Who Do I Think I Am, Anyway?

Months ago, when I heard BlogHer '10 had sold out, I immediately headed to their site to get myself on the waiting list. Why? Because I always want what I can't have, and dang it, I wanted to go to that conference.

And then I promptly forgot all about it.

But you know what? They didn't forget about me. A couple of days ago, I got an email informing me that more sponsors had been found and a ticket was now available for me.  A ticket! For BlogHer! In New York City!!!

Being the impulsive person that I am, I immediately logged on and bought myself a conference pass.

And now I'm freaking the hell out.

Me? At BlogHer? With 2,000 other bloggers? What on earth was I thinking?

As I may have remarked a time or two, I'm a bit of an introvert. Stick me in a large crowd and I start looking for the nearest corner to hide in.

I'm a little afraid it will be a repeat of high school. You know, with the cool girls (with thousands of readers) all gossiping and laughing loudly while I look on from the sidelines, pushing my glasses up my nose with one shaking hand while I keep the other arm firmly clamped across my hunched chest.


I know I've come a long way since then. My social skills have improved—vastly. I'm sure I'll do fine. In fact, I'm looking forward to meeting the friends I've made here and across the blogosphere.

But I'd feel better if I could pack all of you in my suitcase so that when I got there, I'd have my own posse to hang with. You know, so we could explore the big city (until now, I've spent all of 24 hours there), rehash the sessions and snark about the people around us.

Tell me some of you will be there? 

Proof That Food is Love.

It was a rainy Sunday afternoon. My in-laws, who had been stuck in the house with us since Friday, were slowly going stir crazy—and taking us with them. After my mother-in-law asked me if there were any clothes she could fold for the fifteenth time, I decided that we had to get out. Immediately.

The destination? Sam's Club.

I know. That seems like a weird choice, but the Pages? They looooooove Sam's Club. And you know why? Sam's Club gives out free samples of food. Lots of food.

Granted, they aren't  nearly as generous as they used to be (there was a time when my father in law would go there to get a free lunch), but if you time it right—and we did—you can still fill up on a variety of delicious snacks.

So we wandered through the aisles, punching buttons on iPods, sitting on the furniture, even watching parts of Avatar. But finally, we made our way to our true destination. The Giormous Grocery Section.

Everyone scattered, looking for the best delicacies. Tori and I found ourselves in the cheese section, where we shared a piece of goat cheese while I read the exotic-sounding labels to her. We were somewhere between the Havarti and the Muenster when my husband and his parents swooped down, cradling their snacks like precious cargo.

Before I knew it, all three were presenting Tori with the choicest morsels, standing in front of her with spoons extended before them. She delicately mouthed one treat, then another and another, twisting in my arms to face each supplicant.

No sooner had she swallowed one round than they all presented her with another, faces glowing with the joy of having provided her with something she found tasty.

That's when I started cracking up.

They looked mystified as I howled with laughter in the middle of the cheese section, oblivious to the curious stares of passers-by.

I tried to explain, but I couldn't. Not in a way they could understand.

Instead, I muffled my laugh and hid my smile, basking in the joy that comes from knowing that my Tori?  Is well and truly loved—and will never, ever go hungry as long as her grandparents are around.

Wordful Wednesday: A Day at the Park.

The universe, it throws a whole lot of super duper craptastic crap at me. But every once in a while? It tosses a perfect day my way.

A day where Tori wakes up grinning and puts a smile in my heart that lasts until sunset.

A day where the sun chases the memories of cold from our bones and transforms the brown, blah world around us into a kaleidoscope of vibrant greens and blues.

A day where there are no deadlines to worry about. No dishes to wash, no laundry to do, no toilets to scrub.

A day where I can scoop up my baby, link hands with my husband and head out to explore.

A day where we can relax and enjoy moments like this one:



I know. The camera work isn't the best and it could probably use some editing, but I really don't care. The memory it captures is perfect just the way it is. Oh, and did you notice? At about 34 seconds in, you can hear Tori say "whoa." Seriously. You can.

That cracks me the hell up.

Now, go visit Seven Clown Circus for some more Wordful Wednesday fun.

Hey, It's Okay...

There are a lot of things in this world that it's not okay to be okay about. Like global warming. And human trafficking. And leggings worn with crop tops (cover your asses, ladies). But this list? Is about  all the things we need to stop stressing the hell out about (and I have Airing My Dirty Laundry to thank for the idea, so visit her). So, without further ado, I give you:

Hey, it's okay...

