Terribly executed craft projects!

So awhile back (last year? This summer?) I promised you craft projects and lots of 'em. I promised MYSELF that this year would be full of finely crafted Christmas presents for all my loving family and friends and the neighbors and teachers and etc. Yeah right. So far, I have a head full of ideas (still) and TWO, count 'em, projects finished.

One has already been wrapped and given. And while it was pretty tremendously cool (good job, me!) it became an epic fail when the recipient unintentionally melted it near the hot-air-spewing floor vent of a mini-van like 3 seconds after receiving it. I give you exhibit number one, the milk chocolate and butterscotch mustache lolly-filled inspirational coffee cup:

The cup says, "Write your own story" if you couldn't read it; I thought that was super cool. So cool, in fact, I really wanted to keep it for myself but that really wouldn't be very Christmasish of me, would it?

Oh God, the next project is so lame and turned out so painfully shiteous I don't know if I can bear to post a picture. It was undertaken in the name of love for my sweet little toddler who is OBSESSED with Yo Gabba Gabba. And since he gets a mom at home with him every day vs. a mom with a huge paycheck, he does not have a ton of 'Gabba schwag. Plus, I love the D.I.Y.ness of doing it yourself. Egads woman, spit it out! I tried to paint two modern-art-sort-of pictures of Brobee and Muno, his two favorite YGG characters. Tried. EPIC fail, dudes, as my teenager has informed me (while laughing and pointing). Gulp, ok, here's the pic. Please cover one eye and squint with the other whilst viewing so as not to sear the exposed cornea: Okay, never mind because for some reason I can't get the damn picture to post here so I'll have to try next time, I'm sorry.

So before Christmas I have to at least make some iced Star-Wars themed sugar cookies (I promise to post pics!) and some white chocolate mustache lollies (Santa's mustache? Hmmm). I wanted to make some wooden Star-Wars toys (an AT-AT Imperial Walker and R2D2 mainly) but since it requires the use of power tools that I haven't learned to use yet and every time I mention this to Matthew he gives me this sort of vacant, far-away look like he's trying to think of a scenario in which teaching me to use said power tools does not involve a trip to the ER, it doesn't look like that's going to happen. Sigh.

Okay also, I got the most beautiful wood at Lowe's for my project - it has these tiny little curly burl things all through it - and I don't think I can bear to cut it up. It would be like double homicide, once for killing the tree in the first place and again for defacing its silky, satin inner self, man. Like I can't justify ripping through those perfect tree guts with a saw just for my piddly project. I know, I know. Just imagine how exhausting it is to be me.

And don't even get me started on the sewing projects. My mother bought me a beautiful brand-new sewing machine for Christmas last year and there it sits, pristine in its box, mocking my no-skills-havin'-ass. Oy. Speaking of mom, when we visited for Thanksgiving, she gave us an entire crate of hand made jellies, jams and blueberry cardamom pancake syrup made from the tiniest hand-picked-by-her Michigan blueberries you've ever seen. And the thimble berry-peach preserves? Fuggedaboutit. How the hiz-ell do you compete with a woman who picks 50 gallons of berries herself, then whips them up into jam, jelly and sauce in her hell-hot summer kitchen, all while battling cancer, because she loves you so much? I want to slap my own face every time I slather a biscuit with her homemade generosity-in-a-jar. Again, Oy.

So. That's what I've been up to, more or less. I hope every body's Christmas craft projects turn out lovely and giveable. Merry Christmas. And may you all find the droids you're looking for.

~Mahalo for listening.

Mashing the pause button

Hello reader(s)! And how have you been? It has been the type of October that I have wanted to stop and smell. You know, tick-by-tick-off every single scent of autumn, from the spicy crush of leaves to the smoosh-and-seedy mouthful of a perfectly ripe persimmon just touched by the first finger of frost. Every conversation is quaintly picture-perfect start to finish, school photos have come home, family hobbies have been indulged. I have savored many Brach's Mellowcreme Pumpkins, I have baked many cookies. I have hiked in the forest and chased a squealing toddler 'round the block and back again on dozens of days. I have not wanted to commit butt-to-chair and write about it all.

My family has grown by one perfect, silky-haired, clenched-fisted, cherished baby girl. Who I don't have any pictures of. Because she lives in Michigan and I don't and I have to wait until Thanksgiving to meet her! But I am so proud of my baby sister for sharing this gift of life with our small family. What a blessing a new baby is! I can't wait to inhale her sweet baby smell and kiss her tiny round cheeks. All four of them.

