My parents has some friends over, and I thought I was THA. SHIZZLE. with my crawlin’ skillz.

I was fast. Faaaaast. I was… a force. I could have been the Crawling Derby Queen. Had there been a crawling derby and my parents entered me in it.

But that never happened. I digress.

That fine evening I remember truckin’. Haulin’ diaper. Head down. Mission –> ON.

I was AERO.DY.NAMIC. Emphasis on “NAMIC”.

And I would have broken that speed of sound had that laundry room door not gotten in my way!!!

*shaking fist to sky*

This is my new gig — www.myfirstfail.com – a *baby* (if you will) arm of the ever-popular FAILBlog

My job? To write titles and captions… and rest assured… we will be working on the visual. It is a bit bright right now :) Wanna see my first work? This is the pic provided via their photo submission process…

Click on the pic (or here) and it will take you to My First Fail. Feel free to vote (thumbs up or down)and/or comment… and take it easy on the baby. He prolly was just passing gas… you know how it is.

And none of this would have happened without mah fren Jen… Jen Zug of This Pile… who also writes for Babysaur — baby stuff so cute it’s scary! Thanks for the Cheezeburger hook-up, yo!

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7 year old: O.K. spell “memories”.

Me, to myself: MEMORIES??? A 4 year-old spell, MEMORIES?

4 year old: H

*silence*

*silence*

*silence*

7 year old: Good job!

*****

Anyone interested in a chance to win a Lego® Duplo® prize pack? Visit my review blog… and my newest review to leave a comment and share how you get creative and stimulate development in your kids! The contest starts today and runs through November 16th!

*****

I have a joke. Wanna hear a joke? It’s my favorite:

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Idon’twanna.

The only “wanna” I got has to do with coffee, a warm blanket and my internets. Or Hulu. And cookies in the oven then subsequently… in mah bellee.

I don’t wanna keep going. But I can’t stop.

Running. I’m talking about “running. I took this pic today after my 11 mile run. I feel this pics says, “Save me…” Maybe it says, “I just took 800 mg of Ibuprofen and I need it to start working.” Or maybe it just says, “I’m really tired, and need to ice the arch of my right foot.”

Why 11 miles? Because I am getting ready to do a half-marathon in a few weeks. I love the idea. I hate the work. But I love the work.

I am so confused.

After a “run”, I am always “so glad I did.” But I find it is getting harder and harder to keep getting up.

Yet if I do not, I will find it harder and harder to get into my jeans.

And heaven knows I have no intention of givin’ up the sugar or the alcheehol or the bacon… for the sake of the jeans. I’d sooner chew off my own leg.

So, basically… maybe this running thing is my emotional equivalent of chewing off my own leg?

*Note: when I use the word “RUN” it has a much different speed-intent that my real-runner counterparts. However, I don’t like the word “jog”. It has a creepy-old-man-loose-shorts-P.E.-teacher feel to it. Ya know? So, “run” it is.

Yeah.

Running.

So, I am just in a spot. My life is completely full without running. Training. Yet, I know my life would suffer without it.

And yet, I “suffer”.

My right foot has not been without pain since June.

And sometimes it’s mah butt.

Or sometimes it’s mah calves.

Today… it’s my lower back.

And my thighs.

{And if I see ANY comments about my butt or thighs that make me uncomfortable. I will delete you. *deadpan stare at the crazies* I’m serious.}

But I continue.

For my jeans.

For my pastries.

For my alcheehol.

*grips chest* aaaand my bacon.

And when I train for the longer distances, I get hours of time with my friend Katie. Cuz we run together, talk the whole time and solve all the problems of the world.

And laugh.

See? The good, the bad and…

The Ugly… running is such an ugly activity. I made this video while training for the full marathon I “ran” last May. And as I watch it again, I think, “What is wrong with me?!”

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1) Hotties. Perhaps I should be more specific. These little hand-warming wonders make me do a little happy dance on a cold day… and also keep my fingers moving:

On all the earth. I love them.

2) Speaking of HOTTIES. This. Dress. *covet*

I have no idea where I would wear this if I ever got to have her *grips chest*. I would create an opportunity.

I. Oh.

When I look at this dress I can barely write. I can barely breathe. I don’t even know if it would look good on me. What am I saying? Of course it would… I’m so silly… This dress? It could bring Chewbacca’s sexy back.

3) DailyMile. It’s where I go to post my work-outs.

Did I tell you I am training for another half-marathon? My goal is to finish… not to make the Olympics, to be clear.

