I can’t listen to NPR anymore. It’s too damn depressing, right down to the story about that kid on the no-cussing crusade. (Don’t get me started.)

The house is a disaster inside, painters are attacking the outside, something smells in the kitchen AND the laundry room. We are so not ready for a puppy. The journalism industry continues to crumble around my knees. Ray’s too. I have crow’s feet the size of eagle claws, and at this rate the science fair projects will never get done. I have got to stay off of Facebook, or nothing else will get done, either.

It was about time for a dance party, and I knew just who (the correct word here is whom but it sounds weird) to invite. Annabelle was watching Noggin, Ray was blogging. Sophie, however, had 5 minutes before the physical therapist was to arrive.

Bad Mom put on “I’m Too Sexy for My Shirt” (part of a marathon warm-up kindly and snarkily compiled by Mr. M., including the themes to both “Chariots of Fire” and “Rocky”, as well as some obscene song about someone’s “top”) and Sophie bought that for a while (see above) but she wasn’t really into shaking her tush on the catwalk. I guess you had to be around in the early 90s to really appreciate that one.

In the end, I put on Sarah McLaughlan (sp, damnit) singing “The Rainbow Connection,” picked Sophie up, and we slow danced. If you haven’t tried it in a while, you should, particularly on a busy morning when you have no business doing it.

OK, let’s get really gushy for a minute. Rainbows are just one of those things. I happened to be in the classroom the day Ms. X announced to Sophie’s class that she’d seen one that morning. Finally, after months of school, they were able to put one on the weather chart, insetad of a sun or cloud or the rare rain. Seeing how excited that got Ms. X — let alone the kids — was most certainly as good as my own personal rainbow sighting.

Here. Read the lyrics and try not to tear up. 

The Rainbow Connection

Why are there so many songs about rainbows
And what’s on the other side?
Rainbows are visions, but only illusions,
And rainbows have nothing to hide.
So we’ve been told and some choose to believe it
I know they’re wrong, wait and see.
Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers and me.

Who said that every wish would be heard and answered
when wished on the morning star?
Somebody thought of that
and someone believed it,
and look what it’s done so far.
What’s so amazing that keeps us stargazing?
And what do we think we might see?
Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection,
the lovers, the dreamers and me.

All of us under its spell,
we know that it’s probably magic….

Have you been half asleep
and have you heard voices?
I’ve heard them calling my name.
Is this the sweet sound that calls the young sailors?
The voice might be one and the same.
I’ve heard it too many times to ignore it.
It’s something that I’m supposed to be.
Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection,
the lovers, the dreamers and me.
La, la la, La, la la la, La Laa, la la, La, La la laaaaaaa

You know, for years (14 next month, that’s her birthday) Ray and I have half-joked that we’re going to clone our springer/retriever mix, Rosy.

Rosy is the best dog in the entire world, and if you think I beat myself up over my Bad Mom status, you should hear the inner dialogue over what a crappy pet parent I make, particularly when time is crunched and the two-legged creatures are in line ahead of the four-legged variety.

But I love Rosy. Named for my sacred security blanket (Annabelle Rose is named after both dog and fabric), she is Some Dog, to paraphrase E.B. White.

And she won’t be around much longer, I fear. I only hope Jack the puppy doesn’t make the end of her life miserable. Rosy’s always been a go-along-get-along kind of girl, even when her former companion Elliot (a handsome yellow mutt who succumbed to melanoma — who knew? — years ago) humped her, all day every day, so I’m not too concerned.

With the whole cloning thing still years away, I fear our only option of preservation/continuation will be taxidermy, and I just can’t go there. I’ve started to wonder if perhaps the gods are pointing me that way, though, because damned if I don’t keep tripping over taxidermy.

Or maybe it’s just trendy.

This weekend I opened “Bust” magazine (no big boob jokes, please, I get enough from my children) to a spread about a woman in Minnesota who artistically grafts together, oh, a dead cat and a bird. No words to paint that picture, my friends, so check it out for yourself: www.customcreaturetaxidermy.com

And then there’s Flutter. Music (really great music, music so hip I certainly haven’t heard it) should play in the background, when you hear the name, because this is the freaking coolest store I’ve ever been to, and that’s saying something for a girl who has a horrendous sense of direction — unless it’s in a mall. (Just this past Saturday, when we were not even inside the mall but on a street nearby and I corrected Ray as to which way to turn, he said, “Oh yeah, we’re near the mall. Your sense of direction must be right.”)

Last week my dear friend Laurie drove all the way from Eugene to Portland to take me to this shop on Mississippi Avenue, a funkified street in North Portland.

“YOU WILL DIE,” she kept saying.

