I met Husband’s parents very soon after Husband and I started dating. About two months or so. They came to town one weekend for dinner and a show. Frankly, I was all of twenty-three, super naive, and in a bit of a lovey-dovey haze, so I didn’t get too nervous. I was actually excited.

But.

But the night before they arrived, I found myself vomiting – and violently – and camped out on my bathroom tiles. Lovely. I was not just ill. I was ill. Turns out I had a bout of the Norwalk Virus that was spiraling through my good city. But I rallied. And by the time the in-laws swooped into town, I was able to transfer from horizontal to vertical, shower and dress. Husband and I headed to the restaurant to meet them.

And there they were. The most put-together, attractive set of parents I’ve ever seen (next to my own, bien sur). And I was mildly intimidated by these polite and pretty creatures especially because – barely in the wake of my stomach bug – I felt like a mere shell of myself and could barely string a sentence together. It was not the best moment in which to meet the People to Impress.

But anyway.

Dinner was lovely. I sipped slowly from my water glass and barely touched my wine. I picked at my food. This was nothing like me and I sat there thinking, I am acting like the opposite of me. Normally, I would be savoring the courses and the conversations. But not that night. But I held it together. I smiled at appropriate intervals. I felt safe sitting next to Husband. I made it through the evening without a vomit incident in an upscale restaurant. I considered it a victory.

So, looking back, I did not make the best first impression. But thankfully I’ve had a few years to make up for it. As I learned long ago, Grammy and Dad-Dad are not just lookers, but they are warm, intelligent, and loving. When it comes to the In-Law Lottery, I unwittingly hit the Jackpot. I consider myself lucky. Very.

At this point in my life, a good number of my friends are married. And you know what? Many of them have problematic relationships with their in-laws. Many of them. Over the years, I have heard tons of shocking and hilarious and wacky in-law sagas. I am beginning to realize – and thank my lucky stars – that in this arena, I seem to be the exception to the Have-In-Laws-Have-Issues-Rule.

It’s funny because my Mommy Friends have been passing around an advance copy of LIFE AFTER YES. I am thrilled to say that they have all loved it. But recently one of these friends emailed to say that she adored the story, but she had one question.

Did your mother-in-law read it yet??!!

At this question, I smiled. Because there is a difficult mother-in-law character in my story. One that is not even marginally based on Grammy. For those of you who are writers, this might prove an interesting aside, but when I signed with Agent, she had a few insightful comments on my manuscript. In her estimation, the protagonist’s beau Sage was too good, too squeaky-clean. Agent suggested I dirty him up a bit so he would better balance his exceptionally-flawed amour. And so I did. I added a new character to the mix. His mother. A domineering and depressed Mama Bear who has trouble releasing her claws. This additional fifty pages brought the book to a whole new level of intrigue and depth. Point is that I have a good agent and that there is zero connection between my fictional and my real MIL.

Anyway, this is all a very, very roundabout way of telling you that we are all headed to Pennsylvania later today to visit Grammy and Dad-Dad for the weekend to celebrate Dad-Dad’s impending sixty-fifth birthday. And we are excited. Not for the near-certainty of car vomit, but for the change of pace and scenery and for the good dose of family fun.

And I sit here, moments before the girls rise, contemplating the day ahead, the many things I must do before we hit the road. There is a Preschool breakfast, and a construction meeting, and an appointment in midtown. There is wine to order. There are bags to pack. And it is all kind of overwhelming. Particularly because I’m not moving at full speed this morning and these days – emotionally at least.

You see, Monday would be my own Dad’s sixty-eighth birthday if he were still around and I tend to fall apart around this time of the year. This time last year was a rough and revealing stretch for me. A time when I stopped pretending I was totally okay and began to let myself examine my life after loss. A time when it occurred to me to start a blog. To open up. To acknowledge struggle. Mine. All of ours. To ask questions. Mine. All of ours. It was an impossible time for me, but ultimately an exquisite turning point. I’m able to see this now.

But this year. I am a bit better. A lot better, actually. Just heavy with awareness and soft with sadness as I anticipate Monday and think about that gaping hole in my family’s fabric.

But this year. I am able to see the life-honed bounty at my feet. I am able to see the simple and stunning truth that I am alive, awash in a sea of family – by blood, by law, by life, and, yes, by blog – that buoys me through the good days.

And the harder ones.