I have found, especially when training… logging my miles and other training is helpful. Daily Mile sends me a weekly update… a “progress report” of sorts. I am able to connect with others who are also training or simply goal setting, am able to receive motivations and also GIVE motivation. Whether one is training for an event or have just set some fitness goal – Daily Mile is a great spot!

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Wait. If you are reading this, you probably do know.

Or not. I don’t even know.

It’s just hard. There’s the entire being this part of a blogger that clamors for… for… comments. For traffic. How can one build fame and renown if one can’t talk about it?

Sure, we write, but we exist in a world of people with ears and mouths. Not just screens and keyboards. But when we must interact with IRLs… how does that go?

And also, at what point did robots become more “relatable”? I kid I digress.

A blogger struggles to find a voice… A voice that he or she wants to have, but more-so… one that others want to hear. We not only want to write, we want to share that we write. WriteRight?

Yet, despite this hunger for relevance and reach… we can’t really talk about it.

Not to the hairdresser.

Not to the mechanic.

Not to the mommies at the park.

Not to the piano teacher.

Not to the barista or bartender, but maybe CoinStar.

Not to the office manager.

Not even to one’s therapist.

Why?

Because they think we’re crazy. *does The Robot*

The public thinks we’re CRAZAY.

OK, Public, you get one point.

Public, you either think we are:

1. obsessed with celebrity gossip
2. obsessed with our children’s genius
3. obsessed with our cats
4. obsessed with whining about our lives
5. or something that looks like crazy, lonely and desperate.

And so what if we are? You (Public) are obsessed with *insert your thing here*, we love ours.

P.S. I am obsessed with Me. JSYK.

We (le bloggahs) are just sthpecial, becausewearealsohighlynarcissistic.

Bloggers, does the following scenario sound familiar? Let’s jump into the middle of a conversation I have had NUMEROUS times:

Random Person: So, what do you do?

Me: I’m a *insert your profession here* mom.

My Brain: Don’t do it Jenny. Don’t tell them. Just walk away. You have some really cute jeans on. Let your cute jeans have the last word… Save yourself.

Me to my Brain: But… I. I. I also blog! What a great part of Me!

My Brain: Jenny. Don’t. You have issues. Your online accepts those issues. Your IRL… notsomuch. At least not yet… Give them time. They need more TIME. *brain fires synapses madly in a desperate attempt to convice*

Me to Random Person: Iamalsoablogger. Iwriteablog. Ikeepablog. IblogbutnotlikePerezHilton. Mommy. Mommy. Blog. Humor. Vlogging. Youtube. Reviews. Twitter… #GNO!!! *gasp*

Random Person: *blinks*

Me: Uh. Yeah. Soooo. *one foot awkwardly scuffs the ground as I make eye contact with the ground*

Me: Yeahsomuch…*ahem*

Random Person: Oh. *backing away* I don’t have time for that. Celebrity gossip? I’m too busy.

What I hear: Do you shower? Do you clean your home? Do you sit on the computer all day and chat online with hot babes?

So what if I do chat online with hot babes? Jealous much? I think you ARE. *pops out hip, Solid Gold style*

You remember the Solid Gold hip-pop, right?

What about this one:

WaitWait! THIS is the one I’m talkin’ about:

My Brain: See???!!!

Me to Random Person: Yeah. Well. I just… um… People like me. I take showers. Well. I. Hrmmm. I’m just silly. I don’t. I. Silly. *muttermutter* *shift from hip to hip*

Me: I’m just gonna go take my kid to soccer practice now, m’kay?

It’s just hard.

*wipes tear*

There is this world… blogging. This part of my life. A BIG part of my life… and I can’t really talk about it…

Because it is a little bit like bad breath. It’s uncomfortable. For others.

The sad thing is, blogging is really NOT AT ALL like bad breath.

I think I am  sexy.

I think it’s sexy.

Perhaps this is the new social injustice – prejudice against bloggers.

And if they (the IRLs) make us drink from separate water fountains? It’ll just feed our narcissism –> “We’re so awesome and famous, we have been given our VERY OWN drinking stations! Forget Page Rank! We have our own drinking fountain!”

Now, don’t get me started on the Twitter. You don’t even know… or maybe you do :)

***I have something new up at Mom on the Spot… It’s the story of when *we* got to deliver the Office Max box of school supplies… Oh my gosh my brain is fried. It’s a sweet Whrrl story about a teacher and a bunch of happy second graders… click here because you are a sucker for stories of such cute-ness.

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I want to be four again because I long for the heart.

I want to wear crumbs on my face and not care.

Not because I am lazy. And not because I think a crumby face is a good look.

But because how silly is it to worry about whether one’s face is a little crumby?

