Thursday, December 17, 2009

baby teeth can bite my ass

Well, the Universe dealt me a solid today. A year ago, we spent something like 4 large on the big kids teeth because of negligent tooth brushing blah blah cavity blah baby tooth root canal fuck. Today, the kids came home with a One Hundred Per Cent Clean Bill Of Dental Health, so if I wanted to sell them tomorrow to pay for my Christmas bills, I'd have a pretty good chance of fetching a pretty penny for the lot.

Thank god, is all I can say because we have a holy ton of other shit to spend that 4 grand on now.

Sunday, December 6, 2009


Man! I blew it already! Missed a post last night.

Brief recap:

Last night was awesome. After freaking out all day and having three people tell me that I'm a big fat idiot and not to freak out, I stopped freaking out just in time to really, really enjoy the boy's Winter Garden. It was so beautiful and amazing and perfect. He did get a little squirreley a couple of times, but he was beautiful and amazing and perfect and himself, through and through.

Friday, December 4, 2009

jesus fucking christ and shit

today was an impossibly long fucker of a day and it isn't even over yet.


Soon, so soon. As soon as all the kids are asleep, then I can officially drink too much wine and spend too much time dicking around on the interwebs and then collapse into bed to sleep the blissful sleep of a person who will only have to get up and do it all again tomorrow.


Thursday, December 3, 2009


On Tuesday we went to the butcher to pick up our half of a hog. When we arrived we were informed that the hams and bacon and hocks were not, in fact, ready yet, but we did manage to leave with the fresh cuts. The first time we bought meat directly from a farmer was a couple of years ago when we bought half of a hog from a local lady who was advertising on Craigslist. It was, hands down, the tastiest pork I'd ever eaten, not to mention the freshest and localest. Next we moved on to local, direct-from-farmer-purchased duck, chicken, and beef, mostly via the farmer's market in Healdsburg. Then last spring we bought a lamb and then a month or so later a goat.

Basically what I'm saying is that I have parts of a lamb, odds and ends off a goat, a couple chickens, duck fat, 5 lbs of ground chuck and the better half of half of a pig in my freezer right now as well as chicken stock, green beans, various dried fruits from the back yard, some tomatoes we were too lazy to do anything with before they rotted on the counter, tomatillos and, like, 7 loaves of zucchini bread. Plus a loaf of fail pound cake. Plus some crappy bacon we got from somewhere that I won't actually let my family eat. Plus ice.

Basically, what I'm really saying, is that our house is probably a really good place to be:
a) in case of the apocalypse
b) if you really like meat
c) if you really like meat.

Tonight we had the first pork chops off the new pig and they were delicious. So...CLEAN tasting, somehow. They were the most brightly flavoured pork chops we've had since the last time we had home-grown pork chops. I made an apple sauce that was served hot on the side with the last of our mystery variety apples, baked treviso radicchio with olive oil, salt and pepper, roasted potatoes with whole garlic cloves and was all really, really good and almost entirely local; the olive oil, salt and pepper were the only things I could not tell you the origin of. The potatoes were from Preston's farm, the treviso was from a lady at the market and the sage and apples were from the back yard.

The market is over now until next spring and all we have in the yard right now are bitter greens, choys, walnuts and maybe a lemon in a day or two, but we do have Tierra Farms right down the road and I'm sure we'll be giving them plenty of business in the coming months.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

reasons why I am an idiot, number who's keeping track in an unending series


There was a misunderstanding this evening, and I hate misunderstandings, especially when they make me feel stupid and embarrassed. See above.

The big one had a parent evening with Special! Live! Guest Speakers!

I thought it started at 8.

Apparently, it started at 7.

It takes me 20 minutes to drive to her school.

There was a sign on her classroom door that said "Knock And Wait Outside".

I waited for 20 minutes in the COLD ASS OUTSIDE. After knocking. Lightly.

After many increasingly embarrassed texts to my Baby Daddy (dood, so stupid, all waiting outside in the they hate me...why do they not open door...SO FUCKING COLD OMG I'M COMING HOME...) I went the hell home. Where I am now drinking wine and blogging about what a seriously lame lameass I am.

NO ONE MUST EVER KNOW. I crept away all stealth-like, lest someone hear my boots on the pavement outside and look out the window and say, "Hey, isn't that Emily out there skulking around like a moron? Let's heckle her for being too timid to knock with greater force than a cockroach, for verily, she is as such. Ha, ha, a cockroach I say. DORK!"

