I also want to talk about my house because it will help me get back into the habit of blogging with some regularity without forcing me to think about whether or not I want to discuss something personal.  My house is pretty neutral territory as far as I’m concerned.

I’m also in my house a lot.  We only have one car that my husband uses to commute to and from his job.  I go weeks at a time without leaving this house.  Yes, I go crazy but it does help that I am a homebody at my core.

Today I’d like to start with my bedroom.

After a long day of being stuck in this house with my two precious little boys and their millions of toys, I look forward to when I can go to my room.  My room is my happy quiet place.

When we first toured this house with the realtor, it was that finished attic that made me really fall in love with this house.  It looked terrible back then, but I knew with a little imagination and a lot of hard work it could be a great room.

We started the work not long after we moved in in November of 2009.  We got it cleaned up and had started painting doors.  Then I started feeling sick.  Then I found out I was pregnant.  Painting stopped.

In my sickness I was forced to sleep on a mattress on the floor in a room that eventually became our office.  At the time, it looked like a hoarder’s room, stuffed nearly to the ceiling with little things that cannot be placed until the large things are unpacked.  So my husband and father-in-law bust their kindly asses in getting that room finished for the poor, depressing, sick pregnant lady.  And I am so grateful.  I love that room.

For me to properly explain how it is awesome that my bedroom is basically on it’s own floor (story) of my house, I’ll need to explain my house.  I’ve never seen such a strange layout before, although I am admittedly inexperienced with this.  My house is like to smaller houses pushed together like a “T”.  Each of the two smaller houses is two-story, but when pushed together, the stories don’t line up, so I technically have 4 floors to my house, but each floor is small because it is part of one of the smaller houses.  Does that make any sense at all?  The bottom floor of my house only has the laundry room, family room and a small powder room.  The next floor has the living room, kitchen, dining room and sun room.  The next floor has a bathroom, the boys’ bedrooms and the office.  The last floor is my bedroom and bathroom.  When I say it in terms of floors it sounds like  I live in a mansion, but I don’t.  It’s just a quirky layout that I actually adore.

Now it’s picture time!  I’m going to show before and after photos.  The before photos were taken before we actually bought the house, so you can see it as we saw it then.  The after photos I just took about 10 minutes ago, so they are very recent.

This is a before image of the stairs that lead from the “third floor” up to my bedroom.  Notice how there are only 7 stairs?  All the flights of stairs leading from one “floor” to the other in this house are about 7 stairs.

Yellow paint makes for a happy Somer.  Almost all of the main living areas of this house were gray when we bought it.  Now they are almost all yellow and this is a much happier looking home.

This is looking into the room before.  Those curtains were infested with spiders (I nearly died of a heart attack) and the walls and ceiling were painted the same dirty peach color.

My bedroom.  I love my sleigh bed.  It’s like actually being IN a bed rather than on it.  I also love that quilt more than any piece of clothing I own and it is the reason for the splashes of pink around the room as I am not normally a fan of pink.  the color on the walls is called Pink Chocolate and I adore it.

Also, I did not make my bed just for the occasion of photographing my bedroom.  Making my bed is a sort of mood thing with me.  I am happier when my bed is made and my room is clean.  At the end of the day I can go to my room and slide into the crisp sheets like I am in a hotel almost.  It’s a small pampering thing I do for myself.

And yes, that is a treadmill in the back right.  And yes, it does get used…sometimes.

There was this weird padding velcroed to the wall covering an access panel to a tiny storage space.  Since it was so tiny, we covered the space and dry-walled the space so it is a normal wall now.  These panels were also infested with spiders.

The angled door to the left is a small closet with shelving.  The door to the right is a walk-up to the small attic space.

A little white paint makes a big difference.

Here is a look inside of the small closet.  I have not yet dealt with that hideous wallpaper.  This was originally going to be a linen closet but….

..it has transformed into the “present closet” where I hide birthday presents and Christmas presents.  I have two birthdays coming up so that is why the closet is currently stuffed.

This is the space where there were two small sliding-door closets facing each other.  These closets are useless and provide no really useful storage.  Although we regretted losing the light of that southern-facing window, we closed it in…

……and…..

….made it a small walk-in closet.  It is stuffed with organizational shelving and hanging rods.

There is a small bathroom attached to this bedroom.  It has a sink, toilet and stand-up shower.  It is tiny and ugly, but it is also clean and fulfills it’s purpose.  We haven’t done much to it, but there are big plans in the future for it.

I had never seen a corner toilet before this.  It is old and you need about 20 lbs. of pressure to push the lever to flush it.  And, yes, that is a stainless steel painted plastic toilet seat.

Now for a few other picture of my bedroom as it is now.

I think it is always neat to see what a person keeps on their bedside table.  Here on mine I have the remotes for the tv and cable box (I go into a psychotic froth when Jessie uses the remotes…he goes TOO SLOW), hand lotion, hand sanitizer, lip balm, a book, a clock, a baby monitor, a box of tissues and a vintage-looking phone.  Is it just me, or do cordless phones start to get ugly?  I love old looking phones and I loved this one when I saw it.  I almost got the white one because, as I’ve said, I’m not really a fan of pink, but the pink somehow struck me as looking more antique-y.  You can also see my grandmother’s cheap green cross draped over the edge of my bed in the top left.

