So the other day, I was chatting with nearly 5 year-old Dylan. A conversation mostly comprised of me fielding her questions.

“Why can I sometimes see the moon during the day?”

“Why can’t I watch more TV?”

“So when I’m a mommy and I have babies, where do I get the daddy?”

“What?” I ask.

She repeats.

“When I become a mommy and I have babies, where does the daddy come from?”

“You mean, how do you meet the daddy?”

“Yes.”

“Umm…. well… umm let me think,” I eloquently begin.

“Well, I guess you’ll meet this boy Louie in the 5th grade but he’s mad for Tara so forget Louie. And then you’ll have some forgettable flings in high school. Oh and then you’ll fall crazy in love in college but that will run its course. And then there’s this guy you’ll meet when you’re in your twenties who seems like the real thing. But a few years later, you think, maybe not. And then you wait. And wait. And wait. And then finally, when you’ve reached your 30th birthday and determine that a life of solitude really isn’t that horrible and if you avoid fluorescent lights, you barely even notice your new wrinkles… that’s when it happens. You and him. And very quickly you know, he will be the daddy.”

I totally didn’t say that.

This isn’t about me. This isn’t about me.

“Umm… let me think,” I continue to stammer.

“Well, I guess you’ll meet some boys. Not now. But when you’re a grown-up. Boys who are smart and nice and funny. And well, you’ll pick one of these boys to be the daddy. How does that sound?” I ask Dylan.

“I don’t think I want a daddy. I’m just going to have the babies. But no daddy.”

“Ok. That’s a different choice. Well, we can talk more about this when you’re older.”

And Dylan – in regards to seeing the moon during the day, I have no clue but that’s exactly why they invented the internet. Find out here.

mama bird notes:

You all know I’m a huge fan of Seventh Generation. 

And I love them even more this week because they are letting me give away a Seventh Generation Home Starter Kit (which includes a whole bunch of awesome eco-friendly, sweet smelling cleaners for your home). So leave a comment on this post, mention Seventh Generation and you are entered.

And also, don’t forget to enter Seventh Generation’s Under the Sink Makeover Contest. You reveal a friend who needs an under the sink makeover and you both could win a consultation with a green living expert, a year’s supply of Seventh Generation product and a trip to New York City. And I hear NYC is just lovely. Click here for more info on how to enter.

But wait – don’t forget to leave a comment below to enter to win the Seventh Generation Home Starter Kit. Because chemical cleaners just suck.

Good luck eco-gals!

So this is my life… Post Blogher. Post Tim Gunn. Post dinners comprised solely of vodka and fried coconut shrimp appetizers.

I’ve definitely been thrust back into reality. This morning Summer and Dylan “mistook” lip gloss for hair gel and styled their hair with a crazy amount of strawberry gloss. How exactly does one wash that out?

And Summer, who is potty training, peed all over my high heels which she just happened to be wearing. I kept yelling, “STOP PEEING!” but that’s apparently code for, “Don’t forget to spray the inside of the shoes” to a 2 1/2 year-old.

You see back in Chicago, my roommate Amy never once peed on my shoes.

I miss hanging out with my blog ladies. Probably because I just moved to Westchester and I’m a little light in the friends department.

Every morning I go to the Starbucks with Summer and I sort of hope that some cute mom and her kids will come in and she’ll be just like Wendi or Jessica or Marinka or Andrea or Ann or one of those other cool chicks.  But so far – nothing. This morning there was this puffy middle aged guy eating a donut next to us but he was all, “I love my iPhone” and I was all “Donuts suck. I don’t need you to be my friend.”

I do have my gal pal Rihanna. She’s sort of a friend. If you think of a friend as a celebrity you’ll never meet (which I totally do).

According to my bible the New York Post, Rihanna and Chris Brown recently checked into the very same hotel on the very same night. Obviously, a ridiculous coincidence or a booty call.

Oh my god. What the hell was she thinking?! I never hooked up with ex-boyfriends.

Well, maybe once. Or twice. Or 40 times.

But I think the point is I never had a restraining order against any of them. I always drew the line at the restraining order.

By the way (on a topic that in no way relates to peeing on shoes or restraining orders), Rick and I can’t stop smelling the hair of those Strawberry Shortcake dolls. So worth knocking down three bloggers to grab that swag (no, not really). But those dolls do smell so fruity and magically delicious.

It’s better than being addicted to crack. Definitely.

Holy crap, is BlogHer 09 over?! Already?

What a whirlwind of amazing, cool ass blogging women with smart stuff to say. And other than the random guy in the elevator who asked me, “Is this a cosmetics conference?” I just loved everyone.

And what made this year totally rock is that Eriq La Salle drove me to the airport on the way home.  I know you were totally wondering what he’s been doing since he left “ER.” Ok for the record (because I touted during our BlogHer humor panel that I am very truthful on my blog), it may not have been Eriq La Salle but a Chicago taxi driver that STRONGLY resembled the actor. But trust me when I say it was just as thrilling.

So after getting to the airport, checking in and grabbing a glass of wine, I think to myself, could I be any more blessed with a cool conference, a pseudo La Salle sighting and a cold glass of Chardonnay?

And then I see Tim Gunn of “Project Runway” fame on my flight. Not in the sultry Tide & Bounce Laundry Lounge. But in first class. On my flight.

