It was just me and Buttercup. No school, so I called a friend and asked if her kids and my kid could play unsupervised in her fenced backyard so I could lounge on her couch with a glass of wine and have my own little play date.

She said yes.

So I packed.

That’s right. I said P-A-C-K-E-D.


First I needed to get rid of the Lean Pockets my mom left in our deep freezer from her 8 week stay. That went into one cooler. And because Buttercup and I are on a gluten-free diet and Friend Jill was making pancakes for dinner that night, I also packed:

*corn tortillas with slices of cheese for quesadillas for Buttercup

*a fruit cup

*leftover bison steak and veggies for me

*a Lara bar in case I couldn’t gag down the reheated bison steak (which is what ended up happening.)

*three juice boxes for the kids to feel like they were getting something special when Friend Jill and I cracked open another bottle of wine.

*two oranges for me because I have been craving some major vitamin C.

And then I moved on to the diaper bag. Which really doesn’t carry diapers anymore because Buttercup is kinda sorta potty trained. In it? I packed:

*four training pull-ups

*a spare set of clothes in case Buttercup got a pull-up wedgie going down the slide while simultaneously peeing and needed a change of clothing. (Yes, it’s happened before.)

*a pair of pajamas for insurance because every time I go to Friend Jill’s house, which is only 25 minutes away, I end up staying until the kid’s need to go to bed.

*a water bottle for Buttercup.

*a water bottle for me.

*a snack cup with gluten-free pretzels to tide her over till dinner

*Buttercup’s sunglasses

*My iPod Touch and my Droid X (because I am nothing if not addicted)

*Buttercup’s Snow White and Cinderella dolls because they are The Dolly Flavor of the Week.

*Buttercup’s purse (of course) in which, I think, she packed rocks and her play cell phone. Who am I to judge?

*My (her) Nintendo DSi which allows me to drive with my nerves intact and my guilt assuaged while I focus on the road and Cookie Monster teaches her to count.

And because that wasn’t enough? I also took:

*My purse

*Which we won’t get into because there isn’t enough space on the internet for me to share.

When I left my house, The Husband didn’t even raise an eyebrow because he knows better. I am nothing if not Over-Prepared and Un-Medicated. When I showed at up Friend Jill’s house, she asked if I was moving in.

Smart ass.

I’m prepared for anything. Always. Why? Because that guy on the street corner with the dirty trench coat and the ARMAGEDDON sign might be on to something. And? Me and What If don’t get along very well. So? I pack a diaper bag like a crazy lady.

You should see what I take with us to Barnes & Noble.

But don’t worry, peeples. Even if (if I said IF so don’t even ask) I end up with another kid between now and the next episode of Jesse Ventura’s Conspiracy Theory, I have plenty of room in my Go Bag for the essentials. Like Humanitarian Suspenders.

And lip gloss.


I’ve thanked The Academy before. And because it’s almost after midnight and I just finished cleaning the kitchen and have only a few precious moments to clear the voices from my head which are all named Muse I am going to do so again. But this time, it’s for an entirely different reason.

I know I am still agent-less and dreaming big, but the latter can be attributed, in huge heaping portions, to the friends who have helped me make it this far. (Cue the sappy music, please.) And because my brain has no concept of what is known throughout the rest of the world as memory retention The Husband paid for Lasik because I kept losing my glasses. On My Face. and because I am convinced my agent search will actually have a happy ending with lots of fanfare, I have taken it upon myself to start my list of thank you’s now. You know, before my brain gets flooded with bright lights, book deals, dollar signs, and the tweeting birdies flying in circles round my head from the probable head injury allowing me to believe any of this will come true.

Before I attached the term Writer to my name, book acknowledgments were never read. But since then, I have read every one and really? I have no idea who any writer is able to remember everyone they are supposed to thank with all of the publishing craziness that has to be going on. In my I am Published daydream version of the giving a speech naked nightmare, I picture myself naming everyone I can think of, only to realize after the book is on the shelves that I forgot, you know, everyone else who helped me get from Chapter One to The End.

So I have a list in my Droid X. And every few days I’ll add Someone Important to it. Here’s what I have come up with so far:

*The Husband: Obviously. Without your support, none of this would be happening. I’m not sure if it was the “When are you going to write the damned book and make me rich” harping or the “You can do it, honey’s,” but one of these tactics obviously got me through this. Oh, and shut up. It took 10 years from when we met, but I did it. You’re welcome.

