. . . you don’t worry about cleaning the tub since your kid is just going to get it dirty when he bathes

. . . you rate cooking right up there with having a root canal or a weekend at Aunt Mabel’s and her 39 cats

. . . . you find solace in piles of unfolded laundry (yum, soft and sweet smelling!)

. . . you find furry things in your fridge and just shut the door

. . . you smell a strange odor but don’t know where it’s coming from

. . . you smell a strange odor and don’t care where it’s coming from

. . . it’s been so long since you went shopping you are forced to switch the AA batteries from the TV remote to the VCR remote and vice versa every time you want to pause your DVD or turn up the volume (a common procedure amongst us oldsters)

. . . you would rather spend time rearranging the décor on your mantle than clean the house for the party looming in the near future

. . . you don't even feel like blogging and post a pathetic rerun in hopes nobody will notice.

I'm sick. I blame The Spouse. So, I'm going back to bed. For your reading pleasure, I have found one of my fave posts that never really got much exposure since I wrote it way back when no one read my blog. No one. At all. Whatsoever. You're a smart bunch of gals. Since you are so smart, you are going to stick with the post with the sure knowledge that it will surely get better before the sure end. Surely.

ETSTED! Backwards, it spells DETSTE! Haven’t heard of it before? That’s because it isn’t a word, it’s an acronym. Well, it could be a word in Swedish or Russian but I rather doubt it. At any rate, it stands for “eat the same thing every day”.

Here’s the rules: Plan a daily menu that suits your needs. If you want to lose weight, figure out the caloric intake and choose a plan that gives you less than 2000 calories a day (the lesser the better). If you want to maintain your weight, 2000 calories should be fine but you might have to experiment as each body is unique. Make sure that your menu is balanced between carbs and proteins and that you choose a variety of foods rich in color, taste and nutrition. Then, toss in some must-haves, as long as the total caloric intake is the level you have chosen. Then, stick to the plan! For example, every day, for breakfast I have oatmeal with milk and sugar. Every day for lunch (I need my biggest meal mid-day or I am too tired by dinnertime to make dinner—kind of a problem since people generally like to eat about then) I have chicken stir-fry with carrots, broccoli, corn, peas and potatoes.

For dinner I have a turkey lunchmeat sandwich with cheese and alfalfa sprouts.My snacks include apples, corn chips, chocolate ice cream and my favorite Lindt chocolate truffle balls. Yumm! The key is all in the amount of each thing you eat. Also, it is important that you include things like spices, garlic, herbs and other items that make your food tasty and good.

If things get a little too boring then you can do switch-outs. For example, you can eat a ton of strawberries for the same amount of calories as an apple. Or you can have watermelon or grapes instead of ice cream. Or you could have ice cream instead of fruit. Or you could have chocolate lindt balls and ice cream instead of dinner.

Or four frozen snicker bars. Or 6 frozen snicker bars instead of dinner and lunch. Or, if you are having a particularly hairy day, or it’s hot and you just don’t feel like cooking, or it’s really hot and you don’t feel like doing much of anything at all OR it’s super hot and you are too busy writing dumb stuff for your blog that no one will ever read (well, except for those with whom you share genetic material and feel obligated sometimes, at least, on occasion, okay! only when I pay them! to read it) you could substitute your entire menu for two (count ‘em, two!) boxes of frozen snickers bars. Hey! It’s one way to go.

And there you have it, my flawless plan to eating right (oops, better scratch that part), losing weight (could be iffy on the Snicker Bar Plan) and still feel like getting out of bed in the morning. Because, after all, one does have to get out of bed fairly regularly if one expects to be fit and trim. Especially on the Frozen Snicker Bar plan. (No photo of frozen Snicker bars available on account of the fact that I ate them and threw away the evidence before I thought up this post).

This morning as I was tweezing the gray out of my eyelashes (yes, I said eyelashes--if anyone had told me that my once long, black, silky eyelashes would start turning white before I was forty, I don’t know if I would have signed up. For what? (you might ask). Ummmm, for all that turns ones hair to gray. For starters, the Big Guy and for enders, the Big Guy, bless his cotton pickin’ dark-lashed heart.) I was mulling over what I might blog about today.

The thought crossed my mind that I should mention how I got my copy of Something Cleverish and how I eagerly began reading and how, whilst doing so, chortling at Sue’s post and all the rest, how I thought perhaps I ought to skip to the (almost very) end to see how my entry fared in comparison.

It fare-thee-not-well, at’all at’all.

In fact, I’m pretty humiliated by the whole darn thing.

So, like I said, as I was tweezing away, I thought perhaps I ought to blog about that. And then I thought--perhaps not.

So, I won’t.

(if you haven’t already ordered your copy, click HERE, but you just might want to entirely skip the (almost very) end post) (just saying . . .)

