it because going back and reading several series of posts that go through that predictable process of, “I just started Weight Watchers (again) and I feel great! -> I’m still on WW and I’ve lost this much! I love being healthy! -> I know I haven’t mentioned it in awhile but I’m still kind of doing WW and it’s alright. -> What diet?” is kind of embarrassing.

But here it is: I started Weight Watchers again last week and I’ve lost a few pounds. Whoopee. I’m not setting any expectations for myself and I’m not going to beat myself up if, in the middle of the semester, I realize that I just can’t deal with this right now and I need a pie.

So why am I mentioning it? I don’t know. Because I guess I hope that someone understands.

My identification with fictional characters is pretty strong. At least once a year, a movie or a book or a TV show or a song will hit so close to home that I become a little convinced that it was sent to me for a reason.

I’m an indifferent agnostic, but I guess if there’s one thing that keeps me wondering about the existence of God, it’s pop culture.

Well, I suppose that’s far too simple. A more poetic expansion of that theory would be that art is often the result of someone expressing their feelings and/or experiences into a medium and sharing that art with the world to be experienced, discussed, and hopefully related to.

More than once, I’ve suspected an artist of setting up surveillance in my home and brain because the emotions and words that they’ve captured on film or in music or whatever so poignantly echo my own.

Most recently, this happened with My So-Called Life.

Yes, I know that MSCL happened way back 1994, but that’s what makes this experience so great.

MSCL hit me pretty hard when it originally aired. I was 15, just like Angela Chase. I was a sophomore in high school, just like Angela. I was quiet and tentative, just like Angela. I was growing increasingly mopey about high school and its preamble to adulthood, just like Angela. And I was having a really hard time living in the same world as my mom, just like Angela.

Recently, hulu.com put all 19 episodes of MSCL up. Last night, I decided to watch the pilot for the first time in a few years, since the last time that I happened to catch a rerun on TV.

It was a really weird experience. I still felt so much like Angela. I still find myself wanting to hide under my sweater during whatever is the grown-up equivalent of yearbook meetings. I still have moments where I can’t look at my mother without wanting to stab her repeatedly. My scenery has changed, but I might as well be 15.

But for the first time ever, I saw a lot of myself in Patty, Angela’s mother, particularly last night.

The baby has become increasingly difficult to handle. In many ways, this is not surprising. He’s 7 and 1/2 and has been on vacation all summer without much structure to his days. And he doesn’t have access to many kids his age so he doesn’t have anyone to relate to his energy most of the time. I understand this.

At the same time, I can’t help but become furious at his increasingly shitty attitude. Yesterday in particular, everything that came out of his mouth had some sarcastic bite to it. Obviously, sarcasm is practically currency in our house and in this respect (and this respect only) we’re filthy rich. But beyond the sarcasm in his voice yesterday there was a distinct tinge of meanness. He was being mean to me.

In a more perfect life, I would have a heart and brain big enough to deal with him in a more emotionally intelligent manner. But I don’t.

Last night, while reading before bed, he snapped at me for not turning the pages quickly enough and indicated that the friction of the paper had some direct correlation to my lack of intelligence. This was at the end of an evening during which this attitude had clung to his every word, despite repeated warnings that if he kept it up, all joy would be removed from his life indefinitely.

I’d had enough. I reminded him of the warnings and how they were likely to become realities now. I also appealed to whatever sympathy he might have for me and asked him how he thought it made me feel when he talked to me that way, after I go to work and make him dinner and clean his clothes and whatever else I do in a day that is for him. He started to cry and said that he thought it made me feel sad and that he was sorry for making me sad.

I can’t be sure if the tears were more about the threat of having his Godzilla DVDs confiscated or if he genuinely felt bad for hurting my feelings. In any case, I was extremely grateful for some moment of clarity.

