ANYWAY, you should totally do something awesome for someone else. I will even tell you two awesome things you can do without even getting off your computer.

1. My ladyblogging Kelly who works in education (not to be confused with my other ladyblogging friend Kelly who works in education) is asking folks to throw a little support to Mr. C, a special education teacher looking to make a difference in his classroom by using iPods and iPads as a replacement for his busted computer situation. I’ve written before about how great Donors Choose is, and if you are looking for a way to give a small amount of money to a very worthy cause, this is your chance. Please think about helping out Mr. C and his classroom. If you can’t donate, you can vote for Mr. C and his project to get funding through Limeaids for Learning.

2. Another blogging friend, Jason, from Outnumbered, just wrote a children’s book. If you were at BlogHer, you would remember Jason as the lone dude who spoke at the Community Keynote. He also let me ride a scooter in his office, because that’s the kind of guy he is and the kind of office he’s got. Not relevant. He wrote a children’s book, called Do Witches Make Fishes? and Jason is donating all the proceeds from the sale of the book to the Garden of Dreams Foundation. About the book:

Do Witches Make Fishes? is the moral tale of a young boy who favors candy over his mother’s outlandish but healthy dishes. When faced with an ultimatum from his mother, the boy has to make a difficult choice. What ensues is a series of extraordinary and fantastical events that will take the reader on a magical journey through the imagination of a child. In the end, you will find yourself asking, Do Witches Make Fishes?

So, yeah, if you have a kid in your life, you should probably buy them this book and then read it to them and feel warm and snuggly all over.

Other awesome things you could do would be come over and patch up the giant hole in the drywall that Neko scratched or bring me a grape snocone. Just suggestions.

LouFest is an unfortunately-named first-year music festival held in St Louis’s crown jewel, Forest Park, where Chris and I got married. The lineup was impressive (She&Him, Broken Social Scene, Lucero, Built to Spill, Jeff Tweedy), but not packed with bands we actively follow and love. Normally, we would have totally been down for going both days, but we ultimately decided not to spend the money on two-day passes for both of us. It seemed like my entire Twitter feed was going, though, and Friday I just decided to go for it and told my boy Mike D. that I was going to join him on Saturday.

I’m glad I did. I’ve been to festivals before, and this one had many small touches that made it truly enjoyable.

• First off, no fees for tickets. At all. I don’t care if they folded whatever fees they had into the costs, I appreciate the fact that if the one-day pass was listed at $38, that’s what it cost me. Fuck Ticketmaster and their “convenience” fee, because anyone who has ever dealt with Ticketmaster in the last ten years knows it is anything but convenient.
• The organizers purposely made the festival grounds larger than the expected attendance so the festival wouldn’t feel crowded. THANK JEEBUS. I hate crowds, and at festivals, I think you should absolutely be able to spread out a blanket on the perimeter and chill out without some dirty hippie hitting you with their devil sticks. My anxiety thanks you.
• Speaking of dirty hippies, this was far and away the cleanest festival I’ve ever been to. Long story, but I had blisters on my feet, so I decided to give it a go barefoot, and it was no big deal, at all. I stepped in beer once. That was it. The port-a-potties were new and clean and there were few, if any, lines. There were copious recycling booths, manned with staff, for both recycling and composting, and I’m pretty sure people actually used them.
• Also speaking of dirty hippies, I witnessed no tomfoolery of the obnoxious kind at all. I didn’t seen obnoxiously drunk people who were harshing others’ mellow. I saw no folks makin’ sexy time in public. There were no devil sticks or hacky sacks or meatheads or creepers. I didn’t see one security person have to swoop in and bust anyone. I don’t know that I noticed one security person, period. People acted like grown folks. In fact, there were many children there and they didn’t even annoy me once, mostly because I wish I was a cool enough seven-year-old to be rockin’ a Wilco shirt and giant noise-muting headphones while playing with dinosaurs at a music festival. Rock the cradle, bitches.
• The vendors were great. Food was from actual restaurants in St Louis, some I frequently patronize like Local Harvest. There were tons of vegetarian options, and much more than just fried monstrosities. Not that I don’t enjoy fried monstrosities, but not on hot days unless I’m at the Iowa State Fair or another place that offers deep-fried cheese curds. There were crepes and tacos and gazpacho and gyros and many other food items. And sushi, which I would never eat at a summertime music festival, but that’s me.  Beer was reasonable, too, at $5 for Schlafly, which is cheaper than the ballpark, for sure.

