Lasterday

"Lasterday" is no more.

Finn retired his neologism--meaning the day before yesterday, or really any day that came before today--some weeks ago. And I know, I know. I should have told you this early, but I've been trying to cope with this reality on my own. Not the wisest decision. It is a big burden to bear. And I also know, as I'm sure you'll remind me, that you could've lent some wisdom or perspective that would have eased the transition, that you could have mitigated my pain.

Finn has been using this all-purpose word for year now. It appeared soon after those first words, blah, apple, and dada. Lasterday was mysterious.

"Mama, do you remember when we went to that big fountain?"
"When?"
"Lasterday."

And that could've meant the picnic we had the day before at the Plaza fountain. Or it could've meant the project Barry did at the fountain two years before. Or it could've meant the trip we took to Niagra Falls.

At first, I was resistant to lasterday. It wasn't precise. It didn't narrow down the temporal frame of possibilities. It just referred to some time before this particular time. And then Finn started narrowing its definition on his own. He found "yesterday," used it, but still kept lasterday to mark anytime that happened before that.

Lasterday worked for us. We started using it as a family. I took it into meetings. And like any signifier marking a previously unlabeled signified, it filled a void. It gave meaning to something that we had previously stumbled around.

And it was cute.

But in March, as we were talking about a movie we had seen lasterday, Finn corrected me.

"You mean 'the day before yesterday.'"
"Nope, it was lasterday."
"Not a word, mama."

And then, right then, I felt the crushing blow. Lasterday had been replaced by practical, conventional linguistic markers. A clunky, unelegant phrase. In that moment, we lost lasterday.

And not to overdramatize (but that's the way I work) I have to wonder what else?

Strange Powers

I think I may be emitting abnormal levels of electromagnetic resonance.

Not a scientific finding. There were no doctors' visits or lab tests. I'm just going by the empirical data, my people. And the facts are these: my mail won't send, I crashed my backup hard drive (and lost all the "letters" I'd been saving since e-mail was born because I forgot to backup my mailchives). I can't log onto the Internet on my desktop computer.

I'm killing the electronics in our house, one small thumb drive, browser, DVD burner, and hard drive at a time.

I don't know if my new superpower benefits me or the cheerleaders, but I do know that the neoluddites can rally around my newfound abilities. And I'm available for e-retaliation should your devices be getting a little uppity.

Watch out Wii. I don't want to take you out, but apparently I can't help myself.

You know you've had enough when . . .

We had some friends over to the house a few nights ago, just for beer and banter.

(Yes, drinking. In the middle of the week. Decadence.)

We discussed her love of writers, my irrational fear of poets, his trip to Sundance, Bear's project in Syracuse. All over Boulevard, killer salsa from Los Alamos, precociously delightful drawings, and some delicious snuggles from both Finn and Eddie.

Then I put Finn to bed, opened another beer, and, in what seemed a logical and perfectly appropriate move, paraded out my yearbooks (years 1986 and 1987).

I think there's a rule about this indulgent display of your past and much like you'd expect your wingwomen to vet your conquests, I fully expect Bear to jump in and provide a little sobering check and balance when I've so clearly fallen off the wagon of reasonable disclosure and into the muddy pond of oversharing.

I've expected it for the last 20 years. Never happened.

So there I am, sharing high school stories and--yes, I'm admitting this--reading my yearbook inscriptions. Out loud. And just when I'm about to launch into one of my drill team hand routines, you know, to further demonstrate the drama of a particular photograph (and still with nary a word, ear pull, cough, or stern stare from Barry), our friends tell us they need to go.

"What?!" I tend to overexclamate after a couple of drinks. "But look at this!! Doesn't he look like Bono! I had such a crush!"

Really need to go.

"What?! It's only 9:30! It's still early!!"

"Yeah, not anymore." And there, understated and after the fact, Barry's confirmation that I'd already crossed the line.

We got a puppy.

Last week, Finn and I decided we needed to go back for another look at the dogs. After about an hour, we walked out with Edwidge, our new cairpoo puppy.

Yes, we ambushed Bear.

But it had to be done. See, Eddie--as we call her--has one of those sweet faces and a wiry, scraggly coat that needs serious loving (and brushing). I saw her the first day we visited. As I walked by her kennel, she looked at me, raised an ear and tilted her head. She implored me. She had me. So yesterday, we went back to meet her. And she convinced Bear.

