Playing favorites.

Thanks to Trop50 for sponsoring my writing about fabulous bloggers. This year Trop50 is granting 50 Fabulous Wishes. Click here to enter for a chance to win $1,000 to celebrate a friend with a refreshing attitude about looking and feeling fabulous!

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Okay, so I get to list five brilliant bloggers? Instead of being intimidated by this challenged, I was actually a little worried. Only five? (I do love me some interwebz-readin'.) So, with apologies to the eleventy other close, personal pals with terrific bloggy stylings, here are some perk-up-your-day, never-fail-to-make-me-smile reads from gals that I adore. (Also, hyphens.)

Kate at Grant Wishes has, hands-down, the most charming blog in the cosmos. Here's why: her subject matter (her three little dudes) are positively edible, she takes great photos of their life outside of Boston, and she has various themes that I truly dig; a daily thankful thought (even on those days that can be less than stellar) and two new columns that never fail to make me wet my pants. (Did I really say that and Did you hear that are primo examples of how strange and rad parenting can be.) Her husband Tom- who travels a lot for business- has his own column featuring adventurous pix of Leo, the boys' finger puppet lion, who gets to go on all of Dad's business trips. (Leo lives well.) All of these features- plus the fact that Kate updates nearly every day- makes for a good daily check-in. Also, she knows more about trucks and machinery than she ever could have planned for back in college.

Brie writes Pat and Brie Plus Three, which- yes- is technically another blog I love written by a mother. However, I wouldn't exactly call her a Mommy Blogger. She's more the Post Your Bail After Buying The Last Round Of Shots Blogger. What's more, she makes me guffaw. Guffaw, I tell you. Her stories are dirty, inappropriate for work, and quite possibly some of the funniest stuff online. Her Christmas memories post makes me cry with laughter. And sure, I cry a lot, but you know how sometimes I cry until I wheeze and hyperventilate and shake with spasms of tears? Like that. Brie's kids are also ridiculously cute, so there's that, too.

They even made their own wedding cake.

Cindy and Julia are good friends of mine. My husband married them. (This is true. Well, actually, they married each other, but he facilitated and got to stand up there looking all cute and cheerful with the brides.) They write a blog entitled What's for Dinner...but that may change shortly, as they're gonna expand into all levels of craftiness and awesomesaucity. I look forward to this, because these ladies are seriously talented. Besides being gourmands (if you're really nice, they might just make you a tart. And this tart might just make you cry) and fashionistas (they started a business called Crafty Broads wherein they design and tailor your clothes), they are also stage managers. Which means they are in charge of everything.

Huckleberry Flynn is penned by a gal named Emily whom I've known for her entire life- even before she was big enough to steal all of my toys. Regardless, she writes some of the funniest lyrical dissection this side of the Mississippi (although, to be fair, I haven't checked in recently with the other side of the river lately). Even though she occasionally strays back into the world of Sustainability (where she gets paid, yo), and traveling (she once slept tied to a ship's crow's nest while spending a semester at sea- but having seen how deeply she can sleep, it's not really that impressive), she endeavors to post as often as her glamorous life allows. Every single time a new link appears, I know I will laugh until I pee. (This is clearly the highest compliment I know.) Check out her take on Bruno Mars' Marry You. Her Skymall recap is also hilarious- and disturbingly informative.

Bogglingly joyful.

Laura and I have been friends since grade school. Even though we haven't lived in the same state (or time zone) for many years, I adore keeping up with her travels on I'll Take You In My Backpack. Recently, she's lived in Alaska, Japan, and now Guam. (The other day I went to a city park on the northside of town and was exhausted by my jaunt. For an example of my own comparative non-traveliness.) She remains upbeat and incredibly cool, despite the recent natural disasters in Japan- and, more recently, a burst eardrum while in her new locale. In fact, her arrival to each location has been marked by a separate earthquake each and every time. Alaska. Japan. Guam. Yep. So, good God, don't just go give her a gander...give her some love. (Also ask her if she remembers my Jonathan Brandis Trapper Keeper from seventh grade [mandatory] shop class.)

So there you go. You have no more excuses for doing your job or going to bed on time.

Get readin'.

And then come back here. 'Cause I'll always love you best.

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Don't forget to enter the 50 Fabulous Wishes contest for a chance to win $1,000 to celebrate a friend with a refreshing attitude about looking and feeling fabulous. I was selected for this Tropicana Trop50 sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective, which endorses Blog With Integrity, as I do. I received compensation to use and facilitate my post.

Get in the house.

Little kids.

The traditional third anniversary gift is leather. The modern one is crystal, or- if one is feeling frugal- glass.

I am giving P.J. none of these tomorrow.

Instead, today I'll regale everyone with one of the best Peej stories in the history of...maybe ever. (Although, when this tale occurred I was carrying an awesome leather bag and P.J. almost got his face smashed through glass. So to anyone who still feels that this blog has no tie-ins, well, I just laugh at you, sir.)

Okay. So this was back in the late summer of 2005. Our relationship was squeaky new (and a fortunately small group of people had taken to calling us "KeeJay"). I was twenty five. Peej was a positively toddler-esque twenty four. And we had been out late. The show in which we had performed had ended for the weekend and we had- quite possibly- stayed a little too long at the After Hours bar. And while we certainly weren't drunk, one of us was a little more tired than polite conversation demanded.

Our cab let us off on the busy intersection near my studio apartment and we began our walk towards it. Halfway down my tree-lined block, a car whizzed by- way closer to the parked cars and entirely faster than P.J. deemed appropriate. In true P.J. fashion, he yelled after it.

"This is a residential neighborhood!"

Out of nowhere, a smallish group of Wrigleyville jocks appeared on the other end of the block. Telling P.J. to stop being such an expletive and yelling at them.

