Party excesses

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Ah, partying. Good times. Nah, not the type we used to talk about. Not the late night, chemical substance enhanced, blistered dance feet stuff. I’m talking about parties thrown for the prepubescent set because a good friend wrote me a delicious rant about obscene birthday parties. (I have permission to post this, in case you’re worried that I’m a willy-nilly email copy-and-paster. Let’s call this large direct quote a guest post so you don’t worry that I’ll similarly rip off your rants. Unless you want me to.)

Here is the rant/inquiry/musing/conversation starter:

>>>When did children’s birthday parties as events become de rigueur? To be clear, I do not have children of any age, size, or variety. I am sitting in my wooden house throwing stones at all the glass I see. Having said that, being a woman tip-toeing her way towards 40, I have a lot of friends with young children. And from what I can tell, it seems commonplace to throw hardcore parties for children under the age of 10.

Don’t get me wrong–I’m all for big family and friends-of-family get-togethers for the 3 and under crowd. Similarly, as kids get older and get what birthdays mean, I’m all for getting their friends together for cake, whether gluten and refined sugar free or from Costco, and games and meltdowns and such. But it seems that among my middle-class friends, Events are becoming commonplace. Like the birthday party at the beginning of Parenthood. (The movie, not the TV show. Although I do like the TV show, the movie is really more Gen X. I mean, I know Martha Plimpton has resurfaced in “Raising Hope”, but she was in Goonies and dated River Phoenix–how much more Gen X can you get??)

Anyway. When did it become reasonable to invite every kid in the class to a birthday party? When did it become normal that a seven year old gets a spa party? Or cheerleader lessons? And when did goodie bag distribution become required? Maybe I’m just having a “when I was little, we didn’t have mountain bikes, we had Schwinn’s with banana seats, and we didn’t have TVs in our room, we had a black and white TV in the living room without a remote control with rabbit ears, and we didn’t have iPods, we had the radio and maybe Walkmans with mix tapes made by recording FROM the radio” moment. Or maybe my friends really aren’t middle class. But it seems like kids these days are being raised with crazy expectations. If you’re having spa party at seven, what happens when you turn ten? Thirteen? Sixteen? Graduate from high school? Is there a parade in your honor? Aren’t these things ridiculously expensive? <<<

Well? What do you think? I haven't been to one of these extravaganzas, nor have I hosted one. We're cupcakes-and-art-project birthday party types. We host burritos-at-the-playground birthday celebrations. We're an invite-one-friend-for-every-candle-on-the-cake family.

What do you do? What is considered standard among your friends, families, and school? What's your line for too much?

[Thanks for the guest post, Dear Friend. For the record, I still have mix tapes I recorded from the radio. I was AWESOME with the record/play/pause button dance that resulted in not-even-close-to-seamless transitions.]

Pay me to do what I do anyway

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Preschool auction. Party, good time, and dreaded fundraiser. I don’t want to spend more money on this delightful school. I want to contribute and give and support. Without writing a check.

I’m cheap that way.

I mean caring.

Anyway, I wanted to donate an item to the auction. Writing? Sure, I could. But if my time sells for too little, I’ll be mad that I’m writing virtually for free. Copyediting? Now we’re talking. Everyone needs that, though they think they don’t. But again, what if nobody bids high enough? Will I end up working for $5 an hour when I could get $100 from some soulless corporation? Hell no.

If I’m going to offer something that will pay me a measly wage, it’s gonna be something I’d already do. Free. I’m gonna make a profit at this auction, yo.

And so I offered the following:

Five Hours of Worrying about the Topic(s) of Your Choice

“Something on your mind but you just can’t find the time to give it your full attention? An issue you know should be keeping you up at night but you’re just too tired? I will worry about it for you. I’ll think, mull, muse over it for five hours total. I’ll research new reasons you should worry about your issue, find implications you’d never dreamed about, and lose sleep over it for you.

Don’t give it another thought. I’ll do that for you!

I am an expert at spending time I don’t have worrying about things I can’t change. My specialty is turning molehills into mountains. My references include anyone who has ever met me.”

And you know what? Three bidders. The runner-up asked if I’d consider giving them the same deal: they’d pay the school the winning price to get the 5 hours they didn’t win.

So now I’m spending 10 hours (total, not consecutive) worrying about other people’s concerns. So they can relax. So I can give my own stuff a rest for a while. And so someone can finally pay me (sort of) to do what no University in the land can train another neurotic to do. Be me.

