Reading the news: there is a lost baby whale that is following a yacht because it appears that it thinks the yacht is its mother. This is why I’m following this fifth of vodka around. I’m pretty sure we’re related. Tomorrow I’m going to hit it up for a loan.

Earlier today I talked to my dad on the phone and for some reason he brought up my cousin who lived with us when I was two. It’s a vague memory for me so he felt the need to elaborate: “She was a blip, that one. Spelled with a B-I-T-C-H.” These are the things that make my me think my father’s memory will come to haunt me someday.

Every four years I take up running seriously. By “seriously” I mean enough to buy a new pair of running shoes, a couple of sports bras, and start jogging at stupid times during the day like when it’s super hot or decidedly humid. I know I’ve gone too far when I start looking for mini-marathons to sign up for.

The current cupcake obsession of mine is starting to worry me. I blame Isabel for ordering the most divine iced creations that I kept shoving in my mouth which can be seen here and here (oh, right here I was eating french fries which, wait! I was doing that here, too!). Now, I dream of cupcakes. Frosty, mini, sweet.

Gwendomama gave me a special award. It’s probably because I’m always referring to myself as an ass kicker, but I don’t care. She wrote lovely things about me and now I remember why I completely accosted her and her stolen lighters in San Francisco (story for another 5 minutes in my head series). So, here it is:

For 47.3 seconds this is what went on in my head: Crap! I have to create another list of great writers? Oh, crap oh crap oh crap what was that one I was reading the other day and how can I find it again? Was I looking at books online? Did I get there from a link here in my own comments and hop around? Was it that day when we had chicken salad with the cranberries and walnuts and THAT SOUNDS GOOD RIGHT NOW. I wonder if I have any chicken…?

My hair color is back to what I am hoping it would be if I actually knew what it was. It’s chocolatey brown with leftover caramel highlights (oh, what a GREAT cupcake, am I right? I know I am.) and my hair goddess, Regina, didn’t want to do it but after 15 minutes I convinced her. This is the best picture I can muster, but we’re talking about the things that span my head in five minutes:

I threw a yellow highlighter at a co-worker today. He walked in yakking at me and didn’t see the phone underneath all my hair which was pressed against my ear and I was making an appointment with a parent so I tried being professional. Only on the phone, though. It was a random, wild throw but I’m pretty sure I hit him square in the crotch. Tomorrow I will apologize because today I said something like, “Take that, you snotface!” and it was kind of rewarding to talk like that after this ridiculously long week. Shit. Is it only Monday?

My mom leaves for Burning Man soon and she’s making all these plans about how to get in touch with her and what to do if my granny needs something while at the nursing home. The first emergency number on the list she gave me was for the closest sheriff’s department. “I was happier when you just went to your Weeklong Orgy Of Debauchery and just called me when you got back safely.”

During my run (no, seriously, those next Olympics are a mere FOUR YEARS AWAY. I can do this.) there was a woman who got scared by a dog that started following her and then ten feet later there was a swarm of bugs. She started to scream obscenities at the top of her lungs, “All this goddam nature! I just want to run without this shit!” Shouldn’t she get a treadmill, then? Actually, now I want to follow her on all her routes and listen to her bemoan Mother Nature.

Should I get another tattoo? It should be so inappropriate that I am afraid I’ll be invited to pool parties with important people and then I will have to make up a lame excuse why I’m wearing a turtleneck. Unless I get it written in an obscure language that no one will understand.

When I mentioned that I was tired of wearing pants for the day, Violet responded with “I find your lack of pants disturbing” and then I found this site that replaces words with “pants” in Star Wars movies. I’m probably late to even finding this, but I got an enormous kick in the pants in these three:

#7 “These pants may not look like much, kid, but they’ve got it where it counts”

and

#11 “TK-421…why aren’t you in your pants?”

and

#21 “Jabba doesn’t have time for smugglers who drop their pants at the first sign of an Imperial Cruiser.”

During the panel on which I spoke as a speaker (as opposed to “spoke as a presenter” or “spoke as a high-class hooker”) there were moments when I questioned myself with the same thought that came through my head when I was asked to speak in the first place: Why am I up here and why does what I say matter? It happened, I suppose, because being a woman and raising a daughter today means a whole different thing than when I was a girl. Some of the images women are presented with, and hopefully reject, are simply more in sheer number than when I was young.

After speaking on a panel so many women came up to introduce themselves or shake hands or ask more questions and there were touching comments and thoughtful reiterations of our discussion. One woman approached me and said that she didn’t have a blog but loved to read them. Her comment was this:

How do you find what you need to have in order to be happy with your body and your looks? Because you can do it easily; you’re tall and attractive and it’s easy for you.

