It was such a hard thing to write and at the same time, one of the easiest. The words find their own way to you when you've been swallowed whole into an abyss of grief and heartache and lost love. I remember sitting there empty-eyed, still so muddled from his sudden, untimely death and then suddenly there was this pouring out of everything he was, to me, to all of us. I couldn't type fast enough to capture the words. 

When I heard about Whitney, we were in the car—six friends driving from Pebble Beach to Healdsburg, California, a tedious, almost four hour trip—when all of our phones dinged. AP breaking news. Whitney was dead. We all scrambled for verification, googling from phones and iPads, hoping that perhaps the AP, for once, had gotten it wrong. 

It took a few minutes for other sources to pick it up. I knew it was definitely true when all three of my sisters started texting me. 

We sisters don't take celebrity deaths lightly.  

It's so sad. Yes, I know she was whacked on crack and she hadn't been the real Whitney for years. But in her day, her voice was unparalleled. She sang the national anthem here in my hometown for the Super Bowl one year. Our country was at war. Peace in America had been my birthright, but now there were bombs and strife and shadowy dangers rising up in a continent that no longer seemed thousands of miles away. Sadly, it was the beginning of some of our country's darkest days. But on that night, Whitney and her heavenly voice reminded us how privileged we are to be here in the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

Gifts like that are rare and few and now we are left with one less glorious voice in the world. 

Now, let's talk about happier, shinier things. 

Namely, I've been rubbing elbows with the celebrities these days. 

It all started a few weeks ago, when I joined the world of querying writers. I was slacking off checking my Twitter for agent information, when I spotted a tweet from my hot Italian honey, Chef Fabio.

He was tweeting about an upcoming appearance, a cooking lesson he was giving at a Publix in South Florida. So I took the opportunity to beg him to come up to my part of town. 

We have better Publixes. 

I really don't know if that's true or if, in fact, that is the correct plural spelling of Publix, but . . .  

We do have Ernest, the 80-year-old bag boy who sings George Gershwin tunes as he's carrying out your bags. I'd say that pretty much qualifies as the best. 

A few minutes later Fabio tweeted me back, with:

I'm really not sure what this means, but I'd like to believe it's his way of saying he loves me. 

After all, who can forget this amazing tweet he sent me, after he asked his fans for input on a T-shirt he was creating for Team Fabio. In a tweet, I told him the letters were a little too high on the shirt and asked if there would be a ladies cut. Here's the gushing sentiment he sent to me that time:

I'll let you know where to send the wedding gifts. 

And if that weren't enough to make you jealous, last week I was in Pebble Beach where I may or may not have called golf tournaments, stupid. 

I'd like to take a mulligan on that. 

Because golf tournaments are not stupid. They are fun, super fun. 

Especially when celebrities and vodka and cranberry cocktails are involved. 

We were guests of a company my hubs does business with and that fabulous company had this mammoth doublewide trailer with ample seating, wall to wall windows, (hopefully strong ones) overlooking the 17th green, delicious food and of course, the cocktails. I had gone to the tournament begrudgingly, but as soon as we walked into that trailer and I spotted the giant chocolate chip cookies and the luxe bathroom, I thought, "Okay, this might not hurt after all."

The men in our group were sad to hear Tiger had already been to our hole. (Please don't laugh. I am vastly ignorant when it comes to sports terms.) So they decided we should leave our beautiful trailer with the three different types of cookies and wild mushroom risotto and Eric the bartender and traipse around after stupid Tiger. 

Since I didn't want to seem all bad sporty, I traipsed with my crew. 

This was verrrry good sporty of me because it was sprinkling and a heavy mist hung over us from the Pacific Ocean and I have blonde, kicky hair that turns decidedly un-kicky when wet. 

We had umbrellas, but the crowds were heavy and people were giving me the stink eye every time I poked them with my umbrella because clearly people are unbelievably prejudiced against good hair. 

We found Tiger which was super un-thrilling. He hit the ball. The crowd clapped. He ignored the crowd. That's it. 