Thus ends day two. Shit.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

An apple a day

I'm going to try something, and I don't know if it will work, but I'm going to try it anyway.

I'm going to try to come here and pound something out every day until New Year's. I don't know if I'll have the fortitude or interest or even the time to do it, but here goes. No harm in trying.

Today: It is officially time to start thinking about Christmas. I've had my fingers in my ears and my eyes clamped shut singing "lalalalalalalalalala" since Peanut started talking about making gifts for friends and relatives waaaaay back in mid-November (and where does she get this? This coordination and planning ahead? Not from me, that's for damn sure.) but today I finally faced the sweet, sweet music of December and started looking through DIY and craft websites for ideas for things for family and friends this year. Last year we made bath fizzies and candy and cookies. And they were...good...but not spectacular. This year I've got to get better at packaging because you can make the best cookies in the world but if they're all just stuffed in a box or bag and crumbling on themselves they're just not going to be that enjoyable. So: orders of business:

1. Learn to package beautifully.

The next thing is: what will we do this year? I've been intrigued by the thought of doing old-fashioned silhouette portraits of the kids. I love these silhouettes of the cats; the gold frame and teal background really make it.

The other things:

I love to bake and cook and...stuff. But what do people want? I love our membrillo but do people really want quince paste? I love to make truffles and cookies...but I always feel bad giving my kids' teachers little treat boxes because they must get a ton of it and why should I burden them with more baked goods...? Oh, I don't know. New order of things:

1. Relax. December is only a month long. It will be over in 31 days.
2. Oh, my god that's not very much time. Not NEARLY enough time! I don't even know what I'm doing yet...
3. Figure out what to do. Edibles? Fake porcelain? WHAT?
4. Relax. Remember to have fun with it. And the kids. REMEMBER NOT TO HATE THE KIDS.

And, hey. Maybe this year we'll actually get Christmas cards out. Unlike every single other year. The closest we've ever gotten was that year I went out and bought, like, A TON of Christmas cards and then sent out exactly none. Sort of like the birth announcements for the first born. Don't even ask me about the third's baby book. There are some things we just don't speak of.

Sunday, November 29, 2009


So. We had Thanksgiving. Days ago. I can hardly remember it now...what was it? Oh, yes.

It was Delicious. Also: Fabulous and Lovely and Warming and All Of The Things You Would Want From A Thanksgiving.

When I was a child Thanksgiving was hands-down my favourite holiday. There was none of the stress of Christmas, because even as a child Christmas is stressful: am I showing enough gratitude for this gift I'm not sure I want? Does anyone like the silly things I could afford to buy for them at the dollar store? Thanksgiving was only and completely about coming together, crowding around a table or stretching out throughout the living room, and eating the beautiful food everyone had made. I remember sitting in my Granny's kitchen smelling the wonderful smells of Thanksgiving and then later, in the evening, loading up my plate and staking a claim in a spot I'd never otherwise be allowed to eat in: maybe the stairs or the couch or balancing the plate on my knees and eating until I could only roll upstairs to bed and fall into a deep, deep, food coma. My Granny died when I was nine and Thanksgiving wasn't quite the same after, but it was always good. We always did it at our house instead of hers from then on and it always had the same smells: orange and sweet and rich. My dad cooked the turkey on his Weber barbeque and my mom did most of the rest in the oven. Sometimes aunts or uncles brought rolls or pies or green bean casseroles or appetizers and the meal was never, ever fancy but it was always too much and always the best thing I'd eaten since last Thanksgiving.

Now, we sometimes do it at our house, my grown-up mother-house, the house I live in and cook in daily. I love to bicker with my husband about the right way to do the turkey, which sides to do and how to do them. He always wins with the turkey; I always win with everything else. The kids love knowing what to expect from Thanksgiving dinner and I love to make the dishes we make only once a year: cranberry sauce (up to three kinds), sweet potato gratin or casserole or whatever, turkey (because, really, I don't care for turkey: it's only an excuse to make gravy), gravy, usually with giblets when we're at home, pumpkin pie. These aren't things we eat normally and it feels so festive to have them all cooking at once, the house filling with smells we haven't smelled since last year, all coming together.