Practically. If you love repurposed, deconstructed vintage dresses heavy on the tulle, silk and trimmings, you’ll plotz. Every piece of jewelry (vintage or vintagey or vintagey vintage) was pitch perfect, every rug and pillow and chair begged for my living room. This woman even has carnival chalk, for crying out loud.

I did want to weep. I circled the place, oh, 2 dozen times, and wound up in a fascinating conversation with the owner about how to get my vintage celluloid cabachons to stick to metal.

I was in heaven. I didn’t even mind the taxidermy — the snarling (what is that? a cheetah? a bobcat?) mammal, the turtle, the lizard, the snake. Just typing these things makes my skin crawl, but there I was, stopping to admire rhinestones draped across a reptile.

It’s hard to be too upset about taxidermy when it’s got a velvet ribbon around its neck.

There will be no taxidermying of Rosy, even if that chick in Minnesota agreed to graft the equally aged Izzy (our tiny white cat) onto Rosy’s lap, where she’s been spending most of her time.

Too sad to even consider. Thank goodness for the distraction of retail therapy.

I wanted a black standard poodle, a girl, and I wanted to name her Ruby.

But the puppy isn’t for me, not this puppy anyway. So when I spotted an ad for lab/Australian Shepherd mix puppies — best of all, from a rescue group — I knew we were adopting today.

Ray and Annabelle are madly in love. Sophie and I are more the joiners of the group. Someday I’ll get my poodle. (Probably after the Obamas do, dooming the poor breed to over-exposure. Oh well.) For now, we’ve got Jack — the name that’s stuck so far.

I have to admit he’s darn cute. But I know what the future holds. Puppies are way tougher than babies. Yawn.  He comes home Tuesday, freshly neutered.

(NOTE: Apologies for the unexplained absence! I was in Portland, Oregon, soaking up the cold air and the cool vibe. Posts to come on related subjects, including a highlight: meeting the artist who drew the girl in the party hat.)

Hot on the trail of the perfect puppy, today our path led us to PetsMart, a mall pet store (forgive me, lord) and the pound. Nada.

After that, it seemed like a good time for a bath, after all that puppying, so we tossed the girls in the tub.

I gave them a bath bomb from Lush (we’re completely addicted to their products) and since I usually drop in a slice of a bubble bar, this was a treat. Particularly since the bomb was a post-Christmas purchase, and disintegrates to reveal dozens of tiny metal (harmless, I’m sure — I hope) stars.

The girls turned that into a game, collecting the stars and “pasting” them to the batthub wall. At the end, Annabelle tallied hers: 21. Sophie had 6, including several Annabelle gave her.

This drew unsolicited praise from the older sister, in a form I’d never heard but expect to hear a lot, from now on: “Not bad for a 5-year-old with Down syndrome!”

Just a few more words about the marathon, really. I’m sure it can’t be nearly as fascinating to anyone else. Except maybe my “teammates”.

Yes, we had a team. We called ourselves Team X — well, not really, but I’m not revealing Ms. X’s real name in this blog. So for these purposes, we’ll be Team X, because yes, Sophie’s teacher was our leader.

And for that I’ll never forget her, for her gift to me this year has been twofold. Looming large, of course, is all she’s done and will do for my younger daughter, but she’s given me a little something special, as well. Right now it’s taking the form of a massive blister on the bottom of my left foot, but I’m sure that eventually the throbbing will subside and I’ll be able to focus on the part of me she made just a little bit stronger by convincing me I could do this.

I told a bit of the back story in a piece on the local NPR affiliate, which you can listen to here: http://kjzz.org/news/arizona/archives/200901/Silverman-halfmarathon

But I wasn’t able to tell the whole story there. Nor will I here — trust me, you don’t want the whole thing. Bottom line, as I put it in the radio piece, I’m not a competitive sports kind of girl. I mean, I’m REALLY not. So when Ms. X (Sunday’s was her fourth half-marathon) suggested a group of us race 13 miles, I was not interested.

I strongly believe that — particularly as an adult — one should remain firmly within the boundaries of one’s comfort zone, in order to succeed. That’s not to say I don’t ever challenge myself, but I do it on my own terms: with a tough writing assignment. Or maybe a craft. Childbirth — yes, that was out of my comfort zone. But with a great reward.

I hate to be a killjoy, but that teal and silver medal they handed out Sunday is just not the same as a newborn. Or maybe I’m just bitter. More on that later.

For various reasons (mostly peer pressure and the desire to hang out with friends) I left my comfort zone for a pair of Asics. From September to last week, we trained.

For me, it wasn’t enough.

