Dear Public:
Yes, all five of you.
You remember how I said I was done? Yeah, that. Well, bugger it; I missed this outlet, and I wasn't going to let a bunch of opportunists and sociopaths wreck it for me. The hassle of moving all these old files somewhere else was tiring, even in theory, so I came up with the password deal. That's right; you have to remember a password. Sorry, readers, but that is the way it goes.
If I even try to collect my thoughts from the past three months of hiatus, my brain may implode. Drips and drabs, is my game. Sounds appetizing, no?
I don't even think I can remember how to spell. But my time off has given me the courage to knit one bad-arsed sweater. Or four.
Let's see... back out, hospital visit, tattooed paramedic. Damn, that was a long time ago. Since then, I've gone through a multitude of holidays, little kids' birthday parties, and other nightmares with food. We've visited Arizona, the land of a thousand big-box retailers, and watched the boy turn three. Wait, no, THREE. Three, as in: Look at me, no, look at me, no, LOOOOK AAAAAT MEEEEEEEEE! Three. We've done potty training, still in progress, as the daily washings of the "big boy underwear" will attest, and we've witnessed the girl become the Boss of You, The Boss of Me, The Boss of Everything I See. Dr. Seuss was so spot-on, that if he wasn't dead already, I might ring his doorbell and give him an elbow to the throat, myself.
And yet, they will spend quiet moments like the one here, in which I momentarily forget the time fifteen minutes earlier, when she decided to stick her fingers in the oven. Yes, it was on. Yes, I told her about five second prior not to go near the oven.
I can even forget the time, earlier in the day, when he played out his and his sister's horrendous Pavlov's stimulus and response game. In this cause-and-effect drama, during which, by the by, I am a bewildered participant, the phone rings, and then one of the ankle biters, or the other, and, usually, both, decide to scream my "Mommy" name seven thousand times, while clinging to my legs as though I were a ship, and the kitchen floor was the raging sea. Whoa to the telemarketer, the delivery service, the relative, or friend, for they will feel compelled, listening to the background banshees, to call Child Protective Services.
So I leave you, with an abbreviated version of the time spent away. I have to go seethe, now, at how the media has become a tool for a few rich old men who happen to own pieces of Hollywood, and who therefore seem to be using the "news" hours and the "news" papers to tell me about who wore what at the Oscars.
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