After I gasped from the underhanded compliment, I answered her this way:

I wasn’t always happy with my body. Or my looks, for that matter. You’d never guess the weight I actually am because I hid it with my height and you’d never know that I have several cavities in my mouth because I’ve learned that when someone tells you have a nice smile you simply thank them and accept it. Don’t give away all your ugly secrets. Tracee had already mentioned how women tell their daughters how beautiful they are and in the next breath use self-deprecatory speech which sends a mixed message to them. There’s no magic pill I can give you. But it takes practice.

After we hugged and shed a few tears, I realized that women don’t know how to do this. We can blame media all we want, but we have to continue to redefine the images of beauty.

I’m going to declare big calf muscles in my legs as strong AND sexy.

I’m going to figure out a way to accentuate my naturally curly (not kinky, I hate that word) hair.

I’m going to go ahead and buy that dress I like because it makes my curves stand out and I’M OK WITH THAT.

These are all things I have said to myself. Confidence building takes time. Parenting while you’re doing that takes effort on top of that. But it can be done. Trust me, there are days when I feel like a slimy troll, but I don’t announce that to the world. The ugly days I keep to myself and that isn’t just about body image, that’s about my feelings and my mood. You can’t just puke it out for the world to see and expect people to wonder where you get your flare and good attitude. People pick up what you’re laying down.

One of the other things I mentioned was about being a tall woman. Even though I have mentioned that before I found no less than 10 people who make mention of it when they meet me in person. Does that bother me? Hell no. In junior high I hated it. Especially flu and cold season during dances when every short boy came up to my chest and it was striped with snot after slow dancing. But now? I love it and have come to appreciate it as an added bonus in how I walk into a room.

Some women are intimidated by that and, while I am cognizant of those insecurities, they are no longer my problem. Do you know that every woman who stopped me to introduce herself at BlogHer was instantly crushed in a hug from me? I know that it’s difficult to walk up to a stranger (even though that gene is missing from my own DNA, but that’s from Middle Child Syndrome) but do it! You probably won’t be disappointed! If you are, back away slowly and don’t lose eye contact. You know, like when you’re faced with a rabid dog.

My proudest moment from the entire weekend in San Francisco came when my daughter spoke at the end of that session. Here is a snippet of what she said:

As someone who just came out of my graduation from college, and the end of my parenting: at the end of the day, no matter what they said to me, it was my choice. I was one of those A&F kids. I was multiracial and I could pass. But I appreciate that Mom never bought me those clothes; if I wanted them, I had to buy them myself. I remember thinking “I’m really uncomfortable in these size zero pants.” As much parenting as she did, there was some blockage that I put up. It really does start at good parenting, but when it was my choice, and I could make those decisions about the clothes, that’s when it really turned me on. So keep going; it helps.

She’s a wise one, that daughter of mine. Keep going. It helps.

Laurie has the entire conversation live-blogged here. I wrote something for her site a few weeks ago and that can be found here.

Sure, I’m home from Boston long enough to pick up dry cleaning, do some banking, and pack a bag for California. Today was Neil’s day to post and I forgive, Neil. Truly, I do. Please don’t worry about it. (Readers should rest assured that, to make up for his faux pas, Neil will post nudie pics of himself and do a giveaway for a free chocolate-colored pony! So stay tuned! Second prize winners get a yacht and a massage.)

All of my guest post contributors were excellent and I learned a thing or two about each of them. Mostly that I really do adore them and wish so much that they’d all come over for a sleepover (boys in a tent outside, so says my momma) and we’d tell story after story over some lovely sangria and a cheese plate.

Poor Libby thought she broke my blog, but she didn’t. Her Tour was awesome and I must admit to linking to the nude blogging one first. I’m a sucker for a good post title.

Ted Foo posted a picture of a cuppa that I actually own! The whole set! Weirdness galore. Psst! Teddy? Do you have the matching plates and bowls?

Karen has, in one fell swoop, irked every 41 year old who doesn’t LOOK LIKE THAT BECAUSE OHMYGOD SWEET BABY JEEBUS SHE’S INCREDIBLE. Also? We don’t want her to lose any weight, do we folks? No. No, we don’t.

Angella published what is my favorite picture of herself and I hope that this week when we meet she will recreate that pose for me.

Heather used one of my go-to phrases when I stub my toe or fall off my bicycle: “fuckity fuck” and I have a special hat to show her when we get to San Francisco.

Fluid Pudding has a real name but I don’t suppose I’ll ever really use it. After reading her today I’m hoping she’ll yell out, “Hey, Shithead!” to me so that we bond even further (though we ARE going to nosh on burritos and watch movies soon) and I was so glad she did some drawings. Yay for drawings!