He was the only golfer of the day who acted like a jackhole. 

The wonderful Phil Mickelson waved and shook hands and eventually won the tournament. 

So maybe someone should lose their smug attitude, Mr. I-Love-Me-Some-Pancake-House. I think SOMEONE could use all the good PR he can get these days. 

Finally, after having enough of watching Tiger ignore everyone, my friend Lisa and I decided our blonde heads of hair had had enough mist and we poked our way back to the wonderful doublewide with this view:

Wonderful doublewide. 

I never thought I'd utter those two words together in my lifetime. 

The boys stayed to follow jackhole Tiger around, so we ladies sat in our doublewide, keeping our hair kicky and waiting for some good celebrities. 

There were a parade of sports celebrities that I could not tell you about. 

The real fun began when Josh Duhamel showed up on our green.

When God smiled upon us and rolled Josh's ball right up to the front of our doublewide, every single dignified woman in that trailer rushed to the giant picture window. 

We squealed. We called his name. We rapped on the glass.

He hit his ball into the hole and then smiled and waved. Again. I do not know golf or anything else. 

After they all hit their little balls in the hole, they walked around the side of the doublewide to tee off for the next hole. 

Our beautiful doublewide's steps were directly in front of their teeing off place.

Thank you, Jesus. 

Josh came over to greet our bevy of ladies. And we classy ladies acted exactly like we were 12 and Justin Bieber had just ripped his shirt off, exposing his prepubescent, hairless, girl pecs to us.   

Since I was a newbie, I had no idea we would be this up close and personal with such hotness and unlike everyone else, I had nothing for Mr. Hotness himself to sign. 

And because I am me and because my doublewide had Eric who was making succulent cocktails, when Josh set his glorious eyes upon me expectantly,

I stuck out my arm and said, "Sign me?"
And yes. I know. 

My friend Mary has already chastised me for giving him my arm as my best body part. 

But I was trying to act dignified, since we were guests of this company. 

Oh, who am I kidding! I never pretend to be dignified. The lady who grabbed the president's ass this weekend? That's my kind of dignity. 

The truth is when Josh looked at me, all thoughts flew out of my head. And I just poked out my pasty white arm. 

I know, sad. 

But still, I went back to the doublewide, my arm held high in victory as all the women gathered around, oohing and ahhing and telling me how lucky I was. 

I was still saying, "I'll never wash my arm again" when the next crew hit our green. 

It was George Lopez and Andy Garcia. And I have no idea who any of the real golfers were except for Pancake Tiger and Gentleman Phil, so do not bother asking me about that. 

After they hit their little balls in the hole, I was getting into the groove of things and I flew out the door to get more body parts signed. 

Now, here's the thing. 

Picture taking was off limits and I got caught more than a few times. The phone police were always very nice about it and would gently ask me to put it away. 

Which I would do. Kind of. 

I was trying to pretend I was talking on my phone while aiming it at the golfers, when a dude on the course came over to me. I tried to slide my phone back into my pocket, but I wasn't quick enough. 

But instead of scolding me, he asked if I would mind making a call for him, since they were not allowed to use their phones while on the course. He then asked me to call the golf course's restaurant, The Tap Room, and reserve a table for George Lopez.

So, there I was, on the Pebble Beach golf course making a reservation for George Lopez. 

The harried woman who answered the phone, couldn't quite hear me over the din of the crowd. All she heard was my request for a reservation, to which she told me in a clipped tone, they were not making reservations today. 

I said with great celebrity confidence, "But I'd like to make a reservation for George Lopez, the comedian?"

Once again, words I never thought I'd utter in my life. 

I have now firsthand evidence that celebrities really are the special people. She said, "Oh George Lopez! Of course. How many?"

And just at that moment, George had wandered over. I stuck out my non-signed hand and said, "Hey George, I'm making your reservation. How many?" 

George had a cute little Panama hat on and he smiled and said, "Make it for ten. Thanks, baby." 