1. I was a bridezilla. Only, don’t verify this with any of my sisters as they will surely scoff and politely point out that the bridezilla condition is one that begins and ends with an engagement. (Don’t you believe them.)

2. I have an identical twin sister. Some of you have read about it here before which prompted a few of you to actually accuse me of actually lying about having an actual twin. In my defense, posting a pic of me and claiming it was her is not lying. We are identical, people! Identical! Sheez! However, in order to prove there are two of us out there, I have posted a photo of us together, looking thoroughly identical. As, indeed, we are.


I am the demure, modest one. She is the one with her arm around my shoulders patiently explaining why it is okay for an 18 month old to expose her diaper. How weird that I was so modest at such a young age! How weird that she so well understood what it meant to be a baby when she was just a baby! I blame our four older sisters as they were already in school and well versed in boy-girl relationships and cooties. (And, no, our mother did not let us out of the house with our bodices (bodici?) covered with lint. I blame the age of the picture which is, in fact, so old, it could only have been taken before I was born).

3. I was sure as shootin’ going to be a ballerina and took lessons off and on from age eight until I got engaged (the bridezilla condition does not mix well with ballet steps such as battement and coupe jete en tournant—an innocent bystander innocently commenting on the wisdom of mint green bridesmaid’s dresses could get hurt—very innocently, bien sur). I graciously gave up the idea when I realized dancing on stage involved a goodly amount of time sans underwear. Of any kind. Whatsoever. (My lack of talent had nothing to do with it. At all. Whatsoever.) In spite of this, I sure as shootin’ insisted my little girl take lessons when she was old enough to toddle a la echappe but it was not to be. She quit six weeks after she began, citing some mumbo jumbo along the lines of stage moms and something that sounded a lot like “child abuse”. I can’t be sure what with her speaking to her teacher way out there on the dance floor in that adorable toddlerease, an’ all.

4. My teeth are yellow. Like, reeeaallly yellow. This is why I don’t wear dark lipstick. This is also why I don’t often flash them in photos (except in the one above--true, at 18 months I was old enough to know all about undies and how girls shouldn’t display them but I was shockingly clueless as to the desirability of white teeth). This came about due to a drug overdose. I would blame myself but it was my mother who wielded the spoon full of toxins she poured down my toothless maw when I was only two weeks old. You would think the police would get involved but she was covered by a prescription. (I'm kidding people, kidding! I was sick and needed antibiotics.) As a result, my baby teeth were mostly brown. Shortly after the above photo was taken, I twigged to the fact that brown teeth were not only sad but a bit of a show-stopper. I didn’t smile at all for many, many years after that. (Now, I’m so used to them that when a dentist asks if I would like him to do “something about those teeth” I pretty much just stare at him in acute astonishment.)

5. I have ESP. Well, just a sprinkling of it. I often know who is on the phone when it rings, I walk into the kitchen a few seconds before the oven timer goes off (but only if it’s cookies b/c otherwise, who cares?) and I often dream about a person from whom I haven’t heard in a while the night before they call me out of the blue. This little bit of prescience, coupled with common sense and lots of mommy intuition, has the Big Guy absolutely convinced I have eyes in the back of my head. This is very useful in dealing with a wiser-than-his-years-but-somewhat-demented nineteen year old.

6. I hate feet. I think they are the ugliest part of the body for public consumption. (I was going to clarify but I won’t.) Toes are particularly unappealing (though they have grown on me since this whole toe-nudity fashion thing has been going on). However, my most favorite body part of all time is baby toes. (Ironic! I know!) They look like something that should be in a jar of marinade. I can’t keep them out of my mouth. Until one of my children is old enough to sweat, his/her feet are like a siren call. So soft! So pink! So sweet! This penchant of mine makes my threat of chopping up the toes of the disobedient and sautéing them in butter and garlic for breakfast all the more believable. My kids never know whether to laugh or cry when I say that. (That’s just the way I like it. They’re so much easier to gag and hog-tie when befuddled.)

7. And the seventh thing you don’t know about me is that I have a winner for the Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind T-shirt Contest! Yay! Congratulations to Gramee of Gramee’s Porch!

Please keep in mind this photo of your shirt is a mock up and a photo of my computer screen, to boot (in other words, the actual shirt will look much better) (I hope) (and pray) (because I’m righteous like that). Email me at write2me@heidiashworth.com with the desired shirt size and your address and this shirt will be on your doorstep ASAP! STAT! and all that. But first, I have to buy the cotton, plant it, harvest it, put it through that cotton gin thing, card it, weave it, worst it, wash it, blow dry it, and make it into a shirt (does anyone know anyone who can sew?) Hey, there’s nothing I won’t do for a fan of Miss D!