My sweet, darling mother has indulged us once again with the incredible gift of a 100-pound Halloween care package. Ok, maybe not quite that big, but I think it took two mailmen and a hand-truck to plop it on our porch. Every year gramma sends us this amazing Halloween gift and it is the most highly anticipated event of the year, even better than Christmas what with the 15 pounds of candy per person, costume supplies, toys, games, haunted cookie mansion and new this year: bags of cereal instead of packing peanuts! My mother is amazing and generous and we love her so, so much.

So as we gear up for the end of October and its grand finale Halloween night, I share these photos for you. May all your fall days be memorable, and may your All Hallows' Eve be filled with as much candy as you can carry. More to come soon. Mahalo for listening.

Orange Puffle pumpkin for Fletcher. Sadly his face fell off the following day.

He has since been composted.

Painted acorn pumpkins. Fletch and I gathered these on a forest hike then painted them during commercials while watching a Harry Potter movie. It was an excellent night.

An annual tradition, thanks to lovely and generous grandma, the haunted gingerbread house. It has been mostly devoured already, and man, it's tasty!

Fletcher's "ghost pumpkin with many faces."

The coolest donut EVER, from Casey's General Store. I brought this home for Fletcher the other day and he was so affronted he whispered to Matt,"WHY would she bring me something so terrible and think I'd like it? WHY???" So I had to remove the toe before serving it to him. I tried to eat the toe. But it tasted like a real toe. It sure looked cool, though!

Equalizing the Force

Whoa it looks like time has gotten away from me again and weeks have passed with no discernible change in the F-Bomb and Mom universe. Sorry people, sorry. This mom has been a busy Mo-Fo. But...

But Friday my little F-Bomber was an unhappy boy. First grade had gotten him down. Too many friends turned frenemies, too many math homework assignments, too many goulash, soup, stew and assorted brown goo days of school lunch. Blech. We needed some perking up. We needed something fun in our lives. What we need was The Force restored to balance.

So I decided to throw a Star-Wars themed dinner party for my sad little Padawan. Did it help? Oh yeah, I think it did. Check it out:

Lord Vader was there.

Boba Fett fell into the Sarlacc-pit dip (garlicky hummus).

There was Pizza the Hut (A nod to Spaceballs, also a great film what with the Star-Wars spoofing and the naughty words and hey, any movie with Rick Moranis is awesome, am I right??)

There were Luke's lightsabers (pretzel rods dipped in white chocolate and sprinkled with

tasty sugar sprinkles).

Here they are arranged in the digesting Boba Fett's helmet.

The Dagobah swamp water was my freakin' favorite, all limey and melty and ooooh so green!

And of course, there was Aunt Beru's blue milk.

I was going to make some Han Solo-in-carbonite Jell-O jigglers but ran out of time. Oh well. Next time, next time. Fletch was cheered up and we all had fun gorging on fun food as a family. I might make this a Friday tradition, we'll see.

Promise it won't be as long between posts next time. There will be updates soon on our new geeky family hobby (featuring constant testing of my navigational skills! Which don't exist!) and poorly-executed-but-well-intentioned craft projects! Can I get a woo hoo!?!

~Mahalo for listening~

Douchebaggery

Hi. My name is Amy and I'm a douche. No, this does not mean I'm a feminine hygiene product. Wikipedia says: Douchebag, or simply douche, is considered to be a pejorative term. The slang usage of the term originated in the 1960s. The term usually refers to a person... with a variety of negative qualities, specifically arrogance and engaging in obnoxious and/or irritating actions, most often without malicious intent.

If you asked my 16-year-old daughter, Gwendolyn, me having included a definition of douche from Wikipedia on my blog about douches makes me a douche. *Sigh* Gwendolyn, aforementioned teen, frequently invokes this moniker. For me. Recently we were discussing what it means to be a douchebag. Though our personal definitions differ somewhat from Wikipedia's, several characteristics are agreed upon between us. These characteristics include, but are not limited to: Arrogance, whether righteously deserved or not; unwarranted spewage of expertise on any random topic; and especially 'abusing' others with pedantic attention to/recitation of details.

