AWESOME, right? They are awesome. Very beautifully composed, I think.

Ahem. Listen, it’s hard for me to recap this thing, because I think the only people who really care are the people who were there, and I loved Emily‘s recap, because it sums up my feelings as well: I don’t want anyone to feel left out, because I hate to seem like I’m playing favorites, especially since I can say with total sincerity that I had a great time, and would have GENUINELY, NO BULLSHIT, been thrilled if it went on for MANY DAYS and for each meal, I got paired up with one random person for a one-on-one session. In fact, I would LOVE that, because I really did enjoy everyone I met—something I cannot remotely say for other similar events I’ve been to—and there was NO drama, NO crying, NO posturing, NO climbing and it was just NORMAL. A bunch of normal, good-hearted, fun people with something in common (each other and/or the internet) and it was just an honest pleasure.

I will call one person—Here We Go A Jen—out, only because it was EERIE how alike we were and EERIE that in all the years I’ve been doing this (SINCE 2003, OH MY GOD), I’ve never run into her and she never ran into me, and we had NO IDEA who the other one was, but when we met and talked, it was like, um, MAGIC, and now I want to move in with her, the end. And I’m saying this, because if you read ME, you probably don’t read HER, unlike most of the other Blathering people there, who I mostly already knew and you might, too, and you’re welcome, now go read her archives.

And Natalie, because COME ON, the woman let Natalie and me stay IN HER HOUSE, which, if you didn’t know, is this weird little magical land of perfect design and flow, and I found myself wanting to submit it to magazines without telling her. Also, she is charming and wondrous and her family is just so great and SHIT, I am FAILING at calling people out, but the thing is I LOVED EVERYONE AND I AM GOING TO BE SCREWED BY LEAVING THEM OUT. Here. Here is the list of attendees. I loved them all, no kidding.

(I did come to the realization that Jennie and I are like sisters when I unapologetically stole her ice cream sandwich, because you guys, I DO NOT SHARE DAIRY PRODUCTS WITH ANYONE.)

I had a great time. And it was super-comfortable and like I said, not at all dramatic or climbey and branding-like or pretentious and no one commented on my janky feet that I INTENDED to get pedicured on Friday, but didn’t. Also, I forgot to pack a black bra and wore a white one under a sweater dress and NOT ONCE did I catch people giving me the side-eye, even though I’m fairly certain it was obvious at times. They just hugged me, and the best part was that I saw everyone being as welcoming to other people as they were to me, even when they thought no one was looking, so it was utterly genuine.

And with that, I’ll tell you that I started reading the Jaycee Dugard memoir, which is CAH-RAZY and I know I tweeted about it, but you guys, IT IS SO CRAZY. THIS HAPPENED. TO A PERSON. WHO IS STILL ALIVE. I laugh because when I talk to some people who are all, “I’m not a memoir person!” I’m like, UM, ME NEITHER. But it’s one thing to talk about your (totally universal) experiences with parenting as though they are unique snowflakey, but quite another to write a memoir of being IMPRISONED FOR EIGHTEEN YEARS AS A SEX SLAVE, AM I RIGHT?

I’m totally right. Also, Sam is having a GPS implanted in her brain stem this weekend. No big! Just an outpatient procedure!

Have a great Thursday!

*WHAT UP, KE$HA?

Sam and I are flyin’ solo, as Adam is at home working (someone has to!), but hey, we’re having a great time anyway. We are NOW, anyway, after an epically awful road trip to a wedding that seriously left me wondering if leaving the house EVER AGAIN was REMOTELY ADVISABLE. But now? HAPPY HAPPY.

See you next week!

This is becoming epic, like the months I read The Historian out of some strange obligation to my childhood allegiance to Vlad Tepes.

Anyway, this weekend was, in a word, perfect, and let me tell you, I really needed it. I’ve been under a lot of unmentionable stress lately, and on Friday, I really wasn’t so sure I was going to get through it. The way I roll when times are rough is to first, absolutely FREAK OUT AND LOSE IT ALL CAPS! I think I’m NEVER GOING TO GET THROUGH THIS! And things are going to be AWFUL! And I will be DEPRESSED FOREVER!

And then I do more of this: !!!!

I also think I quite literally rend my garments, or at least the bathroom towels.

