"My good sweatpants are in the wash."

So here's the thing. I'm starting a new blog. If you know anything about me, you're rolling your eyes right now. Because, in fact, I already have a blog that I haven't updated in about two months (about that...) and another one that is connected to Myspace. But that Myspace one doesn't really count, you know, because Myspace is just the white-trash cousin to Facebook and because of this perceived level of trashiness, I don't allow myself to go to Myspace at work where my screen could be seen by my high minded co-workers. So I can't write on that blog at work. So it kinda doesn't exist. Anyway, I'm starting this new blog not because I have anything lovely or earthshattering to say, but rather because I'm bored and the A's just lost and we don't have any beer in the house and I need to write more. It's a mixture of all those things.

The idea behind this blog is a simple one: quotes. I hear a lot of funny things during the day, and I always say something akin to "If I had a quote list, I'd write that down." Because I once totally had a quote list. In college. I had this little notebook that I toted around and I would write things in it that professors spit out during lengthy lectures and things that my boyfriend (now husband) said, possibly while inebriated, and funny things that I heard in the check-out line at Ukrop's. It was all part of that heady thing you experience in college when you think everything is SOOO intellectual, so telling of the human condition. And when you actually say things like "human condition" without feeling like a total douche. Let's just say I've changed since then. I no longer derive a whole lot of meaning from the things I hear, but they do amuse me. And I want to amuse you. Somewhere out there, someone is making a Goodfellas reference after having read that, and if it is you, I want you to be my friend.

So today, my quote is from me, and it's a pretty darn good one if I do say so myself. Actually, my friend Erin said it was good earlier today, so if you don't like it, take it up with her. She's good at math--you could probably beat her up. Anyway, this morning, I dressed up. This is not such a foreign thing--I like to dress up and in fact, that other blog that I told you about is a fashion blog. I put on a new black wrap dress and some black patent high heeled Mary Jane shoes. I actually fixed my hair. It was a good day. I felt good in the dress because I'm on this diet and when I put the dress on, I could tell that the diet is working. Just a good feeling all around.

And then my daughter made her appearance in our foyer. Now, my daugther is 9 years old, and she's just the best little thing. Unless you live with her. Then she loses her luster a little. Ok, somewhere out there, someone is firing up the ole gmail to write me that mean email that puts me in my place and tells me to appreciate what I have and that some people can't have children and what have you, and to that, I sigh a big, heart-wrenching sigh and remind you that the A's lost tonight, and I'm a little tetchy, so just SAVE IT, OK? Anyway, my daughter reminds me a lot of Alex P. Keaton. She is going through a very Keaton-esque phase, I think. To start out, my daughter is just wise beyond her years. And not in that pole-dancing Kardashian tween way. Like she just knows too much about the way the world works and feels pressured by all the knowledge. Further, she has developed this quiet matter-of-factness and clear disdain for anything that my husband and I do. But it's like a passive aggressive disdain. I guess it's hard to explain, because it's really not that bad, and with the description I just gave, she should be downstairs right now, slaughtering a neighborhood cat and making a careful diagram of its bones. It's just this little way she has with her words. And if she didn't have those big ole brown eyes and freckled cheeks, that little way would really get her into some trouble.

So anyway, this morning, she takes one look at me, and goes, "You're wearing that?" And she's looking at me with those big brown eyes and wearing some shirt with a penguin on it which doesn't totally equate with the very Christian Siriano type accent on her comment. When I reply that I indeed am, she looks at my shoes, still waiting expectantly by my purse, and says something about me not looking like "the other moms" at her school. Now. I don't know where that came from. Because no one had mentioned the other moms at her school. This was not a topic of discussion. But yes, it's true that I don't look like the other mothers at her school. Why? BECAUSE I'M 20 EFFING YEARS YOUNGER. And also because I haven't developed crippling depression, a gimp leg or the desire to quit showering cold turkey.

Gabby continues to look at me in her sweet, yet stabby way, and I smile back at her. She's so much like me that it kills me sometimes. I once told my mother that she looked like a banana (and SHE DID), so comparatively, Gabby's comment is pretty innocuous. I strap on my humongo heels and try not to reveal to my daughter that I'm about to fall over as I get some applesauce and a cereal bar out of the bottom cabinet. I'm sure she notices it anyway. In fact, she touches my back lightly, as if to keep me from toppling over, as if to remind me, that between the two of us, she is probably the more responsible one, at least for the next three years or so until she hits puberty and loses her damn mind. As we leave, she says something to remind me of the previous comment, something that just restates how unlike the other mothers I am, and that I should wear something more appropriate.

And I, being rather proud of the fact that I am different and that I have sired such a complicated and fun child, reply with a "Sorry, Gab. My good sweatpants are in the wash."

Welcome to my blog.