In the pilot of MSCL, which I watched right after putting the baby to bed, Patty and Angela’s dad have a number of disagreements. One in particular hinted at Patty’s frustration at being the mean one all the time. Someone has to be the adult and make sure that the kids aren’t being total assholes. While that isn’t exactly the transcript of the arguments that the husband and I have (mostly because our kid is younger and his bad behavior is still relatively simple deargodgetmeadrink), I often find myself trying to get my family to understand that I feel totally on my own sometimes. They don’t always get it, mostly because it’s hard to hear, “I’m very frustrated right now due to X, Y, and Z issues,” over my refrains of, “WHY THE FUCK AREN’T YOUR SHOES ON? I HAVE TO GO TO WORK RIGHT NOW! OH, SURE, JUST LEAVE THE DISHES PILED IN THE SINK THAT’S MY FAVORITE SHIT EVER!!!! NO, YOU CAN’T BUY THAT BECAUSE WE ARE BROKE MUCH LIKE WE’VE BEEN FOR THE PAST TEN YEARS!!!”

Near the end of the episode, Angela goes to her mom’s room, exhausted from her botched attempt to gain entry to Let’s Bolt. Suddenly, she starts to cry, and apologizes to her mom for having a shitty attitude. I think neither Patty nor Angela expected it, but Patty hugs Angela fiercely and Angela falls asleep in her mom’s arms. The turmoil is over, for the moment.

It was so weird to watch that moment, having just come from a nearly identical moment in the next room. Seeing someone who so typified my adolescence climb into the arms of someone who is starting to typify my adulthood/motherhood/wifehood was like getting a glimpse of my utter confusion that surrounds my identity and my decisions.

I think it really speaks to the craft and brilliance of MSCL that I can relate to it so well both as an adolescent (and perpetual kid) and an adult.

The classics never die.

That is my current attitude. It really does not help that just a day ago I was happily lazing around Tracey‘s house with Angela, reveling in several days spent with good friends, having good conversations.

Today, life is not really up to my standards.

Saturday, I managed to wake up in time for breakfast and went to the opening session, which included a cooking demo using all Wal-Mart ingredients. Helpful, sure, but it’s all Wal-Mart all the time at my house and sometimes I can use a break from the endless parade of Great Value products (Dana commented on one of the unnamed-sponsor lunches, “I don’t want to eat the shit I make at home!”).

There was also an interview with Tina Brown and Ilene Chaiken and another Important Woman who I’ve totally forgotten. I was barely paying attention because I didn’t grab enough coffee. I know that they talked about various forms of media migrating to the internet…which was basically saying, “Print and TV and film are going to take over…soooo bloggers better recognize.” Well, not exactly, but that’s kind of what I read into it. But maybe displaced bloggers can take over TV and movie studios and newspapers? And those will become these retro media giants? And we’ll go back and forth with this power struggle like the Star-Bellied Sneetches? Who have blogs upon thars?

I went to a panel about blogging identity that was pretty interesting. I’m not uncomfortable wearing the title of “mommyblogger,” though it sounds a tad precious. I’m a mother and I write about parenting sometimes and I’m proud of that, but actually the only time that someone has called me a mommyblogger is as an insult. But they were tiny people with the acuity of applesauce anyway so it’s not really even worth considering.

I don’t think the panel touched on the use of the term “mommyblogger” as a pejorative, because that wasn’t the focus. But I guess I was assuming that they were going to talk about how to focus your blog if you’re a parent but write about other stuff, too, but it was more for people who have very topical blogs that aren’t about parenting. Not totally relevant for me but it was interesting.

Things did take a weird turn when there was some vaguely anti-parentblog sentiments thrown around. Well, maybe they weren’t anti, per se, but there was some level of irritation over the fact that mommybloggers receive the most attention from marketers and whatnot. I can imagine that if you’re building a blog audience about a topic and your audience is sizable, it can be very frustrating to be passed over. But things change and, seriously, blogging as a serious industry is still very, very young. I wouldn’t be surprised to see the balance shift in the next year or so.

But I did think about this site and how I kind of just write about whatever. If I wanted to, I could probably build a larger audience by focusing solely on one thing.

