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Scene: Me, entering the bedroom after depleting the minor reserves of piss in my squirrel sized bladder; cursing my parents for allowing an experiment to be performed in which a squirrel’s bladder was replaced with my own. Somewhere, there’s a squirrel who hasn’t peed in 25 years while I pee every time the wind changes – which, in Chicago, is every other minute. I come across a man laying in my bed, fully clothed, surrounded by my cats.

Me: “I’m pretty sure you should’ve ended up with some crazy cat lady.”

Dan: “You know, you DO have three cats – you’re kinda the crazy cat lady.”

Me: (laughs) “Yeah, but only one is mine – the other two are Mimi’s birthday present.”

Dan: (smiles): “True.”

Dan: “Besides, you met me while I was walking my cat.”

Me (mulls over the statement): “This is true.”

Me: (thinks for a moment before flopping onto the bed next to Dan): “You know, I’m sensing something here.”

Dan: (rolls eyes jokingly): “Yes, I’m only dating you for your cats.”

Me: “No, dumbass, I’m thinking something completely different.”

Dan: “…”

Me: (three remaining brain cells knock into each other trying to formulate an idea): “I may have an idea. A BRILLIANT idea.”

Me: “Or it may be gas.”

Dan: “Go on…”

Dan: “Wait, no, not if it’s gas.”

Me: (smiles): I think it’s high time we make a calendar.”

Dan: “Oh?”

Me: “YES. A calendar FOR crazy cat ladies.”

Dan: “…”

Me: “You know, they’re always coming out with adorable fluffy cat calendars that are used by secretaries and middle-management worldwide. I think it’s to show their humanity, but that’s merely speculation on my end. ANYWAY. I think what we need to do is to riff off that idea. And no, it’s not my ‘cats with fricking laser beams coming out of their eyes’ idea, but that would be awesome too.”

Dan: “….”

Me: “Why not combine the two? Women, who, I’d surmise, are the major buyers of calendars because guys just check their cell phones for the time and date or run late to shit, really enjoy two types of calendars: men in skimpy clothes and fluffy cuddly animals.”

Dan: “Not sure I’m following, Babe.”

Me: “Why not combine shirtless dudes AND fluffy kitties?”

Dan: “Why WOULD you combine the two?”

Me: “BECAUSE IT’S SUCH A STUPID IDEA, IT MIGHT WORK. Think about it: KITTY PORN!”

Dan (slowly begins to nod): “Okay… I still don’t quite get this idea.”

Me: “We can theme out the months. Y’know, kitties in stockings with a shirtless dude dressed as ‘Sexy Santa’ for Christmas?”

Dan: (laughs)

Me: “IT COULD TOTALLY WORK.”

Dan: (nods disbelievingly)

Me: “Tell me, what do you know about those weird thing dude’s can put on their wang to make it look festive? Like, a candy cane for Christmas or something?”

Dan: “Absolutely nothing.”

Me: “Well, time to get crack-a-lacking on this idea.”

Dan: “Wait…what? You’re actually considering pulling this off?”

Me: (nods emphatically) “Why the fuck not? It’s stupid enough that it just might work.”

Dan (dubiously): “I…guess.”

Me (flounces off the bed happily and claps hands together): “YAY!”

Dan (shakes head, laughing at my reaction)

Me: “You’ve got until next summer.”

Dan: “For…what?”

Me: “To get your ass in shape. We’ll go jogging together!”

Dan: “Uh, Babe, what does this have to do with me?”

Me (does pivot and jazz hands): “I’m gonna make you a star, Baby.”

Dan (to himself): “It’s a good thing that she forgets these things quickly.”

Me: “I HEARD THAT.”

Dan: “I said you looked nice today.”

Me: “Oh. Well. Um. Carry on. Now let’s talk monthly THEMES.”

Dan: “OH LOOK, A BLUE CAR!”

Me: “HUH? WHERE?”

Dan (laughs quietly)

Me: “I have a sudden urge to watch a documentary about the Nazi’s and eat donuts.”

Dan (openly laughing): “Rock on with your bad self, Babe.”

Me: “Also: hot wings.”

Dan: “Sounds like a plan.”

——————-
How have YOU been, o! Pranksters, my Pranksters? I’ve missed you much.

So, first things first. I know most of you read my blog in a reader *waves at reader people* which is all good, because I would too*.

Today, however, you need to pop through. No, seriously, get your ass over here and be amazed at it’s awesomeness. Now, when people ask about web designers, I have two in mah back pocket. Princess Jenn (who did the coding but ALSO does WordPress blog designs) and Lindsay Goldner (who did the blog design itself).

Now you know who can make your blog FULL of the awesome.

—————-

So there’s this GIGANTIC blogging conference in a couple weeks, right? I haven’t seen the ZOMGBBQFAQ posts on The Twitter or The Facebook, mostly because I’m ignoring them. There’s only so much of that I can handle.