To think that lettuce on a hamburger counts as a vegetable.

To tell a clueless wonder that her grin would look a lot better if she lost the lipstick on her teeth.

To wonder why we need DVDs to teach our children to read (isn't that counter productive?).

To be really glad to see your family when they come to visit...and almost as glad to see them go.

To indulge in a pity party fueled by chocolate when the fitting room mirror gives you bad news.

To feed your child non-organic, genetically-altered, pesticide-covered fruits and vegetables (just wash them first).

To mourn the loss of the fantastic boobs your 21-year-old self didn't fully appreciate.

To hate Jillian Michaels. And Dr. Oz. And even Oprah. Yes, Oprah.

To think the trashy  paranormal romance novel you just read was way better than that Pulitzer Prize-winning bore you forced yourself to finish.

To fantasize about arriving on a deserted beach on a Caribbean island, curling up in a hammock under a palm tree with your honey...and taking a two-hour nap.

That's  my list. What are you okay about?

Oh, Crap. I Have to be Honest?

Honesty. It's a wonderful thing, isn't it? Except when it isn't (as in, I don't actually want to know that those pants make me look fat).

Anyway, the Empress, ruler of Good Day, Regular People, recently said that although some of us pretend we're above them, in truth, everyone loves getting blog awards. And she's right. I know I never get tired of finding those happy little links in my inbox (after all, we've already established that I'm an attention whore).

So finding this (which she has renamed Honest Crap):

Really made my day.

 But there are rules (sigh). We've got to share some honest crap about ourselves, which I am happy to do, and pass it on to some bloggers who also deserve it. That's the part that makes me frown (I'm lazy, yo).

First the easy stuff.

• Last week, my cat puked at the end of my bed, which I discovered shortly before turning out the light. But I was really fricking tired, so I let it sit there. All. Night. Long. Gross, huh?
• There is a pot of spaghetti in my fridge that's been there for 2.5 weeks. It's taking up almost an entire shelf, and is totally in the way. But I am too dang lazy to throw it out. It will probably be there until my mom comes to visit.
• This weekend, I took my book into the bathroom and curled up on the rug to read—for a full hour. Not even my husband stays on the crapper for that long.
• My car has smelled vaguely like spoiled milk for months now. Months. Today? I opened this little storage compartment to find an entire package of American cheese. And oh, the smell! But you know what? I got out without throwing it away (see? lazy).
• Recently, while I was, ahem, sorting some laundry that had been sitting in my closet for a while, I came across some of Tori's clothes. In the 3-6 month size. That's how long it's been since I was all caught up on my laundry, people.

Aaaaaand that's enough of that. Anybody still with me? I'm really not a terrible person, I promise. Just a messy one.

Now on to the award giving. If you're a blogger, and you're reading this, you know I love you. But I'm going to take a stroll through my reader and pimp a few of you out here:

On The Verge

Yes I Am That Mommy

Earth Mother Just Means I'm Dusty


The Bjorn Identity

Sassy Irish Lassie

Typing One Handed

But really? You're all awarded. Even if you don't blog. Heck, if you take valuable minutes out of your day to read my ramblings? Me love you long time. Now it's your turn. Who should we all be reading?

Writer's Workshop: Ten (or so) Things I've Unlearned.

Back when I first became a mommy (you know, about a hundred years ago), my head was stuffed with all sorts of rules. Swirling around in my brain were all sorts of sentences beginning with "good mommies must..." and "good mommies never..." And you know what? I nearly drove myself mad.

Now, a whole year later, I've learned a little something. Okay, a lot of somethings. Mostly what I've learned is that those rules are total crap. Here are ten that I find particularly offensive.

Good mommies must breast feed. Oh yeah? Tell that to the screaming hellion who would have nothing to do with my boob for the first three weeks of her life. She was miserable, I was miserable, and more importantly, I was in danger of losing my mind. So yeah, I quit. I might have cost her a few IQ points, but you know what? I was formula fed and I turned out just fine (shut up. I did).

Good mommies always keep their cool.  I don't know where I got this one from, but I was sure it was true. Then this screaming, popping, vomiting mess arrived in my life and I was anything but calm. At first, I beat myself up every time I got frustrated, or found myself close to tears, or just wanted to give up, but eventually? I realized that there was no way I was going to get through this thing if I couldn't be free to feel whatever it was I was feeling.

Good mommies keep a clean house. Yeah. That lasted for about two days after my mom went home. My husband and I are slobs. Always have been, always will be. So I've learned to embrace the mess. Until, that is, company is coming. Then I run around cleaning like a mad woman (so if you hear strange noises at about 2 a.m., don't worry. It's just me, trying to remember how the vacuum works).