Then I buck up, get it together and face shit like a grown-up. And, well, that’s what I’m going to do. Until the NEXT cause for freak out, and I’m guessing before all is said and done, this cycle should repeat itself 5,469,876 times.

But besides all that, this weekend was amazing in that simple way that I dreamed about before I had a kid. Saturday, we took Sam for ice cream and cow-gazing, and for a kid who hadn’t had ice cream since last summer (I never buy it), she sure seemed excited about it. “ICE CREAM? ICE CREAM?” was the refrain in the car, over and over again until we arrived at Richardson’s and she had her chocolate cone in her hot little hands.

There was ice cream and cows and it was perfect, right up until the moment Sam threw a tantrum because we wouldn’t put her IN the calf pen and leave her to roam with the baby cows. (She’s used to Davis Farmland, which reminds me, if you’re a Massachusetts resident, you need to go there. We’re getting a season pass this year, because it is awesome. Roaming animals and a splash pad? SIGN ME UP.)

Mother’s Day itself featured lobster rolls, a new-to-us park where Sam spun herself dizzy-drunk on the merry-go-round, lounging and Indian food. Honestly, it’s weekends like this that make me feel like wanting anything more than to keep the people I have happy and healthy would be overkill. Greedy, greedy overkill.

You know, we don’t have a particularly luxurious life, and we don’t yet have everything we want, and even though what we DO want isn’t particularly egregious (my two family/material goals: Have another baby and buy a little house), sometimes I just feel so stupidly lucky, and so painfully aware at how spoiled I am compared to some. This, perhaps unsurprisingly, leads me down the path of panicked doom, as though taking even one second of the life I have for granted will mean it gets taken away. Like wanting more for us — no matter how mundane the ‘more’ is — will tip the scales and set off an alarm that we’ve overreached.

Irrational and silly, I know — after all, there are as many people who have much more than we do as there are those who have less — but my little family is too good, I guess, to consider taking for granted.

I hope you had a great Mother’s Day, and that you have get everything you want.

*Um, do you guys remember Dido? Yes, I still have her album. And God, what a terrible name she had/has.

This is Sam’s favorite shirt in the whole world:

Excuse the funny angle, as it’s half in the sink after taking it off of her, but you get the idea, yes? It’s a silkscreen of a cat with a SEQUIN CROWN on its head — a pink sequin crown, no less — with the words, “Love being a princess” written behind the cat, over and over and over again.

Friends, my kid is the lady with the cat sweatshirt. She LOVES this thing. If it’s clean, she asks for it, and if it isn’t, God help us all. And no, if you were wondering, I didn’t buy it — her auntie Faith, Adam’s sister, did. That it came with a purple velour track suit with sequin tuxedo stripes is almost beside the point at this stage, am I right?

It just makes me laugh, how smug I was. Because while it’s true, I could have hidden the shirt if I was that uptight, I also knew she’d love the damn thing and you know what? She does. I also will admit to secretly hoping this happens to hipster parents who ironically dress their infants in rock T-shirts and funky vintage clothing while crowing about their toddler’s amazing taste in music. (“She LOVES Mumford and Sons! She asks for them by name!”)

Yes, I secretly hope those people wake up one day with a two-year-old who begs for Lady Gaga and dances merrily around the room clad only in a T-shirt with a sequin-crowned kitty on it. Call me petty, but there it is.

ANYWAY, I don’t even know what happened to the last week, there. I went out to dinner with a friend, we spent the weekend driving around and tooling around in this glorious, glorious weather and then, BADOW! it’s Wednesday and we almost have to do it again, and while I love this life, sometimes the weeks just fly by without even realizing it, because nothing monumental was ACCOMPLISHED, you know? Oh, sure, I spent an hour and a half folding laundry tonight, but GOD HELP ME, I WILL DO IT AGAIN TOMORROW.

(Note, this is not unique to at-home people, this is just, sadly, LIFE. I mean, unless you’re a surgeon who saves lives, in which case you can be all, I REMOVED TEN BRAIN TUMORS THIS WEEK. And then I’ll clap you on the back like, WAY TO GO, DEREK SHEPHERD. I UNLOADED THE DISHWASHER THREE TIMES.)