He signed my outstretched limb and then:

Kissed. My. Hand. 

I went stampeding up my trailer stairs and found my whole crew, (the boys had made it back), sitting there. 

I said, "I know this sounds really random, but I just made a dinner reservation for George Lopez!"

I am a regular Edie Sedgwick with my celebrity elbow rubbing.

There were also a few others like Chris O'Donnell who also signed my arm and Goldie Hawn's gorgeous son, Oliver, but none of them asked me for a dinner reservation. 

So, that was my fabulous tale of mingling with the celebrities. It was like hanging out at Studio 54, back in the day. Except Cher wasn't there. Oh, wouldn't that have been utterly fabulous if Cher was there in one of her Bob Mackey getups?

Although, we did have the fabulous Bill Murray in his camo/cowboy fringe outfit.

After the golf tournament, we spent a few days up in Sonoma valley, where we had a great time. As usual. 

I won't bore you with the details. They are the same every time.

We see old friends. We find new ones while discovering new wines.

And as usual, there might have been a little bit of nonsense along the way.

This time, our nonsense happened at a little Sonoma bar, stuffed full with regulars who made the mistake of thinking they were up for another normal weekend night.

There was the big rowdy group of young folks who worked for Amy's Organics, who loved our iPod library so much, they hooked up their speaker to it and whooped at each classic tune. Sam, the grizzled rancher who rescued wild donkeys and brought them to the safe haven of his 800 acre ranch, just down the road. He was there in the bar with his two Australian shepherd pups. I bought handmade beef jerky and those beautiful dogs were my best friends for the rest of the night.

Jonathan, the bartender and ex-police officer who let our friend, Rob bartend all night.

Jonathan's brother, Garth who was there having a beer and keeping his brother company. And Jonathan's girlfriend, I can't remember her name, who sadly confided to me when we became fast friends over a cocktail, that Jonathan and Garth had a pact to never marry. And Pat? I think, who told us he would have left the bar hours ago, if it wasn't for us. 

There might have been a bit of this:

And a bit of that:

And maybe some dancing:

And more dancing:

And perhaps some dancing on the bar:

And since I loved this boar and wanted a picture of it, there was also some of this:

And that's all I have to say about that. 

And one more thing:

I do so apologize for my heavy silence these days. I truly, truly, truly appreciate all the love that has been coming my way. Please know that. But this querying thing along with all of the other major components that make up my day are keeping me a mite busy. My guilt over you, Internet, is one of the things keeping me awake at night. That and the  fact that I cannot find my RED iPod anywhere. I'm wondering if it's in one of the Moron Twins stomachs. It's quite possible, since it is a Nano and I've seen them eat much bigger items. I keep putting my ear up to their stomachs hoping to hear Bono, but nothing but churning stomachs so far. 

Today's Definite Download: I'm not a big pop music fan, but today I must honor Whitney. Even though, she's known for her big, blustery beautiful songs, this rather low key one is probably my favorite of hers. "My Love Is Your Love." Here she is in concert, with a heartbreakingly sweet, young Bobbi Christina. 

"If I should die this day 

Don't cry cause on Earth we weren't meant to stay.

And no matter what the people say

I'll be waiting for you after the Judgement Day."

I think Jesus is up there saying, "That's it, Missy. That whole Jay Z/Beyonce post went a little too far. I don't mind when you make fun of others, but when you drag me into your warped little stories, well then . . . this is going to hurt me more than it does you."

And all I have to say is: "Sorry Jesus. I mean, I'm really, really sorry. And I'll never try to rap/pray again. Word to your mother—Mother Mary. What? No, Jesus. I didn't say anything." 

Anyway, this is why I think I'm being schooled right now: 

A few weeks ago, a friend said to me, "Hey, I tried to read your blog, but I got this malware warning."

And because I'd never heard of anything like that before and because a few martinis had been in play, I said to him, "Yeah, righhht. That's your problem, not mine. Maybe you should lay off the porn sites. Hmmm?"