Basically, the organizers decided to make a music festival that eliminated all the things I hate about festivals. Epic win. The music was boss as hell. Lucero proved how hardcore they are and Broken Social Scene melted my face off. Same old, same old. I saw about a million people I knew, most from the innerwebs. Hey, everybody! I’m glad I saw you. Or, I’m sorry I didn’t see you. Next time!

I probably should have headed up there Sunday, too, but I hadn’t seen Chris in forever, so we, along with our friend Josh, went to the Festival of Nations in Tower Grove Park.

We went to the Festival of Nations to eat some food, period. But, holy shit, I could not believe how many people were at the park. It was insane. It was not a situation where you could eat and stroll comfortably. I was totally overwhelmed by the options for food. The various meats on a stick alone were enough to boggle the mind. We consumed plenty of that, as well as fruity beverages otherwise absent in our everyday lives. I won’t opine on the details of our culinary adventure other than to say this: Chris ate some Thai chicken satay (his first Thai ever) and said it was good and he would go eat Thai if he could have that.

DUDE. THIS IS MONUMENTAL. I love my husband and he generally humors my monumentally more-adventurous palate to make me happy. But this is an entire new cuisine he will eat! We can go eat on South Grand! It’s a gateway drug into Vietnamese and then PHO VIETNAMESE COFFEE BANH FUCKING MI. Happy day, indeed.

So, yeah, braving the crowds, along with seeing some old guy in a KU hat scream and berate his wife in front of 10,000 people, was worth it if it means that my husband and I can eat Basil Spice together. And, yes, I almost kicked a dude in the junk when he yelled at his wife, with his finger in her face, “GO GET YOUR FOOD AND MAKE IT SNAPPY”. He actually said that exact thing. Fucking piece of shit asshole. Instead, I kicked myself for not having any of the little Safe Connections cards I have for this very situation to give this lady so she would have a place to get help if she was ready to leave. I had to settle instead for loudly talking about the guy as we stood two feet from him. I doubt it did much good. Any dude that would talk to his lady like that anywhere, let alone in public, is probably pretty oblivious to reality.

Other than that incident, I will say that the Festival of Nations was a fine example of how large, diverse, crowds composed of people of all ages and from all walks of live, can act responsibly and respectfully. I didn’t see any hooliganish behavior, only people eating and smiling and sweating. This weekend was a nice counterpoint to the comments section of any Post-Dispatch article, which is usually made up solely of people like the guy who yelled at his wife. It’s also an example of how food can bring people together. You know, it’s a lot harder to dehumanize and label people as “illegal” or “aliens” or “foreigners” when they openly and happily share their culture with you, particularly if said culture is tasty food. There’s room on the rock for everyone, people, and I, for one, welcome anyone to our particular corner. Except you, Glenn Beck. Please stay in your hole far away from me.

1. The work is straightforward. There is a list of things to do. I do them. While wearing Crocs.
2. I get to be around food and kitchen supplies. It’s hard not to ogle various pieces of Le Creuset and other tools I desperately NEED to achieve culinary greatness in my own home.
3. This is complicated by the fact that I get a nice discount. This is further complicated by the fact that Chris is adamant that I quit accumulating tools in the kitchen until we have more space.
4. I get to eat food. Generally, we get to eat whatever is being cooked in either kitchen classroom. During my first shift, I ate cheddar soup, stuffed peppers, cauliflower, shrimp and crab, apple pie, and four different pastas. I anticipate gaining back all the weight I lost in the last six months. We also get to take home leftovers.
5. We can take classes we’re not working for free. Which, um, AWESOME. Yes, I would like to learn how to butcher a pig.
6. I get to meet awesome chefs. Many chefs in St Louis teach classes here, and I will get to learn from them while helping them, as well as work with my many friends who teach classes here.

Yeah, I KNOW. It’s a pretty sweet deal, until someone my friends and I have offended comes in and uses every dish in both kitchens just to teach me a lesson about destroying businesses by tweeting about subpar food. The only downside is that most classes are on nights and weekends, which means less time with Chris, since he’s got work and school and it feels like he’s never home. I’m working tonight, he’s got his fake football draft all day tomorrow, I work Monday night, he’s got class Tuesday night, etc, etc. We’re like two ships passing in the night. <tear> I’m also waiting to hear back about another gig, so I might just be a working machine.