Picture this scenario, borrowed loosely from Family Guy: A guy in Starbucks, publicly writing on his laptop. That's a douche. Or more precisely, that's our brand of douche. Gwendolyn has a predilection for folk music. And folk singers. This makes her a douchebag. I enjoy reading and writing poetry. Therefore I am a douche.

Can you follow this? If you're having a hard time keeping up with all the douchebaggery, lemme school ya with the following multiple-choice quiz, with examples from my real life (BTW, writing this quiz using examples of being a douche based on my real-life makes me a douche). Here we go:

1) I consider myself a part of the slow-food movement, and also strive to be a locovore whenever feasible. Because I espouse these ideas (or even know what they mean) this makes me:

A) Socially conscientious.

B) Boring.

C) A douche.

2) I enjoy photography, both digital and film-based. I have had many photos published professionally over the course of my journalistic career. I often photograph my children and believe they are excellent subjects. Because I have taken photos professionally, I take umbrage when referred to as an MWAC (Mom With A Camera). Therefore, I am:

A) Defensive about my photos 'cause I currently don't bring home a paycheck and take lots of pictures of my precious babies.

B) Ridonculously pissed at no-one in particular for no good reason because technically no-one has ever actually called me an MWAC, but I know they're thinking it.

C) A douche.

3) I write this blog. Frequently, okay, always, it is "about" my family. But it pisses me off when I get called a "Mommy blogger" because to me this is so, so much more, it is way more, it is ME, in the raw, uncensored, pouring my soul into cyberspace. Because... because I was born to write and right now, this is my platform. And you are here reading this, so you feel it too, don't you? This blog is the Rainbow Connection, motherfuckers. But that's a topic for another day. So. I am:

A) So self-aggrandised it is vomit-inducing.

B) Willing to do anything to get out of folding another load of laundry, including baring my soul to any curious passerby of this blog spot.

C) A douche.

Answer key: The correct answer for every question is, of course, C. I'm a douche. But you know what? I own it, man. I wear that shit. I come by it natural-born and it's my steelo. Can I get a hollaback? If you're a douche too, lemme hear ya say it!

~Mahalo for listening.

Corn! And other stuff.

Corn! Corn is awesome! Have you seen this awesome corn? Have you seen this awesome baby eating his awesome corn?! Adorable!

Awesome baby attacked this beautiful corn as I was putting away groceries this morning after an early a.m. market trip. After carrying sacks into the kitchen and putting things up, Fletcher yelled for me to come quickly! See what that horrible baby is doing! And this is what I found. My beautiful boy, still in jammies, bathed in a sunbeam peeling and subsequently gnawing on his favorite thing, uncooked corn still on the cob.

I actually took many more photos, but since he was sitting right by the front door with the morning sun shining through the beveled window panes, it was impossible to get a focused shot. Except, for some reason, this one jewel in the whole rest of the unusable pile.

So F-Bomber is home with a temperature today and we are having a pajammy time, or, in Fletcher's case, an underpants-only time. There has been donut eating and video game playing and Yo Gabba Gabba viewing and whining about boredom and talking on the phone to grandma and a recitation of fake answering machine messages, all involving a certain sister and hilarious scenarios she's involved in which require immediate parental attention.

So about that certain sister. I would love so much to share with you, dear reader, some detail of this enigmatic being's life and times. But alas, when the subject was broached at a recent dinner, all possible topics were shot down. In flames. So, here is a brief synopsis of my daughter: She is 16, soon to be 17. She is gorgeous. She goes to high school. She drives Fletcher nuts but he's crazy about her in a good way. That's all you get to know.

And after posting about Fletcher last time, I realized there are some very important things I have omitted from his snapshot, so here they are: He hates bears! The only thing he hates more than bears is meatloaf! And the only thing he hates more than bears and meatloaf combined is cilantro! He has vowed to beat up every bear he ever meets, run away screaming form any meatloaf at any time, and obliterate cilantro from the world forever.

And one more thing: Thank you to husband Matt, who has designed the new F-Bomb and Mom header. Okay. That'll do for today. Back to enjoying donuts and video games in my underpants. Er, pajamas.

~Mahalo for listening.

Lucky 7

This is what it looks like to be seven years old

and the member of an elite team of military action heroes.

My main man, the F-Bomber himself, has turned 7-years-old on me and I cannot believe how this impossibly impressive person has grown from a chubby toddler with unspeakably cute curls into the above incarnation, this firstie, the most damnably funny and cute kid to ever grace the state. Ladies and gentleman, I introduce the King of New Franklin.