I suffer from this pesky little condition called fibromyalgia. It causes a lot of muscle pain and fatigue, and, as an added bonus, brain fog, especially when the weather is wet and cold. The wheels just don’t spin like they should. (This could be why many people who know me think I am joking when I mention my book. Why, I could write a book all about people’s humorous reactions to the very idea that I even wrote a book—it would be hilarious without me even trying which would be hard for me to do if I felt the way I do when it rains). This is our first major rain storm of the year and as a result, I am having gargantuan pain in my lower back (especially when I sit) and my mouse finger (figures) which is also a major typing finger (figures) and my knees (curse you Wii Fit!) and want nothing more than to curl into a ball and watch LOST reruns until the cows come home (or the people of LOST, whichever comes first).

So, as sad as it makes me (and it does) I am just going to have to put off announcing the winner of the T-shirt contest and the spiffy tag from AJ until tomorrow at which time I hope to be feeling better and chock full of LOST trivia.

I gave the Little Guy a haircut on Saturday. When The Spouse came home he said, “I think that’s just about the worst haircut you have ever given him.” (Oops, I think I was the one who said that.) (sorry spouse). In fact, it was just about the worst haircut any adult ever gave anyone (notice I don’t include children in this as kids are pretty expert at giving themselves bad haircuts as we know, to our sorrow).

Wanna see? Scroll down . . .

I jumped into this blogging thing nine months ago knowing absolutely nothing about it. The culture, the ins, the outs, the dos, the don’ts, I knew squat! When I hit my 100th post, I was still clueless about why I should even mention it. When I hit my 200th post, I was too busy madly blogging to even notice it had happened. However, I have evolved since then and lo and behold, I have come to my 300th post--prepared. (Or not. It’s a matter of opinion.)

Apparently it is tradition to have a giveaway on your blogoversary or when you reach a banner post (right? I’m still fuzzy about these things. If I’m wrong, don’t tell me, ‘kay?). So, I thought and thought about what would be a fun thing to give away, something new and different, something unique to the world of Dunhaven Place. So, I came up with this!

Yah. My brain isn't the only thing that's fuzzy. Pardon the fuzz of this pic.


(It’s a t-shirt, in case you can’t tell, which is highly likely considering there are few clues.) The shirt hasn’t been made since the winner will be able to order it in her size (sorry guys--all three of you--I really don’t think this is for you) and, unlike the lavandar sachets made from an antique baby dress, this will actually arrive at the winner’s abode. (I have three Miss D book winners who will verify that they did, indeed, receive Miss D, as promised, so my cred is good.) Plus, it will be totally unique and one of a kind! Only the winner will have this exact shirt.

So, here’s the deal. The shirt says “Buy it, read it, love it” at the bottom. However, you can come up with your own saying. I thought “off to smell the roses” would be fun since they are the last words of Miss D (Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind for you newbies who might have missed the name of my book) but The Spouse thought the saying coupled with a rose across the chest might be too tempting. (It takes a man to think of these things.) To be entered in the contest, simply make a comment stating what you would like the shirt to say. That’s it! Tell your friends if you want to but I don’t know how many would appreciate a Miss D shirt. In fact, I don’t know how many of YOU would appreciate a Miss D shirt. It will be fun finding out (don’t make me cry, people).


(FYI, I’m in a flaming hurry just now. We are on our way out the door and will be gone for the day but I will get to your post soon! Or not—tomorrow is novel writing day. Ack! Still, soon . . .. meanwhile, we are leaving Sugar, the Bichon Frise Attack Dog to guard the house and we are leaving the Big Guy to guard the dog and we are leaving the Middle Child to guard the Big Guy, so all should be well . . .

UPDATE: I suppose I should set a time limit on this. How about midnight Wednesday with the winner to be announced on Thursday. Yay!

When I was young, life was a ribbon, a shiny, satin ribbon. As I ran toward the rest of my life, that ribbon kept me from it. I ran and ran but the faster I ran towards all that I always wanted, whether it was a boyfriend, an education, a job, a husband, a home of my own and children to fill it, that ribbon simply bunched up ahead of me, the way shiny satin ribbons are wont to do. “Life” never seemed to happen.

Eventually these landmark achievements were captured, one by one. Yet life became even more of a race, one with no beginning or end. It seemed my days and nights were spent in a wheel, turning, turning, turning, while nothing at all ever truly got done. I would wash the dishes yet they were dirty again in an instant. I would make the beds but they never could manage to stay that way for even a day. Food was purchased, cooked and eaten in what seemed like the blink of an eye. Clothes, well, I’d rather not talk about the clothes.

Then came the dark years. In spite of all the running and racing, or perhaps because of them, everything was suddenly so hard. Life had become an obstacle course complete with dangerous challenges that often left me winded, injured, hurt---bleeding. There were days when I felt like an accident on the side of the road, everyone slowing down to see the spectacle of my life yet eventually driving on, leaving me to gradually bleed to death.

