Dear faithful reader...

You know what? I had this giant post all lined out in an attempt to set the record straight.

It's not worth it.

You people exhaust me.

I have the people I love with me. Maybe that's why it bothers me a lot less than it seems to bother most of you.

I don't need to know both sides of the story, because I AM the story. One fourth of it, at least. The "hey what happened?" street runs both ways, because I can tell you that nobody, and I mean NOBODY who isn't with us asked either me or Molly what our side of the story was.

Shortest damn high horse I've ever seen.

Call me what you want. I know, at the end of the day, that I'm the kind of person who will order a glass mixing bowl for a girl she's not so sure even likes her just because she knows how much that girl loves to cook and bake.

I'm the kind of person who will drive five hours on her own birthday weekend to deliver baby love to a girl she's never met but who needs some sunshine.

I'm the kind of person who will haul her kids ten hours because her friend is going through a horrible time in her personal life and a weekend away might do her some good.

The fact that I was the kind of person who would pick on a young, brand new mother for being young and, well, brand new, that disgusts me.

The fact that I let this whole thing bother me so much even still, well, that disgusts me.

The fact is, at the end of the day, I'm a pretty decent person. And the fact that you're trying so hard to convince me and my friends that the opposite is true, well...find a freaking hobby already. You aren't sixteen anymore.

With that, this blog is done. If you're one of my dozen or more, you'll know where to find me. If you're not, if you do manage to find me again, it's pretty pathetic of you to look so hard for someone you think so little of. Move on, already.

I am.

Peace out.

Just out of curiosity...

I was perusing the local free paper this evening...the one that comes every Friday with junk ads and a write-up about the new local flower shop or whatever...surely someone gets these besides us lucky podunk residents, right?

Anyhow, there was an ad for a local baby beauty pageant. The contestants will be newborn to twelve years old. The attire will be fall attire. The makeup will be age appropriate.

What exactly is "age appropriate" makeup for girls under the age of twelve? Maybe I'm old fashioned, but I'm gonna go with NONE, aside from maybe some Lipsmackers.

I don't get it.

Note to self...

Never order pork at the newest restaurant in town.
"With a side of parasites" is nearly always implied.

Blargh.

Dear election-type peoples...

You are not "mavericks."

You're just NOT.

And even if you were, the only "maverick" I would even consider voting for is the Tom Cruise variety.

Pick a new slogan.

That is all.

It's opposite day...

My husband made dinner. That's not why it's opposite day.

He made chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese. A meal usually reserved for those nights he's out and it's just me and the Boy and LB because he doesn't worship the Blue Box, nor does he appreciate a fabulous nugget.

And the Boy, for the first time EVER went to play with a neighbor kid after school.

I'm bamboozled. I'm befuzzled. I'm so confused.

I'm not complaining, though.

I know you are but what am I?

I am so sick of being accused of being something that I am not. Particuarly when that something is bad and nasty and goes against every single principle I try to uphold for myself.

I treat others as I want to be treated. Sometimes I fail, but not regularly. And I own up when I need to.

But I'm not owning up to some completely unfounded notion of what one person believes me to be. I'm just not. Because it's absolutely 100% false. And I'm at the end of my "Pretend all is well" rope.

Stupid crappy days.

If there was an award...

For lamest blogger ever, I'd totally win.

Almost two months since my last post. Oops.

Life has been busy, but blah. School has started, and the boy is rocking third grade. LB is getting to be more and more of a handful. A delightful handful, but a handful just the same. I'm working myself to an early grave, and besides my family, the only people I have time for are my girls. There's always time for my girls.

I know a few people who have been affected recently by Hurrcane Ike, both in "real" life and here in the cyber world...my thoughts and prayers are with everyone dealing with the aftermath.

I can't wait for the election to be over.

And really, that's about all I've got.

Blah, I told you.