Anyway, I hope y’all get to enjoy gorgeous weather over the weekend. I’ll be heading to the Festival of Nations to get me some more tasty vittles. Because I love to eat.

In the meantime, Chris started school again this week, so I’m getting into a new routine without him and with these three animals. Neko believes that her role in my life is to supplant my alarm clock, and I awaken each morning to a 55-lb pitt mix sitting on my head, trying to gnaw my White Girl ‘Fro. Luckily, the heat has broken, at least temporarily, so each day starts with a walk. This allows the dogs to run their crazy off so when we come home, they are knocked out and I can get something done while my body absorbs the methane steadily leaking out of sleeping dogs’s asses, which I prefer over incessant barking at phantom menaces like the dishwasher, the television, and sunflowers.

Here’s another question for you wise readers: I’m fairly certain that this blog and my blogging in general is going to come up at some point in this charter school process. The people I work with on our team are already aware of how I roll. I might not be their cup of tea, but they’ve known for a while that I do this, and it hasn’t been an issue, at least that I’m aware of. But I’m not naive, and I know people who are evaluating our plan probably do at least a little Googling.

My opinion is that my writing persona (which is damn close to my regular persona), no matter how opinionated and curse-y I am, shouldn’t influence my ability to kick ass in the professional world. I feel very, very strongly about that, because I know that I am knowledgeable in my field and I am more than capable of contributing to my field in ways that will benefit the community I serve. If people have a problem with the fact that I publicly talk about dog farts in my free time, I argue that they must not care too much about providing quality schools for kids, because I can do that, and do it well. While I recognize the need for relative discretion, I’ve also been in the position of having to delete and entire blog in order to protect my employment and I vowed I would never, ever let someone take my words away from me again. Plus, I’m in too many places to try to cover my tracks at this point. I’m slutty like that.

Then again, I may think I’m edgy, but someone on the charter school side of things told me I was “Stepford-ish” in our mayor’s presentation, so I guess I can’t win.

Your thoughts? If a stakeholder brings up this facet of my “public persona”, how should I deal with that?

ANYWAY, apparently the class at this particular parish is led by a nice married couple who asked the class what were the three ways a couple could avoid conception. According to the people teaching the class on the sexin’, those methods are:

1. Abstinence (no surprise here)
2. Hysterectomy
3. Vasectomy

Whaaaaa?  What about our good friends Oral and Anal? Or Mutual Masturbation? Are those tools of the Devil Gays? I mean, I get that the church is against contraception because they want to keep their legion strong or whatever, but two of the three options are INVASIVE SURGERIES. It’s like they’re trying to scare you into procreating.

My friend claimed the whole time she just wanted to yell “BUTT SEX” but she thought that maybe that might draw attention to the fact that her fiance was slumped over in boredom during the whole class and then they might not be able to get married in the church.

This got me thinking about Catholicism. I am not Catholic. My husband is a “recovering” Catholic. Pretty much almost all my friends, for the most part, were raised Catholic and are in varying stages of current practice, whether that be deeply spiritual or culturally obligated. Because at least half of the weddings we go to are Catholic, I’m fairly familiar with the requirements to get married in the Church as so many of our friends have fulfilled them. And pretty much all of them have either:

1. Agreed that the natural family planning sessions spread misinformation about sexual health.
2. Lied copiously on the questionnaires they must complete, usually regarding premarital sex or cohabitation.
3. Admitted that they were only doing it “for our parents”.

So my question is this: why would rational, non-practicing, sexually-active adults choose to go through all the bullshit? I mean, most of my friends going through these classes never go to church. Ever. And they’re probably admitted secular humanists, truth be told. Then again, people’s spirituality is quite private, and I would never assume that a friend thought one thing or another unless they specifically told me, so maybe I’m completely reading the situation wrong, but I don’t think I’m that far off in regards to many people I know.

