New Years Resolution: Clean Up My Act

In case you thought I was kidding about the "mountain of laundry" - JUST the boys' stuff.

I'm terrible at these things. I don't really make official "New Years Resolutions" because I know they'll be broken before the week's end. But there is one thing I absolutely MUST do this year -  which is clean my shit up.

I am not a naturally organized or tidy person and neither is my husband. Together we're a disaster. And I hate the way our cluttered, messy home looks and impacts our kids. ("Wait a minute honey, we can't leave for school yet because your mother needs to find this very important paper in that pile of chaos over there.")

And this year I really NEED to do something about that. So of course, I turned to the internet for help.

I am NOT a "Flylady" type. I get hives just stopping by that site. But Joslyn of stark. raving. mad. mommy. is my type of woman, and she, in her own, likewise ADD-rific whirlwind of disorganization put out the call for help to her readers (Please Help Me: My New Year's Resolution is to Get Organized).

One of them pointed to this site:  Unfuck Your Habitat (or UfYH for those who don't like to curse - obviously not me). Their tagline is: "Terrifying motivation for lazy people with messy homes" - PERFECT!

I also like their attitude, which is small goals, work for 20 minute chunks, then do 10 minutes of something else. Try for multiple rounds (but if one is all you can do at first, it's OK) and do it EVERY DAY.

From their site: "We deserve to live somewhere with nice things we love, and to have a clean, calm place to be, when we’re not at work or school or any of the fifty zillion other places we go."

AND: "...it’s about motivation, and support, and accountability."

And it's not just about housekeeping, it's universal: "And our homes aren’t the only things that need to be unfucked. Our finances, our jobs, our relationships: there’s no end to the things we can fuck up. The important thing to remember is that there is nothing that can’t be unfucked. You just have to do it." 

So I've found my guru. The kind of inspiration I can live with: ironic, realistic. Written by my people for my people (messy, disorganized, drowning in inertia) with the simple credo of: Do. Something.

And that I can live with.

And I'm starting today. Just 20 minutes, right?

(After I get the laundry put away - TODAY, I promise!)

Lost Stories of BlogHer11: Rooming with Royalty and a TV Star

Me with my BlogHer11 Roomies: Alexandra & Shari

Well, it's the DAY BEFORE BlogHer12 begins, and I have just realized that I have an unpublished post from last summer's BlogHer11 still sitting in my "zombie files" - where posts that I began and never finished, but to which I'm too attached to just leave for dead, sit and wait for resurrection...

OK, don't laugh, here it is: my final BlogHer11 wrap-up post. And only 364 days after the actual event.

Once again, I’m late to the party; very, very late. Everyone put up their “seriously folks, this is my very last post about BlogHer11” post in late August, about the time I put up my FIRST one. But here's my little secret: if you're late enough you can be early.

So really, this isn't a ridiculously late BH11 post, it's another pre-BH12 post. Voila!

Part of it is that I’m just not a quick digester, I like to ruminate (sorry about the visceral image that metaphor may conjure up). And then there’s, you know, my crazy life. Oh, and did I mention I have ADD. Bad. Yeah, that might be part of it too.

Because I STARTED writing this post on the plane home from BlogHer11 in early August. Last August.

And now I'm finishing it the night before BlogHer 12 kicks off here in my own New York City. One whole year later. (Note to self: work on this ADD thing, OK? Sheesh!)

So....

First of all, I was THERE, at BlogHer11. (And at first I typo-ed that as “BlogHer111” and amused myself by thinking while fixing it, “no that’s not for another 100 years yet.” Now wouldn’t it be something if it were still going on then? Although what that would look like? What media will exist in 2111? I have no idea. So exponential is the rate of technological evolution and advancement at this point, it renders this inquiry mind-bogglingly unimaginable.)

Yes, I actually flew across the country and was immersed up to my elbows in all things Bloggy, at the biggest women’s blogging convention EVER. But, oddly enough, without either the physical or mental capacity to write anything. Oh, I made sure my SN Sibling Saturdays guest post went up (by putting in significant 2 AM time at the hotel’s rent-a-computers center). But other than that? Nada.

And then I came home to the then nine year-old twins, 24/7. And the Autism. And the ADD. And two weeks worth of everyone’s laundry. And I could go on, but I'll spare you.

So I went to BlogHer11, and yes it was terrific, in oh so many ways. I had many tales I could tell, especially about being STYLED by some wonderful ladies. Did I overindulge a bit, were those three days a little over-stuffed? Yes, you might say. But also deeply satisfying.  

And, as always it seems, some of the best parts were unplanned, the result of serendipity or gifts of circumstance; seemingly forced upon me by necessity, but bearing wonderful fruit.

Most importantly, if I could have afforded it, if I hadn’t been doing it on the way-cheap, on a budget of nearly nothing - early bird conference rate, frequent flyer miles airfare, all but one meal free, ridiculously cheap ride to/from airport, etc. etc.? I probably would have stayed in a room alone (a room to myself being a rare-to-never luxury in my life these days). And that would have been a tragedy of epic proportions.

Because, I? Ended up rooming with Royalty and a red-headed TV Star. Oh, yes.

I had booked my room way early FOR ONCE, instead of scrambling at the last minute (usual M.O.) and so I had a much desirable room at the actual conference hotel. I then, eventually (you didn't think I did EVERYTHING on time did you?) set about conjuring up a roommate.

And I got two: the Empress Alexandra of the blog Good Day Regular People, and the lovely Shari, she of the blog: Earth Mother Just Means I'm Dusty. Two very funny women.

Now, pretty much everyone seems to know that Alexandra is also known as "The Empress" due to the royal names of her children and her regal, generous personalty. Alexandra is a blogger much beloved on the internet, and was being wined and dined by many in San Diego, as she was a Voice of the Year speaker.

But did you also know that Shari, the amazing "Dusty" (aka her blog name) is also a reality TV star? Yes, beautiful and funny - what a combo - she recently had her kitchen done over for a reality TV show - and here's her v-log post about it. 

So a merrier band has ne’er been seen in all the world. Truly. We got along famously, like a house on fire. It was like the best parts of being college roommates (heart–to-heart discussions in PJs, honest & hilarious clothing & make-up consultations) without all the other crap (being 18 again and confused & insecure - shudder, shudder).

I had known Shari already in real life, both of us being local members of the sadly defunct Silicon Valley Moms Group Blog. We had bonded over being older moms together, and our love of all things New York City.

Alexandra I had known only online, and I was prepared for a connection, as we had been leaving insightful supportive comments on each others' posts, and tweeting away together for at least a year. But I had no idea how much it would be love at first sight. It was like we had been friends forever.

And she brought me & Shari each this wonderful pendant, just because we let her room with us:

On the back: Super Mom, Super Busy, Super Tired

They were the best roommates EVER. And did not hate me when my husband rang my cell phone at 3 AM local time, waking EVERYONE up, to ask where our son's lunch box might be. (Guess who usually does mornings with the boys?)
 
Last year, Alexandra was a VOTY reader and this year, Shari and I BOTH are. I think maybe some of Alexandra's sparkly magic, filled the room and cast its glow upon on us while we all slept.