I can’t complain, though, because it’s nice out, and we can go to the park and hang with friends, and I’ll take it, you know? I was reminded today that while it’s nice to want things for your future, if you spend too much time agonizing over them, you miss your life. Which, last time I checked, is happening right now. Silly little platitude, but it really helped.

Unfortunately, it is not enough to stop me from continuing to slog through Stephen King’s It, and hey, anyone want to talk about a book that was published almost 25 years ago? NO? After loving the shiznit out of my very FIRST Stephen King, Bag of Bones (seriously, in my top five favorite books ever. SERIOUSLY), Adam was up my ass to read It. “Have you read It? Have you read It?” So I, after finishing The Passage on vacation, and continuing with a nice, if unremarkable diversion of Neverwhere and The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, finally started It.

And now, what, two weeks later? I’m 400 pages into it, which, if you can believe it, IS NOT EVEN HALFWAY and I … NOTHING HAS HAPPENED. Also, I BLAZE through books, usually, so for me to only cover 400 pages in two weeks is Not Good. And then it turns out that Adam doesn’t think he was thinking of It when he was so effusive in his recommendation and, in fact, has never even READ THE BOOK, and might have only seen the movie (miniseries?), and I AM VAGUELY MURDEROUS OVER HERE, because now I am IN THIS SHIT, but also procrastinating like a mo’ fo’, because NOTHING IS HAPPENING.

The last time I felt this way was when my book club picked Margaret Atwood’s Alias Grace, which I HATED, despite my love for literally every other thing the woman has ever written. I wanted to give up so many times, but NO! My devotion to book club kept me going. Naturally, I arrived at book club to find that I was the ONLY ONE TO HAVE MADE IT THROUGH, as every other person in the room gave up.

While Jesus may have turned water into wine, the real miracle is that I didn’t throw my wine at the room at large, because MY GOD. MY GOD.

Besides, the new Sookie Stackhouse is here, but NO. I AM STILL READING IT.

I hope you have a great Thursday.

(PS, if you’re wondering, yes, I added ads back. I joined Federated Media via the Clever Girls Collective and … I hope they aren’t making your eyes bleed too much.)

*Lady Gaga, natch.

I’m not even a WEDDING PERSON, but if I can tune that shiznit in from the comfort of my own home, with Twitter at the ready and perhaps a mimosa? I am so there. In fact, if you follow me on Twitter and don’t want my unsolicited, unfiltered opinions on the wedding, perhaps it’s best if you unfollow me on Sunday FRIDAY DUH SORRY. I won’t be offended, so long as you come back when it’s over.

This weekend I wrapped up a couple of work proposals, and I realized today that if they come through, I might … um, hire someone to help with part-time child care. I just … well. It dawns on me that most people do their work during the day and are sort of kind of done at night, save for some loose ends, and don’t spend every minute of their free time trying to cram an ENTIRE DAY’S WORTH OF WORK into four hours every nap/night, and wait wait, this is why people have work days and … hm, maybe I want to reevaluate some things here, eh? I’m not talking a LOT, just a few hours here and there and … well, I popped the childcare panic-cherry by enrolling her in preschool and apparently it’s a slippery slope that I’m pretty comfortable with, and also, this is a no-shitter to most of you, but forgive me, I AM SLOW.

Speaking of slow, on at least two occasions recently, I have been reminded of and/or once again experienced the type of parents who, and I hope I explain this properly, seem to actually believe that their kids really ARE superior to every other child on earth, and fail to grasp that it might be — just a little — colored by the fact that they are the parents, you know? Like, I’ve had multiple conversations, and I KNOW y’all have too, with parents who talk about their smart, glorious children in a way that suggests, somehow, that I’m supposed to be jealous of their children? As though I would … trade my child for theirs, or somehow think that my (perfect, brilliant) offspring is INFERIOR to theirs and I got a dud model? Or … that your parenting MUST be better than mine, and OH TEACH ME, JEDI.

Look, we’re all proud of our kids. I think Sam is the most amazing person I’ve ever met, or likely ever will meet. I find her endlessly fascinating and funny and of course, I believe she’s exceptionally smart and beautiful, but I ALSO recognize that I am her MOTHER and thus, it is my job to believe those things. And as a mother, I also realize that you, a bystander, might not feel the same way, because it’s not really your job to feel that way, and honestly, I might find it a little creepy if you did.

