Suburban Bliss:: Birth Control Via The Written Word

A post which contains not one instance of the word "House" or "Fucking"

New Buzz Off about: Bookplates.

Love them. I love them more than I love trudging away at a house which won't let me go.

PS: Dishwasher is clogged. Send more prozac.

Fuck You, House.

I've been trying to see the positive in things lately. Not in a global sense because nothing mind bendingly horrible that's ever happened to anyone is really all that bad when you think about how much worse it could be.

Seriously, no matter what the horrible story, there's always one worse. I'm not sure who the hell takes comfort in the fact that someone else suffers more than you do, but apparently this is something which is supposed to give people some sort of gloating peace. This seems unkind to me, to take comfort in someone else's suffering. But then I'm an alcoholic.

This never gives me even a moment of peace. It only makes me feel worse that not only are there my own small and insignificant tragedies in my tiny tiny world. There are other far more profound tragedies which feel about 100 - 1,000,000 times worse than my tiny tragedies. This gives me absolutely no strength, none at all. This makes me weep for the world.

However, I have been trying to think about my small world and all the ways my little corner of it is blessed. Not blessed when compared to everyone else's tiny world, just blessed in my own tiny and inconsequential ways.

When Max had his toenail removed, I couldn't help but think if it had been Maddie staring at her bloody toenail-less toe she would not have handled this news very well. As opposed to Max who created his own superhero out of the ordeal. Every time Max and I have gone to the doctor to deal with his toe, I've thought, "If I were doing this with Madison it would be a lot worse."

When I sent off a check to pay for COBRA coverage, money which was earmarked for all the last minute 'Get This House On The Ever Loving Market Already' things we need to do. As I sealed the envelope I thought to myself, "The last time Logan left a job and we were without insurance there was no option for COBRA." [The place was too small and so not legally obligated to provide it.] "It could have been worse."

Last week when I spent 72 hours trying to vomit my tonsils out of my neck, even in my most miserable times, I reminded myself how much easier it is to vomit your tonsils out of your neck when your kids can get their own snacks, juice and alcohol from the liquor cabinet. If I'd been as sick as I was last week when the babies were young without any help, that would have been another 10 rungs lower into hell. "It could have been worse."

This type of 'Bright Side' thinking gives me some peace. The other kind, where I look around the world and tell myself how much worse just about everyone else has it, makes me want to blow up my house and just call it a lifetime.

Tonight Logan and I finished a really good dinner. Over dinner we commented on how, unlike the norm, we completed about 6 items on our "Get The Fucking House On The Market" list and only added like 4 new things to it. This is progress because usually we're on a 1:1 ratio in completed items to new items added to the list.

As we cleaned our dishes preparing to relax, watch a video (him) and get some work done (me), Logan flipped on the garbage disposal. The garbage disposal made one of those noises like someone's knuckles were caught in it again and so I made the noise I make when someone's knuckles are in the garbage disposal.

"Eeeeeeee! Oooooh! Nooo no no no no noo! Off Off Off!"

I make this noise because it's a lot easier to make those noises than to actually say, "Hey! That doesn't sound good. Turn off the garbage disposal."

Ironicially it was the top of our cocktail shaker, used the night before to concoct lovely cocktails (without a designated parent!) which had fallen into the garbage disposal. Oh the irony is so delicious. So magically delicious.

A garbage disposal doesn't cost a lot. Tomorrow I'll go buy one and Logan will install it tomorrow night in a furious chorus of "What the fuck's!" and "God Damn It's!"

The problem is Logan was supposed to spend tomorrow night clearing out stinking leaves from behind the shed in a furious chorus of "What the fuck's!". I know it could be worse. I know in the scheme of things this is not a big deal. Really, nothing in my life is a big deal. Nothing at all in my life is really all that big a deal.

However, I feel like this house is never going to let us go. Every time I turn around there's another job to be done. An illness to plough through. Money to throw at a toe. A steamer to sear my fingerprints off.

I liked how I felt after I started medication again so much. I thought to myself I could never imagine being so overwhelmed by these stupid tiny things that send me reeling into the abyss. I would never let that happen again. I am strong! I am capable! I will not lay down and cry like a child. I will plow through with energy and strength!

It turns out, medication or not, I am ill equipped for all these things. I am ill equipped for life.

