Aliens abducted my children and replaced them with exact, giant replicas that are NICE to each other.

Creepin’ me out, man.

Yesterday, the girl was disappointed because I couldn’t ditch work and take her up to the school to shoot hoops. (side note: the girl begins her illustrious basketball career tomorrow. Look for the Air Jaggers shoe (sizes 11 and up, only) in a store near you, soon). When the boy got home, she asked him to take her.

AND HE DID.

But first, he insisted on filling her ball with more air. And then he walked her to the school and gave her pointers while she practiced.

“And then he laid down and watched me for awhile.” Well, that’s normal, anyway.

Freaky kids. I think I like it.

When I was 16, I had a job writing movie reviews for the local Catholic newspaper. I was limited to anything rated PG or G, naturally. The first review I wrote was for that box office hit, Harry and The Hendersons. (Don’t bother; it was stupid.)

I’m reminded of that on a regular basis. Why? Because a couple named the Hendersons had my office phone number before I did. I’ve had the number now for close to two years and STILL GET CALLS FOR THEM.

Today, someone really wanted to get ahold of old Robert and Loretta. Someone who wanted to place a COLLECT call. They tried four times. Enough for me to call my phone service and find out how to block them. The first question from the customer service person? “Are they in jail?”

Who knows! Hey Hendersons! Someone’s trying to reach you and PLEASE update your phone number in the dozens of files you have all over town.

I learned that it costs $2 a month to block all collect calls to your phone. Just in case this ever happens to you.

1. I didn’t buy the blue wig the FIRST time we saw one.
2. You cannot buy a pumpkin in Charlottesville if you wait until Oct. 28. (and dudes, no — I am not driving to Ruckersville for a pumpkin.)
3. I should have checked the Halloween costume box way before Oct. 28 to discover that the grim reaper getup exists only in my memory.
4. I cannot sew. Particularly not between Oct. 28 and Oct. 31, 2007.
5. I should not travel before/during any kid-important holiday. Or if I do, plan WAY ahead.

Worst. Mother. Ever. I found her in her room on the phone with giant cartoon tears rolling down her face. (Appropriate, actually since she’s going as an anime character.)

The good part? I remembered to buy candy and fashioned a costume out of four of the 41 black items of clothing I own.

I am forgiven.

I want to thank everyone who came out for the STL Blogger Gathering last night. We had 30 or so of the most attractive bloggers in St. Louis, sipping Pumpkin Ale at Schlafly Bottleworks well into the night.

I had a lot of fun meeting people I felt like I already knew, but more fun than that, was getting to watch other people connect. My favorite moment was when Benticore (Jerry) realized he was about to come face-to-face with Dwight Wannabe for the very first time. He was as nervous as a schoolgirl on her first date. And folks — I can attest to the fact that Dwight’s Beautiful Wife is indeed, beautiful.

Special thanks to Dana for promoting the gathering and showing up; to Jeanette (who has a wonderful voice) for promoting, coming and bringing readers; to Michelle for getting the blogging lawyers, Dennis Kennedy and Matt Homann (who, it turns out, works for a client of Standing’s) to show; to Liz, who now has a new blogger BFF; and to Raquita, whose life philosophy and sage advice keep us laughing and nodding in agreement; and to Todd Jordan (and Sharon, too) for the great photos and interesting conversation. Thanks also to the members of the Standing Partnership blogging team who were able to make it, including Cathy, Susan, Maria and Kristin. And of course, to my friends and nonbloggers, Trish, Ed and my “handler” Barry, who came out for moral support and to meet the bloggers, too.

There were a few moments that my heart just swelled with happiness; sitting at a table with Dwight, Dwight’s Beautiful Wife, Raquita and Jerry, I was so delighted that those four particular people in the world were together, that my eyes very nearly welled with tears; when Jerry extended his arms to give me a big bear hug before he left (what a sweetheart that guy is); (Oh and folks, I was huggier than I’ve ever been in my life, I think. EVERYONE got one) and when Dana and I were just CRACKING up during some silly conversation (btw, I am so much taller).