Am I … making sense? I mean, yes, I share stories of her, and how funny she is, but I recognize that *I* think she’s funny, and I would never talk about her as though she is the FUNNIEST CHILD WHO EVER LIVED, because I realize that’s probably not true (there are other mothers out there, of course), and also, that’s obnoxious. And yet, you would be amazed at the number of people who do NOT recognize this fact.

Further, this is what I want for my daughter in life: I want her to be happy. I want her to do her best and achieve things, and reach her potential and all that Tiger Mother bullshit, but most of all, I want her to be happy with herself, her choices and her life. I’m not sure any of that is fully realized at age two, you know? I don’t care if your two-year-old is a Mensa candidate and can speak four languages beyond the fact that it makes you happy, and hopefully she’s happy … it has really very little to do with MY kid and how I perceive her successes and failures.

Even if your kid can speak Mandarin while painting elaborate Ukrainian eggs and knitting a sweater, I am STILL going to prefer my kid to yours, sorry. The same way that, say, I might possess more self-awareness than you by not rubbing my kid’s accomplishments in your face like an obnoxious one-upper, by some strange miracle, your child will still prefer you to me. THIS IS HOW THINGS WORK.

I’m rambling, and it probably isn’t making any sense. I just find some parents amusing is all, I suppose. Because once again, are we supposed to be JEALOUS of their CHILDREN and want to TRADE OURS IN FOR THEIRS? If only … If only I’d given birth to THAT KID instead!

Oh God.

You know what else is amusing? When Sam wakes up, she demands that Sunny get up too. Girlfriend is SO! EXCITED! about! Sunny! that she can’t keep it together until the dog comes out, reluctantly and very slowly. Mind you, this is a dog who, up until recently, woke up FOR THE DAY no earlier than noon, and now Sam’s rousing her by 7 at the latest. She’s … very tired. Sam, ever perceptive, realizes this, and by 8, is usually trying to make things right by giving Sunny a fluffy pillow, blanket, her juice and both remote controls.

“There you go, Sunny! There you go! Rest up!” She then covers Sunny with the blanket and tries to force her to take a drink from her sippy cup. “REST UP, SUNNY! JOOOOOOOOSE?”

Meanwhile, Sunny’s wondering what the hell happened to her cushy life. Having a baby hardly changed it at all, but having a toddler rocked her whole world, and not in a good way.

Hey, I hope you have a great Tuesday.

*Muse

(What an egomaniacal thing to say, really, because come on.)

BUT DID YOU?

THAT’S BECAUSE I DID. I wasn’t hiding it or anything, as I tweeted often enough, but we went to Vegas! We went to Vegas! And it was, in a word, perfect. Honestly, it was Vegas, and it was six days, but it didn’t feel that way at all. It was really quite perfect. I suppose I get why people were all, “STOP WITH THE SIX DAYS IN VEGAS OH MY LANDS!” because if I’d been drinking and/or gambling heavily for any part of that trip, I’d be all, GET ME OUT OF VEGAS OH MY LANDS. But instead, neither of us had a drop of alcohol, and we gambled modestly, much to the disappointment of the casinos, I’m sure and we … well, we were in bed no later than 11 p.m. most nights, and up with the chickens. Oh, we adjusted just fine to the time change … eventually. Like, on the last day. HELPFUL.

What we did do was lie about a lot, rising only to do important things like eat, take baths and go to the pool. We did mix in the occasional roulette game in, and yes, we saw Cirque du Soleil (Ka), but other than that, we did a lot of nothing, which is precisely what we wanted to do. Plus, it was easy — encouraged, even — since our hotel (Bellagio) upgraded us to a suite the size of my entire house. I’m pretty sure this means we used up all the good luck we’ll have for the entire year. Look for another season of miscarriages and illness, coming to you direct in 2011/12! (I hope not, but I’m not convinced, because I tell you, THAT STUFF DOES NOT HAPPEN TO US, EVER.)

I think, too, one of the best parts about Vegas is that you can just let go and be a stupid tourist. There is no pressure to fit in as if you are a local. Gawking is encouraged. You don’t have to pretend to be cool, because NO ONE is cool in Vegas, and if they are, they’re faking it. Everyone is a goofy tourist gazing up at a fake Statue of Liberty with a weird sense of displaced awe.

