I just stumbled out of bed to see if I could straighten out my bills and inexplicably found myself here, catching up on blogs. Holy crap it’s been a while since I visited some of you…
(And the RAT over my head better knock off the clog dancing or I am going up there with a flame thrower!)
I was just noodling over some of the events of the past few weeks and thinking of all the things I didn’t write about. To be honest, I feel as though I’ve reached a milestone. This book I’m editing, organizing, whatever… it’s a trip to go back and read the thousand or so pages I’ve spewed in the last two years. I cringe at my writing style from way back in the beginning, but it gets better (he turned me into a NEWT). My mom is editing it right now (English professor, feminist, published author; no, I’m not at all nervous about the swearing and politically incorrect rubbish in there), and has given me the first 90 pages to revise. She said she can’t find much to cut yet, but I am sure that when she really gets into the muck she will be red penning that thing to death.
I think the book will begin a bit before I start the blog and end somewhere about now. With the wide open vistas and all that. So, in the interest of
procrastination progress, I am trying to come up with a trademark image or theme, a sort of a brand. I want my next skin to be me, and not an image I borrowed from someone else’s publication. Something snarky and understated like “Being a Mom is Simple” or “I Have Ovaries, How Hard Can It Be?”
I put a couple of pics in the extended entry to show what I’m thinking about, and if anyone has any suggestions, links, etc., I would surely appreciate the input!
Oh! I remember why I wanted to post. Heh. Sorry.
This morning as Daphne sat curled into a quiet little ball in her chair at the table, my mom whispered, “P-O-U-T.” Ah, okay. Daphne loves to drink milk. She wanted “pink milk” and we had given her “blue.” The plastic tops on the 2% milk are a different color at the local market in Tahoe than the ones here, and nothing I said would convince her that it was exactly the same and that it would not taste “blue.”
Just then, Logan began sounding it out and I rushed over to tell him that we spell so that younger kids can’t understand what we’re saying, and that if he figures it out, he may whisper it to me but NOT say it out loud.
After a few minutes, he asked, “Mom, do you know what EDF means?”
“I sure don’t. What does it mean?”
“It means, ‘Eaten, digested, and forgotten.’”
“Good lord, where did you get that?”
“It’s what you say when you are, like, cornered by a meat eater.”
“Did you hear that somewhere or did you make it up? It’s clever.”
“Stop, don’t say it’s clever. I don’t remember.”
“Oh, but it is. It would never occur to me to intellectualize my postmortem state in a predator environment.”