What do you get your craftiest friend for her birthday? Crafts, of course. At least, you do if the friend is Gilda, who along with being talented is one of the dearest souls I know — meaning that, among other things, she overlooks holes in the fondant and bumps on the embroidery. (Even though she’s the one who first got me to pick up a needle, and has offered the girls lessons, too. Her birthday present to me last year was a masterpiece.)

We celebrated on the Fourth of July, hence the overly-patriotic hues. Annabelle and I decorated a cake and some cupcakes. And Sophie drew a portrait of Gilda for me to embroider, featuring our first joint effort at lettering. I even got crazy and made Gilda a sewing bag, though I had to warn her the fabric glue might not hold.

“Don’t worry,” she said kindly, “I’ll just take a stitch or two to make sure it stays.”

Now that’s a friend. The final products are immortalized below, including my favorite part of the embroidery — the back.

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It had been too long since I’d checked in on Amanda Blake — one of my all-time favorite artists, she is responsible for the image of the Girl in a Party Hat — and look what she’s got for sale on her etsy store.

The image is lovely, as always. But the title of the piece blew me away.

Man, it’s been hot. I mean scorching. 112 in the shade. On the car thermometer, 118.

Reminds me of the day last summer I saw the snowman. That was quite a day — the hottest day of the year, the day Sophie was officially diagnosed as mentally retarded.

I thought I’d share the post and the photo again, in honor of Independence Day. “Independence”  has new meaning for me since I’ve been a mother, even more so since Sophie’s been around. Not in a bad way, not all the time at least, just in a different way.

Some days it’s like walking out of a coffee shop into the blinding heat and turning and seeing a snowman on the sidewalk.

At Sophie’s birthday party a few weeks ago, a little girl named Stella came up to me and said, “My mom wanted me to tell you that she’s the one who made the snowman.”

Phoenix (Tempe, rather) is a small town, so I wasn’t all that surprised to be connected to that snowman by fewer than six degrees. Cool, huh?

I know I was the last one to see it. And now I can’t stop watching it. In honor of my newfound desire to embed video on blogs, check this out.

As I’ve already mentioned once or twice, we went to a wedding last weekend. It was truly lovely, but I did walk away missing one thing: a first dance.

The wedding was non-traditional on purpose — no tiered cake, no guest book, no rehearsal dinner (though frankly a rehearsal would have been helpful). The groom wore Converse. It all worked, but I would have loved a first dance.

Here’s the thing. I’m not sure what Adam and Vanessa’s song is, and you’ve gotta have a song.

Ray and I chose “Here, There and Everywhere” by the Beatles long before we even talked marriage. I’d never heard the somewhat-obscure tune. Ray was flipping through his guitar music, playing Beatles songs (the one group we’ve ever been able to agree on, aside from one XTC album and a brief Eminem phase I’m not proud of) and landed on that one.

“It’s our song!” he announced.

I melted.

So when Adam gets back from his honeymoon, I’m going to have to ask him about his song.

I got to thinking about the song thing this morning when I was driving Annabelle to camp. We were listening to her birthday mix. I need to post the play list — I’ve procrastinated on that. It’s kind of embarrassing, frankly, mainly because the kid actually had the nerve to choose most of the songs herself. (I’d insert a smiley face here but try to avoid emoticons on the blog.)

There are some good ones on there, though, including Steve Wonder’s “For Once in My Life.”

(They play it at the end of Shrek 4. Annabelle, like her mother, tends to find her faves on soundtracks. Cheaters, I know.)

Now THAT is my Kid Song. If there’s going to be a First Dance Song, I decided as I wiped a few tears away, there’s got to be a Kid Song. Maybe more than one. But this is my first official one. It’s meant for lovers, yeah, but it made me explode with love for my kids, which is what A Song is supposed to do. Try it. I bet it works for you, too.

It’s official. I’m a wreck.

Work any place for 17-plus years, and co-workers will come and go. I’ve said my share of good byes and even shed some tears. The alt weekly I work for has a small staff, and people work really hard. You get attached.

But I can’t recall a departure that’s affected me like this one. And it’s odd, because Sarah Fenske and I were not destined to like each other.

On the surface, we’re nothing alike.

She’s tall and skinny. I’m not. She wouldn’t be caught dead in glasses; I refuse to try contacts. Her drink of choice is gin, and gin hasn’t passed my lips since New Times celebrated its 25th anniversary (and the paper just had its 40th).  

She was raised Lutheran and converted to Catholicism and goes to church all the time; I’m such a bad Jew I’m seriously considering having a quinceanera for Annabelle instead of a Bat Mitzvah so she doesn’t have to go to Hebrew school.

Then there’s politics. Sarah Fenske’s political idol is Barry Goldwater.  Mine is Mo Udall. Get this: She likes Sarah Palin. Really. If you really want to understand how different we are, check out the point/counterpoint we did about Palin in September 2008.

Oh, and how could I forget to tell you this? She prefers white chocolate. How can you trust someone like that?

And yet, I can’t think of anyone I would have rather crashed John McCain’s un-victory party with on Election Night. (Above is a picture taken with one of her idols, Congressman Jeff Flake, on Primary Night 2008. Another fun party.)

That’s funny, because I really should hate Sarah Fenske’s guts, and not just because I prefer vodka to gin and would never drive a convertible. When Sarah arrived at New Times six years ago, I was still smarting over my transition from staff writer (read: rock star, at least in my little world) to editor (roadie).