And I survived.

So, it was back to the obstacle course, then back to the ever-spinning wheel. However, something was different this time around. I was faster. I was stronger. I didn’t get winded so easily and I was leaping over obstacles with a single bound. One day I noticed that I was back on the ribbon but it was no longer bunching up in front of me, keeping my goals at bay.

Life had become a marathon and I was keeping pace.

Machines have taken over my life. First there was Jeeves, the alarm clock, waking me up every morning with his admonitions and commands (Go buy shoes! Let me do your hair! Use this incredibly expensive and effective face cream! Whine whine whine . . .)

Now there is Mr. Wii Fit who is every bit as clever and “knowing” as Jeeves (though not nearly as charming since he doesn’t speak with an English accent). The very astute Mr. Wii reminded us multiple times of the Middle Child’s birthday last week, very politely asks us if we have had breakfast yet if we try to use him too early in the morning and routinely offers to give us exercise and weight loss tips. (In short, he is a bit of a nag.)

This morning when I stepped onto the fitness board (after it said, “Oh!” as if the brunt of my weight was just too much for it to bear or perhaps merely surprised that I still weigh pretty much what I did when I started this whole adventure a mere three weeks ago) Mr. Wii printed this message on the screen: “So how do you think Daddy is doing this morning?

Oh, how you make me laugh, Mr. Wii! You are such a knowing one! (It had been a couple of days since “Daddy” had availed himself of all Mr. Wii has to offer.) I thought perhaps Mr. Wii was attempting to recruit me to nag Daddy to get with the program. I chuckled about this since I had just viewed the chart that shows the weight loss/gain (there are some of us here that actually need to gain weight—they are just the biggest losers, don’t you think?) of all five of us here at Dunhaven Place and I felt pretty sure Daddy’s weight had been going in the wrong direction.

Then Mr. Wii flashed multiple answers to his question across the screen. My choices were A. doing worse B. doing better or C. the same. Whoa! Mr. Wii expected me to commit to an answer. On his screen. The one attached to some kind of memory chip. Suddenly I was no longer laughing.

I don’t know why I felt I had to lie to Mr.Wii. I think I must have had some kind of Hallish paranoia thing going on (what if I chose “doing worse” and Mr. Wii told Daddy, a circumstance that seemed imminently possible) so I chose “the same”.

That’s when Mr. Wii threw me the facer. “Oh!” he wrote, “maybe you just aren’t paying enough attention to Daddy!”

Mr. Wii knew I had lied. He knew it! Oh no! Mr. Wii was becoming sentient! Hadn’t I seen this happen over and over and over again in Star Trek, The Next Generation (and endless other TV shows as well)? It was only a matter of time before Mr. Wii snaked some kind of cable to my computer and contacted Daddy with my perfidy. I had to hurry—there was no time to lose! I sprinted to the computer to email The Spouse and confess all just as fast as my Wii Fitted legs could carry me.

1. My insightful purchase of many pieces of chocolate colored clothing.

Why this was good for me: Anyone who has been pregnant thrice or more experiences a significant hormonal shift, i.e., food spillage on the clothes becomes a permanent tendency. Since I eat chocolate ice cream every day of the week my dark brown wardrobe has become quite the boon. In point of fact I am wearing my chocolate colored hoodie with the three quarter sleeves today for the second day in a row! It’s perfect for January days in California that start out in the 40’s and soar to the 70’s (I guess winter is still on its way around here). Did I spill chocolate on it last night? Yes. I did. I’m not going to lie about it for my shame is covered and no one is the wiser (well, yeah, except for you) My chocolate colored cords: read above (minus the three quarter sleeves)

2. My Little Guy spent only six months of 2008 in Kindergarten.

Why this was good for me: I hate kindergarten, reeeeaaaally despise it. The closest analogy I can come to what it feels like to drop off, pick up a few hours later, be home for older kids a few hours after that, attend many darling and special (and they are) class functions and help out in the classroom (a lot) (I didn’t) is prison. Had I ever been to prison, I suspect I might have liked it better. Much more quality “me” time.

3. No 24 (except that two hour special in November with which I am okay)

Why this was good for me: I love 24! I, however, am getting older and not as adept at producing the correct levels of adrenaline. The zipping and zinging and downright dopamine free-falls were killing me. In fact, I am pretty sure we all needed the break. (Clearly Keifer did.) (love you, Keifer!) (I really mean that!)

4. I became aware of the benefits of hands free phones i.e. bluetooth, etc. etc.

Why this was good for me: I can now talk freely to myself in the car or wherever, at full volume rather than muttering under my breath, even gesticulate wildly, and no one gives me looks of alarm or flips me off in traffic. (Oh, wait, that was at a New Year’s Eve dance in high school when, overcome by the auld lang syne of it all, I burst into gusty tears.)

5. Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind was published.

Why this was good for me: to which I say, “unspeakable joy” and “duh!”

6. I started a blog.

Why this was good for me: You guys make me feel funny and loved and like I could find Mr. Birdie Flipper (does anyone even say that anymore?) and take him down. Figuratively speaking, of course. Because I wouldn't use my fists or anything like that. No, my weapons would be more along the lines of my intellect, wit and startling beauty. (At least that’s what Jeeves said.)

This just in: the Nie-Nie charity book full of funny post by bloggers you know and love is available for purchase right this very minute! Click HERE!

(Warning: I am so very tired this morning, tired of trying to be witty and “write good” so be warned.)

I had a good “Good Morning” from Jeeves this morning (see sidebar) which is a terribly good thing b/c as soon as I peeled myself from my red-velvet-cake-with-french-icing bed and dragged myself to the computer (after 12 hours there yesterday, I half hoped it had self-destructed and sunk through the floor) I checked my sitemeter account to see if anyone had visited me since I shut things down last night.

I saw that I had two new comments but instead of adding two visitors, it subtracted them.

All of them.

Except two.

For a second I thought that perhaps, whilst I was gone from the blogosphere, everyone decided (as a practical joke, natch) (led by Crash, natch) to take back their visits but common sense soon (er, evenutally) reigned when I realized it just couldn’t be done. Not even by the cybernatural Crash.

Then I thought, perhaps, as punishment for not winning the Mormon Mommy Bloggers spotlight contest, all the hits that I received over the past week as a result of being nominated were removed. Yes! I did wonder that! Even after realizing--just moments before--that hits can’t be taken back! (Besides which, there were far less hits missing than the number of hits I got, so that didn’t add up, either.)

Just as I was thinking “what the helk! I ought to cancel sitemeter!” I looked at my email and saw that I had one of Sitemeter’s sporadic email bills saying they had just charged me (which they only do sporadically). Ironic much? (I think they refer to it as “periodic”. Someone please explain to me the diff.)

A few more items worth relaying (though, perhaps not worth reading—you be the judge)

Monday’s post was all about plagiarism and all the comments have been all about why what I said isn’t. Love it! However, note to people: We’re not about the accuracy here at Dunhaven Place. We’re about the fun.

Speaking of fun, I have a new widget (er, besides the What Jeeves Said widget which will show what Jeeves says each morning when he awakens me but only the mornings I remember what he said b/c sometimes it’s hard to remember things that are said whilst you’re still sleeping . . ) where-in I am keeping a running total of a number of things (“things” being my favorite word to denote just about everything—lazy much?), one of which is the word count, number of pages and number of chapters completed on my new book. I should have gotten through chapter two yesterday but it was not to be. When I went to look for the file yesterday morning (and, yes, T, it was after seven!) it was GONE! Vanished! Turns out that it was All My Fault for reasons too Revealing and Embarrassing and Humiliating to discuss.

Thank goodness I had emailed the first half of the first chapter to a friend for commentary so I only had to reproduce the second half. Boy was it killer! So much harder to re-write something from your memory than to just jot it down from your imagination. As a result, I am only about 4 pages ahead of where I was last week rather than the 8 or 9 I was hoping for. Such is life.

I would also like to point out the wii fit age—it is amusing to be a different age each and every single day. I am 44 yet Mr. Wii insists I am anywhere from 37-56, depending on how well I do his little balance games that day. I suppose Mr. Wii subscribes to the same philosophy as we do here at Dunhaven Place. It’s not about the accuracy, it’s about the fun!

Before I am pelted with virtual rotten fruit and vegetables (my fridge is full of them so lay off already!) I’m talking about unintentional plagiarism.

The kind that happens when no one is looking. Not even you.

The kind that happens because you read thousands of bloggy words a day and some of them just stay with you like barnacles on a ship (only they are much nicer than barnacles in that they are nothing like barns or even acles which, duh! b/c acles” isn’t a real word even if “barns” is).

Case in point: I don’t know for sure which bloggist started up with the word “helk” as I have seen it around a lot lately but as a swear-word-repressed child I love it to the very fiber of my bones. As a result, there are times when I just can’t help but use it even though it is far from my own creation.

(What was that? You want me to stop using your “word”? Go ahead, make me! Go on! Hold my head in the toilet water until I pass out! But when I get out of here the word most likely to stream from my mouth like a bat outta hell is “helk”.)

Then there are all the great ideas for blog posts one simply can’t resist. I suppress them into the deepest core of my none-too-deep brain (which is to say--none too deep) where I forget about them entirely until one day I write a sassy, kick-a (I ripped that off of some bloggist somewhere) of a blog post and a kind commenter informs me it is funny and cute and JUST like so-and-so’s post from last week.


