Things that have been going on in my little neck of the blogosphere:

1.) A few nights ago, while traversing the stairs, my feet forgot that they were navigating the darkness of our new home...muscle memory took over and they thought they were in our old house, which had far deeper steps. My heal landed on the step rather than my entire foot. I landed with a resounding THUD on my coccyx.

That's right, I bruised my tailbone. Man, it hurts to sneeze.

2.) My husband was out of town on Mother's Day (he was back in Detroit enjoying some quality time with his own Mama and siblings). My nine year-old son, being the sweetheart he is to the core, surprised me with breakfast in bed.

Now, honestly, it isn't a surprise when I get breakfast in bed from Hubby & kids on Mother's Day. They do surprise me randomly throughout the year, however. I KNOW! I am very lucky.

Anyway, my sweet boy brought me the most wonderful breakfast in bed EVER. Buttered toast, a waffle lovingly cut into bite-sized pieces with a lavish dose of syrup, and a big old glass of Ovaltine (yyyyuuuuummmmm...Ovaltine. I'll take that over chocolate milk any day).

Then my four year-old daughter wanted in on the action, so they went downstairs together and came back up with a tray with a glass of apple juice for each of us. On the count of three we toasted, "I love you!"

3.) I googled FBNOML's new boyfried while she and I were on the phone. She was fine with it, and expected no less of me. Sigh. I crazy miss her.

4.) Yesterday, I decided to splurge on myself for the first time since I bought those jeans, an took my kids to a bookstore with the intention of buying a book by an author I recently discovered (it seems I have been living under a bridge). I can't tell you what an indulgence this was...I just don't spend extraneous money ever. They had at least a half dozen of her novels, and I literally walked away with each one of them at one point or another during our time there; I couldn't decide which one I wanted.

Would you believe that today, I went to a friend's house and she handed me that book and told me she thought I'd like it? The same book I'd just bought? After a gut-wrenching decision to spend a measly fifteen bucks???

Yeah, I'm returning the book. But now, I have to figure out if The Universe is telling me that I made a mistake to spend that money, giving me a mulligan, and thus I should take a refund, or giving me the thumbs up on indulging myself in this way by giving me a bonus novel.

5.) My daughter (the four year-old) broke her collarbone. Typing those words is like nails on a chalkboard to me. She was playing with her big brother and one of his friends. It seems his friend forgot that she is five years younger and fourty pounds lighter than he is. He's a sweet kid, but...anyway, one three hour ER trip later, and my princess (Is it horrible that I call her princess? I know it has all kinds of sexist over- and under-tones, yet I say it all the time. What can I say? She is my princess.) is sporting a sling. A sling we decorated with beads and hearts and all kinds of other wonderful stuff.

But still, it's a sling. On my little girl.

6.) I've wondered if I should have pseudonyms for my youngest kids...FBNOML has hers (although despite the fact neither one of us are certain as to how that would actually be pronounced), but the two young'uns have been outta luck.

7.) Three out of five Painted Lady butterflies in their little habitat on our counter prefer to be out of their chrysalis (including the one I thought would be the runt!). Thus far. I'll keep you posted.

My son had a sleep-over last night in our old neighborhood.

Okay, I am going to let you in on a secret. I don't like going to our old neighborhood. I avoid it. I am still friends with a few of our neighbors, but I try to meet them at neutral spots. Or my new home, the modest rental.

Why?

Because it pains me to see our old home. I know I've droned on about this before, but that home haunts me. it was the culmination of months of honing my vision. It was is me, if my frame was wood and nails rather than bones and joints. From elevation to floor plan to details to landscaping, it was the architectural expression of my self-image.

And someone else is living there. They have the window treatments I designed, the backsplash I created, the landscaping I dreamed up...but, they don't know the story behind them. And there is a story.

When I was planning this home, somehow a narrative began to form in my mind. I wanted my house, despite the fact that it was a new construction, to feel as if it'd been there for years. Decades. Centuries. I also didn't want it to be a run-of-the-mill European knock-off that so many McMansions favor. Furthermore, our eclectic taste in furniture and art didn't lend itself to that style, even if that'd been our first choice.

I've never told anyone this before, because it sounds pompous and self-aggrandizing and silly and perhaps even annoying. But I need to get over this house, and maybe telling the sordid secrets we kept (keep?), us being the home and I, will help.