Todd Jordan and my friend Trish took a great set of photos: clickety for the slideshow.

I had a blast, and I think everyone else did, too.

What do you MEAN this is the first you’ve heard of it? All the cool kids will be at the STL Blogger Gathering tonight at Schlafly Bottleworks. Don’t worry — they know we’re coming — and are excited about dozens close to a hundred (hey — could be!) bloggers descending upon the establishment. Here is the important stuff you need to know.

Some ground rules:

Share your URL on your nametag. If you’re anonymous, don’t feel obligated to share your name, but give us something to call you, anyway.

I’m not really a stranger hugger. If we’ve been reading one another and commenting reciprocally for awhile, you might get one. If not, I’m totally down with the handshake.

Be friendly. Yeah, you’re going to have to converse with some people you may never have heard of, but hey, everyone’s a stranger until they meet, right?

Go ahead and share the gathering info with fellow bloggers and your blog supporters. It’s time we all got together. This year, I attended BlogHer with 800 bloggers and BlogOrlando with close to 200. It’s an incredibly powerful experience to be in a room with a bunch of other bloggers. You’re going to love it!

More people I can’t wait to meet:

Marriage 101

BBMP Second Journal

Jeannette Eats Spaghetti

Operating Instructions, Please

Raquita — The Wise Old Black Lady in Training

Hoping to see YOU, too!

“I like the white, ruffly part of your uniform.”

“It’s a dickey, Mom. A dickey.”

“Heh.” Snort.

Over the weekend, the girl’s feet grew again. She’s passed me up; now wearing a size 11 shoe. I said, “Prince has a song where he says, ‘act your age, not your shoe size.’ I guess that doesn’t really apply here.”

I won’t tease her about it (too much) because of my mother. My mom wore a size 10 when she was about 13 years old. She’s told me the story many times, about going to the shoe store and having some insensitive moron of a shoe salesman tell her, “If your feet get any bigger, you’ll have to wear the shoebox.”

She’s been carrying around that story for 60 years.

So when my daughter had her feet measured over the weekend, the salesperson suggested she look at mens’ shoes (we were shopping for basketball shoes). My daughter was mortified. She obliging tried on a giant pair of Nikes but wanted to go home and research pink basketball shoes online. We did, but didn’t buy any yet because what she liked was a pair for $110. That’s a bit much for someone whose feet I’m not certain are done growing.

At coffee Monday morning, my friend told me about a friend of hers whose daughter wears a size 13. When her daughter needs dress shoes, the mom shops at a resale store in downtown Charlottesville, that carries the castoffs of local crossdressers. Who else has a need for size 13 pumps? So, C’villians, where is this store? We may need to shop with the crossdressers, soon.

On Saturday morning, I bought one of these. If you know me well enough, say, to know my middle name and how I like my coffee, you might know that I spent several years selling appliances at Sears. Put me through college, it did; straight commission, too. Fortunately or unfortunately, I’ve managed to retain my vast knowledge on all things appliance related. Dishwashers are my favorite. I am extremely picky about dishwashers. I sold all kitchen appliances and washers and dryers during my illustrious tenure. I ruined my feet and made some great friends, too. I learned a lot; about people, about selling and about myself.

Since then (beginning in 1990) I’ve been the appliance buying consultant to family and friends. Since I kissed that nametag and timecard goodbye going on eleven years ago, it’s kind of flattering that I’m still everyone’s call when it comes to the tools that make their kitchen and laundry room operate. I’ve fielded more calls from people standing at the cash wrap in a Sears store than you would believe.

So in a way, it’s kind of thrilling when it’s my turn to play customer. Fortunately, it doesn’t happen often, but in the last five years I’ve purchased a washer, dryer, fridge and now, a range. All Kenmore, in case you’re wondering. The laundry appliances were made by Whirlpool. The fridge and range are made by G.E. I know what I’m doing. The range is Consumer Reports’ best choice and mine, too.