Here was this girl (barely out of her mid-20s), new to town, who liked to write about government bureaucracy and petty politics and all the things I liked to write about, before I had a screwed-up kid and they put me out to pasture.

I was expected to line Sarah up with stories, show her around town, introduce her to my most trusted sources. And so, because I tend to be a brown-noser at work (I’m terrified of losing my health insurance, okay?) I did. I pouted a lot, but I did.

And you know what? It was awesome.

It pains me to say it, but it’s true: Sarah wrote better, harder, more impactful stories in her six years at the paper than I have in 17. She kicks ass. I know everyone in Phoenix is saying how sorry they are she’s leaving, but I can think of several crooked politicians and a few shady consultants who feel otherwise.

Our boss is fond of saying that everyone at New Times has a little bit of smoke coming out of their ears. Sarah’s on fire.

Not only that, but she does it with grace. She claims I taught her a thing or two as her editor (again, gracious of her — perhaps nothing more valuable than to stop overusing colons, which I notice I can’t stop using in this post), but I’m the one who learned from her. 

And so I wasn’t all that surprised when she announced she’s taken a job as managing editor at the company’s St. Louis paper. But still, I’ve been sniffling at my desk ever since. (Literally. Ask the guy across the hall.)

An hour or so ago, she breezed past my office for the last time, stopping to grab a quick hug and shove on a pair of oversized sunglasses. “I prefer to cry in the car!” she said, refusing to have any of it when I chased behind her, stopping to make her promise she won’t stop writing.

She claimed that’s the part of the new job she can’t wait for. “Writing is too hard!” she said.

That, I told her, is because you do it right.

Co-workers come and go, but some are irreplaceable.

I don’t remember what I got for my 9th birthday.

I remember the yellow Snoopy watch I got when I turned 7 (I wish I hadn’t lost it) and the “sewing machine” that used glue, and when I was 8 I begged for (and got) an Easy Bake Oven. But I don’t remember 9, or much after, except for the lemon-scented Tickle deodorant I demanded for my 11 1/2 birthday.

But I’m sure I wanted something when I turned 9. Annabelle’s birthday is next week, and I’m stumped. So is she.

“I really don’t want anything,” she told me last night, sounding a little exasperated. “I’m not greedy.”

Either she’s not greedy, or she’s really spoiled. Frankly, I can’t think of a thing she needs or even something she should want that she doesn’t have. A third American Girl doll? Another DSi?

Don’t get me wrong: I’m in awe of this kid who doesn’t want anything, who is more content drawing in old sketch books than ripping open boxes of new toys. (And it’s a welcome contrast to her sister, who started her Hanukkah/Christmas list the day after her birthday.) We had Annabelle’s party early, since this city empties out in July, and the truth is that the presents from her friends are still sitting in a basket on the dining room table, pretty much untouched. She did try on her party hat last night. (See above. The presents were fabulous, as was the party — pictures to come soon.)

The question remains: What do I get her? Ray will take her jet skiing on her birthday (not sure who that gift is really for!) and she and I have been talking about going away for a weekend just the two of us, so maybe I’ll look for some travel books for kids.  But that hardly seems like enough.

“You really can’t think of something?” I asked one last time. “So you don’t want us to get you anything?”

“Oh no,” came the quick reply. “You better get me presents. I’ll be sad if you don’t.”

Phew. At least she’s human.

You go years thinking she’ll never talk, then suddenly you can’t shut her up.

Good.

My friends Robrt and Todd (you know, the shopping enablers) have been saying “BUY IT” ever since Sophie coined the term — complete with a Lauren Bacall-esque voice — quite some time ago. After she told me tonight, “Mommy, my loose teeth don’t like popcorn,” I decided we’re overdue for a list of Sophieisms.

Not to get all deep on you or anything, but I can say for sure that before I had Sophie, there’s no way I would have believed a person with Down syndrome could be so witty — or quirky. Or whatever you want to call it.

Here are a few. I’ll update soon.

Preferred nickname: Hot Cocoa

Description of our dog Jack, when asked by Ms. Y: He’s a chocolate lab with coconut on top.

What she said when Courtney arranged her lunch in the shape of a smiley face: You’re so weird.

This weekend was refreshing — like eating popsicles with your best friends.

Actually, that’s exactly what I did. For the first time in too long, Ray and I ventured away sans kids to LA for a dear friend’s wedding. It was barely 80 degrees, but the ceremony took place in the direct sun (I can’t recall the last time I even saw direct sunlight in Phoenix, which is good, since it’s at least 112 degrees today) so it was most definitely popsicle weather. I even got sunburned.

I came home a little foggy, which I attribute not just to too much sun, but also too much (read: enough, for once) sleep and too much sweet tea-infused vodka (or was it vodka-infused sweet tea?). On Monday, I actually forgot to pick Annabelle up from camp, and I’m never that bad. (I did remember 5 minutes before camp was over, and made it across town in record time, but still, VERY BAD MOM.) And I’ve been out of sorts all week — minor snafus at work, annoyances at home.

Looking at this popsicle picture (which I finally got to load on the blog after three days of trying — see what I mean?) makes me feel better. Maybe I’ll pick up a box on my way home, but the truth is, they don’t make gourmet Mexican chocolate and mango lime popsicles in Phoenix. And they certainly don’t make friends like Heather and Shannon. Not to get all maudlin, but these two – whom I’ve known since college — have taught me a lot over the years about the true meaning of friendship.

Time to start planning the next trip….

Nothing says “summer” (not to mention “over-achieving babysitter” — Courtney and Sophie made these together) like pinwheels.