Boo! (Fucking Hoo)

I like to be scared. That thrilling race down a dark hallway, jumping into bed knowing, just knowing that surely something will grab at the bone of my ankle from beneath the bedsprings. And I have always loved Halloween, a holiday about candy and kids, play and pumpkins and traipsing through the streets at night. But this Halloween has proven to be the scariest of them all, and for once I don't want to be scared. For once I am just too tired to make the leap of faith into the certain safety of my bed.

Because nothing is certain.

Yesterday afternoon I got laid off. Again. The second time in 6 months. I work in product development, retail. I create cool shit for people to buy but in this economy nobody's buying shit. And so it was that yesterday afternoon the hand came out from underneath and grabbed at the bone of my ankle and I did not even flinch. It got me. They got me. I don't know who exactly but here I am, crumpled in the darkness once again.

I am scared. Way more scared than last time. I am depressed. Defeated. I am tired and sad. Angry, guilty, broken; in a way, I don't feel like I am in my body right now. I am nothing but a deep gnawing pit in my stomach, an emptiness.And so tonight, when I take Zoey in her ladybug costume to the local Halloween parade, I, too, will be wearing a mask. Oh sure, I'll be in jeans and a coat, no costume really. Just the mask of a mother who is trying to pretend that these are not the Days of the Dead.

Holding On

The fog rolls in and I turn on our heater for the first time this fall, the house smelling of burnt dust. It is past my bedtime. Bryan asleep already with the light left on, A Thousand Splendid Suns splayed open across his chest, the plight of Afghanistan rising and falling, rising and falling. Down the hallway in her room, Zoey coughs. Rolls over. Cries out. Me at the computer watching Obama’s 30 minute commercial and feeling too full, too hopeful, my skin seemingly stretched brittle and tight, the world. Rising and falling, rising and falling. Zoey’s temperature is 103 with two more hours to go before I can give her more Motrin so I call the after-hours advice nurse. There is not a liberal America or a conservative America; there is the United States of America. I am on hold for 12 minutes, Obama in one ear, muzak in the other. My kitchen at midnight and I am suspended in elevator music, rising and falling. My chest too full and I am afraid it might crack. Inhale inhale inhale and I find myself lying to the advice nurse with a sigh. Is she out of breath? Is she panting? Is she not acting her normal self? No, no, no, she’s fine, I want her to be fine, everything’s fine and for a minute it is as if I have just called the advice nurse at midnight to chat. It’s just a fever, fever’s are good, fever’s are fine, fever’s break.

But what I do not tell the advice nurse, what I do not tell anyone really, is that alone at midnight in my kitchen feasting on a bag of Butterfinger Halloween candy, by the indifferent glow of the computer monitor, that is what I am most afraid of: that when you are asleep, temperatures rise and everything breaks.

Image here.

Caveat Emptor (And I Have the Battle Wounds to Prove It)

I spent last night in bed with a hot body, thrashing wildly in the sheets. Which of course is not what it could be given that the hot body in question was my feverish toddler who forbids me to ever cut her nails. Suffice it to say I did not sleep. I have decided that this is something her father and I will tell prospective suitors when our daughter is a teenager: sleeping with Zoey is much like going to bed with a hot sweaty fish that sports inch long toenails. And then I will show them this video and say sure, she's cute, but she also eats her boogers.

Anatomy of a Sick Day

11:30am: Phone call from daycare to report that Zoey has a fever of 102 degrees. I must come collect my child ASAP before extremities acutely fall off the other children in the leprostatic hysteria that is the common cold in confined quarters.

Noon: Arrive home. Zoey demands to watch The Little Mermaid. Her temperature is now miraculously 98 degrees and she wants to sit on top of the coffee table, not the couch as the couch is for babies. Direct quote.

Sometime after Ariel meets Prince Eric and sings ahahhhahhhhh: Zoey begins to decline.

1pm: The couch is no longer for babies.

And she's out.

As am I.

Back tomorrow!

And How Was Your Weekkend?

Pssst! Hey you, listen up!

I've got something cool I want to show you. Over here!

Check out these images of London based artist Riitta Ikonen. And no, I didn't suffer from tremors just now while typing. She really does have two i's and two t's in her name like that. Which means, of course, that she must be an artist. Or Swedish. Icelandic? No matter.