I keep a shadow box I made of Lukas’ first birthday.  I will be making another for Ruegen after his birthday in October and hanging it beneath this one.

This is my dresser.  In this area, among other things, you will find a Nintendo 64, a can of mace, a stereo, and a bottle of linen spray so my sheets and pillows smell fresh every night.

I put those masks on the wall originally as a joke on Jessie.  He gets creeped out by faces looking at him at night.  They were things I used to hang on the walls of my bedroom as a teenager.  There is also a fake plant, my great-grandmother’s sewing box painted green, and my jewelry box.  The big picture…

..also belonged to my great-grandmother.  Don’t let that fool you, it had a Hills sticker on it.  So technically it is junk, but I am still very fond of it.

That’s about all there is to that room.  Next I’ll entertain you with a story of terror, painted over wallpaper, and IKEA furniture that made me hate allen wrenches more than I previously did…which was a lot.

We were texting tonight I was poking fun at him calling him a jerkface and I suddenly remembered how when we were kids we would twist the other’s name to be ridiculous and annoying to the other.

His name is Brandon.  I called him Brandy, Brandumb, Brando, B.J., and even blowjob a few times.  When we were little he would scream at me to shut up but as we got older he learned to giggle about it.

He called me Somer-Bummer, Somer-Dumber, and my personal favorite, Sunburn.  Sunburn still makes me giggle with pride because that one is pretty good.  Creative.  Smart-assy.  Annoying.

When he was a toddler, he would get my name and “supper” mixed up.  He called me Supper all the time and it drove me crazy.

As adults, my brother and I like each other a lot.  I know a lot of siblings aren’t so lucky.  I know I’m lucky and I am grateful to not have feelings other than love and adoration towards my brother.

I hope my boys have something similar, but that kind of stuff always works out in weird ways, doesn’t it?  I never thought as children that my brother and I would get along as well as we do.  When it comes to all out brawls, we could have sold Pay-Per-View tickets.

I know more people who DON’T get along with siblings.

I’m lucky.

And nobody can call me “Sunburn” except my brother or I’ll have to pour  bottle of ketchup on your head.

There were only two mirrors in that house large enough to be used for vanity use; the small mirror above the bathroom sink and the mirror on the dresser in my parents’ bedroom.  He used both.

He would spend close to a half hour some days posing and staring at himself in these mirrors.  He would turn this way and that examining himself, admiring himself, worrying about his body.  Then we would hear the words, “Honey, do I look big today?”

Arnold Schwarzenegger was his idol.  I’m not proud to admit that I’ve seen the movie “Pumping Iron” at least three times.  Sometimes he would go into a frenzy and make frequent visits to the gym and sometimes he would slack.  There were whispers of steroids.  There were protein shakes, dozens of supplements to take every morning, revealing clothes to showcase his physique, and always with the damned mirrors.

“Honey, do I look any bigger today?”

Being skinny and weak looking was a major fear of his.  He wanted to be impressive.  He was a walking, talking pile of machismo wannabe and desperately needed a mythic physique to prove to the world that he was wonderful.

He was constantly comparing his body to other men.  Tall men, lean men, large men, they all seemed to intimidate him.

He was not a very tall man.  Not quite six feet tall and I think it bothered him.  Tall men intimidated him.

Although he worked hard in the gym to get his body looking a certain way, he was not athletic.  Athletic men intimidated him.

He felt he wasn’t bulky enough to be truly impressive.  Large men intimidated him.

He was constantly asking for reassurance.

“I’m bigger than he is, right?”

“My biceps are much more toned than his, right?”

“My legs are much bigger than his, right?”

“I could probably bench more than that guy.  Who cares how fast he can run!”

I think when we think of body image issues and self-doubt we automatically think it is a problem belonging almost exclusively to the female sex.  I beg to differ.  He may not have worried so much about being fat or double chins, but he most certainly obsessed about his body and the way his physical  being impacted people upon first sight.

The next time you make the rude assumption that only women obsess over body image to the point of being annoying and/or unhealthy, come talk to me.  You are SO wrong.

I hear my 3 year-old leave his bedroom and go downstairs on his own to watch some TV by himself before the baby wakes up.

The baby wakes up.  I can hear him on the monitor, not crying but cooing.  This is the highlight of my day.

I get out of bed and head to the kitchen to make a bottle.  The 3 year-old hears me and runs upstairs to me and demands candy.  I tell him no.  His bottom lip protrudes and he says in his sweetest voice, “pweeze?”  I again tell him no.  He stomps angrily behind me as I head to the baby’s room.

We both greet the baby and giggle when he smiles up at us.  I pick up the baby and we both go to the rocking chair.  As I feed him, the 3 year-old shakes rattles and squeaks squeaky toys in the baby’s face trying to get a reaction.  The baby’s face starts to crumple.  I explain to the 3 year-old that the baby is trying to eat and the noises are bothering him right now.  The 3 year-old has a tantrum and makes the baby cry.  I scold the 3 year-old and calm the baby.  The baby resumes eating and the 3 year-old brings in a toy of his own and plays on the floor while the baby eats.

