One missed call.

My mother is insane. I love her dearly, she is a caring grandmother to Punk and she is one of the most intelligent, interesting people I know. But dear god this woman is crazy. One thing she absolutely lacks is the ability to leave a voicemail message. Don't get me wrong. She leaves them. Flying Spaghetti Monster help me, she leaves them. Long, rambling, each word more crazy than the last and each thought less coherent than the one before it. Sometimes it's ranting. Sometimes it's just the conversational, one-way equivalent of a small child wandering around lost in a store. But it's always crazy.

So it's been awhile since I transcribed an authentic Mom Voicemail on the blog - not since the Pants Party days. So I guess it's about time I brought her legitimate, clinically diagnosed mental dysfunction back to the blog. This time, she believed I was supposed to be at the Casa de los How2 Parentals. I was not, primarily because I was on the other side of the state for the weekend. Like I'd told her. Repeatedly. In detail. And still she called...and left me this voicemail:

"Hi How2, it's your mother. Your car isn't here, so I was just wondering where you were...(At this point she yells for my father, without taking the phone away from her mouth) Hey, babe! BABE! Is How2 here? (Father in the background: "No, why?") I'm talking to the answering machine on her cell phone! She's not here? (Father: "Is her car here?") Well no, that's why I was calling her! (Father: "I'm guessing not then. Are you still making something in this crock pot?")...yes, I was going to do a roast, leave it out please (Father: "Well do you want me to start it?") ... no, just leave it, I'll get to it... no, leave it alone...[Father's Name], I will get to it... I'll call you back, How2..." *click*

Yep. My mom should never be allowed near technology. Ever.

One more excuse.

Wow. I kind of slipped some big news into my last post and you people are freakin' sharp. I guess first and foremost, in a candid kind of moment, I want to thank you all for your ridiculous amount of support. Some of you I know personally, a lot of you I don't; but regardless of the case, I can't thank you guys enough for your support, your kind words, your shout-outs on the Facebook fan page, etc. I am truly blessed by the Flying Spaghetti Monster to have such amazing readers and friends.

So thank you, thank you, thank you.

That being said, I guess it's time to let a much happier cat out of the bag (as happy as a cat can be for being shoved into a bag)...

I got a job.

Nay. I got a career.

I know, like I need one more excuse to throw out at you people for why I am neglecting my blog.

As I've mentioned a lot, I put my career on hold -- and by "on hold" I mean, "failed to launch" -- when I had Punk, mostly because I succeeded in getting surprise knocked up no sooner had the ink on my college diploma dried. So I spent two years perfecting the fine art of parenthood. Or trying really hard not to curl into the fetal position every twenty minutes. Whatever. So after two years off from being a functional human being working girl, I have been offered and accepted a marketing position.

It's been overwhelming to say the least. I don't know if I'm ready to go back to work. I thought I was, and then I started touring daycare centers and had, for lack of a better word, a complete and total meltdown in the parking lot of a daycare. It's a lot to consider and it's overwhelming. It's terrifying. This is my baby...

But for so long, my career was my baby. I spent most of college being a complete alcoholic workaholic. I didn't need a man, I didn't want children. Speed bumps in the successful public relations and marketing career I was destined to conquer. Then I met A. Then I met vodka and cranberry juice. Then I met his far-too-determined sperm. Then I met Punk. Then I met vodka and cranberry juice. It's funny how things come full circle, eh?

I had been going 150 mph toward a goal I'd held as long as I could remember. And with one double-lined pregnancy test (...or six), I had to slam on the brakes and pray I wouldn't crash. I didn't, surprisingly enough. But I'd really like to get back up to speed.

I love motherhood. My daughter is absolutely, without a doubt, my life. But sometimes, as I sat up late at night with a colicky baby and maybe wondering if it was a horrible idea to invite her to the party, if ya know what I mean... I started to miss my career. I felt like not only did I have to leave the party early, but I had to leave before I'd even gotten up the driveway. I watched my friends from college go on to have these outstanding, exciting careers, and I'd get (and still get) the polite smiles as they'd tell me about these insane cocktail parties and taking off on random getaways to Vegas and Colorado and California, and my biggest contribution to the conversation was, "Hey, my kid cooks her baby dolls in the oven! Baby baby baby baby kid kid kid blah blah blah baby!"

So here it is. My career. I took this bizarre detour off the interstate of my life, somewhere along the line a car seat go tossed in the back and the dreamed-about Mazda RX-8 became a much more practical crossover SUV, but I'm back on track for the life I'd wanted for so long. So you modify plans a little. You improvise. But I wouldn't change my life for anything. I mean this, even if it sounds cliche and hippy-dippy: I am so thrilled and excited for where my life is and where it's going. I am in a really great place.

Now the next question is, how do I warn daycares that she likes to cook babies?