I could tell you that I was in a major auto accident and have spent the last few weeks hooked up to machinery in my local ICU.

Or I could tell you about how I was abducted at gun point and held for ransom in a back room of a derelict apartment, forced to huddle upon a stained, fetid mattress.

I could also ramble on about how I’ve changed my diet in an attempt to combat what we will call an “episode” of depression. I could include little details about how I’ve taken up loom knitting and have made enough new-born sized knit caps to clothe a tiny infant army. For added color I could make mention of the fact that I skinned my right index finger damn near to the bone – and do you have ANY IDEA how often the back of your dominant hand index finger brushes up against hard surfaces?!?! If I were going to play into the whole “full disclosure” thing I could go into how my finger has become infected. Painfully infected. Also, every time I bend it, its flesh rips open, flashing a glimpse of the angry, raw meat beneath.

But I wont get in to all of that – ’cause that’s just gross.

Suffice it to say that I know I haven’t written in several days, YOU know I haven’t written in several days, do we REALLY need to have a town meeting as to the “Why” of the situation?

Just know that I love you, my readers. I have not forgotten about you. I will return to my frequent posting post haste.

You are now free to move about the cabin.

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I come from a military family. My great grandfather was a soldier in WWI. My grandfather was a soldier in WWII. My fathers and mother were in Vietnam and Desert Storm. My cousins are currently serving in the middle east.

As a child I was an army brat. My family always had extra settings around our Thanksgiving table for young soldiers stationed far away from family and friends.

I have always felt gratitude and pride for American service men and women.

Last Tuesday, a devastating earthquake shook Haiti to the ground. Over 200,000 people have died as a result of the churning of the earth.

I sit here, warm in my kitchen, clickety-clacking on my laptop, with a full belly, a loving husband, and two healthy, happy kids asleep in their comfortable, safe beds. I am so fortunate.

I have sent in donations to aid in the relief efforts, but it hardly seems enough. I have avoided watching the news, unable to handle the heart wrenching stories they showcase. I don’t need news stories to imagine the despair of losing ones family and home instantly, or the horror of being trapped, injured in a concrete tomb, wondering if you’ll be found in time.

I am haunted by images of the mass graves, piled high with unidentified bodies, stripped of their identities, their dignity.

My mother called me tonight to tell me that my dad may be going to Haiti. He has special training in setting up field hospitals, and is on a very short list of medical professionals being prepared to be sent over.

My dad would never say as much himself, but he has heroism in his blood. He has that special X factor that makes one run into a burning building to save people as everyone else is running out. His brother, my Uncle Will, has it too. Will once dove into a post-explosion fire pit and pulled a man to safety. He suffered horrible burns to his hands, but both he and the man lived.

What I’m trying to say is, my dad would be proud to go to Haiti and help as best he could.

As my mom was talking to me tonight, voicing her concerns, and in the same breath agreeing that it’s a calling for him, I couldn’t get a singular thought out of my mind. If it were me, struggling to survive in the aftermath of an unspeakable disaster, I would want my dad there to help me. Not as my dad, but as a confident, kind, angel of mercy.

Today, a full week after the quake, American soldiers finally marched into the rubble that was once Port-Au-Prince. I watched on the news as a bone weary Haitian man recognized the American uniforms.

“American soldiers!” He said in French. “Oh to be taken by America! We will work hard. We will be tireless. We will prosper! Oh, to be taken by America!”

I’m not sure if he wanted his country to be occupied by America, or if he associated America with humane aid. Either way, it was refreshing to see America viewed in a positive, hopeful light again. It’s been a while!

Dad, if you go to Haiti, may you and your fellow soldiers be enveloped in safety as you selflessly work to help the many devastated people in need. There is much looting, and chaos, and desperation in this tumultuous aftermath. Exercise caution, and remember the advice for self-preservation you passed down to me through your own experience: Never sleep naked in a combat zone! I love you. I hope you do get to go to Haiti, and help in some small way to ease the unfathomable pain of such a resilient people.

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This past week I have been channeling my inner Crafter. That’s right, I said Crafter. We all know of at least one Crafter. A Crafter is usually peri or post menopausal, and has an affinity for wearing sweaters that have been liberally festooned with puff paint and large plastic jewels. True Crafters manage to incorporate at least one image of a cat on their sweater.

At any given time, you can find a large selection of Crafters milling about the cutting table at your local fabric store. They can also be found ogling shaped buttons in the notions section.

A Crafter’s dwelling can be easily spotted from the street. Most Crafters’ yards sport a miniature flag pole from which hangs a bright banner depicting a seasonal scene. At the very least, a Crafter’s door will feature some form of wreath – usually made from dusty silk flowers – extra points if they’ve managed to secure a beady eyed plastic bird in there somewhere.

I have warred with my inner Crafter for many years. I silently reprimand her whenever I pass a craft store and her pulse begins to race with excitement. Every so often, when she can be silenced no longer, I will let her loose. Through the years, she has managed to teach herself many different things. She is a renaissance Crafter. A jack of all crafting trades.