It’s time to change the morning diaper.  The 3 year-old fetches a clean diaper and waits in great anticipation to see what horrors await us in the morning diaper.  I change and clothe the baby and put him in his swing.  The 3 year-old uses the bathroom all by himself, takes off his jammies and puts them in his hamper.  Then I get him dressed and take him downstairs for his breakfast.  He informs me what he would like and I fulfill his wish.  He eats his gummy vitamins and enjoys his breakfast.

As the day wears on, I put the baby down for his first nap of the day.  I quietly go to my bedroom and try to get a workout in while the toddler is keeping himself busy with toy cars or his play kitchen.  Halfway through the workout he comes blazing into my room like a tornado.  He is being noisy and I warn him to be quiet so as not to wake the baby.  Tantrum.  I go about my workout routine and all the while keep a constant eye on him.  I yell at him for licking the cat.  Tantrum.  He finally gets into my bed and watches me workout quietly.  When I am done, I kiss his temple and thank him for being good.  I feed him lunch.

With the 3 year-old fed and happily playing in his room, I go to take a shower.  As soon as I am naked, the baby starts crying.  I put on a robe, make a bottle and feed the baby.  I put him back in his crib and turn up the baby monitor so I can hear him while in the shower.  He screams the whole time.   I jump out of the shower, dress myself as fast as I can (which is not very fast since I was in such a big hurry I forgot to dry off) and go to the baby.  I scoop him up and snuggle him until he is calm.  We all play together in the family room until it is time to start dinner.

The baby is good enough to sit quietly in his swing.  The 3 year-old insists on helping with dinner.  The words, “Don’t touch that, it is VERY hot” are uttered several hundred times during the preparation of dinner.

The husband comes home.  We eat dinner as a family.

It is time for the 3-year old to have a bath.  The husband takes care of that while I clean up after dinner.  When I am finished, I cuddle the baby for a bit before I read the 3 year-old a book before bed.  I kiss him and snuggle him in and close the door.  He is quiet all night.  Not long after, I feed the baby again and put him down.  He will sleep through the night.  On this, I am lucky.

The husband and I watch a movie together.  We go to bed.  He showers and we snuggle in for the night.

In the middle of the night he kicks me in his sleep and gives me a charlie horse.  I mumble to myself and briefly consider dumping cold water on his head.  Instead I rub the sore spot and go back to sleep.  A couple of hours later, he jerks in his sleep so hard that he dislodges a support under the bed causing a great *THUMP* to echo through the house.  I jump approximately 15 feet in the air and both kids wake up.  Again, I consider dumping water on the husband’s head but instead go to my kids.  I soothe and kiss the 3 year-old and rock the baby.  It takes about an hour to get them both back to sleep.  I get back into bed and go back to sleep.

It’s the weekend and the 3-year old comes into our room and whispers in my face to wake up.  He is scared of his father’s breathing mask for his sleep apnea.  I roll over and gently elbow my husband in the ribs and inform him that his son would like to snuggle.  The husband sits up, removes his mask, and puts the 3 year-old between the two of us.  I turn on the TV and we watch for a bit before the baby wakes up.  I make a bottle and bring the baby to bed.  We all snuggle in bed for about 2 minutes before the hyper 3 year-old starts jumping up and down on the bed.  The husband has fallen back asleep and the jumping does not wake him up.  The 3 year-old sits on his face.  He still doesn’t move.  I get up with the baby and go downstairs.

Not long after, the husband comes downstairs with the 3 year-old.

“I slept great last night!”  He says.  “What’s for breakfast?”

If you ever wonder why I smile so much or why I am easy to laugh, now you know.  I have a great life, charlie horses and all.

Last night, we ran a few errands and since a few of our stops only included the purchasing of one item, Jessie would run into the store and the boys and I would sit in the car.  I had some quiet time to do some thinking and reflecting, particularly about my holidays past.

My mom was the psychotic merry maker of our family when I was small.  She had to be a bit crazy about it to make up the difference from my horrible grump of a dad who constantly complained about the gift-giving process of the holidays.  He hates giving gifts (even to his wife and kids) and complained about it all the time.  He hated having the house decorated (even though my mom did all the work and he never lifted a finger to help) and he hated the obligatory family rounds we had to make every year.  He was never nice to be around during the holidays.  But last night I recalled a memory of my dad that actually made me smile.  It was Christmas Eve and it was dark outside.  We had just left my Aunt Barbara’s house where my mother’s family had their big holiday get-together and gift exchange.  We were all tired and our bellies were full.  We were huddled together on the long seat of his truck.  I remember it was snowing and I was looking out the window watching the houses decorated with lights pass us by.  My father had the radio on a country music station as he always did.  Then Elvis’ “Blue Christmas” came on.  Until this point, the cab of the truck had been deathly quiet. Nobody spoke; there was no pleasant conversation going on.  But when the song came on, my father turned up the radio and began singing along to it, exaggerating the background diddies sang by high pitched women.  I remember my brother and I laughing so hard that tears streamed down our faces at this strange and spontaneous outburst of silliness from our father.  To this day, when I hear that song, I sing it like my father did that night.  It’s a small thing and a very rare instance of my father not hating us as hard as he could in those days.  It still makes me smile.

Surely I’m not the only person who has noticed a heightened interest in celebrities, real or fake.  So often I scratch my head and say to myself, “What’s the big deal?”  Sometimes, I just don’t understand the need to make people celebrities.  What happened to the days of celebrities being movie stars and athletes (only the good ones though!) and musicians?  Who are some of these people I can’t seem to escape?