When one is four… no one cares about crumbs.

Or bare feet.

Or lipstick that went a bit over the edge:

Ya know?

Last week, Lucy… my 4 year old whistled for the first time.

The first time. This little person got to experience a whistle coming from her wee little frame FORTHEFIRSTTIME.

She said, “Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! I whistled!!!”

I was all, “Yeah, yeah… whistle schmistle.”

I may have played up my excitement for her a little more than that, but my heart held just about that much excitement. She’s kid #3… we’ve had a couple other first whistles… plus I’m 37 people. Whistlin’ is no big, ya know? People. The great majority of us have arms, legs, belly buttons and can whistle. See? Big whoop.

*wet blanket*

A short time later I heard Lucy giggling so sweetly in her booster seat. It was a certain content little giggle. A giggle that perhaps could even turn Darth Vader away from the Dark Side. Oh, that little girl giggle…

I HAD to ask, “Lucy. Honey. What on earth are you gigglin’ about?”

With her mouth in as full a smile as it could stretch she squeaked out, “MAAAAAMAAAAAA! I whistled for the FIRST!!! TIME!!!”

And I cried. My girl. MY girl. My little girl…

*****

Do you ever wish you could feel the joy of whistling for the first time? Do you ever just think about how much it sucks that our first whistle has been spent?

I long for the innocence. I long for the untainted joy. A time when whistling was a big deal… I don’t want to suppress the innate urge to squeal with delight over a “boooifull” butterfly… I want *that* back.

Freedom?

But not to live how I want. Not to do what I got to do fah me. No. I’m talking about freedom in experiencing joy…

Expressing joy. Sharing joy. Joy.

I also want somebody to do my shopping, cooking and laundry. Maybe that’s what this is actually all about.

Maybe.

P.S. Today is your last day to enter for your chance to win a $100 Visa gift card and a year’s worth of Wonder Bread over at Jenny on the Spot Reviews!

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I am tired and got myself into a spot where I cannot catch-up. October was a tornado. But not of cows and machetes and travel trailers, bathtubs and bad witches, but of errands and commitments and laundry and dishes.

What is the fruit of such things?

Nonsense.

This post, for example. Is it writer’s block or birthed from the loins of chaos.

Yes.

And I want to say what she said – Liz from This Full House. Her little take on her new acronym SAHMMA.

STAY at home… W (that stands for WHATEVER).

But in a ridiculous attempt to “entertain”… I publish this.

I thought about a video. But if I don’t know what to write… I sure as heck don’t know what to SAY.

I thought, “Hey! I’ll flex for them!” I need to practice the face-look of flexing. My face looks a lot like the face of my 4 year old when she poops. But I don’t do that. I’m a lady. Just my 4 year old. She’ll grow to be a lady. Too. I’m sure. It should come naturally… she has such a good example to follow *ahem*…

Hey fellas… I’m taken. *wave, smile and curtsy*

Whatever. It’s like I think I’m my own little circus. It’s possible. But if that is the case… I have WAY more than 3 rings in mine.

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1) I am excited about this new e-book:

It is by Alli Worthington… of the highly-accalimed BlissfullyDomestic.com and the Blissdom Conference. *sigh* I really want to go to there… Haven’t actually made the purchase, but… GONNA! Did I tell y’all that I met Alli at BlogHer and she sprinkled my glitter on her? She is just as delightful as one would imagine…

2) I went for a run on my birthday. You know the phrase “stop and smell the roses”? Well, all the roses are dead right now. So I stopped and admired a spiderweb:

Do you see it sparkling? I love the Fall… and morning runs… and my birthday… Ironically, I hate spiders… but they make lovely homes…

3) Dessert tables. BE STILL MY HEART!!!!

I have no words. Well, I do. But really, words would fade the beauty of these dessert tables.

I want to go to there.

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Like you care.

But it’s My blog, and this is alzz I got *shows salty finger tips*

Here’s my dirt.

I’d could call it “the skinny”, but a gal who can pound back one of those individual “king-size” bag of Fritos in less than 1.34 minutes and wash the crumbs back with a packet of Gushers… she don’t get to hook into the word “skinny”… even in a comparative sense. She blew that privilege, but not only because of the Fritos and Gushers, but more-ly in the 30 minutes before when she pounded back a cupcake (or 2)…

Yes. That’s an Oreo center. My friend Sheila delivered them to me on my birthday. I *heart* Sheila… She also brought a Blingle Bell which is now prouldy hanging from my rearview mirror…

Blingle all the way!!!

