Hellllllllo, Mr. Blackwell.

I have fashion issues. I'm not referring to the ones created by my trendy bowling ball silhouette. Nay, my baby bump puts me in the company of the many Hollywood starlets who, when given a choice between  purse-sized rat dog and a human baby as an accessory, chose to have a baby. I bet you didn't think there was any circumstance that would actually make Paris Hilton look like she had a grain of sense, but there you go. She, at least, picked the dog.

So anyway, it's not the trendy protuberance of my tummy that's an issue. Especially not since I discovered last week that H&M carries maternity clothes. My issue is that regardless of whether I am heavy with child or merely extra servings of ice cream, I am overly matchy. Mixing and matching escapes me.

I'm definitely one of those shoes-match-the-handbag-match-the-belt kind of girls, even though it CLEARLY indicates in the opening credits of "What Not to Wear" that this rule is outdated. I can't help it. I was brought up to match and I can't de-condition myself. I live in fear that one day I'll be browsing through a photo album and realize that I spent my thirties in a subconscious attempt to emulate Hilary Clinton's style.

I saw an article online the other day about how one of the spring trends this year is to mix prints. It made my eyeball twitch and I felt vaguely ill. Will I have to sit out this trend like I did that two years during the regrettable rebirth of culottes that were repackaged and sold to unsuspecting women as "gauchos"? I never owned a pair of gauchos and I feel good about that, but I think this is one of those times where I'm on the wrong side philosophically from the trend.

I think I'm going to have to accept that my OCD matching tendencies are going to bench me from this season's MVP fashion list. Save my spot in Frumps Anonymous, please.

Crazy 8's

Look, I don't want to say anything ill of DeNae, but...she's kind of a bad influence. I bet you all thought when you saw my New Year's resolution on Monday that I picked something easy. Even though I TOLD you it wouldn't be. Even though I gave you MULTIPLE examples of how hard it would be.

Maybe now you'll believe me when I tell you that DeNae is already forcing me perilously close to breaking my resolution of not being interesting enough for reality TV by forcing me to reveal my extreme psychic powers.

I'm only doing this because you're my friend, DeNae, but if TLC starts calling and waving a contract around, then I'm holding you responsible to send your husband down to shoo them off with his gun.

All right, here's the situation. Before Christmas, I told all my bloggy friends they could ask me a question and I'd answer it. I got lots of questions. And I've answered all but a few of them. I WILL get to all of them, but DeNae has asked me her question an additional 43 times so I'm jumping her to the head of the remaining line.

DeNae's burning question is: Where is her remote?

Sigh. SIGH. SIGH.

I've never revealed this before, but I have an amazing bond with what some of you might think of as a cheap toy store novelty or a parlor trick at best. But that's because either

1) you don't like the truth yours tells you

2) you don't know how to use it right

I'm not going to reveal all my secrets here, but let this suffice: The Magic 8 Ball IS all-knowing, and in the words of the Cristina Aguilera, YOU just have to know how to rub it the right way. And I'm not giving that piece of information up.

Anyway, I asked the 8-ball for you, DeNae. And I know where your remote is. I suggest you fortify yourself with whatever you go to when a bracing glass of cold water won't do the trick. I wish I could be there with you to hold your hand as I tell you this, but I'm sending out a psychic handhold to you right now. Can you feel it? I know, I'm powerful, right?

Your remote...well. It slipped into the fourth dimension. There's a much more complicated explanation the 8-ball gave me involving small creatures that hijack these things because the infrared chip that makes your remote work wirelessly is a power source for their miniature vehicles. But frankly, it sounded like nonsense. I can neither confirm nor deny the truth of that. I CAN tell you that it's definitely in the fourth dimension. I'd say it's time to keep one of your children home at all times in case you may be in need of channel changing.

I'm so very, very sorry. I can happily report that the answers to the remaining questions I've been asked are  not nearly so grim. Happy Wednesday, all. DeNae, just do your best to soldier on.

My Word

I can't help it; I've given in.

I gave up resolutions a few years ago because I'm pretty good about setting goals as needed. A new year always feel more like it starts to me when school does, not right after Christmas.