I have to keep a tight reign on her though, lest she overpower my semi-sophisticated self. Dear God, if you ever see me wearing anything with a cat on it, know that she has overtaken me, and please, put me out of my misery! Anything that has been Bedazzled is also a red flag.

Anyway, like I said, this past week I have let her go nuts!

Last Friday was a girlfriend’s husband’s birthday. His wife was planning on hiring him a few strippers, but she had to cancel the strippers at the last minute because she had forgotten their kitchen was being renovated that day. Needless to say, he was disheartened. I was scheduled to attend a little soiree at their house on Saturday. I decided to make the birthday boy an edible stripper. I had a few extra boxes of cake mix left over from the holidays, so I let my inner Crafter out of her cage, and she went to town.

Cocoa the stripper (yes, she was chocolate!)

On Tuesday I finally motivated myself to finish the last two squares on a mural I’ve been working on since last fall. I have had this thing 90% finished for several months. It hung in the basement play area, mocking me softly with its two blank squares every time I passed by. Well, now it’s finished!

It is a 2′ by 3′ mural depicting various members of my family, both living and passed. No, they are *not* supposed to be caricatures. My painting strengths just happen to lean more towards the cartoonish side of life.

Gloria & Papa

Mom & Dad

Aunt Bea & Uncle Lloyd

Lastly, Karis asked me to make her a mermaid costume. Never one to turn down a reason to visit the fabric store, I gladly accepted the challenge.

I stumbled through a fabric remnants bin until I found the perfect shade of Lycra. I paired it with some sequined material for just the right amount of iridescent splash. (Pun intended)  I spent about 90 minutes piecing this little number together today. Here you have it:

For those of you that are unaware, Karis informed me while modeling for these pictures that *this* is how a mermaid poses.

This week saw a trifecta of crafting goodness! Next you hear of me I will be collecting creepy life-like baby dolls and referring to them as “my little lovelies”. I may or may not also begin to smell distinctly of dried urine and stale cigarette smoke.

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I just touched bumpers with a woman that is either a) very trusting or b) beautifully naive. She is also c) very lucky I am an honest person.

Karis’s preschool has the most obnoxious parking/pick up area I have ever encountered. It is a very thin strip of asphalt running the length of the building. In warm weather a rag-tag group of pudgy, middle-aged, Mexican men can be found playing futball in the field that abuts the asphalt strip – because the strip isn’t already crowded enough with impatient parents rushing to pick up tired toddlers. (Don’t get me wrong – I love a nice boring game of futball as much as the next guy. I don’t even get upset when the ball hits my car (3 times and counting) but for the love of God, could they please play farther away from the stupid asphalt strip!?) I digress.

The futballers don’t really have anything to do with this story. It is cold, and the field is sporting a crusty blanket of snow, so, no futball.

Tonight as I pulled up to the entrance of the ever so narrow asphalt strip, there was a delightful Maryland driver attempting to parallel park. Anyone who has ever driven in Maryland before knows that this process can take upwards of 3 hours. Coming from the other direction was a line of 3 cars. They were waiting for the parallel parker to get far enough over for them to pass.

After witnessing the parallel parker begin a fourth attempt at parking, I decided to cut my loses and just park at the far end of the strip. To do this would require me to back up half a car length.

I knew there was a car behind me. What I didn’t know was that the car was attempting to sniff my SUV’s butt, and therefore had inched its way closer as I had watched the astounding ineptitude of the parallel parker in action. In layman’s terms, this car was “all up in my business”.

I checked my mirrors and back window. I saw a car about 3 car lengths behind me and thought it was the car that had just been directly behind me. I momentarily forgot that the car directly behind me was most likely being driven by a Maryland driver that would see my reverse lights and watch my vehicle backing up like their own personal 3-D movie experience.

I began to back up.

I backed up about a foot before I heard a horn beep. Had I just felt a breath of resistance? I stopped my car and opened the door. There was a small black sedan behind me.

I called to its open window. “Did I just touch you?”

Naturally, it was at this moment that our friend the parallel parker successfully maneuvered himself out of the way, and the cars piled up behind him came forward, eager to be on their way. Now it was my turn to block the asphalt strip.

The driver in the sedan was a beautiful black woman in a business suit. By “beautiful” I mean classy mom beautiful a la Michelle Obama, not trashy twenty something beautiful that fades the second she opens her mouth.

“Yes, I’m sorry! I didn’t beep fast enough!”

“Well, did I do any damage?” I looked at her bumper. There was a small scratch on the corner of her passenger side. She got out to take a look.

Just then, an impatient father with a hint of self-righteous indignation huffed over to me and said, “Would you please move out of the way? I have to get my child!” He said this as if his child was currently waiting for him in a burning building, rather than a toy filled pre-school classroom.