Anyhow, I'm going to try to find something to say on a regular basis, try to work my way up out of this funk I'm in. I seem to have only one loyal reader (or check-in-to-see-if-she's-posted-lately-er, as it is) these days. I'll dig deep and try to find some wit for the rest of you.

A year in the life of a ladybug...

Hi, my sweet girl. Mama here.

A long, long time ago, your Daddy and I decided that three just wasn't the right fit for us. Four? Four would feel divine. And so we set out to get ourselves a baby.

We had to wait so long for you, we'd all but given up hope. We wanted you so, so much, but it just didn't seem to be in the grand plan.

Then one day, there you were.

I marveled at every heartbeat, every flutter. Every second that you spent in my belly was a miracle (Okay, except the moments you opted to do jumping jacks. Those I could have lived without). The world's most patient ultrasound technician, who saw us every two weeks (lucky us, getting to see you so much!), said "Girl." "Girl?" we said. "Girl." she said. Whatever would we do with a GIRL?

Oh, but whatever would we do without a girl?

July 17, 2007, at 1:29 PM, my heart grew fourteen sizes, at least.

I had no idea how much I needed you. How much I wanted you. How much I loved you. You came into the world too beautiful to be mine, and you continue to prove that every day.

You gave me your first smile at three and a half weeks.
It melts me every. single. time.

That's not your only face, though.
I don't know how your teeny little body holds all that personality.

You are sunshine, you are surprise, you are magic. I can't believe you're mine. I'm the luckiest Mama in the world.

A whole year has passed, and that makes me kind of sad. I want you to stay my tiny little ladybug forever.

But here you are, taking lots of steps. You've got lots of words, like "Stop" and "Bird" and "Bubby" and "Bah-bull" and "Bye Bye" and "Baby." Stuck, and Daddy, and Papaw, No, and Good, and That. My favorite, I'd have to say, is Mama, but I'm probably a little bit biased.

You've gone from being barely able to drink from a bottle to feeding yourself--or trying, at least.

I love that you say "Hi" to everybody and blow kisses on command. I love that your favorite music is bluegrass and how you try to snap your fingers to the radio. I love that you sit in the middle of the living room floor and yell for your brother to come play. I love that you know exactly what you want pretty much all the time, and you don't let the fact that you're not as big as the other kids keep you down.

I love that you are so happy. I love that you stick your tiny little toes in my mouth and demand "wee wee wee!" (we'll revisit that subject in a couple of years when your tiny little toes stop tasting so nice...) I love that you can't keep your tongue in your mouth, ever, because it reminds me of my own mama and lets me know that you've got a part of her in you.

Everything about you makes my heart happy.



I wish you a hundred more years just as happy as this one has been. I hope that for the rest of your life, this day is as beautiful and magical as the day you were born.

I love you, my ladybug. I always have, and I always will.

Happy, happy birthday.

Cleanliness is next to selfishness...

I washed my cell phone.

Oops.

So I just ordered myself this:


Everybody needs something to look forward to, right?

(squee!)

A quiet kind of crazy...

I said the other day that I don't have a lot to say right now.

Silly me.

I've been down this road so many times before, I should have recognized the spiral. You know, the downward one, the one that sucks you in to the pits of, if not quite despair, then at least blahness.

I'm feeling incredibly insignificant lately. I've had a couple of those weeks where I just can't do anything right. Work's a bust, my eldest spawn is having issues, I've been having far too many "mother of the year" moments with my youngest spawn, I feel like I can't say anything right when it comes to my friends (note to my readership: nobody, and I mean NOBODY has made me feel like that--it's a personal issue, I promise), and I don't even want to get into the direction my marriage is taking.

One of my dearest friends and I used to have these conversations about how if life were a boat, and if that boat were sinking, and each person could only save one other person...who would choose US to save?

Uplifting, those conversations.

To sum up my brain at this point in time: I feel like noone would choose me to save.

It's a horrible feeling, a horrible mental place to be. I used to visit this place more often, so maybe that's why I didn't realize I was headed here again.