Now, I can't say it's been all kongs and kibble since then. That first week was freaking cold, people. And dogs have to potty. Outside. (Or at least that was the theory.) Enough ten minute trips outside and mopping and you got enough to turn a whirlwind romance into a marriage of convenience.

Yet again, we probably should've talked this through with people in the know before we jumped in blind. But that's just the way love is.

Of Puppies and Pomodoro

We looked at puppies yesterday. Yes, on purpose.

The Dog Discussion has been in the works for a while now. Finn wants one--that's no surprise--and we've been stalling.

The prereqs have been varied--and admittedly random: Finn had to prove he could take care of a smaller animal (two Beta fish, the second committed suicide), Finn had to wait until we moved, until we weren't traveling as much, until he could show he could handle responsibility (like loading the dishwasher or making his bed--yeah, I know, but Finn didn't pick up on the non seq), until he could come up with a name that wasn't--and yes, I'm going to write this out loud--stupid.

Finn: We could call her Finn!

Me: That would be confusing . . .

Finn: How about Bouncey?!

Me: Absolutely not . . .

Finn: I know, we'll call her Sushi! Except when we make sushi for dinner, she'll think we're going to eat her! (Cue irrepressible giggles.)

Today's Tomato: Cioppino, courtesy of Rachel Ray

A Week's Worth of Tomatoes

We bought this ginormous can of tomatoes at The Costco. Read it and weep, baby: 160 ounces of San Marzano romas, peeled and bathing in tomato puree. Scrumpdiliocious.

The only problem: now that the romas are freed from their tinny prison, we have to eat them. And I figure, unless you tell me otherwise, that we have a week to do it. Two, if we dose them with citrus.

So forthwithit, we begin the Parade of Pomodori. And we begin with:

Tuscan Chicken with Beans

Don't Hate the Player . . .

I've been keeping stuff from you. Secrets. Secrets that, had they any juice to begin with, are now dried up on the top shelf of clandestiny. You don't know about the failed diets, my trip to China, my all-nighters, my ill-conceived theories on the fifth Cyclon, and the struggles I have endured to cook, clean, and unpack those boxes that still haunt our hallway and now attic and closets . . . as little as possible.

(You can thank me--just push "Comments." And you're welcome.)

But one little glorious--and yet nettling--thing you missed over the past six months: Finn turned into a boy. And again, I blame the harbinger of my personal depression.

Kindergarten has introduced Finn to a new world of . . . ideas.

I told you once upon a time that he was reading. Well, he put that activity in the slow lane to develop new talents, like incessant talking, selective remembering, bad creative joke telling, dastardly plan hatching, worm squashing petting, sand-in-socks-and-shoes collecting, and . . . wait for it . . . flirting.

It started with a spunky little wisp-of-a-thing in his class. She's all glam-and-roll. Picture sequined Chucks in a zoot suit. Then he butted another girl (that's when you tap someone, rather vigorously, with your rear end), which we found out, after many evasions and even more tears, had little to do with her annoying him and much to do with him trying to "get her attention." Then he started playing dog hotel with yet another girl. (Have yet to tease out what that game is about. Suggestions welcome.) And a few weeks ago, he got a love note. From a first grader.

But don't think Finn is a fickle flirt whose intent is to collect girls like so many Bakugan. (Because I know that's exactly where you were going, "That Five, he's a playah!")

Finn may be experimenting with modes of social interaction, but he has always had just one crush. In fact, he will tell you--as he told me and our dental hygienist just yesterday--that he has and will always love only one girl, a postmodern princess from his previous school. (Cross a Precious Moments doll with a four-year-old Buffy and you'll get a general picture.)

So why the loyalty? What is it about this girl that prevents any other from truly entering his heart?

Well, I just asked him. His answer:

"Just because."

Boys.

So . . . where have you been?

Yeah, I know it's been a long time since I posted anything here. Just shy of six months. And I honestly thought I might get away with just sneaking back in, dropping a post, and scooching out quietly .

Then Carie, that dutiful yet lovely blogger of good hair, outed me.

So here I am, 'splaining myself. I really have you to blame. You, and your contagious obsession with Facebook.

See, after I sent Finn off to school, I signed up on Facebook, aiming to find myself a community of kindred spirits and old, familiar souls who I could find solace with, who could comfort me through the trauma of surrendering my child to public education. I didn't find you so much, but in the months that followed, I did find my slayer army, my troop of rabid vampires, folks who are also defined by the Breakfast Club and White Snake, and people willing to help me populate my nauseatingly cute, virtual rain forest.

