In accordance to section 10.b of the contract

I write this post.

Hey, there. How's it going? That's great. Wow. Have you lost weight? You look fabulous! Is that a new shirt, I mean, blouse, I mean, garment? It's wonderful and makes you very shapely in the most appealing sort of way.

Denver is hot today. And I still mean hot at 10pm. I have fans whirring about like crazy, and the temperature-o-mometer tells me it is 76 in here. What, 76 degrees, you say?! It's true. I've become a delicate flower that requires a misting of water, fans powered by the thin arms of servants, and grapes peeled and poisoned by those wishing to be in power. I hear tell of people who start to shiver and shake at the thought of 76 degrees *cough* elderly and/or residents of Texas*cough* but we people of the Mile High City have become accustomed to cool air and good times. It is not acceptable for me to be warm at 10pm.

Hmm. What else, what else, what else...

There are other things I could tell you, but I won't. Ha! I'm so cruel.

I'm trying to drown out the sounds of "Wow! Wow! Wubbzy!" Amos is bonkers for this show. If it isn't "Little Bill," "Jack's Big Music Show" or this show, forget about it. The kid has standards. Unfortunately, I am not able to revert my standards to toddler age, so I groan and moan and hope for time to pass so that I don't have to listen to Wuzzleberg talk anymore.

AND YES MY SON IS UP AT 10PM AND IF YOU GIVE ME ANY LIP ABOUT IT I WILL PUNCH YOU IN THE TIT.

Hey, did you do something to your hair? That's it, isn't it? Wow. It really suits you. I fancy it.

All of your neuroses, available today on Facebook

Facebook, I love you, but I kind of hate you. No, I don't hate you in the way that other whiny computer geeks hate you. I'm not in love with Myspace and having pissing contests over the two of you. I'm not all caught up in your format and yelling, "Wah wah wah! I don't like how you are trying to be Twitter!" I'm not even a member of "Bring the Old Facebook Back!"

Why? Because I'm not a whiny jerk.

What I am, however, is a wine-y jerk. Sometimes a vodka jerk.

And that's where we have a problem, you and I.

You're freaking me out, man. And not in a good way.

Just because I've been drinking a bit of vodka just about, oh, maybe every night or so for the last week, it doesn't mean that you should display ads for Americana vodka because I've tried EVERY other vodka brand and import, or so you say in the ad.

How do you know what brands and how much I've been drinking? I'll have you know that I'm enjoying a giant bottle of Costco vodka, and Costco vodka don't need no justification. You buy it because it's big and will break your leg off if you drop it.

Look. Just because I talked about drinking vodka with juice box from Costco (which, by the way, is the smartest parenting cocktail I've seen in a long time) and then pairing it with a Ralph Fiennes movie, it does NOT mean that you should taunt me with Facebook ads for additional vodka. You do not need to remind me that, on occasion, I am overdoing it with the nightly vodka/juice box. You do not need to remind that even more vodka is available to drown my sorrows, and guess what?! It's American made vodka! Wave your patriotic flag, eat your Freedom Fries, and drown them in a vat of Americana vodka! Add some juice box squeezed by American hands!

Facebook, I've been going through some hard times. Hard times that I don't talk about to NOBODY. And no, I don't care that I had a fit of bad grammar back there. I'm a backwoods East Texas girl, and I'm lucky I can spell my own name, much less understand that Ralph Fiennes will punch me in the tit if I call him RALF instead of RAIF. So, stop taunting me, Facebook. I don't need to know that America makes enough vodka to drown my secret sorrows. Costco already provides this information in bulk.

You can also stop taunting my 30-something lady friends with your wrinkle ads. Honestly, I don't need to know that Mary Whatsherface from Sheboygan found a great home cure for hemorrhoids, wrinkles, and teeth whitening, and you can cure them all with one vat of Mary-made cream! The ladies at my playgroup were not pleased with having to face your wrinkle ads on top of unwanted invitations from old high school acquaintances. We have enough things that remind us how old and infirm we are.

Also, you're like a really bad friend who wants me crash and burn. Honestly, why are you posting "Hybrids by the hour" and green grocer ads right next to the vodka ad? Really?! You want me to drink your American vodka and THEN rent a car to go to the store, just because the booze was made by some schlump in Walla Walla and the car is environmentally friendly? Wow, Facebook. You've really found me out. You know how to reach your target market of moms who are home alone at night but need to get crunk, only to find they are out of wheat grass juice and couldn't POSSIBLY drive to the health food store unless it's in a hybrid.

Well done, Facebook.

Oh, and this ends my nonsense rampage that has everything to do with avoidance and shaking of fists and a great deal of boredom.