I don't talk about it with anybody, because it's hard for most people to understand. When your brain turns against you, it's hard to convince the people you love that they did not do anything to make you feel this way, nor can they do anything to make you stop feeling this way. Sometimes you'll come back in a day, sometimes in a week, sometimes a month.

I'm not allowed to have feelings in real life, unfortunately, so it may come out here. I apologize in advance, but I have to move up a few notches on the emotional scale, and soon. Please bear with me.

Anything you ever wanted to know about LB

Can be found in this face:

Oh no they didn't...

Flipping through the guide on TV just now, I noticed that WGN is showing "Alf" for the next two hours.

I refuse to turn it on, because there's a good chance I wouldn't turn it back off.

(In case you hadn't noticed, I don't have a lot to say these days.)

And so it begins...

I'm sitting here watching my children fight over Goldfish and strawberry kiwi water.

LB is winning.

Good for her.

Size matters

What is up with shoe stores?

I mean, seriously. I know more women who wear size 9 and up shoes than I do women who wear under a 9.

Why do the shoe stores generally stop at size 10?

I am desperate for new black slides. Mine are gross and old and totally falling apart. While I'm at it, I need new leather sandals that don't kill my arches.

Not one single store at the mall had either of these things for me. Size 8? You can buy any pair of shoes you want. Size 9 and 10 are slim pickin', but there are a few pair for you to try. Size 11? Dream on, sucker.

I am used to doing the walk of shame to the back of the store to find my size in pants, shirts, underwear...I am used to the small selection, the fugliness, the high prices. And I realize that not being able to wear anything I want has everything to do with me and my fondness for cheesecake and corner brownies. If I wanted to (okay, I WANT to, I just need to find my long-misplaced motivation and willpower), I could eventually be a front-of-the-store shopper and have my pick of cute clothes.

But what am I supposed to do about my feet? There's no tootsie diet that I'm aware of. No surgical option--and even if there were, I'm clumsy enough WITH toes, I can only imagine how I'd stumble without them.

Shoe companies, I implore you--MAKE MORE SHOES FOR BIG FEET. Shoes that are available in stores so I don't have to go through the hassle of ordering online. Shoes that aren't sneakers or ugly flat dress shoes.

This post brought to you by the number eleven and the letter "my sore-ass bare feet."

Um, eww.

The only thing nastier than forgotten month-old strawberry yuckiness from the back of the fridge?

Pouring milk and tomato juice down the drain at the same time.

Blech.

My fridge is clean, though. I'm ready for vacation now!! Except for the packing, but that's just a technicality, really.

Wheeee!

Wordless Wednesday: I say Peek-A

She says "Boo."

And it is the cutest thing EVER.

I just finished packing...

Because this weekend I'm going to see my Molly. And my Stephanie. And my Kern (who has a blog, that I can't find, since I never put my blogroll here on the new one...but trust me, she's awesome).

And all the babies and big kids that come with.

And nothing is standing in our way this time. Take that, hand, foot, and mouth! My super baby kicked. your. BUTT.

Squee!!

Houston...

We have a walker.

A single day earlier than her big brother did it, my baby took real, undeniable, defnite, totally for sure steps. Several of them.

Then Mama cried. Just a little bit.

And she's already trying to run.

SLOW DOWN, LB!!!

You know what sucks?

Mondays.

Aunt Flo, four days early.

And taking your baby in for what you think is an ear infection, and finding out she's got effing Hand, Foot, and Mouth.

Argh.

How to spoil a mama...

You wouldn't think that a great night would begin with pleas of "Would you PLEASE go to sleep, child?" at 12:30 AM. Or that it would end after a mere 5 hours of completely disrupted sleep.

But when you're almost asleep, and you feel the pitty-patter of little hands and feet crawling blindly across the bed, and then feel those soft little fingers pat your face, discerning which big person she just found, hear that sweet, sleepy sigh, and your baby falls right to sleep in your arms like you're all she needed, after all? That's a great night.