-Lady Gaga.  She’s a pop singer, right?  She’s a pop singer who seems to take every opportunity available to her to do something outrageous and stupid to be the center of attention.  But why?  Doesn’t her title as pop singer ultimately earn her a bunch of fans anyhow?  Now I’ve never listened to her music.  I never will.  It’s not a slight against her, but rather her genre.  But what the hell is with those outfits?  No, I’m serious!  Those things look like crotch-strangling-icky-suits.  ICKY.  There’s too much crotch and too much painful looking boobage.  It’s like she’s trying to one up Madonna.  Oh and then there are the stupid things she keep saying in magazine interviews.  Her vagina is her place of creativity?  Are you kidding me?  Again, she’s a POP singer.  POP.  POP.  POP.  POP.  What effing creativity (aside from her wardrobe) are we talking about here?  The bottom line is this:  Lady Gaga is someone who could have achieved fame and a loyal fan base just by being a little different and with her music.  These crazy/stupid things she keeps doing and saying look like a desperate attempt to hold on to that fame and fan base when it’s not really needed.

-The Twilight kids.  I’ve never read the books nor have I seen the movies.  And that is not about to change.  Look, I’m sure the stories are good.  With a fan base as crazy as this, it has to be interesting.  I’m not someone who thinks all my fellow humans are idiots.  The only idiots are the ones who “Like” the Twilight page on Facebook.  Yeah, I went there.

I am not interested in the stories.  I prefer vampires and werewolves that want to murder people in a horrific and gory manner.  Is that so wrong of me?  But the hype surrounding these kids is nuts!  Now I’m not old, but I’m not really all that young either.  So please explain to me how a vampire who never washes his hair (and admits to such) is as desirable as Robert Pattinson?

Every picture taken of these kids shows them with their mouths hanging open and vacant gazes on their faces.  Is that their attempt to look ethereal or dreamy?  Well it’s not working, it makes them look high.

-Reality show train wrecks.  Seriously.  WHAT THE FUCK PEOPLE.  Why are we buying in to news about people having public meltdowns or who celebrate the fact that they are basically worthless?  It’s one thing to watch the shows (which I don’t!) and laugh at them, but it’s another thing when I see pictures of these people hanging out with real working celebrities and posing for pictures.  Is it really that simple?  Do I just go and get all oranged up on spray tan, go to the Jersey Shore and punch Snookie in the face while high on meth while wearing a skirt so short that you can see my yaya?  Is that my ticket to fame?  Why is this working for these people????  I’m so confused.

-Fake celebrities (a.k.a. sex tape celebrities).  All you need is a rich parent and a tape of you having sex with some douchebag to hit the public and Voila!  You’re a celebrity!  Oh you’ll get paid for making appearances and for doing shitty reality shows on E! but does that really make you interesting enough to deserve the attention?  Sure there will be pictures of you all over the place vacationing with real celebrities and you will be on every red carpet posing like your livelihood depends on it (because it does), but does that really make you a celebrity?  To me, that sounds like all you’re doing is leaching off of the celebrity vibes and hoping the light stops on you long enough for someone to notice you.  Please people, stop.  Do something worthwhile that doesn’t involve modeling or singing or acting, because we all know you got those gigs simply by being “that person in the sex tape with what’s-his-face.”  Go to college and get a degree.  Get a job that requires steady hours and concentration.  Be a REAL role model to little girls.  One that says that brains and empowerment can mean just as much, if not more, than looks and popularity.  But I’m talking to a wall, aren’t I?  These fake celebrities only care about looks and popularity.  Otherwise we wouldn’t know their names.

This whole rant started over my confession over not being star-struck over a certain celebrity blogger.  Now, I mean no disrespect to that blogger.  That person obviously WORKS for that attention and adoration.  That person started at nothing and built a name and a brand up around a blog.  That’s great.  And I really mean that.  The blogging superstars had to overcome a lot in order to get where they are.  They had to overcome bias and dismissals that they were merely regular people keeping a diary online.  I think we all know that it’s so much more than that, and that those people who broke out of the stereotypes deserve those paychecks because they WORK for them.  You’ll just have to forgive me for not being all starry-eyed over having one 10 feet away from me.  But then again, the only way I get all freaky fan-girl on someone is if their job mandates that they have a guitar slung across their hips.  And that they play it really well.  And that they write all their own music.  Basically you have the be Jerry Cantrell for me to squeal and hang on to your every word.  (I have a great story about an almost run in with Mr. Cantrell that I need to remember to share with you all some time.)  And that’s it.

…..Okay, maybe Trent Reznor, too.

We took the train in to New York.  I was a little nervous about traveling with a toddler again (remember the flying from Seattle to Philly experience?  Yeah, I was afraid of that happening again!) but we bought a portable DVD player, got the kid some headphones, and the ride was totally quiet.  Success!

We get into Penn Station and lug all of our extremely heavy crap up two escalators before hitting the street.  I took a brief moment to look up and admire the city-scape before realizing that the taxi cue was almost a block long.

“Jessie,” I said.  “The hotel is only a mile away.  This line is crazy, let’s just walk.”

“We are not walking to the hotel.  We are waiting in this line for a taxi.”  He replied.

“But it’s not that far!  We can walk it, it will be quicker!”

