All is well. The lovely Kate is up and apparently high as a kite, but up. It was pneumonia, but hardcore, textbook material, not-sure-if-we’ll-make-it pneumonia. But she did.

Now I shall back into my eccentric Howard Hughesesque retirement. Gleefully.

I soooo did not want to write this post today. And I’ve soooo been avoiding my own blog.

Not a good sign.

I’ve been writing this blog for two years now. Here’s the post I wrote on Mother’s Day two years ago. Read it. It’s cute.

Here’s the post I wrote last year. Read it. Especially if you’re feeling sorry for yourself or wishing your husband had gotten you what you really wanted for Mother’s Day this year. This post will help you be less of a selfish jerk.

I’m not sure why I’m avoiding Here in Idaho. I think it’s because I don’t have any news to report about Leigh’s little girl. And that I feel like this blog is more about frivolity and fun and silliness (see May 2007 post titles) and less about sadness and first Mother’s Days without moms and sick two year olds and all the not-silly stuff that’s been going on lately.

So I wonder…is it time? Is it time to start something new or take a sabbatical from blogging? My friend Riley did it. She quit to finish her novel, then came back when she was ready. I think I need a break from the self-imposed pressure to be silly and fun like I want Here in Idaho to be. And I need to pour myself into The Palace Sweeper and finishing the school year and enjoying summer and all the little life-improvement projects we’ve got going on at the Harrison household.

So here’s what I’m going to do, in list format:

1. I’m not going to write for a while. I don’t know how long.
2. I will, for my family and friends and all those still reading a blog that will become as boring as a dead rock, post pictures of the family. (FIRST PIANO RECITAL ON THURSDAY, Y’ALL!)
3. That’s it. We’ll see how it goes.

I’m still writing for Cracked. A new article on Scientology should come up soon. I’ll link to it so you can read it before it gets shut down and/or I get assassinated by Tom Cruise himself. Other than that, I don’t know. I think I’ll give myself a month. Or two. What I know is that I don’t want to write a mediocre blog. I don’t want to be a diarist, which is definitely a fun word to write because it sounds like diarrheaist, which is also something I don’t want to be.

So I need to focus on the things I do want to be. A writer. A good mama. A skinny girl who looks cute in short tailored shorts. And when I get those things down, I’ll come back.

And, most likely, even if I fail at all of the above, I’ll still come back. How else will I get the attention I so desperately require from strangers? Not by being a high-class hooker, I can tell you that. (Truck stop hooker is more like it.)

My friend, my best friend, has a sick baby. Scary, ICU, baby can’t breathe, no one understands what’s wrong kind of sick. Intubation, sepsis, unknown virus, life-threatening sick.

And when your best friend’s baby girl is very sick, many things seem suddenly petty and trite. And at the same time, it’s absolutely inappropriate to start blathering profound jibber-jabber about life and death or things that are for the best or God’s plan and don’t worry because everything is going to be alright in the end, I promise.

No. Not when it’s your best friend’s baby. You don’t have the right to say such things.

The song is up there for a reason. It’s a celebration of life. It’s a anthem of joy and promise and hope and all the goodness that the world holds for us lucky enough to live in it. Wake up, it says. You’re alive. Wake up. Stop with the excuses and whining and self-pity and drop that nonsense like there’s no tomorrow. Wake. Up.

Listen to the song again. This story isn’t over. Her story isn’t over. Neither is yours. Wake up.

It’s the end of day three of the worst diet ever, and I’ve lost five pounds. Damn you, evil, weight melting, bread denying, hateful diet. But OOOOH CHILD, five pounds in three days…I can handle Cobb Salad and bacon and sausage and eggs and cheese and whatever else the deceased Dr. Jerkkins throws at me until I get so skinny that I get recruited to be a supermodel for little people.

Question: How crazy is it to be entirely motivated by vanity?
Answer: Not crazy if you’re me. I’M NOT CRAZY! STOP LOOKING AT ME!

The lack of sugar is affecting my brainz. I HATE YOU ATKINS! I LOST FIVE POUNDS! WEEEEEEE!

