Sipping cheap 7-11 coffee, surrounded by piles of clothes - those needing to be washed (the sex-covered panties) and those needing to be put away - I am here, I am home.  Crap strewn about, books, jammies and scarves, jeans, hoodies and makeup galore.  This place is a god damn mess and I couldn’t be happier.

For the first time ever, I feel at home.

After 3 1/2 years and countless trips home to California, I now call this place … this place I reside, home.  It’s not the city I love.  Sure, there are things to love about it but it’s not the city.  It’s not the cockroaches and ’squitoes and the Bon Qui Quis on the bus and the douchebags in Georgetown and the ‘hose-wearing staffers on the hill.  It’s not that stuff, that’s for certain.  But it is my friends.  And it is the gorgeous architecture.  And the seasons and the walkability of it and the independent niche I have created here.  And the funny southern flair and my work.  Oh my work that I love so much.  I can’t say that I love this “place” but I love what this place has become for me.

I think for years I down-played the role the people here play in my life.  I used to say “Oh it’s a revolving-door city.  People come and go and you can’t make relationships.”  Well, I know more than anyone *ahem* that one’s ability to make relationships is a reflection of one’s efforts and emotional capacity.  A It’s not you, it’s me kinda thing. And for some reason the reality of the depths of the relationships I have built here has taken a while to wear on me.  For so long I took them as transparent and temporary when truly they have been acting out the leading role in this play I have written called my life.

So.  After 10 days in sunny wonderful California where I rehashed some things, opened some wounds, picked at some scabs and let my heart feel (*ahem* and made hot monkey love *ahem*) I have come home.  I have come home to the anxious arms of MP. And the laughter of good friends and cold whiskey on a Saturday afternoon and my little messy SFAH.

And let us not forget that I have come home to you.

Although google reader on my iPhone allowed me to read all of YOUR posts, I wanted to wait and stew and think and process and simmer before posting.  I wanted to feel it all and take it in and write some thing here for you, all of my lovely friends, my wonderful supporters in the tubes on the internets upon my arrival.

You people, this thing here, are also part of my home.  Some how, some way coming home “to you” was as exciting as anything else.

I cannot thank you enough for all of your loving supportive words upon my departure.  Thank you for posting through the holidays and keeping me sane.  Thank you for being a part of my home.  I am over-joyed today.  I cannot wait for ‘09 to get kickin.  I feel good about things folks.

I am home.

*by Kenny Loggins

I have read no less than 283 blog posts about Christmas cards in the past several weeks.  You’re all so stressed about getting them out.  Well, those of you completely overwhelmed with the task at hand or those feeling guilty for not having completed yours yet, check this out –> I just opened two cards I received.  Actual pictures of my friends with their kids on it.  I slipped open the envelope, looked at the pictures and threw them in the trash.  Yeah, I did.

Every time I do it, I think, “Man what a waste of money” as though their ridiculous desire to fill my home with cheesy ass cards should make me feel bad?  Moms across the country spend hours hand-addressing all those envelopes, making sure the ribbons are in their hair and their hands are placed in their laps like so. Hoping their kids haven’t given each other a recent black eye that may show up on film.  And an ungrateful ass such as yours truly, spends 4 minutes looking at it and tosses it away.