Here’s a quick stream-of-consciousness to detail this last week (I know how some of you like these but I should apologize for not being on any good medicine prior to writing):

Eating lots of seafood and taking the water taxis in Boston was not a real smart combination and I had to talk my stomach into please settling down every day.

Mike’s Pastry is awesome. Have the cannoli. Leave the gun.

People watching is free and underrated. Sitting on the pier and scanning crowds is something I can do, apparently, for 4 hours before realizing it’s probably time to go in to bed.

Fire alarms in hotels aren’t fun. Unless you’re still outside on the patio people-watching and then you get to see folks from your conference come down in pajamas.

Always bring matching pajamas to conferences in case of fire alarm.

The sign on the city aquarium read, “SHAAAKS” and I absolutely fell in love with the city for that.

Walking around with my group (10 or so of us) in the Italian North End I was approached by a retarded man who slapped a balled up piece of paper in my hand and yelled in my face, “THAT’S MY NUMBA. CAWL ME.” Then he walked away and stopped by outdoor cafe tables stealing napkins. Seriously, I loved Boston!

Mallory is coming to San Francisco to the BlogHer conference with me. She’s doing so not fully knowing how crazy all these women are, but she promised to go to all the cocktail parties and not mock me. How do I prepare her for this madness?

Anyone who has invited me to a party out there at BH? Ummm, I haven’t really been writing them down so I can’t recall where I should be and when. Who would like to be my personal assistant for the week? Oh, that’s right, MALLORY, WHO PROMISED NOT TO MOCK.

We are flying in on Thursday and don’t have a hotel room until Friday. Should I be worried? Anyone want to take in 2 very sweet Midwestern gals who are a ton of fun?

One final note to any retarded men in San Francisco who approach me: please don’t yell when you give me your phone number. But know that I will probably drunk dial you when a bunch of my friends and I are together.

There are 5 school days left. You’re not going to get a sequential post out of me until that’s over and this brain swamp is all cleaned out.

Undisciplined writing coming up. You’ve been warned. Turn left and go grab some smoked almonds or just hop in a taxi and get on to work or start your Christmas shopping now and be the envy of your friends.

Mono hangs on like a mofo. I wish it would have just been some benign influenza. But mofo mono has a ring to it and it’s fun to type. With mono comes unexplained crying and headaches. Sorta fun if you’re the making fun of weepy migraine type.

Every time I see something idiotic like “Say goodbye to cellulite” I want to scream, “Screw off, cellulite! Hasta la vista cottage cheese thighs!” Who wants to send off cellulite with a polite “goodbye”?

On Saturday morning Morgan smiled at me and snuggled up and whispered, “Morning, Momma. Can we go get donuts?” Hot damn, did a chocolate long john sound good right then. I’m a sucker. I did it while the kids were straightening up and when I came home they dug in while I was straightening up and THEN THEY WERE GONE. “There were 12 donuts here, you evil spawn! HOW MANY DID YOU HAVE?”

Mason held up two fingers. Mallory held up one. They simply couldn’t speak while my head was melting. I went trolling through the house for Morgan and bellowed, “NINE? DID YOU REALLY EAT NINE DONUTS?”

My children were strangely quiet around me today.

Work related crises were non stop today. Five days left. Five days left. Five days left. Trying not to count them.

I hit my mutant quotient early today and didn’t much feel like messing around with students but they kept coming into my office.

Lately, I’ve been in a Bob Marley state of mind . “Buffalo Soldier” will make me sing “why yo yo why yo yo yo why yo yo yo yo yo yo yo” in my head for days. Remind me to tell the story about Mallory singing Bob Marley lyrics when she was three. Remind me on Wednesday night so I can write her a Birthday Post the next day.

We watch a lot of “Family Guy” and I can do a pretty good Lois. Peeta!

My gestalt is all off kilter. There were no drugs harmed in the making of this post.

Why can’t grown ups have goody bags after their parties?

Have you ever tried Sterzings potato chips? It’s a really good reason to visit the Midwest. Also, you could come see me and bring donuts.

New realization about myself: I have a really good radio voice. Like Angelica Houston sexy. It’s all deep and throaty and I pronounce things very well. Where can I apply for this?

Tonight after work I was sort of a pill to be around and Mallory summed it up. “We’ll just slap some fun pants on you.”

MacBook Pro. Silver. HOT. Can be used to turn me on. Is there a Sugar Daddy website out there where I can apply to have someone get this for me? Let’s discuss. Wouldn’t this be a great idea? Because the one I currently use belongs to the school district and I want one of my own. This one has a broken mouse pad that doesn’t click and a piece of the arm rest part has recently snapped off. I use the heck out of it and I want my own. Sugar Daddy applications now being accepted.

Slap on those fun pants and bring me a MacBook Pro. Donuts, sadly, will not do the trick this time.