I so look forward to seeing them both again this year, hugging them and riding off into the sunset together... or maybe just cruising the Expo hall in search of Dove bars and a good laugh.

The briefest of updates

Mom continues to be up and down, and in spite of making actual progress with her walking, is now swooning and willfully collapsing while loudly declaring she is going to throw up / have a heart attack / die on the spot.

She fluctuates between being afraid she is dying to wanting to die to being cheerful and rather chipper. Rumor has it she even flirted with a handsome young doctor the other day. (I would assume her teeth were in that morning.) 

Short mom anecdote: taking a 2 minute wheelchair break in the middle of walker-lurching down the hall today, Mom looked up at the two lovely, young, earnest therapists who are accompanying her and asks "Why do I feel so fucking awful?"

"Sylvia" one of them cautioned, "Remember what we said about the cursing?"

Mom: "That it might upset some of the other residents?" They nod, pleased.  Mom takes a perfect thoughtful pause. Then adds: "Fuck 'em."

Tomorrow they transfer her to the sub-acute rehab facility where hopefully an equally earnest and helpful staff will continue to harangue and cajole her into reasonable shape to go home within another few weeks.

Because I don't known how much more of this shit I can take.

Also in honor of Wordless Wednesday (even though I am clearly being wordy) a picture of flowers:

These are from the grounds of place where Ethan goes to summer (day) camp in the city. Taken because I spent some time yesterday running around like a headless chicken and picking up and dropping off overdue paperwork with schools and camps and doctor's offices all over the Upper West Side.

I really have no excuse for the need for this. In sprite of having been a successful and highly organized producer for many years, I apparently now possess the executive functioning skills of your average fruit bat.

Whether this is actual ADD or just my aging peri-menopausal brain remains to be seen.

To quote my eloquent mother: Fuck it!

Monday Listicles: 10 Things I Have Done to Make a Living

Well, it's Monday, so it must be time for Stasha’s Monday Listicles again. And today's topic came from... ME!

And, it seems, I'm being late to my own party. (And not for the first time, I must admit.) You would think with my having known the topic for, oh, two weeks, I would have had this post written long ago and ready to pop up at one minute past midnight, be at the top of the link-up over at Stasha's.

Well, think again.

It's been a rough beginning to the new year is all I can say. And my ADD is acting up something fierce. So anyway, it's still Monday here (barely) and will be for a few more hours in at least some parts of the world, so let's proceed shall we?

Today's topic (as chosen by moi) is:

Top Ten Strange (odd/unusual/funny/interesting) Jobs you have held in your life.

#1.  Well, to start with, when I was a baby my father was an advertising photographer and sometimes he needed a baby for a shoot or for his portfolio. So, for a very short time, I was a baby model. He also was a fine art/documentary "street photographer" (with work in Life magazine, etc.) and took loads of pictures of me for that, too.  Wanna see?

Jim Steinhardt: "Girl with Balloon (ME!) at Central Park Zoo" 1963

#2. Then my Dad realized he hated advertising and got out of that business, bought an art gallery and frame shop on Long Island and it grew into an international and American crafts gallery of some renown. And I grew up in the family business, spending Saturdays and many of my summer days at the gallery.

I couldn't even tell you exactly when playing there became working there, but I distinctly remember setting up and helping to serve drinks at show openings from about the age of six on. And I know that from the time I was twelve I was selling in the store and working as a buyers assistant, accompanying my parents to big national craft fairs like Rhinebeck and the wholesale showrooms in the city.

Holiday time was always busy, and as a teenager I worked full long days every Saturday in November and December, and then when the "blue laws" were repealed (yes, I'm old enough to have lived when NO businesses outside of restaurants were open on Sundays) Sundays in December, too.

When I was 15, I ran the gift wrap "department" (me & a friend of mine) on the weekends for the holiday season. To this day I can eyeball any unusually sized or shaped object, instantly figure out what size box it will or won't fit in, and wrap it neatly with nice ribbon bows to boot.

My most memorable sales interaction with a customer? It was the day before Christmas, when the desperate men who hadn't a clue would arrive, and you could sell them practically anything. He was buying jewelry. Three nice pieces. One for his wife, and one each for his two "girlfriends." He wanted to spend about the same for each. Wrote lovey notes on gift cards to be included inside the boxes. Had us put a little code on the bottom of the wrapped boxes so he could know which was which.

How much did we want to "accidentally" mess up the code for him? The whole staff was abuzz with wicked plans to do this while his gifts were being wrapped. In the end of course, we didn't. A customer is a customer, and he was a good spender. (Times 3!) But we talked about him for years to come.

#3. Away at college, through friends I fell into a summer job as a founding member of the Sunflour Bakery Collective in Bar Harbor, Maine. Of course, first I had to learn how to bake bread, which I did in a hurry that spring.

This was not a typical "job." We all lived together, communally on the uppermost floor of the building which was not in any way set up or zoned for habitation, while the landlord conveniently looked the other way. We each made little nests for ourselves using odd materials found on the second floor of the building, in what had been a woodworking shop at one point. My "chair" was an ornate antique toilet stuffed with my sleeping bag to make a cushion.

We often took in like-minded (i.e. hippie) folks who were passing through town and let then "camp out" on the second floor and share meals with us for a few hours of work in the bakery.  It was all very whole grain and natural (naturally), and actually quite delicious. I think I ate better that summer that at any time in my life before or since.

#4. The following year, I spent my summer in Cambridge / Boston with a combination of 2 jobs to keep me afloat: showing up at 5 AM on the weekends to be the breakfast chef at the very vegan Golden Temple Emporium Cafe (yes, run by people with big white turbans on their heads). Can you say "scrambled tofu" anyone?

That was combined with my weekday job of slinging the greasiest of burgers and fries (while wearing hot pants!) to a lunch crowd of finance guys at The Saint, which happened to also be the local lesbian bar at night, which I frequented... frequently. And the irony of all this was not lost on me, I laughed about it constantly.

#5. Then I landed in California for a few years. You may have heard me mention this one before, but yes, in 1981 I actually WAS a Bean Sprout farmer in the wilds of Mendocino county.

We were a womens collective on 160 acres on a ridge with a number of odd buildings on the flat land at the top, and among them 3 geodesic domes. One of these was given over to the business of hydroponically growing bean sprouts that were sold to restaurants and in health food stores in Northern California.

My tasks included washing the sprouts daily, cutting them when they were the right length, bagging them, and assembling the "mixed sprout" salads. Also driving up & down the coast for delivery. And yes, we had to remember to put shirts on when driving off the property.

Looking back, I don't think we had a license and can't ever remember a health inspection. But those were different, looser, freer times. And I don't THINK we ever gave anyone salmonella poisoning.

#6. Also in California, now living more conventionally in Santa Cruz, I became the assistant manager of the Polar Bear ice cream shop in Capitola. And my right (scooping) arm became twice as strong as my left. I was living with a woman who had a 6 year old daughter who was THRILLED to be able to come in and order anything she wanted for free.

And no, I wasn't stealing. The owners wisely gave us a monthly allotment of free ice cream, which kept us all honest about what we ate or took home or gave away. And made us very popular with our friends.