I don’t mean this as an affront to anyone’s faith, and I’m truly not judging those who go through this process or any other sacrament. I am genuinely interested in this aspect of Catholicism. I can’t imagine that the priests or lay leaders who conduct these sessions think that no participants engage in premarital sex. If there’s a mutual acknowledgment of lying, but that lying is about rigid church dogma, isn’t the lying just as reprehensible as the act of, say premarital sex, or “butt sex”, or (GASP) PREMARITAL BUTT SEX (traffic, please!)? Are the priests and the participants are participating in a rouse in the name of church tradition, or are priests just that naive about young people today? (hold your jokes, I’m getting to that)

Of course, then I start thinking about the sex scandal surrounding Catholic priests, and how molestation of children by priests was not only an epidemic, but the church itself made a concerted effort to coverup the abuse allegations, allowing priests to continue to remain working in parishes and abusing children. If you haven’t seen Deliver Us From Evil, the documentary about a particular priest’s case, it’s on Netflix Watch Instantly, and I encourage you to watch it.  What struck me about this documentary was the idea of disillusionment. There was an interview with the parents of a child who suffered years of abuse at the hands of a priest who, once the allegations came to light, was simply shuttled from parish to parish, leaving many children in his wake. I had never considered how this type of abuse can emotionally damage all involved, not because the abuse itself is horrific for the families involved (it obviously is) but it damages the fundamental core of these families.

Imagine: you’re a devout Catholic, and your spiritual leader commits a horrific crime against your child. The church, to whom your faith is absolute, to whom you’ve entrusted your entire spiritual destiny, your immortal soul, not only refuses to make things right, but allows the same thing to happen to countless other families without any type of resolution, or explanation, or reparation. This has to completely shatter a person to the very core of what they believe alongside the damage done to a family when a child is abused.

Not all priests are like this. Not by a long shot. And I can’t imagine that parishioners weren’t outraged. So I wonder what kind of dialogue happened between archdioceses, priests, nuns, lay leaders, and parishioners surrounding the sex scandals. Were accountability measures taken? True accountability measures, not just ones to quell dissent? Is there even room in the Catholic church for dissent and subsequent change? And if the answer is no, how and why do devout Catholics continue on as parishioners?

There are still people my age who feel they have to go through the sacraments either because their families insist on it or because they want to save their immortal soul, even if they aren’t really sure they have immortal souls or that Catholicism is the way to save one. When we were planning our wedding, it was never a question whether or not we would be married in the church. I’m not Catholic, and I’m not going to pretend to be one or go through rituals that are meaningless to me for my spouse’s family, and Chris would never ask me to. This was a bone of contention with a (very) few members of Chris’s family. One went so far as to say that she did not view our marriage as valid. But this is just our experience, and I can’t judge others who make different decisions. I just want to know what about Catholicism, with all it’s obvious flaws and faults and hypocrisies, still has a pull on people my age who see through the dogma. As an outsider immersed in a city entrenched in Catholic culture, I can’t help but ask questions about these things.

Is anyone willing to talk about this? I ask that the discussion stay civil in the name of discourse. Of course, kid-touching priests are fair game, but other than those fuckers, let’s keep it respectful.

There are fewer things better for the mind and soul than having high hopes that people you admire will like you back should you meet them and those hopes coming true. I think many of us still hold on to feelings of rejection from middle school or high school, and those can resurface at events like BlogHer. And when people aren’t snobs, and instead embrace you willingly, with arms oustretched, and shower you with positive thoughts, well, it’s nice. It’s better than nice. It’s fan-fucking-tastic. I finally met so many awesome, amazing people I’ve been sharing my life with online, and they were smarter, and funnier, and more intelligent and fun than I thought possible. And when I met these people, they gave me giant, genuine, real hugs. The level of positivity and emotional generosity is unlike anything I’ve experienced.

The highlights:

• Our MamaPop writers’ party was a low-key, burrito-booze-and-karaoke-fueled lovefest. These people are witty, smart, creative, foul-mouthed, and snarky, and I feel so lucky that they welcomed me into their island of misfit bloggers. I gladly spent a lot of my time with these people during the conference, and they are now like family to me. I mean, I really can’t say enough awesome things about everyone.
• The lovely and talented Melissa Locker, she of many pseudonyms and longtime Television Without Pity writer (as well as part of the MamaPop posse) let me pick her brain about recapping as aforementioned party. I’ve been reading TWoP since the NINETIES, people, since it was Mighty Big TV and I found it because I needed Dawson’s Creek recaps. That’s longevity. In terms of writing about television, it’s like getting to talk sports with Bill Simmons.
• The Community Keynote, where I listened to ridiculously- talented bloggers read the best posts of the year in a celebration of the craft of writing. Anyone who says bloggers aren’t real writers has obviously never read these (mostly) women, and I highly recommend you take a look at their posts. I also thoroughly enjoyed several sessions I went to, namely the humor writing panel, the creativity writing panel, the sex (rawr!) panel, and my dear friend Goon Squad Sarah‘s women and sports panel. I was so glad that BlogHer decided to have a full-on writing track this year; it can be frustrating when the majority of sessions feel like they’re either exclusively for mommybloggers or geared towards “monitization”. Those are fine, but blogging is about writing. It shouldn’t be a question as to whether or not there are writing sessions, and I think the number of audience members in attendance speaks volumes. I hope BlogHer makes it a permanent fixture.
• I ate an impromptu Korean dinner with the flat-out incredible Chookooloonks, Knotty Yarn, and Mocha Momma, all of whom are some of the most intelligent, gracious, talented ladies, yet so down-to-earth and hilarious. With them, I experienced some of the most stimulating conversation I’ve had in a while, despite pretty much being agog the whole time at their fabulosity.

• SPARKLE-FUCKING-CORN. A ballroom full of pop culture posters, life-sized cutouts, glow necklaces, PopRocks, 80′s dance music, a disco ball, the above cake made by Charm City Cakes (yes, from Ace of Cakes, MP has Baltimore in the hizzy), and the best damn dance party you’ve ever been to. I’ll let you in on a secret: 45 minutes before the party was scheduled to start, the ballroom was still set up with tables and chairs from earlier events. The Hilton staff busted their asses to get tables, chairs, and a dance floor set up (there was a crane!) while MamaPoppers furiously decorated. It was madness and chaos for those 45 minutes, but it came together just in time to grab a drink before the doors opened and the fun began. Ah, teamwork. It was exhilarating to see hundreds of women cutting loose in uninhibited joy and, for me, indicative of the very best of BlogHer. No swagwhoring, no cattiness, no self-consciousness, just a pure celebration of community.
• Post-party, we grabbed some burgers from the CheeseburgHer party and headed to the hotel bar, which we closed down, finally leaving as we realized the last employee was vacuuming around us. It was a sheer lovefest not unlike the last day of summer camp. I just didn’t want it to end. I’m now pretty sold on moving to Saskatchewan so I can start a polyamorous commune with Schmutzie (who took the above cakery photo) and Palinode when the US inevitably ruins itself. Chris doesn’t realize he’s got a ready and waiting brother husband in Regina (which rhymes with vagina, if you were unaware).

Also of note:

• I absolutely could not believe how smoothly the conference ran. We’re talking about 2400 attendees, plus sponsors, and the worst problem was the crowded elevators. Every single Hilton employee I encountered was friendly and helpful, and a few went out of their way to help. The BlogHer staff really streamlined the event compared to last year; the improvements were noticeable and appreciated.
• My roommates were lovely and so low-key and drama-free. I’d room with them again in a heartbeat.

• Here’s the beautiful piece of art James Bengel created inspired by my Her Story post. It will be auctioned off soon with the proceeds going to aid in Gulf relief.

I know there’s more; I hung out with so many damned cool people I couldn‘t possibly name them all. But let me say this: if you’ve ever thought about going to BlogHer and didn’t because you were intimidated by the size, or didn’t want to be pigeonholed as a mommyblogger, or hated the thought of all the crazy people competing over who got the best free stuff (oh, trust me, there was plenty of that, but I just avoided it), or are just a shy person who thinks you have no business hobnobbing with the likes of The Pioneer Woman, I urge you to let that all go. You can avoid all of those things and get down to the really valuable stuff, which is becoming part of an empowering, positive, supportive community of writers who will embrace you for exactly who you are. If I told you the traffic stats for my blog, you would laugh at the thought that some of the abovementioned people would be in the same room as me. I’m totally Z-List. Well, maybe W-List, now, but NO ONE WORTH A DAMN CARES, and those that do, well, they can go eat a bowlful of unicorn horns.

San Diego, baby. Same time, next year.

