Seriously, it is about time. Memorial Day was 8,000 years ago, and my best friend got married over Memorial Day.  It was totally fun, but not the relaxing long weekend I'm hoping for with the 4th of July.  We're staying in town. We have few plans.  Bella is flopped on the carpet on her back, paws akimbo, just thinking about it.  I echo her sentiments.

My house is a mess and in serious need of dusting.  I have a huge deadline at work.  But all I want to do is put on my swimming suit and go sprawl in the sunshine with a nonreview paperback book.

We did go on Tuesday night to a new sailing shop in Merriam, Kansas and were able to procure REAL lines for Puffer the Sailboat.  While we were there, they insisted on showing us the new and used small boats of 14 to 16 feet (ours is 12, and it's as old as I am, which is so totally not old for a person).  I thought I saw a little bit of drool escaping Beloved's mouth as he tenderly patted the hulls in adoration.  I reminded him that though I took sailing lessons and learned on a J/30, that was in 1998.  I want to completely master sailing Puffer, not to mention pay off debt and finish remodeling Chateau Travolta, before we do something ridiculous like buy a sailboat.

Still, there was this t-shirt in the shop that I almost took home. I normally don't like cheesy motivational t-shirts, posters, or anything of the sort, so inundated am I in corporate America with all that crap (translation:  work really hard to make more money for us, and maybe we'll kick you an Applebee's gift card).  But this one said:

Sunday
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Saturday

See?

There is no Someday.

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Review of new movie (not out yet) Sixty-Six at Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews.  Also!  Check out the Sleep Is for the Weak page at BlogHer with contributor bios!  And did you see the new event widget in the sidebar?  That's how you'll know who will be where signing books this fall. Come on out and see us.

This weekend after the little angel kicked some serious preschool ass at her dance recital, Beloved, she and I spent several hours cleaning up our 1974 AMF Puffer.

Source -- this is not my boat.  If you haven't noticed, I hate taking pictures.  But mine looks exactly like this one. 

The Puffer is 12 feet long, which is essentially like sailing your bathtub.  I can't WAIT to get it in the water.  We bought new sails for it last year, but we never got the chance to put it in the lake because we were, oh, moving, and painting every wall in our upstairs and stuff like that.  This is Puffer's year. I can feel it.  Even though you should never, never go to Bass Pro Shop and look for new sailboat lines, because they will look at you as if your lily sailboat ass has just ripped off their fishing/motorboat heads and shit down their throats.  Then they will point stupidly at utility rope and indicate you should cut your own.

To which you will respond by laughing at them and buying a jolly roger flag and a Diet Coke and storming huffily out of the establishment.

Ahoy!

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Writing about downsizing the family auto today at BlogHer.  And I promise I will get around to picking the Lee Jeans contest winner this week, but I was distracted because I've been buying books to sell at BlogHer, which is three weeks away.  Yikes!

My best friend is getting married on Sunday.

My college roommates will be arriving soon. 

Four people are spending the night at my house on Friday.

We're grilling for somewhere from eight to ten people tomorrow night.

I'm meeting my parents an hour away to give them the little angel for the weekend (oh, and Blondie's seriously enormous, purchased-at-Home-Depot birthday gift) tomorrow morning.

A half-hour before I'm supposed to pick two friends up from the airport.

One of the people who is staying with me tomorrow night is allergic to cats.

Bella is going to the boarder's, but her dander must be banished as well as possible.

Bella is shedding all over the couch next to me as I type. (I'm working from home today.)

I'm working today.  I'm on a really important project.

We have found sponsors for book parties, and now I actually have to schedule them.

It's pouring.

I hope you have a fabulous Memorial Day weekend.  I've purchased copious amounts of alcohol, and soon as I address my horrifying to-do list, I'll be enjoying it with some of my very best friends in the whole world.  Enjoy the holiday.  See you Tuesday.

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Reviewing preservative-free spaghetti sauce at Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews.

It's almost St. Patrick's Day, which I swear my mother celebrates far more than a woman who is only partly Irish should, even though she did sport some pretty red hair for most of her life.  Every year on St. Patrick's Day she would leave my sister and I some appalling Avon pin outside our doors and plaster shamrocks (never four-leaf clovers, because that is a sin) about the house.  I love that she took it so far, especially considering she doesn't even drink. Ever.

