Just take my word

Do you have a notepad? Go get a notepad. Seriously. I'll wait.

Now write down these two things because they are going to make you very happy.

1.) Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann. It won the National Book Award this year and it is so brilliant and moving and heartfelt and just plain awesome that I want to run away with it and live in exquisite, illicit bliss with it forever. Seriously great novel. Oh, and rent Man on Wire first. Once you read the book, this will make sense.



2.) Crazy Heart. Everyone knows you can't run away with a book and live in exquisite, illicit bliss. But, Jeff Bridges? He could work out nicely. If any part of you has ever liked country music, not the big-haired, spangly crap, but the Townes Van Zandt-Johnny Cash-Waylon Jennings kind of country music, go see this movie. Or, hell, go anyway. It's good.


Now you have a lot to do this weekend, so go. Go.

I am not the Biggest Loser. I am only a medium loser.

I'm HERE today. The new gig requires that I sit on the couch for two hours every Tuesday night watching reality TV and taking notes. The eating chocolate pudding* while I do it part is entirely my own idea.

*If you comment on the TV.com site, chocolate pudding will appear in your life within 24 hours. Do NOT pass up this opportunity. Comment now!

She can do it!

Maggie has been working on this for months, years really. And now she can cross the monkey bars all by herself, just like a real girl. Oh the years of competition and broken arms we have ahead of us. The lying flat on her back in the tan bark, unable to catch her breath.

I am so proud. But she is really the proud one. When she hops off at the end of those five bars, her pink smiling cheeks glow like the skin of a bubble gum bubble.

Oh, Mags. You break my heart a thousand different ways.

Everything I've been meaning to tell you

Nice of Rambo to help with the lights, don't you think?

There were so many, many things I wanted to tell you while I was on my blogging hiatus.

I wanted to tell you about Ollie deciding that Leon Redbone is his favorite singer (based on a Christmas compilation album we listened to ad nauseum in the car).

I wanted to tell you about the Mister having to put together the ginormous play kitchen Maggie received from our former nanny and how, I really, really hate the way it looks in my living room, this big piece of green and beige plastic as big as a love seat.

I wanted to tell you that Oliver has decided he's going to be a writer when he grows up and that we are going to share an office (swoon).

I wanted to tell you about how Maggie just says, "I'll try it when I'm a teenager," when she doesn't want to taste a new food.

Oh, and and I was going to gush about the amazing new home decor shop I discovered in Hayes Valley. And how I just really want to move in. I could sleep on the pile of felt rugs in the back and be happy forever.

And, speaking of home decor, I'd be remiss if I hadn't mentioned my new silver Christmas pouf, aka: best Christmas gift of 2009.

And I wanted to make list of all the vendors I loved at the Renegade Craft Fair.

And I wanted to admit the fact that I always get sick of having a Christmas tree about a week after we get one (too big, too many needles).

I was going to transcribe this conversation:

Oliver: Mom, how good are you?

Me: I'm good, Ollie. How good are you?

Oliver (in laid back surfer voice): I'm good. I am definitely real good.

I wanted to tell you about how Maggie fell in love with Santa and how she is in the Christmas photos of at least three other families because I could not detach her from his side.

Oh, and the Nutcracker. How my kids sat through the entire thing and Ollie said, "I loved Clara because she was so beautiful when she danced in the snow," and how my heart just about died.

But now, here I am finally blogging again and I feel as if I have nothing to say. Isn't that always the way?

In with a whimper

Happy New Year! I hope the first three days of 2010 were awesome. I hope you were one of those deservedly smug people up before 6 on the first day of the year, doing your calisthenics and looking forward to that big, refreshing glass of beet juice you like to reward yourself with on special occasions.

Me? I wouldn't know much about those first three days. I did see 6 o'clock on the first day of the year. Just the pinkish hint of it before I dropped off to sleep, the glitter from my cheek making a smear like the milky way across my pillow.

That's right people, I, 39-year-old, type-A, mother-of-two-with-mini-van shook it all night long.

Seeing as I value sleep over almost all other things, it's been, um, maybe 20 years since I've stayed up all night. Maybe 22.

from here

I blame the karaoke machine, which functioned as a sort of vortex, spewing out tunes from the'80s and sucking us right into the void. I totally ruined my hairdo singing AC/DC with a butch lesbian named Five Star. It was that kind of night.