The husband’s blog really took off because he has a super-specific topic and there just aren’t many people writing about what he does. (I call him Dooce sometimes because he gets all gushy about his huge readership, which makes me wonder if this just all relates to penis size, and then I threaten to shut his site down because I run things.) But that’s not me and that’s not this site. I’m a human being and therefore multi-faceted. And I’m not sure that the world needs another memoirist so I’ll just plop shit here like so much slop in a trough with the occasional complete steak and let you guys come to it. And I think I just called my readers pigs. I didn’t mean it. I just…I missed the panel on storytelling and metaphor and that was obviously a big mistake.

Lunch!

I can’t remember if I went to another panel on Saturday, besides the MamaPop session. I don’t think I did. I’ll do better next year. But the MamaPop session was REALLY good. There was lots of interesting discussion and debate about pop culture and if there’s a feminist way to gossip. And I’m pretty sure that we won the Big Word competition for “schadenfreude” and “Aristotelian” being dropped.

With a few hours to kill, Dana and I ventured about 20 feet outside of the hotel and went to Niu for dinner. We had, no lie, the best sushi either of us had ever tasted and incredible mojitos.

I hit up the CheeseburgHerz party for a little bit but it became extremely crowded and I had to roll out. In the morning, Dana and Tracey and I went to the recovery breakfast and said some goodbyes before heading to the airport.

My only regrets were not seeing more of the city and not meeting more people. Obviously, I met a lot of people that I’ve known online for awhile in real life for the first time, and that’s always fun. But as far as people that, for whatever reason, I just didn’t know about until bumping into them at BlogHer, I can only say that I met a small handful. So, if I go next year, my mission will be to just branch out.

My only criticisms were that the wi-fi issue was just kind of ridiculous, considering it was a blogging conference, and that the expo booths were a little too girly. More nerdy tech stuff!

The last matter I want to address about BlogHer is the people that I met and hung out with. There is absolutely no way that I can make a complete list (see also: drunk on Thursday; 1,500 attendees). But I do want to touch on a few key encounters:

– Receiving a huge hug from Tanis within minutes of arriving at the hotel and later laughing with her about trying to fit into college writing desks while pregnant
– Receiving a huge hug from Grace after randomly bumping into her in the lobby
– Doing a slow-motion run through a field of daisies on a sidewalk when we first spotted Amber and Miss Banshee and Lena
– Discussing existential crises with Katie
– Flopping around on the Chi Bar couch with Miss Grace (both of us only vaguely recall this, but I’m pretty sure it happened…unless that wasn’t her tattoo but, in fact, Where the Wild Things Are coming to life before my eyes)
– Grinding to Ludacris with Y
– Trying to convince Amy to pull the bottom of her dress up between her legs, diaper-style
– Forgetting that I had gum in my mouth and nearly choking when I ate a piece of unicorn cake, and, though I didn’t introduce myself formally, having Bossy exclaim to me that she had just done the exact same thing.
– Finally succeeding in meeting Kristabella and Izzy
– The MamaPop group hug at the end of Sparklecorn, during which Heather gave me a gigantic kiss on the cheek, complete with, “MmmmmWAH!”
– Reintroducing myself to the lovely Kate, another casualty of Thursday’s beverage-induced amnesia
– Creepily lurking outside of Erin’s door looking for stickers that she placed there for me (feel better soon, lady!)
– Teasing Neil with his cattiness comments
– Just getting to hang out and giggle with Dana
– Just getting to pinch the cheeks of Schmutzie and Palinode, both of whom I love and want to put in my pocket
– Sleeping with Tracey every night (boom chick a bow wow) in the amazing beds at the Sheraton
– Anyone that I didn’t mention here that I even brushed up against that weekend

I also need to send a special thank you to Kim, who sold me her ticket to the conference after she realized that she couldn’t attend. I know that she was extremely sad that she couldn’t go, but she promises to be there next year. Go Kim!

I’m headed to Baltimore this weekend to visit Tracey (she can’t get enough of me) and Angela and some other assorted Baltimore characters. Note to would-be burglars: my very ferocious husband and my very ferocious cat will be home so BACK OFF.