As she gets bigger, I'm trying to relish those moments. I know too well how quickly it goes by. That I'm going to blink, and she'll be too big to snuggle up in my arms for a nap. That one day I won't be all she needs, or even wants for that matter.

It's sad to think about, but I guess I have to just make the most of it, and commit those little moments to memory, because I know I'm going to need them.

Dear people who use wallpaper border...

Please don't.

Or at least remove it before you sell your house to the poor sucker who has to spend hours on a ladder removing it.

Thanks.

It just isn't meant to be...

I am a clothes horse. I own probably somewhere around 250 shirts, fifty to seventy-five pairs of pants, and all of the other things that go with.

There, I admitted it.

I am also incredibly unorganized and, quite frankly, a slob. I don't mind doing the laundry--I hate putting it away. Therefore my bedroom, walk-in closet, and master bathroom (okay, and my living room, office, and kitchen table) all have stacks and stacks (and stacks and piles and baskets and boxes and bags) of clothes. They are EVERYWHERE.

I first admitted this to Molly a while back. I took "before" pictures several months ago, and began a massive purge. At that time, I donated six 55 gallon bags and four Rubbermaid totes to Goodwill, plus threw away a ton more. Then I began the organization.

Until the racks in my closet collapsed.

Seriously, I'm downstairs putting another load of laundry in, and I hear a crash. Go upstairs, and find all of my hard work in the closet floor where it started.

It took weeks to get the motivation to clean it up enough for Hubs to rehang the racks, this time, he assured me, on studs, as the people who built our house had apparently failed to do.

I've been continuing the purge here and there, the result of some weight loss and a desire to get rid of anything that will encourage me to not stop for donuts every morning as I have been known to do sometimes.

I got some sleep last night and had no plans for today, other than de-teddy-bearing and then monkifying the kids' bathroom, with some fabulous teal paint and all new accessories.

So I decided today? Would be my most. productive. day. EVER.

I started four hours ago with a box of trash bags and all the will in the world. I would conquer it this time. I would no longer have an addiction, I would have a wardrobe. That I could find. That I never had to wonder if it was clean or dirty because it was laying in the floor or under the bills on the dining room table. It was going to be FABULOUS, I imagined.

Then I was going to come here, post those shameful before pictures, and then show you how nice a job I did, getting rid of all the old, ugly, doesn't fit anyhow stuff, and then organizing it all back into categories that make sense, like "pants," "sweaters," "sleeveless shells."

For the first time since we moved in four years ago, you could see the floor of my closet. I began hanging things, in order: long sleeve, short sleeve, sleeveless, work pants, skirts, dresses, jeans, sweaters...more jeans...more sweaters...more sweaters.

I'm sure you can guess what happened.

Seriously, I'm downstairs putting another load of laundry in, and I hear a crash. Go upstairs, and find all of my hard work in the closet floor where it started. Deja-freakin-vu.

Studs my ass, Hubs. STUDS MY ASS.

I'm trying not to be too dejected. I'm trying to look at this as the opportunity to indulge in another brand of retail therapy--the kind where you go to Lowe's and design yourself a closet system. That you will personally assemble (if you're handy, which I believe myself to be) and that you will personally attach to studs. You know, like your husband would if your husband wasn't MY husband.

My chin is up, my drill is charging, and I'm going to get those after pictures.

Beginnings and endings...

Ahhh, the beginning of summer.

Today was the last day of school, straight A's for my baby genius. Hard to believe he'll be in the third grade next year.

It was the last baseball game of the season, too--we beat an undefeated team, a team recognized as the best team in the district. It was the Boy's first year playing, and he finished up with a couple dozen RBI's and a batting average over .900. So very proud.