*Buttercup: You are my everything, little one. And I know I will be paying dearly when you can read. Until then, consider yourself my Muse in Residence.

*Mom: Because of you I could indulge in 3 am writing sessions and wake up at noon to a happy, fed, and dressed toddler. Thank you for making it possible to make my childhood dream a reality.

*Pati: I love you and your Bump-it. Thanks for allowing me to make you a character in my book. Did you move out so I couldn’t mark you for the next one? (Well played, my dear. Well played.)

*BFF Mel: The Husband claims you are the only person I have ever met that I actually really and truly like. Being the anti-socialite that I am, and considering I get tired of people who want to converse in person on a regular basis, this is not a point I waste time arguing. I love you. And am sure I do only because you understand the craziness in my head.

@Jterzieff: You are my writing partner, my friend, and my better half with your own amazing story to tell. Thank you. For everything.

@HC_Palmquist and @nlgervasio My first “real” friendships that sparked from a tweet. Break a pencil, my dears. Then take the world by storm.

@Jeannevb: You are The #TwitterPimp, and I count myself lucky to have been brought into your social circle. Thank you for reading, for laughing, and catching those typos.I owe you some #tequilatime. And a bedazzled pony.

@Mercedesmy: You took what I had and made it better. Then you asked for more. My ego says thank you.

@beltonwriter: For making the time to tweet, laugh, and read. You know, in between your crazy writing schedule and drinking fermented grape juice. Let me know when you publish another book in English.

Don’t get your panties in a bunch if you think you deserve some ink on my list. At least not yet. I still have to write Part Dos. You know, after I punch out from Motherhood late one night and decide to forgo my beauty sleep so I can make sure I stay one up ahead of my dream.


I know I’m a bit behind the 8-ball here, but I just got home this past Friday and figured now was as good a time as any to get my BlogHer groove on.Call it my (Semi) Wordless (Day After) Wednesday photo tribute, because I sure as hell am going to.
Juliette and I actually ran head on into TheNextMartha while trying to exit the elevator to find her. Yay for having a clue!

There was that stop in the  Smores suite where I pretty much embarrassed myself. Until that moment when the first bits of gooey melted chocolate and marshmallow smushed between crunchy graham cracker burst into my mouth, I’d pretty much denied myself all things not clean. Which means the Smore was dirty. But damn, dirty can be so good. And Theresa and Mary looked so much cuter than me and my  Smored-out face, so we’re gonna post this one and call it pretty.

The revolving doors at the main entrance to The Hilton. Pretty snazzy, eh?

We missed breakfast every morning. Rooming off-site and staying up half the night will do that to you. So we got our MilkMustache and then got some breakfast (hello sausage pancake on a stick!)

If Mrs. Potato Head The Pillsbury Dough Boy…Elmo…and Dora were on my Must Meet and Be Seen With at BlogHer10 list…I rocked that goal. Hard.

There was more than a bit of sightseeing…

And then there was The Bloggess. Don’t worry. She’s only offensive to assholes. Which is funny because I fancy myself an asshole and yet…I wasn’t offended. Go figure.

There was also plenty of glow-in-the-dark party fever at the Sparklecorn shin-dig

And then there was this. My poem. By The Bloggess.I’d call that pretty much done, wouldn’t you?


While the rest of the world was knocked off their BlogHer high with the immediate onslaught of screaming kids and loads of laundry that refuse to take care of themselves, I am still navigating the perilous role of The Visitor. It’s a strange place to be, especially since, until a little over a year ago, I lived my entire life within a 20 mile radius.

To say I wasn’t prepared for the mind-numbing politics that go hand in hand with the Who We Actually Make Time For in the 12 day period available to us for our hell-cation would be an understatement. There’s his side, my side, his friends, my friends, and the friends who I totally didn’t miss but feel obligated to make time for anyway. There are late nights (combined with too much sugar and the new toothpaste I stupidly purchased which is yet to be used) for Buttercup, early mornings for me and The Husband, and an ongoing game of Tug of War for our presence in a rapidly dwindling window of time.

Don’t get me wrong…we are having fun. It’s hard not to have a good time when distance and time haven’t stopped me from slipping right back into private jokes and secret punch lines with the friends who will be friends no matter the actual distance between us. But I do have to admit that there have been multiple days when I have wished multiple times that Aunt Becky had decided to go with Mommy Wants Vicodin for her twitter handle so I could change my identity to reflect my current state of mind.