This house is going on the market on April 2nd come hell or high water. (Bring It House. I have no doubt you have both in your power.)

I'll be back when there is a for sale sign in my front yard. I've just got nothing worthwhile to add until then.

The first time I've ever been a morning person.

It's funny how after spending 3 days living through your body trying to rip your tonsils out via your gag reflex how absolutely elated you will be to wake up without wretching.

It's funny how you'll glide down the basement stairs to clean the cat's litter boxes, so happy to make the house make sense again.

It's funny how usually in the morning you grumble at the children without making eye contact, "mmmrrrhh....breakfast?" and they'll answer with their choice of cold cereal. But today you'll ask them what type of cereal they'd like with genuine enthusiasm! Will it be Cinnamon Life? Honeycombs? What will it be!?

It's funny how you'll be making the bed and suddenly think, "I haven't felt this alive for as long as I can remember."

And you are only slightly exaggerating.

Today I am going to take a shower and go to the bagel shop with Logan and the kids and then I'm going to do something I thought, as I begged the cold smooth tile in my bathroom to take my life, I would never do again.

I am going to the market. To buy food I will prepare for my family to consume.

Was life always this wonderful and I just didn't realize it? This is pretty amazing.

Going in the house listing.

3 bedroom, 1 bath house for sale. With lovely tile bathroom floor which caresses your face all night while you throw up and wish you could die. But you can't die because the tile feels so good.

You mostly just want to stop throwing up and let the floor cool you off. I believe if I don't get off the bathroom floor all day it will heal me. So far it's not working particularly well.

[Update:just back from the docs. It is strep throat. Again. I can't believe it. This explains the punched in the throat, seared with burning razor blades and itching ears. I am going to cut my tonsils out all by myself.]

Raging Throat.

The good news is Max was not faking his sore throat when he came home early from school on Monday.

The bad news is I am only certain of this because I am currently unable to swallow without wincing in pain.

I've been tracking my sore throats. If I get two more in the next 8 months I can get someone to take my tonsils out. I never thought I'd be wishing for more sore throats.

Embarassing myself for charity.

Mostly this picture has nothing at all to do with this post. But I've been wanting to share it so I put it here. Let's call it, "Stick Em Up! For Charity!"

There's a new post at The Buzz Off where I manage to work in a story I think I've only ever told Logan because it's still very humiliating for me. But I'm willing to share if it will make you read about a few charities I've been interested in lately.

I have always loved this picture. My brother is so cute, I'm such a follower and those boys are so totally 70's with their shaggy-ish hair and striped shirts.

Max was looking pretty shaggy lately, so shaggy, one night Dutch said, "Max really has the scruffy thing going. Don't wash that hair for a few weeks and he'll look awesome." I think this was a compliment, considering Dutch's personal taste in hair. It's true, he was looking pretty scruffy, that is until Friday night when he made his first executive decision as a nearly 6 year old.

"I want my hair really short."

So Logan had the barber cut a bit off and they asked, "Is that good?" Logan had his fingers crossed because he liked Max's longer hair too. But no, the military boy in our son would not be denied and now he is a freshly shorn 6 year old. Next thing you know he'll be voting Republican and denouncing rock music.

Or perhaps he's just trying to get back to simpler times. Times when all he had to worry about was where he put that damn binky and waking up at least 3 times a night just to make sure that nice lady with the soft chest was still around.

Simpler times when he didn't hate school and wasn't bored out of his mind plopped in front of a computer meant to teach children just learning letter sounds when he's reading chapter books. But that's another post for a time when I don't want to scream just thinking about my current predicament.

Max and I made cupcakes for him to take to school today. He chose chocolate cake with strawberry frosting. When we started piping the frosting onto the little cakes Max said, "Wait....strawberry is pink? I can't have pink cupcakes. Nathan will make fun of me!"

And I said, "If Nathan doesn't like strawberry frosting on his cupcakes, tell him he doesn't have to eat it and there will be more for you."

Then I wished I could have said, "Nathan isn't going to make fun of you because you have pink frosting on your cake. But if he ever runs across this picture on Google, you are totally screwed buddy. Pssst: also don't tell him how much you always loved dolls when you were little and how you still love babies way more than your sister has ever loved babies."

Happy Birthday To My Little Gender Bender With The Very Short Hair!

Happy Birthday Damien!

It's been busy here this weekend. We've been painting and cleaning and sanding and cleaning and painting and installing new lights and so on and so forth.

