Where I Been

It occurs to me that I'm only posting on my blog once a month or so, which is probably my subconscious' way of dealing with the fact that I haven't had a period in over a year because some jerk stole my uterus a year and two days ago. He made up for it by leaving a shiny new bionic vagina for me, which really hadn't done me all that much good until the other day when it showed up on Klout

Klout is a completely useless tool that measures your 'social media influence' and gives you a 'Klout score' that you can use to get high-paying jobs in biotechnology or something. And Klout has decided that my vagina is influential with moms. I keep trying to explain to Klout that the only mom I could ever even hope to influence with my vagina is a dad, but they don't care.

I'm also only posting once a month because I've had the summer of travel-hell which should have peaked with China, but actually peaked with Boston because I am a geo-centric asshole who's attention span can't sustain more than 300-400 years of history.

Paul Revere's Final Ride

We went to Boston to go fishing exhibit at a trade show, but had just enough spare time to go scorpion bowling with a friend and have dinner with some others. I didn't get to see one friend from Boston while I was there, but I ended up seeing her a few days later in Denver, for the one reason you never want to catch up with old friends.

My best friend's mother was quite possibly the single best person on earth, and for right now, that's all I have to say about that.

Colorado welcomed me home the best way it knows how, with the Denver Foot. The Denver Foot is the 3" of snow we get every October, but that the national news networks will tell you is O!M!G!12!"! In fairness, it weighs the same as a foot of snow, and probably increases ski tourism considerably, but won't delay your flight out of Denver - no matter how hard you pray for it to.

And now I'm back in Texas, and since my full time client decided my job was so important they needed to hire someone to do it in-house, I'm going to try to blog here a bit more while I look for a new job (maybe in Boston or Denver) (because, damn, I think I need winter) (and chowder) (and huevos rancheros with proper green chili) (and fishing in fall)

Fishing

I've still got my Babble Voices gig (you can read it here) (or subscribe here) and am inconsistenly consistent on Momversation. Which, if you're into silly little YouTube videos of kids getting the shit scared out of them, you're welcome.

Backfires, and Other Random Gun References. Because, Apparently, I Like Guns Suddenly. Whatever; I Went to Denver And This is What Happened.

I spent last weekend in Denver, watching one of my very best friends in the whole world get married. I had every intention of using my weekend back home, snuggly tucked away in a downtown hotel room, to work on my book or to catch up on sleep or to take a series of what were to be the longest showers in the history of bathing - because I could, that's why - but I made it downtown, tripped and fell into this:



Amy and Aimee and Jeremy and Jim and Bugfrog (wisely not pictured) and me and the bottle makes three tonight. Or something like that. And then I ended up with my old friends from the bar I worked at in Denver, with whom I totally intended to have deep, meaningful conversations about life and love and the proper amount of ammunition to carry on one's person at any given time, but all I walked away from that night with was a headache, puke breath and this:



I think that's a photo of a lime dipped in sugar, which means I was A) with David at Whiskey Bar and B) excessively drunk and C) had a raging case of the hiccups. Do I remember why I took a picture of a lime dipped in sugar?

What is a Rhetorical Question for $300, Alex.

A few hours of sleep and one bottle of Aleve later, I watched my kids godfather get married.

Looking On


After the wedding, my other best friend and I intended to have a glorious, albeit last minute date night, complete with bottles of wine and cushy hotel beds and late night tv and general girly giggliness, not like that, pervs, but we ran into ALL my blog-fathers at a Rocky Mountain Blogger Bash Fest.

Jed got a fabulous camera pic of my tits sweet face Combs smiled because he realized that Texas has changed me from a left-wing tree hugging hippy into a gun-toting, oil-guzzling libertarian. And there was much rejoicing. And by rejoicing, I mean 'welcoming me to the dark side'. And by welcoming, I mean getting hit on by Zombyboy and Vodkapundit.