#7. Back on the East coast and back in college, I found occasional work as an artists model. Yes, nude. And people this is HARD work. Holding a pose that seems just dandy at 2 minutes will feel like torture by minute 10 with your muscles screaming for release. And, totally exposed, if you twitch, they will see. And yell at you to keep steady.

#8. My main job while in college was at the local pottery gallery (using my family business talents at last) but on the summers, to not lose me during them, the gallery owners - who were 3 potters themselves - had me come out to their studio to do odd jobs for the seven potters who worked there and shared kilns.

I was not a potter, and it quickly became clear that my natural talents did not lie in this direction, but everyone found things for me to do to help out that did not require actual potting, including wedging clay (great anger release), packing orders for shipping (I still have nightmares about plastic peanuts), and, most terrifyingly, carrying precious fragile pieces to and from the gas kiln which was outdoors, out back, DOWN a little hill. No, I never dropped anything, but did have daily palpitations, thank you.

#9. 1988. Out of school and back in New York City, while working my way into jobs in the film and television industry and also directing and stage managing plays and performance art off-off Broadway, I landed a regular gig with the brand spanking new World Financial Center as an assistant stage manager for their arts and events program, including a month of opening galas.

As I was a bit more mature and put together than a lot of the kids they had working for them, I was usually assigned to babysit the talent, including escorting them to the "stage," which was always rigged in different places and often far, far from the holding areas.

This also meant that I would be seen in the "front of the house" and had to work evening events in formal wear and heels. On miles of marble floors. (Ouch!) Highlights included: a frantic search for one of the coconuts of Kid Creole & the Coconuts who had decided to go look for a friend in the audience, minutes before their call and watching Grace Jones go into makeup and be transformed into... Grace Jones.

Best of all was escorting Cab Calloway up onto the stage itself because he was rather elderly and unsteady on his feet and the steps didn't have a handrail.

This was also the first time I was given a newfangled "cell phone" thingy - about 8 pounds of equipment with a handset connected to a rectangular box that hung from a shoulder strap - this was 1988, people!

1988 Cell Phone. Really.

#10. Fast forward many, many years (see the calendar pages whirl by) and come to my current occupation: Autism Mom. I am an amateur neurobiologist, behaviorist, teacher, translator, pharmacologist, allergist, gluten & casein-free chef, and deep hug giver. In my 9th year of an ongoing experiment in radical sleep deprivation.

Definitely the strangest "job" I have ever had. But the most fulfilling. Worth every minute of it.

And, believe it or not, (believe!) I could go on and on. But I'll stop here at ten.

See y'all next week!


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Monday Listicles: Impossible New Years Resolutions

Well, it's time for Stasha’s first Monday Listicles of the new year, which is reflected in the theme... Today's topic came from Theresa, the Mountain Momma, who said we should write a list of ten New Years resolutions we will never keep. Softball, I tell ya; could do this one in my sleep (and I kind of did).

You can probably guess what these are all going to be. But I will go ahead and spell them out for you anyway. And in an annotated list, because simple & easy are just not in my vocabulary. And then at the end a wee surprise for you. So...

10 New Years Resolutions I Will NEVER Keep:

1. Stop Procrastinating. Also probably nearly every other resolution on this list would be moot if I could keep to this one. Chance of that happening? The proverbial snowball in hell. I am ADD-rific, remember?

2. Exercise more. Well, I better say exercise regularly. Because I am likely to exercise at least a tiny bit this year, and that would mean I would be keeping this resolution... since ANYTHING is more than the absolute nothing I did this past year.

3. Stop eating sugar. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

4. Get to bed early & get enough sleep. OK folks, I have two sons and one is a natural early-to-bed-early-riser, while the other is a classic night owl (like me & their father). The early riser catches a 6:40 school bus, which means I am up at 5:45 on school days, while the other one doesn't have to walk out the door until much later, can roll out of bed at 7:30, so often stays up until 10pm. Can you do math and see how impossible this resolution is? Yes, doomed before I even start.

5. Get off  the computer when the kids are home. I'm going to really TRY to keep this one. Because I really don't want my son to declare once again: "Mom, you love the internet more than you love us!" But? Realistically? Too addicted to my blog and FaceBook and Twitter and other people's blogs to keep it. I WILL cut down though, and only when they are on their screens, too.

6. Cook more. I make this resolution every year and never keep it. The fact that there are so many limits to what Ethan WILL eat and to what Jacob CAN eat, and all of the above is mostly what Dan and I do not WANT to eat... means cooking = making 3 separate meals. Not happening. Someday... someday... but that day will not likely fall into this year.

7. No more dinners in front of the TV. Sigh. I wish I could say this one was do-able. I grew up with lively dinner table discussions, truly enjoyable conversations with my parents, nearly every night.  But the way Jacob's autism manifests is that if the TV isn't on? He will talk non-stop loudly about his own topics and ask the same questions over and over and over again, making dinner table conversation nearly impossible. So the TV goes on and the boys eat separately from my husband and I (who rarely eat together on weeknights anyway).

8. Keep the house clean and tidy. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

9. Keep my car clean and tidy. See above.

10. NOT pick up my iPhone when I am interacting with actual human beings, even when my "new stuff" alerts ding. Wow, when did I become one of those rude people looking at the screen in my hand instead of the people at the table I am sitting and drinking coffee with? (Answer: when I got my first smart phone.) Will try hard to keep this partially, only picking it up for important DMs from people I am waiting to hear from. Wish me luck!

@@@@@@@

And now, here's the surprise: I get to be responsible for next week's Monday Listicles theme!

As I have lately been obsessed with plans for getting back into the working game this year and trying to figure out how I can morph all the skills I've acquired in all my old career(s) and jobs into something I can currently earn a living at, I have been thinking of all the many odd and various jobs I have held and skills I've amassed in my long life. And I thought it would be fun to make you all do that too.

So Next Monday's Listicle topic is: Top Ten Strange (odd/unusual/funny/interesting) Jobs you have held in your life.

And if you are young or have had a much less varied life than I have and haven't had 10 jobs yet, then make it 10 interesting things you have done / tasks you have been responsible for as PART of a job.  And I am totally willing to define "Job" loosely here... as in parenting is clearly a job, and so is being a student, or volunteer positions including things like PTA President.

I can't wait to see what you come up with! See y'all next week!


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Coming Soon: Posts from the Zombie Files

Tonight when I sat down, way late, to post - short people finally asleep, me awake, house as picked-up-after as it's probably ever going to be tonight (read: not very; but the small-toy-booby-traps have been stowed away, so you probably won't trip over stray crap and kill yourself, either) - I realized, once again... I got nothing.

It had been a busy day: rushing to Jake's school way downtown for our Parent/Teacher conference immediately after dropping Ethan off at his, a half-day for Jacob, Hebrew School after school for Ethan; the kind that leaves me hollowed out by the end.

So I figured it was time to do what I had previously said I would do when this situation arose this month (in which I am foolishly committed to posting every day whether inspiration has visited or not): mine my not-quite-dead draft post archives for gems.

So I opened up my Blog's command center and found this:

That's right, for approximately every three posts I've published there is one unpublished post: poor orphaned child, sitting unfinished, forlorn and abandoned in my queue.

