And they’re off!

hope brain is not mush
expectations are scary
edits to book: done!

I just emailed my first major round of edits to my editor at Random House (yes, yes, I will always name drop. Wouldn’t you?)! Of course I’m in mortal fear of disappointing him and of ruining my book and of getting a phone call that goes something like, "Hello? Right. You totally jacked this up." But overall, I feel confidant. No, really! I’m excited and tingly at the thought of hearing his comments and I CAN’T WAIT until I’m able to get feedback from some kids.

Also, I just found out McSweeney’s has accepted another piece for the website. Yay! I’ll keep you posted on when it’s going to appear.

Whew. I’m off to play on Facebook now. I should never have signed up for that thing. Not only does it waste incredible amounts of time, but there’s a group that you can join specifically for the purpose of talking like you live in Deadwood. I speak the honest God-fearin’ fuckin’ truth, you foul-mouthed scoundrel cocksuckah. Facebook and Deadwood are going to cause me to go to hell.

No more devil cremes before bed

like kick in the gut
your confused reality
stems from chocolate??

I had a Little Debbie Devil Creme thing before I went to bed last night. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… it wasn’t very good. Way too sweet, not enough chocolate flavor. Bleh. When I want chemically, over-preserved chocolate dessert, I’m sticking with the Little Debbie Cosmic brownies.

Anyway, I ate my snack cake, then my vitamin (because I have to have something of vitaminal merit go into my gullet at some point in the day) and I went to bed.

I woke up this morning in a right state of dismay. I spent pretty much all night going from scene to scene in one never-ending terrible dream. In the dream I was a surrogate for a doe – pregnant with two deers. I was so pregnant with fauna, in fact, my BACK looked pregnant. I could feel their hooves kicking me in the back, and there was one particularly disturbing scene where one of the deer embryos lost its heartbeat momentarily and a veterinarian had to manually move the creature around in my belly. The sensation was so real and bony and horrifying.

Towards the end of the dream I learned I’d have to give birth at the vet’s office and there would be no pain medication available because of me being a human and all. There was also some question as to HOW the deer would be born because of their size and a human’s physiological limitations.


What a super horrifying, Island of Dr. Moreau-ish dream.


No more snacks before bedtime. Oprah is right. You shouldn’t eat past 7:30.

Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde

oh, sweet puppy dog
we’ve ruined you already
so sorry ’bout that

We’ve been training Tucker to walk on a leash. At 10 weeks, he’s getting the hang of it (uh, so to speak), and we keep the walks short and mostly on the grass so his little bones don’t get jiggled around on the concrete.

We had him out with us on Friday night, as we walked around the block, and lo! There was a lab puppy to visit with. Tucker hasn’t been around any other dogs since we got him a few weeks ago, so we naturally thought he’d be thrilled to romp around with a buddy for a few minutes.

Uh, right.

Tucker, all 3.6 pounds of him, when positively Cujo apeshit when that lab puppy came over to sniff him. It was startling how fast he went from jaunty little pup on a walk to scared out of his mind snarly teeth-bared psycho. Holy shit.

The lab pup and his owner were totally non-plussed and actually kind of amused by the whole thing, but my husband and I weren’t. A scaredy fear aggressive dog is not on our list of wants right now.

i don’t know if it’s a puppy thing or a breed thing (he’s a mini Australian Shepherd) or an "I’ve just been to the vet leave me alone" thing or what, but it really freaked me out. We want our pup to be excited about the world, not scared by it, and especially not scared of other dogs. How will we learn to play frisbee at the dog park if he morphs into Cujo every time another dog tries to sniff him?

Our vet asked us to wait to start obedience classes until after Tucker has his rabies shot in three weeks, but that was before we had the psycho incident. I’m, frankly, afraid to wait three more weeks, if he’s developing some kind of phobia or something. Maybe he was just in a bad mood or the other dog was giving off a vibe or something, but I don’t think so. We took Tucker to the dog park on Saturday, and though he didn’t get snarly, he did tuck his tail and hide under the stroller when other dogs came by. This makes me want to get him into a class with a behaviorist right away. Maybe I’ve watched too much of the Dog Whisperer for my own good, I don’t know. I do know that I don’t want my pup to go through life being scared out of his mind every time another dog comes by. We have to nip that shit in the bud.

Poor guy. I have no idea where the fear comes from, but I hope it’s early enough to fix. I’m telepathically sending him some tiny brass balls. But puppy kindergarten will help, too, I think.

attack of the sticky chins

joy of summertime
sticky fingers sticky chins
watermelon stains

We are drowning in fruit over here in the Haiku of the Day household. Strawberries, watermelon, bananas, avocados, white-flesh peaches, pears, apricots. It’s all just so sweet and juicy and ripe and yummy. Between this, the crazy sweet corn on the cob and the crispy green beans from the market, I’m almost OK with the fact that we never were able to plant our veggie garden this year. I’m still holding out for some okra and late season tomatoes, but the hope is dimming as the heat swells.

I tell you what, though, this summer has been the best in years as far as fruit goes. I don’t know if my grocery store is just getting in better produce, or if the Valley has had a bumper crop, or what, but the fruit is exquisite.

