The book is done. Queries are out. My house is almost, kinda, sorta clean.
So this makes for a perfect time for Buttercup to decide to get sick after a preschool tour and me end up on the couch for three hours last night wondering if I wanted to curl up into a ball and cry because of my own tummy ache, too.
Thankfully (or not) I had Billy the Exterminator to keep me company for those three hours…mainly because I didn’t feel like getting up to find the remote. This left me with plenty of time to ponder the deeper meaning behind hairspray and mullets, fashion versus practicality in the areas regarding the removal of bees while wearing enough black to guarantee getting stung way more times than anyone would consider a good time, and if Billy has his shit together when it comes to making me question my mascara.


I might be a bit behind the 8-ball here (and I usually am so don’t look surprised) to learn that the Mullet Master of Louisiana is running around in his Vexcon truck telling his camera man that bat guano has many beneficial uses in today’s society…like the streaking upon of eyelashes by modern women like myself. And I know I’m behind because when I decided I was concerned enough with the absolute maybeness of this statement to get up, turn on my netbook, and do a Google search to find out if I should kick myself or thank myself for even considering anything to be fact when uttered by someone sporting a mullet, I found out that plenty of other eyelash-owning, mascara-wearing Billy the Exterminator viewers of the female persuasion had been concerned enough to do their own investigating. Which put me in some pretty interesting company. (Go ahead...look it up on youtube. I dare you.)
Turns out, Billy is full of shit.
Kind of.
In case you give a damn, guanine is a synthetic derivative of guano (bat doo-doo) made from fish scales, which apparently is the FDA-approved way to go. So if you are a vegan or vegetarian, I’m guessing you don’t use the stuff. I, however, thoroughly enjoy the fact that I don’t have to hunt my meat to eat it, or scale my fish to make me eyes pretty.
I will, however, make sure to have the remote handy the next time I feel sick enough to watch three hours of television in a row.Then again, I got my mind of the queries.

Disclaimer: I got my research info here and here. No actual experts or mullets were contacted in the name of verification.

Don’t mess with my kid when she’s on a creative bend.

It’s business in the front.

And party in the back.

After two tantrums and a pouting session, I got a new video camera. I’ve got two here at home (one which I don’t trust and the other which is such an annoying shade of pink that I was hard-pressed for coming up with an actual reason for needing a new one) which made my case almost impossible to prove with The Husband.

“I want a insert brand name here video camera.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what everyone else on twitter is taking to Blogher.”

“But isn’t insert brand name here the one that glitched out on you when you tried uploading Priceless Memories a few years ago and haven’t used it since because you stopped trusting it when you lost all the video?”

“Well…yes.”

“So why do you want the new version?”

“Because that’s what everyone else on twitter is taking to BlogHer.”

And by everyone, I mean the two conversations I’ve had or witnessed with two separate people all giddy about the video camera that The Husband flat-out refused to buy for me after some online research, product review homework, and his final verdict. But he had no problem buying me another brand, which he said was Better because it did insert technical jargon here and blah blah blah and I didn’t give a damn because I was regressing to being a 6 year-old again. We went to the store, left with The Husband-approved camera, swiped the credit card, and came home with a camera  I didn’t even want to play with because it wasn’t.the.one.I.wanted.

To be fair, I did give it a shot. At swim class with Buttercup. On the way home from a long day out with photos and video of some awesome cloud and rain action over the mountains. And then whenever The Husband was home, just so he could see I gave it a fair chance before telling him I just wasn’t that into it.

Turns out I didn’t have to.

“If you don’t like it, we’ll just return it and you can take both of your old cameras to BlogHer and you should be fine.”

Sure they are teeny and sure, three total hours of video is a lot when you consider the actual length of most videos I’d ever be taking. But the sheer inconvenience of having to lug two embarrassingly obsolete models with me to New York was enough to take me back to the moment my father tried convincing me that the knock-offs from Pay-Less were just as Totally Cool as the K-Swiss the rest of my middle school class was wearing. I wasn’t buying it.

So I pouted.

The Husband rolled his eyes, sighed, looked up at the ceiling as if to ask God why, and reminded me he had no problem buying me a different camera to replace my dinosaurs, but no way in hell was he buying me an insert brand name here because insert brand name here sucks ass in his humble opinion, and that would be a ridiculous waste of money.

And, more importantly, he now wanted an actual reason…like…one that would hold up in court, for why exactly I needed a new camera when I had at least one that actually worked, even if it was a sickening shade of pink and only took two hours of video with no expandable memory.

This is when I got quiet. It was essentially my last bite at the apple, and it had to be good. The Husband can spot bullshit a mile away, too, which makes my life very difficult and forces me to be creative.

So I thought up this list in my head:

* What if I meet the Manic Mommies and my blackberry (the only device I currently use to upload any images into my blog) fails me, leaving me with an awesome story and no proof?

* I need to be able to count on the fact that I can document meeting Juliette for the first time after spending a zillion minutes in contact with her over the past year, committing to writing a book with her (after Baby F(Ph)at is done, people…keep your panties on), publicly declaring her my TBFF (click the link and think about it for a minute, if you are confused.)

* I want to start posting vlogs on Aspiring Mama geared for the writing peeps. And I’d like to be able to do that without having to rely on someone else to be here to film me or having to contort myself into advanced yoga positions to do so.

* I want…

And this is where I got interrupted because it turns out I was verbally reciting my list as I thought it silently in my head, and I’d finally said something that The Husband thought was a valid Reason.

So we got in the car. We drove to Best Buy. And I came home with a Sony Bloggie.

I am happy because:

* It’s cute.

* It has a cute name.

* I can film myself without having to contort into advanced yoga positions.

and because

* my accountant will accept this blog post as a reason to add the Sony Bloggie to my tax write-off list for the coming year.

So stay tuned. I’ll eventually post something on here that involves a bit less text. Feel free to lie and tell me it Doesn’t Suck when I do.

That’s me in the background.

On the left, I’m in my paternal grandfather’s arms.

On the right, with my mother and maternal grandmother on the day of my baptismal.

That’s me in the foreground, too. Or at least, that’s what The Husband said on the day I picked up the little figurine in a gift shop years ago, smiling because I have a thing for teddy bears.

And this one was going to town on a typewriter.

I was just out of college and the proudest new city editor at a little community paper that’s ever walked the earth. But even then, I had dreams of becoming more.

He bought me The Writing Bear that day. Because he believed in me and my dream long before I did.

They say distance makes the heart grow finder.

I disagree.

Distance makes the heart forget.

Emotion means little when miles between facilitate a disconnect;

A new beginning when the old one was good enough no matter how many times the rug needed to be lifted to sweep away the broken pieces.

Now the rug is gone, torn apart thread by thread, the strain of stretching from coast to coast too great.

No matter.

Distance makes the heart grow harder.

The mind weeps instead.

Copyright 2010 Aspiring Mama Suffusion WordPress theme by Sayontan Sinha