You're welcome.

The kid makes art for a good cause

Amos and I are participating in the 2009 Kid Art Auction, the brainchild of Greeblemonkey and Fruitlady. This year's proceeds will benefit Nature Conservancy.

I intended to add these sooner than today, but as you may be aware, I've had tremendous computer issues as of late. Now that those days are over, I can get back to my 'ritin', 'rithmetic, and ruminatin'.

About a month or so ago, I bought some nontoxic finger paints for Amos. I fully intended for his first creations to be donated to Kid Art Auction. Phil and I are more writers than painters, so we had no idea what would spill from Amos' fingers.

He didn't disappoint.

We've donated three of his paintings, shown below in the slideshow. One looks like a thunderbird, another seems like a fanciful dancer, and the third looks like a tree. I like them all. Perhaps they are more Rorschach ink blots than what I see, but to each his own, eh?

Please go to the Flickr group for Kid Art Auction and bid on Amos' creations (listed under imaginary binky). Auction ends at 8pm MST April 30th, 2009. Bids start at $5, and all you have to do is leave your bid in a comment on the particular photo in the Kid Art Auction Flickr group.

Just think. You could soon be holding your very own Amos Porter painting. Happy bidding, and thanks for participating!

Vlad the Vlogger

So, yes. I've entered the new century with fancy doodads and geegaws. My new laptop arrived today!

*massive cheers*

Amos and I decided to try the built-in camera. Let me know what you think of the audio. Video #1 is done with better lighting and the microphone from a headset. Video #2 is bad lighting and the laptop's built-in microphone. Better here or here? This one, or that one?

Please pardon the hair and lack of makeup. I made a half-assed attempt to straighten my hair today. I look like a softbal player from the 70s. Perhaps this is not my best look.

Now, on to the show.



Blah blah blah from me and lots of antics from Amos.






Bad lighting, possibly bad audio, but incredibly cute words from Amos. He speaks! You shall listen!





Alrighty. I'll think of something fantastic to do and/or say for next time.

Plop. Plop. Fizz. Fizz.

Yet, there is no relief in sight. Damn you, Alka Seltzer.

Okay, maybe I shouldn't damn you if I didn't actually take your product, but I do damn your brethren of cold/flu medicines that I did take - and did not work.

I caught a cold from Amos. He was all cute and drippy with his cold, while I am a face-swollen, drippy, achy, disgusting mess. Oh, to have the immune system of a toddler. Currently, I have a tissue stuffed up my nose as I type. One nostril would leak, so I stuffed a tissue up there. Then, the other nostril started to leak, so I stuffed the other end of the tissue up the remaining nostril. I look like one of those Spanish bulls with a huge nose ring, except mine is the backwoods Kentucky version of having a nose ring.

"Look, ma! I didn't even need to pierce it! I just stuffed a tissue up in der! Them kids at school are gunna thank I'm so kewl!"

I watched a show recently about backwoods Appalachia, so perhaps this is where I got the idea.

My computer is dying a slow, agonizing death in a very melodramatic way. I think my laptop wants to be a soap star. It darts its eyes furtively and takes dramatic pauses, or it runs away with the swarthy stranger who turns out to be its brother.

For these reasons, I have ordered a new laptop. I yearn for the day when I receive the notice in the mail that the maker of said laptop has decided to finally ship it. How could a laptop take so long to make and ship? What about all of those fancy machines that go whiz and burr and brop and zing as they drop pieces of technology onto plastic and then call it a computer? How long could that possibly take? I know they aren't knitting the laptop. If they were knitting it, I'd understand. Because, uh, I'm a slow knitter. It would take me years just to fashion up a wireless mouse.

So, unless my new laptop is crocheted or cross-stitched with pretty roses, I will remain anxious and angry with the maker of said laptop. In the meantime, please send more tissues to myself and my old laptop. She's making eyes at the coffee machine, and I hear he's a heartbreaker. (Plus, he died in a mysterious brick-making factory explosion but somehow came back with amnesia. I think we know how that one goes.)

Behind the scenes with Heather Armstrong of Dooce.com

This is my behind the scenes look at snagging an interview with the most popular personal blogger on the Internet and New York Times bestselling author, Heather Armstrong of Dooce.com. You can view the interview transcript in three parts: part one, part two, and the final installment. The end of the interview is posted below.

Below, I include the odd yet entertaining bits of the interview that didn't fit into my Examiner.com articles as Denver Motherhood Examiner, as well as extra pics. It was over 27 minutes of wit and fun. Included in the comments are Jon Armstrong of blurbomat.com, and the man of my loins, Phil Porter.