He looked sheepish, like all men do when porn sites are brought up and that was it. 

Until yesterday morning, when I woke up to a message from my lovely friend Judie, who said, "Every time I click on your blog I get a message that Norton blocked a web attack by malicious injected javascript." She then went on to say the source of the maliciously injected stuff was from a friend of mine's blog. 

Now, I don't know about you, but that whole sentence sounded like Mwa, Mwa, Mwa, Mwa, Mwa, Mwa, Mwa, to me. 

And my friend of the certain site would never do anything malicious to me or anyone else. 

I went to my own website and didn't get a virus message, which means nothing because I'm a Mac girl. And Mac is like the North Korean border. Nothing and I mean nothing is getting past those Mac Heads. 

I hadn't even had my coffee yet and I was all flustered and I yelled out, "CRAP" loud enough to scare the dogs.

And then I did what I always do whenever I can't figure crap out. 

I emailed my sister and asked her for help. And then I cried a little and yelled at my kids and ate the first junk food I could find, which happened to be Doritos. All at 7:00 am. 

My sister checked my blog and said, "Yeah, it's bad. It's talking about things like malicious and injections and you've got big problems."

My friend, whose blog supposedly had malicious injectable stuff, is having her people disable things, as we speak. 

And I'm hoping that fixes it. 

Because if not, the solution involves code and code is as big of a mystery to me as Geometry and Farsi. 

And, also?

I don't have any people. 

I mean, I have kids who empty the dishwasher, but I have to scream at them about 4,570 times before they stomp down to the kitchen and put everything away in the wrong places. 

That's about the extent of my people. 

And usually, this would be no big thing. I would say to all of you, "Well, it BLOCKED it, didn't it? So stop your crying, pansy-ass!"

I'm kidding! I really wouldn't say that. Because I love you too much, Internet. Or at least the part of you, Internet, that isn't a hacker, trying to inject your malicious things into my innocent blog. 

And why, I ask you, would someone get their jollies hacking and injecting me with all things malicious?

I have my theory and it involves frustrated men with bad haircuts and small organs. 

And I'm not talking about their Wurlitzer. 

Like I said, this usually would be no big deal. 

But . . . 

And here's the part where I think Jesus has put me in a time-out. 

Today was my big day. 

I could barely sleep last night. 

I have revised and edited and spell checked and formatted and spread-sheeted agents. 

It was time to go. 

It was to be my first day of querying. 

It was the day I was going to bring my novel out into the light and say, "See? This is what I've sacrificed the last few years of my life for. Anyone like to have a go at it?"

And if for some miraculous reason, one of those super busy and important agents took a liking to me, they would probably hit me up on Google. 

And googling me always brings up Laundry Hurts My Feelings. 

Because I have no other life and Google knows this. 

And so, let's say by some freak occurrence, an agent decided that my blog was worth a look. 

That super busy agent would pull up my blog and Taaaa Daaaaa! 

They'd get the impression that I am all dirty and infected by hackers with bad haircuts and small organs who maliciously injected me with their Java stuff. 

And that, Internet would be a very bad impression. 

So, until my friend's people figure this out or my people do, which I hardly doubt will happen because my people are too busy rolling their eyes at me and putting my spatulas in the spice drawers, I will be waiting with Dorito-laden breath to take that cliff-sized jump in my life. 

And in the meantime, can you do me a favor? If you're not scared away by the malicious pop-up, (don't be scared, darlins, I'm here) can you tell me if you got the warning when you came to my blog? And if so, what system are you on? And also? Do you know if there's some sort of blog penicillin I can get for this injected virus?  If you know the answer, I'll be so grateful. I'll even share my bag of Doritos with you. 

I'm ready, man. Ready to take my big, soaring leap. 

So hackers, go find someone else to infect with your little pricks. 