Eeyore by necessity

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Sleep deprivation makes you cranky, fat, and dangerous.

It also makes you gloomy.

Take a look at this finding, reported in a New York Magazine feature that is, as far as I can tell, the same as the third chapter in Nurture Shock by Po Bronson and Ashley Merryman:

“Perhaps most fascinating, the emotional context of a memory affects where it gets processed. Negative stimuli get processed by the amygdala; positive or neutral memories get processed by the hippocampus. Sleep deprivation hits the hippocampus harder than the amygdala. The result is that sleep-deprived people fail to recall pleasant memories yet recall gloomy memories just fine.” (p. 3 in the NYM article linked and p. 35 in the book)

Great. Fat, grumpy, and incapable of retaining joy.

I can’t wait to hang out with me, ‘cuz that’s a winning combination.

(On a related note, how do I not have a category titled “Holy Guacamole, I Need Sleep!”? My first didn’t sleep through the night until he was over Three. The second is not exactly on the fast track to quiet nights, with or without ear infections, teething, and gobs of physical exertion. So I filed this under everything except Yoga. I’m too tired for yoga.)

(Also? Go read Nurture Shock. There are chapters on praise, sleep, race, lying, gifted programs, siblings, teenagers, self-control, social skills, and language; all compelling, well written, clear, thoroughly researched and revelatory.) I’ll leave the superlatives to the cover matter, but suffice it to say I will finish it before I finish The Pale King. That’s huge, given how little reading time I have and how much I want to read DFW’s final novel. Go get it. Library, local bookstore, friend…I don’t care. Read. This. Book.)

Inconceivable

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We’ve been playing along with an overwhelmed Absence of Alternatives, who bid us post Prince Humperdink’s quote on having too much to do.

The film version is:
“I’ve got my country’s five hundredth anniversary to plan, my wedding to arrange, my wife to murder, and Guilder to frame for it. I’m swamped.”

The book version is:
“I can’t keep my head above water one minute to the next: it’s not just the parties and the goo-gooing with what’s-her-name, I’ve got to decide how long the Five Hundredth Anniversary Parade is going to be and where does it start and when does it start and which nobleman gets to march in front of which other nobleman so that everyone’s still speaking to me at the end of it, plus I’ve got a wife to murder and a country to frame for it, plus I’ve got to get the war going once that’s all happened, and all this is stuff I’ve got to do myself. Here’s what it all comes down to: I’m just swamped, Ty.”

Some of you have added lovely quotes to the list of favorites. Somewhat like Top Gun, The Princess Bride‘s a film rich with quotable moments (that is watched often enough that people can quote and recognize it easily.)

So now I’ll ignore obligations to write another Princess Bride post. Because I suck at priorities. Because I like not thinking much. And because I’m a whore for movie and book quotes. Why think my own thoughts when someone else’s are so clever?

In my previous post I listed as a favorite, “It’s possible, Pig, I might be bluffing. It’s conceivable, you miserable, vomitous mass, that I’m only lying here because I lack the strength to stand. But, then again… perhaps I have the strength after all. Drop. Your. Sword.”

Here are the rest in my top ten:

“Let me ‘splain. No there is too much. Let me sum up.”

“Wrong!” Westley’s voice rang across the room. “Your ears you keep, so that every shriek of every child shall be yours to cherish—every babe that weeps in fear at your approach, every woman that cries ‘Dear God, what is that thing?’ will reverberate forever with your perfect ears. That is what ‘to the pain’ means. It means that I leave you in anguish, in humiliation, in freakish misery until you can stand it no more”

“No more rhymes now, I mean it. Anybody want a peanut?”

“When I was your age, television was called books.”

“Murdered by pirates is good.”

“And that’s when she put her book down. And looked at me. And said it: “Life isn’t fair, Bill. We tell our children that it is, but it’s a terrible thing to do. It’s not only a lie, it’s a cruel lie. Life is not fair, and it never has been, and it’s never going to be.”

“The beef-witted featherbrained rattledskulled clodpated dim-domed noodle-noggined sapheaded lunk-knobbed BOYS.”

“It was only when the giant got halfway down the incline that he suddenly, happily, burst into flame and continued his trip saying, ‘NO SURVIVORS, NO SURVIVORS!’ in a manner that could only indicate deadly sincerity.