Good mommies never get bored.  I thought I was supposed to be completely enthralled with her every gurgle, babble and fart. But you know what? I'm not. Sometimes, I'd rather stick hot pokers under my toenails than play one more round of peekaboo. And that's okay.

Good mommies never let their kids eat off the floor.  When Tori first became mobile, I freaked out every time she picked something up and put it in her mouth. But, as we've already discussed, I'm basically a lazy person. These days, her favorite food is cheerios...sprinkled with a layer of floor crunchies.

Good mommies lose the baby weight within the first three months. If that's true, than I am a complete and utter failure. I'm still carrying 15 extra pounds. But that's better than the 35 extra pounds I was padded with this time last year, so I'm going to cut myself some slack.

Good mommies never let their babies watch TV.  This is a rule I actually stuck with. For the first nine or ten months of her life, Tori never saw TV. But you know what sucks? Now, she just won't watch it. So, when mommy wants her to space out in front of Sesame Street or Baby Einstein or something, she'll have nothing to do with it. That kind of sucks, y'all.

Good mommies make their own rules. This one, I've discovered, is actually true. What works for my family might not work for your family and so on and so forth. We're doing our best to muddle through over here, and so far? We're doing okay (knock on wood).

Well, that's not quite ten, but I've got company coming tomorrow and a whole house to clean. So, I'm going to make my own rule and pretend the assignment called for a list of eight. You got a problem with that? Then visit Mama Kat and find some other, more rule-abiding workshoppers to read.

A Friendship Glimpsed.

It was a beautiful Monday afternoon. I had just finished eating a picnic lunch with Brian and Tori under a gorgeous maple tree flush with the first lime green leaves of spring. Tori was giggling from her seat in the baby swing, soaring higher and higher as daddy pushed until I found myself pinching the inside of my arm to keep from blurting, "don't you think she's going a little high?"

Then I saw her.

All around her were clusters of moms, laughing and gossiping together as they shared child-minding duties. But she sat alone, looking lonely as her toddler played in the sand at her feet. On her face I saw a reflection of my own painful shyness. My own longing for a mommy friend. I thought about going over and introducing myself, but like the awkward teen I once was, I couldn't quite summon the courage.

Suddenly, Brian noticed the direction of my gaze. "Hey, that's Dianna!"  Scooping a protesting Tori from the swing, he marched over and greeted her loudly. I followed hesitantly, unsure of our welcome.

But her face lit up when she saw us. "Brian!" she exclaimed. "How the heck are you?"

He plunked Tori down in the dirt next to her 13-month-old and the two burgeoning toddlers eyed each other warily. Then they both began sifting through the sand, mimicking each other's motions.

"Look at that. Aren't they cute," I said.

She grinned back at me. "They sure are."

That set off a conversation about our babies' so-called accomplishments, stubbornness in refusing to walk and teething troubles. As the minutes flew by, my imagination took flight.

I imagined play dates where our kids occupied each other while we moaned about the travails of motherhood. I imagined leaving our husbands in charge while we went out to grab a martini - arriving home before bedtime, of course. I imagined having someone I could call at the drop of the hat to reassure me that no, in fact, I wasn't going crazy. I was just another tired mom.

I imagined having a mommy friend.

But eventually Tori started rubbing her eyes, signaling it was time to go.

"Well," she said, "maybe I'll see you around here again."

"Yeah," I said. "I hope so."

But I know I won't. I work. I don't usually get to take Tori to the park on sunny weekday afternoons. I don't get to hang out with other mommies. I'm destined to go it alone.

But that doesn't stop me from wishing things could be different.

Top Ten Ways to Quiet Your Demons.

Everyone (at least everyone I know), has demons to slay. Whether it's a little voice telling you you're not good enough or a bad memory that refuses to stay buried, chances are good that every once in a while, you need to escape from the monsters that inhabit your mind.

I know I do.

So here, for your reading pleasure, are my top ten ways to get those nasty little buggers to shut the heck up:

I call my mom. Yes, really. There's something about the sound of her voice that calms me down, even if all we do is talk about something as inconsequential as the weather.

I shop. Is there anything better than retail therapy? I don't think so. I used to dust off the credit cards and go shopping for reals, but now that I'm older, wiser and in debt (not to mention an hour away from the nearest real mall), I just log on to my favorite store and fill up the ol' shopping cart before clicking out. It's almost as satisfying. Really.

