Why they keep planting new bushes by my garage door I will never understand

So my mother thought I had died.

Or actually the way that my father put it on the telephone when he called me yesterday because he had been told to find out my current status, was that she thought "something had happened", which is MyMother for "Is there fog in the mirror and if so, why in the hell are you not updating your blog, or even your twitter you ungrateful child who I sometimes regret releasing into the world but who mostly does okay as long as that nice husband of yours is making sure you think twice before you heckle that crazed taxi driver, or buy those shoes."

See, my mom is cool that way. She totally checks my blog all the time (and convinces herself that most of what I write is pure fiction), she has gotten on board with twitter and is using that to gauge my level of alivedness, I'm pretty sure she at least attempts to check my Facebook, but since she refuses to actually join it, there's no way she's getting anything out of it, and as a last resource she'll send an email with the heading 'How are you???' Which, again yes, you guessed it, translates directly to "Unless I hear a peep from you now, by which I mean right this minute, I will alert international media and get them to run one of those extremely embarrassing wannabe mug-shots you seem to inadvertently excel at and say something like 'last seen wearing running shoes with 90s mommy-jeans, one of those Bill Cosby-esque knits, and a side ponytail', so you better get on twitter and write whatever it is you seem to be so busy with asap."

There's no hiding from my mom. As there shouldn't be. For me. Seeing as I am her only daughter. Her eldest.

And I have no excuse. For her or for you.

Here is what I started last week. And then went out for coffee, which turned into drinks, which turned into a dinner, which turned into a lunch, which then turned into a wonderful new friendship. Way out there.

In the real world.

In other words:

Somewhere along the way, in the last couple of months, I seem to have developed a serious case of life.

Not going to say I'm sorry for not staying glued to the bustling ants' nest (Remember? Actual, live ants) also known as my MacBook Pro, and blogging all about the so very interesting thoughts that cross my mind nearly daily (such as what has happened to my doormat, and how many low things is it even possible to hit with the car just in a span of one day), or about the shit that hits the fan, and the grill, and the windshield on a daily basis (such as what has happened to my doormat, and who is that guy in my back yard), but I will say that I'm pretty sure this is not the end of my blogging, just a lovely occurrence which means that I'm out there doing actual stuff with more bodyparts than just with the tips of my fingers, with actual people who I know for sure are not weird bots (Not that any of you are either. I think. Right? Are you? Tell me now or forever hold your peace? Till death do you part? [I did a wedding photo shoot for my portfolio recently and am still battling leaving that weirdo zone]), all the way out there where there's actual wine paired with awesome salads (I'll admit, I'm a recent Cobb-o-holic), where people greet me with hugs, and where cappucinos are not virtual or imagined, but come topped with soft and creamy whipped cream.

Who could say no to that? I mean wine and coffee are involved...

And that's as far as I got before I actually slammed the door shut behind me (okay, pushed the button that closes the garage door while backing out of the garage thus hitting the curb with the fender and running over the newly planted bushes, which I felt I needed to share with everyone in the blogosphere, hence the heading) and went for an actual cappucino, instead of just writing about one. With cream on top.

So not apologizing. Or even really explaining. Just letting you know I'm alive.

So alive.

I seriously hate photographing weddings.