But between my Facebook status update feed and blogland, I was feeling left out of all the resolution making. And THEN when you add in choosing a word for the year? Really, how am I supposed to resist that? I've even made my word coordinate with my one resolution. How forward-thinking is THAT?

So my word for the year is: Kardashian.

And my resolution is: We will not do anything interesting enough as a family to merit our own reality show.

I feel pretty good about that. I mean, it'll be hard for sure. There's a lot of stuff you have to stay on top of to avoid your own reality show. For example, I'll have to not to become nor associate with any little people chocolatiers. And I'll have to make sure just one baby comes out in March and not six or more.

It actually gets HARDER than that, if you can believe it. I'll have to not tart either of my little boys up in hooker shellac and put them in little girl beauty pageants. Or have a meltdown in the fitting room of a bridal shop. I can't move into a houseful of strangers for any reason: no trying to chase the same self-involved bachelor or fighting with a bunch of twenty-year-olds about the house rules for nekkid hot tub hijinks. I'll have to keep the volume down in my hair so I don't accidentally get recruited to the Jersey shore.

There's more. I can't manufacture any crazy home science experiments and then hide my kid in the attic while people freak out. I definitely can't spend any time with Paris, LiLo, or Britney. (They'll be super bummed.) I'll have to avoid desert islands and resist the urge to eat bugs even if it wins me a cool immunity necklace. I'll have to remember that I'm pregnant so I don't suddenly get a day-long stomach ache and shock myself by pooping out a baby I forgot I was pregnant with. I'll have to leave my ridiculous costumes at home and not show up to screech a Lady Gaga song acapella for Simon and Randy.

I can't even attempt to become crazy good at cake decorating and if I do get really good at it, I must avoid being adopted by an Italian family OR getting any tattoos. Also, although I'm a housewife, I can't become desperate in any way, shape or form, ESPECIALLY because I live in Orange County.

I know, right? It's a much harder goal than it seemed like at first. But I'm committed. And I'm not just giving up after a week, either. I'm going to stay off of reality TV for at least a WHOLE YEAR.

But I believe in me. Wish me luck. . .

When we're sharing, we're happy. . .

If I were a smarter woman, I'd have answered your questions a few (like five) at a time, just to ensure myself future blog fodder for many posts to come. But I'm not smart. I'm pregnant. All previous intelligence has been eroded by estrogen. Or progesterone. Or whatever is causing the brain synapses to misfire.

Actually, they aren't even misfiring. They're not sparking at all.

Anyway, I'll have the answers to your last few questions when I return to my regular blog schedule next week. I bet you didn't even know I had a schedule, did you?

In the meantime, I had a very Merry Birthiversary and thank you to all of you who wished me one. I now own a bread machine that crouches in its unopened box and mocks me. Maybe tomorrow, Bread Maker. I got lots of other lovely little things to play with, use, or simply admire and I am well-content. I am not a cat person and don't identify with felines in any way but I admit, the image of a fluffy white kitty, fat and sassy, festooned with a shiny bow and resting on a satin pillow is an apt image to describe me right now. I am deliciously spoiled.

I even gave myself a gift this week. I wrote a page I am genuinely pleased with, one that when I re-read I thought, "Hm. Maybe I can write."

I"ll share it with you. It may not make very much sense to you because you don't know the characters, but I offer you lagniappe, an expression we use in Louisiana when we throw in a little something extra for you.

Without further ado, a page from my work-in-progress:

The best thing about church starting after lunch was the chance to sleep in on Sunday, which meant the sound of “Crazy Train” shrilling earlier than it should have irritated Sandy even more than usual. With a grunt, she groped through the pile of random paper scraps and magazines littering her nightstand to seize the offending cell phone. She tightened her grip on it, wishing for a split second that her fingers were wrapping around her mother's neck instead.


“Yes?” she grumbled.

“Good morning, Sand Dollar. I hope you weren't sleeping.”

“No, this is my wide awake morning voice,” she said, the evident frogginess in it underscoring her sarcasm.

“Well, it’s a beautiful day. You should probably thank me for waking you in time to enjoy it.”

She cracked an eyelid open far enough to see that the light coming through her window was weak and watery, definitely not a harbinger of a “beautiful” day. “I don’t know what health spa you’re calling me from, but I guarantee you it’s not in the same weather pattern as my apartment.”

