The story from Smart Bitches is now in Newsweek.

Holy cow. It’s still going. 

Yesterday the Weather Channel was hyperventilating that we’d have as much as 9” of snow by this morning.

There was so little snow on my windshield, I could have blown it off by sneezing on it. I had left my scraper on the driver’s seat when I got out of the car Sunday afternoon. Did I need it? HA. Not even.

I love a good “Oh, wait...” from weather forecasters.

However, I will say - the radio station this morning that compared TO’s “That’s my teammate. That’s my quarterback” to the weather forecaster’s weeping over their mis-forecast: “That’s my dopper, man. That’s my radar.”

Maybe you had to be there, but holy crap. That was some funny shit. 

Much to my surprise, I’ve been keeping a site online, one that’s been mentioned in the AP, in the NY Times, in the USA Today, on CNN.com and in various other locations.

Poor server.

I’ve been so busy with Smart Bitches, Trashy Books that I haven’t had a moment to breathe a word here. So if you wanna read the plagiarism kerfuffle, head on over there. It’s still the top story. Or stories.

Here’s a tough one: I use this site to talk about my kids and catalog things that crack me up and generally let off mental steam. However, I do try to be mindful that there are real people behind my entries, and no, my children are not actually named Baba and Freebird. But they are real people and someday they will be grown young men with the ability to read and use the internet (and maybe have MySpace pages omg. commence freaking out).

So I try to be respectful of their privacy in this site because someday they will read what I wrote and they will probably have friends who read what I write and really, do they and all their friends and frenemies need to know about that time that Freebird did something wrong or the time Baba threw up down my back and I went to work with infant formula down my pant leg like a really gross version of a panty hose seam?

In light of that attempt to protect them from their future ability to read what an utter, complete and total dork their mother is, I have to censor myself and consider whether I can share with The Whole Entire Internet the stories about either child that aren’t entirely complimentary and in fact, while hilarious, are pretty freaking embarrassing.

Things that involve poop in inappropriate places, or things thrown that ought not to have been, and the chaos that results for one or both parents. On one hand, any parent reading an entry like that would say, “OH, man I have BEEN there. It’s a terrible phase but he’ll grow out of it.” Or maybe even offer a good solution or warm commiseration.

But in a few years when the entire second grade class hears the story of a well spread poopie, then it’s not so funny, for the child in question or for me, because I’m being deliberately cruel. There are bloggers who made their fame on what I think is exploitation of their children, and I’m profoundly uncomfortable doing the same to my own children just for the sake of relief of my own tension or help with my problem.

So, yeah. Something rather funny gross happened. But I’m too cautious of the feelings of Future Freebird for Present Morag to talk about it.

Construction has started. WOOOO! According to Hubby, there’s a backhoe-y shovel-y kind of thing in our yard, and a bunch of trucks in the driveway. BRING IT ON.

Every time something was annoying with our kitchen this weekend, like things falling off the counter because it’s only 18” deep, or containers rolling around in the bottomless pit of my pantry, I would holler at our not-present contractor, “NEIL! GET ME A NEW KITCHEN!”

Neil, it seems, is here, and the new kitchen shall be kicking ass and taking names very very soon. I hope. If mother nature calms down with the wind storms and ice and crap.