So now he begins what we call "Grandparent Camp." For the first time in his almost 8 years, his dad is actually planning on taking him for his two weeks. Then between his three sets of grandparents and us, he'll go to three Vacation Bible Schools, two amusement parks (at least, as Mama's a roller coaster junkie), a train ride through the prettiest parts of the state, and a vacation to a destination that is yet to be determined. He'll run and play and stay dirty, wet, or some combination of the two for the next three months.

I'll get visitation on weekends and start seriously paining for him somewhere around the end of July. I just remind myself that he's having more fun than he would in daycare, he's with his family, and he's creating memories that he will carry into his adulthood. He loves it, they love it, so I try to see the bright side.

Just a fair warning, so when I get mopey in a month or two, you know why.

Guess where I'm getting ready to go?

On my last formula run.

*Insert Happy Wallet Dance Here*

Tuesday let's be random, shall we?

Today I downloaded a new ringtone.

So if you call me, and I don't answer, don't feel neglected--I'm only jamming out to "The Right Stuff."

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh.
___________________________________________
A question you never knew you didn't want to know the answer to:

Why does the bottom of my black diaper bag smell like spinach and vinegar?
____________________________________________
Dear Dick Cheney,

Whoever chose your nickname had you pegged, didn't they?

Apologizing through your spokeswoman? LAME-O. Something else you don't have to worry about when you aren't running for re-election? Hiding behind your spin doctors. Jackass.

Only 230 more days.

It's June first...

Which means I now say "Oh, LB? She'll be one next month."

One.
Next.
Month.

NEXT MONTH. ONE.

Gah.

At what point

Will things start costing less again?

Seriously, my regular old trip to the grocery store ran me an extra $60 this week, and I can't figure out what I did differently.

My husband and I bring home a relatively decent living. So if I'm worried about making ends meet, what are people who were already pinching pennies doing??

If worse comes to worst, I guess I've got enough acreage to start raising some livestock...

Haiku Friday

Sick of sick, I am
"Biopsy" a scary word
Need some distraction

_________

My stupid bi-annual screening for an issue I've had since I was the Boy's age ended with me drunk on anesthesia while Hubs listened to my not-as-friendly-as-usual doctor explain the numerous biopsies he had to do this time around...

I really need some happy to take my mind off of it, because worrying for the next 24 days is not going to do me or anyone around me a bit of good. It doesn't help that I'm in some serious pain today, and when I called to check and see if I needed to come back in, the message back from the doctor was essentially "You aren't looking good, I'm not surprised you hurt."

Pardon my language, but fuck a damn duck.

On the bright side, LB learned to say "Ta Da!" and "Uh Oh!" today, and it's really stinking cute.

Back to moping.

Dear man in the red truck...

No, not you. The other guy in the beat up red pickup at Go-Mart this afternoon. Wait, you're probably too drunk to know I'm talking to you.

Anyhow, I'm just gonna throw this out there. Please don't pump gas at the same pump as me with your cigarette dangling precariously from your lips. Because you are drunk. You can barely stand up, so how do you expect to control your open flame?

Woman riding in the truck with said man: Please insist on driving. Please? No? Hrm.

Well, sorry I had to call the cops. Actually, I'm not all that sorry. I hope you went to jail.

Please don't smoke and pump.
Please don't drink and drive.
Please don't smoke and drink and pump and drive. I imagine it increases the odds that you will kill someone exponentially.

In short, please don't be AN ASSHOLE.

That is all.

Klassy Lady

If you were at your local discount department store this evening, and you were eyeing up that lady with her two wild kids who was sporting blue cotton gauchos, a wife-beater, and flip flops, that may or may not have been me.

Laugh if you must, but just remember I make you look that much better.

Why Snow Baby lives in the closet

My Grandma fancied herself a folk singer. She fancied herself a lot of things--a gypsy, a good cook, half-Finnish instead of half-Russian in the middle of the Cold War. But I digress.

She used to sing us these songs, most of which I always assumed she made up, at least in part. But they were the kinds of songs that you pick up, and you start singing, and you keep singing until one day you're rocking your own kids to sleep with a Grandma classic.