_______________________________

• Am I the only one who genuinely loves my in-laws? Do you have In-Law Issues? (Has anything exacerbated these issues? Kids? Incidents? Confrontations? Geographical distance?)
• Tell me your best (a.k.a. worst) in-law story!
• Tell me your “Met the Parents” story!
  
• Have you ever broken up with someone you cared about because his/her parents were terrible?
• Have you ever imagined how you will be as someone else’s in-law?
  
• Are there particular times of year when you tend to have a hard time for one reason or another?
• In retrospect, did you start your blog for a reason, a deeper reason, than you once thought?
  

(This is fiction. But I wish it were real.)

She sat there. In the back of the coffee shop. At a small round table. She wore headphones and squinted into her laptop screen. She checked her watch at ten minute intervals and her phone at five. She clutched a yellow highlighter and rifled through a small stack of papers. In the moments when she concentrated, the tip of her tongue poked out from her mouth. When she was stuck or stalled, trying to think up the right words, she placed that highlighter squarely in her mouth and looked up. At the line at the coffee bar which alternated between long and short. She watched the people. How they tapped their feet and adjusted their bags. How they leaned in when ordering their complicated concoctions.

She searched for smiles, but didn’t spot too many.

And this was a safe place to look because no one seemed to look back. No one seemed to see her. To notice. For her, this was material without consequence. But then. When she was conjuring the perfect way to portray a little girl’s longing for her lost teddy bear, she caught his eye. An older man. He noticed her. He studied her. When he collected his coffee from the lady behind the cash register, he walked over. And sat down.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hi.”

She tidied her papers. She twirled her highlighter. Her eyes escaped to her screen.

And he smiled. Sipped daintily from a tall cup. And asked her a simple question.

“Who are you?” he asked.

And she paused. In her mind, she weighed the appropriateness of this exchange, the decades of distance between them. But then she gave him what he asked for. What she thought he asked for.

“I’m X.”

With this, his smile expanded. He placed his coffee on her papers. And clarified.

“That’s not what I asked. I didn’t ask for your name,” he said. “Who are you?”

Now, she was exquisitely stumped. She looked to her screen, but its brightness offered no answers. And then she fessed up.

“I have no idea. I have no idea who I am.”

And then, impossibly, his smile grew wider and he retrieved his coffee and stood up. And as he did, he looked down at her. Made her feel tiny and unsophisticated and lost. He looked her deep in the eye, for as long as she would allow, and then bid her adieu.

“I didn’t think so. I didn’t think you had any idea.”

And then he turned and walked away. She noticed a limp. How he dragged his left leg only slightly. She watched as he snaked along the wall and by the newest lineup of strangers seeking a jolt. She watched as he approached the door and then paused as a big group entered.

And she surprised herself. She jumped up. She left her computer. Her phone. Her spot. Her haven. Her world. Her self. And she ran.

She tapped his shoulder on the sidewalk as he pulled out a cigarette. He turned. He didn’t seem surprised to see her. This was his biggest smile so far.

“I don’t know who I am,” she said. “I don’t know how to answer your question. And the minute I do, life will be over. I think the good life is about uncertainty. Without this particular uncertainty, I think it is all meaningless.”

He chuckled and lit his cigarette. Inhaled. Blew smoke into the winter air. She watched the smoke billow and fade.

“Good girl,” he said. “Good girl.”

At these two words, condescending and compelling, she smiled. At this nameless stranger. At fresh-faced understanding. And she looked up at the endless sky and turned to go. But before she did, she took care of something.

“Who are you?” she asked.

He paused, pinned her with his eyes, eyes cradled by life’s wrinkles, and titled his head.

“I haven’t a clue,” he said. “Not a clue.”

And she nodded fiercely. And walked away. Back to her things, to her spot, to her place. Suddenly, she felt the weightless bulk of a new blank slate. Suddenly, she had so many words.

So much to say.

___________________________________

• Who are you?
• Do you blog or read blogs to gather clues about who you are?
• Do you agree that identity is the biggest, most exquisite, question of existence?
  

(For the record, I’m not sure what the deal is with these frogs. Presumably, the lone frog is envious of the palpable intimacy between the other two frogs? What matters is that they are green. And cute. And froggies are Toddler’s favorite animal.)

With a triple-barreled Irish name like Aidan Donnelley Rowley, you’d think I have grand plans today in honor of St. Patty’s Day. Not so much.