And Jesus, if you're listening? I really didn't mean to say prick just then. No more rap/praying. I promise. I've learned my lesson. And please Jesus, if I may ask? Can you send all these hackers to some sort of hell that involves a giant Build-A-Bear workshop that hosts a barrage of endless 5-year-old birthday parties with tons of screaming and a cracked out Andy Dick in a clown suit and music by Ke$ha with Nickelback as her band. And let's throw in Nancy Grace in a skimpy waitress costume serving fried bull organs on a silver platter. You know, just to taunt those little pricks. 

Sorrrrryyy! I just had to get it out there one more time. 

Hey, if someone slaps me on the cheek, I'll give em my other cheek, if that's the way we're "supposed to do things." But my Bible doesn't say anything about throwing a few sticks, while I turn my Retin-A cheek.  

You got that, Little Pricks? 

Today's Definite Download: One of my favorRITE bands: Mumford and Sons and their song, "The Cave." I'm sure you are well aware of this fabulous, fabulous song. If you haven't heard it on the radio, you've certainly heard strains of it wafting through the universe every time I was in my car, blasting it out. Yes, that was me. You're welcome. 

Here's a live rendition. It isn't as pretty as the radio version, but it's sexy and rough and full of life as these talented men, in their sweaty, GREAT haircuts show the world what a great song is. 

For my hackers, a few choice lyrics:

It's empty in the valley of your heart

The sun, it rises slowly as you walk

Away from all the fears

And faults you've left behind

The harvest left no food for you to eat

You cannibal, you meat eater, you see

But I have seen the same

I know the shame in your defeat

But I will hold on hope

And I won't let you choke, (actually I will)

On the noose around your neck...

So make your siren's call

And sing all you want

I will not hear what you have to say

Cause I need freedom now

And i need to know how

To live my life as it's meant to be

I, like everyone else addicted to hard-hitting news, followed every detail of Blue Ivy's birth. For any of you living under a rock or in a Unabomber shack in the woods, that would be Beyonce and Jay-Z's brand new daughter.

And let's just state the obvious right here, right now. Shall we?

Celebrities, as we all know, have a great passion for ridiculous names. Maybe it's their way of being smug. Like they're saying, "See, how rich and famous we are. We can name our kid Muffaletta and no one will dare poke fun at them on the playground. Because it is OUR playground. Our rich and famous playground and don't you regular- named people ever forget it."

The color blue is a popular one with the artsy set. There's the original pioneer in blue names, Cher's son, Elijah Blue. And do you think that boy is feeling neglected about now? I mean, his sister Chastity got to spend her childhood on her parents' TV show. What did Elijah Blue get? Most likely, a car seat in the back of the Allman Brothers' tour bus with a floor covered in hot boiled peanut shells and empty Jack Daniel's bottles. And now, with his sister turning into a man and dancing with the stars, no one cares about Elijah Blue. In fact, I don't think anyone ever cared about Elijah Blue, which is super sad. And by the way, Chaz needs to get on with his life and stop talking about buying penises to the press. It is quite annoying to google Bono these days, because I have to wade through like five pages of Chaz's penis buying just to find any tidbits about Bono. Chaz Bono, please shut up about your penis buying. No one cares. We care about Bono. 

John Travolta's daughter is Ella Bleu. At least they tried to make it all sophisticated sounding by Frenching it up. Alicia Silverstone named her son, Bear Blu, not only completely misspelling the word, but giving that poor baby a truly WTF name. It's just one scary step away from Little Boy Blue. One of the Spice Girls has a daughter named Bluebell and honestly? I find that name kind of cool. I need to remember that for my next dog. Edge of U2 has a daughter named Blue Angel, which conjures up images of an angel in the middle of a severe asthma attack. As for Blue Ivy, it sounds like a plant that'll give you a bad rash. Either that or another bad Megan Fox movie.  

If given a choice, I'd probably pick Muffaletta. 

But the minute I heard about Jay-Z's song for his baby girl, I rushed right over to the Internet to take a listen.

I wanted to love it. I love Jay. (Beyonce and I like to call him that.) And I'm in total admiration of Beyonce's mad skills which include kick ass choreography, catchy tunes and those impossible legs that do not jiggle a single bit when she's dancing. Seriously. Not one jiggle.