The house had three bedrooms: one for my parents, one for us, and one for my brother and sister-in-law. My other brother, Jake, got a pullout. I guess when you turn 30, it’s full on Real World rules, because Andrew and Liz snagged the better bedroom since they got there first. When I say “better”, I mean that their bedroom had both a double bed and a door, neither of which Chris and I had. We got child-sized bunk beds in a room with no door. It was like I was in high school and my parents reluctantly said my boyfriend could come on vacation with us but they wanted to make sure there would be no privates touching, ever. Not, you know, like we’ve been married for almost five years, even if Rev Em was the officiant. Fine, if you guys don’t want grandkids, that’s your decision, KIM AND ED.

Also, Kim said that my grandma told her that she read on Twitter that I got fake boobs for my birthday. Grandma, I was being sarcastic. That, or you thought that when I tweeted that I got a part-time job, you thought that the only job I would be able to get on my own was a boob job. I still have the same little boobs, Grandma. Don’t worry.  Also, turn off caps lock. I miss you!

ANYWAY, Clear Lake is long-established as a popular vacation spot, the Dirty Dancing of Iowa, if you will, which means there is a hell of a lot less watermelon carrying but some rich people. I mean, there’s totally a town and gown vibe. It feels like every inch of property is a) developed and b) covered in nautical or patriotic decor. We cruised around the lake and gaped at people’s second homes, favorite activity of middle-class people everywhere.  Jealousy, we has it. Listen, though, Clear Lake is this totally idyllic, picturesque hamlet. I mean, there’s a town square with a bandshell and on Sunday morning there were legions of people just out and about, NO JOKE having picnics and racing sailboats and riding pegasuses and stuff.  The weather was 80° the whole time we were there, maybe even a little cooler at night, and it was heaven compared to the 100°+ humidity of St Louis.

Us? We don’t really do the whole regatta thing. We just drank booze and pontooned around and ate chips and dip. Those of you who were born and raised outside of Iowa are really missing out on the sour cream dip varieties available thanks to Anderson Erickson Dairy. I mean, there’s a whole world out there beyond french onion, and your chips are really missing out. Every now and again we docked at the Marina and went to the Tiki Bar, which, coincidentally, has the best fried cheese curds I’ve ever had outside the Iowa State Fair. They were worth listening to only Jimmy Buffett and country the entire time we were at the bar. This guy just swam up in his jeans, I think.

We also borrowed a friend’s jetski. My mom bought me these boss water shoes that may come in handy should I ever decide to float the River Des Peres.

Have you guys seen those frozen drink pouches? They are called *snort* Dailys, and they are giant juice-pouches with booze in them. They’re totally sugary and headache inducing and full of win. It’s like someone just knew about my struggle to tart up my Capri Suns with a syringe and wanted to grant me a wish. My mom bought me and my sister in-law some while we went shopping at stores that sell things with rhinestones and feathers and animal prints. Kim hooked it up the whole trip. This lady knows how to keep her kids stocked in chips and dip and peach cobbler. Ed, too. The man pretty much took us on a tour of fried cheese curds of the lakeshore and played stellar boat captain.

There are few better feelings than skimming along a lake, the cool wind washing over you, and the sun gleaming on the water. It is pure joy. I felt so lucky that I got to spend a few days doing so with my family.

See the whole Flickr set here.

1. Begin staining process. Convince husband that he really has to do the staining himself because you would mess it up.
2. Start to believe it yourself.
3. Realize this process is taking four times as long as you had planned.
4. Feign normalcy by inviting friend and three-year old daughter over to lunch in the basement. Reassure three-year old, upon urinating on the floor, that she wasn’t the first to pee on the floor that day.
5. Resume role filling scratches and holes with wood putty because you are an equal partner in this project.
6. Go ladycamping while husband stays behind to stain. Decorate your own coozie and drink vodka-spiked Capri Suns. Talk about periods.
7. Realize giant pimp tent is less claustrophobic than basement, smells better.
8. Return to beautiful, untouchable floors.
9. Clean up basement dog pee, vomit, poop, and shredded personal items.
10. Repeat #9.
11. Repeat #10
12. Referee countless rounds of Basement Dog Thunderdome.
13. Thank Baby Jesus for awesome husband as he seals the floors.
14. Agree to do all tangential helper-type activities until floors are finished.
15. Do that shit with a smile.
16. Relax in clean, fresh, carpet-free bedroom. Breathe.