“WE ARE NOT WALKING WE ARE WAITING.”

“Grouch ass,”  I said.

So we cued up and waited for our turn to get a cab and in all fairness I have to admit that it didn’t end up taking very long at all.  We got to the hotel, we unloaded and checked in.  The lobby was already full of squealing and hugging women and my excitement grew.  We were led to the correct bank of elevators (the elevator situation at this place was insane!) and standing in front of me was Denise!  I had just gotten there and was already hugging someone I adored!

We went up to the room and I started texting and calling people that I knew to see where they were.  Nobody was available yet.  So Jessie brought back a couple of dirty water hot dogs from a local street car and I inhaled mine while waiting when I realized that I needed to go register and get my badge before the booths closed for the night.  While standing in line, Jennifer called me and we ended up finding a quiet place to sit and meet face to face for the first time.  We chatted for a couple of hours before I decided to call Denise and see about getting all of us Chatter ladies together for a nice meet up.  We ended up at the BlogHer CE Dinner and met some of the famous contributing editors of the site as well as two of the co-founders of the site.  It was pretty cool.

We went back to Denise’s room and sat around chatting for a few hours.  I got to meet TW, who’s cooking site I love (and who fondled my belly quite a lot), as well as Sassymonkey and her husband.  Denise and TW’s daughter Rebecca was also there.  She gives me hope that the younger generations aren’t all going to grow up to be Paris Hilton.

Day one of the conference started with e Newbie Breakfast where all of us first-timers stuffed our faces with muffins and fruit while listening to the founders of BlogHer say hi to us.  I went with Jennifer, Jessica (BlackBeltMama) and I waved Linda over to our table after Jennifer recognized her from Chatter.  It was a really nice breakfast and I was surrounded by great and intelligent women.

After breakfast, Linda and I headed over to the morning keynote where we sat in the worst place ever to hear or see what was going on so I ended up having a conversation with a book publisher who came to the conference assuming all of the attendees would be “mommy bloggers”.  I politely corrected her and explained the truth that women bloggers cover all topics of interest from technology to politics.  She looked like she didn’t believe me so I turned my attention back to Linda so I wouldn’t be tempted to pull her hair.

I attended one session on Friday that bore me to tears so I went to lunch, hooked up with Sassymonkey and spent a couple of hours swag hunting with her and laughing as she volunteered to get her picture taken with everybody.  We then went to the Geek Lounge and chatted for a bit with Denise and Linda before I excused myself to go back to the room to spend time with Jessie and Lukas before the Voices of the Year Keynote that night.  (Jessie and Lukas, by the way had a great time in NYC.  They were out and about having a great time doing kid-friendly stuff together.  Great Daddy and Me time for my little boy.)  I went back to my room, played with Lukas and showed him all of the swag/toys that I had brought him.  We ordered a pizza from Ray’s Pizza (One of those iconic NY pizza places) and I ate in the room before putting on my pretty maternity dress (pretty, HA!) and headed to the keynote.

I sat alone and was enjoying the readers until a woman came in and sat right next to me (the row I was in had all empty chairs except for the two ends…why did she do that?) and kept getting up to go plug in her phone into an extension chord by a pillar in front of me.  Then she would sit and browse the internet on her phone and periodically ask me “Have they done the humor posts yet?”  She asked me this FOUR TIMES.  I wanted to yell at her to pay attention and leave me the hell alone, but I was a nice person and nodded quietly at her while biting my lips as hard as I could…you know…..the nice thing.

After the Keynote, I wandered around looking at the cool art.  I was getting pooped out.  I saw a room full of balloons and decided to swipe a yellow one for Lukas.  As they were still setting up for the Gala in the main ballroom, I decided I had enough time to run to my room really quick and deliver it.  I ended up laying down “just for a second” and fell asleep.  I’m so lame.  I got all dressed up in this ensemble that I had put so much thought into and I fell asleep in the damned thing.

I woke up the next morning and went to breakfast.  I sat alone at first but my table filled up with some super nice ladies.  Two of them were from Chicago and I asked them if it was an assault to their senses to be in NY and they said no.  I was surprised, but it was a great ice breaker and I ended up chatting with these two ladies the whole morning before my sessions started.  It’s proof that most of these people were totally friendly and totally cool.

I went to 3 sessions that day and enjoyed all of them.  I had lunch alone and was joined at the last minute by a woman wanting to talk about Apple products.  I stuffed what was left on m plate in my mouth and hurried away.  After my last session, I went up to my room to spend time with Jessie and Lukas.  We got dinner from the famous 53rd street Halal street car (it was really freaking good) and then I started texting and tweeting people about getting together.  Jennifer called me and told me to get my ass to the third floor for a little floor party the Chatter Ladies were having, so I rushed down and had a great time just chatting with women I adore on the internet and in real life.  And TW got some good belly-groping time in.

Jennifer and I then went to a party that we were both REALLY looking forward to only to find it a little too loud for us old-timers.  We stood in line to get drinks, but the woman in front of me was about to start a fist fight with the bartender over the color of her drink ticket and the fact that she wanted ALCOHOL and she wanted it NOW GODDAMMIT.  She finally got her cocktail consisting mostly of ice and cranberry juice and Jennifer and I got waters and got the hell out of there.  We decided to do a photography walk of Times Square (Jennifer is a super photographer).  It was dark outside, so we got the full experience of the obnoxious lights in the Square.  And all the obnoxious people.  If someone tried to harass us, Jennifer would threaten to beat them with her tripod.  I felt very safe with her.