Whenever I was stumped with a decision regarding the house, no matter how major or minor the detail, I put myself into the following scenario:

I am a spoiled socialite from European old money stock, but the money is starting to run short. The family isn't yet actually budgeting with any sincerity, but we aren't spending as lavishly as we once did.

To that end, I am living in an old family home in X city; it used to be a pied-a-terre for the family's biannual weekend jaunts, but at 3,500+ square feet, it suits me just fine. It is full of architectural details that my ancestors would have chosen, but aren't in tune with my modern style. I can appreciate the beauty of the stones, the silks, the mosaics, the pedestal sinks, but frankly I have a more edgy bent.

So, as I can't afford to replace the hand-carved corbels or brocade draperies or anything, I decide to funk it up with color and artwork and furnishings. That is, I would infuse my personality onto the palette I was dealt.

What I was left with (actually, what I was striving for), is a home with an old-world backdrop full of tumbled marble, ivy-covered courtyards (well, it took a few years for that ivy to take off), formal furniture and medallioned ceilings...while at the same time sporting bursts of modern furniture, and non-traditional colors, avant-guard art, and a totally relaxed atmosphere.

When my son, now closing in on ten, was three years old, I had many intense discussions with him about strangers.

Stay away from strangers.

Don't trust strangers.

If a stranger approaches you, run away YELLING even if they know your name!

We even did some role playing; my husband or I pretended that we were the stranger and we used all the best lines on him:

"Hey, kid, wants some candy?"

"Hi, little boy, your Mommy is sick and she wanted me to drive you home."

"Hi there, your Daddy wanted me to pick you up, because he and your Mommy had to take your cat to the doctor."

"Remember me? I work with your Daddy! He wanted me to pick you up and bring you to his office so that you can hang out with him! How fun is THAT?!?!?"

"Hey! I can't find my puppy! He's probably scared; can you help me find my lost puppy?"

After a bit of work, and a few tears, he got it. He learned to be wary of strangers. I was ever so proud of my parenting.

But months after we started our indoctrination, I had a very interesting discussion with a trusted friend of mine. It was one of those moments, one where in one concise statement on her part, I realized that a lot of the "truths" I'd held dear were actually never thoroughly examined.

My friend said, "I don't believe in teaching stranger danger; it's more probable that my kids will need the help of a stranger than it is they will be approached by someone malevolent. It's a more likely a scenario that one of my kids will get lost in a grocery store and need to find an adult to help them."

Whoa.

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When I was in preschool, I remember being very comforted by the fact that my mom or dad always picked me up early. For whatever reason, I dreaded the idea of being the last kid waiting for their parents.

And then, one day, it happened. Not only was I the last child waiting, but pick-up time came and went. The sun started setting, and I sat at the big window facing the street waiting for my ride. Eventually the teachers left me in the care of the cleaning lady who'd recently arrived.

(I know this sounds unbelievable by today's standards, but this was the early seventies...times were different.)

It was dark outside, and I continued staring out the window, willing my ride to arrive. I was over the burning shame of being the last one picked up, and starting to be afraid that I was forever forgotten. The cleaning woman was done cleaning the facility and ready to go home.

She looked at me. I looked at her. We were both confused as to how to proceed.

I don't remember much of the ride in her car to her home, other than thinking that my mom would never find me now. When we walked from her front walk into her home and directly into her kitchen, she asked me if I wanted a cookie.

"What kind?" I asked. Even then I was.

"Lorna Dunes," she answered.

Yippee! Lorna Dunes were and are my favorite cookie (I know...BORING).

Once I had my Lorna stash, she asked me if I wanted to watch television.

Uuuuuummm, yeah.

Guess what was on?

MARY TYLER MOORE! Yes, my favorite show. I don't know what it says about me that I was a preschooler whose favorite cookie was (is) Lorna Dunes, and that my fave show was Mary Tyler Moore (okay, that's not true...she was (is) second to Mister Rogers).

Nevertheless, I was a happy little lost girl. I had my favorite cookie and my (second) favorite show. Not long after the show started, my mom arrived. My reaction?

Oh, no, now I can't watch MARY TYLER MOORE!

Turns out that the person who was supposed to pick me up...well, forgot. When this was discovered, a bunch of freaked out adults converged on my preschool. They found a note taped to the front door by the cleaning woman detailing what had happened, and where they could find me.