Dude. I totally feel like this sometimes. Especially on Monday.

Why the freak am I posting this today, you might ask? Lord knows I am not a design blog. The thing is my weekend consisted of seeing a movie. W, if you must know. I give it 2.5 stars if you must know that, as well. No real plot arc but Josh Brolin was awesome. And then the next day we went on a blind (play) date with another couple who also has a toddler girl. I also give that 2.5 stars. I liked the husband--he was British and strange. Bryan liked the wife better--she was earthy and dry. All of this makes us sound like swingers which would totally be worthy of its own blog post but we are not swingers and the only thing that matters, I suppose, is that Zoey liked the other little girl, they shared their toys and ate bananas. And then on Sunday I made butterscotch pumpkin cookies for not one but two Halloween parties. The parties were fun. The cookies sucked. I sprinkled them with powdered sugar before they were cool so the granules hardened into yellow crystals making it look as if I had dusted crystal meth on my cookies which believe you me would have made them a whole lot better and worthy, perhaps, of an entire post. But I didn't sprinkle my pumpkin butterscotch cookies with crystal meth, so yeah. No story there. Again, no real plot arc. So that's why I'm posting these images. Because my weekend was domestic and real and this artwork is bizzare and surreal.

Which is what Monday deserves.

Because Non Causa Pro Causa, That's Why

I have prayed for the light to change, for sun. I have prayed for a zit to clear up, for sick friends and family. I have prayed for money. Basically my prayers read like a letter to Santa and in times of need I have not let my lack of a clear faith hinder me from asking. Please please please please. Gimme gimme gimme gimme. I want, I need, if this, then that. When desperate I have been known to bargain. And usually, after the event, when the zit goes away or the sun beats down, even if it rains, I usually forget about the deal I made. The next day I will eat a bowl of ice cream and run yellow lights; I will pick at my skin and not call my mother back. Of this I am not proud. If this, then that. When I snap my fingers no tigers appear. Again I snap my fingers and still no tigers. And yet after the snap I rarely pause to kiss my fingertips.

I made a deal yesterday that if by some divine intervention my blog was fixed I would embrace the karmic innovation of the Universe and wear the patented Camel Toe Cup. You’d think that God or whomever would be more interested in healing the sick, but who am I to question? I snapped my fingers and still no tigers because apparently the Universe craves camels. And so here I am once again appearing on Google Reader, Bloglines, on RSS feeds everywhere. Lo! The Heavens parted! Let there be Lips!

You’re just going to have to trust me that this photo is yours truly. Because no matter now hard I pleaded, Bryan just would not take a photo that included my head. I mean, there I was doing my Jazzercise routine in our living room last night, the perfect opportunity for me to make good on the deal I made with the Blogiverse. Grapevine left! Grapevine left! Chassé! Chassé! Clearly Bryan was dazzled by the sparkle of my elastic unitard suspenders because he didn’t take one photo that included my face.

Anyway, that’s that. Snap! Amen. And now for this. Happy Friday:

How Does One Tie Together a Camel Toe with Past Life Regression and Site Issues? Oh, You'd be Surprised. Now with Bonus John McCain Mention!

In a past life I was not a princess. Or a queen. I did not wear jewel encrusted gowns or float down the Nile on a bed of reeds. I did not eat cake. What I did do, apparently, was torture and kill the internet; in a past life I was the Attila the Hun of progress. Of course there was no internet back then, so it must have been a precursor, some other invention that forever changed civilization. Maybe I was terrifically cruel to Eli Whitney and his Cotton Gin or I poked fun at Louise Austin and her Pinking Shears. Whatever it was, it must have been awful because in this life, now? I have the worst freaking karma with the internet. First I deleted my own blog. Now I have lost all feeder access and my blog isn’t showing up anywhere. Wah wah wah all the way home and there are children dying right this very minute in Darfur and somewhere in Tennessee a kitten is stuck way up high in a tree. There’s a little black spot on the sun todaaaay (that’s my soul up there)…