You can also find the entire audio below. Bring a snack and a pillow. It's a doozy.

---

It was a good night for all Porters. While Amos enjoyed being babysat by the boobs he loves the most (belonging to our statuesque neighbor), Phil and I traveled to the south 'burbs of Denver into the land of Highlands Ranch to interview Heather Armstrong of Dooce.com and her husband Jon.

The interview went very well, and Heather and Jon talked and joked with us for almost 30 minutes before her scheduled talk and book signing at Tattered Cover. Luckily, I had asked for a few seats to be reserved for us so that Phil and I could have a chance to join the audience. One of the bookstore employees gave us two seats in the second row labeled "reserved for press." Ha! It was a packed house, full of enthusiastic bloggers and fans, and even the occasional gawker who would step into my view as they pretended to browse books.

If you listen to the audio, at the end, Heather compliments me on how great I smelled. I was wearing rose essential oil, which I always wear when I am out in public. It helps to open up the social side of someone, and it is a great oil for mothers. Also, Heather asked to touch me. I creepily said, "Yesss, touch me." Heheh. So, she smelled me and touched me. Not even Oprah got to do that.


So, on to the interview.

----

Aside from getting “dooced” from a job, which is pretty cool that you have your own word now…

I know. My mom is so proud of that. [laughs]

What advice or maybe warnings would you have for other bloggers?

One, anybody who wants to start writing online, you’ve got to realize that eventually, and I don’t care how anonymously you’re doing it, the last person that you’re ever going to want to read your stuff will find it. So, if you have someone, like, God, I hope this person never reads it, that person is going to read it. Eventually, it will happen. And so, you need to prepare. It will happen again, and it will happen again. And then, you know, just realizing, when you get your first hate mail or your first hate comment, move forward. We all get it, we all experience it, and it has nothing to do with you. It can be very discouraging. It’s a lot of work. Blogging is a lot of work, and I think a lot of people start websites and not realize just how much work and dedication it takes.

Do you have any hobbies that you don’t write about besides all of the other millions of things you do? Like, I knit.

Yeah, there’s not a lot of time. Photography is my main hobby. During the winter when I’m not cooking... pregnant, we snowboard a lot. Yeah, there’s not a lot of time for hobbies.

Are there a lot of snowboarding areas around Salt Lake City?

Phil: Sundance? Park City?

Oh, yeah. We have the best place to live if you’re a snowboarder, because the mountain is just right there, I mean it’s like not even twenty minutes up the hill. It’s great.

So, no snowboarding on this trip for you.

No. [laughs] My media escort came in and she overheard me talking about how I’m glad that his sperm didn’t take a month earlier or there’s no way I would have been able to do this. And she’s like, “Oh, so you’re pregnant.” And I was like, “Yeah, there wasn’t just like an incident with an Oreo, there’s an actual baby in there.” [laughs]

Will the “crown” versus “crayon” debate ever be put to rest? Because, I have to say, I told Phil about the way you pronounce it, and he said, “Oh, my God. That’s as bad as saying lie-barry.” [laughs]

[laughs] Well, no, see, lie-barry is because you were taught there’s another “r” in there. Whereas crown is like, you know, you’re in the South…

Phil: So, you just ignore all of the letters, all together.

H: Yeah, so crown is like, why waste the time, why waste the energy going “CRAY-ON” if you have crown? It’s the way Southerners sort of merge everything, all the syllables, into one goobledeegosh. Is that a word?

We were in Seattle and somebody asked me the question in the audience, and I said, “C-R-A-Y-O-N is pronounced crown.” He [Jon] went NUTS on Twitter, and started twittering like seven or eight, “NO ONE PAY ATTENTION TO MY WIFE BEHIND THE MICROPHONE.” And as everyone came through the line, they were like, “You’re husband has gone CRAZY.”

Technology, man.

[laughs]

Jon: It’s a bitch. It’s interesting you say that, because my name, when you yell it in the house, has fourteen or fifteen syllables.

H: [laughs] It’s bad because we came to school one day and Leta’s teacher said,” Yeah, I was reading Leta a book today about a boy who is coloring with some crayons, and she told me that I was pronouncing it wrong.” And Jon said, “GOOD GOD, WOMAN! LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO OUR CHILD!”

[to Jon] I’m sorry.







It’s dialect. She’s learning dialect.

It’s dialect, yeah. It’s better than speaking like a Utahn. Come on.

Jon: She talks like your mom.

H: I know.

Is there an accent in Utah?

You drop the middle of the word. You go skeh-ing on a mohntain. Skeh-ing. And he’s like, dill or no dill. I watch “Dill or No Dill” at night.