Last year it was only the five of us here because we were sick and couldn't travel for the holiday. We still made everything we had come to expect, and at a hefty price; it's expensive to do the whole shebang, especially with a heritage bird. This year we were able to join the rest of my family in what has become the new tradition: Thanksgiving dinner at my Grandpa's house in Pebble Beach. After my Granny died, my Grandpa married a lovely woman who graciously opened her beautiful home to his motley crew of children and grandchildren and now great grandchildren for holidays and vacations and various other get-togethers. They have a wonderful home overlooking the Pacific Ocean and it is the greatest treat to visit and have a meal. This year the duties of the meal were divided so judiciously throughout the family, everyone thought they were getting off easy. We were to make mashed potatoes, a salad, cranberry relish. My mom made stuffing, cranberry sauce and pie. My brother's girlfriend made rolls and pie. My aunt made green bean casserole. Her husband, my uncle, barbequed the turkey. My grandmother supplied drinks and appetizers. Nothing was fancy. Everything was delicious.

Now it's been over for several days. We had a lovely weekend in Monterey visiting with family, lamenting the ones who couldn't join us. I don't know who will host next year; probably it will be us with Kelsey's family joining us. It doesn't matter. Nothing will take the place of the first Thanksgivings of my memory at the house my Granny made. Nothing will be like the Thanksgivings at Pebble Beach with ocean views and 50's swank. Nothing will be like the year we made it for ourselves, sick as we might have been. Nothing will be like it is in the future. And yet it will all be defined by the sameness and our love of tradition, whatever shape it takes.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

In Which, a search is organdised for to find mummy's mind

I know you'd be hard pressed to find evidence of it here, but we've been busy around these parts. Busy trying not to die of Swine Flu, that is. Oh my holy hell, the last two weeks were but hard. Bean was thrown under the wheels of the fever bus first and then Peanut, Sprout and the Baby Daddy were quickly next. Miraculously I was spared the same fate because lo, the heavens parted and the gods themselves were witness to all the fucking fevered brow wiping and snot wrangling and temperature taking that I was doing up in here and decided, hey, you know what? We won't give her the dread Hamthrax. Instead, in all of our beneficent glory, we will bestow upon the stalwart female one a cold that will last nigh until the end of days and for that she will thank us because she will not be sick enough to lay down and let the others stew in their own filth but neither will she be well enough to be able to find her own ass with two hands and she will know humility and fatigue and will stand in awe of our generosity.

And then finally everyone got better. Even me. I know, right?

Now, one unfortunate side effect of having three kids and the third being the sickest is that I kind of let behaviour that I would not tolerate under any other circumstances fly. It started with little things like staying up late because he'd napped all day and fixing a gajillion different things for him to eat because he'd gone for days without really eating anything and he's on the skinny side anyway. Basically, what I'm saying, is that we started with a pretty well adjusted three year old and at the end of two weeks we now have a monster. There's no pretty way to say that. He's been hanging out in his pajamas for two weeks becoming more and more demanding but it's not only this, oh no. His penis fixation is reaching epic proportions. Anyway, this all culminated yesterday in Whole Foods where half of well heeled humanity was doing their Thanksgiving shopping when I denied Sprout some basic pleasure like, I don't remember, chocolate maybe or, really, anything, and he pulled his penis out of his pants and yelled "FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! PENIS! FUCK!"

And then my head exploded, the end.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

the future, it is bright

Mommy, is this how you spell "Forchunstand"?

Yes. That is how you spell Fortune Stand. It's not the correct spelling, but I know that it says Fortune Stand.

Now the spelling mishap has been cleared up and Peanut is giving Funny Forchunds to Sprout: "You will go to two kids and the kids will say 'You'll be so strong you'll pitch horseshoes without taking them off the horse.'"

Now she's concocting a Funny Forchund for me.

I can't wait.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

we can't all of us be happy all of the time

Tonight we'll be eating split pea soup. I may need to apologise about this to one or more people this evening when the contents of the dinner pot are made clear but it just IS a split pea soup day. When I opened the cupboards this morning the first thing I looked for were split peas. Finding none, I grabbed the sad little bag of leftover Rio Zape beans from last winter and proceeded to look for the delicious Carne en su jugo recipe on the Rancho Gordo website. I should say that my beans are actually from Tierra Farms who has a farm stand just down the street and who sells delicious produce and beans with which I have made Rancho Gordo's carne en su jugo.