So yeah, back to me and my problems. I have refreshed, rebooted, pressed really hard on Control+Alt+Delete and walked around my computer three times backward while spitting over my left shoulder and speaking in tongues to call forth the spirit of Kathie Lee Gifford and the Supremes. But none of my juju is working. What the Eff, Internet? Can’t I just apologize and we call it a day? I’m sorry if I questioned Ben Franklin with that whole electricity thing and that I ever doubted that John McCain had anything to do with the invention of the Blackberry or the abacus. I get it now, I do. I believe! Penicillin works and hydrogen is da’ bomb! I’m sorry! Now please, I implore you: let the skies part and somebody step forward who can help me fix my feedburner/RSS/Google Reader thingie issue. If you do, so help me Steve Jobs, I will totally rally for necessity being the mother of invention and wear this latest doohickey with pride:

The makers of “Velcro Mullet” proudly present: CAMEL TOE CUP!
The packaging reads: If there is someone you want to get to know, show ‘em the Toe!! Easily and securely attaches to the included “Toe-Belt.”
Not tested on camels

Molded of durable Teflon

Each CTC is numbered and registered at our central office, in case you leave it after a night of whorin’ or it is found in a dumpster

Deep Groove™ channel accommodates all materials (denim, cotton, silk, burlap)

Dishwasher and microwave safe
Call for sizing chart*

MildMediumCougar**
Testimonials:

“The deep groove locks it in place, no more embarrassing shifting.”—Mary Clam, age 22
“I wanted to impress this guy at the bar, so I opened a beer with my cup, we’ve been going out for three days, he drives a Camaro, I’m in heaven!”—Bobbi-Marie Mudflap, age 52
“When I am not wearing it, I use as a recipe card holder, I am always finding new uses for it!”—Rhonda Sluichuck, age 45
*Look for Jr. Model coming soon!!**Cougar model includes built-in bottle opener

So there. I have said my Hail Mary's and repent for whatever I have done to warrant this heinous computer karma. Please, for the love of camels. Help me find the light and the way back to my feed reader.

Amen and other religous stuff,

Susannah

p.s. Fire rocks! Another awesome invention!

But Is It a Holiday in Arizona?

HOLY CAPS LOCK, PEOPLE! YES, I'M YELLING BECAUSE IT'S 8:20PM AND NOBODY TOLD ME THAT TODAY IS INTERNATIONAL CAPS LOCK DAY! WHERE ARE THE PRESENTS? THE E-CARDS? THE EXCLAMATION POINTS?!!!!!!

SO I AM USING TODAY, THE MOST OBNOXIOUS OF ALL KEYS, TO TELL YOU THIS: IF YOU HAVEN'T BEEN ABLE TO GET MY BLOG IN YOUR GOOGLE OR RSS, FEEDBURNER BLAH BLAH THINGAMABOP, CANCEL YOUR SUBSCRIPTION AND THEN RE-SUSCRIBE. MAGIC! IT WORKED FOR ME. 4 OUT OF 5 DENTISTS RECOMMEND IT AND I'M NOT A DOCTOR BUT I PLAY ONE ON TV. PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF IT WORKS.

HAPPY INTL' CAPS LOCK DAY!

UPDATE: IT IS NOW THURSDAY, OCTOBER 23. NO LONGER INTL' CAPS LOCK DAY. NOW I AM JUST FLAT-OUT YELLING. GAH! MY GOOGLE READER STOPPED WORKING AGAIN, MY BLOG STOPPED SHOWING UP AND I'M SO INCREDIBLY FRUSTRATED. THE END.

Wednesday's Child

You in your crib surrounded by plush, eyelids pinked by paper-thin threads of capillaries and sights yet seen. My blood. Your head, how you sweat when you sleep, sweet wet milky scent of skin and breath. How you lower your forehead sometimes to mine, the two of us on the floor of your bedroom reading books, closer, you come closer until you are one big starfished Cyclops, closer, and I inhale your giggle as if it were the smell of fresh baked bread.

I cannot get you close enough and so I drink in your breath, the sound of your voice, the way you look at me from under your eyelashes. Since making you I have been hungry. Your hair dusted with sand, the butter of your forearms inked with purple star stamps. You have no idea. I surrendered long ago.

Season of Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness

And just like that, it was Autumn.
As such, a bounty of pumpkins, a field and fog...

And a giggling girl in an apple sweater.

The sweet smell of hay and healthy poop.

And bumpy wheelbarrow rides to nowhere, the best possible destination on any given day.

A peek.

A poke.

A pig in a poke. And another pig. And a cow. Eee, i, eee, iii, oooooo.

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours...