The true test of whether or not you are a true Logan is your opinion of "Two Little Children." It's a lovely little melody, the lyrics and score of which hang in a frame on my parents' living room wall, and the only lullaby that can put my kids to sleep every single time--they, therefore, are true Logans. Other children, though, may run and hide and scream with their hands over their ears upon hearing the first bar.

Why?

Let me share the lyrics with you, and you can be the judge:

"Two little children, a boy and a girl,
Sat down by the old church door.
The little girl's feet were as brown as the curls
that fell on the dress that she wore.

The boy's coat was faded
and hatless his head;
a tear shone in each little eye.
'Why don't you go home to your Mama?' I said,
and this was the maiden's reply.

'We're too little to earn our bread,' she said.
'Jim's five, and I'm only seven.
There's noone to love us since Daddy is gone,
and our darling Mama's in heaven.

Our Daddy got lost out to sea long ago,
We waited all night on the shore.
For he was a sea-going captain, you know,
and he never came home anymore.

Our Mama got sick, angels took her away,
she said, to her home warm and bright.
She said she would come back to get us someday;
perhaps she is coming tonight.

Or perhaps there's no room up in Heaven, she said,
for two darling angels to keep.
She then placed her hand upon little Jim's head,
she kissed him, and then fell asleep.'

The preacher came early to ring the church bell,
he found them beneath the snow white.
The angels found room for two darlings to dwell
in Heaven, with Mama, tonight."

So yeah, I have no idea why any kid would dislike that song.

Anyhow, it's never bothered me. I sing it daily as I sniff my baby's neck.

But then my aunt shows up with this thing at Christmas. This...well, it looks like this:

Except it's plush. And creepy as I don't know what.

My brother, who also grew up with "Two Little Children," who doesn't know the words but hums along when I snuggle with Goose and sing it to him, runs out of the room. I'm still speechless.

Later on, after our aunt has left, I pull it back out of the gift bag. LB smacks it and cries, and Donut Boy yells at me to put it away.

"Okay, you're a grown man. What's your problem?"

"It's one of the two little children! Put it away!!"

Dear lord, he's right.

And my baby cannot play with one of the two little children. The two little children were meant to lull children to sleep; failing that, they were only meant to terrify in a completely abstract sense. The two little children were not meant to come to life.

So she's hanging out in the closet, peeking out at me whenever I go to get diapers. I shudder, and then I sing another of Grandma's song.

Let's hope my aunt can't find a Barney Google (with the goo-goo-googly eyes) for her birthday.

I need people.

I am reminded too often that I am not the type of woman who should be "domestic." I'm better suited to be some never-use-my-kitchen, send-everything-to-the-cleaners, who-needs-a-car city dwellers with everything I could possibly need a phone call away.

Tonight's "YOU SUCK!!" reminder comes as the result of a hasty hotel stay last week when the power company decided our exploding transformer was not a big enough issue to warrant a visit within 24 hours.

Anyhow, we picked a local hotel with an indoor pool, gave the girly her first dip (which she loved), and then had to hightail it out of there the next morning to get to school and work on time.

I thought I got the car unloaded, I really did. Then tonight I'm packing the Boy's bag for his rec center field trip tomorrow, and I realize that I never saw the plastic bag that had our swim clothes in it. Hrm.

Wanna guess where I found it? Under the back seat of the car. Literally UNDER it. Damn stow-and-go seating.

So those clothes were tied up in that bag for ten days. TEN DAYS.

Stank city.

And this is why I need people. To keep up with this crap for me. Because I suck at it.

My little weirdos...

Right this very minute, The Boy is doing 50 trips up and down the stairs. It's his own self-imposed punishment for getting checks for talking at school today. Instead of getting grounded for a week, he offered to walk up and down the stairs 50 times. I agreed to let that be his punishment, thinking that he wouldn't be able to do it in a million years.

He's on 38 right now.