I hug my husband. Like cozying up under a nice, warm blanket, but better. For some reason, that man continues to love me—and he assures me he always will. Yep, he's a crazy mofo.

I bake something chocolate. The ooier and gooier the better. The formula I use to calculate how decadent said dessert should be goes something like this:  Amount of psychic trauma + loudness of obnoxious demon  — length of time until next weigh-in = appropriate recipe.

I grab a purring kitty. I know there are a lot of cat haters out there, but for my money there's little in this world as relaxing as the sound of that purr. And since my cat is getting on toward the elderly side, he's usually more than happy to plop down on my lap for an hour or two.

I beat the crap out of myself at the gym. Some of my best workouts take place when I'm trying to outrun those dang demons. Sure, I feel like hell the next day, but it's worth it.

I call a friend. I'm lucky enough to have a few true blue lady loves who I know I can call anytime, day or night. Sure, they might be annoyed at being woken up, but they get over it quickly enough. Especially since it's only a matter of time until I return the favor.

 I lose myself in a book.  As any real bookworm will attest, nothing can take you away from the problems of your real life faster than a good book. And I? Am nothing if not a bookworm.

I lose myself in Tori's world. In her life? The biggest problems involve finding the best route to chase the kitty and figuring out how to stack those darn blocks. Those are problems I am happy to help her solve.

And when all else fails? I take some Tylenol PM and go to sleep. Drug-induced slumber will conquer the most determined of demons, after all. What? It's not like I said I drink myself into a stupor (at least, not often)...

Now go visit Oh Amanda and see what the other Top Ten Tuesday participants have to say.

True Love: The Dessert Edition.

"I wish my mom was here. I'm craving her lasagna," I sighed.
Looking up from the video he was cackling over on the iPod, he said, "I could make you lasagna."

"You could, except we have no noodles, pasta sauce or cheese. Besides, lasagna takes forever. It'd be like midnight before we ate."


"I take it you're not up for a romantic candlelit dinner...in bed?"

I just glared at him.

"Well, never fear. Lasagna you want, and lasagna you shall have. Now go upstairs and take a nap while I figure out dinner."

I was just exhausted enough to do what I was told. And when I awoke, the unmistakable smell of garlic bread and lasagna wafted through the house. Rubbing my eyes, I stumbled downstairs, just in time to see him scraping food out of a takeout container.

"Ta da! I give you the Olive Garden's finest. Garlic bread, salad, lasagna...even dessert!"

"You even got dessert? I knew I married you for a reason."

We carried our Italian feast over to the couch, turned on season one of Better Off Ted, and dug in.

Three episodes later, I sighed contentedly. "You know what would make this even better?"

"What?"

"That tiramisu you brought home...buried in a mound of whipped cream."

"Doh! I didn't get whipped cream. But..."

He scurried off to the kitchen, deep in thought. A few crashes of the cupboard and bangs of the refrigerator later, I peeked over the couch to see him pouring Tori's whole milk in a steel bowl.

"What are you doing?"

"Making whipped cream."

"But you need heavy cream for that, don't you?"

"Nope.At least, I don't think so..."

With that he turned the electric mixer on and began beating the milk to death. For a long time, nothing happened. Then it began to froth, and froth, and froth some more. Before long, we had an entire mixing bowl overflowing with faux whipped cream.

As my tiramisu disappeared under a massive mound of whipped cream, he said, "You know, there's a lesson here."

"What's that?"

"Never doubt your husband."

And you know what? For once, I couldn't argue with him.

Not Quite the Vacation I Had Planned.

I made it 33 years without ever needing a single surgery. That's a pretty good stretch. Then, in the space of just one year, I had three. That's right. Three abdominal surgeries.

The first one doesn't really count, I suppose. I mean, that was Tori's fault, not mine. After all, she had to come out somehow! And the remembered effects of said surgery are all mixed up with the exhaustion and general confusion her homecoming caused, so I don't really recall it being that bad.

Then there was that little procedure I had in February. The one that was supposed to end the problem. Yeah. That one kind of sucked, but the sheer novelty of getting to spend some serious time (guilt-free) in bed was enough to keep me from getting too crabby.

Except, you know what? It didn't work. Which means, dear Internet, that I had to go under the knife yet again. And this time they had to take stuff out. And you know what? That hurts.

It's four days later now, and I still feel like I'm eighty years old.