But I didn't have enough time to make the meat and bean soup and anyway, what I really wanted was split pea soup. 30 Whole Foods dollars later (I also had to buy milk and beer, both necessities.) I am standing in a kitchen that smells intoxicatingly of, well, peas. It's an earthy, legumey, slightly muddy and warm smell that would be made better only by the addition of a ham hock, which was left out in this instance due to, well, lack of ham hock. It's a smell I remember from my childhood and adolescence and young adult-hood. We would sometimes make huge pots of split pea soup at work and the smell, while hardly forceful, nonetheless made itself known throughout the restaurant and the day. I love a house that smells like bread baking or chocolate chip cookies just out of the oven, but I feel at home when the kitchen is steamy with split peas.

And then there's the color. I've always been drawn to it, especially flecked with orange carrots and black pepper, but the green itself if beautiful. It's not grey and it's not bright but it's the nubbly green of a knitted blanket that's perhaps a little tattered around the edges and has had all the newness worn off long ago but is the one you always pull out of the closet to wrap around yourself on a cold evening with warm tea and a book.

Tomorrow night I'll make pasta with Santi's sausages and homemade marinara Kelsey lovingly put up during the summer and everyone will be sated and happy, including myself. But some nights you simply have to cook for yourself and on those nights, isn't it nice if it's something as easy as split pea soup.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

do not walk freely

So, and I know you cannot tell this from the picture but this motherfucker is HUGELY HUGEMONGOUS and could probably eat a fucking BUICK if you put him up to it, I am completely terrified of walking in my backyard now. Just knowing that spiders like this lurk in North America sends shivers down my spine. Kelsey found him in the zucchini plants the other day and we've been feeding him soldier flies--and what dumb fuckers they are. Holy shit, the maggots are huge and nasty looking and then they turn into wasp-like flies but they just bumble about a bit and then die--one of which he's wrapping up in this picture, by the way, as a means of scale.

I've named him Bruce.

I now walk down any path in our yard with a stick out in front of me waving madly about from side to side and up and down lest any spiderweb grace my shirtfront and any other Bruces out there incur the wrath that is Emily Being Stuck In A Huge Ginormous Garden Spider Web, complete with screaming and slapping at anything even a little bit sticky or crawly.

Monday, September 14, 2009

Chorizo stew THAT WAS NOT FAIL

Somehow, possibly because I'm fantastically depressed, I managed to FAIL to take a picture of the meal we ate this evening. My failure may have been due in part to the tongue thrashing I got from my dearest beloved for using all the chorizo he bought at the farmer's market in my chickpea-and-chorizo stew. But you know what? I stand by it. I'll stand by my stew until the end of days because my LANDS was it tasty. Here's how it went:

Sweat 2 onions, coursely chopped, in olive oil
add 4 cloves of garlic, sliced and
2 carrots in a large dice

let cook until the onions are translucent and golden

add 1 1/2 tsp. smoked paprika,
3 cups tomato sauce or puree (I happened to be cooking tomato sauce for canning and used 3 cups of this)
21/2 cups of cooked chickpeas
1 cup water

Let cook for...until it smells really good and before the chorizo has completely fallen apart.


torch a couple of sweet peppers...gypsy peppers worked really well for this
peel and slice thinly

at the very end, when everything else is done and you've even
chopped parsley

poach one egg per serving.

Into the bowl:
grey salt


the end. Enjoy! We did, even if the chorizo was meant for another pot...

inspired by these two lovelies.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

after school comestibles.

cold, leftover roasted potato + green sauce = perfect afternoon snack.

side note: must be eaten in a standing position, preferable at the counter.

Monday, May 4, 2009

why I am a failure, Part 1 in a neverending series

It's raining outside. I sent my children to school without rain gear.
I went grocery shopping but I think I only got enough food for the next day or two.
I've had two cups of coffee already but I think I'm going to need more.
I'm going to be 30 next month.
I haven't made my bed yet.
Even though I went grocery shopping, I'm not sure what we're having for dinner tonight.
I'm reading a book I hate but can't put down because at least the 30-something who wrote it managed to DO something with her life.
I tried on expensive jeans the other day in an effort to feel less empty inside.
I haven't made bread in more than 2 weeks.
My house is always dirty.
I think I might smell bad.
I'm secretly fat.