And basically the next day we left.  I almost puked in the train terminal, but ended up holding it in until late last night.  Puking is fun!

At the end of it all, I have to say that I had a fantastic time.  It was so nice to meet people that I talk to almost on a daily basis face to face.  It was so nice to get out of the house and go to sessions based around my interests as a blogger (a pee-on blogger, but a blogger nonetheless).  The next conference will be held next year in San Diego.  Part of me winces at that.  I hate plane rides almost as much as I hate Apple, and I would have to go alone and leave my two babies behind for a long weekend.  I’m still mulling it over, but I would feel bad if I missed it.  I don’t know.  What I do know is that there are no regrets for this year.  I had a great time and I have an immense and new found affection for some of these women.  Thank you all so much for making my first BlogHer so great.

I started early.  I’d come up with names for things that would send people into giggles.  I referred to all genitalia (from the age of 2 until about 14) as wingle-wangles.  To me, that is one of my word-inventions that actually makes sense.  Look at your stuff sometime, boys and girls.  Look at it and mouth the word wingle-wangle.  It’s a perfect fit.

When I was in first grade, there were two incidents that convinced me that I was a gem among clumps of dirt in my family.  I put together my very first rhyme.  I was so unbelievably proud of myself that I rushed into my house after school and announced to my parents excitedly that I had thought of a rhyme.  The fruit of my budding genius, the amazing depths of my talent was sure to astound my parents.

“What is the rhyme?”  My mother asked me.

I gave a brief pause for dramatic effect.

“Skippy dippy.”  I said.

Instead of looking at me in awe and adoration as I had expected, my parents burst into hysterical laughter.  I stood for a moment scowling at them and then went to my room muttering under my breath that they were poopy heads who didn’t respect my talents.

That same year in art class, I made my mother a refrigerator magnet for Mother’s Day.  It was in the shape of a heart and I inserted a short, lyrical phrase that to me was more of a beat poem.  It stated the love that I had for my mother and also showcased my immense talents.  It read, “Ri Ri I love you, Somer.”  (FYI, the “Ri” is pronounced like “rye”)

I brought that magnet home to my mother and proudly placed it in her hands.  She looked at it for a moment, looked at me, and then back at the magnet before asking, “What is reeree?”

Angered that she had taken the lyrical part of my poem and turned it into one ridiculous sounding word, I corrected her that it was “Rye rye” and that it was a poem.  She smiled at me and placed the magnet on the refrigerator and said, “Oh, ok.”

I stomped back to my room, making sure my denim Keds slammed into the floor smartly while muttering under my breath that nobody understood my immense talents.  I stopped sharing the works of my genius with my parents after that.  They were, after all, poopy heads.

When I hit about 5th grade, I was made familiar with Stephen King.  It was at that time that I convinced myself that I needed to grow up to become a successful female horror writer.  I mean, I could scare my little brother half to death, why couldn’t I scare and disturb my peers as well?  Sadly, I was never able to gather the inner strength needed to showcase my talents to my peers.  I secretly blamed my poopy head parents.

In the seventh grade, we were required to write weekly themes of fiction for English class.  The teacher liked to nurture creative writing and always made sure to pull me aside after class to let me know that my works were very “creative.”  All the while, my peers were telling me that I was weird and that I had bad hair.  My fevered brain laboring under my budding teenage angst secretly blamed my poopy head parents.

In high school, I took Honors English classes and really enjoyed the reading and writing encouraged there.  I was always in really good with my teachers and had a reborn sense of confidence in my abilities to spin a yarn.  I was nowhere near as confident as I was in those early years (thanks, again, to the poopy head parents), but I was starting to believe in myself again.

My Senior year of high school I entered a writing contest.  It was a voluntary writing contest given to all students in the county.  One winner would be chosen from all of the participants and the prize was little more than recognition and a certificate.  Really, I wanted to see if I could do it.  And I did.  Out of all of the kids in the county who participated, I won.  I gathered my certificate and handshake from the principal, took it home, and put it in the top left drawer of my desk.  I didn’t tell anybody about it.

When I applied for college, I took that certificate to the university councilor who was assigned to me, and it impressed her so much that she let me bypass two “pre” classes and gave me direct admission to the School of Journalism.  Well, that certificate and my G.P.A., but the councilor really was quite impressed with me.  I didn’t call her a poopy head.

In college I excelled in all my writing classes.  I hated writing Journalism, yet I was good at it.  What I still loved was the fiction writing that my English professors assigned.  I’d read them in front of my classes and my class mates would laugh at the funny scenario I’d written.  That made me feel so damned good.  I stopped calling my parents poopy heads.

Once the poopy head mentality towards my parents stopped, I began to understand myself a little better.  I’m smart, but no more so than anybody else.  I’m talented, but not on any sort of epic scale.  I’m funny, but nobody would pay money to hear me tell a joke.  I’m very “meh”, and the weird thing about that revelation is that I’m totally okay with it.  Had my immense talents as a child prodigy been nurtured more by my parents, I might have grown up thinking I was better than what I am.  I might have thought more of myself than I deserved.  In truth, those poopy heads laughing at my genius helped ground me, whether they realized it or not.  And every time one of them finds it necessary to remind me of the “skippy dippy” story, my resolve to not take myself too seriously is renewed.