Now some of these are mere wisps of things, half thoughts, hastily jotted down, ideas for posts that I planned to write at some nebulous time in my future. Others are half done things: neither beast nor fowl, full of egregious typos and devoid of form, starting to go somewhere and then stopping, all out of steam.

And then there are the jewels I'm looking for: nearly done posts, just in need of a little polish before they are ready to be sent out into the world. Well, maybe a bit of rewriting and a new ending, but still, close enough to done that its worth the effort to march them to completion.

So, from these 113 draft posts languishing in their not-quite-dead-not-quite-live state, I thought I was going to simply pluck one out to share today. I thought I would just click and find a perfect small near Insta-Post. Just add a little extra verbiage and it's ready to go! Voila!

But then I found that even the "nearly done?" Still take a ridiculous lot of work to bring into a place where I'm willing to let them out of their hidey hole. There's a reason I didn't get these particular bunch finished. They were not easy to wrestle into shape. Damn.

And the ones that were the closest to ready? Were the best of the bunch, those I want to spend the most careful time with, make sure I am bringing them to the height of their potential shiny brilliance (to drag the "polishing up gems" metaphor possibly beyond where it should reasonably go). ADD and perfectionism, it's a heady mix in my brain, I tell you.

So tonight folks, I leave you with this: a post telling you about more posts soon to come. So all those papers I wrote in college about deconstructionism and the such were not in vain, they were preparing me to talk about talking about talking about things. Which just goes to prove that I can prattle on about anything. Yay, me!

And tomorrow? REAL CONTENT, I promise.

(Hey, I'm getting really good at using a lot of words to circle round and round a topic but never really saying anything of consequence - maybe I should go into politics?)


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I'm in Katie's Army now

I am thrilled to have been recruited by the wonderful Katie of the blog Sluiter Nation.

And all I had to do was write a blog post for her.

This one: Tribes

Now, if you know me and the gifts that ADD has bestowed in my life, you'll know this "little thing" had me tied up in knots all weekend.

I do guest posts. I love to guest. But I always get anxious when writing for others and not just myself.

And since anxiety makes me uncomfortable? I avoid and procrastinate. And then you add in my perfectionism, my being unable to just write and release?

That means I turn in my guest posts at the weee end of when they've been asked for, sliding in right under the wire. Sorry folks.

I always swear next time will be different.

But I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you.

I even wrote a post about it called "I Fear I Make a Terrible Guest."

So why do I keep subjecting myself to the stress?

Because I love communities, being connected to something larger than myself. Because the glue that holds the bloggosphere together is a combination of guest posting, commenting and linking (plus a healthy dose of Twitter and Facebook and other social media tools).

Being a part of something.

Which, coincidentally, is the theme I was asked to write on, and came up with this post for Katie:

Tribes

Which you should go read over at her blog.

And then you should stay and read Katie. She is wonderful. Generous. Funny. Genuine. The real deal. A mom. A writer. A friend.

I am so thankful to her for having me today.

Making connections.

(Go. Read. See you back here tomorrow.)


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Shoot Me Now (singing the health insurance idiocy blues)

Me? I am not by nature a brawler, a fight-picker; someone fond of my own angry self. I'm a conciliator, a peacekeeper. I really dislike confrontation, have been accused of avoiding it by sidling away, like a smiling crab doing the side-step.

But somehow, as I sit down to write a lovely "just write" post tonight? I can't do it. I have no lyrical in me. I find myself steaming and gunning the throttle. Again.

Maybe I need to start a theme day...  Cranky Rant Tuesdays.

My tag line? "Come visit my blog on Tuesdays when you want to feel better about YOUR life by reading about all that's gone pear shaped in MINE!"

Think it will catch on? Hmmm.

So, you may be asking yourself (those who aren't backing away slowly, that is)... What has my knickers all in a bunch? My panties in a twist? My... well, you get the picture....

Health Insurance idiocy. Also Big Pharma greed. And Chain Pharmacy stupidity and incompetence.

OK, now it's time for my Canadian/English/Irish/Australian/Norwegian/etc.etc. friends and readers to snicker and gloat. Yes, all of you who live in those godforsakencommunist countries that have - GASP! - socialized medicine.... go ahead, I'll wait.

OK, done now? Good, let's get on with it.

First the set up: My son Jacob takes a number of psychoactive medications. He's on a "cocktail."  Sounds fancy, but it's not. He's just... complicated in his neuro-biological differences. And so the help needs to be complex, too. Really.

And with a very intelligent intelligence at the wheel, prescribing and tinkering. We (very luckily) have that.

And the 3 different medications he's currently on (very low doses, all, don't worry)? Are keeping him rolling along beautifully right now. Calm, happy; NOT riddled with anxiety and gnashing his teeth; NOT crumpling into a sodden weepy heap over a dropped pencil. And also WITH increased concentration and attention; able to really listen and learn better than ever. (Spitting over left shoulder 3 times and warding off the evil eye.)

So, we recently needed to change health insurance policies (due to an expiring COBRA situation). My husband and I are both freelance / self-employed. We pay for our insurance ourselves. You can see where I'm going here, yes? There really are only lousy overpriced policies available for people like us. And we picked the best of that bad bunch. But still...

We are now in the situation where the medicines that Jacob has been prescribed and HAS BEEN TAKING, the ones that are demonstrably working for him, are needing to be "pre-approved" by the insurance company.

Yeah, that's as much fun as that sounds.

And the approval process? So NOT what was described to me by the pharmacist: "Have your doctor call this number and explain why it needs to be, and they'll approve the medication." As if.

When the doctor called me back after my frantic message, I could hear the stress, the weariness in his voice. He told me that it's not just "a phone call" that's required, but rather it's TEN phone calls. And being transferred from department to department, and being put on hold, and hung up on. And then calling back, and being transferred again.

"They make it hard on us doctors on PURPOSE, to discourage us from prescribing certain medications -- the newer, still patented ones. They think we'll give up and pick something older and cheaper -- even if it's inappropriate for the patient -- just to avoid the hassle and time drain. It's harassment and coercion, pure and simple."

And then this time it wasn't just a conversation, but FIVE full pages of paperwork he had to fill out - questionnaires and ESSAYS to write to justify giving this medication over others which are in the same CATEGORY as the one the doctor had prescribed but are truly DIFFERENT medicines.

Because a bunch of accountants' opinions about what medicines my autistic son needs to be taking count SO MUCH more than those of his highly regarded pediatric psycho-pharmacologist who has been practicing for a bazillion years and regularly lunches with and picks the brains of the guys who literally WROTE THE BOOKS on most childhood psychiatric & developmental issues and are at the forefront of all the cutting edge research.

(Sorry, I shout a lot in ALL CAPS when I'm truly peeved. And I'm truly peeved, in case you hadn't noticed.)

This was all today.

Yesterday it was me showing up the local D-R pharmacy counter at 6:15 to pick up a medication we had run out of, that Jake needed THAT NIGHT to find a long line of unhappy people, EVERY ONE having trouble with their prescriptions being filled properly.

And I was only AT the motherfucking D-R because they (and other big chains like them) had effectively closed down all the small family run pharmacies in the nearby neighborhood where the pharmacist KNOWS you and gives a rat's ass about your family.

