I Kissed a Weasel, and I Liked It:


Well, not quite.

Because I don’t know how many *other* people have kissed
Her Juanitaness,
and I didn’t want Jenny to think that I’m weird or gross
or possibly hitting on her taxidermy.

But Juanita and I did cry out to the heavens together:




LauraJane kept her distance, sensible girl:



I can’t believe I even considered skipping this
(realized I triple-booked myself for last night,
with handbalancing class, The Bloggess,
and an art show in Culver City),

because Jenny?

Is amazing.

And funny.

And down to earth.
And willing to admit her frailties and fears.

I love her for that.

Oh, that's Soleil Moon Frye wearing the Loubies on the right. Punky Brewster barely comes up to my elbow, y'all.


I don't know if you can see them well, but The Bloggess is wearing a necklace with fuzzy rabbit scrotum. Which apparently is singular, like "Moose".


The Bloggess suffers from anxiety, depression, and RA,
among other things,
so seeing a woman who was probably in pain for the entire two and a half hours
that she talked, answered questions, signed books, and gave hugs
just be so present with grace and a ridiculously well-endowed sense of humor?

I admire Jenny Lawson more than ever.

you are my heroine.

Thank you.


Wonderful woman. Thanks for letting me hug you.


Knock, knock, Motherfucker)

There was this amazing moment during the panel where *everyone* was holding up a chicken of one sort or another. We sincerely regretted *not* bringing Laura's Chicken Hat and Purse Twin Set.

Yesternight’s Workout:



This one *destroyed* me:


10 Star jumps
10 Pistols L
12 Burpees
10 Pistols R
10 Spartan Pushups
20 Lunges
50m Army Crawl
15 Hanging Situps


We ended up taking out the army crawl after the first round
in favor of tricep dips–
the grass was slicing up our elbows, it was wet, and also?

So Tricep Dips it was!

The Spartans are manageable now
(which pleases me to no end)–
I also did a pullup, a chinup, and another pullup at the end of the workout.
My goal is to get five pullups or chinups in a row by February.


I don’t know if it’s a good thing or not,
but my mantra through the last round was,
“I am not my Mother. I am NOT my mother.”

My mother,
is a very sweet, Titus-Two-Tea kind of a woman.

Who believes that godly behavior for women looks soft.
She associates submission with giving in.

I do not.

She has never been interested in being strong.

I am.

Sometimes to my detriment, I know.

But I want to be strong, capable.
I want to know that I could, in fact,
carry my husband or children or friends out of danger if I needed to.
I want that steely ability to carry on,
no matter how difficult the task at hand.

Disciplining my body to deal with pain is part of that.


I am not my mother.