The wee-er one will crouch in her high chair (she doesn’t sit in it anymore – sigh) and hold her hand out, palm up in this puppy-dog-eyed-Oliver-Twist-please-sir-can-I-have-
some-more way and make an "mmmmmmmmmm" sound when she wants more. If I’m not fast enough, the hand bobs up and down and the "mmm"-ing turns into an impatient squeal. Baby girl must have her peaches and strawberries IMMEDIATELY upon spying them or all hell breaks loose. Frankly, I feel the same way.

Now I just have to figure out what to do with the 17 million pounds of watermelon we have leftover from the fourth. It’s beautiful, red, sweet and juicy and it’s gonna have to go in the trash if I don’t come up with something to do with it soon. I guess I can ball it, freeze it, and use it as ice cubes. Or something.

Anyway. I’m loving summer – with all the rain, the less than 100-degree temps, the glorious fruit… I know others are sweltering and/or floating away and to them I say, I’m so so sorry. After "enjoying" our triple digit summer last year – while pregnant and then nursing a steam engine – this summer feels like a long lost exotic vacation.



What? No one wants to play?


You’re going to make me regale you with stories of picking fresh dog poo out of the yard so that I could put it IN MY FRIDGE and then bring it to the vet, aren’t you? You’re going to make me rain down upon you with minstrels of milk blisters, giant yogurt-inspired baby farts, and $18 two dose puppy pain meds.

It’ll be your fault when I ulneash these gory tales on you. Your fault for not playing the "let’s all get along and tell a story" game. The Token Conservative commentor is crying in his beer RIGHT NOW because no one has followed up his elegant and thought-provoking addition to the story of the boy name Sue.

For shaaaaaaame.

Let’s write a story…

OK. I’m going to start a story, and then you all can keep it going as long as you want. Just make sure that you leave an open ending to your part so that someone else can jump in next…



Once upon a time there was a boy named Sue. As you can imagine, he wasn’t happy to have a girl’s name, even though his dad assured him that many famous – and manly – men had girl’s names. Like Babe Ruth and Leslie Neilsen. Sue wasn’t buying it, though, even with the song that dude who was named after money sang.

One day, Sue was trying to figure out how to change his name by adding another letter to it. Maybe he could be "Sued." That sounded threatening. Or maybe "Suez" – that one was exotic! Sue was busily writing down all of his ideas when he suddenly heard a weird buzzy/flappy noise. He looked to the sky and…

something stinky this way comes

stink is everywhere
can I blame humidity
or is it just me

Man. My kitchen stinks. My laundry room stinks. My baby stinks. My yard stinks. Something very gross is afoot here.

The stink differs from thing to thing, so it’s not, like, something dead in the walls. It’s just this perfect storm of…. what? Old chicken salad, old laundry, poo, and outside poo? I don’t know, but it is ga-ross.

Plus, how is it that I can wash a load of laundry, leave it overnight, and in the morning have it smell like I tossed some roadkill in the basin? Can laundry not sit overnight? I know it stinks after a couple of days, but just a few hours? What gives? I’m all for getting my clothes clean and not mildewy, but sometimes a mama has to go to bed before the dryer is ready.

In other whiny news, the wee-er one headbutted me (or as the wee one says, "butt headed" me) causing my glasses to actually CUT the bridge of my nose. Ow. And attractive, too.

Whine whine whine. I’m off to reorder my netflix queue and say a little prayer that the first disk of season three of Deadwood no long has a "very long wait." I needs me some angry cursing, flithy cowboys. At least then the smell in this house will fit right in.

Happy Birthday, Baby Girl!

today she turns one
she ate bow on her dress; cake
big day for big girl

Well, this time last year (2pm) the pushing had not yet commenced, but it would momentarily. Then, not too much later – 2:32pm – sweet Georgia was born. All 8 pounds and 11 ounces of her lustily announcing her arrival. Her daddy cut the cord, the nurse wrapped her up and laid her on my chest, and Georgia looked at me with her dark eyes. It’s been love ever since.

She’s asleep now, worn out from her cheese-tacular party, where we enjoyed cheese cubes, cheese quesadillas, avocados and cheerios (all of her favorites). She gave herself a beard of icing as she demolished her piece of cake (cheese-shaped cake, not actual cheese cake). Even her dress was yellow.

And now I’m all sniffly and sentimental, watching her sleep. This day last year was so tremendous, and at the same time, almost anti-climatic. After all of the drama of the last few months of pregnancy, with my busted pelvis and all the pain of walking and moving, having that epidural and pushing her out after a mere 8 hours of labor… it seemed to happen too fast and too easy. Even with the brief panic attack after some IV antibiotics made my tongue taste bitter, and even as she was crowning and I decided I didn’t want to have a baby and would just maybe wait another day or so… it was still so, well, simple and pleasant. We were out of the hospital in less than 24 hours, resting at home and nursing nursing nursing.

And here she is, snoozing away her very first sugar high. It’s been so hard and fast and lovely, this first year. I can’t believe we’re onto the second year already.

I hope she likes the iPhone and season three of Deadwood we got her. (Just kidding – sippy cups and a shopping cart were her biggies.)

I love you, Georgia Kady, my big, big baby girl.