I suppose that's something--but I know, not really an excuse. And I don't so much have one of those, except to say that it takes a lot of time to build a truly killer collection of eyesores, figurines, and flair.

Stop to Smell the Spam

(and the music and the Pulitzer-prize winning article . . .)

My aunt sent this to me--one of those forwarded e-mails that I often, often, often, delete. This one, though, I stopped and listened to. I like to think that, occasionally, I'm the type of person who would.

"Only then do you see it: He is the one who is real. They are the ghosts."

Violinist in the Metro

A man entered a metro station in Washington DC and started to play the violin; it was a cold January morning. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, since it was rush hour, it was calculated that thousands of people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.

Three minutes went by and a middle aged man noticed there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up to meet his schedule.

A minute later, the violinist received his first dollar tip: a woman threw the money in the till and without stopping continued to walk.

A few minutes later, someone leaned against the wall to listen to him, but the man looked at his watch and started to walk again. Clearly he was late for work.

The one who paid the most attention was a 3 year old boy. His mother tagged him along, hurried, but the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. All the parents, without exception, forced them to move on.

In the 45 minutes the musician played, only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32. When he finished playing and silence took over, no one noticed it. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.

No one knew this but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written with a Stradivarius violin worth 3.5 million dollars.

Two days before his playing in the subway, Joshua Bell sold out at a theater in Boston and the seats averaged $100.

This is a real story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and priorities of people. The outlines were: in a commonplace environment at an inappropriate hour: Do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize the talent in an unexpected context?

One of the possible conclusions from this experience could be: If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing the best music ever written what else are we missing?

For Today

I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--

I, too, am America.

by Langston Hughes

Here Begins the Era of Ham

(So, for those of you who tripped into this blog looking for the son of Noah and the father of Canaan, keep surfing. The "ham" I'm talking about belongs to the unapologetically undignified and hypertheatrical Five, which, in loose Biblical interpretation and delightful analogy, could be just what you're looking for after all.)

Five has taken to impersonating . . . somebody. We don't know exactly who and we definitely fear this may be the first signs of multiple personality disorder, but almost everyday, Finn (as Five and several other characters) comes home with a new gimmick. Heavy rotation hits include what I like to call The Please and Igor's Pout.

The Please, and you mothers will recognize: raised eyebrows, closed eyes, and undeniably sweet and wide smile. Igor's Pout: eyes half closed, hunched shoulders (which actually plays quite comical on Finn's skinny frame) and jutted lip.

I'm a complete victim to The Please, he pulls that one out of his pocket and he gets all the MsMs he wants. Igor's Pout, absolutely immune, in that sense of Five doesn't get what he wants and I revert to sniveling, blanket hugger. There's something about that particular combination of gestures that's a little too turtle, a little too Gollum, and much too Benjamin Button freaky. Instead of buckling to whatever demand Igor's Pout follows, I find myself cuddling in a well-lit corner with Finn's mankie, rocking and incessantly repeating happy thoughts. (Five still loves his mankie.)

We have determined that these aren't originals. How? We asked, he fessed. Five does that. (For now.) But he don't snitch. (Five is chivalrous.) So, through a Sherlockian process of deduction (we wore hats! donned plaid! affixed monocles!), we narrowed down the list of suspects to the folks he shares kindergarten with: a motley group of co-Fives who bedazzle our impressionable impressionist with their Culkiny expressions of slappy surprise, their Knottsian looks of bugged out incredulity, their Carreyesque gestures of faux inanity.

That's not to say that our Five doesn't come up with his own performances. His stuff is decidedly ninja and, well, British. British ninja. Yeah, he's onto something. (Reared on Buffy and Yoda, that one.) But his portfolio is eclectic, a veritable pastiche of his peers. Which surprises me, really. Both in its wide sense of humor and in its ability to take on and completely embrace what his friends are dishing out.

To Finn, on his first day of kindergarten

About two hours ago, I abandoned you in your kindergarten classroom.

I walked you to your room and eased you into the classroom filled to fire hazard with five-year-olds, their parents, and more cameras--video, digital, cell phone--than an AARP tour group on a whale watching cruise.

Then I blew you a kiss, swallowed yours, and booked it out the door so you wouldn't see my inevitable and long-postponed (and planned) breakdown.



Sure, I say "abandoned." Based on your response, hoppy exuberance, and all caps glee--MY OWN LOCKER! and MY KIDS! and PLAY DOH!--I think you might choose a verb like "set free" or "liberated" or "finally unshackled from the oppressive, stifling bonds of a mother hell bent on dissing my vibe."