What the HELK?

Then there’s the “that way”, or it’s coattail cousin, “like that” as in “I’m just a plagiarist like that”. Believe me, I truly try to control myself with these cutie-patootie phrases since I associate them so closely with one bloggist in particular and she has this “thing” about plagiarism (she’s paranoid like that) so I use it sparingly. In my deepest heart of hearts, I know it’s not “me” to talk that way and using those phrases are a total and complete rip-off. Yet some things, heaven help me, just have to be “said”.

I’m a fatalist like that. Or that way. Depending. (Whatev!)

(If you liked this post, you just might want to consider voting for me HERE. Please? Pretty, pretty please? If you do, leave a comment, and I will go to your blog and read it every day (if I don’t already) and become a follower and EVERYthing! Pinkie-promise!)

As a little girl, I had a favorite baby doll, one I still have tucked away with my most cherished possessions. Clearly she has been well loved; her head has a split down where it joins the neck and she’s got a rather dirty face. I was just a baby myself when she became mine but my mother told me the moment I saw her, I had to have her. It wasn’t until I was expecting my first child I realized what I actually wanted in that moment of my babyhood was a little girl of my very own.

Instead I had a boy and, boy, what a boy he was! I was twenty-nine before I was able to hold my daughter in my arms and boy, what a boy she is! She doesn’t care for ballet, the color pink makes her feel woozy and dresses have never been her thing. However, she is a truly wonderful daughter in spite of it, or, perhaps, because of it. She is entirely herself, a unique creation. She is not what I would have put into the mix if I had been able to choose in my “pre-Her” days, before I knew how much better someone could be without my meddling.

Yet.

She is so much more of everything I could ever have imagined.

There are moments, so many more of them than there should be, when I still want to re-arrange the mix a little, add some color (she loves black and white) or some curl (she’s just now, at her newly minted age of 14, starting to play with a curling iron) and give her much more direction than she is likely to absorb. She believes my pressing need to tell her this, tell her that, make sure she knows every little thing I ever learned denotes my lack of confidence in her when in fact it is just the opposite.

She is the perfect repository of all I have to give. In her I have all confidence. She has all her parent’s goodness, strengths, talents and attributes.

Times ten.

One day she will conquer the world and I will be her lowly maidservant.

I will keep that under my hat for now. She is, at the moment, still a young girl who needs to be protected from the knowledge of her awesome strength and power and I am, after all, still her mother.

. . the least of which is not typing e’s and d’s. I also use it to wash the dishes, wash my hair and any manner of household chores.

Needless to say, they are going undone.

Needless to say I need to rest my finger for my Tuesday novel-writing marathon (thank goodness my middle finger is not needed to untwist Lindt truffle wrappers).

Needless to day I don’t use that finger to express myself (t’would be a needless sin) esp. not online where it will go unseen, rendering the act clearly needless.

Needless to say I am going to post links to my fave ha-ha posts of the past for all the Mormon Mommy bloggists who are coming to check me out.

Needless to say I am boring my long time readers with this but . . .

. . . needless to say, it is needful, so . . . sorry! (Am I using too many needless dot-dot-dots?)

Interview With A Nutrition Vampire

The Day I Got The "Call"

House Hunting Is Like Ghost Hunting, Only Scarier (part one)

How To Blog Yourself Into The Looney Bin (a cautionary tale)

It’s just that the internal monologue is so much louder.

And interesting.

And pertinent. To me and what I think is important and that’s what counts.

Right?

That’s what I thought.

And that’s about all I have to say today b/c of the serious injury to my “d-e” finger—no, that is not code for some nasty word! It’s the finger that types the d’s and the e’s! I use it. A lot. It started as a hot glue gun burn, then it was a water blister the size of Montana, then it burst all over the keyboard on Tuesday whilst writing chapter one of the book I am currently calling NEW BOOK, then it became this incredibly grotesque thing you really don’t want me to explain.

Do you think this is some kind of cosmic force trying to prevent me from my resolution of novel-writing on Tuesdays?

Do you think this is somehow Crash’s doing?

Do you think that Crash is some kind of cosmic force?

So much to think about.

Meanwhile, since I need to rest my finger so it will be all gung-ho on Tuesday for chapter two of NEW BOOK (sort of like New Moon, but not even remotely) I am going to stop now and give you an oldie but goodie I haven’t rerun in many a moon.

And for those who are really new here, esp. Shelle from Blokthoughts since I know she loves posts about things that go poop in the stall, go HERE.

If you want to see my book cover finally and partially shown on the Avalon Books website, go HERE.

If you want to read what Sue of the Quack Shack says about Miss D. go HERE

And if you want to read what other bloggers have said about it—see my sidebar.