I don’t hang on to shit.  I don’t do clutter.  And pictures are clutter.  So I am not going to clutter my life because someone else thought they should spend money on a useless picture, to remind me of what their kids look like when I haven’t seen OR TALKED TO THEM in a year.  Their choice to spend the money and time.  My choice to throw it out.

~~~~~~~

Ladies, I implore you.  STOP THE MADNESS!  Stop driving all over town to please your in-laws.  Stop spending hours of precious time addressing envelopes for a gratuitous foolish “American tradition”, while you could be using that time CALLING the people you’re sending cards to.  Or hand-writing a NOTE with something sweet inscribed.  Or I dunno, helping your kids get into bed and in their jammies.  Stop with the cards.  Stop with the incessant holiday plans and the guilt and the “I should…..”  I can tell from reading your thoughts here on the web that you hate EVERY.MINUTE.OF.THIS.

So stop.

It’s just that simple.

And one more thing.  I don’t want ONE roll of the eyes or for any of you to think for one minute, “Easy for her to say, she’s single.  She doesn’t have kids.  She doesn’t have in-laws.”  You’re right on both accounts.  But what I DO have is a guilt-free life.  I do not, will not, won’t ever subscribe to the useless suppositions that others do.  Once I give birth, this does not make me a victim to my mother-in-law’s demands.  You do not get married or bear children and become owned by other people.  What happened to, “This house is my family”?

Jesus ladies I am ranting about YOUR LIVES.  The lives YOU’RE bitching about.  I want each and every one of you to live authentically.  To spend the holidays how YOU want to.  Not the way your mother expects you to.  Not the way your husband’s sister wants and your great grandparents want.  I want each of you to march into the god damn bathroom, look yourself in the mirror and repeat after me:

“As a grown ass woman of my own volition, I married that grown ass man in the other room.  We took vows to each other, to remain happy and to work hard and for this to be about us.  And then we pro-created and in so doing we made a new vow.  To keep those little shits happy and healthy and whole.  I pay the mortgage/rent.  I put food on the table.  I pay the utility bill and put the clothes in the wash, shovel the drive and rake the leaves.  I am a grown ass woman and I will discuss with my partner how best to spend the holidays.  I will not be a prisoner of others expectations.  This partnership, this parenting and this mortgage equals adulthood.  I will make my own choices and not feel bad about it.  And I will enjoy every fucking ounce of freedom that provides.”

Go forth!

One of my favorite bloggers of all time is the ever-popular Danny Evans over at Dad Gone Mad.  Fourteen billion people have him on their blogroll so obvi you know who he is.  I mean, you know who he is, RIGHT?  He’s brilliance.  Aaaaaand friggin hilarious, wicked smaht and an up-and-coming writer.  Not only does he write a sweet ass blog, his first book is coming out next year.  So excting!  Not only is he a fabulous dad and a deeply humble man and has a hot wife, he also has a book coming out next year.  Aaaaaand he’s Jewish.  And you KNOW my love of all things Jewy.  So clearly I love this man somethin’ fierce.  He doesn’t take himself too seriously, is staunchly dedicated to his family aaaaand he has a book coming out next year.  Wait, did I mention that already?

His book:

Please note, I am not his agent and am not getting paid to tell you how awesome he. (Sidenote: talking about bloggers in this fashion is almost as ridiculous as discussing - with deep conviction - whether Heidi and Spencer are really legally married, if Britney is ever going to get her act together or if Madonna really is as bat-shit crazy as everyone says she is.)  I speak of this man like I know him.  As though I know Brad & Angelina.  But I don’t.  However, we all know bloggers are way more real than those faces on Us Weekly.  Obvi.  (Danny if you’re reading this *long shot* don’t EVER pose for Us Weekly.  Just don’t).

However, I would like it noted that the man speaks and the people listen.  Like a sermon on the mount, Danny Evans speaketh and the people obeyed.  And then they commented.

Last Thursday he posted an edict titled Operation! asking bloggers, in the name of the gift-giving season in this shitty ass economy to do what you can, for free, for your fellow blogger and to comment with reckless abandon.  The messiah said, “I hereby declare that Operation: Comment Your Balls/Boobs Off! (Depending on your gender) shall commence immediately and continue until Jan. 1, 2009. ”

And comment they did.

Hell, this lil ‘ol site got 6 new commenters, how nice is that?  I don’t do this thing for the comment love but it’s SO NICE when total strangers pop in to give a shout out.  Hell, I was included in Danny’s blogroll many moons ago and maybe that’s how you ended up here in the first place.

What I am really trying to say is not that Danny Evans is awesome.  It’s that *I* am awesome because of all the attention *I* am getting.  Look at me.  Look at me.

That’s disgusting and I’m totally kidding.  Danny is awesome.  If you don’t already read his blog, add it to your list people.  And hell, if you’re so inclined you can pre-order his book on Amazon.  You won’t regret it!

Due to the high school drama a couple weeks ago at the wedding, MP and I are spending Thanksgiving alone.  This has me a bit sad but we just don’t feel ready to hang out with those friends.

Of the many things I am thankful, today I am thankful for YOU!  As DGMS has become a staple in my life so have each and every one of you.

Thanks for listening and laughing alongside me. I don’t know what I’d do without this silly little blog.

I hope you all have a great day of food and football and it’s as family drama-free as possible.

Te quiero mucho

Every family has that thing you say.  You know, when you get up to go to the bathroom in the middle of a movie and you have the sweetest spot on the couch. Every family has a magical phrase they say to ensure they get to keep that seat.  Families with more kids than there are seats HAVE to have a magic phrase (usually for the parent’s sanity).  It was only my sister and I growing up so we didn’t really do a whole lot of that cause we had plenty of space to go around.  Though now that I think about it, before we had a magical phrase one of us would return from the bathroom and someone snuck in the other’s seat you would hear, “Moooooom, SHE’S.IN.MY.SEAT!!”  And then my mother would grab the wooden spoon.

For some reason the kids we grew up with (those same kids that touched me in naughty places when we played house) used to say, “Tap tap”.  I have NO idea where they came up with that but it soon became the magic phrase in my house.  To this day, my sister and I still say “Tap tap” when we’re with these friends of ours.  Here we are in our 30s, claiming seats at the dinner table.  We don’t say it cause we’ve run out of space. We say it cause it makes us feel like we’re 8 again.

My father is one of 12.   Yeah.  We’re Catholic, whadya expect?  And OBVIOUSLY they had a magic phrase growing up.  I mean they drank powdered milk and slept in triple-decker bunk beds or something so you bet your ass they had a phrase.  A couple years back this came up in dinner conversation among my million aunts and uncles.  We then decided to rejuvinate their phrase, “I get here when I get back!”  The final kicker is that you MUST make eye contact with at least one person.  Cause with that many people if you run off to the bathroom and return to a taken seat and no one heard the “I get here when I get back”, it’s totally null and void.  And then you have to sit in the closet with Comet The Wonder Dog (actual name of my father’s childhood dog).

So I ask you folks, did you have a magic phrase when you were growing up?  Do you use one now?

(Sidenote:  My immediate family on my father’s side (aunts, uncles, first cousins alone) numbers 67 people.  So there’s a whole lotta “I get here when I get back”!)

LilSass’s GChat message this week: Rahm Emanuel: the nation’s next silver fox**

Following is my chat transcript with Molly (edited for brevity):

Molly: I WAS JUST CONTEMPLATING A NEW CRUSH ON RAHM EMANUEL

he’s filthy hot, like he’d be good in the sack.  he looks like he’d play a bad guy in a movie

me: haha totals
btwn him and obama.  i may actually have white house sex fantasies

Molly: srsllllyyyyy

me: and he’s a jew.  and i have a thing for jews.  obvi
AND I’M GOING TO A JEW WEDDING THIS WEEKEND!!

Molly: YAY!

me: it’s unclear if there will be single STRAIGHT jews there.  we shall see

Molly: today me and an office mate were like “hmm jewish weddings look like fun”.  i’d be afraid to do the chair thing
do they have seatbelts on those things?

me: we’re gonna drop their asses, no doubt

Molly: oh i know

me: watch for it on youtube … or JEWTUBE!!

me: hahahaha
(LilSass promptly turns to the interwebs and googles said thing.  This is a VERY common occurrence … when you have moment of brilliance, turn to google!)

Molly: JEWTUBE!

me: man, that was brilliant

me: LOL.  IT EXISTS!!!!!!!!!!!!  http://www.jewtube.com/

What will they think of next?