I've asked you--multiple times a day, unfortunately--if you were excited about kindergarten. And each time I did, you'd open your arms wide, so wide they bent around your back, and say, "Mama, I'm so excited." This surpasses any overextended voguing you've done for a Nana visit (sorry Nana), a playdate with one of your kids, or the promise of a Transformer. This, to date, is the most excited you've been about anything.

I'm so glad you don't take after me.

I always loved school--so much that I signed up for three extra years that I didn't have to--but each first day would put me into such a nauseous tizzy in my anxiety over unopenable lockers, labyrinth hallways, teeming kids and later adults, and germy play doh. Even when I taught school, I'd have to take shots of Pepto just to calm my nerves. First days were never my forte.

But kindergarten looks like it's your element. You have such high hopes for this year--that you'll find like-minded Lego lovers, that you'll do scientific experiments that test the bounds of electromagnetism, and that you'll finally, finally, finally learn to fly.



I can guarantee you'll find your Lego crew--and you'll make new friends who share your interests and open your eyes to new wonders. You'll also learn of the dangers of cooties--and, if you're lucky--one of those new friends my inoculate against further infection by that insidious disease. (Or you can self-mediate: Step one: circle. Step two: another circle. Then three dots. That is the cootie shot.) You'll learn how to follow the crowd and stand up for yourself. You'll witness snark, smarm, and generosity of spirit. You may even find your best forever friend, or your first love, among the kids who share this first day with you. And you've just met the first teacher whose influence and passion you'll remember for the rest of your life.

Unfortunately, I'm pretty sure you won't be doing any Faraday experiments. And sometimes, I'll also guarantee, you'll find kindergarten a bit slow. You already know how to do so much--you can read a little, you make friends easily, you can build elaborate aerodynamic objects d'art with the aforementioned Legos, K'Nex, Tinkertoys, Lincoln Logs, you crack jokes at a whim. But don't let your talents keep you from accepting what others have to offer. You came into this classroom with confidence, imagination, and wit. Share it. And embrace the talents of others who are different from you--who can tie their shoelaces, who can make savory mud pies, who carry their magic in their hearts instead of in their hands. Discover them, too.

And as for that last bit about going airborne? I think I may have set you up, kid. There's been a lot of Harry Potter, Peter Pan, and Willa Wonka talk in the Anderson household. I hate to disappoint, but you won't be getting a Firebolt this year. Or next. Your teacher won't be distributing pixie dust or popping bottles of fizzy lifting drink. But there's a world out there, Finn, that's just waiting for you, a world of magic and wonder whose doors and windows and chimneys will open to you if you just believe in it.

And I will tell you this--although you may not literally soar through the air on a magic carpet anytime soon, this year, you will learn how to fly.

It's 3:11 a.m. and I Can't Sleep

So instead . . .


I check my Facebook account.

I shop the Van's Web site for new kicks for Finn.

I read every single comment to the newest, and quite funny post, on finslippy.

I think about the time I vowed to never go to a mommy's group again, when I had just recovered from my hysterectomy and some mom commented about me being lucky to only have one kid.

I check my Facebook account. Again.

I listen to 30 Days of Coldplay on XMRadio--and realize maybe I don't like Coldplay that much.

I wonder if Finn will be a wedgie-er or a wedgie-ee. Or if he really has to pick a side.

I avoid thinking about Monday. And the first day of kindergarten.

I think of Monday and calculate exactly how much Kleenex I'll need.

I check my Facebook account.

I google myself.

And decide to write a blog post.

I realize that I have to be up in less than four hours for kindergarten dress rehearsal.

I wonder if it's too late to have a beer.

I wonder if we have any.

We don't.

I wonder if I can make this post into a children's story.

And I realize it's probably best to call it while I'm ahead.

And realize it may be too late for that.

Lately, This Song Has Got Me Tearing Up--in That Crying Way, Not That Shredding Paper Way

Why I Wasn't at My 20th High School Reunion

Dear 1988,

I'm sorry I missed you last Friday. I'd like to say it couldn't be avoided--that I live too far away or I had a previous commitment or I'm buried in work or that I'm too cheap to book a flight back to my hometown. But those wouldn't be the truth (although the third is nearly literal and the fourth is a close approximation, except for those burgeoning frequent flier miles I have).

The simple fact is this: you scare me. And I really never had any intention of seeing you again.