And yes, I’m reminded of that fucking “skippy dippy” story at least once a month by one or the other.  Damn my genius!

Oh, it wasn’t always like that.  We had to do a trial by fire to learn how to calm the hell down where money was concerned.  We learned young, and we learned hard.

I was 19 when we moved in together.  We moved into a small trailer in our college town.  It was our first love nest.  Things were cheap, which was good since we were both still in school.  We both worked as work studies and made next to nothing.  We lived lean, but that was okay with us.

We had two credit cards, one in his name and one in my name.  Both had insanely small limits so we were never in any horrible danger of getting in over our heads.  The credit cards were used mainly as a way to break the monotony of being broke by splurging on dinner and a movie every now and then.

Then about a year later my mom moved to PA to live with her boyfriend.  We took over her house and her mortgage payments.  The mortgage payments were actually a little bit cheaper than the monthly lot rental we paid on the trailer.  We thought we’d found a sweet deal.  But then we discovered termites.  And a completely rotten roof.  And a completely rotten exterior wall.  And a rotten floor.  And sub-par electrical wiring.  And burst water pipes.

By this time, Jessie had gotten his degree and was working for an upstart company (it’s only employee) and was making $20k a year.  With my still being in school and doing my work study program, we weren’t bringing in much more than $23k a year together.

I can blame the hardships on that house falling to shit.  In all honesty it was part of the problem.  But we had a lot of help, too.  I can blame the credit card debt on the fact that we were promised a lot more help with the paying of our wedding than we actually received.  A lot of shitty circumstances came our way all at once and we were bulldozed into a corner.

The simple truth is that we were young, inexperienced, and not as careful as we could have been.  I dropped out of school and got a job.  Jessie got a raise to $30k a year.  That helped a little, but we ended up in that vicious cycle of paying the minimum payment on our credit cards (one of which had a limit on it far too high for us to keep up with) and then not having enough money to pay bills and buy food, so we’d have to use the credit cards to take care of that stuff.  We fought a lot about money in those days.

Then the offer was made to move to Seattle.  The small company was wanting to expand and WV simply wasn’t the place in which to do that.  We seized an opportunity to leave WV (something so few residents of that state actually do) and left for the West coast.

WV is a poverty state.  When we left, the number one employer in our area was Walmart.  Food is cheaper there.  Utilities are cheaper.  Living was cheaper.  We suffered from a massive and constant case of sticker shock for about 6 months when we first got to Washington.  And yet another set of unfortunate circumstances gripped us.  We were 3,000 miles from anyone and anything we ever knew.  We were without a car, and although the one person we knew in the area had previously offered to be of help in the transportation department, we soon learned he was a bit of an unreliable flake.  Jessie had to get to work, so we had to buy a car.  Not knowing that you could get financing on used cars (again, we were young) we bought a new car.  We were able to get a good price on it, but it was still a NEW CAR.

Jessie was given a raise upon moving to Washington to $40k, but once we got there and started paying rent on our scary little apartment in the middle of gang-murder-town and buying groceries, we learned that $40k was going to cause us to sink.

That feeling of knowing that things are spiraling out of control was unbearable for the both of us.  That constant panic that we could possibly be homeless so far away from family and friends scared us to death.  We never confided in anybody our situation because we were dead set on doing this thing on our own, but it was starting to get out of our hands.

Then we decided to file for bankruptcy.  This was back in 2006, before the economy went all the hell.  This was before bankruptcy laws were changed.  At first we contacted a lawyer.  He was over-zealous about getting ALL of our debt cleared.  We weren’t ok with that.  We wanted to continue making payments on our car and to pay off one small credit card on our own.  He argued with us.  We went the online route and paid a small fee to an agency that helped us with the paperwork, gave us online financial classes, and got us through that whole humiliating process rather quickly and painlessly.

That period of constant freaking out, living off of beans and hotdogs only, and eating a big fat piece of humble pie taught Jessie and I that of all the things in life to fight about, money was the most useless.  Not even with the insurance reaming we got when I had Lukas did we fight over money.  We learned that lesson.

We didn’t tell anyone about our filing for bankruptcy.  It’s something that we both feel we need to be ashamed of.  But seeing how the economy is now, and how hard it is hitting some people, I thought it might be helpful to one or two people to write about my story.  I asked Jessie if it was ok, and explained to him why I wanted to write about it (we still haven’t told many people about this) and he agreed it would be helpful.

I’m writing this to let you know that there is a light at the end of the tunnel.  There is a pasture on the other side of the fence with green grass and cool water.  With a little organization, penny pinching and some good decisions, I am in that green pasture.  Here I am, 4 years after the bankruptcy a homeowner.  We bought a house.  That’s huge.  We had a credit score good enough in this shitty economy to even get a terrific interest rate on our mortgage.  We still drive that car that we bought new in Washington.  It’s our only car and is 18 months away from being paid off.  We can take small vacations.  We can afford to go out to dinner every now and then.  We have two credit cards that are in no way choking us.  We can afford to spoil our kids.