It was seeing him happily burning and advancing that startled the Brute Squad to screaming. And once that happened, why, everybody panicked and ran…”

“He had written to her just before he sailed for America. The Queen’s Pride was his ship, and he loved her. (That was the way his sentences always went: It is raining today and I love you. My cold is better and I love you. Say hello to Horse and I love you. Like that.)”

and my favorite of all…

“Writing is finally about one thing: going into a room alone and doing it. Putting words on paper that have never been there in quite that way before. And although you are physically by yourself, the haunting Demon never leaves you, that Demon being the knowledge of your own terrible limitations, your hopeless inadequacy, the impossibility of ever getting it right. No matter how diamond-bright your ideas are dancing in your brain, on paper they are earthbound.”

I know. It’s not funny or cute or Princess Bride-ish at all. But I goddamned love writing quotes.

Take it up a notch

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Several bloggers lately have been complaining of being too busy to blog, too stressed to write, stretched too thin to impart their usual wit and wisdom.

Exhibit A is our dear friend The Absence of Alternatives. Or subWOW. Or secret confessions of whatever the hell she used to call herself.

Doesn’t matter. What matters is she resisted the urge to apologize for sparse posts but was caught up in the anti-meme running amok on these Interwebs: post that you’re swamped.

In fact, post the Prince Humperdink version of being genuinely swamped.

“I’ve got my country’s five hundredth anniversary to plan, my wedding to arrange, my wife to murder, and Guilder to frame for it. I’m swamped.”

So I figured, since I have come out of the blog malaise that has plagued me all these months, since I have a thought or two that sticks in the molasses of my useless, addled, pudding brain giving me some hope that things might get better before I lose it and knife my whole family, what the heck? Let’s throw down the whole Princess Bride text.

The swamped quote rocks. It’s up there in my top five. But I need to hear your favorites. Because today, this evening, at this exact moment of “stop typing and do some yoga or go to bed so you don’t complain all day tomorrow about being tired and having nothing to show for your life,” at this blink, my favorite Princess Bride quote is:

“It’s possible, Pig, I might be bluffing. It’s conceivable, you miserable, vomitous mass, that I’m only lying here because I lack the strength to stand. But, then again… perhaps I have the strength after all. ”

Let’s hear your favorite. Ground rules? At Naptimewriting, the book version is fine. Preferred, really. There are bonus points for “Madam, feel free to flee,” any lines about stew, and anything from the extensive Fezzik training section. The movie version is fine. You will not be mocked for your choice, so let loose and retype the green spider lines.

Go on. I know you’re swamped and all, but play along when you have a moment.

Home, disgusting home

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A well reasoned argument for housecleaning performed by hired angels resides over at Let Me Start by Saying.

I have another approach.

Though our house is a hovel, with every horizontal surface cluttered, dishes and counters with today’s meals, bathrooms teeming with cast-off bath toys and wet towels; I will not use limited funds to pay someone else to clean.

Instead, I associate only with people whose houses are in worse shape. If we’re friends and your house is clean, mazel tov. Doesn’t matter how it gets that way…I’m not coming over and you’re not invited here. No offense. Mine just needs to be the cleanest house I see all day.

Because tidy by comparison is free.

Leeches

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Small children, adorable, clever, hilarious, cuddly little humans suck the life out of you if you’re with them 14 hours a day without cease. And when it’s seven days a week, and they’ve sucked the life out of you by Monday afternoon, it’s a long, long, long long long week.

In related news, the debut two-hour stint of our first babysitter is six days away. In other related news, the submission of my novel to the next round of agents will be about eight babysitting sessions from now.

In unrelated news, kale chips are nice. Even better was last night’s Thai sweet potato lentil foil packets. Baked for now, but next time will be grilled. By someone else. From packets I’ve prepped the night before. It took almost three hours to prep a meal that takes someone without small children (who cling, scream, and hit more during meal prep than any other time in the day) about 15 minutes.

And finally, in this abbreviated version of our news hour: people suck. Twice in two days someone turning left almost hit me and my small wards as we were walking in the crosswalk. At an intersection with a green light and a walk sign. No late afternoon glare, no echoing sirens, no tsunami, no excuses. Bad drivers almost killing perfectly decent bloggers and future bloggers.

People suck.
You heard it here first.

