After reading these three consecutive posts on my local Freecycle from a person whose user name includes the word "tax!derm!st" I think someone should call the authorities:
- Needed: Sewing Machine
- Wanted: Dog Kennel, any size
- I am in need of a crosscut saw - 1 man or 2 man - I will pick up
The forecast says tomorrow morning will bring snow. And me, without my Subaru.
But that's not your problem. Maybe your problem is that you don;t know what to wear tomorrow. Maybe you think you need some new clothes. Maybe you want a modest swimsuit.
Oh, have I got an answer for you, and it just happens to be the longest URL I've ever seen:
http://www.modestapparelchristianclothinglydiaofpurpledressescustomsewing.com
My Hot Shot Husband and I spent a few days away from home, children and responsibilities celebrating our 15th anniversary, which was a couple weeks ago.
We had a great time. We exchanged great gifts. We stayed in a deliciously creepy old hotel (OK, we'll stay here as long as you promise not to get the shining.) And we ate at many restaurants.
I wrote a post about it, but the Innernets ate it, and I am too lazy to recreate it. Maybe tomorrow.
In the meantime, I want to just take a few minutes to say how much I love technology.
And more than technology itself, I love the way people use it.
The Internet and its peripheral technologies may well change the fabric of society as much as the mass-produced automobile, the American revolution, the printing press and fire. Seriously. I think that, just as Ford (Henry, not Gerald) probably couldn't have even conceived of how far-reaching his innovations would be in global life, we probably can't foresee the way this technology will change life a few generations from now.
And while it's true that people use this technology to do business, gamble, download porn, and get themselves a featured spot on Dateline NBC, its role as a giant campfire or town square - drawing the tribe or village together - makes me feel pretty good about being alive.
Without it, things like Annika's COTA fund wouldn't exist.
Neither would Rob's extraordinary account of some truly kick-ass parenting (his) made possible by his little pink-haired ninja and her terrible monster.
We wouldn't have been able to celebrate the long-awaited, and much-anticipated moment this woman became a mom.
And I wouldn't have connected with this family, who is in China right now and just met their new daughter a couple days ago. They also visited their daughter's orphanage, where she happened to meet my future daughter. She was kind enough to send me these photos, which were taken today. Or yesterday, Chinese time.
This is even better than the printing press or the telegraph. So much better.
First, dear readers, let me apologize for the massive size of my face, there to the right. If I can figure out how to make it smaller, I will. Otherwise, you just have to stare into the shiny, freckly goodness of my mug. Can you tell that - as my gradmother would say - "I have some Irish in me"?
(P.S. I know that some technical supergeniuses read this - you know who you are. Who do I have to FTP to make that awful picture smaller?*)
The creepy photo is but one of many changes I've made.
You'll find that I've gone back and put most of my archives into categories. Because I love you.
And I've added some links to my blogrolls on the left.
Notably:
Agog and Aghast
Gorgeous, gorgeous site, all the way around. From the design to the writing to the title, I love it all. And I'm not just saying that because she recently said nice things about me.
Rocks and Garbage
Jen and Angela Marie are sisters who maintain this blog that reminds me that, no, I'm not the only person who still references mid-80s Lettermanalia. Their Hot Pockets aren't just cold in the center - they're frozen. They're also the kind of gals who are as generous and thoughtful as I wish I were.
StepBlog
Last year, she became a stepmother to 3 children at once - and she barely drinks at all! She's my hero.
The Ice Floe
Did you know that polar bears are one of the few wild animals who will actually hunt human beings over the course of days or weeks? It's true.
And did you know that the Peripatetic Polar Bear is an amazing writer whose link used to be on my blogroll when I was slumming over at Blogspot, and somehow she got left off when I made the move?
She shouldn't feel bad. I'm terrible at moving. One time I moved and left a dishwasher full of pots, pans and dishes behind. I barely qualify as a grown-up.
Amalah
Smart. Gorgeous. Successful. Lives in the metro area that I would choose, should I ever choose to live in a metro area. She's like the bizarro Me!