PHEW, it felt good to get that off my chest. I started this post by making a list of things that I had not yet accomplished even though I will be turning the creaky and constipated age of 30 next month, but the list was so disgustingly long and pathetic I erased the whole thing and decided to focus on a narrower topic: what I have or have not done to make myself feel like a failure TODAY.

BUT! On the plus side! On the Oh, Right, That's What Makes Life Worth Living side! Sprout has been singing "Ring of Fire": "I fell into a burning ring of fire I went down down down but the flames went higher and it burns burns burns the ring of fire the ring of fire." Over and over and over. It's fucking awesome.

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right

Today is the Bean's 6th birthday. He is bigger every year and it is amazing and cause to celebrate the hell out of him, but there it is. He's in the middle, sandwiched between two paragons of where-the-hell-did-my-life-go insanity, more of a road marker of my age than a brick wall. Poor man has a burden and part of it is my inattention--I lost a year and a half of his life which means he really should only be turning 4 today. While the Sprout was sucking my life force the Bean kept growing, changing, evolving, but I wasn't present to witness it so when I look back on pictures of those 18 months, roughly half of the pregnancy and a goodly part of the Sprout's first year, I don't remember being there with him. I remember being there with Sprout, trying like hell to burn memories of him into my brain so I could recall all the sweetness of the last baby later. I remember being there with Peanut because...well, because Peanut has always been good at demanding attention. God help me, I remember the big and the little but the middle somehow leaked away. I've tried so hard to be here for my people, to be present and real and HERE, but sometimes I just wasn't. I could have tried harder. The Bean suffered. We've spent the last several months unraveling the trauma that having a baby caused him to suffer and my heart breaks for him when he gets in trouble at school because his needs aren't being met and he doesn't know how to communicate his disappointment without yelling or hitting. Things are better. Things are good now, I've got my brain back and it's helpful. My Bean is 6 today and he is beautiful and loved.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

christ almighty

Oh, my good lands. I need something to do. Getting weepy over a bread recipe on a Saturday night is absolutely not how I want to spend the remaining months of my twenties. And how it is, exactly, that I'm going to be turning 30 this summer? HOW ON EARTH DID THIS HAPPEN? HOW WAS THIS ALLOWED TO HAPPEN? WHO SIGNED OFF ON THIS? IT'S BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT I TELL YOU!

Ahem. Excuse me. It's just that...seriously, where the fuck did the last ten years go? I imagine this is an interior monologue that every 29-and-a-half-year-old has but that doesn't make it any less devastating for me. I've had this horrible feeling lately that I've accomplished absolutely NOTHING in my life that I can look back on and be proud about.

I do have three kids, though. And, you know, they're pretty cute. They have behaviour problems and one of them still poops in his pants but they all sleep in their own beds 75 percent of the time.

Fuck. I totally thought I'd be a washed up rock star by now with drug problems and crabs, or the youngest, hottest winner of the Nobel prize for literature and/or general bad-assedness. I should have had my own Food Network show where I'd make fun of Emeril Lagasse and Jaime Oliver would come by and he'd totally flirt with me, but then so would Anthony Bourdain but I'd tell him to go fuck himself cause he could, like, be MY DAD and I'm totally not into that. Unless we were talking about, like, David Bowie or something. That might be ok. I was totally obsessed with Labyrinth when I was a kid, and I'm pretty sure it was the tight pants that had me captivated.

Someone did remind me the other day that I could have spent my twenties doing drugs and that what I've done in the past decade will actually have some value going forward and I'm like, yo. You know the name of someone who will buy my babies? Two out of three are blonde. I think they'd fetch a pretty penny based on looks alone.

I know it's going to be ok. I'm probably not going to cure cancer or racism and I'll probably never be this generations Hemmingway nor will I probably ever visit all the places I'd like to. I might end up old and bitter about it, or I could get run over by a car before I even see 30, leaving dreams and disappointments to the rest of you suckers. Who knows. Today, I'm just cranky.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

making bread at night

Since moving to this house, our priorities and lifestyle have changed. We had always talked about having a kitchen garden, but I, at least, had never really gardened and didn't know anything at all about the work involved in cultivating a successful patch of land that brought forth food. We had planted tomatoes, peppers and eggplants in wine barrels, stuck in sunny spots on the driveway or along the side of the house in other living situations and I felt like nothing but a frustrated gardener: "Give me some dirt! All I want is a small patch of earth that I can run my fingers through and coax life from." Well, we got it. We've got almost half an acre under us and although only a small part of that is devoted entirely to food and of that most lies fallow in the winter, the work is ever present. Only in the dead of January is there not a weekend when we ought to be doing something in the garden.