Oh, and whilst you are there, see that lovely poll in sidebar A? Please vote if you have a mind to. As for the mindless, the support group is at my house on Wednesday mornings.

I feel a bit sick to my stomach. If I haven’t mentioned it before I kinda, sorta worship Sue. Hers was the first blog I really latched onto when I first started this crazy old blog thing. Before that the only blog I read on a regular basis was Pioneer Woman. (I have since dropped her from my faves. She never reads me. Never! What’s up with that?) So, anyway, to have the chance to be featured on her personal blog has been my goal since day one (it’s been a long 8.5 months). If I win the contest she is having, I can die happy. (I hope that doesn’t freak you out, Sue. Take a quantum of solace (what the helk does that mean, anyway?) in the fact that I live several states away and I don’t have your phone number and Facebook is relatively harmless when it comes to all things stalkerish).

Meanwhile, people are voting. Some of them are even being responsible about it and reading each of the nine nominees to see which blog they like best. (Excuse me a moment while I just go throw up.) As a result, I feel some pressure. A lot. And it’s all right in my gut (er, feeling a bit better now, though). Naturally I have to write something brilliant but my mind is a blank. I’ve looked at it from all angles and, honestly, the only thing I could come up with is this:

Sue is putting together a book called Something Cleverish. Perhaps you have heard of it. Aside from/in light of/despite the fact that one of my blog posts is in it, I think it will prove to be a jewel of a volume. Furthermore/in addition to/not the least of which (anxiety makes me indecisive like that), the proceeds from this book will go to a beautiful family in dire need so I am giving a copy of it to my numerous family members as Christmas gifts (btw, fam, did I mention your gift would be a bit late? Like, January/February late?)

Anywho, one of my sisters became a bit nosy. She started asking questions. She started wondering what the heck she was waiting for and why the heck she was waiting for it and would it be the heck worth it in the end? (the others weren’t even vaguely curious—they are used to bomby gifts from moi so they aren’t expecting much---boy, won’t they be surprised?!).

I love this sister, I really do, so I won’t name her (Lynn) and I won’t tell you that her husband is a professor at BYU Idaho (promise) and I will do my best to keep her out of all of this BUT when I told her the whole Nie-Nie story she said this (I kid you not): “Stephanie’s brother’s (Topher’s) wife (Lisa), the one whose brother is James Valentine of Maroon 5 (James Valentine of Maroon 5), used to baby sit my kids when we lived in Nebraska (USA). Lisa is a beautiful, talented girl and I always thought James was pretty cute, too.”

There you go folks! That’s all I got. Upon this piece of business, I sink or swim.

Hey, I just found out that I was nominated at Mormon Mommy Blogs for the privilege of being highlighted this month.

Thrilled!

Also--wetting my pants. People who have never heard of me are coming here from there to check me out--which means I am going to have to come up with something way more brilliant than the post I had planned for today. Plus, I am up against eight others. Eight! I haven't worked up the courage to go and see who, yet.

It would seem that the good in life is always tempered with the less than good. (One example, my finger injury that was hugely exacerbated by my eight hours of novel-typing day before last--what's up with that? Not to mention I spent the whole day yesterday just staring at the walls, completely blog-brain-dead and wholly incapable of catching up on anything, including your blog posts. Way sad.)

Hey, Life--way ta be! (And thanks to you who nominated me--that pint of blood is in the mail.)

So, I did it! I was gone from blogging, totally and completely gone for an entire day, no writing of blog posts, no reading of blog posts! However, in light of full disclosure I must say that I took a tiny peek at my comments and did check my stats, but only semi-compulsively. Meanwhile, my numbers did not do a full-blown plummet. No post and still I had hits! This is a minor miracle (but I'm not ready to call the pope just yet). Here is the fall-out:

Number of chapters written--one
Number of pages written--eight
Number of words written--2, 573
Number of hours it took--nine
Number of Lindt truffles eaten over and above my daily allowance of three--five
Number of additional poundage due to said Lindt truffles--4/10ths of a pound (I can live with it)
Number of blog posts I need to read to catch up--1, 549, 361

Thanks for all of your support, you guys! You all rock!

Lastly, I just want to share this note my daughter left on my computer screen when I came back from taking the Little Guy to school this morning. I am printing it here so you can see what a food Nazi I am (cuz I would hate for you to think I am some kind of wonderful person who spends all her time writing books and blogging yet still manages to raise children who are completely unwarped as a result). (Also, in light of continued full disclosure, I think it is interesting to note what pains my daughter goes to in order to make me feel loved, if not particularly liked--she's a gem!)

Dear Mommy,

I love you SO much, and I know I have absolutely no idea how much you do for me and for M** and P** and Daddy too. I am sorry I ate the rest of the ice cream the other night –there had been two other cartons of it and I didn’t realize it was much different than the ice cream I was eating. I’m also sorry I finished off the reddi whip, I had sworn there was still more left.