So this post is for posterity, this is for my Fletcher. Fletcher, this is a snapshot of you, my firstborn son, turning seven years old:

Today at lunch I had to spoon-feed you macaroni and cheese while you held your eyes tightly shut because you said you had seen too much yellow this day, and all the yellow was nauseating, but the mac and cheese delicious. Your favorite color is orange, which I know you'd say is an obvious thing to write, but I felt it had to be included.

Your favorite television show is Adventure Time (which I find wildly inappropriate but hilarious). We love watching the Stay Puft marshmallow man scene from Ghostbusters together over and over. You said the best day of your life was when gramma came to stay with us and the worst day ever was when she left. You love root beer and The Very Hungry Caterpillar and just yesterday you asked me to not hold your hand in public anymore.

Steak is your favorite dinner and you told me tonight, "I'd rather eat steak than anything else in the world. Except for shrimp, I'd rather eat shrimp than anything else in the world, too."

Your best friends are Clint and Anna, the brother and sister next door. The three of you spend endless hours playing "military", jumping on the trampoline and constructing Lego monuments that I unwittingly injure my bare feet on pretty much daily. You are hot tempered yet sensitive. You can remember a personal affront from as far back as infancy and carefully plot your revenge.

Fletcher, you are funny. Imaginative, glorious, messy and hilarious. I am thankful every single day that God gave me your lovely soul to look after. And even though it is embarrassing when I hug you in front of your friends, every day at school drop-off we still blow each other kisses. And eat them.

Thank you for being so amazing. If you were anything less than the perfect little dirty dog cutie pie that you are, it would suck.

Love, your momma.
Mahalo for listening.

Holy Molars!

We are cutting teeth over here at F-Bomb and Mom, premolars to be exact, and the world is a squirming, wiggling, wailing, sleepless mofo right now. Being my third child, Grady has the benefit of my years of experiments - oops! I meant experience - with his older sibs. So basically that means I realize "this too shall pass" but that somehow doesn't make it suck much less.

Actually, cry, fuss and scream as they did while cutting teeth, neither Gwendolyn or Fletcher had the misfortune to be cutting four freaking premolars at once, as is baby Grady. His poor pink little gums, top and bottom, are knotted with marble-sized lumps of ouchy painful bastard teeth, just barely poking pearly tips through. At night he "rests" in fitful half-slumber, rolling, wallering and whimpering even though he has been adequately dosed with baby Tylenol. During daylight hours, he roams the house fretfully, wild strings of Anbesol-laced drool soaking his shirt like a geezer gumming a pork chop.

He doesn't want a Popsicle or a teething toy. Occasionally he half-heartedly bites me but it seems like it takes too much effort. Mostly he brings me board books and wants to snuggle down under the covers on my big bed and read or watch Yo Gabba Gabba (which is kind of starting to get on my nerves, since it's his favorite show and we watch it A LOT).

Basically I am not getting much of anything at all accomplished, but that's okay. Years of living with children has taught me that not only will this pass, it will pass so quickly that 10 years from now it will seem like five minutes ago and I will be crying on Matt's shoulder wondering how my baby got so big so quickly. And he'll laugh at my grey hair.

In the meantime, we have gone back to school. I say "we" because with all the hustle, bustle and responsibility that comes with having a first grader and a freaking junior, it feels like "we" are all involved! Gwendolyn did not allow a first-day-of-school photograph this year, but here is a picture of lovely first-grade Fletcher, in all his mowhawked cuteness in the car on the way to his big first day:


Hope all your adventures are memorable, Mahalo for reading!

And now we are 14 months old

My beautiful Tator Tot is 14 months old today. I feel immensely blessed for the honor of being his, Gwendolyn and Fletcher's mother.

Extreme naked cuteness

Grady James!

This is a picture of my belly just days before giving birth to lovely Grady James. I can't believe how time flies! Love you, Grady! Love you, family!

Addendum

So baby Grady was "helping" me clean off a book shelf - he basically just threw everything on the floor in his helpful baby way - and in the clean-up I discovered an old folder from college. Within the folder was - ta da! - the poem I was referring to in my second-to-last post that horrified classmates in my poetry seminar class. I thought I'd like to share it with you here.