Honestly, I don’t understand how ANYONE drinks a lot of alcohol in Vegas. This isn’t a judgment, but more of a physical observation. Isn’t alcohol … dehydrating? And MY GOD, PEOPLE. It’s the desert! The desert! If I had any complaints about the trip at all, I’d say that I wanted to hook an IV of saline to my arm, because I was so! thirsty! ALL THE TIME. I COULD NOT GET ENOUGH WATER. Cocktail waitresses were coming around non-stop to supply me with nothing more than Fiji water for a handsome tip. And yet, there were people drinking GIANT BONGS of daiquiris and bloody marys and I’m like, HOW ARE YOU PEOPLE NOT DEAD? You must be so THIRSTY! The thought of even a glass of wine made me shrivel up in desperate thirst, and you guys, I LOVE WINE.

Oh, and here are the pictures I took while on vacation:

Aren’t they awesome? Yes! I took so many! SO MANY PICTURES OF NOTHING. This is why I’m not a photographer. I cannot be relied upon to remember to do anything of the sort, and by that I mean, I never charged and/or brought my camera anywhere with me.

Vegas is, obviously, just! so! much! It’s funny how certain cultures have fashion standards that in other parts of the country would be considered unacceptable and/or easily mocked. Hell, I see many of the get-ups hawked by my comrades in San Francisco, and invariably think that if ANYONE wore that here in Boston, things would … not be met with the same enthusiasm. People may be quietly shuffled off to asylums, in fact, although they look perfectly normal in San Francisco. Ditto other parts of California. The brightness of LA and Orange County always looks so, so right in context, but so garish when put in contrast with the darkness of New York. (These are things I learn from the Real Housewives.)

Conversely, Boston’s tendency toward staid, classic neutrals (Look out! Muffy’s got a new LL Bean tote!) and the occasional foray into the hilarious world of preppy chic (I had a boss who wore pants embroidered with PUPPIES from Vineyard Vines) is equally laughable out of context. Yet in the summer here, Nantucket reds are almost de rigueur, particularly on the Cape and the islands. For God’s sake, I HAVE A PAIR. Throw an outfit like that together in some parts of the country and people would assume you were being ironic, or at least pretending to do a Pretty In Pink re-enactment, because why ELSE would you be wearing wide-wale cords with … are those ANCHORS on your pants, or are you just happy to see me?

And then there’s Vegas, where things that fly there would fly … well, honestly, I am hopeful that some things are only in Vegas, because, SERIOUSLY. I saw more stripper heels worn by non-strippers than I ever hope to see again. God, does everything need to be sequined? Why so loud, Vegas? Dresses coming up higher on women’s backsides than my UNDERWEAR. And oh my good grief, I played roulette next to a man wearing a rhinestone SHIRT and he didn’t even look that out of place. A RHINESTONE SHIRT.

A mom — A MOM, A VERY OBVIOUS MOM — wearing clear high-heeled platforms with light-up soles approached her daughter in the pool. THE POOL. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY. LIGHT-UP STRIPPER HEELS. The fact that she was wearing a hot pink sequin monokini cut to her appendectomy scar is almost unremarkable in comparison. And yet, she really didn’t look that odd. No, you guys, it was ME, in my navy and red-striped Ralph Lauren tank who looked lamely subdued and terribly un-fun.

The best part of all, is that it was really special and important to just hang with my husband, alone, without any distractions or small animals or small people yelling, “MAMA, WHERE IS KITTY?” and hearing, “Gabba? Gabba? Gabba? GABBA SPACE?” on repeat. It was something we didn’t know we needed, but did, and it turns out I still really like the guy, quite a bit in fact. And it made me realize that it’s important to spend more time, just the two of us, and I’ve promised myself to book a babysitter once a month to get out and remember what that feels like. It’s the least we can do for each other, I think.

Most importantly, however, Sam was fine. More than fine, actually. Happy and thrilled and in totally capable, loving hands. My parents were amazing — they came here, spent the week at our house, took her to all of her regularly scheduled events, plus the park, active play-time, etc. etc. She was loved, she was happy, and we are very, very lucky and grateful. (Thank you again, Mom & Dad!)