Actually, that’s not true. I do have grand plans. It’s just that they are no different than any other Wednesday plans. I will spend exactly nine hours solo with my girls. (Not that I’m counting.) We will play newly-acquired board games. (Hungry Hungry Hippos rocks. Fact that Baby threatens to swallow those little white “snack” marbles that are meant to be fodder for plastic hippos and not human children does not rock quite as much.)

After Husband takes Toddler to Preschool, Baby and I will hang in our PJs for a bit. Then we will attend gym class where she will show up all the big kids with her tumbling skills. Then we will kill some time bond at Starbucks. Then we will pick up Toddler from school where the girls will insist upon using the water fountain in the hallway and then spill copious amounts of water on the threshold of the Head of School’s office door. And then we will head to the diner where I will dutifully order mac & cheese and dinosaur nuggets from the kids’ menu and then bribe Toddler with chocolate ice cream so I can finish my salad (and her fries). And then we will hightail it home for one nap and one quasi-nap. And then we will do everything in our power to destroy the living room, play ceaseless games of Hungry Hungry Hippos and wait until Daddy comes home from work. At which point, it is bath, bed, and beyond. Takeout. TV. Night night.

Aren’t you glad you asked? Wait, you didn’t?

My bad.

The point here is that, no, I have no wild and woolly plans for this special day, but I wanted to include the word “green” in the title. And that is not illegal. I checked.

Alas, this is where my post turns more serious. You ready?

ENVY.

It is an ugly beast that lurks in the dusty corners of our homes and heads and hearts. None of us is immune to envy.

What amazes me, what truly amazes me, is that there are good chunks of time where I (consciously) feel zero envy. One friend loses her baby weight in 3.5 days? Good for her! One friend lets it slip that she got a raise and now makes a million a year? Bravo! She so deserves it! One friend’s three-year-old is reading chapter books? How fabulous! What a tiny braniac!

But then.

Then there are some days, soggier days, existentially creaky days, when I’m not so chipper. One friend’s husband whisks her away on a surprise trip to Europe? That’s so cheesy! What ever is he compensating for? One friend runs a marathon in under three hours? She is ruining her joints. One friend has that fabulous new Chanel bag? Gross! Material things do not make us happy.

One cyber-colleague has a bazillion comments on her blog post today? Whatever. Comments mean nothing.

No, wait. Comments mean everything! I am just flailing in a corrupt pool of competitiveness, a toxic sea of envy. Lovely. Just lovely.

Recently, I read two wonderful and relevant blog posts on this topic. First, Rebecca of Diary of a Virgin Novelist penned a very honest and compelling post about the shock of envy she felt when a friend of hers quit her job to write fiction. Rebecca confesses her initial bitterness and admits her first thoughts, “She is going to beat me to it. She is going to show me up.” Second, Celeste of Perusing Celeste, opened up about joining this blogosphere and feeling periodic surges of envy when reading others’ well-written blogs. In her post, she explains that when she reads an exceptional piece of writing, a dreaded feeling swoops in: “Never in a million years could I have found the words to say it that well! Why can’t I write like that?  I will never be able to write like that.”

And so. It occurred to me – and occurs to me now – that this envy thing is universal ergo worth addressing. My utterly non-expert take?

Insecurity breeds envy.

Insofar as we are all insecure from time to time, insofar as we all have our fair share of not good enough moments, we also feel envious of others from time to time. When in the throes of insecurity and doubt, we often can’t help but bemoan the seeming successes and perfection of others.

And here’s the interesting thing: I think envy has little or nothing to do with its object and everything to do with us, the feelers of it. When we are down and out and floundering, it is possible to be envious of almost anyone. But when those insecurities wane, when our confidence resumes, we are more apt to celebrate the good fortune of our peers.

Do you buy this decidedly unoriginal hypothesis? Because I do.

And having this trusty hypothesis in my arsenal is helpful on days like today, when sweet little girls run the show, bossing their well-meaning mom around, making her sweat and plead for justice and order and quality naps. Yes, theories, sturdy psychological theories, come in handy on these days when insecurities rise to a boil and envy – of people with an ounce of control over the trajectory of their moments or people with moderately tidy living rooms – becomes a distinct possibility.

A man whom I have never heard of named Saint John Chrysostom once said, “As a moth gnaws a garment, so doth envy consume a man.” And I agree. Envy is no good. It eats away at the edges of our goodness. It leaves holes in our happiness.