This morning I made cookies for Max's birthday party. They're the favor with a coupon for a free ice cream cone (Thank you Buzz Off!) He wanted dog bones to go with the dog plates and napkins at his party.

I coated myself in icing trying to ice the god damn cookies. Then I started to put the red 6 (he's turning 6) on the cookies and realized my icing was a little thin. So that the 6 became an apostrophe.

I've got 1.5 hours until the party so I decided, "I'll just add a couple more 6's to make it look like it's just a 'design'."

Only two more sixs would fit on my cookies.

Do you see where this is going? Really? Because I'm such a brainiac I didn't realize until I was staring at a pile of satanic cookies what I'd done.

Genius!

Thank God Max doesn't go to the Presbyterian Preschool anymore.

Will never be my free pass. Ever.

Logan and I like to play a game from time to time. We call it 'Free Pass'. Let's say I was at the grocery store and David Beckham walked up to me and suggested we go back to his hotel so he could give me some soccer tips. I'm allowed to do that if that's who I've chosen as my 'Free Pass'.

Now, if say, George Clooney walked up and asked me the same thing, I would have to decline his invitation because he is probably lying because I don't think he knows how to play soccer and also because he's not my free pass. Usually my choice for free pass is so ridiculous Logan gets angry. Not because he feels inadequate in the face of my choice but because I typically pick someone like Stephen Colbert, "....because he's so funny!"

Logan says, "Why would you pick someone funny as your free pass? You're going to stay up all night talking?"

And honestly, I really might just do that.

All this to say, I would never in one million years choose Long Haired Swinger as my free pass. (Though one of the rules is it can't be anyone you actually know in real life.)

So I wish he would leave me alone.

I've managed to avoid Long Haired Swinger as the weather and my general demeanor turned cold. But in the last few weeks we've had a couple of warm ups in the weather and I guess warm ups make Long Haired Swinger think maybe my heart is melting toward him along with the snow.

One afternoon another mom brought her new puppy out to meet all the kids. Long Haired Swinger came strolling up to admire the cute puppy and I stared at the puppy pretending not to notice him.

He walked up and said, "How is Miss Summers today?" What is this third person thing? Why am I Miss?

He went on, "Oh puppies are so cute when they're little....just like people. Then they grow up and you're not sure you like them anymore."

And I replied, "Only if they grow up to be repellent!"

Only I didn't really say that. I made this noise I've perfected for any communication I have to make with Long Haired Swinger.

It sounds like this, "nnnnh." And I look at the ground while I say it. Or off into the distance in the opposite direction of him.

Him, burrowing his beady eyes into the top of my head: "Blah blahblah?
Me, looking at the ground. "nnnnh."
Him: Blah! Blahh blahhhhhh blah I am freaky!"
Me, looking at the sky: "Nnnnnnh."

The other day it was beautiful, almost 80 degrees. These glimpses of spring are probably the best thing about Michigan weather. When the sun does come out and it's warm for the first few times, it's so life affirming the whole world seems like a better place.

Until Long Haired Swinger crawls out of his hole.

On this day he walked up to where I was standing, alone. I usually hide outside the gate at pick up so he won't see me.

"How is Miss Summers today?" (WHO TALKS LIKE THIS?????)
"nnnnnh"
"So now that the weather is so beautiful does this mean we'll be seeing your smile again?"
"nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnhhhhhhhhhhh."

And I walked away.

The thing I can't figure out about this person is why he is even still interested in talking to me. I would think someone acting the way I am is a horrifying bitch. I would think to myself, "Wow, what a bitch!" And I would avoid that person.

I avoid people who have acted even less bitchy than I have just because I don't want to waste my time on people who are bitches.

Oh God, I just realized this. Does he think I'm playing hard to get? Does he think he can melt my ice queen ways and show me the tantric ways of his peoples?

Why can't Long Haired Swinger find this website like my in laws and the Presbyterians and get so angry about it's contents he never speaks to me again?

Why can't Stephen Colbert just show up on a whim at my playground and ask if I want to hear some of his new material?

It's Miffy!

Mrs Kennedy was contacted by Miffy's people and you know I love a good kerfluffle more than I like drinking until my kids are maimed. (Look how I do that! 10 years from now I'll be doing that! Stop reading now because it's not changing. Just ask the Presbyterians. It's been three years and I still make references to that one time....)