Anyway, I suppose it is because of her I've always embraced my very eensy-weensy bit of Irish heritage.  I'm mostly German, which was a totally boring thing to be when you live in Scandinavian/Germanland, otherwise known as IOWA.  After moving to Chicago, being German got a little more interesting, and being Irish like totally fucking rocked.  Chicago loves their Irish.

So, in preparation for the upcoming holiday, my beloved and I decided to go see an Irish band when we were visiting my parents last weekend.  We went to this great bar which was once visited by U2, it is so dang Irish.  We were excited.  We ordered drinks.  We sat down, expecting oh, maybe "The Unicorn Song" or something.

Instead, we got about an hour of "my dad died, my sister slept with a soldier, my mother's gone mad and I'm only seven" sort of songs.  I commented on the misery spouting from the accordion player about halfway through the set.  "Mmm-hmmm," said my beloved, concentrating on his beer.  But about three songs later, he tapped my arm.  "You're totally right," he said.  "This is really rough."

Well.  I did take a few Irish literature classes in graduate school, and I do know that for quite some time, the luck of the Irish was sort of an oxymoron.  Those poor Irish, they had it really rough, and it's totally not fair.  I'm not surprised they wrote a whole bunch of sad songs about people drowning and going off to war and doing shit for England that they didn't want to do. (Don't worry, Irish, we got those English - they went to Iraq!  Bet they didn't want to do that!)  But come on, sad Irish band, I know damn well there are quite a few happy little jigs and drinking songs in your repertoire.  What up?

So anyway, it is fortunate that wasn't my first experience with an Irish band. Because if it was, I would've had to go put rocks in my pockets and walk into the Missouri River after listening to that band.

My friend Shannon was my sorority sister (I know, ew, sororities, you may tear your clothing now, silly people).  When we lived together in the hallowed halls of Sorority to be Unnamed to Spare Recruitment Problems From Having Accepted Me, Shannon used to hang a red curtain up in her room, pull out one of those new-fangled video camera things and tape us doing Real World Confessions.  (This was when the Real World was a relatively new phenomenon.)  I once confessed to being that annoying chick who would take one bite out of something and put it back in the fridge - FOR ME, PEOPLE - but for some reason that really torked everyone off and they would leave hostile notes on the refrigerator and stuff.

Anyway, for years Shannon has been sending out her awards-show commentary, and it is so good, I stopped watching the shows themselves and waited for Shannon's comments, so I could go Google just the good stuff.  Turns out Shannon's got herself a blog. Shantertainment.  I highly encourage you to go waste your entire lunch hour on this blog.

Enjoy.

It's occurring to me I will NEVER get those vacation photos posted because tomorrow I am going on a business trip for a few days, and after that I will be spending the next two weeks convincing the little angel I'm really not leaving again until I leave again to go to BlogHer Business near the end of March.  SO.  On the off chance I really do post photos tonight instead of frantically packing and fast-forwarding through the DVR-ed Oscars, I'll just illustrate my story then.

SO.  Vacation stories.  Let's see.   First day: Acclimation.  We got to Denver around 10:30, took the shuttle (I highly advise the shuttle, and I'll explain why in a minute) to Breckenridge, got off the shuttle and WENT IMMEDIATELY TO THE BAR.  This is how you acclimate.  Drink equal amounts of water and alcohol immediately.  You'll still get a pleasant buzz, but you won't get so dehydrated.

And for those of you who won't drink alcohol immediately when you go on a child-free vacation, go read someone else's blog, because I don't know how to relate to you.

Tuesday we decided to actually, you know, ski.  I learned to ski just about eight years ago, as an adult, and I have never been an ambitious skier.  I'm scared of hurting myself.  I have bad balance.  I had high anxiety for the first three trips, even though I steadily advanced from bunny to green to blue.  This was actually the first year I felt confident and loose going down the harder blues. I credit the change to a few things: 

1. My iPod Shuffle.  For some reason, it's hard to be so tense about killing yourself skiing while listening to Eminem or Laura Branigan.
2. Pilates.  It really does affect your balance, especially the strength in those core-y areas so necessary to correct oneself from overbalancing.
3. Shame. I'm sick of being scared of skiing.  I never get to go on vacation, and I was just determined to enjoy it.  Also, I was trying to impress my beloved.