But can we control envy? Can we limit its impact? Can we keep it from consuming us?

I don’t know. But speaking of being consumed, I am consumed with pride. Toddler, ever the digital native and precocious artiste, created the following masterpiece on my iPhone.

What is it? It is a poetic rendering of Mommy’s brain after a Wednesday with her darling girls.

(Don’t be envious. I’m sure your kid is smart too.)

___________________________

• Do you agree that none of us is impervious to envy? Do you think that envy is an inevitable product of competitiveness?
  
• Do you agree that insecurity breeds envy?
• Do you think we can control the amount of envy we feel?
  
• Do you think envy has any redeeming aspects? Do you think it motivates us or paralyzes us?
  
• How do you handle the successes of people close to you?
• Do you ever experience envy of other parents or people?
• Have you ever experienced blog envy?
• Do you have any fun plans for St. Patrick’s Day?
• Thoughts on the frogs?
  

There are twenty-four hours in each day. There are 168 hours in each week. There are 8736 hours in each year. There are, on average, 672,672 hours in each lifetime.

So what?

The so what here matters. Our days, our weeks, our years, our lives, are made up of hours. And how we spend these hours, these sixty-minute chunks of time, is important. How we spend these hours – and with whom -  informs how happy we are.

So, yes. Here is my decidedly unscientific hypothesis: There is a direct correlation between hours and happiness.

Now, if you have spent more than five minutes chez ILI reading my musings, you know that I don’t believe in Happiness, in the Platonic, capital H species of well-being. Once upon a time, I penned a post called You Are Not Happy. And I stand by my assertion. You might be happy. But you are not Happy. All of this is to say that however satisfied we are with ourselves and our lives, however passionate we feel about our families and our careers, we can all stand to be happier.

Do you disagree?

Didn’t think so.

And so. It occurred to me that a simple way to be happier is to have happier hours, more minutes and moments where we do things that make us smile and celebrate and savor existence. Okay, fine. But what do we do? How do we do this?

We talk. We question. We imagine. We dream.

We have conversations with other people – interesting and interested people – about things that matter to us. All of us.

I have said this before, but for me happiness is conversation. Talking about ideas, weaving words, examining the canvas of life alongside others… These are the things that rev me up, that slacken my angst, that make me feel alive and engaged.

And so. A while back, I had a little idea. It started as so many ideas do. As a tiny seed. And the wild winds of a busy life threatened to blow this seed away. But the seed was sturdy and stubborn and took root. In the soil of my dreams and of my days. And from it, something grew. Something great. Something I am finally ready to tell you about!

HAPPIER HOURS!

Next week, forty or so women will gather in my home for the very first Happier Hour. We will come together to sip words and wine. This will be the first in a series of monthly events that will loosely resemble salons of days past. In case the only breed of salon you are familiar with contains blow dryers and gossipy women, read the following Wikipedia words:

A salon is a gathering of intellectual, social, political, and cultural elites under the roof of an inspiring hostess or host, partly to amuse one another and partly to refine their taste and increase their knowledge through conversation. These gatherings often consciously following Horace’s definition of the aims of poetry, “either to please or to educate” (”aut delectare aut prodesse est”).

Forget the ‘elites’ bit. This is an inclusive endeavor. And whether or not I am an inspiring hostess remains to be seen. Next week’s group and future groups will be made up of a wonderfully diverse array of women. As of today, there will be at least one of each of the following “groups” in attendance on Tuesday: mothers, lawyers, teachers, bloggers, entrepreneurs, television execs, nutritionists, newspaper reporters, screenwriters, agents, writers, non-profit directors, models, social media mavens, bankers, brokers, and publicists. But most importantly? There will be people. Living and breathing people with eyes to look into and hands to shake.

This makes me happy.

This makes me happy because as much as I adore this online world (oh and I do), I’ve been craving conversation, long and lush and unwieldy conversation, conversation that cannot be edited, with flesh and blood people. This makes me happy because I think that when we become adults and marvelously mired in ceaseless personal, professional, and personal obligations, it becomes hard, so hard, to meet new people. There are only so many hours in the day.

Next week’s soiree, like all future Happier Hour soirees, will have a topic, a focus, a thread. Next week’s topic? Happiness. And I figured, go big or go home. If I was dreaming, I might as well dream. And so. I sat down and brainstormed speakers. Who would be the perfect guest of honor, someone who could come and speak and start a dialogue about happiness? I didn’t have to think for too long. There was an obvious choice.