Now, being all sensible-like, I had called at 5 PM and spoken with the pharmacist there to make SURE they had gotten the script called in and that I could pick it up right away. I was told yes, definitely in. He had me hold on while he checked to make sure it was in stock (it was), told me they were busy and to come for it after 6. Took Jake's birth date info.

But when  I get to the front of the line? No filled bottle waiting for me, no prescription sitting in the in-box waiting to be filled. Seemingly no record of it being called in at all. Questions of my sanity ensued... am I CERTAIN it was THIS D-R and not the one up the road? YES!

And not only had they no record of my doctor calling in the prescription, but they had no record of my son Jacob in their computer. Which is quite odd since we've been having prescriptions filled there since the boys were BORN, 9 years ago.

Oh, what was that? Since they merged with another Pharmacy Giant and put in a new computer system a few weeks ago it WIPED OUT all their patient and medication data and now EVERY patient is considered a new patient and they have no history on anyone. Nice going, guys. Well done!

Would I please step aside and wait while they try to find Jimmy Hoffa my son's prescription.

Finally the pharmacist that had taken my call and gone off shift at 5:30 returned the page and straightened it out... the prescription (unfilled) was sitting on the back counter, face DOWN. Because it couldn't be entered into the computer, because they didn't have Jake's info in the computer, because he's a "new patient."  Riiiight.

So it's going to take ANOTHER HALF HOUR to get him into the computer and get the prescription filled. And can I stand over there with the growing crowd of fuming customers to wait, please.

And then? After that fun-filled 1/2 hour?

THAT'S when I find out that it's not automatically covered on our new, stinky plan. That it needs to be "pre-approved" with a call from my now-closed doctor's office to the insurance company's bean counting gate-keepers. 

Or? I can pay retail... $266.

Motherfuckers.

And do you know? It's really not a new medication at all. It's a new formulation of an OLD one that has been around for years. But someone figured out how to make a really good time release delivery method for it. So THAT'S the part that's patented. That's why it's so much $$.

And if my son is going to take this medication, he really needs a steady supply in his blood stream, I really can't give him 6 pills a day at four hour intervals, waking him up in the middle of the night for meds now, can I?

So, yes, he NEEDS this expensive time release formulation. Which is THIS expensive because... they think can get away with it.

AND THEY DO.

My son needs his evening and morning dose.

I get them to break up the prescription and sell me 2 pills at retail.

I go home, crisis averted.

And yes, I may have exploded a few times in the drug store. Especially when they pretty much accused me of hallucinating the 5 pm conversation with their other pharmacist.

And, yes, some of this is my own damn fault for waiting until the very last minute to get the refill, turning something that should have been an annoyance into a crisis. That's ADD's calling card there, folks.

And did I mention that during all of this the kids were being watched by the upstairs neighbors, because Jake was still finishing his dinner and they really didn't want to come out to the store with me, and I was only going to be gone 15 minutes?

Yeah. I owe them. Big time.

OK, rant essentially over. Jets cooling now....

And that concludes today's edition of Cranky Rant Tuesdays at The Squashed Bologna.

Tune in next week folks, to hear all about the "check engine light" in our 1997 Toyota that just won't stay off.

(Don't you just wish you were me, now?)


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Half-Time

Yesterday was Jake's last day of school.

A half-day.

After a week of "half" days.

Really?

"Half?"

Because they feel more like a quarter to me.

Like the school bus picks him up, takes him to school, circles 'round the block a couple-a-three times, then picks him back up from school and deposits him into my hands.

And if I'm lucky?

I've had a chance to shower.

Or have just arrived back barely-on-time, breathless from some end-of-the-year-drama-class-play-last-publishing-party at Ethan's school.

Ethan and the other Tasmanian Devil

Or have been at Jake's Award Ceremony / Moving-Up celebratory lunch at his school.

Jake is a "Math Wizard"

Or have gotten my mother to the doctor and back in time to meet Jake's bus.

Or have gotten the teacher and therapist cards & gifts purchased and/or re-purchased.

(Um, I *might* have shot myself in the foot by picking up the B&N gift cards early in the spring, thinking I was being all efficient and not last-minutey. But I had forgotten the early-purchase-misplacement factor. And then I could not find them to save my life and had to buy new ones. Or maybe I didn't.)

(Honey, if you are reading this? We can use them in December, for teacher holiday gitfs. I should find them by then. Promise.)

(Yeah, the ADD is just so much fun sometimes.)

And now? Starts Jake's week off.

Vacation. (For Him.)

No school.

No camp.

Camp Mom.

All Mom, all the time.

So if the blogging is a little light in these weeks?

It's not you, it's me.

Really.

Me and Jake, on break together.

(Ethan's last day of school is Friday. He starts camp Monday. Seamless.)

I love my Jacob to pieces, but when that school bus comes round to pick him up late next week?

I'm going to kiss the driver, I swear.

(Just kidding, Honey, just kidding!)

Jake is doing great, really great. Everyone says so.

But? He also still talking ALL. THE. TIME.

So we're going to keep busy, go on lots of "field trips" like the one to the Liberty Science Center last weekend.

Who knew plumbing could be this much fun?

You know what we'll be doing this Friday morning, don't you? (Hint: Jake has been announcing "Cars 2 coming to theaters on June 24th!" since, oh, last September.)

And after I put Jake on his bus?

The silence will be deafening.

I will revel in it.

At least until Ethan wakes up, requesting morning kisses and hugs, checking last night's final WNBA basketball scores (NY Liberty plays all summer), bringing his own special flavor of noise to the table.

I'm also linking this post up to Shell's Pour Your Heart Out linky at Things I Can't Say


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Every day is Autism Awareness Day 'round these parts

Here is my beautiful son, Jacob. He has Autism:

There, so now you are aware.

OK, as you (hopefully) know, today, April 1st is the kick-off of the very official (and alliterative) sounding: Autism Awareness Month, with tomorrow, April 2nd being World Autism Awareness Day. Well now, that's starting to be a mouthful.

Rumor has it they were originally going set the big "Day" for April 1st, to coincide with the month's kick-off, but then some wise person realized it might be a tad um, cruel? ironic? to have that fall on April Fool's Day. Ya Think?

But around here? Well every day is really about Autism Awareness now, isn't it?

There isn't a day that goes by that I'm not acutely, astoundingly, profoundly and matter-of-factly aware of my son Jacob's autism.

You would think that by now it would seem to be old hat, taken for granted, a given. And in some ways it is;  just Jakey being Jakey.

But this, too: as the boys get older and as the ways that I parent, talk to and interact with Jacob and his (mostly) neuro-typical (NT) twin brother, Ethan, grow more and more disparate?  I am strangely growing more aware of Jake's autism day-to-day, rather than less. Go figure.

The fact that it really isn't going to go away, he really isn't growing out of it, and that this Autism Mom thing is rather surely a lifetime gig? Starting to settle into my consciousness about now, now that he is eight and a half and perched on the edge of little boy becoming big boy, soon to morph into teendom.

I might remember to wear blue today, I might not. I am not in a place to make big promises.