And then I overslept, again, and didn't have time to get the family gifts on my way home which is fine if I'm in, like, Kansas or something but not even close to okay if I am in the land of their birth, so I did the cheesy airport gift-shop run for the boys and the cheesier airport-at-home gift shop run for my daughter, who can't read but thinks Texas is a great name for a new stuffed monkey, and when I handed out the gifts as they piled on top of me in my doorway at home, my husband came up behind all of us, put his hand on my shoulder, and sweetly whispered, "Welcome home, honey." I looked up at him and, with a little wink, said, "You'll get your present later." He smiled, and we turned to our children. What I'd hoped to be a subtle, sultry moment between my husband and I turned into our oldest son sneering at us and saying, "GROSS, guys", and storming off in a cloud of unmitigated tweenaged disgust.

I think my kid is on to us.

Home Alone

Yes, yes, we totally live in Vancouver, and have for years, but A) I am not over Denver yet and B) for the purposes of this post, we are from Denver. Someday, I'll actually move here all the way.

We are from Denver. Not 'just outside Denver in the 'burbs' Denver, but Denver Denver. LoDo. Cap Hill. The city of. 80206 has always been the kids' zip code. And when you live in 80206, there are things you do like walk to school and ride your bikes to the park and there are things you don't do, like any of that alone.

Right before we moved to Vancouver, we were just starting to toy with the idea of letting the kids be home alone. We'd give them 10 minute spurts alone while we ran to Sevies for milk, but not much more, no matter how ardently they plead for it. Because Denver is awesome in the same way god is; you totally dig him, but you're kind of scared shitless of him at the same time.

Case in point? A year after we moved, our old next door neighbor shot and killed a 2 year old right in front of the house we lived in. Like, on our old front steps. Like, right here.

July 4th, 2005



And we lived in the really burbish, hippy neighborhood. A few years before that, one of our neighbors decided he would go rape a bunch of the women in our neighborhood. Like, 80 year olds and 20 year olds. At the same time. And he lived at the end of that block I lived on, and two houses to the right. But at the same time, we had mom & pop ice cream parlors and yarn shops.

My point is that, for the most part, we kept our kids within arm's reach, just in case.

But since we've been here in sunny Vancouver, the boys have gotten used to a little more freedom, mostly because my neighbors actually scolded me for hovering over the kids too much. We were reminded that this wasn't Denver, and that in our little community the kids enjoy and appreciate a bit longer leash.  That it is good for them, and I ought to relax.  So we gave this whole pre-teen freedom thing a shot, since they are quite a bit older now, and they're quite a bit over being smothered, and so far my neighbors have been proven correct.  At first we'd let just them go outside all by themselves, and then we tried leaving them for 30 minutes or so while we ran out for something. And then I started coming home just a little bit after they'd get home from school.  And then I upped it to an hour.  And then we left the boys for one whole evening.  And then we let 1of3 babysit for a night, and it's all gone beautifully.  Viva la Canada, yo.

They lock the extra locks when we're out, they know to not answer the door or the phone unless it's mom or dad on the caller id; they get it.  They like it, and they don't want to blow it, so they've been really careful to abide by all of our rules while we're not here.  Or at least they were.

When I told them about the BlogHer get-together we had on Sunday, their eyes did Gold Medal Worthy backflips into their heads and they said there was no way in Bikini Bottom they were coming to that thing. We agreed that they'd stay home and do some last minute chores (which have yet to be done, for the record) and that they could each have one friend over.  Two neighbors were put on mom-alert to peek in my windows occasionally and make sure they weren't burning the joint down, and 3of3, Angella and I headed off without them for the whole day.

We came home to a fairly decent house, two living, breathing sons who were fed and didn't smell like anything I'd want to put on a petri dish, and two smiling neighborhood kids.  I counted the day a success and told them both how proud I was of them, even if they hadn't answered the phone when I'd called, but erring on the side of caution is always a good choice in my book so high fives all around.

The next day, my sister in law called.  She asked if 2of3 had told me she'd phoned, and he hadn't, and then she giggled and told me about the call they had.

He told her I wasn't home because I was at a work thing.  He told her dad was at work, too.  He told her that he was trying to not watch tv because it would rot his brain, and that he was duelling Pokemon cards while his brother was downstairs on the computer.  He told her he was going to skateboard out front in just a little bit, and then he'd have a snack. And then he asked her just one, simple, little question...
Um, who is this?

Needless to say, they're coming to the next everything ever again with me.