“Oh,” her mother said, sounding nonplussed for a moment. “I’m in Sedona and it’s gorgeous here. You should really—”

“I’m not going to visit and I’m not awake enough to find a polite way to say that. Move on.”

“I just thought—”

“Magdalena, is this why you called me first thing in the morning? Because if it isn’t, could we just get to the point?”

Her mother was quiet for a moment and she felt a twinge of guilt for her abruptness. Magdalena cleared her throat and complied. “Since you don’t seem to want to come to me, I thought I’d come to you,” she said brightly. Too brightly. Sandy suspected her mother’s forced cheerfulness was designed to distract her from pointing out that she wasn’t invited.

Lingering guilt and sleep deprivation overrode her survival instincts for a moment and she found herself conceding ground she knew she would regret. “Sure. I’ll check my schedule and see when it looks clear.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” her mother trilled. Trilled! It had to be the crack of dawn in Sedona and she was still alarmingly chipper. “You’re too tied to that Blueberry of yours.” I-phone, Sandy corrected silently. “I already got a ticket. It’s all taken care of.”

That warning prodded her to wakefulness. “And when are you coming?” she asked.

“Tonight! Isn’t it wonderful?” More trilling. Sandy wasn’t taking the bait.

“Magdalena, this is the worst possible week. I have a hearing on Wednesday and I have to focus on that. I can’t take any time off.”

“Don’t worry, darling. If I had to wait for you to not be busy, we’d never get to visit. I’ll just stay in the background, quiet as can be. I can practice ‘spirit stillness.’ I learned about it in our focus and centering workshop yesterday.”

Feeling a flood of New Ageism about to crest, Sandy stepped in to stem the tide. “I promise to find time next month, maybe during the cherry blossom festival out here. I hear it’s gorgeous. But if ever there was a week where I will literally not have enough hours in the day, it’s this one. Just get a voucher. I’ll pay the cancellation fee.”

“I don’t know where all this negative energy you have is coming from,” her mother said, sounding wounded. “I just want to see my only baby girl. It’s been months and you haven’t accepted one invitation to come and visit. Well, I’m not willing to be a stranger so I’m actualizing my dream of a healed relationship between us by coming to see you. Am I really so terrible that I can’t even just make myself part of your backdrop for a few days?” Her voice sounded suddenly small and sad and somewhere inside, Sandy’s guilty conscience throbbed in a way that she knew wouldn’t quit until she gave in.

“All right,” she said, sighing. “But I’m warning you, I’m up against one of the craziest weeks of my life.”

“Sounds like I’m coming at just the right time then,” her mother said, sounding all smiles once more. Sandy smothered another sigh. Magdalena clearly wasn’t getting it.

“Give me your flight information,” she said. “I’ll be there.”

When she ended the call, she could already feel the first pulses of a headache behind her eye. Not the start to the week she’d been hoping for. At all.

Stupid answers, cont'd

Kazzy wants to know what kind of toothpaste I use. I kick it very, very old school. I use the Crest paste that does not whiten or remove tartar or do anything more than baking soda and water would. That's what my dentist told me to use. It's surprisingly hard to find a toothpaste without all the bells and whistles. My second favorite after that is that kind that Emeril advertises. I don't remember the name but I liked the vanilla mint kind.

Terressa wants to know my favorite brand of chocolate. Great question! I really like the Trader Joe's milk chocolate bar right now but I always have a pound of See's chocolates on hand as a writing incentive. I fill it with all my favorite pieces and I never share. No one else is allowed to touch it and even I can only touch it if I've written at least a thousand words in a day. Needless to say, I've thrown some really bad crud down on paper some days in order to get my chocolate. And I don't mean that literally because I do all my writing on my laptop but that doesn't have the same ring to it and I'm a writer so I had to make the image work, see?

I will answer both Kelly O's and Aunt Linda's question the same way: I think you both know the answer to those questions. Let's let any of my other relatives who read my blog continue to live their dreams by not revealing the answer here, shall we?