In 1988, I was a firm believer in Ayn Rand, I was going to be a physics major at UT, and in a few short months, I'd volunteer to help the Young Republicans elect George Bush. (A cute boy was involved. I got short-term rewards.) Within that year, I'd be pretty severely slapped in the ass by my own naivety--and the boy I would eventually marry.

I've often thought ala Richard Bach (at least my reading taste has improved) what it would be like to see you again. If I--the late30something writer, mother, sloppy boobed wife with the especially glorious grey blaze--happened across that young perky breasted, slender-thighed thing who thought she'd never get married, never have children (much less gain 70 preggie pounds, breast feed, and make the choice to quit corporate), never do something so seemingly inconsequential and self-indulgent as "to write," and never leave home without a spare tube of liquid eye liner and an extra large can of Aqua Net stashed in her purse.

(I wonder which Song of the 80s would provide the lyrical drama to our scifi rendez-vous? Please, please not Mr. Mister's "Kyrie Eleison." Can we both agree to that? I thought we could. We haven't grown that far apart.)

My god, girl, what would you think of me? I go to the grocery store without make up. I don't own a bottle of Clearsil anymore. I don't dye my hair. (Often.) I don't tan or watch soap operas. I've been seen listening to select country music. And liking it. I share. My chocolates. Like, with other people.

And what would I say to you? Have kids early and often? Pick doctors based on their actual qualifications not on their likeness to Magnum PI? Maybe learn a little self discipline around the bread basket at Olive Garden? Get a tattoo? Wear bikinis?

To look at you would collapse time in a way that I'm just not ready for right now. It would make me reevaluate every decision I've made in the past 20 years and wonder about paths I didn't take--and if I should have. It would shore up the obvious fact that I plan to avoid for a few more years: that I'm comfortably nearly 40 years old and how you panicked when you turned just 25.

And ultimately, it would let me steep in the past when I desperately need to enjoy where I am.

Oh, right, I suppose I pretty much just did that. Oh well. So much for avoiding the personal demons.

I guess I should've posted this earlier and booked my flight to join the raging drunks that are the Class of 1988.

Maybe that's something 40something beam over and tell me.

Just in Case You Were Wondering (or You've Been Revealed!)

So. I just took a peeksie at my analytics, the data about my Web site--who visits, how they get here, where they're from, how quickly they flee to some other site--and I thought it might be interesting to share with you a sampling o' keywords that have actually led the people to my blog.

Just as a Thursday afternoon treat.

(Except for the fact that it's Wednesday.)

• "his bra"--in quotes
• buttpenis--all one word
• cheesy way to say i love you--and why was this person looking for the cheesy ways, not, say, the sincere ways. That will forever be a mystery. (Or will it, dear reader?)
• fat stick figure
• i threw out my shoulder--ah, I remember that. First day with the Wii. Good times. I wonder if they found what they needed in my post?
  
• i threw out my shoulders
• kc chiefs t-shirt from urban outfitters
• mammograph photo boob
• take off his bra--which makes me wonder why he had one on. And why it was so tricky to remove it that he had to google a solution
• tori spelling cleavage 2004--a mediocre year for the Ms. Spelling, methinks
  
• where to buy heirloom tomatoes in kansas city

And the post popular--any variation on Auden's poem, "Funeral Blues," the results of which I'm sure did help them score mightily on their critical analysis paper.

But apparently, I will be blogging about that more often . . .

I Heart MarioKart (and Parentheticals)

A couple of months ago--whenever it was that it came out in that blur of house fixing, cleaning, packing, staging, selling, packing again, and moving--we bought MarioKart, the Wii's racing game. It comes with a wheel--authentic gaming experience!--and the game itself offers a mess load of fun race tracks.

Now, I must insert here, before I go much further in my story, that I notoriously suck at any kind of "wheeled" game. Go carts? Won't touch them. Bumper cars? Always the bumpee, never the bumper. Computerized racing games? See that moron crashing into the wall and now driving the wrong way and now crashing into a wall again. Yes, it is I.

And I won't say, as you're probably expecting, that MarioKart is different, easy, a revelation in my virtual driving experience.

It's not. I still suck. But now I get to crash into cows and goompas as well as walls. And I can sabotage my fellow drivers and even the odds just a little bit with flying turtle shells and banana peels.

(Thanks to the Wiis connection to the Internets, you can also play MK against your friends and other relatively anonymous competitors worldwide. Which is to say, I'm easy pickins, my people. Easy win.)