Please note that that this poem was written 10-11 years ago, and I currently enjoy a much closer relationship to my then-husband than I did previously. He has graciously given his nod of approval to the publication of said-poem, realizing that he was my inspiration but I mean him no ill-will.

Also, Matthew was relating a story to me in which he was reading my blog at work *ahem* and a co-worker read my poem over his shoulder and said, "Oh my, I don't think I could ever even write words like that." And that is my point. I have a certain audience. You may not be in it. But I write for the people who cannot say these things aloud. I write for the people who want to say "fuck you" but can't. There are so many people who are so nice they don't speak their mind. I am not one of them. So these poems are for them.

Here is my poem. Mahalo for listening.

Hellraiser

It's 3 a.m. and I'm staring at him
naked and fragile and
with the comforter stripped away
looking like a small, killed thing.
He is dreaming of someplace better
where kinder women live and frolic.
He is kicking his leg like a tired old dog.
I
I am waiting to gut him
slice him
hurt him
with my Cenobite grapple hook finger nails
if he rolls the wrong way
or snores.

I am the woman
he says
who can skin a man with words,
invasively inhabit a mind
better than Pin Head.
My mind
he says
is the puzzle box
and even though there's no easy solution
to find the last button
is so irresistible
that he'll surely die trying.
Loving em is sudden death,
or perhaps eternity as
CD head.

It delights something naughty
inside me
to feel his futile struggling
even in dreams
to grasp who I am.
I sense the onset
of his soul departing
even as he sleeps.
My icy hook nails
scritch-scratch his throat
and cloying death scent
blooms from his open mouth.

I think someday soon
I'll know what it's like
to miss him.
Maybe I should have been
better.
Maybe tomorrow,
I'll sprout a heart.

Military Man (In flagrante delicto)

This is what happens when you leave your toy, affectionately dubbed "Military Man" on the bathroom sink in a house full of smartasses.

My literary opinion and poetry with bad words

I felt it was time to address something extremely important to me: the freedom to write what moves you - the real you - not censored propaganda for public consumption. I did it for years, you know, writing for newspapers. The things that get left out - that's the heart of the real news. That is what is chopped from the story, that is where the art is. And I am all about the art. I have felt the sting of censure as a young and giddy reporter, telling the entire truth and paying for it. The gleaming kernel of fact removed by an adroit editor felt like an amputation. It hated it. Writing the news sucks ass.

That is why I love to write poetry. Because to me, poetry is all about the feeling: the feeling of words formed and written first on brain, the roll of the tongue, the weight of pen in hand, the exact pressure of finger on keyboard. My poetry is not usually kind or sweet. Tho I love to read sweet lolly poetry from other people (Yeats comes to mind, with his bean-rows on the Lake Isle of Innisfree) I am loathe to write that way.

I am a poet of guttural hatred and unbridled fury. I write about what pisses me off, depresses me, makes me withdraw from society. Sometimes it's all happiness. Wait, no, that never happens. The verbal vomiting is my way of soul-purging. I can write terrible things so I don't have to DO terrible things. This is what art is, yes? I have a feeling I'll never receive accolades while I am still breathing. But that's okay. Someday someone will study me and think wow, she was really pissed off.

Here's the thing: It takes incredible courage and moxy to say what you really mean in poetry just like it does in real life. While I am never one to shy away from confrontation, I have been guilted into keeping my trap capped for fear of alienating my audience. The thought of losing those of you that read my blog scares me, but being artistically dishonest scares me more.

In college I had many, many poetry writing seminar classes. I think these classes suck and if I ever taught poetry writing, I would not ever approach it in the way it was taught to me. Apologies to my previous teachers. Oh wait, no, I meant to say suck it. The writing of the rosy lines, the xeroxing of the many pages, then the ultimate betrayal: sharing your rough cut diamond in a 'peer group' setting. Fuck the peer group. What the hell do they know that you don't?

I remember a particular session with a particular peer group. Of course my poem was 'about' watching my ex-husband sleep (we were still married at the time) and wanting to murder him. One of my peers read some hippy-esque dream of Pablo Neruda making love to her, another poet shared a tale of swimming in Lake Michigan and being in tune with nature. And so on and so on and then there was, to me, the worst of the worst: A rosy-cheeked teaching major reading her poem 'about' apple picking with her rosy-cheeked family and the ensuing pie making, etc. I wanted to slit her wrists for her. And I said that. Out loud. Because that's the way I rolled back then.