I have to tell you, though, seeing her this morning for the first time in a week? Best thing ever, even if she did cling to me with the tenacity of a spider monkey for eleven consecutive hours. Worth. It. Man, I love that kid.

I hope you had a great week.

*Sara Bareilles

The problem is when the unrealities start keeping me up at night, and that’s where we’re at. As such, I shall pass my vaguely dark fantastical questions along to you, so that you, too, may stay up at night thinking about them. If you’re so inclined, tell me what you would do, and why, so that I can think about what YOU would do when I can’t sleep and wonder if THAT is a better choice.

1) An oldie but goodie. Sam’s favorite Yo Gabba Gabba episode is the Superhero one with Devo, and I’ve seen it no fewer than five hundred times, no exaggeration. Hey! Let’s play! SUPER-HEEROOOES!

OK, so you get a superpower. Just one. What is it?

I choose to freeze time. What CAN’T you do with freezing time? Nothing! You have alibis! You just freeze time, get a nap, finish your deadline, steal funds from Bernie Madoff, rob a bank, whatever! Whatever! Be Robin Hood! IS FULL OF ALL KINDS OF POSSIBILITIES.

Second choice: control the weather like Halle Berry in the X-Men. I like the idea of making it snow with cloudy eyes myself. Will be snowy mystery? Who made that snow? IN JULY? If it can be localized, even better! Make it snow on my NEIGHBOR’S house, not mine, especially since I clean up ten tons of her dog’s shit every day. And if there are forest fires somewhere? FIRE UP THE OLD RAINMAKER.

2) This is less, uhhh, happy, and I don’t mean this to make LIGHT of the situation, but this is where our thought process led us: Adam and I discussed the whole Japan nuclear meltdown possibility, which led to us wondering if a PERSON had to be at the controls to cool everything down, and if it would come down to some Armageddon-like situation (the movie, that is), with the government offering the hero’s family an astronomical sum for him or her to walk in their and have his/her face melted off, but save the world, or at least JAPAN. This led him to say he would consider it, because he’s just like that, and this also led to me clutching his arm all, DON’T LEAVE USSSSSS! and seriously, would ANY of you consider such a thing, because I DO NOT THINK I COULD. I believe I am very selfish and love my family too much, and that’s just if it were ME. Take my husband? I RIP YOUR FACE TO SHREDS! GET AWAY! GET AWAY! I KILL YOU FIRST!

See? Not happy. I’m sure THAT will keep me up at night, if Stephen King’s Bag of Bones doesn’t already. (SO GOOD. SO SCARY.)

Happy Monday! On that, um, happy thought. (THINK ABOUT THE SUPERHERO POWERS INSTEAD!)

I awoke several hours later (10:45!) to Sam hovering over me, “MA? MA?” and it was as though the hours never passed, because there she was, little Stewie Griffin, “Ma? MAMA? Mummy! Mom! Ma?” just as she was first thing in the morning. Adam apologized for not letting me sleep later (!!), but apparently she would not be held off any longer.

***

Sunday morning, I returned the favor, and Sam and I headed out to go to the grocery store, only to discover that our driveway was a sheet of ice. I realized this too late, unfortunately, to stop both of us from making it deep into the center of the driveway, away from the safety of either the house or the car to hold onto. Sam thought it was great fun, slipping and falling, then getting back up to do it all over again. At one point she held her balance long enough to skate down the gentle slope, her little sneakers as good as a pair of skis on the bunny hill. It was only when she doubled over with laughter that she lost her balance and fell on her well-padded backside, giving me the opportunity to go rescue her.

***

Later, Sam had just finished her lunch, and while I was making mine, Adam took his lasagna into the family room to eat while he watched the pre-game festivities. Sam, never one to pass up on food that is not her own, hauled ass in there to steal bits of his lunch. He let her, of course, but not before exclaiming, “You have schmutz on your face! Let’s get that off!” and wiping her down with a napkin while she laughed and he kissed her. I watched them eat together, her little feet dangling off the edge of the couch as he gave her bites of his noodles and brushed her hair out of her face while she chatted excitedly about life, the universe and Elmo.