Anyhoo, I'm finally back to normal, after three days of catching up on sleep in fitful bouts between building block towers, reading The Day I Became a Pirate, and dressing and redressing Maggie's new doll, Gingerbread.

I was so tired I would have gladly slept here

I'm going to skip the resolutions this year because I've made enough lists lately and, as everyone knows, resolutions exist to make you feel bad about yourself (here are last year's. I succeeded with number 2). Resolutions are the pursed-lipped headmistress of your own little uptight English boarding school of the mind. They tsk and cluck and whap you on the back with a ruler for not sitting up straight. Who needs them?

I also have no real plans. I'm going to start blogging about fat people on TV here starting this week. I'm going to celebrate my 40th in Mexico with a lot of friends and family in February. I'm going to take my kids to the snow (see #13). I might attend a clothing swap at the end of the month. Maybe I'll finally paint the bathroom door that we scraped fours years ago.

This is certainly a worthy resolution

But, really 2010, I'm open. Bring it on. Keep it coming. Have at me. All I ask is that you play fair. And keep me away from karaoke machines.

I will miss you. I will

That's Leonard Cohen with his hat in hand too.

For an entirely different reason, I'd imagine.

I come to you with hat in hand. I have no excuses for not writing. No good ones, anyway. I'm just sort of harried and grouchy, rushing around buying gifts and finishing up stories and filling out unemployment forms and playing Wurdle on my iPhone (I've mentioned my new iPhone, right) and trying to work off my gut in time for my 40th (it's not looking good).

But I think about you, I do. Every time my kids say something wonderful I think about you, and every time they are horrible wretches I think about you too. But here's the thing: I need a little vacay. I need to write some fiction and wrap some presents and maybe, just maybe, steal a little guilt-free down time.

from HERE

And then I will be back. I will begin 2010 full of vim and vigor. I'll be a blogging fool.

Until then, I hope you are happy and warm and busy in a good way. I hope you have a chance to watch the Charlie Brown Christmas Special and please, please, whatever you do, don't save all the wrapping until Christmas Eve. Beacause I love you too much to see you hurt yourself like that.

xoxo Samantha

You too can kill a chicken

Right after we got our chickens the Mister met another San Francisco couple interested in raising poultry and invited them over to see our little operation. We later sold them all our chick equipment and lo and behold, they became urban chicken farmers too, complete with small blond children and a chicken chronicling blog. I like to say we started something (even the Tipsy Baker learned from us!). The Mister likes to say they are on the ride.

Then today, he gets this email:

I hope you are well! Sorry it has been a while since we checked in. Our flock of four chicks have grown into a happy little family. They are almost three months old now. They live outside in their coop and we move them around the yard in a little play pen. Here is a link to a family blog I started (but have neglected for many weeks!): http://philosophersegg.blogspot.com.

I'm writing today because one of our birds, Timmy (E. must have been prescient in her naming of the bird), has started to crow. Turns out he is a very handsome rooster. We could take him back to Half Moon Bay Feed and Fuel and they will turn him into soup. We also thought of you both.

Any chance you are interested in harvesting another bird? It is going to be a bit hard for me, as I'm quite attached to Timmy (he is really quite handsome), but I would rather he ends up in the soup pot of friends, than strangers.

If one chicken killin' experience was enough for you and you'd rather pass, I understand!

Hope you are your family are well! perhaps we can get together and swap chicken stories after the holidays.

Followers of this blog know we've entered this territory before. And while I cannot tell you how happy I am to be the go-to family for backyard chicken slaughtering, and as much as chicken and dumplings would really hit the spot right now, we're just not sure we can do this one.

Our problem is our lack of slaughter buddies (the Mister's friends are not available for throat slitting and feather pulling on such short notice and I need to be out of the house with the twins so they don't witness our gruesome bloodletting). So, wanna help? Like tomorrow? Watch THIS to see if you're man enough and then let me know. The dignity of Timmy's death lies in your hands.

P.S. The Mister wants me to add that he's no expert and that you may absolutely NOT make fun of him if he squeals like a little girl.