George: I always miss your blogs. I check it in the morning, and you tend to blog in the afternoon.

Whitney: I haven’t been blogging very much lately. These rewrites are sapping away all of my creative energy.
George: Don’t worry. Blogging is so 2003.

Whitney: I’m going to blog that.

Anne Lamott first introduced me to this term in her excellent, Bird by Bird, the only writing how-to book that I’ve found at all useful.
The basic idea is this: you give yourself permission to write a really terrible first draft, so that while you’re in the process of working on it, you stop obsessing over every awkward phrase, clunky description and misplaced punctuation, and get on with the business of writing. And I found this enormously helpful when I first started seriously writing. It was so refreshing to learn how to turn off — or, at least, turn the volume down on — my self-critic (who has the all the tact and finesse of one of those drunken assholes who like to scream at the television during athletic events) at least for long enough to bang out a novel.
There is, however, a down side.
When you finally finish, after months and months of pouring your heart into your work, when you print out the fresh manuscript and neatly stack it up on your desk, and finally, brandishing your red pen, start to reread what you’ve written, you realize . . . all you’ve got is the shittiest of shitty first drafts.
Which is where I’m at right now . . . wading my way through shitty first draft hell.
Oh, and the baby has his first cold.

An interpretive recreation of George and I watching the Lost season finale . . .
George: You know, a guy getting blown up isn’t supposed to be funny.
Whitney: (snickering) I can’t help it. Everything Hurley says is funny.
A little later . . .
George: What was that?!?
Whitney: All I saw was smoke . . .
George: What’s that thing ripping out the trees?
Whitney: It sounded like a dinosaur.
George: A dinosaur? I don’t think it was a dinosaur.
Whitney: That’s what it sounded like. A mechanical dinosaur. With, um, you know . . . smoke.
And still later . . .
Whitney: Did they just . . . Holy crap!
George: Oh my GOD . . .
Whitney: Who was that?
George: They shot Sawyer!
Whitney: Who shot Sawyer? What’s happening?
George: Walt!
Whitney: Oh no, Walt! Who were those toothless ruffians who just kidnapped WALT?
George: I think they were pirates!
Whitney:
George: What?
Whitney: Pirates? On a motor boat?
George: Well, they looked like pirates.
It was an amazing finale, and yet . . . a total rip-off. I thought questions were supposed to be answered. Okay, so we learned that the baby’s name was Aaron, but come on . . . I wanted some answers to the good stuff. I wanted to know about the numbers, and what’s under the hatch, and who The Others are (although I suppose that was sort of answered vis a vis the motor boat pirates), and what that smoke monster thing was.
It’s going to be a long summer.

Modernseed.com — which is, like, the coolest kid’s store in the world — held a Mother’s Day essay contest, and I WON!

I am so freaking excited . . . I’ve never won anything in my entire life. Well, except for a door prize drawing I once won in high school, but that was just a stupid ceramic dog statue that I didn’t even want.

This time I won a $150 gift certificate . . . which is perfect, because it’s almost the exact amount of the funky magazine table I’ve been lusting after.

Although when I called George to tell him the big news, he wasn’t nearly as excited as I was. In fact, he seemed more amused than anything.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a professional writer?” he asked.

Supposed to be?

I know, I know, I’ve been MIA. But I do have a good excuse . . . I’ve been writing my heart out, trying to finish up the first draft of my fourth chick lit book. Between that and chasing after the boy, it doesn’t leave a whole lot of spare blogging time. But have no fear . . . once the draft is done and I’m stuck in rewrite purgatory, I’ll be around more often.
But as long as I’m here, there’s something I want to address: using animals as restaurant decor. Specifically, BBQ places with manically happy cartoon pigs cavorting across the menu, or steak houses with enormous cow statues poised at the front door. Why do they do this? The last thing I want to think about whilst tucking into a baby back rib platter is Wilbur.
Discuss amongst yourselves. I’ll be back in another chapter and a half.

Sam did not appreciate my deviating from the “standard” text of In the Garden with Van Gogh.

Not at all.

I would have thought he’d enjoy the brief lesson in Van Gogh’s life, such as how he went nuts and cut off his ear which he then sent to his girlfriend, but apparently not. Sam gave me such a distressed, baleful look, George insisted I go back to the regular rhyming text:

Twelve sunflowers lean toward the light.
Five are wide open,
seven shut tight.

Who would’ve thought Sam was such a purist?

George had to read Sam the book two times — the so-called “right” way — before Sam was satisfied.

I spent the morning clearing out a corner of our yard that Mother Nature has been trying to claim back. And before you put your money on Mother Nature winning this round, keep in mind that I come equipped with a bottle of Round-Up.
So I’m out there sweating and getting dirtier by the minute while I clear out the weeds, when suddenly it seems like the entire neighborhood is parading by my house, stopping and commenting on how glad they are to see me weeding, because, you know, “No one’s worked on that in awhile.”
And by “no one,” I’m assuming they mean me. Or George. Or George and me. Cripes, we’ve only been in the house for four months. What do these people want from us?
Apparently, a perfect yard. Or, at least, the entrance to our street cleaned up, which is where the patch of earth I was working on is located.
As I’m fond of telling George when he complains about his laundry not being done, I am not Susie Fucking Homemaker. What did these people think they were getting when we moved in . . . Bree from Desperate Housewives?
I can’t even tell you how tempted I am to stick a flock of plastic flamingos out there and be done with it.

There’s an entire website devoted to hating Rob and Amber . . . and check out who made the blogroll.

The sun is shining . . . my newly planted flowers are blooming . . . birds are warbling . . . the baby is giggling . . .
And Rob and Ambuh went DOWN last night, when Uchenna and Joyce won The Amazing Race. Hee! It was so beautiful, I nearly cried. Don’t underestimate the power of a good comeuppance.
Phil, all is forgiven.

For no obvious reason, Sam has started galloping around and around the house, screaming, “Eeeeeeee!” He stops only to collapse on the floor, giggling uncontrollably.
Maybe I shouldn’t have let him wash down those Pixie sticks with a two-liter bottle of Pepsi. Hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time . . . when you mix caffeine and sugar together, it practically equals one serving of vegetables, right?