Why is blue now the official color of autism, anyway? (I thought it was "Rainbow Puzzle.") Well... I know some people think it's because that's the color of Autism Speaks logo, but I like to think it's blue from autistic author Daniel Tammet's lovely book "Born on a Blue Day."  Because I really like what Autistic folks have to say, themselves, about themselves and how they experience their neurodiverse brains.

Well, there is a lot of wonderful going on right now...

Buildings are being lit up blue for WAAD. (I'm just not typing the whole thing out each time, OK, you all know what I'm talking about, yes?) The amazing Jess of diary of a mom has been one of those spearheading a campaign to light the White House blue.

Alysia of Try Defying Gravity got Parents Magazine to post autism family stories on their blog all month long starting with hers, today!

Just about every autism blogger I know -- and we are many, a veritable small (and feisty) army -- is posting about it, embracing the blue or explaining why they're not.

I felt I should do one of two things... write another "important, big thoughts" post about autism like this one: From Autist to Artist  or this one: The Beauty of Each, Our Every Child.
 
Or, on the other hand, I thought I might write a moving tribute to my beautiful son Jacob, celebrate his specialness, the gift that he is in our lives, a balanced view of the joy and the struggles....

But, ahhhhhh, crap, that was just not to be. I've had sick kids home from school (one or both) for three days now. My heart is just not into it. I want to burrow inward, not expand outward.

I am sleeping neither well nor enough. In short: I am really worn out, worn thin. (My soul that is, my body... due to stress eating... thin not the operative word here.)

I feel light-years away from brilliance, from inspiring anyone, least of all myself.

I am so glad that I started the Special Needs Sibling Saturdays guest post series, and have some amazing posts queued up in the hopper, so that at least something useful and wonderful will appear here every Saturday for the next month, and beyond.

And yet, I feel like I have no good excuse for this. There is no one thing, nothing particularly, specifically going wrong in my life.

It's just the cumulative stress; the day in day out, never a day off, never turning the reins over to someone else, never catching my breath before running off to the next mini-crisis, never just turning my responsible brain off even if I have handed a few tasks over to someone else.

I am feeling crushed, not by a boulder but under the million pebbles, the aggregated weight of being a special needs parent, of autism, today.

And I so didn't want this to be the story I told today.  I want to tell you all about the beauty of my son Jacob, who is on the autism spectrum... or has autism... or is autistic or... I don't know what's the "correct" way to phrase it anymore.

My friend Peter, who is himself on the spectrum with NVLD has a son who is likewise "on the spectrum" somewhere but without a clear diagnostic label.  What he says about his son is: "G" has a 100% diagnosis... of being "G."  And some days that's what I want to say about Jake.

Jacob is... Jacob. Unique and beautiful.  My autistic snowflake.

OK, I know I'm rambling now. Some days I like to ramble, to explore my brain, where my tangled thoughts take me. Today I just feel lost, unfocused.  But today, this will just have to do.

This is me, this is my (ADD-rific) brain, this is my family, with autism. Messy, but hanging in there.

Here is my beautiful son, Jacob. His favorite color is yellow. He has Autism:

There, so now you are aware.



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It's National Delurking Day, OK?

Today is National Blog Delurking Day.  Who knew?

What that means is that if you come to read my blog and tiptoe quietly away -- a perfectly acceptable practice the other 364 days in the year -- today, January 14th, you are supposed to stop for a moment and leave me a comment.

It needn't be much.  Hello is fine.

But if you'd like to tell me a little something about yourself?  That would be awesome.  Anything you want.

Need a prompt?  OK....

What is your name?  Or, if you desire anonymity, what do you wish your name had been?

Where do you live?  If you could live anywhere else in the world, where would that be?

What is your favorite color?

What is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?  (And what movie is that a quote from?)

Also, because this is all about comments?  I thought this would be a grand opportunity to explain my policy for my replying to your comments... um, I don't really have one.

OK, that means I have some more 'splaining to do...

My blog is currently on Google's Blogger platform, and their one main drawback (to me) is that their innate comments system sucks.  You cannot directly reply to a comment, comment threading does not exist.

I felt frustrated by that.  Many of my favorite bloggers, my blogging mentors (gals, you know who you are) are wonderful at responding to every or nearly every comment they receive.   And I am sure that is one reason I felt so close to these women so quickly: we are always engaging in a multiply looped conversation. 

(And if you've ever had a child in speech therapy, I don't need to explain conversation loops to you, and how important they are to relatedness.)

So I installed the Intense Debate commenting system on my blog the last time I gave it a facelift.  But then I discovered two things:

First, it's a bit buggy here.  Comments -- both the counter and the link to them -- disappear on the home or multi-post view of my blog.  You have to be in the single post view (which you enter by clicking on the post's title link, either at the top of the post or in the archive list on the left) to see and leave comments.

I need to get this fixed, but I'm a techno weenie married to a likewise non-computer-geek of a husband (oh, how I envy those of you married to your IT guys).

Second?  I suck at consistently replying to comments.  I always want to.  I intend to.  But?  Shit happens.  All the time.  Including in the whirlwind that is my brain.

Some days I'm all over the awesome, and actually respond to all your comments within 6 hours.

Others?  I figure if I haven't responded by two, three days out it's just too late to call it a conversation at that point, and you are likely to not come back to see the response.  So I kind of just read and slink away.

So my non-policy policy is this:

Know that I ALWAYS do read each and every comment and I appreciate them so much.  I feel connected to you, I am so happy you have felt connected enough to me to comment.

On the days when I have time and energy?   And when I am not in the midst of a kitchen disaster or another skirmish in the homework wars or recovering from surgery?   I will try to respond to all comments.

Other days, I may not respond to any, but please know it's not you, it's me.  No, really, it IS me.  Damn, wish there were a way to say this so you'd believe me... how's this:

Remember, some days I am all ADD-rific and get very little done.  IT. REALLY. IS. ME.

And sometimes I may respond to only one or two comments in a post that has received many, and please don't feel slighted it its not yours.  The comments I have responded to may have really needed a response, or touched something specific in me, or been from an actual non-blog world IRL friend that I really needed to say something to.

Or, also highly likely, I had three seconds to sit down at the computer to respond and that's the first comment I read at that moment.   Randomness, luck (or lack thereof if my response sucks), pure chance; all significant factors here.

OK, that's now enough about me.

Tell me something about you, I'm listening....

Looking for Comments? I still haven't fixed my "Intense Debate disappearing comment link on home page problem" yet, so if you are viewing this on my home page and want to read my comments or make one of your own, click on the post's title to bring you to the post's page view. Voila!   Still don't see them? Is your browser's pop-up filter set too high? (Hopefully this will get fixed soon - sorry!)

N is for Neurotypical

N is for Neurotypical.

(Our word for what a lot of the world calls "normal")

Something highly over-rated.

Something that we are not.

The squashed family is mostly Neurodiverse.

Jake has Autism.

(OK, technically he carries a PDD-NOS diagnosis, sometimes called "autism light" as opposed to full-blown-hits-all-the-points-in-the-DSM autism.  He is clearly on the Autism Spectrum, has an Autism Spectrum Disorder; there are just so many different ways to say this and they all boil down to the same thing.  I am not one for mincing words or finely parsing exactly where on the spectrum his particular snowflake variation falls. I keep it simple, say he has Autism, leave it at that. Autism is not a word I am afraid of.) 