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*(Edited to add: Thank you, Lila. That worked perfectly.)
I'm sitting up at 2:30 a.m. in Thor and Lila's guest room in Boston. Buttercup is asleep next to me, although it is a rather precarious sleep.
Always prone to waking up crying, she had an especially long jag tonight about an hour after falling asleep. And then, just as her spine-wrenching, inconsolable night terror screams (Why, Hello upstairs neighbors. No, we're not killing a child down here. Why do you ask?) softened and eased into a low hum of droning cries, I decided it was a fine time to begin my own crying jag.
The best part of this story? It was my second crying jag of the day.
I picked the wrong week to quit huffing craft paint.
The details of the day are more likely to bore you to tears than to move you to them. But it all boils down to my not being particularly good at being either a grown up or a mother today.
"Kwitcher cryin', baby, Mama's gotta get her cell phone service turnt back on!"
I'll cut myself a modicum of slack because once again we have managed to heap upon ourselves as many life-changing stressors as we can things are pretty hectic right now.
But that just doesn't excuse that fact that I have melted down twice in one day just because I was faced with a few little (see how I'm not saying "endless stream of") frustrations. And in the very middle of both of my meltdowns, I closed my eyes and could see clearly this awful Mommy all crying and frustrated, and it made me cry all the harder to have been so far from the mark of the person I want to be.
Toss on top of that sundae the fact that I have switched from one antidepressant* to another this week, and maybe I should be glad I only gave in to self-pitying/loathing tears twice today.
But hey, there's always tomorrow.
*I read me a few online journals, and I can't count the number of times I've read people describing their experience with antidepressants. That shit should come with a warning label: Side effects may include blogging.
And instead of continuing to wallow in my own Kleenexes, I'm going to wallow in my incredible success.
Amalah of Mom's Daily Dose over at ClubMom awarded me this week the John Cougar Mellencamp Hurts So Good Blog Award of Excellence. Moreover, she and others said some incredibly nice things about me and my under-appreciated efforts here on the Innernets.
(That work stands in stark contrast, of course, to all other facets my decidedly over-appreciated contributions to the world at large.)
Thank you Amy for being so kind. Thank you Moreena for saying nice things, including that I am (oh, how I am laughing) inspirational. And thank you to everyone who has visited here as a result. It's lovely to hear from all of you, and even more lovely to find your sites.
And in the true spirit of the Hurts So Good award, I promise to post more frequently, change my name a lot and do something to help the farmers.
Or maybe I'll just put on some chaps and dance on the tables at the local diner.
One day, Anni, you will be through with all this. It will be a distant memory, like a childhood song whose words and melody come to you only in fragments.
You will roll your blue eyes when your mother asks where you're driving, who will be there, call if you go anywhere else.
"You're so over-proTECtive," you'll call over your shoulder as you head through the door, a flutter of blonde curls.
Because your mother has kept such good notes, you may know the details of your story better than many people who have traveled roads similar to yours. You're lucky for that, and I hope you thank her one day.
Your story is her story, too. And your father's and your sister's. The scars you own are their scars, too, and they represent all the worst fears and best cases and burning questions and and lost sleep and lost sleep and lost sleep.
One day, you will help your own daughter or son climb the ladder on the small slide at the park, and you will realize that your child is the same age you were when you had your second transplant. You'll take her corduroy jacket off because she's gotten too hot with all her playing. You'll wipe her face and her hair, sweaty and damp around the top of her forehead.
You'll wonder how your mother got through it.
You'll wonder how you got through it.
These years will be fuzzy memories one day, but your scars will stay with you. Maybe you'll hate them for a while, and wish they could just disappear. Maybe you'll forget you have them, and remember only when a new doctor asks.
"What? These? Oh yeah..."
And maybe you'll look at them one day, and whisper "Thank you," because you have absolute, undeniable proof that you are strong, that you can fight, that you can do anything.
I hope the day comes soon, Anni, that all of this is just a memory.