Sarah wants to know the plus and minus of being a CODA. Sarah is a very, very cool girl who is deaf with hearing kids. CODA stands for Children of Deaf Adults. If you're new-ish around here, she's asking me this because both of my parents were deaf. By far the biggest minus was that it affected my relationship with my mom. This was for a lot of reasons but some of the simplest ones were things like how I couldn't pick up the phone when things got tough at college and talk to her about them. It just wasn't the same going through a relay operator to discuss stuff like that. Maybe it would be different now with all the technology advancements like videophones but this was when email was still like, "What's that?" Instead, I would pick up the phone and call Pawpaw (my grandfather). So I always had someone to talk to; it just wasn't my mom. Variations of this played out in many, many ways over the years. The best part of being a CODA (although it takes getting older to appreciate it) is that it teaches you great communication skills, especially because of all the interpreting you do for your parents where you have to figure out what people are really saying. Also, I learned to be independent at a very early age and most of my CODA friends did, too. At first, it totally bugged me but now I really appreciate it. Also a bonus: people think I'm cool for knowing sign language.

Luisa wants to know when I decided that I knew the writing life was for me. Tricky question. I've always been a storyteller and come from a long line of storytellers. Before I even knew how to write, I would stand by the side of my father's typewriter and dictate poems that he would type out for me. I still have some of those and for age six? They're pretty dang good. I remember writing a scary haunted house story in eighth grade that got passed around during earth science every day in a spiral bound notebook and everyone waiting for the next installment each day. I remember writing a very Poe-esque short story as a junior that was published in our school literary magazine. I quit writing any kind of fiction in college and didn't have much to do with creative writing again until I began teaching it. It was a question of time. I taught eighth grade creative writing for five years and I kept thinking, "I ought to write a book." Actually, I thought that all throughout college too, but again...no time. It wasn't until I stayed home full time that I felt like I would be wasting a God-given talent if I didn't take a stab at it and so I did. I've never had literary ambitions. I just want to tell good stories that people enjoy. I write with a lot of humor and I write characters that I understand very, very well. I have no designs on the great American novel. I just want to entertain.

Ambrosia wants to know how I keep my house clean on bed rest. The answer is, I don't. It's a mess. And I'm not actually on bed rest so that's even worse because I don't have an excuse. I'd say my husband actually cleans almost as often as I do and he definitely does the dishes more. But I cook a lot and I DO clean. There just tends to be a day or two a week where I don't get to it and I don't care. My house is clean about 70% of the time and I'm fine with that as long as I know it's not bothering my husband AND as long as I don't have company coming. But I figure if they find me in a messy house and judge me, Oh well. They're probably dead right most of the time anyway. I accept that as a consequence of putting other things first sometimes.

CaJoh wants to know if I feel I've grown as a writer over the years and whether or not blogging has helped or hindered my writing style. First, I've grown as a writer FOR SURE. My voice as a writer is much more authentic now. I don't read my stuff and think, "Wow. That sounds impressive." I read it and think, "Yeah, that sounds like me," and it's hard 1) to write that way and 2) to recognize when you are and aren't doing that. So it makes me happy that I can. I'm sure blogging has had some effect on my fiction, but I'm not sure what. I can't point to a direct correlation so I don't know if it's helped or not. I can say that my blogging has improved tremendously in the 18 months I've been at it because I found my voice here, too. My first three months of posts are especially cringeworthy but I like to see that I've grown. What I express is ME now, not a persona I was trying to define, like it was sometimes at first.

Kimberly asked if having two books accepted for publication changed the way I see myself. I love this question. The short answer is no. The longer answer is that I definitely feel validated and I guess there's been a change in the sense that I feel like a Writer now, not someone who writes. I should do a post about that some time because it's a very key distinction for me. However, the reason I'd say mainly no is...

Well, this all going to sound very arrogant, but I've answered all these questions truthfully so far and to keep that up here is going to preclude false modesty. Here's the thing. I have a lot of personal fears about whether people will like and accept me but if you were trying to figure out whether to hire for me a job, I'd be able to break down for you with astonishing accuracy exactly what my assets are and how to best use me. I don't have many doubts about anything I tackle professionally because I know I'll do whatever it takes to master it and I'm a total sponge. I love learning new things. To be fair, I don't tackle things that I don't have an affinity for. Hence, I am not and will never be a rocket scientist, fashion designer or preschool teacher. I would totally suck.