I guess the problem is that a long time ago Mrs Kennedy professed her undying love for Miffy. How can you not love Miffy? She's everything wonderful about the Netherlands. Besides being there with Alice. But apparently Miffy's people don't love free advertising and so they asked Mrs. Kennedy to shut the hell up about Miffy.

Okay.

So she replaced the Miffy image she had on her site with another drawing. A homemade Miffy compliments of a Sharpie and Jackson.

Miffy's people are still pissed.

I tried to leave this as a comment but blogger is having it's period and won't let me.

I asked Mrs Kennedy if Maddie could share her cell. Because Maddie is screwed if creating a 'likeness' is verboten.

I wonder if Miffy's creator, Dick, would appreciate Maddie's bondage version of Miffy.

What about Maddie's so called "Japanese Miffy":

Maybe Dick would like "Elvis Miffy" aka "Hitler Miffy'!" So cute! So Cuddly!

Maddie has a whole folder of this artwork. In a Miffy (totally legally obtained) folder. I dare the Dutch to come take it from her.

Take it from her cold dead hands.

Besides trying to bait Miffy's people into a fight, I also wrote a new post at the buzz off. Free coffee! $25 off $50 worth of clothing! 50% off a Janet Taylor approved 1 ounce sized flask! (I'll never move on. Ever.)

Predictable.

Last night I dreamt I woke up, walked into the kitchen and the last part of the wall paper was up again, only this time in a bright red plaid.

I kept telling myself this is only a dream. You'll wake up.

When I didn't wake up I became so despondent I began roaming the streets of Detroit, ending up at a church pep rally, stumbling through the home of circus performers (?) and then a YMCA 'Job Training' seminar. This seminar was outside and I laid on the steps staring into space unable to get really revved up about my lucrative future in telemarketing.

Finally Logan came to get me and he had great news! He had bought me a present! A professional wallpaper steamer. This is where the dream gets really weird. I didn't kill him because I was truly so excited to try it out.

Finally my subconcious pulls out something totally unbelievable.

I didn't mention wallpaper even once in this week's Buzz Off. See? 

You thought I was beating a dead horse before.

But you really had no idea how bad it could get.

I already mentioned a few times how I've been working on removing this ridiculous wallpaper. Guess what? I'm still talking about it.

This morning I got to work on the last section. This section included about a 14" tall section spanning about 1.5 feet above the cabinets and then another two foot section above the door. I worked from 10 o'clock this morning on that part. Then I took Max to school and spent that 3.25 hours tearing down a 16" x 5' section of wallpaper. 3.25 hours.

Yawn you say? I want you to understand how long this process has taken me. I want you to understand why I'm typing this post with claw hands. Why my thumb has 3rd degree burns from that steamer. I only wish I could let you smell the grandmother-like scent of the Downey I doused my walls in and then steamed which is now filling my home and giving me a horrific headache.

Why don't they make fabric softener which smells of bacon....Canadian Bacon....?

This afternoon, after I picked up the kids from school, smelling like a grandmother wearing an Avon fragrance and looking like a woman who has been deranged by wallpaper and steam, I decided to document how long it actually took me to remove the last section of the wallpaper.

Because when you're standing on a ladder and bruising your shins while trying to control a red hot steamer which might "accidentally" drip scalding hot water down your arms or might "accidentally" fall off the barstool you've propped it up on because those really high ceilings you love about your 1920's bungalow aren't really all that charming when you're trying to reach the top of the stupid wallpaper.

When you're doing all that, it might just feel as if you've been stripping wallpaper for your whole life or 22 hours.  Maybe you've only actually been in a living hell for 30 minutes. It turns out stripping wallpaper is actually as big a time suck as you might imagine. (If you can't imagine it, then you're Logan and I don't want to hear about it.)

Here is the shot of what I had left to do today after already working for 17 hours last week and 5 hours today. (Please note the steamer, my nemesis, standing there, waiting to hurt me. No wonder I dream of snakes.)

Looking at this corner, I thought to myself, "This can't possibly take more than 90 minutes. If this takes 90 minutes I am totally stripping off my clothes and running down the street with this stupid steamer rolling next to me for warmth."

I don't like to hug people or talk on the phone. You can imagine I'm not wild about public nudity.

Here is the time when I started this very small corner.