So I lean across one of those massive, soft leather first class seats that I covet from afar and say, “You’re Tim Gunn” which I think he totally appreciates because celebrities forget all the time who they are.

And then of course, I explain how I missed his appearance at BlogHer but THANK GOD we are able to connect on the plane.

He asks me my name and looks into my eyes and says,

“Kelcey, I’m committed to going to BlogHer again next year.”

At which point, I say… “Tim, screw BlogHer. Let’s just sew beautiful clothes together.” Ok I don’t.  I actually say, “Oh that’s great!  We would be so excited to have you again.”

Now the passengers behind me are getting a little restless because they want to sit down so we can take-off. I am of course extremely sensitive to the needs of other travelers and American Airlines’ commitment to on-time departures but I know the airline would want me to be completely satisfied with my flying experience.

And that means a picture with Tim. And of course, T.G. agrees because he’s so incredibly nice.  And also because he is trapped on the plane with his seat belt securely fastened.

So I finally find my way to my seat in coach with all the other commoners who aren’t on hit TV shows and we take off.

Now I’m not the best air traveler. I madly grip the armrest with every subtle vibration of the plane but my fear completely dissolves. I know God would never let anything happen to the fashionable and fantastic and kind Tim Gunn. That man is untouchable.

And with that I calmly and safely fly back to New York City.

I’m off to Blogher (a blogging conference) in Chicago this week. The blogosphere has reached near hysteria on what to wear. I’m thinking of just wearing a full nude Spanx body suit. It’s slimming and versatile and matches standard beige hotel carpeting. Look for me at the parties! (If you want to know what to wear if you’re NOT going to Blogher, read this.)

The thing about Blogher is that there are like a gazillion people there (or something close to that). So if you make some kind of egregious fashion choice like um… I don’t know… a a full nude Spanx body suit that matches beige carpeting, you can simply ditch your new blog friends, dash up to your hotel room, change and rustle up some new friends at the next Break-Out Session!

If you’re going, I really hope you’ll come to our humor panel (Dying is Easy, ROTFLMAO Comedy is Hard) on Saturday at 3 pm. It’s going to be me, Anna from Life Just Keeps Getting Weirder, Deb from Deb on the Rocks, Jenny from The Bloggess, Jessica from Bernthis and Wendi from Wendi Aarons.

I can’t think of one reason why you wouldn’t attend. I mean, unless there was some celebrity fashion guru  three rooms down or something.

Oh crap.

Yes, Tim Gunn is seriously available at the EXACT SAME TIME at the Tide & Bounce Laundry Lounge.

Whatever. The guy is so overrated. And by “overrated” I mean “I worship him.” Plus, my husband interviewed him once and says he’s totally nice. Like would it have killed the guy to be a jerk?

And of course, I am desperately waiting for the return of “Project Runway.” I am about to hang myself by a thread watching the dismal knock-off, “The Fashion Show.” Seriously, am I the only pathetic viewer left? Why am I always watching shows that everyone else has completely abandoned?!

Oh if only they had booked Isaac Mizrahi to be in that sultry laundry lounge.

But listen to me, all my lady blog goddesses out there  – you don’t need Tim Gunn. Not. This. Saturday.

Because any of us on the humor panel will gladly do a fashion critique and tell you to pull out the scrunchie and get rid of the panty hose how much we adore your wedge shoes and cute top.  Seriously, you look fabulous.

You all made me feel so much more normal with your comments divulging all the crazy sh-t you’ve thrown in the washing machine by accident (phones, cameras, even diamond earrings!). But Aunt Marcia (who happens to not be my Aunt Marcia but the aunt of a very close friend) outdid us all by commenting that she once threw her loaded gun in a washing machine.

I’ve met Aunt Marcia and I promise you she’s telling the truth.

Thankfully, the gun did not go off. And on the upside, her bullets now smell like blue eucalyptus and lavender.

Meanwhile, I headed back to the city this week for Summer’s doctor appointment and within moments of arriving in Manhattan, I had the guy at the parking garage SCREAMING at me to move my car (I guess I didn’t pull up far enough).

So I SHOUTED back at him that it takes just as much energy to say something nicely as it does to say something rudely. Although maybe that wasn’t the best way to make my point. Whatever.

And then minutes later, I lost one of Summer’s Ariel glitter flip flops which apparently fell off her foot and into the street while she was in the stroller. And somehow neither Summer, Dylan nor I noticed.

So I had no choice but to bring Summer to the pediatrician barefoot which I hopefully pulled off as a cool, hippy mama kind of thing. Because I think we’ve all been constrained by stifling, bourgeoisie flip flops for long enough.

Anyway, the point is – it felt good to be back in city. You know, in sort of a get-into-a-shouting-match-with-a-stranger-over-nothing-and-lose-your-k id’s-footwear-kind-of-way.

I even ran into Marinka! Who didn’t stop to say hi as much she just smiled and waved.

Damn. She totally knows I’m not city cool anymore. Either that or she was afraid if she slowed down, I’d hug her. Which I totally wouldn’t.

I also didn’t hug the garage guy when we both apologized to each other when I picked up my car.

Despite the fact that I have joined the cult of suburbia (I love it and I’m now sponsoring several city goers who are ready but resistant to make the move), I do go into Manhattan at least once a week.

Because sometimes you still hope to see Sarah Jessica Parker you just need to hang with your peeps in the old hood. Just ask Dylan and city gal pal Ella.