I know they are all here. But I can’t figure out how to put them together.

Get dressed. Drive to office. Put key in door.

Now what?  The five hundred emails?

I guess that’s where I’ll start. And I’ll fill you in on my email neuroses another time.

Are you familiar with the book The Day The Babies Crawled Away by Peggy Rathman? If you have little ones, it’s worth checking out. The artist / author did all of the artwork in silhouette against a fiery sunset . Let’s just say she’s a better artist than I will ever be, but I sure had fun trying.

Last year, my family and I discovered clamming at Wasque. Clams, clams, glorious clams. Because we have no sense, we took buckets and buckets and buckets of ‘em. I don’t exactly know what it was we thought we’d do with 82 bushels of clams. They don’t exactly travel well on, say, a seven hour car trip.

This year we’re showing restraint and imposing a one-bucket limit on ourselves. In this case, an orange bucket.

And yes, they were delicious.

Live bloggin from 95N

We just passed New Haven. The ‘doodle seems certain we’re returning her to her former family and hasn’t taken her eyes off me since dawn. The ginormous lab is breathing like a freight train, despite the current interior car temperature of -12 fahrenheit. The boys are content with movies and iPods, for now, with at least five hours to go.

Thanks to a truly fun party last night, we got started a little later than I’d hoped. I’ll trade an early start for fun with great people any time.

I’ll be blogging, dear reader(s). I hope to have some beautiful pictures to share. Be well!

The health insurance? Really, it’s in my name. All of it. No, not my husband’s.
Yes, here we are in the 21st century already. Ha ha. Ha.

Look, I know it’s stretching the bounds of credulity that someone dressed like Liesl Von Trapp is gainfully employed, but you’re being a little ridiculous.

Now that I am over my ear infection, I am back in the water (finally!). It’s been a tough year for me both mentally and physically. I haven’t been motivated to swim as much as I would like, but I’ve turned the corner this summer and I have hope.  I typically have been swimming twice on the weekend and once during the week. I’ve got my plan in place to get in my yardage during my vacation, and I am looking forward to re-dedicating myself in September.

Summer swims are my favorite. We meet when the outside pool opens and leave before it gets too crowded, enjoying the fresh air while we get in a good workout. Today’s was just shy of 3000 meters, which will leave me tired but hopefully ready for more tomorrow morning.

It’s honestly not just the workouts. Since I started swimming with the group three years ago, it’s as much about the friendships and connections as it is about the yards and meters. I thoroughly enjoyed the post-workout chatter this morning. Now that I know my facebook updates annoy one of my friends to no end, I’ll surely be doing more of them.

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If you followed the coverage of Laci Petersen’s murder and Scott Petersen’s trial, you were probably as startled as I was to learn the National Enquirer is right on a regular basis when it comes to investigative journalism.

Oh, John. John John John John John. It’s time to admit that in addition to being the paramour of that embarrassing woman with the notorious past, you’re also her babydaddy.

You know what’s exhausting?

Hiding under a car during a thunderstorm.

Well, at least I gathered as much on Saturday. Doesn’t he look tuckered out?

Whenever there’s a major storm, we count heads. Guaranteed, both dogs are inside. The smaller, smarter cat is easily accounted for (napping on a plush surface far away from us all). But this one… this one makes us earn our assurance that he’s safe.

The storm on Saturday came on fast. The sky was an eerie shade of gray-green and BAM! it was thundering. As we counted heads, he was nowhere to be found, and then the deluge of rain began.

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My friend’s brother died yesterday.

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A friend stopped by my office today and asked if my ear situation was making me dizzy. No, not that. Was it turning me into a cranky beyotch? Why yes, that’s it exactly.

I couldn’t hear out of my right ear yesterday. Between the pickaxe sensation coming back every few hours and my inability to hear anything short of screaming, I was already a little irritable. Then I got a surprise call from the nice man on Martha’s Vineyard whose house we’re renting the last two weeks of August, telling me our deposit was due immediately or we’d risk losing our reservation.

After sprinting out of the house to the closest FedEx box that has 7 p.m. pickup, my boys reminded me we had to go to the grocery store. We stumbled into the Food Extortion down the street, where the boys practiced their best mumbling skills and I repeatedly shouted “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” as we made our way through the aisles.

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