For the Next Sixty Seconds

This was a test post. You should not be alarmed. The test succeeded. The guys at the host company now call me by my first name, smile when I bat my eyelashes, pretend to understand what I’m talking about…Isn’t that what we all want from people we pay to admire us?

A good thing about the Blogosphere: many things happen in the outside world and bloggers tell readers all about these events. A bad thing: you can spend your week reading about a crappy candidate for U.S. Attorney General and by Friday you know more about him than you do about your mom. A week of being barely able to write permitted me plenty of reading time, and my brain is now full of stuff I’d like to scrub out with a wire brush. And bleach. Alberto Gonzales is now the blueberry stain on my cerebellum, and Condoleezza Rice is tomato paste on my frontal lobe, and just look at the gritty mess.

Invitations to Miss Sasha’s wedding went out this week. They’re crisp and to the point, belying the complete lunacy of the last month’s preparations. Someone under the mistaken impression that *anyone* will listen to me calls almost daily with an argument, or a grievance. Everyone wants to know what color I’ll be wearing. After all, I am the Mommy. Apparently everyone will be looking at me. If I had a buck for everytime someone said, “You CAN’T go shopping without ME!” I could pick up a shiny new pair of Doc Martens.

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