My whole abdomen hurts, of course (by the way, if one more person asks me if the original pain is gone, I'm going to hurt someone. I don't know. Everything hurts, damn it). But worse is the dang shoulder pain. I feel like a small, very toothy creature is trying to gnaw its way out of the back of my neck.

Even worse than that? Is the total exhaustion. Yesterday, I did the dishes and then had to go lay down for a half hour. That's how tired I was.

Did I mention this sucks?

Oh, and Tori's getting not one, but three teeth. And because we weren't already having a good enough time, she got her shots yesterday.

And Brian? Well, let's just say he's done playing nursemaid (now he's just frigging crabby).

So, to review:

1. I feel like I've been stomped on by the Jolly Green Giant
2. My child is channeling her inner demon
3. My husband is pouting like a five-year-old who's been told his best friend has the chicken pox and can't play

And you know what the kicker is?

I am using my vacation time to experience all this joy. That's right. My dreams of an oceanside hiatus have been smashed into so much dust because after I return to work, I'll  have not a single vacation day left.

Aren't I a lucky girl?

So now you all know why I've been so quiet this week. I don't have anything nice to say. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go back to cursing the universe...silently (I don't dare do it out loud. That universe is a real bitch, you know).

I'll keep my mouth shut until I have something other than complaints to spew, promise.

Wordful Wednesday: Tori's First Birthday.

Well, as you all know, Tori's birthday didn't quite go off as we had planned. But a birthday was had, and pictures were taken to prove it.

When I first dressed her in her birthday finery, she was not pleased. Not pleased at all (she looks cute though, doesn't she?).

But after opening a few presents, her mood improved. In fact, I think I see a smile peeking out here...

But it wasn't until she got her first taste of cake that we got a true Tori grin.

Apparently, all it takes is a little chocolate to put her in a good mood. Which figures, since she is my daughter!

So, despite all the tears, her birthday ended with a smile. And that's exactly the way it should be.

Now head on over to Seven Clown Circus for some more Wordful Wednesday goodness!

Searching for My Happy Place.

It's far too early in the morning. I'm leaning over a desk in a small, harshly lit cubicle, trying not to think about the tourniquet that's tightening on my arm.

Dots sparkle in front of my eyes, and I pull back.

"Ummm, on second thought, do you think I could lay down? I think I'm going to pass out."

The nurse nods and ushers me over to one of those pseudo-comfy recliners they keep for those of us with a tendency to pass out at the stick of a needle.

Again the tourniquet tightens, and I involuntarily let out a deep breath.

"It's alright, honey," the nurse says. "Just go to your happy place. We'll be done here before you know it."

I close my eyes and will myself to an ocean beach, the white sand warm on my burrowing toes, the breaking of the waves loud in my ears. I reach for the pina colada at my side...

and Tori's smiling face breaks into my thoughts.

I'm laying on the grass, the sun hot on my face as I squint up at her gap-tooth smile. She looms over me, trying to feed me a stick she found in the garden. Sitting up, I grab her and roll her on to her back, loudly zerberting her tummy. She squeals and grabs for my nose...

And I will myself back to that tropical beach. I'm swimming in the turquoise water, watching little blue fish dart around my toes. Securing the snorkel mask around my nose, I dive down and reach out to touch the neon yellow fish that's staring at me. My delighted giggle bubbles up around me...

when Brian's voice breaks into my reverie.

Suddenly it's dusk, and we're sitting out on the patio, my feet in his lap. We're sharing a raspberry vodka-laced lemonade while a symphony of crickets and frogs serenades us. Together we build dreams of cedar decks, cascading waterfalls and light-filled sun rooms...

And the snap of the tourniquet releasing brings me back to earth.

"There, all done, " The nurse chirps. "You sure got quiet on me—your happy place must be  pretty fantastic!"

It is. And surprisingly close at hand.

Where's your happy place?

Come On In and Party Down.

Well, hello! Are you here for the party? Don't worry if you didn't get an invitation, party crashers are welcome (at least I hope so, since that's what I'm doing).

For those of you who haven't heard, 5 Minutes For Mom is hosting a little shindig called the Ultimate Blog Party. Apparently, this is the party to end all parties, as it lasts for an entire week—and it's got an appropriately gargantuan guest list  (as far as I can tell, nearly everyone in the blogosphere is coming).

So, since I can't stand to be left out of things, I thought I'd tag along after all the cool kids and throw open the doors to my humble little blog. Oh, and did I mention it's a costume party?

Don't worry if you didn't dress up. I took the liberty of getting you all fairy princess get-ups. So put on your tiara...

grab your magic wand...

and join me for an appropriately fru-fru drink.

