It's been kind of a big week around here and I have a bunch of posts I meant to write but, you know, life gets in the way of living sometimes and before I know it, it's Saturday at 3:28 pm and all I've managed to do is drop my kids off at their dad's for the night, fuck the shit out of some lemon cookies I found on Pinterest, and blow dry my cute new hair.
Except that I did also get my son to wash his armpits and his ballsack today, so I suppose I should list that in my accomplishments for the day. I've never actually told either child, specifically, to wash their armpits and ballsacks before, and now I'm kind of worried that maybe neither of them *ever* have. I just really assumed that if you had a ballsack, it was something you'd just kind of automatically tend to, lest it find the chance to wind up in someone else's mouth.
Which can happen, you know.
It's important for me to keep an open mind about the issues of the day, and have friends who see this from various perspectives, because sometimes I act like a complete and total hypocrital leftwing whackjob douchebag on twitter and only my libertarian tea party throwin' incredibly disillusioned smart friends are going to call me out on it.
I imagine Donald Trump must feel exactly this same way about Stephen Colbert.
You just never know when opportunity will strike. WASH YOUR BALLSACKS, YOUNG MEN. Please don't make your parent ask you too. It will kill her/him inside.
And I really do think it's kind of important that we start saying very loudly that the norm doesn't have to be "mother", necessarily, and it doesn't have to be "father" either. Why? Read this post by my fellow mom dad parent blogger Vikki of Up Popped A Fox. Read it, and think about every kid in in this country right now who's got a big ol' political campaign aimed at one of their parent's heads. Raising these kids to be adjusted, happy, secure, confident, and successful is the most important thing we can do. The rest is details.
Speaking of, we went to Tucson for my son's state qualifier in marching band last week, and while they didn't qualify for state, they did increase their rankings an entire level -which is kind of remarkable in just a few short months playing heavy brass instruments in polyester Luigi suits for hours on end under the blazing Arizona sun together.
And if you want to read exactly my thoughts on why I think it's totally fine that those kids walked away from a ball-busting season completed empty-handed aside from some massive self-improvement in the face of BRASS and DESERT SUN and POLYESTER, go read Jim's post on Busy Dad Blog about not winning. He said it a thousand times better than I ever could have.
After the tournament, we went to visit Josh's cousin Chelsea and her wife Molly. Last time we saw them, 3of3 was still a speed bump on my torso, and they didn't have any children of their own yet. Now they have two completely ridiculously adorable children who I totally did not snap one picture of because apparently I forgot I was a blogger. What was interesting to me is that, while my sons of course know that Chelsea and Molly are both chicks, my daughter hasn't ever met them, and we certainly don't make a point of disclaimering everyone we speak of (they're both X gender, they have Y color skin, etc - doesn't fly in my house. People are PEOPLE, not things to be categorized) so I didn't know what she'd think when she saw, with her own two eyes, a family with two mommies.
And you know what she thought? Nothing. Didn't even phase her. It never registered as odd or out of place, it was never even something she mentioned, because she saw exactly what she sees every day: a bunch of kids with parents who love them, and give them coconut popsicles if you ask enough times. She wasn't even phased or the slightest bit confused when we all laughed about the last time we'd seen each other, when four year old 2of3 got into a heated argument with the entire family at a wedding, because it was UNCLE CHELSEA, EVERYONE, NOT AUNTIE SHUT UP.
Children can change the way wee see everything, if we just shut up and follow their lead occasionally.
I didn't vote last election. I was in Canada, it was a huge hassle, whatever whatever yada bullshit excuse, I was in Canada. This year, I look at my son who will be old enough to be drafted/fight and die in a war/vote come the next election and I think crap, I have to show him this is the only thing that matters in his whole entire life on November 6th. I have to show him that this is Priority Numero Uno, especially in Maricopa County where they have purposely whoopsie! tried to trick non-English speaking people into not voting, twice. So I registered to vote in a state that I don't want to be tied to because all I want to do is get out of here at my first earliest convenience and I have attachment issues like that, but I did it.
I registered to vote. Because it's the right thing for my kids.