Now rejoin your life, already in progress

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Ah, yes. The Mother’s Day pretending.

Advertisements claim it’s a magical day of appreciation and breakfast in bed. They are, of course, selling something.

Spouse pretends it’s going to be a happy day of family and bonding. And so it is. Sort of.

Peanut pretends it’s a day like any other. And so he yells at people for imaginary transgressions, threatens his brother with bodily harm for watching big kid play, sits next to me for long stories, jumps screaming from the furniture, uses enough tape on a variety of projects to seal the Grand Canyon, and smiles and whines and snuggles and orders and dances and sneers and kisses.

Butter pretends it’s a day like any other. And so he squeals with delight, toddles after his brother, cries when walloped by said brother, plays harmonica, parades through the house with prized possessions, unloads the drawers and cabinets he can reach, whimpers to be held, pulls my hair, kisses my nose, puts cold hands on my belly, bites my face, kicks my hands, and twirls my hair while sucking his thumb.

And I find that Mother’s Day is a microcosm of our lives as we’re living them. There are still dishes and laundry, there are laughs and frustrations, there are tickles and tantrums, there is extreme claustrophobia and hopes for the future, fears and silliness and satisfaction and dread and anger and fun.

It is, I guess, what you make of it. Within limitations. So I have a choice: focus on the limitations or make something of it.

“If you focus on results, you will never change. If you focus on change, you will get results.” ~Jack Dixon

Bears repeating

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Peanut went to a birthday party this weekend while I stayed at home and cooked through Butter’s nap. Increasingly, I don’t have time to prep and cook meals so I do it all on the weekend to eat throughout the week.

Though I do this to save time and money, I also do it because I don’t trust most of the prepared foods at the store and in restaurants. Since the 1990s I’ve tried to be more and more aware of how food is made (and of which ingredients). I don’t like chemical tasting food and I tend to buy and prepare foods in their natural states. We try to eat whole, natural, organic foods grown by local, sustainable farms and businesses.

And since I had kids I’ve gotten much more annoying about how careful I am.

So I cook as much as I can. Local, fresh, organic, whole. And I fake it when I need to (we have almond butter sandwiches for dinner at least once a week, not because I’m an About Last Night fan but because we run out of leftovers and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna take my hour of free time during Butter’s nap every day to cook something that might or might not be eaten later.)

On the weekend I try to blend homemade sauces like tahini and hummus, slow cook some vegetarian chili, make lentils and couscous with veggies, pre-layer black bean quesadillas, overcook and mash white bean and sweet potatoes for homemade burgers, prep berry almond smoothies, slice goat cheese and polenta to grill later with marinara, and bake a homemade pizza. The boys will generally eat these things, I have two hands to prepare on the weekend, these dishes don’t take careful spicing or attentive cooking, and most of the items last well through the week. So I sacrifice an afternoon or two to the home cooking gods.

[A friend once joked that a real Top Chef quick fire challenge would be to create something edible in 45 minutes…when you have to leave the prep area every 5 minutes to break up a fight, and leave the cooking area every 3 minutes to remind people about the rules, and leave the food unattended for at least 10 minutes while you run after someone making very poor choices. I would watch that episode a dozen times, were they ever to get that real with their reality programming.]

But making good food for four people is increasingly wearing on me. I’m tired of the work, I’m tired of checking labels, I’m tired of the exorbitant cost, and I’m tired of being such an annoying stickler.

Plus, it’s a pain that my day generally falls into the pattern:
wake to crying…clean a bottom…prepare food…serve food…attend to crying…
clean a bottom…shuffle people into car…serve food…shuffle people into car…
clean up food…prepare food…serve food…attend to crying…clean a bottom…
clean up after food…serve food….clean up after food…attend to crying…
shuffle people into car…prepare food…serve food…clean a bottom…clean up after food…prepare food…fall asleep

I’m getting tired of cooking my own beans to avoid BPA and making my own marinara to avoid BPA and putting everything in washable bags to avoid phthalates and refusing to do disposable to avoid adding to the landfill and buying local and organic at three times the price to avoid pesticides and herbicides and petroleum and child labor.

Then Eric Schlosser goes and writes something new that reminds me why we do this. Pseudofood is killing the planet, killing people, and killing farmers. I want to rip out the backyard, plant a bigger edible garden, write letters to local and national government, run for political office, take on the restaurant and agriculture lobbies, and rebuild the FDA and USDA to serve consumers.