~~~~~~~~~~~

*Please note: No Jews were harmed in this weekend’s posts. Jewy McJewerson is what the bride calls herself when she gets all “Jewy”.  Again, no one was injured during the making of these posts)

**Silver Fox?  See: Anderson Cooper.  Per urbandictionary:

Woof!

Holy shitballs guys you TOTALLY thought I forgot about the bookclub, didn’t ya? That’s right, I DIDN’T …. sheesh, ye of little faith. In between my clinical signs of election-related anxiety, working 200 hours a week, studying, hiking, porn and dreaming of Providence, Rhode Island I KNEW the 1st was the official bookclub kickoff date cause that’s what I told you bitches. And this lady keeps her word (see: Meatless Month and NaBloPoMo). This lady is full of promises and I ga-raun-tee this one’s gonna be a real doozy.

On September 18th I posted about starting a blogger bookclub wherein we all read a book “together”, er simultaneously or whateverthehell and then we “discuss” said book on our blogs. We don’t really exchange dialog about the book, rather we each post about the book on our blogs (those of you without blogs …. ugh, GET ONE. Just kidding … you can post here in the comments if you want to participate). We pick a book, set a due date to finish the book and a date to post your thoughts. Then we troll around each other’s sites like a bunch of slutty Hill Staffers (oh man that’s redundant!) and read each other’s thoughts. You with me?

When I first suggested this I was SO excited about your enthusiasm. And I am STILL excited and hope I’ve got some people on board. I mean, Sus is a bookworm (who’s about to push a baby out of her pee hole) and Grace is a damn librarian (who’s already birthed the most beautiful boy out of her pee hole) so they may be a little busy.

Can I take roll now? KT? Caroline? X? Sophia? Miss Picket? Sara? Lola? Moonspun? Vicarious? BadAss and Michael (my only male readers I believe), this is not a girls-only bookclub - come along and play with us. Hey BadAss, if your wife wants to join in the reindeer games she’s more than happy to.

I thought about calling this bookclub the I Can Haz Literacy Bookclub but that I Can Haz Cheeseburger shit is SO overdone. The only other thing than the idea of a blogger bookclub that has riled you bitches up is Jordan Catalano. I have mentioned my undying love for him many, many times (wow, kinda pathetic for a person that DOESN’T.EXIST!). His eyes. His monosyllabic grunts. The way he leaned against the lockers. *swoon* And apparently you guys are totally on the Hot Tamale Train with Jordan and I so I thought what better mascot for our club? Though easy on the eyes, that kid wasn’t the sharpest tack in the bunch. Because smarty pants Angela Chase had to teach him to write his own name or some shit, I’ve named this bookclub the Teach Jordan Catalano to Read bookclub. (Sus, you get 80% credit for that.)

Of the 4 ladies who hit me up on GoodReads - Sus, Hilary, Grace and Jen - I made a fancy spreadsheet with all of the books on our to-read lists. I added some of my own and a handful that Sus emailed me. If anyone else has suggestions speak now or forever hold your peas. I am going to magically generate a title tomorrow late afternoonish/evening and send you all out shopping. Use the library, go to your LOCAL bookstore, get it on amazon, whatever the hell. Get in it people. We MUST teach Jordan to read!