The end.

(You know you make me wanna shout.)

Here’s the part where I write about losing weight again. First, I must establish a few unequivocal truths in this conversation:

1. I do not have an unhealthy view of my body. If anything, I have a super unrealistic view of my body. Like size six view. Which is why I go into shock when I see recent pictures of myself and my sausage legs. Those are not my legs. Those are someone else’s sausage legs. Duh.

2. My husband has the metabolism of some sort of superhero who’s powers have something to do with metabolism. I have the metabolism of the laziest rock on the planet. This is inherently unfair.

3. As 31/32 is the new 17/18, I can’t go out this way. By ‘go out’ I mean give up on being hawt again. We mustn’t give up the dream, must we?

No. We mustn’t. Today I started the Atkins diet. WORST. DIET. EVER. FOR. ME. But this is the nonsense that jumpstarted my husbands fantastical weight loss, so whatever. No pasta, no bread, no wheat crackers or goldfish or almonds or good things that I like to eat. And like any easily distracted monkey learning new tricks, I need rewards to change my bad habits. My reward for finishing the story called The Palace Sweeper, which is sooooo very close to being done, will be a 19th century watercolor painting. My reward for losing some weight will be a trip to Boston.

BOSTON? You ask. Yes. Boston. HEATHER, WE’RE COMING TO YOUR WEDDING. Sorry, that was just for my college friend named Heather who lives in Boston and is getting married at the end of August. This reward is something like offering Charlie a new car for cleaning his room, but that’s ok. I’m not interested in this stupid Atkins diet. I am interested in going to Boston with my skinny husband. So it looks like Tricky Will gave me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Here’s what I ate today:

two hardboiled eggs, which suck when not accompanied by a bread of some sort

tuna fish salad wrapped in spinach, also not nearly as good as tuna fish salad atop a cracker of some sort

cottage cheese, which oh crap, turns out is not allowed during the first two weeks of Atkins. My bad.

beef jerky, which is not nearly as good as chocolate jerky or beef Dr. Pepper

And then we’re having steaks for dinner. So that’s cool. I guess. I refuse to become the dieting blogger, except that I might, since I can’t get my mind off my diet at the moment. So don’t be surprised if that’s all you get from me for the next two weeks. And I won’t be surprised if you stop reading.

Here’s the part where I go walk around my neighborhood three times. Because three times equals a mile. Yay me.

My friend asked if we’re still on the vegetable thing. In a word, yes. Which is why my husband has lost over twenty pounds in the past month.

And how much have I lost? Don’t ask. Ok, I’ll tell you: NONE. Which is why I’ve had the following conversation with my own body:

Me: You suck. I’ve been eating vegetables!

My butt: So?

Me: And I’ve been walking!

My belly: Yeah, your 70 year old granny walks, too. And she’s still skinnier than you.

Me: But I’m trying! Have you seen my refrigerator? There’s brussell sprouts in there!

My upper arms: What do you want, a sticker?

Me: Some cooperation! What’s the point of eating healthy if you guys are still so fat?

My chin: Hey. Here’s an idea, how about you lay off the Dr. Peppers if you’re so health conscious?

Me: Shut up.

My butt again: Seriously. You think we don’t notice?

Me: I’ve got a real addiction. It’s a disease.

Back to my belly: Boo hoo. Poor probecita. You want us to make a tv movie about your trials and tribulations? We can check if Becca from Life Goes On is available?

Me: You guys suck. I hate you.

Upper arms: Or Tracy Gold? Oh wait…

Me: Don’t go there…

My bastard belly: …no, she wouldn’t fit the part, would she?

Me: Fine.

Body parts in fat unison: Fine, what?

Me: Fine, I’ll try harder.

Butt: Try harder to not buy Dr. Peppers?

Me: Yes?

Belly: We’ll believe it when we see it, porkchop.

Me: Now that was uncalled for.

If you’re like me, you’ve carefully trained your loved ones to do stupid tricks and make complete jackasses of themselves upon hearing certain triggers. Here are a few of my favorites. Enjoy.