And if you've made it this far, well, first: thank you. Second: I've noticed that my Google Reader feed is not picking up my blog anymore. I've tried everything I know to fix it which pretty much amounts to me punching the Enter key with my pointer finger and sighing a lot. Surprise, surprise, this does not work. Any ideas on what it could be? How to fix it? Are you having the same issue with Petunia Face in your Google, RSS or Feedburner feeder?

Happy Tuesday.

Monday, Monday

If this day were a person it would totally be my brother’s and my childhood nemesis, Josh Maggot. And yes, that was his real name. He lived up the street from us and used to shoot my brother with his bb gun and call my mother a cunt. I was maybe six, he and my brother would’ve been eight. He had wiry hair and weasel eyes; he was short and mean as a feral dog. Josh Maggot was like a character in a Charles Dickens novel in that everything about him from his name to his physicality accentuated who he was and his lot in life.

October 20th, 2008: This day also seems to go by the moniker of Josh Maggot. From the minute I walked into work the day has been pelting me with bbs hot and hard. At noon I am fairly certain I heard the day call me a cunt. What this day does not seem to know, however, what Josh Maggot himself did not know back then, is that it will remain short, wiry and mean. It will be forever aiming its gun at something, anything, nothing, its mouth full of foul sound. It will grow stunted and dark, limited, while I will grow up, grow tall, go to sleep and wake up to another day. Perhaps tomorrow will have a different name: Serena, maybe, Allaire or Lily. Something soft, I am sure. Or maybe tomorrow will be named Dorothea Shaw. She was my 4th grade teacher, a hippie who would pull us on her lap when we fell on the playground, one hand hovering over the scraped arm or knee. She would wave her hand three inches over the owie in question in rhythmic circles over and over and over, lulling us into silence and then quickly shake her hand off as if the pain were sticky. And it worked. The pain flew away.

Something tells me Josh Maggot didn't have Dorothea Shaw as his 4th grade teacher.

May your day be named something nice and your tomorrow even sweeter.
'Til then.

Chain Link

I have taken to asking Zoey questions that I want her to answer with yes, because she is prone to yes. Do you love mama? I ask. Yes. Do you want to brush your teeth? Yes. Last night we sat outside to eat our dinner, enjoying the last vestiges of Indian Summer, and in between bites of her grilled cheese Zoey climbed on my lap and poked at my tummy. Thas your baby in ‘der? She asked. No, Zoey, I said, there’s no baby in there right now. But you used to live in there, in my belly. Do you remember that? I asked. Yes, she said, and scrunched in closer. Do you remember the sound of my heart? I asked. Yes, she said. Was it warm? Did you hear my voice? Do you miss it sometimes? Yes, yes and yes. And then just as a test I asked, Were there cows in there? Baby lambs? Disco lights and a fog machine? Yes, yes, yes and yes.


Two days ago we were driving, I don’t remember where to. Zoey’s sippy cup fell on the floor and rolled under my seat and she screamed that she wanted it. Mama! Mama! My sippy cup! With my left hand on the steering wheel I wrenched my right arm back and around, my fingers grazing blindly at cloth, lint, the stray goldfish. I can’t reach it sweetpea, I said. But Mama! My sippy cup! And she would not stop with the screaming. I was on the freeway driving fast. I can’t get it for you right now Zo, I said. It’s not safe. Lesson one: do not reason with terrorists and two year olds. Mama! My sippy cup! Get ittttt!!!!! And I lost it there driving a tad bit over the speed limit. Through clenched teeth I spat, BUT. I. CAN’T. REACH. IT. And from there in her car seat Zoey spat back, BUT. I. WANT. IT. Surprised, I glimpsed in my rear view mirror and she was sitting there just laughing.

How long do I have before Zoey answers my questions with an automatic no? Can I have a kiss? No. Did you miss me? No. Before she stops laughing? The thought. Quite simply: It breaks me.

Long time readers of Petunia Face might have noticed that for the past few weeks my own mother has been missing in action. Judy of the paragraph-long comments. We got in a fight. I won’t get into what it was about, mainly because it’s over. Ish. It’s over-ish. The thing is no matter what she is my mother and I am me. We push each other’s buttons like it’s nobody’s business and we love each other even more. She is at once both too much and not enough. BUT. I. WANT. IT. And I am at once loving and hateful that she can’t always reach it.