Back in our younger college days, when we'd move Every Single Year, the stereo was the first thing to unpack. We'd set up the receiver, turntable, CD changer, and speakers, and soundtrack the entire move and unpacking process with the lilting notes of the Pixes or Sonic Youth.

Now, our life is about diversions, not ambiance, and the first thing we unpacked was the Wii. And we've been playing MarioKart every night (and a few moments inbetween) since we moved in.

Finn loves it. And I love Finn for loving it. One, because he's such a trooper about trying a game that really exceeds his level of expertise. (Really.) And two, because I can beat him, a simple fact about which I harbor no guilt or sentimentality.

Take that turtle shell, my precious spawn. Mama's gonna place tonight!

The Rockets--Did You Know They Glare? Menacingly?

When I grew up, the Fourth of July meant slurping homemade peach ice cream and hanging out at the neighbors' pool until one of them got too drunk and threatened to throw my mom into the deep end, which was our signal to pack it up and head home. (When I think back, I seem to also remember a bowl of keys? I wonder . . . )

Of particular note: no sparklers, no flaming pagodas, no conical sprays of fire, no bottle rockets, black cats, snap pops. No real presence of pyrotechnics, big or small. I think I can count the number of fireworks shows I saw growing up, on one hand, with fingers missing. And most accompanied with screaming. But who could hear over those deafening explosions?

This Fourth of July was a departure from what Carrie and Ricky call my decidedly unAmerican childhood. I don't know what our city ordinances are, so let's just say that I spent a lot of time hiding behind the children. And giggling.

If I Knew You Were Comin', I'duv Baked a Cake, Pet a Snake, Built a Lake

We moved. Ergo, the silent treatment and mysterious blogposts.

We've spent the past two week or so frantically packing, frantically panicking, and relocating all our crap (oh my, we have so much STUFF) to Kansas.

Yes, we crossed the stateline, abandoned Missouri to all those who are much more enthusiastic about than we could ever be, and booked it to Dorothyland.

And we love it. Love it. Love, love, love it. (So far. I don't want to get to ahead of myself.)

I have a whole elaborate and karmic moving story to share with you in a later post, but right now, light me just share this moment of Kansas-flavored zen.

Right now, this very moment (or a few moments or days or perhaps even weeks or months ago depending on when you finally revisit my long dormant blog--sorry) I'm baking a cake.

Yes. Baking. Me.

Sum total this past year, I've baked a few dozen cookies. And this cake. "Baker" is not my middle name. Or one that even travels in the same sentence, much less discussion.

And yet . . . I bake. A beautiful and "elaborate" (remember, low tolerance) strawberry shortcake recipe that I stole from Nigella Lawson. (I'm also wearing a skirt. And heels. No pearls.) And as I'm slowly folding in my dry ingredients into my frothy buttery-eggy-yumfest, Yaz's "Only You" comes on.

Sing along . . .

All I needed was the love you gave
All I needed was another day
And all I ever knew
Only you

How beautiful shines 30something domesticity.

Slurp.

Because You, Internet, Are Nothing If Not Thorough.

Okay. So I may have caused a mini panic in my two readers by my last couple of enigmatic posts. Some have you have trolled my archives and wonder if the Event of Which I Must Not Speak is somehow related to things that start with the letter C.

I just want to let you know that my reticence to share things has nothing to do with my health--which, as far as I know, is good and golden for two years and three months running. And thank you for being concerned. That was warm and fuzzy and really, really generous.

(Of course, I have a doctor's appointment next month and just by saying the above that probably means I'm due for some kind of biopsy followed by a period of wallowing and abjection. But that's Next Month. And that's more than a week away.)

No, my limited readership, I am in good health and my unwillingness to share things personal with you (what? yes. I know. NOW I hold back) has nothing to do with health or scariness and everything to do with my firm belief that if you say it OUT LOUD you will GET SCREWED.

Engrave that on a candy heart.

No, good things are lined up for us, reader 1 and reader 2. And we're very excited. And even with that, I've probably said too much. Because the shit will hit the proverbial fan and I will melt into an extreme and sticky depression and I should just be quiet now and let things take their due course. That is, the one I want them to take.

(Oh my, I am so very annoying. All this superfluous mystery. And yet, alas.)

And reader 1, don't you dare allude to what it is I'm talking about in your comments because you know exactly what I'm talking about and now is NOT THE TIME to be flaunting your insider knowledge. So keep your frakking mouth shut.

If you would.

Please.

So kindly.

Thanks. The Mngmnt.