Let’s take a look back to early September, shall we? A time when I was fresh back from vacation, still basking in the glow of all that family time, before my job chewed me up and spit me back out again. Ha, ha, work, HA! UR so funny. Thanks for the tears this week, it’s been a blast!

But I digress. Way back in those days of ignorance and margaritas, I wrote about how we should judge Sarah Palin on her positions on the issues, not based on her gender.

I still stand by the bit about not judging her because she’s a woman, and especially the part about not doubting her abilities because she’s a mom. And I still really like what I wrote about the tooth fairy, unicorns and the Lucky Charms leprechaun. Anyway.

My thinking has changed a little. I am now convinced that we shouldn’t judge her. At all. It’s sad, really. If I had a frontal lobotomy I wouldn’t want y’all judging me either.  Look at the poor dear. She can’t even get the word caricature out of her perfectly Bobbi Brown’d lips. Can’t you just picture her out on her porch at night with her AK-47 waiting for Putin to invade her airspace? And I wonder how much sleep she loses over those Canadians.

I know this will irk my Couric-hating husband to no end (hi baby! I’ll be right home - gotta go resign first!), but there’s one thing this whole carica charact charade has proven: don’t fuck with Katie Couric. She’ll take you down. She’ll endearlingly tilt her head at you while she does it, and she’ll make it look like she really doesn’t want to ask you the tough question for the third time, but she’ll take you down faster than you can say thanks but no thanks to Congress about the Bridge to Nowhere sell the Governor’s jet on ebay tell Shimon Peres the Israeli flag is the only flag in your office transfer from the University of Hawaii at Hilo to Hawaii Pacific University to North Idaho College to the University of Idaho to Matanuska-Susitna College, and then back to the University of Idaho.

I’m not here.

(OK, OK, you’re right, I’m here. I’m trying to make it look like I’m not here. These people with their questions and their projects and their deadlines and their delusions that I have answers won’t leave me alone. I’m staying here until they all go away. Or until I’ve emptied my email inbox. Whichever comes first.)

So, I’m not here. Now where could I be?  Why, look! There I am! Over at Whit’s place, prattling on about god knows what*! Go, go, check it out! And bring the irate, pitchfork-wielding crowd gathered outside my door along with you!

*I’m pretty sure the little guy made it. I found something dead in the basement this morning, but it definitely wasn’t him. Too big.

It’s the Season of the Freak Out at work. 2009 budgeting, two huge client events mere weeks away, all-day planning  meetings scheduled from 8 am until well into the night every day of next week…

But enough about my misery. It’s not terribly entertaining.  But Helen’s and Jacob’s misery; well, that’s a horse of a different color.

Pop yourself a nice big bowl of popcorn, get (un)comfortable and watch while Helen and Jacob explore every nook and cranny of their marriage with their counselor. The link will take you to one of four sessions currently available for your viewing pleasure.

Not only did my best friend come by to read my post about the two of us up to no good whatsoever in high school. So did her mom. Her mother, who knows my parents. Really well.

Ha, ha, Mrs L., that was just a little creative writing. We never missed a class. Not in high school!  And certainly not in college!

But in the interest of full disclosure, earlier today your daughter and I were plotting a time when we can get together, and my first suggestion was “Well why don’t we pick a Friday when I can blow off work?” Old habits die hard.

I am 42 years old. And I am so busted.

I met so many great people the other night, including Connecticut Mom. She’s kind, she’s cute and she oozes of good cheer and friendliness - all good reasons to go read her blog. To sweeten the deal, she’s  dangling $20 right in front of your eyes.  Go bring your smartalecky selves over to her place to tell her what you’d do with the money you’ll save on groceries if you win her $20 Peapod gift certificate. Otherwise she’ll give it to me, robbing me of a chance to re-enact tonight’s scene at the local Stop & Shop with my Doolittles:

Me: STOP IT.

Me (again): STOP IT.

Me (one more time, loud enough for the people 14 aisles over to hear me): KEEP YOUR HANDS TO YOURSELVES OR I SWEAR I WILL START TAKING THINGS AWAY.  HURT ME ONE MORE TIME WITH THAT SNEAKER AND IT’S NO WORLD OF WARCRAFT FOR YOU, AND NO TELEVISION FOR YOU. AND I MEAN IT!

Now who would want to deprive me of that kind of fun?

Tonight I had the pleasure of meeting a fun, talented group of area bloggers.  When I got home, my littlest Doo-little demanded to know where I was, who I was with, and what I was doing as he dodged my questions about why he wasn’t sleeping yet.

I explained I was out with ____’s fabulous mom, which made his face light up with recognition. I also mentioned having a beer with the  younger brother of someone I sat next to in 7th grade.

“Oh.”

His brow furrowed.

After careful consideration of exactly how long it’s been since I was in middle school, he asked “Is he still alive?”

Don’t worry, Kevin, I assured him that you are a mere youngster, still clinging to this mortal coil for all it’s worth.

Which makes me happy. Because I can’t imagine having drinks with a corpse would have been nearly as entertaining.

Don’t they look excited? I’d like to think I have this same attitude: happy, and up for anything.

Unfortunately, I think this is a bit of a better view of me in my post-vacation, return-to-work, back-to-homework-and-endless-soccer-practices state:

I have an appointment this afternoon at Sadist & Associates. And I don’t want to go.

I’ve never been afraid of going to the doctor before. Unlike my youngest, who gets the vapors as soon as we mention the doctor, I’ve never once had a fear of doctors. Unfortunate genetics have left me with an aversion to oral surgeons, but the vision of my toothless future is usually enough to motivate me to man up and go.

You know what’s a bad idea? Booking a double appointment at the pediatrician, forcing your thick-as-thieves children to be in the same room when they get shots. I thought I learned this a few years ago, but we old people sometimes forget. Younger boy starts crying, older boy (who is truly one of the nicest people I ever met, in stark contrast to the rest of his immediate family) starts crying out of sympathy.

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For a fairly corporate job, mine has occasionally required its fair share of navel gazing.  I’ve taken more than a few personality tests, each one confirming that I have a few very strong traits that influence how I work. I didn’t need a test to tell me I’m incredibly loyal to people who do a good job. Nor did I need one to point out my  exceptionally strong sense of RESPONSIBILITY. I put it in all caps because whenever I get the results of one of these assessments, that’s how it’s printed: RESPONSIBILITY. As in, if I tell you I am going to do something, I will do it. As in, if I don’t, I will torture myself until the end of my days, using my lack of RESPONSIBILITY as proof of my essential lack of worth as a human being.

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It’s blowing through the trees, in the wake of a tornado watch seven miles away. Rustling the leaves as they hold on so tightly and deny the march toward fall.

The wind rises above the crickets and the ceiling fan and vies for my attention. It’s telling me, listen.

Embrace the sunsets. Roll in them. Taste all forty flavors.

Get outside, it tells me.  These days are few. Squeeze that last bit of sunblock out of its tube and go.