Please to ignore our bare bedroom. We’ve only moved essentials thus far. More pics on Flickr.

Chris threw me a super-fun party for my birthday at Saratoga Lanes in Maplewood. It’s the oldest bowling alley west of the Mississippi, a second-floor joint with eight lanes (hand scoring) and lots of room for food, boozing, pool, and watching the World Cup final, which was less-than-exciting. And, of course, bowling. Many of my friends came and I thought we had a blast. Thanks to all who came out and rolled.

In addition:

• Our charter school had our review with the Mayor’s Advisory Panel Wednesday, and it went really, really well. I didn’t even make any wiener jokes. One member of the panel (who is the superintendent of one of the largest and most lauded districts in the state–where Chris works) said our curriculum and instruction plan was the best he’s seen from a charter. Things are starting to move, and hopefully we’ll have a facility finalized by the end of September, if things go as planned.
• You probably think I forgot about hardwood floors part 2, but oh, ho, ho, no sir. We just haven’t even stained yet. Maybe tonight. Things have been crazy around here, and if we wait any longer, the floors are going to be stained with two solid coats of dog pee and then where will we be?
• If you are in St Louis and you blog and have a vagina (or wish you did), come to our Pre-BlogHer meetup. I can’t say for sure, but a little bird told me there may be swag from Metamucil. Iron Stef says that digestive health is important at any age. Anyway, details are at that link, and please do RSVP. I highly recommend you come if only to try Schlafly’s AIPA if you haven’t already. It is so choice.
• So! Remember when I was flying Southwest and the flight attendant said not nice things about liberals and Spanish-speakers? And I got some canned replies from Southwest with a “we’re sorry if you were offended, but we’re just having fun!” non-apology? This week, I got a real, not-canned, e-mail apologizing in a pretty sincere way and acknowledging that maybe I was right to be offended. Plus a $150 travel voucher. So we’re all squared up, and I salute Southwest for how they handled it in the end. Honestly, I wasn’t out to get anything free. I just wanted them to know that that type of noise isn’t okay, and I think they got the message and I’ll continue to fly them.
• It’s so, so, so hot in St Louis. There’s no point in showering. Once you step outside, you’re damp from head to toe. Obviously, this means my friends and I should go camping this weekend. We went in this kind of weather last year and it was actually pretty fun. We even had a fire and didn’t melt into the backwoods of Iron County. The key is that we’ll spend the entire day Saturday at the lake in the state park where we camp watching mothers in jorts yell at their Dakotas and MacKynzies and Mercedeseseseses to put down the cigarette butts that wash up on shore. It’s like People of WalMart, but at the beach. Floating cooler for the win. Thank you to everyone today on Twitter who suggested syringes for getting vodka into Capri Suns. I’m sure someone at the beach  will have a few we can borrow.

While you are at it, check out my piece on that piece of shit Mel Gibson over at MamaPop, as well as my piece about the upcoming film adaptation of The Help. And, come back Monday, because I HAVE SECRETS.

After a trip to the Mac Store, my worst fears were realized: RIP, hard drive. No data recovery possible. HUZZAH! While they installed the new drive, I went to Sephora and bought one of those acne skin care sets and lip gloss to make myself feel better. I never retail therapy, but the loss of my hard drive prompted me to do so. I hope someone I know saw me, at the mall, buying myself zit medicine for my 30th birthday and unsuccessfully trying hard not to cry because my hard drive crashed. Even I would have made fun of myself. I hope my mom is proud.

So I stayed up late, trying to work on my paper. My professor said I could have a few days, but that’s a slippery slope with me, especially since Sunday is the World Cup final. And, ahem, my 30th birthday. So I’m planning on working today, flying to Minneapolis, going to class, then working tonight and tomorrow morning. Wish me luck. This class ends this weekend, so hopefully life will return to somewhat normal after that.

In case you missed it, check out my stuff elsewhere this week:

• At Draft Day Suit, The German Soccer Coach Needs Home Training
• At MamaPop, Party Down’s Last Hurrah: Take That, Vanity Fair
• At MamaPop, Don’t Front. You Totally Cried At Bethenny Frankel’s Wedding.