So the next time you’re facing a major appliance purchase, drop me a line. I’d love to help you out, commission free.

Can you find the boy?

I believe some people are hard-wired to be musicians. They hear music in the sounds that surround them, create music almost constantly, with and without instruments and will go to great lengths and in some cases, pain, to make music part of their everyday lives.

This is the story of two concerts.

On Saturday, we went to two shows: the state high school marching band festival and the Wilco show. During the first, we watched my son’s high school band march in the finest performance we’ve seen them give. If you’re familiar with the competitive underground culture that is high school marching, you’ll know what I mean when I say the band was completely in step; perfectly coordinated and right on with the music, hitting every note and beat. They earned a superior ranking for their performance.

I tried really hard not to think about the fact that this was the last time I’ll see my son march as a Patriot. (In competition, that is — there’s one football game left.) I didn’t cry, but I’m pretty sure I will at that last game.

Let me tell you something about marching band kids; they are, for the most part, fanatically in love with what they do. They practice so hard their feet blister and fall off and they grow new ones. They carry, sometimes heavy, instruments at a prescribed angle and this is the part that always gets me — MARCH AND PLAY AT THE SAME TIME.

Obviously, this is the part that escapes some people right off the bat. The first day of marching band camp sees a lot of quitters, and rightfully so. My son, and yes, I’m crazy-proud of the kid, so let’s just get THAT out of the way — has worked his tail off playing trombone since he was in fifth grade. Now, at age 17, he’s been marching for four years, in two marching bands. He is freakishly dedicated to the sport (and if you think it’s not, YOU try it) and, in fact, plans to make it a big part of his professional life. He amazes me.

He’s one of those people, too — always humming, singing, tapping or listening — he says he has always known this is his passion. He cannot remember a time that music wasn’t important to him.

Later, we headed downtown to see Wilco. Right from the start I was having fun watching drummer Ken Coomer (sing it with me: “she fell in love with a drummer, another and another, she fell in love,”). He’s one of those guys, too. A hard-wired, beat loving, drumming fanatic — he’s probably the drummer I’d call “most fun to watch” of all the drummers I’ve ever seen.

The show was great; the last of the tour (bands seem to like to end up in Charlottesville, and its usually special for us, too.) Tweedy was not as conversational as he is in his solo shows, but delighted the crowd with as simple as a, “how ya doin’?”

In the front row, there was a small girl of eight who joined him for “Hummingbird,” singing and dancing alongside him – apparently she’s helped him out for four shows — since she was six. Crowds just love that stuff, and Tweedy knows it.

There were, I think (I lost count), four encores. The cynical part of me shouted, “Milking it!” but my concert companions insisted it was a special treat, going off the set list and giving us an extra half hour or more of songs.

Wilco has roots in St. Louis –  Jeff Tweedy is from Belleville, Ill. — and songs like “Casino Queen” and the reference to the Landing in “Heavy Metal Drummer” are little shout outs to home. That, along with the fact that St. Louis friends had seen the same show, earlier in the tour, made it all feel like a big, fat musical postcard from home. I was able to imagine my friends having the same experience at a different time in another city, but somehow it connected us and made it all the more special.

I didn’t cry at this one, either, but there was a moment. Sometimes when I’m going out of town, or when I’ve just come home, Mark will play (or sing) “Hate it Here,” and it breaks my heart. An excerpt:

“I try to stay busy
I do the dishes, I mow the lawn
I try to keep myself occupied
Even though I know you’re not coming home

I try to keep the house nice and neat
I make my bed I change the sheets
I even learned how to use the washing machine
But keeping things clean doesn’t change anything

I hate it
I hate it here
When you’re gone” I’m not a musician, but I have a deep appreciation for what it takes to be one; to get out there and play your heart out night after night. If you know someone who loves music down to their core, take a minute to think about the thousands of hours that went into what they’re sharing with you, and don’t forget to let them know that you think what they’re doing rocks.

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