I live here. Because for today, it's the right thing for my kids.
It's also very good for my taste buds.
I'm getting really good at this cookie thing in Arizona, and I'm finding that the more I get into baking cookies, the more I get into Pinterest. I kind of hate myself for this: I find steampunk endlessly annoying and I don't care what color my staples are. Pinterest is not my thing.
Except when it kind of is.
I don't google search recipes anymore - I Pinterest search. I don't twitter crowdsource Halloween crafts for my kids anymore - I Pinterest-source. 9/10 of the shit on Pinterest makes me worry, a lot, about the state of The American Public, but that remaining 1/10 is absolute, glorious, lemony good.
And I wonder why no one follows me on Pinterest.
So I kind of hate Pinterest, and I kind of hate honey, but I do like a clever contest and I really, really like taking trips, so I thought I'd mention this honey board contest I found while I was looking up porn lemon bread recipes on Pinterest the other day. They're giving like $4,500 in travel away or something. I didn't look too closely. Honey. *shudder*
Sadly, my main traveling days are over. I do get to travel a little bit with my new job at BlogHer (it's not really new, I still just can't believe I get to do THIS job for THIS company), but not nearly as much as I did in 2011. Last year I was on the road every single month of the year - tripping the fuck out over double rainbows in Oregon, singing all the words to New Edition songs in Maryland, and standing in front of the Walmart crying my American eyes out from toilet-shock in Harbin, China. Jim posted to day about our year on the road, and over course the whole post is bass fishing, donuts, and Cadillacs. Men, can't travel with'm, can't get them to apologize for making you film them eating bugs. I guess we can call him giving away a night at any Radission his atonement.
I didn't actually find a suitable lemon bread recipe on Pinterest the other day, but I did find a lemon cookie recipe that I screwed six ways to Sunday today (though they look *magnificent*, and that, friends, is the magic of Pinterest) and I got a pumpkin bread recipe off Twitter from True Insolence that could end war n' stuff better than singin' loud (just dated myself right there, didn't I?). If you want it, drop her an @true_insolence tweet.
And I'm trying to figure out what, if anything, to cook baby daddy on Halloween for his 40th birthday, and really, go ahead and ask me how weird it is that the angsty, writerly, built like a freight-train swimmer boy I saw across the room at Bennigan's just last week is turning FOUR OH next week.
Weirdness abounds. Especially since I don't know if I am supposed to acknowledge it or not. Kids and divorce should both come with rules, especially when they cross streams.
More notable than that is the fact that yesterday was my vagina's second birthday. ::confetti::
Two short years ago, some jerk stole my uterus and replaced it with a bendy straw he tried to pass off as a vagina. He said to me at my six week checkup, "this is the kid of surgery that either gets me a cigar and a bottle of scotch, or a broken nose." He was seriously the best OB ever.
The worst thing to come of this is that I am 37 and I want a baby so bad I can fucking taste it and I want to name it Floyd thanks SueBob and mine are all too big to cuddle and I can't have one anymore. The best thing to come of this is probably that, but also that my vagina now has both its own PR Director and Social Media Manager.
See, what I know that companies like @KitchenAidUSA and @StubHub clearly don't is that you have to have extraordinary people, ones who are invested in both the message and the mechanism, holding the keys to your social media campaigns. Social media eats mediocrity for lunch. If you're going to properly brand something, you've got to have a team behind you that is in, 100%.
Also, a team that will not post the pictures of your post-surgery sutures that you sent them via text message in a morphine-induced haze onto your pinterest free porn board, no matter how tempting it may be.
Excellence through discretion. That's Team Bubble Yum Wind Tunnel.
Also, authenticity. 100% of bloggers surveyed agreed.
@mrlady But it has a strong personal brand. It is AUTHENTIC.— Pam Lewis (@outsidevoice) October 27, 2012
PR, Social Media, and Testimonials. I think I'm going to sign my vagina up to host a Geek Bar at BlogHer '13. #doingitright
Aside: Tweets For Twats™, *the* social media management firm for vaginas, is accepting new clients. DM @bblymwndtnnl for rates and government regulations.