All is calm and improbably bright

Okay, so nothing makes my eyes glaze over faster than reading a post that explains in rococo detail why the blogger hasn't been posting.  Wait, that's not true.  Writing such a post does.  That eye-glazing thing also happens when I'm lubricating the Christmas ham while half-lubricated myself, and, damn, does that sorghum burn.  But that is neither here nor there, and this is not such a post.  Consider it a summary.

Oh, I could tell you that I've been spending the last month doing something important, like caring for the elderly or working among the poor or converting the heathen or writing a book or, I know what!  Relactating!  But the truth is that I haven't been up to anything of great moment.  More like small moment.  Small good moment.  We went to Louisiana.  Charlie turned five.   I made some stuff.  Ben learned what to do when stopped by the po-po on suspicion of grand theft, necklace.  I have been largely absent online, but entirely present off-.

It's been good, but really weird!  I missed a lot.  I missed that horrible Times piece on surrogacy, and a good thing, too, because I get all SFR'EOPQ4

                    ;;PWp

tAGQPQ3THJQT3

         }(_U}{""{

just thinking about what I might have posted about it.  I missed plugging my cameo appearance at Mommy Wants Vodka, where Aunt Becky kindly allowed me to rearrange the furniture and soil her nice fresh guest towels.  I missed Michelle Duggar giving birth to a 25-weeker because of pre-eclampsia, and, I mean, damn, there'd be a lot to say about that if I hadn't been too wrapped up in that whole relactation thing.

And I've missed y'all.  Thank you so much for checking in on me.  I feel sheepish to have worried you, and I appreciate your concern.  It's really kind.  I'm eager to get back, and will resume posting as soon as we finish letting Charlie play with fire.  I mean, sacrifice a perfectly good letter to Santa — never did nothin' to nobody — on the Satanic pyre that is my mid-'70s red brick brass-trimmed fireplace.  You know, as soon as we've waded through Christmas.

I hoist my nog to you, and hope you and yours are well.

Posted by Julie at 10:40:53 PM

Comments

All is calm and improbably bright

Okay, so nothing makes my eyes glaze over faster than reading a post that explains in rococo detail why the blogger hasn't been posting.  Wait, that's not true.  Writing such a post does.  That eye-glazing thing also happens when I'm lubricating the Christmas ham while half-lubricated myself, and, damn, does that sorghum burn.  But that is neither here nor there, and this is not such a post.  Consider it a summary.

Oh, I could tell you that I've been spending the last month doing something important, like caring for the elderly or working among the poor or converting the heathen or writing a book or, I know what!  Relactating!  But the truth is that I haven't been up to anything of great moment.  More like small moment.  Small good moment.  We went to Louisiana.  Charlie turned five.   I made some stuff.  Ben learned what to do when stopped by the po-po on suspicion of grand theft, necklace.  I have been largely absent online, but entirely present off-.

It's been good, but really weird!  I missed a lot.  I missed that horrible Times piece on surrogacy, and a good thing, too, because I get all SFR'EOPQ4

                    ;;PWp

tAGQPQ3THJQT3

         }(_U}{""{

just thinking about what I might have posted about it.  I missed plugging my cameo appearance at Mommy Wants Vodka, where Aunt Becky kindly allowed me to rearrange the furniture and soil her nice fresh guest towels.  I missed Michelle Duggar giving birth to a 25-weeker because of pre-eclampsia, and, I mean, damn, there'd be a lot to say about that if I hadn't been too wrapped up in that whole relactation thing.

And I've missed y'all.  Thank you so much for checking in on me.  I feel sheepish to have worried you, and I appreciate your concern.  It's really kind.  I'm eager to get back, and will resume posting as soon as we finish letting Charlie play with fire.  I mean, sacrifice a perfectly good letter to Santa — never did nothin' to nobody — on the Satanic pyre that is my mid-'70s red brick brass-trimmed fireplace.  You know, as soon as we've waded through Christmas.

I hoist my nog to you, and hope you and yours are well.