And LB is in the floor, introducing the doggy Hubs brought home for her to her incredibly creepy green-haired troll doll The Boy bought her at Santa's workshop for Christmas.

My video camera is out of batteries. Dadgummit.

I'll bet you a dollar...

So I'm gonna guess that you did not participate in or overhear any of the following exchanges this weekend:

While sorting through a bag of hand-me-downs, Hubs pulls out a sky blue shirt with a wierd paisley print.

"This is kind of cool, huh LA?"
"Uh, dude. You're not a pimp."
"I thought you wanted me to dress up more?"
"I don't want you to dress like a pimp more, no."
"This isn't a pimp shirt."
"Mmm-kay. You're not Clay Aiken either. Or a member of Rascal Flatts."
"You're no fun."
"VEEEE-TO, dude. VETO."

I was just thinking it might be nice for him to wear a sweater sometime. Or even a shirt with no stains.
-------
According to a close friend of Hubs's family, one of our presidential hopefuls may very well be the Anti-Christ. She wasn't making a questionable joke--she is actually quite concerned and was putting the issue on the prayer list today. I passed on Sunday School this morning.
-------
I watched a Medicare-aged woman kick butt at Wii Sports Bowling last night. Her opponent was an equally aged man who wears his pants about three inches below his nipples. Her celebratory response to her big win?

"Suck on THAT, jackass!!"


You soooo wanna come hang out with us.

Most Awesomest

I'm going to create a new section called "Most Awesomest," and it's going to consist of the most awesomest thing I come across on any given day.

Today's winner is this juicy little comment from the call-in opinion section of the local paper:

If having a DUI checkpoint without announcing it in the paper beforehand is entrapment, then how can they get away with doing that for prostitution stings?

That, my friend, is a question that is not asked nearly often enough. I hope one day we find the answer.

Special Delivery

I got a call I wasn't expecting today.

I lost a good friend about six weeks ago. She was 33 and she died from uterine cancer. It was quick and tragic and traumatic for us all. Life has slowly but surely returned to a sense of normalcy, only instead of having her with us, we just have to settle for having her "with" us. Her spirit, sadly, is nowhere near as fun as she was.

I'd gotten a letter a couple of weeks back from the county fiduciary something or other saying I'd been named in her will. The will I helped her write three years ago before a surgery that was unrelated to her illness. The will we used to chase one of our co-workers around with, as she taunted "What of mine do you want when I die? Now's your chance!" It was entertainment to us in the moment. In a different light? Yeah, not so much.

So apparently she left me her wardrobe. Her entire wardrobe. And her wardrobe competes with mine as far as size goes. She and I, shopping soulmates. And her mom was in an emotional place today to want to do the purge. So she did.

Now the back of my car is filled with those closet protector things, each filled to bursting with who knows what. I wonder, is the M*A*S*H t-shirt in there? What about the pointy toed boots?

And then I wonder, do I want to wear this stuff? SHOULD I want to wear this stuff? She wanted me to have it for a reason, right?

I don't know the etiquette here...help?

Have we met?

If you've found me here, odds are we have.

But if you've just stumbled upon me, please allow me to introduce myself.

I'm la. 29 and holding (but I really am 29. For now.), somewhat gainfully employed in the healthcare field, daughter of Roaster, sister to Donut Boy, and wife of Hubs.

I've procreated once or twice. Meet the darling LB:


And the most awesome second grader ever, the Boy:


Now, I had a blog in a previous life, but I found that not often enough did I let my fingers do the talking. It wasn't nearly as cathartic as I hoped it would be, for a variety of reasons. So this is my fresh start.

I'm gonna talk about my kids. I'm gonna make fun of my husband. You'll learn that I'm a damn liberal, don't like to discuss religion, and that I don't hug. (Well, I hugged those two times...) I might be funny, I might be sad, I might be pointless. But I promise that I will always be la.

This is me. Thanks for coming along for the ride!