In the end the answer is still yes, always yes. I remember what it was like to be in her belly. Yes, it was warm. Yes, I heard her voice. And yes, there were disco balls and a fog machine, strobe lights, it was a party. She is a party. And yes, I still feel the beating of her heart.

Feeling a Bit Adagio Aujourd'hui, Hence This:

Exhibiting the grandeur and grace of a Prima ballerina assoluta...


And if you should so much as slightly question this assertion I will most certainly get all Texas Cheerleader Murdering Mom on your ass.

Because those toes? That tummy? The dimpled elbows and caterwauling twirls? That is sheer perfection en pointe avec aplomb, arabesque et arrière, ma petite chou qui danse le pas de chat. Quite literally, she makes me fondu.

From my corps de ballet to yours...

Chassé, chassé and jazz hands.

Love,

Petunia Face

Shoot Me Now

I'm watching The View.
Next up: Maury Povich.
I'm sick at home today. Snot-nosed, phlegmy, swollen and red.
Back tomorrow.
With love from the living room couch,
Susannah

UPDATE: Holy Snot Rocket! Right now I'm watching The Tyra Banks Show and good lord that girl is a blowhard! Check me out, live blogging from the sick bay but I just couldn't help myself. Tyra Banks is one self-righteous boob.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

I seem to have passed down the codependent anthem to my daughter, but still. Has pop psychology ever sounded so freaking adorable???



My apologies for the wonky camera angle. No, I wasn't trying to get all Tarantino on you. I just can't figure out how to turn the video right-side-up, but the song, well--it's THAT cute that it can be watched from any angle really.

In 1492 Columbus Sailed the Ocean Blue

And here we are in 2008, wherein Susannah enslaves her child and soul mate.

My husband is 1/8th Native American (7/8ths “other” hotness). It then follows that my daughter is 1/16th indigenous. Which makes me, as 100% Anglo-asshole, their conqueror, oppressor, leader and the cause of the ultimate genocide of their culture, religion, land and their peoples. You know, 1/8th and 1/16th respectively. To honor this day I plan on forcing Bryan and Zoey to don loin cloths made of Seventh Generation paper towels while they clean the house and cook my meals. While they are doing so I will ransack their rooms for gold, spices and the odd quarter. I will discover America from the living room couch. If they so much as make a barbaric peep I will sell them into slavery, or better yet, feed them to Nacho, my hunting dog/cat. God Save the Queen! I will shout, raising my ice cream spoon high over head. Because I can.

Happy Columbus Day to you, too. Whatever the eff that means.

Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board

Fun Friday Factoid! I am awesome at crank phone calls. None of this is your refrigerator running crap. I do accents. Bad accents, yes. Accents that make you wonder where the eff I’m from and if maybe I am just a little bit retarded and have a large popcorn kernel stuck in between my teef, but I never break character. If I’m retarded I commit to retarded. I can cry on cue and never let the laughter at the back of my throat bubble forth at the wrong moment. Back in the Golden Age of B*69 (Before *69, aka Pre-Caller ID) I used to make my friends pee in their jammies at slumber parties with my crank conversations and courageous calls to cute boys. What are you wearing, I’d whisper, and then, can I tell you about my fantasy involving a midget and a handful of Pop Rocks in an elevator while a dog barks and The BeeGees croon in the background? It may not seem funny now but coming from a girl wearing dots of white zit cream on her face it was hysterical as most things are when you’re all of fourteen years old.

Here I am, lo these 22 years later. On occasion I still wear zit cream to bed and my accents have not improved. However, telecommunications have been refined and crank calling is almost a thing of the past, a memory of a bygone era, like pagers and plastic triangle earrings, Clearly Canadian and walkmans. I have better things to do than pick up the phone to prank. Books to read, laundry to fold, a daughter to raise, The Hills to watch. Which is why I simply could not resist. This morning I saw on I Love to Watch that somebody had posted Spencer Pratt’s cell phone number. I could feel my lips tingling with anticipation, with, how do you say... bad accent? And so it was that this morning sitting at my desk at my very important grown up job I became for one short minute an Uzbekistani mankini waxer calling to confirm an appointment for anal bleaching, and did he also want to groom the vagina hair on his upper lip? Then I hung up and a minute later I was Heidi’s mother calling to tell him what an absolute douchebag he was to ever talk to me like that, then I became a hooker with a suspiciously deep voice, then LC calling to say I can grow a better mustache than he could. It was delicious and if there was a slam book I’d totally write in that, too. Spencer Pratt has a small blonde penis. Check this box if you agree, this box if you prefer your members (only) of the diminutive peach fuzz variety.


