Not too early for a late breakfast martini, though...

Get A Load Of This Gal Cam.

Boy oh boy, have I overcome a major writing hurdle. As I've been working on various projects this a.m., I put on Sirius XM's 40s on 4 channel- recently converted to all holiday music, all the time. Which I generally dig. But it wasn't doing much for my creative process other than making me want to swirl brandy in front of a fire- and it's about an hour too early for that. (Darn you, Andy Williams!)

Theeeen I remembered that P.J. had emailed me the new- and free- Girl Talk album. Which I also love.

And which my creative process loves.

So now I'm jamming out some literary awesomeness (or, at the very least, literary plenitude) to the wundy beats of some of my favorite classic rock tunes just shoved all up against some dancey R&B hits of whose titles I cannot name in this family blog. (And yes, this is yet another album of which I cannot listen to in front of my extraordinarily impressionable toddler. That list is surprisingly long. P.J. and I have gotten pretty darned adept at singing 'bleep' at appropriate times. Note- bleeps are always appropriate.)

So. Writing. Yes.

We had a superbly nice time in the Berkshires. Most of it was spent napping and eating while someone else kindly asked my daughter to stop eating the footwear, but, you know, that's the kind of thing memories of made of.

My Mom took P.J., Nora, and me swimming. (Nora digs indoor pools and shows no discernible fear of water= she may actually be someone else's kid.) A middle-aged and slightly insane man made some very real attempts to steal me away from P.J., so that's also cool. We also saw the Berkshire Museum's Festival of Trees which N.J. loved...until she realized that she was not going to be allowed to eat the ornaments- which she hated. And I took my Mom out to sushi for her birthday lunch and convinced her to order a bento box- which she loved.

P.J. and I even got to go see the new Harry Potter flick and pretend it was a date- minus the 60 bucks for childcare. (Note to those with whom I went to high school- Um, North Street is now gorgeous. And a new stadium seating movie theater? Uh, what? In my day, we went to North Street to get shot and we LIKED it like that.)

I spent a questionable amount of time organizing my parents' medicine cabinet, pantry, and kitchen shelves. There was also a goodly bit of berating on my part for the excess of toothpicks, Worcestershire sauce, and paper goods on their part. Kate and I also cleaned out part of the attic (how else was I supposed to get all of my Barbie doll shoes?) and enjoyed reading things aloud [Me] and throwing empty boxes into empty bags [Kate.]

Here is what I did NOT enjoy: meeting a mouse. A very dead one. (Note- I screamed like a smallish child. I initially thought that my volume had actually killed him. My Dad assured me that screaming did not cause advanced rigor mortis.) And here is what caused the screaming: I almost picked the thing up, thinking he was a shoe or something awesome like that.

He was not.

Based on my reaction, Kate thought I had been stabbed or electrocuted or something worse than having something unpleasant in one's line of sight. Nope. I'm that much of a child.

I have three major fears in my life (okay, more like ten, but for the sake of my pride we'll narrow it down to the biggies): Needles, the Dark, and Rodents. (I'm more into Pills, Nightlights and Cats.) But man, ever since becoming a homeowner and seeing the various critters than plague us here- I'd rather donate blood in the back of a cave than deal with a mouse or rat ever again.

That's all I have to say about that. Except to mention that the offending creature had met his maker between two lamps on the floor. Kate thinks that perhaps he was trying to get warm.

He faaaailed.

Nora was a rockstar on the trip home as well, except for a minor squabble we had in a rest stop- whilst I was holding her, using the facilities, and keeping her away from the floor, the walls, the door or the toilet...and keeping me away from the actual toilet surface as well. (Don't believe this is possible? It is. Until one's daughter has the checkmate of throwing her miniature shoe on the floor behind the toilet. Point to you, Nora.)

I also had the misfortune of total coffee cup failure- in front of witnesses. I had been attempting to refill my travel mug at a BP- sans half decaf, Splenda or anything else that makes my coffee worthwhile- plus a wiggly one year-old in my arms. (The kid, mind you, who had just moments before made me pee on myself in a disgusting stall.) After finally mixing a random assortment of stuff into borderline acceptable coffee, I turned to pay for...whatever it was I had in my cup.

And the BOTTOM of the mug gave out. Not the lid, but the structural stability of the thing itself. I saw P.J.'s jaw drop from across the BP Mart. Thankfully he grabbed napkins to clean up the mess- for I remained frozen, clutching an irate kid to my coffee and pee-stained outfit.

And this was Hour Three.

Nora also survived being placed in a Cold War-era portable crib the night before. She actually looked at me as if to say- That does not seem cool.

But it was, and she was. No fingers were lost, although a good bit of sleep was- after sleeping during the six hours of transit the previous night, she was ready to PLAY. In the dark. At 3am. Peej and I can sleep through that, but I don't imagine the people with whom she shared a wall were able to. Ah well, that's the risk we all take when we reserve rooms at the Microtel. (See: Amorous Activities at the Days Inn.)

And now we're home. The house is surprisingly clean. The kiddo is miraculously sleeping. Not shockingly, we're completely out of food, but that can be amended easily enough. Later.

But for now, there's one track left on this album. Something this non-kid friendly requires a special activity.

The newly re-acquired dollhouse furniture ain't gonna arrange itself.