JSYK: I have never cooked a Bacon (Slice) in this microwave. Who would limit themselves that way? Okay but who else? (Also, I've never cooked a pizza or a frozen dinner in this microwave.)

The next time I took a brief water break, I want to write a joke here about giving myself a hot facial with that stupid steamer but that would give me a shit ton of unpleasant google hits. Oops. The next time I took a break, it was:

This is what my progress looked like after 45 minutes. That's almost a whole Oprah show.

If you look at the upper right corner of this picture you'll see a very white spot at the top of the picture. This is a hollow spot on the wall, a box if you will. When I first noticed it was hollow, it makes an unsettling sound when you scrape it, I thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be awesome if there was money in there? Or maybe an apology letter for putting a water based paint over an oil based paint?"

Because I would accept an apology at this point, because I know what it's like to do your best and have to cut corners just to save your sanity and your fingerprints. I know.

By the time I finished with that corner of the room, I found myself thinking about that box behind the wall and "Dick In A Box" got stuck in my head. Because wouldn't it be funny if that's what was in the box behind my wall? That entertained me for another 30 minutes. (Thanks a lot Stefania.)

(If I have to tell you that link is not exactly work safe then you deserve to lose your job. Dummy.)

30 minutes later Dick in a Box was no longer entertaining me.

This is the process I'd made at that point. What you can't see it? Me either.

At this point Logan called to give me a 'Sanity Check' and if my voice has ever had the ability to kill a man, it was over that phone call. This ability was exaggerated by the fact that I rammed my nose accidentally with the paper scraper while I held the phone up. I hate the phone.

Hey look! It's after 5....it's 5:25pm and I'm finally done. Somehow this is anticlimatic because the walls still look like shit and I still have to sand, prime and paint everything but at least the steamer and I can part ways now without any permanent scarring.

After that last phone call from Logan I mentioned, I hung up after he asked if I was doing okay. Because we'd spoken 5 times today and each time I told him how I would love to talk but the steamer wanted to choke the life out of me right now so I have to go.

As I started cleaning up the mess.....oh wait I can show you that too!

As I started scooping and shop-vac-ing wet wallpaper scraps, Logan called one more time. Luckily I picked it up. Because he wanted to drop dinner off before he went to Billiards tonight (The Championships! Also! The last game! Hooray!).

He also brought me this.

Just when I think Logan just doesn't understand me. He just doesn't get that I'm dying here trying to get the house ready and write and clean Max's silver toenail and make sure Maddie's report on the grizzly bear gets done on time and she learns good research skills in the process, he does these types of thing and I realize, I got my best one.

Speaking of beating dead horses. (Not safe if you dislike beating of horses.....which is my entire site so why are you reading?)

Dear Dr. Janet Taylor, I would like you to know that tonight the only reason I've had 3 of these beers is stress relief. I know it's not healthy. There is no designated parent here. I must find healthier ways to relieve stress, like SELLING THIS MOTHERFUCKING HOUSE.

Janet, do you know how to paint? Because someone painting my stupid kitchen would really relieve a lot of my stress. Also, do you want to buy a really competitively priced house in Michigan? We could live really close and relieve our stress together!

Love you!

In closing: the wallpaper is gone, I still have to paint, the drywall guy comes tomorrow. I promise when we're living in our new home I will whine about half as much as I am now about home improvement.

Daddy Knows Best

Last week I clocked 17 hours stripping wall paper and I still have nearly half the room to go. I am using a steamer which is slowly searing my fingerprints off and a scraper which has changed the shape of my hand permanently as I slowly scrape, scrape, scrape the walls.

As expected, the wall paper was up for a reason. There are spots on the wall which are fresh plaster uncovered by paint, there are other parts where the trim was torn off leaving exposed door supports and still other places where the walls have cracked and been 'fixed' using something which resembles caulk. Also the steam is causing something, which seems like paint to bubble up and pull away from the paint underneath. I hope the new owners of this house like the 'charm' of slighly lumpy walls.

This weekend my friend's husband Mark gave us his Saturday to help us hang sheetrock on the very shimmed ceiling of our kitchen.

Dear Future Owners, I hope you like lumpy walls and never want to find a stud among all the firring strips and shims we've layered under your new drywall. We did the best we could.

PS: Don't try to install recessed lighting unless you hate life and want to torture yourself.