Am I mean? Yes, as only an inner fourteen year old girl can be. Are you mean? I don’t know. But here is his phone number: 818.854.2616. I double dog dare you to call before the number gets turned off. And then we can paint our toenails and braid each other’s hair.

TTFN! (Ta Ta For Now.)

p.s. Paige, if you don't call Speidi I'm totally putting your bra in the freezer.

Petunia Face's Economic Stimulus Plan (Beware: This Post May Contain Complex Heterodoxical Supply and Demand Macro Market Jargon. In Theory.)

Tee Hee.

Tomorrow I am getting a deluxe facial. I am also contemplating buying this, this or this. Truth be told I have nowhere to don that last this but if I'm going to be fiscally fucked I'd rather be fucked in a pretty red party frock. Fuck that, right? After all, my balls aren't blue.

That, my dears, is my economic stimulus plan. To keep calm and carry on, as it were. To take a cold shower and still steam my pores.

And you? What are you doing in this session that nobody will just come right out and call a re(cession)?

Can't We All Just Get Along? No? Well, Okay Then

Image via The Progressive

I’ll be the first to admit: I live in a bubble. It’s nice here in my bubble, shiny, clean. When the light catches the sides just right rainbows appear, iridescent swaths of color and nuance. John Travolta lives in my bubble as a boy sheathed in plastic (before there was ever a hair plug). Hybrids fight for parking spots at Whole Foods and the birds get drunk on organic berries come Fall. I live in Marin County, a bastion of liberalism coupled with wealth, a tra la la where the Trufulla Trees still grow and we have all the Thneeds we need. In Marin we are each of us both preacher and choir.

Yesterday on my way to the mall I saw a car with a McCain/Palin bumper sticker and it pricked me like a pin here in my bubble. Poke! Huh? It looked funny, a joke. For a second I forgot to breathe, the oxygen wicked away and then I remembered. Yes, yes, of course. This is an election. Two parties with a hint of a third. And a million different points of view outside this bubble where the light is refracted and split into polarizing optical opposites and nobody can really see anything.

I watched the debate last night and was bored. There is very little anyone could say at this point that would change my vote. At any point, really. I was born in this bubble and will likely never leave. I believe gay people have the right to marry. Women have the right to choose. This country needs a fundamental change in foreign policy and I see that change, that hope, in Obama. Yes we can and yes I will. November 4th. Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, commited citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has. –Margaret Mead

image via 30reasons.org

But I wonder. Why doesn’t everyone see it this way? What does the air taste like outside my bubble? Are the colors the same? The rainbow? Do they arc and play, is it pretty? Way back when in 1704 Sir Isaac Newton concluded that different colors are present in all light, that prisms do not create colors but merely separates what is already there.
For the rays, to speak properly, are not colored. In them there is nothing else than a certain power and disposition to stir up a sensation of this or that color.

This election has stirred up quite a sensation. There are Democrats and there are Republicans. There is Me and then there is You. The prism has shifted and split us all, casting out the light into refractions and diffractions, slivers of different dispersions, absolute truths that must have always been there right outside my reality. I am right. My bubble is clean. I KNOW this, I will not bend. But to hear anything the sound waves must move, the light waves must bend. To know anything I must listen. And so I wonder: what is to become of the mirage that is a rainbow? There is no end. What is to become of us all if we cannot breathe outside of our own pretty little bubbles?

Special Edition: Filler Post (Now with Ranch Dressing!)

Sometimes I feel bad for Tuesday. It has no real identity. Monday sucks. Wednesday is Hump Day. Thursday is trash night and then Friday gets its own acronymed restaurant and everything. TGIF! With flair! But Tuesday? Tuesday is just a filler day, a ream of blank paper to fill in your binder on the first day of school. Tuesday is the kind of day that waits in lines, never at the front, never at the back, just a filler person of a day, just there, no flair. Just Tuesday.