Ethan has some ADD. Also?  Probably a higher than average propensity towards anxiety.

Me?  ADD, baby.  I'm all ADD-rific.  Also?  I'm more than a wee bit neurotic.  (But you knew that, already, no?)

My husband, the boys' father?  I don't talk about him that much here.  He is my polar opposite, as much a private man as I am a compulsive over-sharer.  And I try to respect that.  His stories are his to tell.  Or not. 

And did I ever mention that my mother has ADD, too, finally diagnosed when she was in her 70s?

Apples don't fall far from trees, do they?  No indeed.

Neurotypical? 

Not in my basket.

We think differently.  Sometimes making lightning leaps to land in an instant where others' plodding steps might take them months to get to.

Other times we find truly intolerable a circumstance you find merely mildly annoying.  Or pleasurable.

Our brains are different.

To quote Temple Grandin's mother for the thousandth time: Different, not less.

I'm thinking of printing up a t-shirt, our slogan:
"Say it loud: Neurodiverse and Proud"

It should have rainbows and snowflakes on it, but also be manly enough for boys to wear.

Could you, would you wear one, too? 

Join us here in the neurodiverse zoo?

(And no, I have no idea why I just channeled Dr. Seuss there.  But I find that so amusing, I'm going to stop myself from editing it out & let it stand, in all its goofy glory.)

This post has been inspired by and linked up to Jenny Matlock's Alphabe-Thursday writing meme. We're obviously up to the letter "N" this week.


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The Special Needs Blog Hop Strikes Again

Well, it's Thursday again, time for the Special Needs Blog Hop!

This week's prompt is.... Random Thoughts.

Random Thoughts?  Really?

Really?

Do these people know what a world of mess and chaos they are inviting into their brains by asking me to unleash my random thoughts?  The ones I usually have to keep on a tight choke-leash so they don't go cavorting all over creation?  Or?  Possibly dull as dishwater.  ADD-rific brain, remember?

Really?

OK, they asked for it:

How is it possible that Jacob will not wear long sleeves this winter?  Last spring we had to stop him from trying to pull down his short sleeves to make them long.  I understand it was the transition form one habit to another, but still, the transition period? Lasted 2 days, maybe 3.

We're going on two months now of the daily battle "I don't LIKE long sleeves! I want SHORT SLEEVES mommy!"  And then when I put long sleeves on him, they get pushed up above his elbows.

I wouldn't mind if it weren't full on winter weather right now, and he with that long bus ride in the bitter cold early darkness. Damn.

Jake makes progress, is more assetive, and for me?  Royal pain in my ass.  Goes hand in hand these days.  Big sigh.

I spent the day searching for doll size clothes for blue bear who now has to sit at the table with Jacob and should be dressed accordingly.  Jake has noticed his bear is naked and is not pleased.

Also?  He told me blue bear is a girl.  I quizzed him about this mightily, afraid I will come home with girl doll clothes that will then be rejected.  We'll have to wait til tonight to see.

Wow, peppermint crusted chocolate covered pretzels are amazing.   I will eat this whole tub if someone doesn't take them away from me soon.  Good thing Ethan loves them, too.

Can't believe how much is left over from the Chanukkah party. What's wrong with people?  Don't they eat?  Or did I buy enough food to feed a whole army?  Don't answer that.

Oh, this kitty feels so nice purring in my lap.

What's going to happen when my Mom's elderly cat, Willie dies?  She is going to go from sad to  despondent.  He's 17, how much longer can he last?  Damn!

Peppermint crusted chocolate covered pretzels.... mmmm....

Oh, my is that really the time?

Gotta go.

Running downstairs now to meet Jake's school bus.

My baby, he rides the short bus...

(Don't say you weren't warned)



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I Fear I Make a Terrible Guest

Today I'm not here.

Well, I am here, but only for long enough to tell you to go there, to Nichole's blog In These Small Moments, where I am her guest blogger of the day for her regular series of guest posts: "Small Moment Mondays."

Click on this button and go read me there:

And than stay and read deep into Nichole, because she is both a refreshing cup of cool water and a warming wonderful hot caramel mochaccino on a blustery day.

A wonderful writer, a supportive friend, a thoughtful and loving mother.  A generous and gracious supporter of others writing.  Someone who has experienced more loss, seen more sorrow in her life than anyone this lovely should.

All of her writing is terrific, but you might want to take her suggestions and get to know her through her favorite "Featured Posts" list, conveniently found in her left hand column. 

Nichole is not someone anyone should ever torture.  But I must admit, my dear readers, that is exactly what I have done this week.

I didn't set out to be mean, I started this journey with the best of intentions.  I truly thought a post I was working on had Small Moment Mondays written all over it, so I inquired if she would ever consider me for a guest post slot.  Nichole answered graciously (as she does everything) saying she'd already been planning to ask me if I would be her guest soon.  Synchronicity!  We're off to a great start!

A date was set for the following month, way off in the future.  (If, like me, you also have ADD, right now you are hearing a voice in your head going: "Warning, Will Robinson, danger, danger!")

I was excited, I was all hot to guest, I was raring to go.  And then?

And then it all froze up.  I was in Siberia.  Every post I wrote, including the one that had inspired my inquiry, turned into something else.  Lovely posts for MY blog, but for Nichole?  Bupkis.

I kept thinking I should write to her to let her know I was not there yet, not even close.  But instead I kept starting more posts thinking *THIS* would be the one, only to watch them drive off the cliff once again into long rambling tangles messes full of "big ideas" or cranky, humorously complaining rants (otherwise known as my usual posting styles).

Then I got really busy.  Distracted.

Thanksgiving.  Chanukkah, blasted early this year.   Dinners and parties.   Presents to buy and wrap.  Latkes to purchase.  (You didn't think I was going to say "fry" did you?  Maybe I have not thoroughly explained the nature of my un-domestic-goddessness at this point in my life.)

And then on Saturday, as I was heading off to our Synagogue's Chanukkah party, I received this DM on Twitter from Nichole, an ever so gentle and gracious check-in:

Oh, Holy Crap!

So I sent her a stream of DMs back - about 10 in a row - because seriously, people, 140 characters is not nearly enough space to back pedal and hem and haw and wheel and deal and promise but not promise and, um, I'dbeentryingandhadamillionunfinishedposts and wasstillworkinghardtofinishone and IthoughtI'dhaveitdone yesIwillbutmaybeIwon't and...

I am not copying and pasting them in here, way too embarrassing.  Let's just say that they were a cut above "the dog ate my homework, I promise I'll bring it in tomorrow."  It was all true, but really, did Nichole need my anxiety about finishing this piece splayed out for her (in 140 character mini-blasts, no less)?

Um, I don't think so.

She replied.  Graciously.  Let me know she understood how the holidays can be a stressful time and maybe I had too much on my plate, she would write something herself for this Monday.  She would take my post whenever I was ready and re-schedule me for January.

There was not a hint of reproach in her "voice" but I knew I had disappointed her.  And that just did not sit right by me.  I had made a commitment, damn it.

So?

Oh, Holy Crap, I have a post to write for Monday.