Oh, come on, it's all in the name of blog party fun!

So, by now, you're probably wondering who this mad woman you've found yourself stuck with actually is. And you know what? I wish I knew the answer to that, I really do.

Here's what I do know—I'm a red-headed, hot tempered drama queen who writes to live and lives to write. I've got myself a gorgeous baby girl...

a spectacularly patient husband, and a whole menagerie of persnickety pets.

I write about whatever comes to mind. So sometimes I share sappy stuff, like this post about my daughter's first birthday...

And sometimes I talk about random stuff, like ways to tell if you're PMSing.

Sometimes I think out loud about the kind of role model I want to be for my daughter.

And sometimes I talk about my own struggles with depression.

But, more often than not,  I'm just  plain silly.

But that's enough about me. Let's talk about you. What drew you to blogging? What keeps you going? Do you want to be my bloggy friend? I'd like to be yours...

I don't want to be needy, so I'll cut you loose to continue on through the party circuit. But before you go, grab a piece of the yummy chocolate cake I baked for you.

That's right. I'm not above bribery here. So come back soon. You never know what delicious treats you'll find waiting for you!

Writing Workshop: Bugs from Hell.

I hate bugs. All bugs. Mosquitoes, bees, wasps, spiders, ants…they are all, in my humble opinion, of the devil. But as much as I hate these beasties, for the most part I’m willing to subscribe to a live and let live policy.

Unless, that is, said insect is one of these:

That’s a cockroach. Also known as Amber’s kryptonite.

Upon seeing one, I scream loudly and begin gibbering incoherently as I run away as fast as my chubby little legs can carry me, looking for something, anything (preferably a man-shaped being like my husband) to kill the damn thing.

Fortunately, growing up in Michigan I didn’t encounter the little buggers very often. Once, a cockroach came home from the grocery store with me (I never shopped at that store again, incidentally), but for the most part, my life was cockroach-free.

Which left them free to become the flesh-eating monsters of my imagination, prone to swarming over the sleeping bodies of unsuspecting humans and eating them alive.

So you can imagine my horror when, a few weeks after moving into my first home in Southern Indiana, a six-inch long Beast From Hell jumped out at me from an upper cupboard.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t six inches long. But it was big. Really big. And it had been nesting in my cereal bowls.

Worse yet, when I came back to kill it (we’ve already discussed my tendency to run screaming at the sight of them), it was gone.

That realization set off a frantic cleaning frenzy where every dish, pot, pan and piece of silverware got itself dunked in bleach and boiling water. After all, cockroaches carry all sorts of nasty bacteria—bacteria which can give you assorted diseases and render you sterile (okay, not really. But still).

I hoped that was the end of the cockroach infestation. But it wasn’t.

Over the next few months, every time I let my guard down, the little beasties would return. Sometimes I’d see another big one crawling out of some dark corner in my kitchen. More often, I’d find some of their smaller cousins hanging out by the front door.

Each sighting resulted in a total meltdown.

I’d go through the house with a fine-tooth comb (sobbing incoherently), sure that if I got rid of every speck of dirt, they’d leave us alone. I’d make frantic calls to my landlord, begging him to come bomb the house again. I’d even wake myself up in the middle of the night, grab a can of Raid and creep out to the kitchen, throwing the light switch on as I held it in front of me like a weapon, fully expecting to see a swarm of the little critters dancing on the tile floor (I never did).

When one morning I saw one staring back at me from the sink drain when I bent over to wash my face, it was over.

Although I loved that house, adored my neighbors and thoroughly enjoyed the gorgeous park that was within walking distance, I couldn’t stay there. Within two weeks, my husband and I had put a deposit down on a brand new home—one we built from the ground up.

It was the only way I could be certain that there weren’t any cockroaches already in residence.

It’s been almost three years now and my home is still Hell Beastie free. But I still stand guard, can of Raid at the ready, waiting to kill the first one that dares show its ugly face.


Cockroaches aren't welcome here.



So that's my irrational fear. Now tell me one of yours. Or better yet, head over to Mama Kat's and see what the other workshoppers have to say for themselves.

Why Do I Do This? Because I Can.

There seems to be a lot of bitching and moaning going on in the blogosphere right now. The question on everyone's lips seems to be, "Why? Why do I bother blogging? What does my blogging mean to the world?

I'm  not going to lie. I'm one of the people doing the bitching and moaning.