Gretchen Rubin. Blogger extraordinaire and author of #1 NYT Bestseller The Happiness Project, a book some of you might know I loved. I have met Gretchen a few times and she is lovely. Gretchen was kind enough to write a wonderful blurb for LIFE AFTER YES. So I reached out. I asked. And she said yes!

And so. I am pumped. Beyond pumped. I could not have taken this from dream to reality without the wisdom and support of three colleagues: My delightful publicist Sarah Burningham of Little Bird; and Kelly Hoey and Eunice Rho of the incomparable 85 Broads. Without these women, these friends, I would still be flailing in a sea of abstraction, and stalled at the itty-bitty seed stage. (Thank you, guys. I can’t wait for the inaugural glass-clinking a week from today.)

I announce this today not just to keep you abreast (that word always makes me giggle) of what’s going on in my life, but because I want each and every one of you to be involved in this. I want your ideas. I want your questions. I want your suggestions. And I want to keep you in the loop, to tell you about the conversations that carry on here, in my physical world. I do not say ‘real world’ because that label is not the right one. My physical world and my blog world are both real, very real, to me.

Speaking of my blog world… Because I am not the type of person who can stop, I am already thinking ahead. Of a virtual version of Happier Hours, a way to congregate women (and men too!) around this country (and world! hey, why not?) to discuss big ideas (think: Happiness, Devotion, Commitment, Privilege, Parenthood, Balance, Forgiveness…). I have no idea what this digital diva will look like, but I know she will be pretty. She is still in the seed stage, but if history is any indication, she will grow. And beautifully. Stay tuned.

This? This is about dreaming aloud and together. This is about thinking big and boldly. This is about hurling practicality and prudence out the window. This is about fabulous and foolish daring.

This is about having good conversations.

This is about the happiness of our hours. This is about the happiness of our lives.

Oh, and wine.

(Yay!)

_______________________________________________

• Do you agree that there is an intimate connection between hours (how we spend them, and with whom) and overall life happiness?
• Do you agree that it is much harder to meet new people once we get older and settled into patterns and rhythms of adulthood and responsibility?
• Do you have any specific thoughts on happiness or questions you would like me to ask Gretchen or the group?
• Do you agree that we can all stand to be happier? To have happier hours?
• Would you attend an event like this for the words or the wine? To be enlightened or amused?
• Do those of you who spend many hours online (blogging or reading blogs) have a hankering for a real world equivalent of the exchanges that go on here? How many of you will be here for BlogHer this summer?
  
• Would you be interested in hearing about, or taking part in, my future online incarnation of Happier Hours? If so, leave a comment indicating your interest and I will add you to a list of “virtual charter members” for this digital effort!

Don’t be fooled. I write these words on Sunday night. At 8:18pm. The girls are tucked in bed. The cats have been fed. The house is impeccably clean. And impossibly quiet. And I am here. In my dark study. Staring at my bright screen. Violating my no-blogging-on-weekends mandate.

Normally, this would be when you and I exhale a collective sigh of relief that Sunday is coming to a close. Normally, this would be when you and I retreat to the couch for an hour or two of mindless television mixed with mindful conversation.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I am alone. Well, not alone. I am in a home with four beating hearts, four brilliant hearts, other than mine. Two little girls who are entering dreamland and two not-so-little cats who just enjoyed a late dinner and now purr at my ankles. So, no. Not alone.

But alone.

Without you, something is missing. A big something. Without you, our home feels less full. Without you, I feel less full. And, thankfully, I don’t have many opportunities to test this theory of familial subtraction, but today has been that opportunity.

This afternoon, the four of us went to a birthday party. You brought your suitcase. You parked it next to our diaper bag and in a sea of tiny shoes. We had no time to mope. No, we were busy dividing and conquering and chasing our two speedy and fearless girls as they went wild on the trampoline and buried themselves in little plastic balls.

But after cake frosting, it was time. Time to duck out of the party and say goodbye. The four of us walked to the corner in the spritzing rain. You, ever the gentleman, ever my gentleman, put us, your girls, in a taxi. And when you did so, Baby bawled and wrestled me, belting out that one word she enunciates so clearly. Daddy. And you looked back at us, pinning us with tear-soaked blues, before choking out that impossible goodbye.