But back to my salty finger tips blocked arteries growing backside “dirt”, in my defense… I had forgotten to eat lunch. And come 3 fitty three in the afternoon, a girl has got to do what a girl has got to do. *chomptotheravenouschomp*

The other piece of this confession is what I searched for online. I did this post on “big necks” and needed an image, so I searched, “guys with big necks”. It dawned on me later  that I was very lucky to have come out of that image search unscathed. *hallelu* But I did find one pic, located on some poor fella’s MySpace page. I decided I couldn’t use it, mostly because I would have been making fun of him. Seriously. I’ve never seen such a neck… attached to such a ill-proportioned (tiny) cranium…

I’m digressing. And gagging a bit. You gotta wonder if people own mirrors… Circus people own mirrors. Maybe he worked out in the Fun House.

So. MySpace. As curiosity would have it, I scanned down to his MySpace bio blurb. Why was I soooo curious? I dunno. I have a thing for circus-y things I suppose.

I didn’t hesitate… I HAD to take a screenshot:

And I suppose I am making fun of this guy. I try to only poke fun at myself, but I have hidden the critical info. Can we just pretend this is some comic character? It’s OK to laugh at comic characters, right? But Cowboy… if you’RE reading this, you’RE going to need to click “edit”… Yes. You. Are.

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As part of yesterdays’ birthday celebration, I had to go get a new driver’s license, and hithertowhereverthougoest… I was gonna get a good picture and also lieaboutmyweight. Nothing quite like getting a new driver’s license AND getting old(er).

I made it to the DMV… or the DOL (whatever) moments after the doors opened.

Gloray! There was no line. *devil sign*

I sauntered up to my the unknown victim male clerk behind the desk. “Hi Handsome” I said with a smokey soft voice.” “Hey! How cool is it that there is no line! Is it usually not this busy? Huh? Huh? Huh? How is your day so far now that your doors have been open for 2 minutes and 33 seconds? Huh? Huh? Huh?” I said in a much too caffeinated and uncomfortably giddy tone. For the clerk, but not for me. I wanted to be my own best friend! *shakes pom-poms*

*toothy grin*

Clerk: “Yeah. How ’bout that.” *sniff and a head cock*

Me: ”Yeah. Well. I know it sure can be crazy some days. How’s it going so far?”

I continued to ask and initiate silly banter. I needed this guy on my side. I slathered him with acknowledgement of the crazies he must endure (self excluded).

This man would be taking my picture. I know. I should have brought him coffee.

Or a can of glitter.

Or Crack?

It became apparent his tough DMV exterior was cracking under the unbearable weight of my undying charm, yet he showed restraint.

I told him I like that in a man.

I barely had time to pinch my cheeks to get some color for my headshot before he gave the universal motion for “Move toward the camera, Lady”.

I stood in front of a lovely green “canvas”, that seemed to accentuate my sallow tones.

Clerk (think monotone, yet surprisingly warm): “OK. 1. 2. …”

Me: *not blinking* *smiling wildly*

He turns the screen. “How about this?”

I flinched and hid my eyes for fear of blindness: “OHMYTRAVESTYOFALLTRAVESTIESMAN!!! Are you trying to burn my eyes?!!! WHO IS THAT CREATURE???!!!!” “Oh my GOSH! That’s horrible. Can we do that again?”

His shrug said, “No kidding, lady. That one should be burned.” I almost gave him a high-five.

He showed me our next shot. I was all, “Good. GOLLY. NO! And… can we try it again?” *turns head to side and bats lashes*

Clerk: “Your call.”

I almost kissed him.

When I saw my third picture I said, “DUDE. WHY is my neck so big???! It’s HUGE!”

He said… I’m not kidding, he queried,

“Well. Have you been workin’ out?”

Then he giggled. I have to admit, that was clever. Props to Clerk. Big props for your wit.

But, you know… as a woman… ya kinda hope that kind-of scenario panning out a little different. Not that I need that scenario, but I kinda hope had that happened it would be because I was wearin’ some hawt jeans and what woman wouldn’t be flattered, even if for a moment to hear, “Have you been workin’ out?”

Unless they are talking about your neck. And you are a WOMAN.

SOoooooo… I wrapped my scarf around my “She must be workin’ out AAAAAND taking steroids neck” a second time.

The fourth pic was at least not offensive. And far-less less-necky. And I was feeling just a bit vain-er than usual after 3 re-takes, so I thanked my gracious clerk and scurried away… with a new feature to be overly-sesitive about. Maybe I should take lemons and make lemonade… MAYBE I should join a circus! I hear those folks are REALLY into glitter. *eyes cross*

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