Find me, they did. They found me all happy with my Lorna Dunes and Mary Tyler Moore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, anyway, after the discussion with my friend, and upon some reflection, I started to wonder how much of a disservice I had done to my son over the past months, what with teaching him that the world is full of bad people that he should avoid.

After that, my stranger danger talks with him (and in more recently, with my daughter) have been far more precise. I haven't taught them that every stranger is dangerous.

I've taught them that, if they are ever in a situation where they need help, there are the strangers they should seek out first.

In my opinion, they should first look for someone in a uniform. For example: policeman, grocery bagger, postal worker, crossing guard, whatever. In all likelihood that person is working, has many eyes on them, and will readily be able to guide a child to a safe place that is set up to help lost children.

My second stringers, so to speak, are moms with kids...especially, moms with strollers and babies. Nothing is a sure bet, but I'd rather my lost child reach out to another mom (in the absence of a person in uniform) with her own passel of kids than the lone person sitting on the park bench reading a novel. For one thing, that mom is probably the safer bet. Also, they are probably more familiar with the procedures for taking care of a lost child, and will know how to comfort them as well.

But I comfort myself by knowing it is far more likely that they will experience the kindness of strangers than the worst that humankind has to offer.

This blogger's story has been knocking about my head the past twenty-four hours.

If you're not inclined to follow the linky (but I recommend you do), it's about Katja Presnal, a blogger and mompreneur who owns an upscale children's boutique in Colorado called Simbaco. It seems that not too long ago a friend of Tom Cruise was in her shop, and purchased some gifts for Suri Cruise, including a pair of ladybug shoes,

That would be pretty cool in and of itself, no? Knowing that TomKat's kid was running about with some of your shop's shoes on her celebaby tootsies?

How about when Tom Cruise mentions to Oprah during his recent interview at his home that those ladybug shoes are Suri's favorite.

Can you image THAT kind of unexpected publicity for your wares? I mean, geeze, does it get much better than that?

The thing is, Katja is making it better.

She's spreading the love to other mommy bloggers...rather than having a huge giveaway carnival driving traffic to her blog, she's linking it forward and having giveaways of some of her fabulous boutique items on the blogs of some of her friends. Aaaaaaaaaand, here they are:

The Daily Grind of a Work @ Home Mom
A Cowboy's Wife
Ultra Beauty Boutique
Notes From My Nest
New Urban Mom
Hello Happy Pittbulls
Celebrity Baby Blog
So A Blonde Walks Into a Review
Baby Gear Today
Mamanista
A Girl's Gotta Spa
Bambina Ballerina
Superdumb Supervillain

So, in tribute to mommy blogger/mompreneurs everywhere, happy clicking and I hope YOU are one of the winners of some Katja's stuff.

Earlier today, I was IM'ing with a good friend who lives on the other side of the country, and I was asking her advice about another friend, whom she's never met. More specifically, how I should be responding to a particular situation in which I find myself regarding this friend. A situation that has slowly devolved and become potentially insurmountable to our friendship, unless we suddenly are able to turn back the hands of time. I'm still working on that Master of Time, Space, and Dimension thing.

Then later I was talking on the phone (sooooo last millennium *yawn*) to another friend who also lives far away, about another friend who lives even further away. This phone conversation revolved around our concern for this friend and his declining mental and physical health. We spoke for nearly an hour, while his friends in the background chastised him for not hanging up and enjoying a Cinqo de Mayo drink with them.

(I must stop right here and emphasize that both of these conversations revolved around helping the party about whom we were speaking...this wasn't just idle gossip, people...it was very, very busy and industrious gossip.)

Anyway, these two conversations left me feeling strangely happy yet unsettled.

I love that I have friends in my life, however frequently we talk, that are part of my chosen, extended family. I revel in the fact that our stories are woven together inextricably, and that the fabric that is created will keep us warm in our coldest moments, and serve as a hammock when we want to kick back and relax.

But these two conversations today also reminded me of others that were once a large part of my life whose thread, for whatever reason, frayed away forever from the fabric that is my story.

And I worry that the two people about whom we spoke will also, one day, be a part of my history instead of my present.

Not long ago I was at a friend's house, and my four year-old asked me for a glass of water. I grabbed a cup and headed over to the sink.

"*GASP,*" my friend exclaimed. "Don't use that water, use the drinking water!"

"Oh, yeah, right, I don't know what I was thinking," I mumbled as I made my way towards the water tank I'd use countless times over the years I've known her.