I also feel it’s very important to point out that I, in fact, have eaten my willpower. I didn’t just choose a random photo to fill white space. Instead, I avoided the weird looks from store employees while snapping a few photos of clever aprons because they basically summed up which side of the bed I have been waking up on since landing in Michigan for the second time in less than two weeks.

I’m clean-eating. Or rather, I was until this whole little adventure began. And I totally thought I’d be faithful to my new eating habits while hanging in NYC with TBFF Juliette and schmoozing with my new bloggy buddies. That was before total exhaustion hit and I decided that I just didn’t give a damn anymore. Had it just been those 4 days, I would have been fine. It’s a vacation, right? A chance to let go, have fun, and eat a slice of pizza so good that there was a line out the door long after the sun had gone down?

But by the time I return to Tucson, I will have been gone for 17 days. And because PCOS, Insulin Resistance, and all the other fun little things wrong with me that make being fat so easy it should really be a hell of a good time have probably allowed my body to gain a sickening amount of weight in an amusingly short amount of time, I am perfectly aware that the Fettucini Alfredo eaten at Tio’s today or the Kickass Local Pizza we’ll be chowing on tomorrow with friends are really going to fuck screw with my plans for reinstating my MILF card sooner rather than later.

So what exactly am I doing to myself here? Am I allowing myself to enjoy my vacation or making my trip back to reality (and what The Husband likes to refer to as rabbit food) that much more of a pain in the ass? I’m gonn go out on a limb here and say it’s a Laugh and  Point because It’s Me and not You twisted little combination of both possibilities.

Until then, I’m fast, cheap, and easy.


You may recall that I may have mentioned something about possibly squeezing in a workout during the Craziness For Which I Was Not Prepared at BlogHer.

And, like, i totally meant to! I really did. I even packed gym shoes and workout clothes in that practically empty suitcase the day before heading out to New York. I really totally meant to when I saw Mamavation Queen Leah in person for the first time at The People’s Party and realized how absolutely adorable she is in person. I may have even told her that I was going to make good on last week’s blog post and sweat my booty off BlogHer style. She said something about thinking I was adorable, too, and I walked away hoping to got she was drinking enough to forget about my promise to be good and motivated.

I may have been able to make it to the gym during expo hall hours, but that would have meant that I missed out on chasing down Elmo like a mother posessed for a chance at a photo and solidifying my place as the Best Mother in the World upon my triumphant return home with this photographic tropy. And really, I’m thinking you would have done the same in my position.

Normally, I’m just getting revved up when the rest of the world is starting to relax for the evening. I get my best work done at night and as soon as Buttercup is asleep for the night, I’m ready to write, blog, clean house, and find a way to get a good work out in between 9 p.m. and midnight. Of course, my suitcase didn’t have any room let over for good intentions, what with all that swag, and all, so I spent my evenings in New York fan-girling with the best of them while acosting innocent little Bloggesses like Jenny just because she was sweet enough to punch out poetry for her minions while The Voices of the Year Gala raged on a few rooms over. Luckily, I convinced Her Blogessness to drop the stalker charges with promises of self-mockery and photos of my pretty up-do un-done in its Mexi-fro glory for the world to see. (You know, because it wasn’t embarassing enough the first time around Stay tuned on round 2. It’s coming.)

I did have a few hours in the afternoon when I could have stolen away and gotten myself good and sweaty, but I spent that little segment of time in a shuttle and at a luncheon at BLT Fish where I had my Yo Gabba Gabba moment when I was presented with a plate of fish. It was either eat the salmon and tuna I’d been avoiding since I was pregnant and my taste buds mutinied on me (Try it! You’ll like it!) or starve while I learned about the importance of seafood intake during pregnancy (ironic, I know). So I dined on this…


and I actually liked it. DJ Lance would be so proud.

And I’m plenty sure I could have made time to work out to my heart’s content while traipsing around the big city in an attempt to keep up with my TBFF, writing partner, and roomate, Juliette, on her multiple mad dashes to see Time’s Square and shop at Macy’s and take a bike taxi and get whiplash in a taxi. But well, by that time I had whiplash and how smart would it have been to work out?

So I had pizza instead before getting my minimum 2 hours of sleep before hopping on a plane away from the crazy and back to the slightly less (but not much less) crazy that I’m like, totally used to.

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