I love you and I’m sorry I’m kind of a jerk. I pray every night (honestly, I do!) that I will be a kinder person –especially to you—each day.

Love,
Your daughter,
M** E** Ashworth.

UPDATE: Thanks for all your sweet comments, I really appreciate them, in fact, I must say, I think you people are very generous and, not coincidentally, missing the point. My daughter is feeling the need to apologize a full 36 hours after the "incident" b/c she mistakenly feels that she had something of which to repent. This was based on the all-out tantrum I threw when I found she had eaten the last of the "good" ice cream (a crime b/c I don't like the other kind The Spouse purchased in his thrifty yet naive goodheartedness but mostly b/c the Big Guy won't take his meds if they aren't crushed, sifted, sprinkled and stirred into said good ice cream) a tantrum made complete with a slam dunk of the empty reddi whip canister into the trash that would have made Magic Johnson take notice and which was so loud, it woke her up out of deep sleep. Well, okay, she was already awake b/c I had gone into her darkened room to growl at her "Did you eat the last of the ice cream? AGAIN!?!?!" like some kind of "Mommy Dearest". That was right before I discovered I couldn't disguise the cheapie ice cream with the reddi whip I had been craving all day b/c it was GONE in spite of my repeated injunctions, all DAY, not to "eat all the reddi whip on pain of something I won't mention b/c it's most likely illegal!" My daughter isn't sweet--she's terrified. But I did love the note. It made my month.

I am consumed with guilt which is why I was sitting in church yesterday full of woe and repentance and fearfully feeling the consumption of it all until I lifted my chin, straightened my shoulders and put them firmly to the wheel, full of righteous determination to confess once and for all that I never intended to, in any way shape or form, imply that I, Heidi Ashworth, has one thing to do with Vogue magazine. ‘Tis a heinous thought. Not the idea of being in Vogue! (though Style Magazine hits me better). No, what I find heinous is the fear that someone might have reason to accuse me of criminal bloggy intent (again).

Therefore, I need to confess the truth about the Vogue reference. First, I did not make it up. I really did greet the morn with those words ringing in my ears. In fact, this morning, I was greeted by these words said in the most dulcet of tones: (proceeded by sweet birdsong) “Good Morning Madame. Your physician rang. He wishes to inform you it necessary that you go out and buy a new wardrobe comprised entirely of shoes. If you do not follow this course of action, he cannot answer for the consequences. Very good Madame."

You can imagine the spring in my step when I rolled out of bed today!

And, no, The Spouse has not turned butler on me. In fact, there is only one butler worth having and HE is it. Fortunately, we can all have HIM for butler due to this clever invention. I highly recommend it.

Meanwhile, it is a new year and I am going to do my darnedest to make an attempt/take a stab at striving for my goals. In that light, I will be taking every Tuesday off from blogging. Entirely. As in, no posting, no reading. This saddens me but a new novel must be written. I will also be taking the day off from doing dishes (The Middle Child has yet to learn of her role in this new development) and making dinner—thank goodness The Spouse is on board with this one. I will spend all day long writing whilst eating high quality chocolate and though this will make my weight loss goals a bit harder to achieve, I hope it will result in a book worth its weight in, umm, er, my peresistent poundage. Priorities, people, priorities.

I might also have made a promise that I would be blogging less when The Spouse is home (read: late afternoons, evenings, night and weekends) in exchange for his cooperation in the novel writing thing. (Might have. Not sure. Still looking for loopholes in this one.) This means I might not show up on time at your blog BUT never fear, I will read all (eventually) even if it means that my comments are sadly below par due to the fact that everyone else will have most likely gotten there before me and will have already said anything worth saying. Somebody please hold me.

Y'all know I was just kidding yesterday, right? RIGHT! RIGHT!?!

I'm a good one for saying what everyone wants to say but is afraid to/has more sense than to/wouldn't dream of say/saying. But I was WRONG, so very very wrong, to say what I said as a dear sweet reader of my blog let me know. So, just so you all know, the rules are Thou Shalt Not Click On Ads Unless You Are Truly Interested In What They Are Selling. Period. (sorry for making some of you sinners)

So, have a great weekend! And just know that I was awoken today by a voice that said, "Good morning, Madam. The latest issue of Vogue features your exceptional beauty, charm, style and personal taste. It might be necessary to use the back entrance so as to avoid the hordes of admirers waiting at the front door." More on that later.

It's going to be a great year!

P.S. The neighbor's dog has been strangely silent since night before last when The Spouse went and rang the doorbell, peered through the windows and pounded on the back fence. I think a few thrown pebbles were also involved but that is not an official statement of any kind. What does it all mean? Weird.