**

Adam and I have been together almost twelve years. I still remember the first time I met him — I was just about to graduate college, grabbing a drink with friends at a bar I rarely frequented, and while waiting for my beer, there he was, the Adam I’d always heard about from our mutual friends. We talked for a while, and I liked him quite a bit. He was funny and smart; I was drunk and extra-talkative. Our conversation was cut short when my boyfriend’s identical twin appeared behind me to say hello, and Adam mistakenly thought he was the real deal and was pointing confusedly — not that it mattered, for he was attached to someone else, too.

(Side note: dating a twin is kind of annoying.)

We didn’t meet up again until a year or so later, when I ran into him on the street on my way home from work outside of the Park Street T station. We hugged, exchanged information, and struck up a friendship. That part was easy — we’d had all the same friends, but somehow avoided meeting each other until just before college was over altogether. I was dating someone else at the time, and after a few months and a solo dinner out, wherein I molted like a shedding snake into my asparagus salad, thanks to an unfortunately vicious sunburn, he asked that I break up with my boyfriend and give him a whirl.

And here we are.

I’m not sure I ever really imagined what our lives would be, this many years later. But if what I’ve got isn’t it, what would it be? I shudder to think.

Yes, here we are.

Taken by Adam in a hilariously weird kitchen-themed photo shoot I walked in on.

*Vanessa Carlton. Who was Sara Bareilles before Sara Bareilles came onto the scene.

And Jesus, sweet longtime reader Leigh was so totally right when she said it’s contributing to any sort of lingering sadness, because feeling like your house is going to be eaten, because of the walls! of! snow! and not being able to go anywhere and having playdates canceled over and over again is like, WHOA OH MY GOD WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE HERE. As I write this, I have dirty hair and am wearing these hideous blue toile pajama bottoms from Target, because it’s what I wore to bed last night, and it’s all feeling very futile, this getting up and getting dressed business. After all, where are we going to go? Nowhere! NOWHERE, THAT’S WHERE.

Ahem. I’m sorry. If you need me, I’ll be here in my hideous toile pajamas (WHO PUTS TOILE ON PAJAMA PANTS? WHO BUYS THEM?), spending hours coming up with new marinades for the fourteen pounds of London broil I have in the freezer. Oh, and fingerpainting. By myself. Or perhaps coloring with my box of 64 crayons that Adam got for ME ME ME for Christmas, because it appears that I enjoy coloring more than Sam does.

Here! Have some bullets:

– I’m on Day 17 of The Neverending Post-MC Period, and no, my doctor isn’t concerned for a bunch of detailed reasons you don’t need to hear right now (or, um, ever), but if you were wondering if THAT is as special as it sounds, I ASSURE YOU, IT IS. SEVENTEEN DAYS. GOD CREATED THE EARTH IN FEWER DAYS.

– I’ve always wanted to write a post on this, but it’s a little self-important and all kinds of complicated, but MAN, does it ever GRATE MY CHEESE that somehow the definition of feminism has become, for some, particularly in the pool my blogging peers swim in, WE MUST SUPPORT WOMEN, NO MATTER WHAT. I … what? Look, I’m not going to agree with a woman just BECAUSE she’s a woman, and I remain unclear how it turned out that it means that we can’t CRITICIZE something a woman does! I certainly have no issue criticizing something a man does if I disagree with it and/or dislike it. (I’m looking at you, Ryan Murphy and your sexist approach to character development.)

Oh, but wait — we CAN criticize women. We, as women, are free to criticize celebrities. Yes, we have free reign to make fun of celebrities’ boobs, hair, makeup and outfits. How very progressive of us. Oh, wait. And Sarah Palin. We are free to criticize Sarah Palin. But other than that, not so much. We are supposed to SUPPORT each other, didn’t you know? We’re supposed to support women’s right to speak up for what they believe in! Unless what I think or what I believe in contradicts what another, more docile woman believes in, in which case, I need to sit down and be quiet, because I’m just jealous, and what I said wasn’t nice and I’m just creating drama. Because women are supposed to be strong and outspoken, but we are also not supposed to say anything at all unless it’s something nice.

No one, for the record, would dare say that to a man. And yet, people say these things, out loud, without even considering for a second the irony in what they’re communicating.