Mere months ago I would have had the same reaction as her. In our last home, we had a state-of-the-art reverse osmosis water filtration system; only the purest of H's and O's made it through to our drinking water. When we moved to our rental home, it didn't have any filtration system at all, so we switched to bottled water.

But the thing is, we are on a budget. A serious budget. The paycheck-to-paycheck kind of budget (and sometimes we don't make it that far). Things have to give; items that were once necessities become luxuries.

Like bottled water.

At first I did the Sacrificial Mom thing and saved the bottled water for my kids, and I started to drink *gasp* tap water. It tasted...weird. Then I thought of how I grew up drinking municipal water (except for those years we had our own well), and how that water probably tasted very similar to what I was presently attempting to choke down.

Then I had a very interesting conversation with a friend in town whose husband is an environmental engineer; he just happens to study water. Guess what he drinks? And his kids?

Water from the tap.

He emphatically states our tap water is perfectly fine, and he knows it as well as anybody, and certainly better than most. He is so confident that it is safe his children have been drinking it from the moment they first swallowed something other than breast milk.

He's not alone; as much as forty percent of bottled water's source is from municipal taps. Furthermore, municipal water is regulated by the EPA...not so with some bottled water. So I started to feel better about drinking tap water and giving it to my kids.

Then I noticed how our recycling container wasn't as full as it had been, and how when I threw a container into it (our city provides each house with 65 gallon curbside recycling bins, half for paper products and half for plastic and glass containers) it tended to crash against glass rather than bounce off plastic. Hmmmmm...

That's right, now that we aren't buying bottled water by the gross we have greatly reduced not only our cash outflow, but also our plastic consumption. And that alone can't be a bad thing.

So, today I was at the grocery store with my four year-old daughter, and my mom. Three generations tooling around the aisles, grabbing at things and yelling at each other to PUT them back!

At one point I was price shopping for cheap selecting the perfect vintage Pinot Noir for our dinner, when this young dude glides past me and scoops up a bottle of Jäger without even slowing down. I smiled, thinking of some (mommy?) blogger I'd read earlier today who'd talked about doing a few too many Jager shots with her husband (Dang? Who was it? Help me out!!!).

It's Thursday night in a college town, nothing odd about someone grabbing some Jäger...what was impressive is that he just stroooooooooooode on while fluidly whipping a bottle from the shelf without disturbing its neighbors.

A minute or so later I met back up with my mom and daughter, and suddenly there was that Smooth Dude walking past us. Chattin' on his cell phone and walking towards the exit. Still sailing smoothly, but his gait was also somewhat less...effortless.

And the Jäger bottle? Nowhere to be seen.

I stopped and watched him and Smooth Dude just continued sailing right out the door. Buh-bye, SD. Buh-bye, bottle of Jäger.

I said to my mom, before SD was out the door, "He is stealing a bottle of Jäger." I thought about running after him. I thought about contacting a Sales Associate. As I stood there I thought a lot of things in a millisecond.

But, you know what? I didn't know for sure he stole anything. For all I know, he's a David Blaine in training and one of his skills is Being Smooth and Non-Bottle Moving Whilst Drifting Through Grocery Store Aisles.

Or maybe he realized he didn't have the cash and randomly dropped the Jäger off somewhere.

Perhaps the person he was talking to on the phone had just told him, "Smooth Dude, my roommate just totally bought some Jäger. No worries. Time to party on and you don't need to buy any Jäger (because in my head Smooth Dudes and friends all talk like characters from Wayne's World)(Party ON!) !"

It could be that elves scurried out from the dairy section and stole the bottle from him and threatened him with a fortnight of bad luck if he didn't vamoose immediately.

Who knows what really happened. It just seemed pretty certain to me that I'd just witnessed a theft.

I looked at my daughter (who had, by the way, been a very reluctant shopper this entire expedition).

I looked at my mom (who probably, by the way, thought I was being a very reluctant shopper this entire expedition).

I thought about what it would entail to chase SD down, accuse him, call the cops, who knows what. Yowsa, but I just thought, "Forget it. It's not worth it if I'm wrong."

Honestly, part of me thought it wouldn't be worth it if I was right. I know that was lame and weak of me, because morally and socially and economically and theoretically and realistically and fiscally and...deep breath...legally it's just wrong to steal. But when I thought of the flipping hoops I'd have to go through, and what if I were wrong (but I know I wasn't)? Forget it.

It didn't seem worth it.

Was I wrong?

What would you have done?