Because what we’re eating now is not food. And the more people who know that, the better the food we get will become. And the less often I will have my kid come home from a birthday party full of modern marvels labeled as food.

[Of this I’m enormously jealous, by the way. I want to go back to a time when a blue tongue was fun rather than a source of stress, and when sugar was fun not toxic. But that ship has sailed.]

No offense

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I’m sure the families of Kate and Wills are very happy.

I have no doubt the monarchy deems the Royal Wedding the most important story of the day.

And I hope they’ll be very happy together, ad infinitum.

But I have to be honest: I can’t relate.

I can’t imagine being, upon my marriage, deemed an Objet d’Empire. I can’t fathom being deemed important only as a potential babymaker. I can’t empathize with the fascination with the press of every thing I wear, every pound I gain, and every inch I bulge in any direction. Poor creature. I’m sure she can handle herself, as evidenced by her removal of the “obey” clause of her vows. But the cynic in me sees an electric fence around the fairy tale in today’s setup.

Also? We (almost) all know that a wedding is not the point. The marriage is the 70-ish-year reality that begins the next morning. The day to day, logistical, work balance, irritating habits stuff that makes the rest of your lives is a marriage. Not the dress or the aisle or the attendants.

And you know what I thought today as I went about the mundane, exhausting, neverending b.s. of my day? Kate and Wills don’t have to clean a cat box. They don’t empty the trash or clean the shower or mop the floors. And when they don’t do those lame bits of adulthood…the boring and nasty and irritating stuff still gets done. It doesn’t fester. It simply *happens*. Without, maybe, their noticing. Certainly without their bickering about it.

So their future….not on the same planet as mine.
Their daily reality….not on the same planet as mine.

I’m not saying wealth and power will make them happier. Or less happy. Or anything but different.

I’m just saying I don’t get them. Delightful young people who deserve every happiness. And I don’t get ’em.

That, and I am with Dan Rather. He writes eloquently about how there are many more important things to focus on.

No offense.

[P.S. I think I’ll go mad if one more media dolt calls her a Princess. She’s now Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Cambridge. Offspring are princes and princesses. In-laws, delightful or not, are not.]

It might be wrong

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It’s considered poor taste in our society to gloat about success, to allow repeated surfacing of a good-luck inspired grin, to trumpet joy. We seem more comfortable when people say they’re “fine” or “hanging in there” or when they shrug off their day as better than a stick in the eye.

And collectively we seem to have a superstitious sense that tooting our happiness horn will make it all come crashing down. The spectre of the jinx often keeps us mum about satisfaction.

But I can’t hold back, dear readers. Things are just going really well over here at The Naptime Looney Bin.

You know this blog as a repository for the snarky, the sneering, the angry rant of a woman barely hanging on. My days are often bumpy: four parts joy, fourteen parts status quo, and seventy parts hanging on by the skin of my teeth.

But for this moment—this lull in the roller coaster I’ve come to accept as normal—most moments are quite pleasant.

Though it will change, Peanut is being a remarkable little creature. Kind to his brother, polite to me, reasoned in his debate, logical in his requests. Funny. Creative. Spirited. Dare I say: himself.

Though it will change, Butter is silly and adorable and interested in everything, which makes him quite fun to be around. This morning he even signed to me that pulling Mommy’s hair hurts and that biting Mommy’s face hurts. Yes, dear boy, it does. Glad all the repetition is having effect.

We’re moved into the new house and it’s amazingly wonderful. We all seem happier and calmer in more space. I’m nervous about coming school changes that spurred the change of address, but I’m not panicked as I once was. We chose the best possible public school for Peanut. And if it works, we’re set. And if it doesn’t, we have clearly identified options and changes and whatnot.

And aside from the temperamental groove we’re in, big and (semi)permanent changes are afoot. My clever and delightful nieces are home. They’ve moved 3,000 miles and are nearby. I watch them now with that casual easiness borne of the knowledge that I’ll see them next week, too. No need to memorize their faces, their voices, their interests. They’re here. That alone would have set my mood for the year. I have two perfect boys and two perfect girls and their every joy is my only real job.

.

