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Mud and Spit and Sexiness (Week 7)



Getting mud in  your socks, branches in your hair, having your shoe eaten, and plucking ticks off you like you used to do to your arm hair when you were a kid (or was that just me?) is freaking cleansing. Purifying. Just what the doctor ordered. So are the shin splints and no longer functioning gluteus maximus.

Besides every moment spent loving you, the highlight of the past few days was sticking you in a onesie and splashing through the mud and the muck on the land Daddy and Mommy bought after they started earning a couple pennies after they earned a handful of useless degrees. (But, son, go to college: it’s good for you and oh-so necessary. Cough cou—ThorCat hairball hack.)Read more »

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Be Proud, Mom

mom and dad

Hippie. Tree-hugger. Vegetarian. Greenie. Stuck-up bitch.

To all I give a great big thank you, except I must deny one: Hippie. I am not a true hippie.

Sorry to disappoint, Mom.

In a world of Big Macs and big trucks, sometimes you get called a name or two at work for being the chick who, in her bamboo heels, silently shuts off her Prius before she bends down to save the earth worm from the asphalt and, when in the air conditioning she frowns at, refuses the PTA’s doughnut breakfast in favor of carefully iceboxed (in a fair-trade bamboo bag but of course) organic kombucha and strawberries with a side of animal rights talk to anybody who will listen or not.Read more »

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