Consider Me Got (A Marketer's Dream)

Through the years (cue Kenny Rogers). And yes, I have been feeling super nostalgic lately...

No idea what is happening in East London on September 13, but this video is rad all the same.

It Starts Off Nice and Sweet-Like

I totally forgot to tell you, didn't I?*We went on vacation.
A wee road trip down south, past miles of cows standing knee deep in their own shit**, over freeways and through towns, across beaches and over 108°F. Not much to report except this:Tomorrow I turn un certain âge. Thursday Zoey starts kindergarten. In 2 weeks my maternity leave is over. I spent the whole week pressing my toes down hard on an imaginary brake pedal in the passenger seat and now I have a cramp in the ball of my foot.


*Neither here nor there but everywhere, do you kinda' hate when bloggers write directly to you? Like that whole Ferris Bueller breaking-the-fourth-wall schtick, asking questions and then proceeding as if you've answered, all cutesy "I know you" wink wink, calling you love, darling, insert pet name here? Cause lately I do. I don't know, it just seems condescending. Insincere. And I know that I do it sometimes, too. Still. Also? I hate when bloggers tell stories about their kids that sound like some Dawson's (shit) Creek dialogue that you just know didn't happen. Or when the writing almost becomes a caricature of itself. Just sayin.' See also: I'm totally a bitch but it's almost my birthday which may or may not have something to do with it because what do you get for the girl who just bought a glass house?

**Do cows have even have knees?

It Was A Very Good Year

Forever it was Crazy Love, the song that Zoey and I sang at bedtime. I'd tickle her back and we'd whisper the words to each other, smooshing our faces together for the part that goes kiss and hug her, kiss and hug her tight. Truth be told, this is still my favorite nigh-night song, though Zoey has moved on. Now she wants to hear Frank every night, so I turn it on, the song that softens her eyes into the faraway nostalgia of a 5 year old girl who still has to ask if 5 minutes is a short time or a long time (and won't settle for my answer that it depends).

Oh, it has not escaped me that the song starts at 17, which was apparently a very good year for small town girls on the village green, then goes to 21 with city girls who lived up the stairs, and then 35 with blue-blooded girls of independent means (my favorite), only to end there, the good years. Because after 35? It's all short days and vintage wine according to ol' blue eyes, the autumn of the years, which does not bode well for my birthday in a few weeks which has me turning twenty-nineteen or twenty-five-fourteen, because, you know, it depends.

Though I was thinking tonight, while singing the song, that it has been a very good year, when I was 38, for pregnant girls and soft children's cheeks, we counted down the weeks, and bought some real estate, when I was 38. (Lacking the soul of Sinatra, yes, but it was a very, very good year.)

Nothing Like Bob Ross To Help You Start Off Your Week

Bob Ross + a lil' Dub Step, throw in some motherfuckin' paint and carry the one = Happy Monday to you.

xo,
S

It's Official

As if the c-section scar wasn't proof enough...
I put him on my other wrist.

And now, when I wrap my arms around myself, the names of my children hug me.

With time the letters will fatten and bleed, bleached from the sun, and the words will fall from my mouth as light as an everyday truth--that's right, yes, my children.

Wunderkind Powers Activate! Form Of...

Quick! Name a job that requires one to roll over. (No, not that one you sick f.) Because it turns out Ozzy is a genius, like a roll-over child prodigy. Since he was 7 weeks old he's been performing at the level of a highly trained adult in the demanding field of rolling from tummy to back, which I didn't realize was noteworthy until his pediatrician expressed great surprise. Totally the face of an advanced cerebral cortex...

Apparently most babies don't roll over until 4 or 5 months of age. Of course I'm wondering what this holds for his future. I mean, Mozart had music, John von Neumann had math, Saul Kripke philosophy. I'm thinking that with his whiz kid mad rolling skillz that Ozzy will one day be a genius...sniper? Really good at dousing fire should he ever be engulfed in flames? What other use could the world glean from this obvious gift?

Meanwhile, Zoey has been spending her mornings at ballet class and her afternoons at Tae Kwon Do. With maybe just a little bit of trouble adjusting her body language between each class...
She is the only girl in ballet who wears a black tutu in a sea of pink and purple, and the only girl in Tae Kwon Do who wears a bow in her hair while she strikes k'ihap.

Be still my beating heart. Wunderkind powers activate. Form of: My Everything.

p.s. If you Google "my child is a..." with the intent to search "genius," Google finishes your sentence with the following: bully, brat, sociopath, monkey, psychopath.

p.p.s. Sometimes I wonder if all these photos everyone's taking these days with iphone app Instagram/Hipstomatic/Camera Bag filters will look dated someday. Like how one day in 2003 I looked around my living room at all the faux distressed cream colored furniture and realized I had somehow become Rachel Ashwell's bitch without my knowing it. Thoughts?

What's On The Other Side

Zoey and I had our first annual girlie day this weekend (and by annual I mean more like monthly only "monthly girlie day" sounds too much like menses and I have always hated the word menses). We left the boys at home to think about boobs while we went to get pedicures.
I walked in thinking I would get a pretty purple color, maybe something in the rose family, but Zoey was dead-set on rainbow colored toes and after I saw just how happy her feet looked, I couldn't resist. I do believe I've found my new go-to for summer toes.

I'm telling you--that girl? She is what keeps me stargazing.
xo,
S