1. A flick of a little tinkly bell gets everyone salivating for meals.

2. If I pinch up my nose like a pig snout, the kids are immediately compelled to get ready for their baths.

3. Me showing up outside bedroom windows wearing a hockey mask and wielding a bloodied ax triggers the compulsion the clean up untidy rooms.

4. I’ve trained Will to sing the theme song to Gimme a Break in his best Nell Carter voice every time I say the words ‘Princess Buttercup.’

5. Three taps on the kitchen counter gets me an pig-latinized aria from Madam Butterfly from Charlie.

6. A double wink and a hip bump from me makes everyone in the family hold their breath until they pass out. Finally! Some ‘me time!’

7. The phrase ‘who’s ready for amateur midget wrestling?’ gets my gardening done.

8. The phrase ‘I don’t know nuthin’ ’bout birthin’ no babies, Miz Scarlett’ prompts Will to make me some delicious strawberry daiquiries and give me a foot massage without tickling my feet.

9. If I do a cartwheel, dance an Irish jig, then spit three times into the wind, every single member of my family gives me a look like this:

We’re still working on this response.

I really want to do a post because everyone hates a blogger who doesn’t write…hate is a strong word, ignores would be a better word and I don’t want to be ignored, except by people who smell bad and also by people who I don’t like and maybe by monsters if they existed.

I never saw the movie Monster because Charlize Theron with bad teeth and no eyebrows scares me, and also I don’t care for movies in which the main character is a serial killer. Also Christina Ricci bothers me with her big head and tiny face and wee little body which was clearly obtained through anorexic means.

If I were anorexic I would stop being anorexic before I got freaky thin. If I were a monster I’d not kill people, I would just scare them or tell them they’re fat. If I were an anorexic monster I would wear cute skinny jeans that were high waisted and also five inch stilettos to flaunt my skinny monster legs. And I would only hang out with other anorexic monsters and mock all the fat monsters who have to wear plus size monster clothes from Walmart. In this sense I would be both an actual monster and a psychological monster, which is the best kind of monster to be. What I wouldn’t be is a monster without eyebrows, which is the least best kind of monster to be. Also known as the worst.

Tweezing eyebrows is also the worst. It hurts which is why I’m glad the big eyebrow look is back in style. Me and my chic monster friends will have huge eyebrows and we’ll make fun of all the stupid monster girls with their skinny little nicely arched brows. In real life I can’t do the big eyebrow look because I don’t have enough eyebrow, unless I utilized some sort of pencil device or did an eyebrow transplant, but I think that would be taking things a little too far.

When I was in college I had to do some lame speech for a American cultural studies class and for SOME REASON this one guy thought it would be appropriate to do his project about the time he got hair transplants, complete with gory pictures compiled in a notebook that he shared with his appalled classmates. If I were a monster I would consider eating a person who would do such a thing, except that I would be anorexic so people would not be in my diet. But I would be very tempted.

The end.

Everything isn’t all fun and games in the Harrison household. Sure, there’s plenty of raucous behavior, but there’s also the softer side. The side that works on perpetual motion, and breeds mutant butterflies and what-not. Recently, I took time away from my busy Jai alai practices and reanimation studies at the morgue to create a new website called WordPress-Tutor.com.

Since I first built Here-In-Idaho for Kristi, (what a monstrosity that first site was) I’ve learned quite a bit about building sites in WordPress. I’ve also helped a few of Kristi’s readers, friends, and family build their sites. So I’ve taken some time to put together a tutorial that walks bloggers through a WordPress installation. I know there are some of you who are DYING to get out of Blogger and hook up with cleaner blogging platform. The information is free if you sign up with our hosting partner, which you have to do anyway if you decide to start a blog.

Here’s the site. It’s called WordPress-Tutor.com. Check it out if you’re in the market for an awesome WordPress installation tutorial. And if you’re not in the market for an awesome WordPress installation tutorial, I pity you.

First, I had this idea three days ago. Will said it wasn’t funny enough to post.
Second, I saw THIS first thing this morning. Hmmph.
Third, I have nothing else to say here.

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