My sisters live in Chicago and they have major Chicago connections which is very upsetting to me since I am not in Chicago. They were at Oprah's final shows and they got to see Beyonce up close and personal. My sister said Beyonce has the smallest waist she has ever seen. And my sister has seen Gone With The Wind, so she knows about small waists.

My daughter and I were watching Beyonce videos the other day and I was like, "How does she look that amazing? I'd love to know what she does to stay so fit." 

And my lovely daughter said, "Mom, there's no way you could ever look like that."

I was about to spit on her until she added, "No one can look that good."

And I think she's got something there. 

Anyway, when I listened to Jay's "Glory" I was all ready to say, "Awwwww." 

But after taking a listen, what I said was, "Huh."  

Jay is responsible for some of the most brilliant, bad-ass lyrics in the hip-hop world, so I thought "Glory" would be of the same like. 

And . . . well . . . 

It's just not. 

Maybe he was tired. 

His wife may or may not have just had a baby, depending on which website you're reading. But either way, whether a surrogate was involved or whether it really was Beyonce doing the pushing, he probably didn't get a lot of sleep. 

Although, I don't have a lot of sympathy for him. The tricked out labor and delivery suite that happened to be conveniently built just in time for Beyonce's baby looked pretty sweet to me. 

I mean, I'm married to a man who has his own insurance agency. I have great insurance. But we never had anything like that. 

The most luxurious item we ever had in a birthing suite was the big screen TV in the labor room when my middle girl was born. 

Who the hell puts a big screen in a labor room?

This is why I have a problem with the OB world. Until very recently it has been ruled by men and men don't have 1/16th of a clue. I don't care how many babies they've delivered. Until they've thrown up in a bedpan because the contractions from pushing a squalling, seven pound baby out of their body, were so mother f***ing painful, I don't want to hear what they have to say, especially during the delivery of said squalling baby. 

I know man doctors put that big screen in there. Probably so they could catch a few minutes of whatever game, in between pushes. 

My labor room was back in the day when big screens were about one million dollars and no one owned one yet, so my hubs fell to his knees and began weeping as soon as he spotted it. When we discovered the remote was taped to the arm of the labor bed, he spent the rest of my labor mesmerized saying, "Change the channel. Change the channel. Changethechannel. Changethechannel. CHANGETHECHANNEL." 

Instead of, you know, helping me with my breathing and getting me ice chips and such. 

But back to Jay's song. You know what? I think we should take it line by line.

I know. You're thinking—great, the white girl who can't dance is going to break down some rap? Oh, this will be priceless. 

And you would be right. About the dancing. 

So here goes. 

The most amazing feeling I feel

Words can't describe what I'm feeling for real

Baby I paint the sky blue

My greatest creation was you.

Okay, I gotta admit, that is so fabulously sweet. Perhaps he should have stopped there.

False alarms and false starts

All made better by the sound of your heart

Now this? Makes me want to weep. And I'm pretty sure it made me ovulate on the spot, even though I am uterus-less. The eggs, however, are still shooting out of my fallopian tubes like steel balls out of a pinball machine. 

What? Too much TMI?

All the pain of the last time

I pray so hard it was the last time

Your Mama said that you danced for her

Did you wiggle your hands for her?

Totally awwwww-worthy. But don't worry, it gets better . . . or not, depending on what your definition of better is.

Everything that I pray for

Now hold up here, one sec. I think I need to look into getting Jay as my prayer coach, because obviously he knows some secret the rest of us don't. I prayed the other night that the toilet I could hear running in my daughter's bedroom above mine would not overflow because I was too tired to get out of bed and yell to someone to jiggle the handle. Do you think Jay actually prayed for a net worth of 500 million or to become one of the greatest rappers in the world? Did he pray for 13 Grammy Awards and his Bugatti? And did he ask the Lord to send him a wife who was not only one of the most beautiful women on the planet, but on Rolling Stone's list of Best Artists of All Time? 