Skiing was good. The first day was a little crusty, the second day it started to snow about 2 and kept on snowing until the minute we left a day and a half later.  We woke up at 9, we went skiing until 2ish, then we drank, sat in an outdoor jacuzzi with snow falling on our heads, took naps, listened to bands, ate good food and did other things adults who are vacationing without children do.  It was a good time, and I don't care if the little angel is mad about it - I'm glad we went. We needed to go.  We needed to have that time together to have fun like the irresponsible kids we were when we met at 25.  We got engaged in Steamboat, and skiing has always been about frivolity for us. 

Interestingly, the first time we went skiing post-angel, she was eight months old.  We were overwhelmed still, and I think I was actually suffering from a little depression. We decided on that trip not to have any more children, so we could get our lives back to normal.  We couldn't stand the chaos.  This time, exactly two years later, we feel back in control of our lives, and we spend about a half hour of the vacation agreeing on boy names and girl names for the second child we may now have.  If anything, looking at one ski trip to the next has reinforced for me how quickly circumstances can change, and how hard times truly do pass eventually. 

Oh, and yes, I did win the Whale's Tail hula hoop contest on the night before we left.  There were a lot of incredibly drunk people in the bar, which improved my odds.  The singer/comedian kept calling everyone Little Miss This or Little Miss That. I was Little Miss Kansas City.  When I won, I got to take a lap around the bar carrying a plastic liberty torch and an American flag, and I was gifted some Mardi Gras beads, which I gave to the little angel upon my return. I told her I won the hula hoop contest, and she said, "What's a hula hoop? Can I have one?"

Child of the media, she is.

The only bad part was that little period of seven hours during which I-70 was closed while the state patrol dynamited the mountains so we wouldn't be covered by an avalanche and die, and during which we missed our flight back to Kansas City.  We did find (after five hours of listening to the extremely verbose driver) that the CME drivers have to pass ridiculous driving tests, including tests with the state patrol in which a 600-pound sled is shifted back and forth in the back of the van to induce intentional skids. FUN. But I did feel much safer than say, if my beloved had been driving in inclement weather at a 45-degree angle.  Just saying.

The only backlash has been the sleeping and the daycare drop-offs, both of which I'm happy to say are improving.  After a bad sleeping situation on Friday and Saturday nights, we told her last night that she couldn't go to her friend M's birthday party at McDonald's tonight unless she slept all night. Even though it took an hour and a half to get her to sleep, once she fell asleep she slept until 5:45, which I considered a victory. I gave her some bubble gum (drat her teacher for telling her what it is), which she promptly swallowed (Mommy! I ate it all up!), a Backyardigans puffy sticker and told her we could go to M's party.  She still threw a bit of a fit when I left her at The Emerald City, but I think the appearance of M with birthday cupcakes quelled the fury of the spurned redhead. There really isn't much in a two-year-old's world that cupcakes can't fix, after all.

The little angel seems to have caught the bug that half the country has - started vomiting on us last night at 6 and has been vacillating between a fever of 103 and lethargic and darting around the house demanding I stop working and play with her.  Welcome back!  Yeehaw!

That said, here are a few of the sparse observations I recorded when I could stop drinking for two minutes and borrow a pen and cocktail napkin.

1. Ski clothing is the great equalizer and the fashion opposite of army boots.  Just as nobody looks good in army boots, nobody looks bad in ski clothing (provided it's updated).  Slap some North Face on the most out-of-shape, middle-aged paper manager in the world, and he looks remotely cool. 
2. It is far better to see people in casts and crutches AFTER you've finished skiing for the day than before.
3. Never drink at lunch, especially not if you're eating on the mountain.
4. You'd be surprised how many people try to drive their normal, small-wheeled strollers on thick snow. 
5. Don't race when you've never skied in thick powder before.
6. Don't laugh at your husband when he gives himself a black eye unless you want no sympathy when your bruised shins give out on the last day.
7. Nine degrees is cold no matter how many heaters they have outside.
8. Locals in ski towns will never tell you where the good party is.
9. Ski bums over the age of 30 are kind of sad.
10. Drinking at high altitudes is not a problem is you've spent the last several months building up an immunity to iocane powder.

More when I get the photos back.  I have to go take the little angel's temperature again. 

Hidey ho!  Missed you!  Kisses!

We spent most of yesterday stranded in an Office Max parking lot outside of Dillon, Colorado, waiting for the Colorado State Patrol to stop dynamiting the mountains and reopen I-70 so we could try to catch the second airplane trip (we totally missed the first one) and hearing 1,001 stories from the Colorado Mountain Express man's reportoire.

Lots to tell you, but must go inhale the little angel's neck smell again.  Back later with stories and pictures!