(And I swear to God and everything that is holy, I am not thinking of a specific instance here, and my friend Kate can even attest that I have been thinking about this post since at LEAST the summertime. AT LEAST.)

(Edited to add that I, too, make fun of celebrities, so weirdly, I don’t object to the practice. I’m a People subscriber, for heaven’s sake! I BUY US WEEKLY. I AM WHAT IS WRONG WITH AMERICA.)

– Given the shitshow that was January, I haven’t even begun to look at my 2010 goals to see how I stacked up, or come up with anything for 2011, but I have exactly one, so far, and I think it’s a decent one: Read for fun. Just fun. Yes, I want to read at least 40 books (a wussy number, but whatever), but I’m also tired of reading things I SHOULD read, and right now, I just want to kick back and read stuff that entertains me, even if it’s embarrassing, which means Franzen’s “Freedom” will have to wait, because I’ll be busy with something lame and pink-jacketed over here.

Have a happy Wednesday!

*Johnny Cash. Because honestly, I feel IMPRISONED. BY SNOW.

And I’ll be damned, she is. She sang the whole way to BJ’s this afternoon after I piled her into the car to break up the NAPOCALYPSE! which seems to happen every afternoon after naptime, at least the last three days. NAPOCALYPSE! is a horrible phenomenon and involves whining, crying, screaming, demands to be held! Put down! Held! Put down! Picked up! Milk! No Milk! WOE IS ME! NAPOCALYPSE!

NAPOCALYPSE! started on Friday, when we set out on a four-hour journey to my parents’ cabin in the wilds of Pennsylvania (the nearest metropolis is … Scranton). Sam’s a great sleeper, but she is only a great sleeper when she is in the presence of a crib — any crib will do, and no thank you, not a pack ‘n play, A CRIB — but put her in a car or an adult bed and she’s USELESS. Kid needs her space, her crib, her buddies, her sound soother and a car seat ain’t gonna cut it. She woke up after 45 minutes to NAPOCALYPSE! which required us to pull over and ply her with Munchkins. Honestly, I’d have given her a fucking PONY at that point, so I don’t even feel bad about giving her Munchkins to feel better, so long as the face-melting screams stopped.

We had a great weekend with my parents, though too short, and by Sunday, we were on the road again and NAPOCALYPSE! struck again, and would you believe we had a three-day driving journey scheduled for early December and within two hours of arriving home, the joint terror of NAPOCALYPSE! had us booking FLIGHTS, despite the fact that we wanted to save the money?

The power of NAPOCALYPSE! is so great, it can make reasonable people spend hundreds of dollars on ponies, flights and Munchkins.

Speaking of milk (what? Way up there!), I noticed that this morning’s coffee dollop was tasting a little … well, especially milky, but chalked it up to the fact that when milk goes bad, YOU KNOW IT IS BAD. Well, it turns out that’s completely wrong, because one trip to the store later, I poured Sam a glass sippy cup, took a test swig and realized, HA HA! My morning coffee milk (two cups, thanks!) was beyond bad, and YUMMO, who’s ready to come over for a healthy serving of factory-farmed dairy! (OMG JUST KIDDING CRAZY DAIRY PEOPLE)

And finally, two things, only vaguely related, that I CANNOT get out of my head, so here, have them, gross as they are:

1) The degree to which Sam not only notices EVERYTHING I do, but imitates it, seems to know no bounds. Last week, I caught her exiting the laundry room with a roll of toilet paper between her legs, as she attempted to use it to wipe her girly bits through her leggings and diaper. She was WIPING! And … what?! Worse! WORSE! Today she picked up one of those ClearBlue Easy fertility monitor pee sticks, OPENED IT UP, and pretended to pee on it for a solid ten minutes. She even put the cap on it when she was “finished.”

OMG WTF JESUS

(Yes, I’m tracking, yes, I want another baby at some point, this should not be a surprise … right?)

2) Speaking of pee, I love asparagus, but seriously.

Aaaand, that’s all I got, unless you’re expecting an email from me, to which I say I am getting there, but this weekend, and MY TERRIFYINGLY DIRTY HOUSE, put me a tad behind. Did I mention my house is TERRIFYING? Well, it is. TERRIFYING.

MESSYHOUSOPALYPSE.

Happy Tuesday!

*Rockwell. Did he … ever do anything else?