I might just be praying for the wrong things. 

God's gift I wish I would have prayed more

And he even ADMITS to not praying ENOUGH! Man, he must be good. Maybe he raps his prayers. I'm betting Jesus likes a good rap. 

God makes no mistakes

I've made a few

Rough sledding here and there

But I made it through

Now there's an understatement. I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but our Jay was kind of a thug for awhile there. He has admitted to it and he says he'll never return to that life. But before becoming a rapper, he did some drug dealing. And a few years back in a nightclub, he stabbed a record producer in the stomach with a five-inch blade over some alleged bootlegging of one of Jay's albums. 

For the record Jay, if you're reading this, all of your songs on my iPod?  I have LEGALLY downloaded every one of them. Check my iTunes account yourself, k? I'll give you the password.

I wreak havoc on the world

See above.

Get ready for part two

A younger, smarter, faster me

Uh-oh. Does this mean Blue is going to be a thug, only better? I sure hope Blue doesn't stab anyone. It wouldn't be very ladylike. 

Saw a pinch of Hove

A whole glass of B

Jay's nickname besides Jay-Z is Hove. As in Jehovah. As in Jay is the Jehovah of rap. And let's hope it's just a pinch of him and a Big Gulp cup of Beyonce since Beyonce has never stabbed anyone. 

Then the chorus comes around again and that's when it starts to get good:

Your grand pop died of n**a failure

Then he died of liver failure

Really? Is this the first thing Blue needs to know about her grandfather? Shouldn't this wait until, oh I don't know, never! And honestly, I know it's Jay-Z, but does he have to use that sort of language when writing a song for his BABY.

Deep down he was a good man

G-d d**m I can't deliver failure. 

And again with the swearing. Blue will have a healthy vocabulary by the time she makes it to preschool. But hey, that won't matter, she's Blue Ivy Carter. The world will be hers. I'm sure Jay will donate a wing for the preschool probably made out of solid gold and buy all the teachers Louis Vuitton everything, just so little Blue can do whatever the hell she wants, which just might include swearing and or stabbing, if she actually is Part Two Jay-Z.  Also, Jay really, really must be amazing at the prayer. He is taking the Lord's name in vain and still he has a villa in France.

Bad ass lil' Hove

Two years old shopping on Savile Row

Now this I don't get. Is he saying he was shopping on Savile Row when he was two? Because, if so, this man really was born under the luckiest of stars. Or is he saying his Mini Me will be shopping on Savile Row at two. I know Savile Row is fancy and all, but someone needs to tell Jay, little girls usually don't enjoy dressing in oxfords and pinstripe suits. Here's a tip Jay, two-year-old girls love twirly dresses preferably drenched in pink glitter. So get started. I'm sure Marc Jacobs himself would probably sew a couple hundred of them for you. 

Wicked Ass Little B

Hard not to spoil you rotten lookin' like little me

For Blue's sake, I sure hope she looks like her Mama and not her Daddy.

In fact, if the rumor is true that they had a surrogate, maybe Beyonce should have considered some donor sperm, too. Like his:

Or his:

Those are some beautiful men, there. 

You don't yet know what swag is

But you was made in Paris

Of course, Blue was made in Paris. How ultra romantic is that? I'm sure in a 50,000 dollar a night suite. *Sigh* 

Hang on, let me give this prayer rapping a try. 

Hey Jesus! It's been too long. How ya been?

I know I'm no Jay-Z, so pardon me, 

I just need you to make me Charlize Theron's twin.

What do you think? It's worth a shot, right?

Okay, back to "Glory"

And mamma woke up the next day and shot her album package. 

Uh, what? You were conceived and then your mom shot her album package? It's always about the business, honey. 

Last time the miscarriage was so tragic

We was afraid you'd disappear

But nah baby you magic

O.M.G. Now that is just heartbreaking and sweet and beautiful and . . . ding-ding-ding, there goes another egg!