I try not to roll over someone else's work these days; I am largely supportive of anyone writing anywhere at any time. This shit is hard!!!! Writing is soul-wrenching, hair pulling agony! Or it is easy as apple picking and pie baking. But I digress. The purpose of this post is to share, honestly, a poem I wrote a few days ago because it is the way I felt at that moment in time. It has lots of bad words. It is not 'about' you, or you. It is not in any way real, or something that ever will or ever did happen. Because it is a poem. With bad words. Because that's the kind of poet I am, more often than not. And poems aren't right or wrong per say, but they can have a right or wrong audience. So I am feeling you out.

Fuck You Michelle

Fuck you
and fuck me
and fuck the world.
I will fuck you up,
murder your children
knife your grandma
fuck your grandpa
then stab out his eyes
with a stainless steel fork.

I will rape your husband,
slice your belly,
shatter every window in
your windowless house
you bitch.

I'd fuck the moon
if it pissed you off
then slit its throat and laugh
as burble-bubble-grunt-and-moan
moon beams spill
from dead neck hole
a milky silver pussy death.

Fuck you all
but fuck you the most.
I fucking hate you.
~
Mahalo for listening! ~Amy

Hey, it's me again!

Will you forgive me for being gone so long if I tell you a secret? Please? Okay *gulp* truth is I've been a little nuts. Like feeling crazy. Like it has been a really long time since I've written because I've been a little bit not okay. Too much stuff has happened to roll out the dough and cookie-cut a story for you, but suffice it to say there were good times, bad times, and some really depressing times.

Like my dear sweet mother had cancer (she is well now, thank you) and I spent a month back home caring for her early this summer, which meant I had a nice break from being "mom" non-stop but also meant I missed an entire month (the 8th one) of my baby's life. As in when I came back home, he wouldn't come to me. For about a week. He screamed every time Matt left, since he took care of him when I was away and I felt like the shittiest shit-head to have ever breathed.

And while I was home, my mother's best-friend of 30 years, her soul sister, passed away. Suddenly and unexpected are two words that fit the situation; tragic and life-altering also work. Nobody will ever be the same after the loss of this dear auntie.

Two weeks after I came home, my uncle, mom's brother, and my life-long best friend died. Also totally unexpectedly. That was May 18, a very bad day. He was only 10 years older than me, more like a brother all my life. We shared the same birthday, April 19. We went to college together, and when I lived back home we spent every weekend together. After I moved away we talked on the phone almost every single day. He was wonky and weird and perfect and I will never be that close to anyone again, ever.

It is still hard to breathe most days and I don't know how I will ever get over this. I have some of my sweet uncle Baboo's "cremains" in a sweet little urn necklace that I will wear on my neck every single day of my life as soon as my baby boy stops trying to rip necklaces off me every time I put one on. It is hard for me to even look at one of the dozens of photos I have of Baboo, though I see his face in my mind almost constantly. You can read his obituary here: http://www.dailypress.net/page/content.detail/id/519290.html?nav=5004 Don't know what else to say about that.

Other than that, my plans for taking my two little boys to Michigan for the summer were derailed by my two back-to-back emergency trips back home and the subsequent financial drain that came alone with that. I am still an at-home mom for now so we are relying on Matthew's hard work to pull through and it is tough going sometimes indeed. But we survive. And when I look at the faces of my happy little ones I think yeah, this is what it's all about. Not Disney World or a new Wii or whatever the heck it is we think we're missing out on. Life is about this, this beautiful family.

And this morning at 3:30 a.m. when Grady decided he was up for the day and I reluctantly agreed, he took my hand and led me to the kitchen, where there is always a nightlight on and a radio always set to a rock station and there is always a fresh bunch of bananas for him to choose from. He wandered around munching a banana while I scrambled a couple eggs. I watched him dancing and eating to the Toadies "Possum Kingdom" and I was struck by just how incredibly cool this almost-14-month-old person is and how much I have to be grateful for and how it's time to get back to sharing it all with you, dear reader.

So here I am and I promise, I am making the commitment, to updating here at least once a week for as long as, well, as long as is possible. Till my fingers fall off and my brain doesn't work anymore. On what day you say? Ha! That's a surprise! (means I don't know and refuse to be pinned down!) So, welcome back to me. And to you. Please drop me a line some time, I'd love to hear from you!