This blog post will be the personification of Tuesday. I have nothing specific to say, really. Just a bunch of spackle to fill in the blanks. My talk will be caulk, if you will, and this caulk has no shock (value).

So Tuesday, yes, I won another fellow blogger award. Okay, maybe you are shocked at that.

Is your Portuguese a little rusty? Me, too. Here's a rough translation and the meaning of the award: “This blog invests and believes, in ‘proximity’ meaning, that blogging makes us 'close'. They are all charming blogs, and the majority of them aim to show the marvels of friendship; there are persons who are not interested when we give them a prize, and then they help to cut these bows; do we want that they are cut, or that they propagate? Then let’s try to give more attention to them! So with this prize we must deliver it to eight bloggers that in turn must make the same thing and put this text.”

I'm down with the whole proximity and butterflies until it gets to the part about "not being interested when we give them a prize," and then I cry foul. Because me? I am shamelessly interested in prizes, in cakewalks, ribbons and trophies. Most days the first thing I do when I get home from work is strip down to my bathrobe and adorn myself with bows. I like pats on the head; I lap up praise and compliments and piddle on the hooked rug at the slightest hint of criticism. Still. Simply AnonyMom gave me this prize and I am not giving it back even if I am interested in the prize. Thank you, AnonyMom. I will wear it with pride.

And now for the propagation in no particular order, I'm just scattering the seeds:

A Cup of Jo

Coco + Kelley

Her Bad Mother

What Would Jane Austen Do?

Inside the Loop

Tobi et al

Richie Design

Lifenut

There. I have nothing else to say, it being a Tuesday and all. I love the blogosphere (and you and you and you) and now I must go back to waiting in line, sitting still in traffic. I must send back my Netflix and buy some more milk and blahdiblahblah, STOP! WAIT A FREAKING MINUTE HERE! I just now realized that Tuesday is not poor filler day Tuesday! It DOES have its own restaurant, just like TGIFridays! Tuesday's got its own 37 pieces of flair and it's called RUBY TUESDAY! Holy Buffalo Chicken Burger Batman, this revelation has completely rocked my world. Seriously. I am going to have to completely re-think the rhythm of my week(s).

p.s. Does it mean that I am sick if when I look at the above Google image of Ruby Tuesday the first thing I think of is the giant stinky poos these men will make later? Their guts so obviously full of Fork-Tender Ribs and Ruby Classic Burgers? Yes? Yes it does make me sick in the cabesa? Wait, please don't take away my award! I am still down with the Proximidade! I still love you! I just love you with a side of ranch dressing now because that's what Tuesday is all about, it being Ruby and all.

Happy Tuesday!

If It Wasn't for Good Luck, Well, She'd Still Be Pretty Freakin' Lucky

Meet my friend Amber:

She is without a doubt the luckiest person you will ever meet. She asked me not to say that in fear that simply verbalizing said luck would be a jinx, but I assured her it is nothing we haven't all been saying for years. If there is a prize to be won she'll win it. Random drawing? Amber's the name you'll hear called. Most weekends if you ask Amber what she's doing she'll tell you she's going to some concert or a wine tasting or perhaps a seven course steak dinner gratis because she won tickets from a radio station. And here is where I wonder what the hell I did in a past life that was so bad that I have not yet won a mountain bike in this life as Amber has, but ay, here's the rub: Amber calls radio stations. She actually enters contests and drops her business card in the fishbowl at the counter and that is why this past Saturday night she invited ten of her closest girlfriends to a free Beauty Bash at Benefit Cosmetics where we all got complimentary champagne, hors d'oeuvres, a brow wax and a makeover.

Sometimes I Just Love Being a Girl.

I spent much of the evening being a complete asshat blogger, living in the moment of the post and taking photos of everyone with wax dripping between their eyes, so it's only fair that I share this here pic of Yours Truly getting my lashes tinted:

Jazz Hands!

The evening was a veritable girlie fest of shrieking and laughing, discussions of ovulation over wine and cheese, mascara, blush and chocolate. I don't know exactly when it dawned on me but sometime during the night I realized that I am just as lucky as my friend Amber. True, I have never won a mountain bike. (But truer still: perhaps this is fortuitous seeing as how if I did I might actually have to ride it.) The only time I have ever called a radio station is to correct the on-air personality and would you believe I didn't win anything for that? Still, I am lucky. I am lucky to have good girlfriends in my life. Girls who are smart and girls who are funny. Girls who like their pizza with figs, wine and honey. Girls who know that a Beauty Bash with a complimentary brow wax means that you will end up spending upwards of $200 on makeup but go for the love of the free swag and the chit chat. Girls who are lucky.