It’s not the end of the world.  It’s hard and it’s painful to go through, but you’ve just got to pick yourself up by the bootstraps and charge forward.  It also taught Jessie and I to be self-reliant.  We know that we can live far away from family and live just fine with no help.  That sense of independence has been precious to both of us.  We know that we don’t NEED anything from anybody else.  We’ve got each other and that’s all we NEED.  It’s a weird thing to take away from such an experience, but it’s something we are both so glad to have.

I hope someone can find this and find some sunshine in it.  I hope someone who is starting to lose their grip on their finances sees this and says, “Well if she can get through it, so can I!”  And if I can be of any help in that department by imparting the wisdom that I gained from the experience, please feel free to email me (contact info is under the ABOUT tab at the top).  I’m more than happy to be of assistance.

Friday, Jessie left work early and we went to my mom’s house.  My mom and step father are out of town but they gave us permission to use their pool and cabana while they were gone.  I spent that Friday cooking fried chicken for a picnic while some weird cable guy was in my house for almost 2 hours trying to ignore what I was telling him.  Want me to go into that story?  Too bad, I’m doing it anyhow.

Ever since our cable company has made the switch to where you need a digital cable box to get even basic channels and we got a second box just for that reason, we have been having horrid problems.  We subscribe to a bundle package where we have cable television, cable internet and the cable telephone.  Once we got the second box, things started fucking up.  On Demand wouldn’t work and the phone and internet kept going out.  I don’t like being without internet, but it really pissed me off that we were paying for phone service that was really unreliable.  They sent a workman out.  This guy was really super nice.  He kept me informed of what he was doing and when he found the problem he tried his best to explain it to me even though it was way over my head.  Basically maintenance had to come out to my house and replace wires and couplings at the pole.  That still didn’t fix the problem.  They sent another workman out.  This guy was also extremely nice and he listened to me when I explained what the last guy had done and I suggested that perhaps this second cable box was causing the problem since the problems started when we got it.  He agreed and said that he would replace the second box no problem.  He had to try two different boxes before one worked and he even explained to me why the equipment sometimes didn’t work.  He was awesome.  Well the new box fixed the On Demand problem but not the phone and internet problem.  *sigh*  They sent out another workman.  This guy was a doofus.  The best way I can describe it to you (especially my WV readers) is that he was a know-it-all redneck.  You know, the guy who thinks he knows how everything works and will not listen to reason.  Basically he came and stood in my living room (where there is NO cable equipment) and talked to himself for about five minutes….thoroughly creeping me out in the process.  Then he asked me what the problem was.  I explained to him that the phone and internet kept going out.  He then started going through the same long process that the first guy went through.  I stopped him and explained to him that he was the third workman who had come to our house about this problem and that he might want to look at the modem first.  Then I heard the signature know-it-all redneck line:  “I’m gonna tell you right now that your numbers are going to be out of whack!”

I tried not to laugh because he reminded me so much of a dumbass a friend of mine used to be married to.  So he looked at the numbers and then stood in my backyard talking to himself a while longer.  Then he came to me and asked me to show him where the cable modem was.  I showed it to him and you know what he ended up having to do?  Change out the modem.  Like I suggested he should try.  He was at my house for almost 2 hours.  But, the good news is that it seems to have fixed the problem.  I’m not really miffed at the cable company.  When we call, the people are always super nice and they always send a workman out the very next day.  And up until know-it-all showed up, the workman have all been awesome.  I hope the problem is fixed though.

ANYHOW, we spent the evening at my mom’s house swimming in the pool and just enjoying each other.  That night, we let off a few small fireworks to try to get Lukas excited for the 4th.  He wasn’t very interested.

Saturday, we went to a local lake to try fishing only to find that with all of the jet skis and motor boats (and lack of fishing areas) there was no chance we were going to get any fishing done there.  So, we shrugged it off and went back to mom’s house and spent that very hot day lounging in a pool.  It was a great day.

Sunday we were pooped and decided to stay home in the air conditioning.  That night, we grilled out and let off fireworks.  Again, Lukas could have cared less.  Jessie and I made clowns of ourselves playing with sparklers and doing stupid stuff trying to get his interest, and he ended up getting really annoyed with us.  Then we brought out the big noisy fireworks and he was still not having it.  Oh well, maybe next year.

Today we WERE going to stay home and just chill, but in the middle of writing this post, my mom called from her car on her way home from Philly and asked if we wanted to come over today.  I know part of the invitation is because it is hot as hell outside, but I know she really just wants to see Lukas.  It makes me a little misty-eyed to know that my mom will probably be to my kids what her mother was to my brother and I.  It makes me happy they will have that kind of connection with someone outside of their parents.

So I am finishing this blog right now with a very excited toddler pulling at my arm screaming “GRANDMA’S HOUSE” and “BIG WA WA” in my ear.  It’s cute and annoying all at once. I’ll end this with some awesome pictures from the weekend.  I have videos as well, but I’ll make a separate post for those.

I don’t know if it is a Lukas-thing or a little boy-thing, but this kid LOVES being naked, and I know my mom will get a good laugh out of seeing him running around bare-ass on her patio.  I also love my censor-the-winky job.

He was more interested in the mac n’ cheese than in the fireworks.

It was a good holiday.  Stresses were forgotten and I remembered to count myself as lucky to have two sweet faces smiling at me when I looked up.  Soon it will be three sweet faces.  Life is good.