We pulled over to the side of the asphalt strip and reconvened at her bumper. The scratch was so small I would have considered it par for the course, but I felt honor bound to ask, “Did you want to exchange information or are we fine?”

She definitely wanted it fixed. “I plan to keep this car!” She said. (I barely managed to contain a sarcastic comment about the car being “totaled”) I gave her my numbers and she jotted them down, along with my license plate number. This is where I turn into the worlds sketchiest bumper scraper.

I have New York plates.

I have a California driver’s license – but she wouldn’t know that because my secret inner butch lesbian prevents me from carrying a purse, and I had left my little card carrier on my desk at home, having just payed way too much for a set of Pottery Barn sheets.

I never showed her my insurance information because I didn’t want to deal with Geico. (15 minutes could save you 15% or more!)

In summation, tonight I brushed bumpers with myself from 10 years ago. She is lucky she was scratched by me and not anyone else, because most anyone else would have given her false information, or debated the fault of the incident in the first place.

*sigh*

Tomorrow I will call my local auto paint shops for quotes. After that, I will wad up a few twenty dollar bills and light them on fire, because I like to burn money. If I’m lucky, I’ll have the forethought to put a dollar aside for ear plugs to help drown out the inevitable bitching that is sure to be forthcoming from my husband.

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Yesterday was exhausting.

Jesse and I have a long standing difference of opinion when it comes to Karis and the whole acting/modeling thing. Jesse wants her to, I don’t. This may surprise some of you, considering I had signed her with an agent while she was still  in utero.

I was okay with her working when she was a baby and had no idea what was going on. Now that she is older, I hesitate to introduce her to a world where getting hired for 1% of the jobs you interview for is considered “successful”.

If I am being completely honest, that’s not really the reason I’m not excited about actively pursuing acting gigs for Karis. I know how to explain away the audition process in a way that she could understand. Auditioning is not about constant rejection. I like to look at it more as a way of fitting puzzle pieces together. If a certain piece doesn’t fit, it doesn’t mean there is anything wrong with that piece – it just means that that particular piece belongs somewhere else in the puzzle.

My true reason for not wanting Karis to audition? I know she would be successful. Hugely successful.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” you ask. NO! Think about the implications! Great success in this industry usually means fame. I can think of no greater horror than to rob my daughter of her anonymity. Think of all your awkward years. Think of all the embarrassing mistakes you made in your youth that you still cringe over today. Now imagine those times broadcast for all the world to see and judge and comment on.

She would be subjected to living life in a fishbowl. The paparazzi would take from her not only her privacy, but her mother…because I would be in prison…for having killed one of them.

I know there are examples of well adjusted adults that were once child stars. Sadly their numbers are greatly dwarfed by the numbers of Lindsey Lohan’s and Corey Feldman’s out there. Do I consider myself a strong enough parent to counteract the poisons of the industry? Can I raise my child in such a way that she doesn’t buy in to the hype of a fickle Hollywood? Yes, I believe I can. But why put myself in that position to begin with?

One could argue that I already contribute to the robbing of my childrens’ anonymity with this blog. While technically that is a valid statement, this blog, with its handful of readers, is in no way comparable to the Juggernaut that is fame. It’s a numbers game, plain and simple. This blog is also something of which Karis can control the content. The same can not be said of a tabloid magazine.

So why am I yammering on about this, and why was yesterday exhausting?

Well, after the millionth time Jesse commented on the missed opportunities for Karis’s college fund, I agreed to let Karis decide. Karis is admittedly an unapologetic attention whore. Considering her parents, there was really no way of getting around that – it’s genetic.

Yesterday I let her participate in a local video shoot for an educational DVD series. At three and a half she was the youngest child at the shoot, but much to her credit, she lasted longer than most of the older kids. She loved it. I marveled at her following directions and keeping a great attitude on what was a really simple, low budget set. I can only imagine how much fun she would have on a real set with craft services and kid wranglers!

So now I am faced with making good on my end of the agreement. Karis enjoyed working. This means I will look into finding her local commercial representation. (I still refuse to trek up to NYC every time she fits an audition requirement.) Allowing her to audition for commercials and kiddie videos does not mean I am ok with her acting on the big screen. We will cross that bridge if and when we come to it. (Mrs. Fanning, Mrs. Swift, please give me a call.)

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1. Have your husband leave his shoes in the bedroom doorway (as usual).
2. Let your toddler “help” you put laundry away in your bedroom.
3. Watch in horror as your toddler runs full speed, trips over your husband’s shoes, and cracks his forehead into the edge of the bedroom door so forcefully it shakes the house.
4. Calmly pick up your toddler and check for obvious skull fractures.
5. Attempt to apply ice to the injured area.
6. Give up.
7. Check toddler’s pupils.
8. Call your mom. (If your mother is not a RN, call your usual advice nurse or pediatrician.)
9. Observe toddler for signs of concussion.
10. Wait for the magical unicorn horn to break through your toddler’s forehead.

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