Having been now, to two BlogHer conferences, I feel I can share my wisdom with you. And by “wisdom,” I mean, “bullshit.”

0) Um. Chill the fuck out about it all of you type-A people. You’re making me nervous.

1) No one but you is going to give a shit about your shoes. By all means, by new ones if it makes you happy, but don’t make it into a ‘ZOMG IF I DON’T PEOPLE WILL SHUN ME.’

1) The conference is intimidating. That’s okay. After your first time, it won’t seem overwhelming. Heh. Kinda like The Sex.

2) Introduce yourself to other people. Why? Why NOT?

3) Remember that for some people, thanks to gaps in geography, this is the only time they’re seeing each other all year. They’re hanging with their online besties and may seem hard to infiltrate, but seriously, most people are kind.

5) If they’re assbags? Fuck ‘em. You don’t need ‘em. Come find me. We’ll hang.

8 ) There will be a hell of a lot of sponsors. Just accept it and move on.

13) Most of the swag you get is bullshit. Unless you need 9573636 flash drives, in which case, well, you’ll be in luck. But there is NO REASON to interrupt a perfectly good conversation with someone to make a mad dash for a swag bag.

21) There will be drama. Stay out of it.

34) If someone introduces themselves to you, be kind.

55) Be very, very wary of the drive-by social networker.

89) Actually attend the sessions. Your fellow bloggers work hard as hell to put ‘em together.

144) I wasn’t invited to a single party, either. *shrugs* More time to get liquored up and do something I regret in the morning.

233) Unless you’re me, you DON’T want to be debaucherous in front of a zillion people who can live-blog it.

377) You’ll walk a hell of a lot more than you’d think.

610) For the name of all that’s holy, if you want to be recognized, do NOT do what I did my first year and use this as your avatar:

mommy-needs-vodkawhen you look more like this:

Swimsuit chainsaw

because no one will know you.

987) Send your swag home via UPS. You can thank me in gifts and/or cash later.

1597) COME HANG OUT WITH ME. No, I’m serious. We should hang, get liquored up and make asses of ourselves ALL OVER San Diego.

What am I missing, fellow BlogHer veterans?

*If I subscribed to myself, which I don’t think I do, because that’s kinda weird.

“Think of all the FREE TIME you’ll have,” my well-meaning friends assured me when I confessed that I was devastated by moving out of my home.

Free time, I mused (while probably pooping). What a novel concept. Those two words fit together in my brain about as well as “Tom Greene” and “thong bikini.” While I’d heard about this “free time,” in the same way I’d heard about “anal sex” and “fun,” neither made any sense. Sure, I couldn’t recall the last time I’d been able to take a pee without the company of at least two humans and several cats vying for my attention and/or lap. Bathroom time was Happy Hour in my house and while it was somewhat awkward when there were guests afoot (who really wants to have to listen to someone else pee while a small child yells, “MOMMY FARTED?”)(Answer: not most people)(I assume), I’d grown so accustomed to it that whenever I stayed in a hotel, I needed some drab talk radio on to actually take care of business.

(what, me neurotic?)

So the nebulous concept of this “free time” didn’t really sink in as something someone would actually strive for.

And for months following my departure from Casa de la Sausage and my arrival at the FBI Surveillance Van, I didn’t know what to do with myself. Certainly, I had scads of time with which I could watch Mad Men reruns and fantasize about wrestling Don Draper in a vat of lime Jello, but it didn’t feel particularly… freeing. Instead (cue violins) it felt quite lonesome.

Starting over after a divorce – much like using the microwave – it seemed, was not, no matter how simple it looked on television, an easy process. In fact, I’d happily have shoved a porcupine up my snatch rather than start over.

Slowly, though, things, as they always do, began to change. I found a job. Then another. Then another still. Work kept me occupied and reminded me that while I may have felt like a steaming pile of dog vom, I had skills and I had the ability to take care of myself – two things I’d forgotten I possessed.

I began to reform old friendships and sought new ones. The times in which I was neither working nor taking care of crotch parasites began to fill. The formerly nebulous concept of “free time” became time in which I was able to do as I pleased with whomever I pleased – no one needed to know where I was or what I was doing at any given time.

My apartment, which had, in months prior, felt so empty without the giggles of my children, began to fill with laughter and love. I found myself laughing and smiling without the aid of a stunt double. My heart, once defeated, filled slowly with light.

Life, I finally was able to say (without fingers crossed behind my back), was going to be okay – no, it was better than okay. My life was finally becoming something I’d be proud to live.

And I am.

One year after my world fell apart, I’m still standing. The life I’d been so terrified to leave behind pales in comparison to the vibrant days I now live. Getting from there to here was, at many points, something I’d never thought I’d be able to do. So many days in between I didn’t believe worth breathing – dark, dark days, followed by even darker nights.

But now, today, my days and nights, they’re filled with laughter and love.

And my heart, well, it soars.

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