P.J. explained- loudly- that he wasn't TALKING to them.

Expletive.

Expletive.

Quicker than you can say "full body cast," we were surrounded by the frattiest looking group of White Hats- and one trashed and trashy-looking girl. Awesome.

They demanded to know all about P.J.'s beef with various issues. Peej conjectured that speeds of that car's nature were unsafe this early in the a.m. It got rather heated, but not too unmanageable.

Until a hand reached out and shoved P.J.'s back. Which propelled him into the chest of the largest guy- with the White Hat most firmly turned backwards. Then came a lovely shoving backwards and forwards of various hands into various chests. Now, I'm no psychic, but I knew how this short story would end. Especially since this little, red-headed dude kept popping his face into P.J.'s and demanding to know "who was talking now."

There was a momentary lull in the action, which enabled P.J. to turn and offer up the most P.J. of all phrases he would ever utter to me, be it past, present, or future-

"Get in the house."

Oh, OKAY. I'll just leave you to your pummelly death then, shall I? Okie doke. I'll start getting ready for bed.

I ignored this advice, much to P.J.'s confusion. (Like I said, we were really new.) I then decided that this mission needed an ambassador mission and turned to the drunk girl.

"This is crazy," I informed her. "We need to stop this."

"My baby's gotta take care of me, you know?" She actually slurred at me. "He protects me from people disrespecting."

Uh, sure, Useless Girl With Imagined Slights. I chalked her up to be the least valuable person involved in the skirmish- maybe the city- and turned to one of the guys not currently shoving the boy I had decided would father my child in four and a half years.

"Please," I begged him. "This is stupid. I live right here and he hadn't even been talking to you. We almost got hit by a car!" I omitted P.J.'s strong feelings on speed bump necessities and also the gin and tonic- which I had just decided would be stricken from his drink menu until I died. (Which was looking pretty imminent.)

For some reason, this guy took pity on me. Or perhaps he felt something (respect? incredulousness?) towards P.J. fighting off six guys.

"Hey." And they stopped. It was magical. Curt words were exchanged and P.J. was grudgingly allowed to leave the circle of death. He and I walked towards the exterior door of my building and I unlocked it, all the while hearing mutterings of dismayed frat boys and one pathetic girl's misplaced prideful ramblings. As  soon as P.J. and I were almost safely inside the front door, the redhead piped up something obnoxious and unrepeatable. And since Peej has enough Irish in him to not let something like that lie- ever- he shouted back his own anatomical request.

And just like that, a crush of bodies shoved forwards.

Safely locking us into my building's foyer.

P.J. and I went upstairs and I contemplated having to move. As soon as we were contained in my apartment, he turned to me with a completely inappropriate gleeful smile.

"That was crazy!"

And while I didn't hit him- per se- I'm pretty sure he was more afraid of me than the pack of sporty hyenas down the street. Which is the basis for an solid marriage. And while nothing of that ilk has ever happened since, it was the first of many times where I knew that P.J. would happily face an angry mob (be it during the closing on our property or bugging the nurse for more post c-section painkillers)- as long as I had gotten into the metaphorical house.

And he still feels the exact same way about speed limits on tree-lined streets.

(I love you, Peej.)

The sun'll come out...in August.

Not only not recent, but not even ME.

I am le tired.

Perhaps it is the weather- this eternal just-on-the-cusp-of-March drizzle with twenty minute long bursts of quickly disappearing actual light- that makes me want to jump out a window. Except that my first floor is a half story up and the top level not high enough to really make a dramatic impact. (But maybe- just maybe- that's the kinda window jumping I prefer.)

(And then I remember that a goodly bit of the nation is having a WAY worse time of it, weather-wise. And I feel badly for wanting a consistent amount of sunlight at the end of May.)

Or perhaps it's the fact that I am still reeling from the smackdown I received from the LIBRARY two days ago regarding my wallet theft. No, they were not the first call I made (didn't even make the top ten), and no, I would not be filing a separate police report for the sole item of the library card, but yes, I will try and be more conscientious in the future. (I hate them.)

(But then I remember how lucky I am that the worst of my wallet-thievery is a bruised ego at the Sulzer branch of the CPL.)

Or it could be the recent development of this blog's traffic exploding to nearly eight times its usual weekly numbers...but because of an odd tracking glitch wherein no one can tell just where the numbers are coming from, I'm getting [monetary] credit for an less than an eighth of it.

(And yes, yes, yes, First World Problems. I'm extraordinarily lucky to be getting anything at all for babbling about...whatever it is I usually babble about. But the potential to earn more than a dime a day is rather tempting. Especially when the numbers are there. Unless it's a mistake. Or a bot. I LOVE robots. But only the nice, non-enslavey kind.) [Side note- Nora hates ALL robots, including, but certainly not limited to, our Roomba Wally.]

Maybe it's how I'm feeling ginormous and am one day away from being halfway through this pregnancy. That's right, this show's about to get bigger. We're not just taking it on the road, I'm BECOMING the road. And the nearby counties. And Peej is no help, as he says I look good. Great, even. But I am seriously beginning to doubt his ability to discern, as he has never once told me that my butt looked big. And I've worn some awfully big butt-ed pants.

(And this one stings the most, because we really, really wanted this pregnancy- and uh, still do- and the fact that I'm becoming an orca is a decent sign that we'll get a healthy baby and and and...)

And I hate whining. And whining about hating whining. It's a vicious cycle.

My point is, I'm tired. And batting incoming household/money/fatness issues away with Toddler Tantrum hands. (Can you picture it? Some of you have seen this.)

I promise to chin up.

While I still have a single chin.

Which is a rapidly closing window of time.

Just sayin'.

Some of the best expressions in the business...

...and business is good.