Writing was a little unnerving at first but I was pretty sure I had the talent for it; I just worked very, very hard to soak up enough knowledge to make sure I also had the skill. I KNOW how to learn. I read, I went to workshops and conferences, I listened, I asked questions and I applied. Each of my manuscripts has shown me how much I'm learning and growing. Each of them shows me how much I still have left to learn. But I DO see progress and that's what I expect from myself. I'm following the same M.O. I've always had when it comes to professional goals.

I know, that's incredibly boorish, right? But you asked. I feel a real sense of accomplishment and pride in being a published author, but not really any surprise. It wouldn't occur to me that I wouldn't achieve a professional goal I set for myself. That's why the inevitable setbacks in my writing career are probably going to hit me harder than they will most people, but I just truck along worrying about what I can control, not what I can't. I'm sure I'm in for some kind of breakdown when things don't go right in my writing career, but I don't know when that will happen and I can't expend emotional energy worrying about it. In the meantime, just know that the moment I got my acceptance from my publisher, it was truly magical. It's a blessing to occupy a space in time where you are feeling your dream come true.

Migillicutty wants to know what kind of shampoo I use. I use Pantene. Sometimes I use Head and Shoulders when my scalp won't cooperate. And I use a fantastic Bumble and Bumble conditioner that actually helps with my incredibly dry hair.

And oh, my goodness, I have BLATHERED again. I'll save the last few questions for my next post. Tomorrow (or whenever Christmas Eve is for you when you read this) is my birthday and I'm going to be soooo self-indulgent. I'm not exactly sure how this is different from say, your average Tuesday, but I will say that I will consider each comment tomorrow as a birthday present from you to me and I thank you in advance. Merry Christmas, all!

Everything you never wanted to know

After receiving a few comments, I went back an reread what I wrote. It sounds SUPER cranky. I don't know why because I don't feel cranky at all so I plead pregnancy, but I'm going to let the post stand because it took so long to write. However, please know, I wasn't directing these AT the person who asked the question. I guess I'm feeling a wee bit feisty today, so no one take these personally, okay? These were actually really fun to answer.

I didn't know when I said you could ask questions that they would be HARD questions. Sheesh. (Kidding.)

All right, since Christmas is a season of love and forgiveness, let's all go ahead and forgive me now for not doing links. If we had to wait for me to do that, we would be waiting for a long, long time and the links still wouldn't get done.

Also, I should be working on my manuscript right now instead of blogging. Grant just went down for his nap (yes, I realize I just used his real name) and my two hour window of peace and heavenly quiet just opened up for writing. The problem is that I'm at the climax of a scene where my main character is about to destroy her competition in a Dance Dance Revolution type of contest and I'm having a hard time playing it for the proper drama and humor given that my character is a Jimmy Choo wearing diva. And no, I'm not making that up. I mean yes, I'm making it up in the sense that I write fiction, but that is the actual scene I'm working through right now. But I don't wanna. So maybe blogging will get me on a writing streak and after I answer your questions, I'll feel inspired to keep going with the Dance Dance smackdown.

Deep breath . . . and moving on . . .

Steph and Diapers and Divinity wants to know my favorite place I've traveled. Until I was thirty I'd never been anywhere interesting. Since then, I've been to Egypt, Italy, France, Scotland, England, and New York. Honestly, I think my favorite is NYC. It's as alive as everyone says it is. I want to go back badly. But believe me, none of those other places was chopped liver. There was something I dug about each of them. As far as where I long to go: Africa. Costa Rica. London. Scandinavia.

Don C. wants to know what kind of tree I want to be. I think Josi Kilpack did an excellent job of answering this on her blog already, but I'll take a shot at it. The last time I was asked this question, it was a journal prompt in my 11th grade English class. I said a live oak. Part of it was that I was only two months into a move to California from Louisiana and I was a little homesick. Mostly it was because I love those trees. They represent deep roots and wisdom to me. So I'm still going to go with a live oak. They're my favorite.