Because Mark is a process engineer, this job involved no swearing. This might very well be a first for our family.

Since Mark's wife Andrea was out of town for the weekend, we lured Mark into staying for a couple of beers and some pizza with their girls. I left to pick up the pizza and, you know, some other beers because we had run out and since I had two men in my presence (making this all perfectly safe) I had to take advantage.

Logan relayed this talk while I was gone and the guys cleaned up the house from the drywall mess.

Logan, inspecting the swiffer wet jet and attempting to put the liquid cleaner in it starting to unscrew the top of the cleaner. Mark steps in, "No no no. Don't take the top off, just stick the whole thing in there."

Logan grabs the swiffer pad and says to Mark, "This goes on here right?"

"Yes," taking the whole thing from him. "Put it on here."

I think Logan's a pretty hands on guy. He does laundry, washes dishes and what he does with a vaccum is so arousing, I make him wait until the kids are asleep. When Logan told me this story I stared at him and then asked, "So....why did you transform yourself into "Clichéd Bumbling Dad"?"

The drywall guy is coming this week and I got boxes off Craigslist this weekend. This means we're about .0001% closer to actually listing this house for sale. Of course I still have to get the rest of the wallpaper off the walls.

Which will likely happen once every one of my fingerprints is seared off my skin.

I'm really excited about this. Can you get a mortgage if you have no finger prints? Footprints work, right?

I did it for Asha*.

Max finally went back to school today. Midwinter Break started Feb. 16 and I have been with my kids almost all the time since that point. This has been good because whenever friends have a baby, or whenever Logan talks to Juniper, I start to think, "Gee, maybe I shouldn't have given up after two?"

Then Blam-O! I'm with the kids 24/7, Max's toenail is surgically removed (you can see the Super Silver Toenail here....but only look if you have a strong stomach. I'm warning you.), then he gets a nasty cold and all my money flies out of my pocket and I have to say to myself, "Wow, you really are tapped out at two."

I am better at mothering when we all have a little time on our own.

A couple of weeks ago there was a snow day and I left a playdate (where I did not drink....not even ONE....but I could have if I wanted to let the children perish with my neglect) and had a nice chat with Howard Lovy from the Oakland Business Review.

He recorded what I had to say with a small tape recorder and at one point I blurted out, I don't even remember what, something I really shouldn't have said 'on the record' and we made an agreement....I wouldn't give him The Mirror Treatment if he didn't use that thing I said. So, I'll be gentle.

Now, before we get all, "Stop beating the dead horse! Your horse! It's dead! There are vultures all around it! STOP BEATING IT! You're bitter!"

I was going to say no to this interview because putting my name with anything related to business is a little silly. I once spent a business-ish conference call totally distracted by simultaneous emails daring other call participants to work the word 'balls' into the conversation. (IE: "Well Jane, it certainly sounds like you're juggling a lot of balls!" Or, my favorite, "You've really got a lot of balls in the air there Bob.")

But then I thought, 'I have the Federation to think of'. I'm a team player and if my babbling can draw in Michigan advertisers to the Federation, why not. (PS: Asha is part of the Federation.) Of course I have a feeling Chrysler's not going to be spending a lot of money on blog advertising any time soon (ahem). Or, GM for that matter. But you know, there's other business in Michigan not tied to the auto industry....I know there's some somewhere....and I know they want to reach this amazing audience. I'm sure of it. Mostly.

You can read the article here and see a dazzling picture of me and the kids in the background pretending to be dogs or begging me to stop drinking or worshipping me from afar. I'm not exactly sure what they're doing.

The photographer was here for a while and was absolutely dazzled by my ability to anticipate the shutter on her camera and shut my eyes in preparation. She was very nice about it but my God. Maybe I have narcolepsy?

Two other things about the picture: I swear my hair is not that short. I think it's the angle? Or the fact that I'd just had my hair cut the day before? Also....I used a new eyebrow person and my goodness she likes them thin. Dramatically thin. I'm not so sure, I'm going to poke someone's eye out with that arch I think.

I only need to clarify one point in the article, which is misleading but not because of the author's writing but because I didn't clarify this when speaking to him. When discussing what I make from blogging, I included the income I earn by writing the Buzz Off for AlphaMom.com.

Which is a great tie-in to this late Thursday entry over there. Enjoy!

*I can't link in a title. Asha=ParentHacks.com