But unlike my own blog where I can, if need be, finish a post at 11:59 p.m. and have that count for the day, I have to send this to someone else.  Nichole has to get it BEFORE Monday at 6 a.m.  Significantly before.

So even though I said I wouldn't and couldn't, I stayed up til 4 a.m. Saturday, the night before our little Chanukkah party (because sleep is only for the sane).

Got it done.

Chucked everything else I had written (and some of those are turning out to be damn fine posts for my blog, you'll be seeing them soon) and wrote a fresh post that ended up being a lot about the process of figuring out how to write my small moments post.

But don't worry, me being me, there's death, autism and ADD in there.  Also a little humor.

Nichole: I publicly apologize for any and all agony I caused you while waiting for my post.  You are a very nice person, and no one should ever torture you.  When, someday, I meet you in real life, I will buy you the beverage of your choice as a token of my gratitude for your kind patience.

So now I figure I should come with a warning label:  If you ask me to write a guest post for you, you have to give me a deadline, or it will never get done.  But then, you should expect me to torture you and make you think it might not get done, but then in the end I will pull through and get it done, because I just can't stand to disappoint my friends.

Um, think I'm going to get any more guest post offers?

Well, you never know, bloggers being a generally neurotic lot, I might.  They just might understand.

And also?  If they're smart?  Have another post waiting in the wings just in case I truly crash and burn next time without pulling something useful from the wreckage.

So, now, if you haven't done it already, click on that button up at the top.  Or this one, conveniently placed just below (because I'm all about convenience, don't you know):

See you back here tomorrow!


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Hanging Ten

Yesterday I was a bit of a hot mess.  I wanted to write a new blog post, because, as you may have noticed, I have written nearly every day this month. Way more than I ever have.

Maybe I'm feeling inspired by all my friends doing the NaNoWriMo or the NaBloPoMo challenges (apologies to my civilian readers, that's real insider bloggity-bloggish stuff).  Or maybe I just have bucketloads of stuff to say and am giving up unimportant things this month, like sleep.

But yesterday?  I was just all unfocused and fuzzy, like my slippers, which I almost walked out the door in that morning.

And writing?  Takes focus.  Even if it's a dreamy focus like when I'm deep in the grief and go into a fugue-ish state and the words just flood out of me like water from a cracked jug.

But tweeting?  Reading (and commenting on) OTHER people's blogs?  Perfect for ADD-rific me some days.  Like yesterday, when all my writing mojo spilled out across the internet, splashed onto other people's blogs.  I was a commenting dervish.

And then there's Twitter.  If you tweet, you understand the appeal of the fairy dust.  And if you don't?  You (probably) think I'm a twit.  Well, you're both right.  Probably.

So (focus, please, here!), yesterday, when I sat down to write, I just didn't have it in me.  I thought: "Damn, I have no words left today, I dropped them all off at other people's houses."

But you know?  Maybe I can visit them tonight, and take a picture and show you (because I am a technical genius and know how to make my Mac do screen shots) and impress you with how smart/funny/cute/ranty and... commenty I was yesterday.

And at the sheer wonderfulness of this approach?  Besides not having to write anything really coherent tonight?  I get to introduce you to some more terrific blogs and bloggers.

And also?  I'm kind of new-ish to this blogging thing, haven't even had my "bloggaversary" yet. So I don't really know what the rules of this world are, and if I'm breaking any of them by doing this bit here.

But also?  I don't really care.  I'm following one of the operational rules of my old career in TV/film production: it is often easier to ask forgiveness than permission. 

So here is me yesterday, flying in from elsewhere, inspired by the wonderful funny, smart or heartbreaking words of others to add a few of my own.  Or in my case, more than a few.  Because, as you may have noticed, I tend to be "long-form" (that's not baggage, that's just the size of my suitcase)...

First off, lets mosey on over and take a look at my early morning Twitterstream:

And then, after joking about it, I nearly did just that by accident.  Clairvoyance?

Um, I was a bit tired yesterday morning.  But also?  Somehow giggly instead of grumpy.  Thank goodness, because I really hate having a three dwarf morning.

Yeah, I'm going to win a Pulitzer with my tweets.

Well, no.  But it does help to blow off steam and let me be kind and nice mom instead of bearish snappy mom.  And THAT is most definitely a good thing.

So after dropping off the offspring and spending a few hours in Jacob-life-management mode (wherein  I inventoried and re-ordered all my son's 10,000 medicines, vitamins and nutritional supplements from 5,000 different sources, and then poured out a week's worth of his 6 different types of a daily packets of them -- don't you just wish you had my life, now?) I allowed myself a little time to surf the interwebs, visiting old friends, discovering new wonders and dropping bits of myself off, my commenty calling cards, along the way.

Yes, I know, if that sentence were any longer it would need its own zip code.  I am working hard to earn my title "Queen of the Run-on-Sentence (with parenthetical clauses)".  How am I doing?

So, back to the matter at hand.   Picture me tiptoeing through the tulips in the garden of web... looking kind of like this:

That is an illustration from the amazing Allie Brosh's blog Hyperbole and a Half.  If you ever really NEED to laugh?  Like, if your life depended on it?   Go there.

OK, so on Kris's blog Pretty All True my response to her funny/painful/honest post "Call Me" was this:

One of the (many) amazing things about Kris is that she always replies to each and every comment, often inciting layers of dialogue.  She is the most interactive blogger I know. And sometimes the comments are ALMOST more wonderful than her wonderful posts.  And best of all?  She likes me, she really likes me.  Cyber-me that is. Which is just fine.

Then I went to visit Jess's blog, a diary of a mom, and read her moving post "The Donut Shop."  Jess is an Autism Mom blogger, and this post was about how hard it is to go out to eat with her family.  But really, it was about so much more, about all the dreams you have for your family and what happens when you add Autism into the blender and hit pulverize.  Her post brought up all kinds of feelings for me, and I left this mini-rant of a comment:

And yes, I need to work on my proof-reading. That should have been "struck" not "truck."

And finally?  Yesterday was Stimey's monthly day over on the Hopeful Parents site (where I post every 10th of the month).  Stimey (real name Jean) is my web-friend and yet another Autism Mom Blogger.  She was a DC Metro area member of the defunct (and just now resurrected) Silicon Valley Moms Group blog,  a sister site to the NYC Moms Blog site I wrote for last spring.  We actually met (yes, in the real world, with our meat puppet bodies) at the BlogHer10 conference in NYC this past summer, and in fact kept bumping into each other every 5 minutes to the point where it became a running joke: "Oh, you again! Am I stalking you or are you stalking me?"

Her home blog is Stimeyland (although you can find her words all OVER the inter-webs) and she is in every way terrific (smart/funny/really real).  Her post at Hopeful Parents, called My Son Knows He Has Autism, was about how she talks with her son Jack (and whole family) openly and positively about his different brain. I read her post (and you should, too) and then left my 2 cents:

Yes, I know there's a proofreading fail in this one too. Thanks for pointing that out.

And that, my friends, is that.  Retiring my surfboard for the night before I reach too far and wipe-out.  Gonna grab a yogurt smoothie.  Take off my web-suit and excavate the sand out of my...

Ahem

Good night all, good night.