Jami wants to know my favorite childhood memory involving food. Again, I grew up in Louisiana so this is a rich, rich file in  my memory banks, but I'm going to go with jambalaya. My Cajun great-grandfather, who remained vigorous until his passing when I was seventeen, would cook up a tasty jambalaya a few times a year in a Dutch oven over a fire outside. I learned not to ask what the meat was (after he answered "squirrel" one time and meant it) but usually it was chicken and sausage. I remember running around the yard, playing with my cousins, and thinking that I would die if the jambalaya wasn't ready soon. Like a Memphis man with his barbecue skills, a good jambalaya or gumbo is the mark of a great Cajun cook. Grandaddy's was the best.

Kristina P., I don't want to be an inanimate object because I like having a brain. But I'll pick anyway. The first thing that jumps to mind is a clock. Not the Hoff's underwear. Sorry!

Josi wants to know what goals I have outside of writing and family. Okay, this is going to sound obnoxiously earnest, but when my kids are grown and gone, I think I'd like to get involved with a non-profit organization that focuses on empowering underprivileged women, helping them develop job and parenting skills, etc. Slight less lofty and long-term, I'd really like to learn to sew. I've taken a couple of classes but I suck. This is mostly due to a total lack of manual dexterity or my fingers being possessed of the devil. I'm not sure. Also, it's possible an extreme lack of patience is a contributing factor. Possibly.

Wonder Woman wants to know why having a girl is freaking me out, though she asked it much more nicely. All right, I'll tell you but just know that I'm pretty cool with it now. The biggest reason is that I taught eighth grade language arts for five years and I hate the DRAMA. I think spending one day in a classroom with a parade of crazy teenage girls all day long is about the most effective form of birth control possible. WARNING: You could birth one of these! Sadly, there seems to be girl drama at every age. I'm so NOT into drama that I'm sure my poor daughter's efforts to share it with me will be met with eye rolls which will only incite MORE drama, so I'm trying to figure out how to prepare for that. Secondly, I didn't have a close relationship with my mother or sister growing up. There was a communication barrier with my mom (she was deaf and it's not as simple as knowing sign language; there are cultural experience gaps to bridge) and I was five years older than my sister. Those relationships improved greatly as an adult but I was already biased against having a girl by the time we worked stuff out. Lastly, I have two boys. That's what I know how to do. Like I said, though: I'm pretty excited now.

InkMom wants to know why I'm a raging liberal. Kidding! She wants to know if it's hard for me to sit a little to the left of most Mormons and how I came to my opinions on things. A most excellent question. I'm a registered Democrat right now because I wanted to vote in the California primary. However, I consider myself an independent and usually register that way. I vote conservatively on some issues and not on others, but the key is that I take it issue by issue and candidate by candidate. Let me go ahead and offend the majority of you by stating the following opinion: I think it's ignorant to vote party just because. Now, is it hard for me? No. My parents always voted, and always took us with them, but never indoctrinated me into their point of view. I was staunchly Republican through most of high school and didn't discover until much later that my parents typically voted Libertarian or Democrat. Huh.

Anyway, they let us think whatever we wanted and set an example more through their regular voting and keeping up with current events than by orating. You're absolutely right that I own what I believe, but I DO NOT engage in debates with people. I share my opinions when asked but the most publicly liberal I'll usually get is to espouse my devout hatred of Fox News. Otherwise, if someone wants to know what I think, they have to ask. I flatly refuse to argue about it. I'm a very good listener to other people's points-of-view. I'm not interested in changing anyone's mind. I resent people trying to change mine. I get my information from the BBC online, CNN and USA Today online, and NPR. And strangely, The Daily Show. And no, I'm not going to argue about or defend that, either. When I don't understand something, I ask people who know. I read. So no, it wasn't hard for me to reach my opinions on most issues. Some, yes. Some I still struggle with. But I don't shove my opinions down anyone else's throat and I'll shut down anyone who does it to me. I listen only when I can tell someone is well-informed whether I agree with them or not. Then it's just interesting instead of maddening. And in case anyone is wondering, I'm not liberal. I'm boringly moderate.

Whew! I'll go for an even ten and answer three more today.

