Hello, I Must Be Going.
Mood:  bright
Topic: Happiness Pie
Well. So all sorts of shit has been happening, including the dispute with Tripod which is inducing me to move over to Dreamhost and forever quit vile Tripod with their nonfunctional comments and their stupid fucking moods. (WHERE'S THE ICON FOR FLIPPING THE BIRD?) Which means that after approximately two (two? It's near midnight on Sunday, and I don't think outside of business hours) years, the Mr. Baby Show is about to shut down.

I've moved on, y'see. Mr. Baby was my name for baby Sam, but Sam is five years old and has gloriously come forward to claim his guyhood. We're giving him his own room, result of Matt getting jealous and sneakily putting two of Sam's birthday presents IN THE TRASH. And not confessing until the trash had gone to the garage. It is not worth Ben's time and toil, not to mention the stench, to dig through the garbage for a Pirates of the Caribbean action figure and a widescreeen disc of Men in Black, so I will replace those tomorrow. And Sam needs a place to KEEP HIS STUFF. So his little brother won't mess around with it. I can definitely respect that.

So Sam is anything but a baby; in fact, he reminds me of the guy I had a crush on for ALL OF GRADE SCHOOL. His name was Robert Patterson, and he was a man of science; intelligent, blondish, with dark dark eyes (just like Sam) and definitely didn't have time for FEMALES. That Sam is just going to slay them someday. I can just imagine the phone calls I'll have to field.

But anyway. On Saturday we went up to Los Angeles, mid-Wilshire area, for a birthday party. Ben took us to the Farmers Market up there on Fairfax, the heart of Los Angeles. I think Dooce wrote about it, and definitely you never know who you'll see there. I didn't see anyone interesting, apart from us; we really do stand out, we Crumpackers: a huge grey-haired man, a little noisy brunette, and three beautiful kids. I went up to one stand and ordered an espresso drink with five shots. The girl almost fell over backwards. That's one shot for each member of the Ohana, I told her.

Out in the parking lot, I stood there on Fairfax, spread my arms out, threw back my head and yelled, I HATE YOU, LOS ANGELES! Whew. That was long overdue. A final fuck you.

So here's what's going to happen. This week I am going to work my ass off doing laundry and earning money. On the weekend we'll take the kids to the fair, and early on the morning of Monday the 17th, baby Julia and I will fly to North Carolina to spend an abbreviated week with my dear friend Kristy and her family. (Forgive me, I am too lazy at this hour to make links, kiddo.) Meanwhile, I have enlisted the assistance of the gorgeous and talented Holly Burns of Nothing But Bonfires and her scrumptious consort Sean Slinsky of Sean Slinsky dot com, and will be opening a whole new blog.

So, a little while from now, I hope you will visit me at my new home: Suburban Hippie. It'll be just as pithy and vulgar as before, but with a new look and attitude. Because I'm so over L.A.