You know why? This blogging stuff takes up a lot of time. It requires the utilization of a great many brain cells that would otherwise be napping or drinking beer or something equally mindless in my off hours. It also requires me to put myself out there, day after day after day, baring my soul to the world (or at least the 150 or so people who follow me).

And sometimes? I spend a great deal of time on a post, an article I'm proud of, and get like two comments. Other times, I dash off something in five minutes and get massive amounts of page views. It's enough to make an attention craving ad whore like myself a little crazy.

So I think it's natural to have an existential crisis every once in a while.

Last week, I briefly considered giving this up all together. Would anyone notice, I wondered? Would anyone care? Or would my disappearance be as inconsequential as Tiger's latest lay?

I think I know the answer to that (and it's not particularly good for the ego). But at the end of the day, it doesn't matter. As my friend E reminded me, I started doing this for fun. I wanted to write something, somewhere, that I wasn't getting paid to create (although if you want to pay me or send free goodies my way, I'm all ears. Momma needs a vacation, yo).

I started writing this blog because I can write (not everyone who blogs can, by the way).

I continue writing this blog because I enjoy it.

And I'm not going to quit because then I'd be a quitter. Plus, I'd have to fill the void blogging would leave with laundry or cooking or something equally domestic (shudders).

But I am going to start taking myself a little less seriously. No one's going to die if I don't post every day. The world won't end if my follower count doesn't grow every week. It doesn't even matter if  google analytics shows me an angry red arrow instead of the happy green one every month.

This is supposed to be fun. And dag nam it, fun it will be. Right? Right.

Not Quite the Birthday We Had Planned.

As you all know, Tori turned one on Saturday. We had planned to make it quite the event. The celebration we had put together involved a seven hour car ride, the presence of most of our nearest and dearest, lots and lots of presents and a cake made from scratch by her grandma's loving hands.

But you know that thing they say about life? About how it's what happens when you're making other plans? Yeah. Well, life happened this weekend.

Friday dawned, warm and sunny. But instead of getting the early start we had envisioned, Brian had to go to work for a couple of hours. In the meantime, I was supposed to pack up the car and be ready to go the minute he got home at 10 a.m.

Tori had other plans, and when the appointed hour came, I was anything but ready. But that was okay, because Brian was nowhere in sight. 10:30 came and went. Then 10:45. By the time Brian finally called, my face was beet red from the steam I had built up inside.

Steam I was prepared to let loose in a scathing harangue when I picked up the phone. But before I could start, Brian said, "Guess what? I just got in an accident."

Turns out, his car was in the middle of a three car pileup. Everyone was okay, but by the time we got everything straightened out, it was far too late to head to Michigan.

I had just resigned myself to celebrating her first birthday alone, with just the three of us, when my mom called. No way no how was she missing her granddaughter's first birthday. So instead, she informed me, they would come to us.

The hour was 5:30 p.m. My house was a disaster. We had no food. And Tori? Well Tori had no presents. Or cake. Or anything necessary to celebrate a birthday.

Needless to say, some miracles needed to happen. And quickly.

Thanks to Walmart (yes, it is the seat of the evil empire. but sometimes it's awfully handy), we remedied the present-less, cake-less situation, and filled a cart up with food. I even bought an awesome cake mold to make a giant cupcake.

When Friday ended, I was feeling pretty good.

Then, on Saturday, I woke up with a migraine.

Tori woke up with a new tooth coming through.

I forgot to grease the  pan, so my beautiful cake was ruined.

Tori threw up all over the cute little dress I had picked out for her to wear.

Then the cat threw up on a pile of clean laundry.

Then the toilet brush turned up missing.

There were tears. A lot of tears. And Brian was in no mood to deal with any of us.

It had the makings of a disaster.

But, somehow, everything got done. The house, while still not quite spotless, became presentable.

The second cake (not in the cute pan), looked edible.

And my parents arrived with kisses and hugs for everybody, and a boatload of presents.

Smiles were found. Until...

Brian realized he had forgotten the meat for the hamburgers at the store. There was no dinner.

But you know what? That's why God invented takeout.

Tori had Olive Garden for her first birthday dinner. Then she opened a few of her presents, even playing with them for a while before turning to the boxes they came in.

Happy Birthday was sung (although Tori screamed through the whole thing). And cake was eaten with great relish by young and old alike (no one seemed to notice it lacked the adorable shape of a giant cupcake).

Oh, and I got my champagne.

All in all, it turned out to be a very good first birthday party, even if it wasn't what we had planned. But that's life for you. It always seems to work out in the end.