Jon: Still bread.

H: Still bread. [laughs]


---


Then we posed for pics. My mind was all a jumble, and I was being asked questions as we stood there. On top of that, Heather is a tall beauty, even with a 7 month pregnant belly, and my squatty 5'4" just doesn't compare. It's like she was standing next to a gnome. What a visual. And, so, here is the actual visual.


I look shellshocked, but she told I smelled good, so there's that. Also, the office where this took place was a mishmash of equipment, telephone wires, and general mayhem. Our best backdrop was Sneakers the Seaside Cat. I like that Sneakers took the time to pose as well. All three of us are quite coordinated in black.

I'm smiling especially after Heather asked if she could touch me.

Jon took a million pictures, give or take, of Heather as she talked about her book to the audience at Tattered Cover.

Heather shakes her fist in Jon's general direction, or at least, that's what I'd like to think. I enjoy a good, copious fist shaking.

Heather braces herself for the huge crowd of fans who have lined up to have their books signed. I really admire that she was able to talk with me for half an hour, then entertain a large crowd while telling stories and reading from her book (while standing, mind you), and then handle a long line of fans without rushing them through it. All this, while 7 months pregnant.

So, there you go. That was my evening with the Armstrongs. Thanks for reading.




The full audio, for your amusement. Be sure to read part one, part two, the final installment, and the bit above to follow the full transcript.

DW_B0076.mp3

Now, go take a nap.

I'm not as short as they think

I'm very frustrated with sellers of clothing. I am 5'4", but I wear it well. For some reason, this height is considered to be petite. If I'm so petite, then why are so many women my height or shorter? Hmm?

I'm not a freak.

I don't like searching for the petite section of the store, only to find the most garish or stuffy-secretary type clothing imaginable. The modern clothing stops at 5'5", apparently. My body only fits clothes from a bad 1950s thrift shop. Cute clothes over in the normal ladies' section; shredded items with bits of feathers and looking of a person gone mad with a Bedazzler - under the sign saying "petite."

Today, I wasn't even treated to a petite section. I had to rifle through the jeans and such to find any hope of something that said "petite", or even worse, "short." SHORT? UGH. This is just shy of having to wear size "Husky" for plump boys.

I tried on a pair of jeans that advertised itself as being of average length. I put them on and stared in disbelief. I looked like a kid putting on her mama's clothes for dress up. I am insulted, clothing maker. Or, should I say "Famous Maker" as the ads do when the designer is too embarrassed to have their name in a Burlington Coat Factory ad?

Ugh. Grumble grumble.

I did find a cute pair of jeans, though. I'm trying to erase the memory of "short" being shouted at me over and over on the sticker covering the front of them.

--

By the way, Heather Armstrong of Dooce fame will be in Denver (Highlands Ranch, to be specific) today, Monday, for her book signing. Come say hello and tell me how great my ass looks in those jeans.

For more details about the event, read what I had to say here.

Shake, rattle, and roll

I have a bunch of posts up at my Examiner gig, including today's review of a local Denver music class that I highly recommend for kids under five.

Check out Teaching kids to love music, one kazoo at a time.


Also, I just removed the Intense Debate comment thingy that I had around for a little while. It was fabulous, but I think it was preventing people from seeing this blog. Kinda the opposite of what I want. So, please let me know if the blog works for you or not.

Hope all is well with you. Wackiness will ensue quite soon.

Words and letters to accompany photographic documents

Really. It takes effort to come over here and scribble some doodles. Let's try to pepper this mother up with some randomness and pictorials. Yeah?



Amos is growing and growing, and talking and talking. Latest words/phrases:

"Oh, my!"
"Oh, man!" (which sometimes sounds like, "Oh, ma'am!")
"Oh, boy!"
"Oh, no!" (And many other phrases starting with "Oh!")
"Get out!" (Thank you, Chef Gordon Ramsey.)
"It's true!" (Apparently, I say this a lot. Amos says something more like, "M'rue!")



Latest words:

pickle
diaper
monkey (monk-monk)
apple
toe
foot
baby (Ding dang, he melts me when he says this.)




And here is the monk-monk with Mama and Dad in February.

Alrighty. That's enough cuteness for today.

I hold these boobs to be self-evident

So, there is a great boob controversy swirling the Internets. You might call it Boobgate. I couldn't help but become a little involved.

I wrote about it over there in the Denver Motherhood Examiner. I hope you'll throw out an opinion or two or five.

See this lovely lady for the story behind the story.


Also, I'm diggin' my new comment system supplied by IntenseDebate. Do you like it?