I wrote myself into a corner last winter. I mentioned this to a friend who is a professional freelancer. He said, 'Don't worry about it. Forget it and move on.'

So Part II of 'Requiem For a Furball' will have to wait.

I have already decided on a few Resolutions for 2009:

* Post to blog more than once a month.

* Do not commence each blog post with a pathetic excuse about why it's been so long since last blog post.

* Hone my skills of selectively ignoring my boss

* Get some exercise

* Find an off-ramp from present career track

* Keep all creatures in my care, four- and two-legged, alive.

* Keep a houseplant alive for at least three months. Cactus does not count.

(No, seriously, I have a black thumb. I once killed an aloe plant.)

Not a bad start: the secret to realistic goals is measurable standards - and low ones.

So Sue Me...
One of my Constant Readers has gotten on my case for my lack of macro-blogging of late. Sorry. I've been up to my elbows in assorted work-related BS, mostly related to the fact that my boss -- who has to do my job while I'm gone this month -- suffers from a severe case of RTFM Syndrome, coupled with Chronic Cranial Rectumitis.

Oh yeah, that whole "being gone for a month" thing? I'm in China. My husband is participating in the International Mind Games Olympiad. Now that his part of the competition is over, we are going to tour the Middle Kingdom for the next two and a half weeks.

For someone who works in the travel industry, I actually get to do very little tourism myself. My work is more along the lines of "Oh crap, Joe Sixpack lost his passport" or "Professor LittleOleMan needs a medevac for his broken hip." It's nice to really get out and see what my clients are getting themselves into - even if it means falling into the occasional tourist trap.

This trip is my husband's lifelong dream. I was skeptical at first about coming here, but now I am very glad that I did. Getting here was murder (which is part of the reason for the long silence here) because of The Office but I finally got through to them that Mugs Needs A Break, BADLY, and I was going with their blessing or without it, and if my boss didn't feel like doing my work that was his problem, not mine.

Oddly enough, now that I am here, I genuinely don't give a sweet steaming pile of yak dung whether the place sinks or swims without me.

Okay, my 30 minutes of internet time are up. More fun and details later.

This week has been a bear, but at least work-wise, it's over. The Island takes the day off tomorrow to eat fishcakes on hot cross buns and to fly kites.
I'm pretty sure that if you went back in time 2000 years and explained these customs to the guy from Nazareth, he would scratch his woolly head and say, "What?"
And don't get me started on how we'd explain this to him... TweetJeebus said it best: couldn't they re-enact the whole 'taking care of the sick and feeding the hungry' bits instead?

Oh thank God, I actually remembered my password.
Okay, I went into hibernation for a while there. The Boy learned to walk and I've been struggling to catch my breath ever since.
I have a longer rant in mind, but I'll save it for tomorrow.
Today my son is 15 months old. His hair is the color of gold from the Crayola Big 64 Box, but when it's wet, it's the color of copper wire. He can walk and run and get up and down stairs. Anything I don't want broken, I pretty much have to nail to the ceiling. He likes cupboards, books, and his sock monkey ("Monkey Ramirez", with dreads and Red Sox ballcap, courtesy of my brother, who like me, married into Red Sox Nation). Favorite activities include pounding things, emptying shelves and cupboards, and pulling hair.
He can say "HiDooey," which we're pretty sure means, "Hi, how are you doing?" and play peekaboo.
His big sister is turning into a real little girl, with strong opinions and a gift for mimicry.
It's supposed to be Slow Season at work, but my boss has been off training for over a month now, and I'm busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest. He's back in a week. I never thought I'd be glad to see him.
Anyway, I'm back. More excuses tomorrow.

Gut bombs all weekend. The Boy came home with something Friday, and he and I spent lots of time sick on Saturday. I will spare you details; let it suffice to say that my gastrointestinal tract conducted some really vigorous seasonal cleaning.
Sunday we appeared to be in the clear.
This morning, at somewhere around four o'clock, my daughter came down the hall, climbed into bed with me, and puked. She is soooo ready for college.
So far my husband has avoided the worst of it. He had a bit of a tummyache and felt a little woozy, but a nap and a few doses of Pepto-Bismol seem to have him sorted out.
I don't know what my husband's stomach is made of, but I suspect that if you sold it to North Korea, an international politico-military crisis would ensue.

Little man turned six months last week. This boggles my mind.

I am way behind on the blogging. Here's how insane I am: boy got sick over the weekend. If you've seen Intolerable Cruelty, you no doubt remember the character "Wheezy Joe" - that's what the boy sounded like. Add in feverish, inconsolable, unable to sleep for more than two hours at a stretch, and you have a pretty good idea of what he was like.

The pediatrician put him in the hospital for IV antibiotics and nebulizer therapy. I am really very calm about this. Either that or I am too exhausted, after 48 nearly sleepless hours with a crying infant, to register anything other than relief.

I was packing up a little bag to go to the hospital so I could be with the boy overnight. My husband talked me out of it, assuring me that I would sleep much better at home. Still, I was this close to taking my laptop to the hospital so I could stay by my son's bedside and catch up on drafting posts. The hospital doesn't even have internet connectivity. But I could at least compose in Notepad!

No, readers, I stayed home and let the qualified professionals stay up all night worrying about him. When it comes to staying up all night worrying, I guess I just have to settle for being an ambitious amateur.

It's very late now, and I should be in bed. At least I know that when I go to work tomorrow, everyone will understand why I look like a panda bear with a meth jones.

Happy Mothers Day! Have you missed me?

Yeah, me too.

Let's see, where have I been and what have I been up to?

I was sitting shivah for Molly Ivins.

No, that's not it. Plausible, but inaccurate.

I've been on a quest for the perfect ginger beer.

Better, but still...

Okay, here's the truth: I've been working, coming home and cherishing my children, playing chew toy for my teething son, studying the pantheon of Dora the Explorer, sleeping when I can, and struggling to retain vestiges of an independent personality.

For a real treat, I occasionally have read fragments of books that don't involve rhyme schemes or cartoon critters. The trouble is that some of these non-kid books concern contemporary politics and current events, and every few pages I want to throw something heavy through a plate-glass window.

Seriously, if you finish a chapter of this one without having to suppress a primal scream, have someone hold a mirror under your nose. You might be dead.

To cheer myself up, I read Barack Obama's first memoir. He seems like a nice guy to have a beer with, and would probably be a decent U.S. President: compassionate, committed, self-made - kinda like some other guy the Democrats fielded a while back... But the guy freely admits to having smoked weed and having inhaled.

I'd go on more, but the baby is crying. Time for a feed.