This is what I have learned: gardening for me is full of "oughts". If I'm not presently doing something I ought to be doing I have guilt and when I'm at a task I find more enjoyable than another I wonder if I really ought to be doing that one instead of this one I find myself doing and if I've just completely worked hard all day at the height of summer than I'm sure to have missed something I ought to have done and tomorrow will be too late. Today, thank heavens, it is raining because I ought to be working at what defined my day yesterday: weeding. Between weeding and grocery shopping, little else got done yesterday, which is why, at 10 pm last night, I was waiting for my bread to do its second proofing so I could bake the damn thing already. Finally, it was ready--over ready, in fact. I had gotten lost in Kelsey's Brother Juniper bread book and a fine gin and tonic and slice of Della Fattoria semolina bread. This is what 10 pm looked like at my house last night:

The bread (Oat Bran Bread, from the monk's bread book) was delicious. Absolutely wonderful. I cut the recipe in half because it was my first time with this one and I didn't want two loaves of sub-par bread but next time I'll definitely make the full two.

I was so absorbed in the chapter about Struan that tears came to my eyes (may have had something to do with the G&T. It was...strong) and I decided to cook some brown rice for the bread-and-chocolate recipe which uses Struan as the base (I'll update upon completion of that project) but my loaf rose precariously over the brim of the loaf pan. Kelsey has had this book since the dawn of time but I had never thought to use its recipes because, truthfully, the Brother Juniper bread I used to buy at the store was always a little on the dry side. This loaf, however, completely won me over. It's beautiful. It's delicious. It's light enough for the kids to enjoy it and has enough oat and wheat bran for Kelsey and I to acknowledge its goodness.

Oh, my GOD, I know, my oven is awful and disgusting, but this is the only picture I had the presence of mind to take of this glorious loaf.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009


This morning, at 4:37, Peanut began a puking marathon that would not let up until noon. The retching was fast and furious, as was the pile of laundry accumulating on the floor of the garage in front of the washing machine. I myself have not slept for some days now, due in large part to a stomach flu that took out my two stalwart school-age children last week and a nasty fever that has afflicted the toddler since Sunday. The feverish tot thrashes in bed next to me in his sleep and between the thrashing and my trying, largely unsuccessfully, to keep his hand out of his pants in order to keep pee off of my sheets, I have not slept. Last night was better-- the fever lower, thrashing lessened, no other children under duress-- until 4:37 when the vomiting began. When it was finally time to get up and get the Bean, my only (seemingly) healthy child, to kindergarten I reluctantly dragged myself out of bed (to the sound of retching) and poured a bowl of cold cereal for the lucky one who got to leave this den of sickness and unwashed pukey sheets.

At 8:15 I put my Peanut in front of the television and instructed her to call for me when Important Looking People started talking.

Last week husband and I discussed keeping the kids home to watch the inauguration. Mostly, I brought it up and he proceeded to tell me why my idea was bad and all of his points were valid:
The children don't cover this stuff at school yet
The speeches were likely to be longer than their attention spans
The fact that our president is a black man doesn't really need to mean anything to them, yet. Someday, yes, it will be important, but today they don't need to know what a dark and mean place this country can be. Today, this is a place where a little girl close to my own girl's age gets to wear a pretty dress and stand with her Grandma, her Mama, her sister and her Daddy in front of more than a million people who are standing outside in the freezing cold to wish them all luck and let them know that they love them. It's a day when a beautiful woman wears a sparkly gold coat (seriously, I know it's lemongrass eyelet, but on tv, through glassy eyes, it looked sparkly. Maybe it was just because it was Michelle) and her husband maybe flubs his lines a little bit, but it doesn't really matter because today is a special day. It's a gold coat day. It's a staying home in bed sick day. It's a watching tv day and seeing history day. It's a watching your mom cry while she's listening to our new President, shushing the baby and holding your hair back while you vomit day.

It's a new day. And it'll be a new tomorrow.