So there you have it, sh*t happens

Once again, is the phrase "shit happens" something you really want in your baby's song? Although Jay, if you're going to truly be a hands-on parent without all the nannies doing everything, you really are going to see the truth in that phrase for a long, long time to come. 

Just make sure the plane you on is bigger than your carry on baggage

Everybody go through stuff

Life is a gift love open it up

And this is why I love Jay, lyrics like this and of course, "I've got 99 problems and a b**tch ain't one of em."

You're a child of destiny

You're the child of my destiny

You're my child with the child of Destiny's Child

That's a hell of a recipe

Okay, I think most of us got it on the first line. Those of us with glue-sniffing addictions definitely figured it out by the second line. Third line was overkill. You're right, Jay, that is one hell of a recipe. 

Jay then repeats the chorus and then, in the background, you hear Blue Ivy herself, her sweet newborn cry. At least, we think it's Blue Ivy. Maybe it's the child of a surrogate. Maybe it's the surrogate child of a surrogate. Maybe it's the surrogate child of the child who is the child of the child of Destiny's Child. 

We'll never know. 

What we do know, is that the world has been made richer, (as will Jay-Z and Beyonce when they sell the rights to the first picture, thanks to Jay-Z the prayer warrior!) by another beautiful baby gracing the earth. 

My hope is that Blue will grow up with her mother's looks, legs and gracious disposition and that she gets her father's rapping and writing skills but mostly, that she too is a champion at prayer. Say hi to Jesus for me, Blue. Tell him this Mama could use some new shoes. 

Today's Definite Download: Beyonce, of course, at Glastonbury, rocking the house with her "All The Single Ladies." That woman is just so freaking, utterly, unbelievably, gorgeously, damn fantastic. Take a look for yourself. And do yourself a favor, watch until the end. When she tells the ladies to do their thang, it's quite amusing. 

Oh, and by the way? A few years ago, Jay was the first hip hop artist to headline Glastonbury. I gotta go. I've got some rap/praying that needs a little work. Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh. 

Is everyone back to their normal routine? Kids back in school? Holiday trappings put away? Is your life settling back down nicely?

Me? Not so much. I'm still waiting for the routine to kick in. I'm hoping it's next week. In the meantime, I've been running around yelling at my family, "Can we get back to normal around here?"

It's not asking much, especially since my normal isn't, you know, normal. 

My college girl didn't return to school until a few days ago and so I am now picking up the debris from the eye of the hurricane. She is a Cat 5. Seriously. The other day I was rummaging through the pen drawer in my kitchen desk or as I refer to it, the dead pen graveyard. I didn't find a working pen, but I did find my daughter's underwear. When I held them up to her in question, she simply said, "Hey, I was looking for those!"

My kids went back to school, only to face exams and so half days have been the norm instead of the exception. 

And my Christmas tree is still up. 

Granted, it has no ornaments, but it sits there, bare-assed, occupying a huge corner of my family room. 

My hubs claims he's "still enjoying Christmas." Or in other words, he doesn't feel like grunting and cussing right now as he drags it up to the attic. 

I'm thinking of keeping it as part of our decor. 

But there is one thing that's gotten back to normal around here and that's my blogging. Yay!

I am honored and simply thrilled to be the guest poster today at the fabulous blog, Just. Be. Enough. 

Just Be Enough.  What a noble message to women everywhere. As women and especially as mothers, there is this bar that is set incredibly high. And that bar isn't necessarily society's standard. It's a hard-reaching, sometimes almost unattainable standard we place on ourselves. Their message is empowering and exactly what more of us need to see, to feel. Just. Be. Enough. 

I'm over there today talking about my journey from June Cleaver to here, the writer girl hunched over the keyboard for most of the day. I'd love for you to stop by and give the fabulous Elena and her team some big love for such a splendid endeavor, creating a blog that wraps its arms around every woman and actually every person no matter their age or sex, with their message that we are extraordinary creatures, that we are enough.