But there’s more. I have located a babysitter, whom I will pay a bit of my retirement savings each week to gently and thoughtfully play with my boys for two hours twice a week so I can get some work done. I will edit a project this week. I will edit my book next month. I will finish my journal submission next month. I will submit it all for publication by June and move on to other projects that have been boring holes in my brain and soul for a year. The worms of creative and intellectual projects eating me alive will get to wiggle their way out.

It feels that for a moment the tide is out. I can see the waves, see the shore, see the intersection of the two. I can gaze off toward the horizon without a white-knuckled fear of the undertow. I can absorb the ebbs and flows without feeling bodily pounded by surf. I can hear and taste and feel the water and salt and air and sunshine.

I can breathe, y’all. And when everything changes and the tide comes back in, I hope I remember how to be this way. Because I’m spending my days practicing this feeling. This joy, this calm, this near-constant tiny grin. And this breath.

I wish you all moments like this. And not in tiny blips. I wish from now until any realistic milestone of your choice that you can watch the ocean and just be. Come on over and stand with me. We’ll watch together.

It’s….Velcro Baby!

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Oh, dear sweet one.

I know you’re hot. I can feel it radiating off you before I even gather you, sweaty, from your nap. I would take that fever from you and wear it for a week if I could make you feel better for an hour.

I know you’re miserable. I can tell my the way you ball up inside if your feet touch the ground for even a moment. I will keep you with me as long as you need me to, even if I have to ice my biceps later.

I know you hate medicine. I can tell the way you gag when you see the dispenser syringe thingie. I would do anything to make love and milk and good intentions fix this illness, baby, but sometimes we need to bow to the bludgeoning power of Western meds. Because I won’t let big bad germs get you.

I know you want mama. I can tell the way you haven’t left my hip for four days. If I could just zipper you on while you need that, I would. Until then we’ll use slings and arms and wraps. No, of course not backpacks. I know better than that, butterbean.

I know you’ll be too big soon to be a Velcro Baby when you’re sick. Soon I’ll be replaced by movies, then books, then someone else. When you’re sick. When you’re not sick, too.

I hope you won’t ever get sick again. I hope you won’t ever get too sick. I hope you won’t ever completely lose the need for Mama when you’re feeling crummy.

I hope I won’t ever forget the heft and heat and helplessness of Velcro Baby.

Molehill, meet the mountain makers

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Ah, yes, well. J. Crew toenail story. Blah blah blah…marketing photo with Mom and young boy, whose toenails are pink. Both seem to be having fun. Blah blah blah…media makes it out to be erosion of society as we know it, popularization of gender dysphoria, and license to marginalization of pretty much every human on Earth.

What the hell, America? Seriously? This is the cataclysm about which you’re gonna get your panties in a twist?

[Just reading the implication that you wear panties made you question your masculinity? Time for purchase of a life, my ignorant and intolerant non-friend.]

Regular readers know my 5 year old paints his nails with his Dad every weekend. They vary color, they vary number of nails painted. But generally, Peanut paints all twenty digits and Spouse paints twelve (all toes plus thumbs). You also know I think this is a delightful bit of bonding that teaches both of them to do what they enjoy rather than what they’re supposed to do. Because there are enough supposed tos in life, it’s never too young to learn to ignore the lame rules.

And most rules are lame.

Or at least as arbitrary as gender clothing rules.

So now an allegedly large number of Americans are allegedly all frothy and twitching because painting nails gives one a severe case of gender dysphoria? Nails are somehow directly linked to your soul, and said soul can flipflop identity based on social expectation? What if that little boy’s soul happens to know that 60 years ago, boys were dressed in pink and girls were in blue because pink was deemed too strong a color for the allegedly weaker gender?

I don’t know. Seems as though The Daily Show has it covered. If not, I’m guessing Panderbear does.

But I still wonder: couldn’t we pay this much attention to banks and oil companies and food growers and food manufacturers and air traffic controllers instead? (Okay, maybe not the air traffic people. I’m a sleepy human and refuse to judge those who are forced to fight biorhythms for their jobs. Cuz I feel their pain, yo.)

I think therefore I blog?

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Hey. This is curious: here’s a list of nine interesting blogs plus mine.

Thanks, Naomi and She Knows for naming us one of the Top Ten Blogs that Make You Think.

That’s awfully nice of you. To put that kind of pressure on me to be thought-provoking. When I’m feeling uninspired, beaten down, and uninteresting. But if you say so, I’ll do it. Buck up and find something compelling to say… starting on the next post.