Hopefully I'll remember that when the birthday insanity hits next year.

She is One.

Back when I was trying to get pregnant, time seemed to move in slow motion. I was stuck in limbo, waiting for that little pink line to reveal itself so life could move forward once more.

Then, finally, I got my wish.

During those first weeks of pregnancy, I was so terrified of losing her I hardly dared breathe. But she held on, grew on, and before I knew it, the ultrasound technician was exclaiming, "it's a girl!"

Then I blinked and I was in the cold, cold operating room, numb from the neck down. I was calm. So calm. But then I heard her first angry howl and the tears broke free, rushing recklessly down my cheeks.

I blinked again and we were snuggled up together in my hospital room, her perfect little face scrunching up, her mouth gaping open like a hungry baby bird. I stroked her red cheek, heart cracking into a thousand little pieces as I fell hopelessly in love with this tiny stranger.

I closed my eyes for a moment and suddenly we were home. Alone. She was curled up in the crook of my elbow and together we dreamed, living as one being, united against the outside world.

I drifted off and when I awoke, I was chatting on the phone with a good friend as she stared up at the animals on her play gym...and rolled over. Over the moon with excitement, I screamed for Brian and we stared, waiting anxiously for her to do it again...

Then I blinked, and it was time to head back to work. I held her close, drinking in the sweet scent of her hair as the silent sobs wrenched themselves from the depths of my soul.

I put a cool washcloth against my fevered brow, and when I removed it, she was sitting up on her own, playing with a daisy from the garden.

My eyes crinkled with joyous laughter and when the giggles faded, she was creeping across the floor like a soldier in the bush, headed for the nearest treasure trove of illegal playthings.

I dove for her scrambling feet and by the time my belly hit the ground she was pulling herself up on the couch, laughing uproariously as she reached for Kermit's toes.

I rubbed my eyes, sure I was seeing things, and when I took my hands away, she was reaching for me, the word "mama" falling from her lips.

Again the tears started, and I dashed them away as I bent to pick her up. Once she was safely ensconced in my arms, I glanced up at the calendar.

It read April 3, 2010.

Somehow, an entire year has raced by. Somehow, my seven pound peanut has grown into a twenty two pound toddler. She's now a little girl with a ferocious temper, an infectious smile and the ability to steal my heart all over again with a single glance.

Incredibly, my beautiful baby is one.

Excuse me while I go wipe the tears away again.

Ten Things I've Learned From My Bloggy Friends

Today, Mama Kat asked us to share ten things that blogging has taught us. But while I could probably come up with a hundred of those, that's not what I want to talk about. Instead, I thought I'd share some of the life lessons that my friends in the blogoverse have taught me.

Life is easier when viewed through a comedic lens. While many women of the blogosphere seem to subscribe to that particular philosophy, Aunt Becky at Mommy Wants Vodka has perfected the art. She even makes swine flu funny, yo.

Nobody's perfect. And those that pretend to be are great-big-super-shallow-it's-okay-to-hate-them fakers. How do I know? Because every time I write a post highlighting my own inadequacies, like this one, I get floods of support.

Target really is retail crack. I used to think my Target addiction was my own personal problem. But no. Turns out, almost every woman in the country feels the same. But not their husbands.

I'm not the only working mom who feels overwhelmed. Just about every woman who works sometimes feels as if she is floundering. For proof, check out this post by Angry Working Mom.

Stay at home moms are just as frustrated as working moms. No matter what we're doing, we all feel like we should be doing more. Just ask This is Worthwhile.

Pregnancy, while magical, is best experienced with tongue firmly in cheek. Check out my friend Megan's pregnant fruit portrait series for proof.

Blogging can easily go from a casual hobby to an obsession.  I don't have a particular post to highlight for that one, but speaking from experience, and from the conversations I've had with bloggy friends, I know I'm telling the truth.

Speaking of bloggy friendships, they can be every bit as genuine as your real life ones. Often, in mid-conversation, my husband will stop me and say, "who?" Because I'll be talking about a friend he's never met.  In some cases, I know more about what's going on in their lives than I do about those of the women I've known for decades.

You can learn a lot about writing from the people around you in the blogosphere. Whenever I'm in danger of getting a big head about my supposed talent, I take a wander through my reader. And I am humbled.

And...well, I'm out of gas. So I think the final life lesson I  have to share is...as long as you're doing your best, that's good enough. And your bloggy friends won't hesitate to tell you so.

Now go visit Mama Kat and see what other, more inspired workshoppers have to say!