Thanks, Amber, for a smashing evening. I am lucky to have a friend who thinks it's entirely possible to win, a friend who sees yellow and not pollen, sunshine and not a blistering sunburn, a friend that sees the mustache on LC's upper lip and isn't afraid to discuss it with me in public.

And now for the After:

From Left to Right With Face-Fulls of Make-Up But Beautiful Even Without: Sara with the green scarf fresh back from Russia, Luck Be A Lady Herself: Amber, another Amber and the only one who knew it's best to wear grey to a make-over, Lilah beaming in the middle, Yoli full of smiles, Mollee pg and beautiful with baby #2, Rosalie there on the top right end; and on the bottom row from Left to Right, Jenny with her coveted purse, and Moi, looking a bit like a tranny.

Come One! Come All! Feast Your Eyes on The World's Most Narcissistic Post!

A bit redundant, I know. After all, the very act of blogging is a "look at me" proposition. But, you know, hey, look at me!

First off in the "I'm so vain" category (oh yes, there's more than one topic of vainversation here):


Check out my blong. Yes, that was a typo but I'm keeping it. "Bling" is so LYNMT2005APIJFMAASWPDYT (Last Year, No Make That 2005 And Plus It Just Flags Me As A Square White Person, Don't You Think? for those who may not be up on the latest acronyms). Plus, "blong" mixes the dazzle of bling with the weight of schlong and that is a beautiful thing. Anyhoo. Where was I? Oh yes. My blong: the snazzy new ROFL Award. (Again for those not up on the acronyms: ROFL stands for Running on Four Legs. Which I don't do so maybe that's wrong. Now I'm just trying too hard to be funny. So here it is flat out and real: Rolling on the Floor Laughing Award, hosted by Chicky Chicky Baby. When I told my husband that I won this award he replied quite dryly, "oh you crazy bloggers with your ROFLS!" Little did he know that I won the award for writing about pooping at work. If he had realized that he would have made me a freaking cake.) A Smeddling Kiss nominated me and now I want to make out with her. Which my husband would also probably make me a cake for doing, but that's a post for another day. Anyway, thank you Smeddling Kiss and Chicky Chicky Baby. I am honored to think that across this great nation people now think of me while dropping an office deuce.

Okay, vainversation topic #2: Me! And Zoey! And Bryan! With pics!!! Last night I found this old montage I made of the first year of Zoey's life and I thought I'd share it with you: Vintage Petunia Face before there was ever a blog:




And then I decided to make a new video, something slightly less schmaltzy and a little more upbeat. Petunia Face Productions presents Zoey From One to Two and Then Some:



I don't think I need to tell you where to go to make your own video seeing as how the logo is all over the damn place in those montages. Suffice it to say perhaps someone is more narcissistic than I? Ahem, http://www.onetruemedia.com/...

Happy Friday to all.
Mwah,
Susannah (Who Does Not Run on Four Legs)

UPDATE: GAH! I don't know why my videos are cut off on the right side, but I blame it on Sarah Palin.
UPDATE ON THE UPDATE: Rosalie is my tech support. Go to her blog for your own IT questions. ;0
UPDATE ON THE UPDATED UPDATE: Still not working!

I Simply Cawn't: Zoey's Guide to Saying No

Dahlings,
I am simply falling apart today. Really rawther tired tired tired!
Coming unraveled, it would seem. It started with a traffic jam, then an office full of work requests. (Can you believe? The gall?) Of course it's nothing a little nibble on a Nutter Butter won't solve, nom nom, ne temps fait pas!

A crumpet perhaps on my velvet settee après work, followed by a quick skibble of lipstick before scampering off to bed!

I simply cawn't post today! 'Til tomorrow!

Kisses,

Zoey

Wish You Were Here

Aloha peepalai'ious! (That's Hawaiian for "peeps." I just made it up.)


Today I'm guest posting over at The Lil Bee for Melissa who is probably right this very minute bobbing around in the clear turquoise island water, naked. Natch. Come visit me! Don't worry. She said I could have a few friends over...