Amber Lynae wants me to share my most embarrassing public bathroom story. Um, I used to have serious stomach issues that regularly turned me temporarily Catholic while I mumbled Hail Marys and raced to find a public restroom at all too frequent intervals. But the one that comes to mind is a Vegas weekend with my friend Colleen. We were driving through Old Town Las Vegas when I suddenly and desperately needed a bathroom. She raced to the nearest casino and I ran through wildly searching for a bathroom. When I finally found one, the only open stall was the handicap one. But I was desperate so I took it. Within a couple of minutes a little old black lady (and yes, her color matters because they chew you out SO much more effectively than little old white ladies do) starts banging on the door, demanding that I come out. She went on and on for several minutes because um, so did my stomach. When I finally came out at the earliest possible moment, she was super livid to discover that I was a youngster taking up the handicap stall, and let me know fifty different ways that I should be ashamed of myself. She even tattled on me to the bathroom attendant. So that was fun.

Sue wants to know if Kenny is the only guy I was ever engaged to and how he proposed. Well, he's the only guy I've ever been engaged to because he's the only guy I ever said yes to. I think he was about the fourth or fifth guy that wanted to marry me, but he's the only one I wanted to marry. Mind you, I was 32 when I got married, so my inherent awesomeness is only part of the reason for the other offers. Mostly it was just due to the law of averages. I went out with so many guys over time, every so often one of them got it in their heads that they might want to marry me. As for how he proposed, it was on one of the lifeguard towers on the beach at sunset. Apparently, that was Plan B, though. Plan A involved writing a song and a monkey riding a goat, and I'm not making that up. It's a long story or I'd tell it, but I really liked Plan B. It was actually more like dusk and when he opened the ring box, it had a light in it and it made the ring all shiny and awesome.

L.T. Elliot wants to know if I get pedicures or do it myself. Oh, I most certainly DO NOT do them myself. That would be an exercise in total frustration. Once a month (if I'm lucky), I go to the little place around the corner and sit in their lovely massage chair while they work on my poor, abused feet. I also usually get a French manicure that chips after a couple of weeks, so then I strip it off and have naked fingernails for two weeks until I can sneak away to indulge again. I figure I'm worth the $25 a month and so does Kenny, so it all works out.

Oh, man. I think that's quite enough for all of us today. Maybe I'll take on the other half tomorrow. Although, tomorrow is my anniversary. And Wednesday is a girl day with my friend. And Thursday my birthday and Christmas Eve....

Hm. I think tomorrow will work. In the mean time, don't hold your breath. This Christmas, I'm all about committing to as little as possible. It's been a fantastic holiday.

Yadda yadda yadda

I feel like I want to say lots and lots, but . . .

I've got nothing to say.

It doesn't happen often, but it does happen.

So. . . let's play twenty questions.

I'll answer the first twenty questions I get from you guys in the form of a blog post (assuming they're somewhat appropriate *cough, cough Kristina P and DeNae) so then I'm telling you what you want to know and not just something that falls out of my head because it got displaced by my grocery list or something. Otherwise, I may be forced to recount cute stories about my two-year-old's adventures in language acquisition this week. These stories are hilarious if you're there, sort of funny when you hear them retold, and don't translate at all into writing. And actually, kind of reflect badly on me as a mother because one of them involves his mastery of the phrase "French fries" when I tried to sneak an empty McDonald's bag that he recognized on sight. I swear I don't go that often.

So go ahead, ask. I'll answer. Probably.

Oh, and just so you know, I have to start going to the hospital twice a week for some kind of test. She (the midwife, which is not nearly as granola-y as it sounds) didn't tell me the name of it but I think it's a non-stress test. Now, that's not grand news, but it's certainly not bad news. Baby and I are fine and I'm not on bed rest, so I can deal with a bi-weekly hospital visit. Maybe, since I have to leave Baby G with someone when I go, I'll pretend I'm at a spa for those thirty minutes. Oooh, and I bet I'll get lots of reading done. I'll snap my fingers occasionally and demand ice chips or those lemon swabs hospitals always leave lying around. Nurses love that. And the first time the nurse sets me up on my little monitor and leaves, I'm going to stick cucumbers on my eyes and recline so it makes her laugh when she comes back.

Um . . . I have no idea where I was going all with this.

Twenty questions. Proceed.