And we made it home in one piece. Baby fell asleep on me in the taxi and Toddler stood by my side and we transferred her to her crib for nap. And Toddler settled in for a fifteen minute faux nap before crooning my favorite word. Mommy. I scooped her from her big girl bed. And she agreed to help me clean up a bit for our second open house.

And the rest of the day? It was a bit of a marathon, but a magical one. The rain did not abate and we girls were homeless in the elements while our broker hosted a slew of strangers in our place. We made an emergency potty stop at Starbucks. We popped by the toy store and bought one of my favorite childhood games – Let’s Go Fishin’. We bought a birthday present for my nephew who turns ten tomorrow. And then we hit Barnes & Noble where the girls each picked a book. And I did too. Dani Shapiro’s Devotion. A book that a good friend of mine has been raving about.

And then we made our way to Mom’s to camp out for a bit before my nephew’s birthday celebration. The girls were fantastic. They played. They sat with us at the dinner table. They devoured the day’s second serving of birthday cake frosting. There were no epic meltdowns. As the day drew to a close, I actually felt like a decently-in-control mom. I don’t have that feeling too often, so this was nice.

And then we strolled home, along soggy sidewalks, in the city dark. Baby sang. Toddler skipped. And we walked in. Into our little haven which won’t be ours for too long. Into our little world. And we inched toward bed. And then we made it there.

And now. Now I am here. Basking in silence. Basking in awareness. Awareness that only comes with distance. Awareness that somehow, someway, I found you. The guy for me. The guy who was once just a cute and crushworthy jock. The guy who quickly became the love of my life. The guy who makes me laugh and makes me coffee. The guy who surprised me – and didn’t surprise me at all – by being the best daddy I could imagine to my sweet girls.

And so. On this drizzly Sunday night, I miss you. Deeply. And within reason. We girls will be fine. We will be better than fine. We will survive. We will thrive. We will have couch jumping contests and Diego marathons and play many many games of Let’s Go Fishin’. We will indulge in a couple of silly and good days. And then. Then you will be home.

Soon. So soon. Not soon enough.

A moment ago, my phone did its dance. Its ringless rumble. And I picked it up.

Hey babe. I’m here. Waiting for my bag. I love you.

I love you.

You are waiting at baggage claim.

And I am waiting here. At home. Waiting for your key in the door. Waiting for your hug. Waiting for your kiss. Waiting for our girls to squeal Daddy. Waiting to feel full again.

Waiting for Tuesday.

Soon. So soon. Not soon enough.

Now. Now I will cue this up to go live at 6am. About the same time I will awaken to Baby’s voice, sweet and strong. And when you read these words, these sappy and heartfelt words, I will be making my own coffee. And starting a new day. A new week.

Now. Now I will shut down this little world. This wonderful world that welcomes me when I am alone. When I need it. Now I will crawl into a big bed with two loyal cats and one new book. And I will read about devotion. What it means to someone else. Because, on nights like this, when I am missing you so profoundly and so pathetically, I know just what devotion means to me.

Night night. Good morning.

(I miss you, babe. We miss you. Hurry home.)

____________________________________

• Do you enjoy when your partner travels or do you hate it like I do?
• Do you agree that there is a certain breed of awareness that is only felt in absence?
• Are you envious that Husband, though traveling for business, is partying it up at SXSW? (Because I am.)
• Do you think it makes me a big baby that I am so sad that my man is away for a couple of days? Be honest.
• Whom do you miss when you are alone?
  

ILI DAILY CHARM (yes, singular)

When I first started blogging, I happened upon a great blog called The Elmo Wallpaper. And I fell in love. With the voice. With the rawness. The wryness. The realness. Promptly, like a good rookie, I added this blog to my baby blogroll. Not too long after, I got an email from the blog’s author Mama (yes, I know her name, but I’m not telling!). She thanked me for linking to her and complimented my writing. So began our periodic email exchanges. I am now 30,000+ words into REFILL (my next novel!) and am doing a pretty sad job of staying atop my favorite blogs, but I just caught up over at The Elmo Wallpaper. And thank goodness I did. Two of Mama’s recent posts, profound and provocative, are nothing short of exquisite. In reading these posts, I am reminded why I fell for this blog – and its author – in the first place. Even as a newbie, I apparently knew what I was doing. Please read Appreciation and then its follow up On Why I Don’t “Need Some Feminism.”