Sunday morning, I knew I was screwed. I’d actually managed to GAIN weight during the training (I focused my willpower on the walking, abandoning the will to forgo Christmas cookies), I was exhausted (full time job plus full time kids and husband plus half-marathon equals insanity) and my feet hurt before we even started.

We waited about 45 minutes in our corral. When the horn blew and my friends took off, I prayed for them to leave me behind. I kept up for nearly a mile. It killed me, and they were hardly speedy — just a bit over a 16 minute mile. (We needed an average of about 18 and a half to finish on time.) I could feel the shin splints starting. The blister that’s throbbing as I write this started then, too.

“I have my Shuffle!” I announced to Mrs. B-C, the one still with me. “Go! Go! Catch up with the others! I’ll be fine!”

For the entire 13 miles, that’s how the conversation went. I thought about how I could free this poor woman, who could clearly keep up with the rest, but so kindly refused. She’s just that kind of person. I considered sitting on the ground and refusing to budge til she went ahead, or hiding in a Port a Potty. But I knew she’d just wait and I’d slow her down even more.

“How’s Mrs. B-C?” I asked our friend, Mrs. M, yesterday evening.

“She’s fine. A little stiff,” Mrs. M replied.

“Really? She kept saying her knee was killing her. Do you think it was? Or could she have gone ahead?” I asked.

“That’s what’s so great about Mrs. B-C,” Mrs. M answered. “We’ll never know.”

I love all my friends, but yesterday I wanted to plant a big, sloppy wet one on Mrs. B-C. Of my three teammates (there were others on Team X, including Ms. X’s mom, but four of us trained together for the most part) she and I were the most distantly acquainted when we started training. On a typical day, our paths just don’t cross as much as the rest.

But walking the canals from Tempe to Mesa, I learned so much about this smart, funny woman whose kids I absolutely worship. Now I know why they’re such great kids. They have a truly remarkable mom.

All that would have been more than enough. I would have been so happy on Sunday to dig my Shuffle out of my sports bra (if it was still functioning — here’s a piece of advice, ladies: don’t store your iPhone in your sports bra during a sporting event; mine didn’t work all day yesterday, after I overheated it with my sweaty boobs!!!) and walk the marathon with Vampire Weekend and the Fratellis, knowing my friends were making their best times.

It’s not like it wouldn’t have been the first time. My entire life, I have ALWAYS been last in anything sports related. Really. I know you’re thinking the same thing, but you’re a liar. You weren’t last. It was ME. I was last. Which is why I was scared all day Sunday to turn around. I figured I’d be dead last in the largest marathon ever.

I wasn’t. Ray promises there were “hundreds” of people behind us. And I crossed the finish line with Mrs. B-C by my side, despite my constant begging. We were a motley crew, joined serendipitously by my good friend and colleague Colin (check out his column, Spooning, at www.phoenixnewtimes.com — hilarious). We bumped into Colin on about Mile 5. He stood out from the crowd, in plaid Bermudas, an Atari tee shirt and running shoes I swear were circa 1976.

Judging from Colin’s text message today (something about needing a wheelchair) and the fact he did not train at all (except for walking the dog around the block) I feel comfortable saying he didn’t slow down much for me. But Mrs. B-C, I know she could have gone faster.

I texted her this morning to apologize. Yesterday when we crossed the finish line, they handed us yellow slips of paper that said we’d get our medals in the mail. The rest of Team X got the slips, too. But this morning I checked our times online. Mrs. M and Ms X crossed the finish line at 3:51 and 3:52.

Mrs. B-C and I crossed at 4:03. Four hours was the cut off. We don’t get medals.

I surprised myself by caring. I had sworn that I would consider this whole thing a success if the police didn’t sweep me off the street with the other late finishers (something rumored to happen after four hours) and that didn’t happen. So I won, right?

I might well have. I know I couldn’t have gone any faster. I didn’t stop once, not even to pee. I suppose I could have brushed past Ray, Annabelle and Sophie, who met us a quarter mile from the finish, but I can’t imagine I stopped to see them for three whole minutes. No, I can take some pride knowing I went as freaking fast as I could, slow as that was. I have the blister and the aching muscles to prove it.

As for Mrs. B-C? I guess we’ll never know. And maybe, like she keeps insisting, it really doesn’t matter.

I did it. We finished before we were swept up by the cops.

I may never walk again….

I have wrapped my feet in moleskin and Vaseline and carefully put on just the right foot covering. It would be a lot more exciting if I was about to take the stage and dance with the Baryshnikov, but instead, I’ll be standing in a parking lot for several hours, then literally in a corral, then walking my fastest (and everyone else’s slowest) for four hours, hoping desperately to make it to the finish line while there still is a finish line at the PF Chang’s Rock n Roll Marathon in downtown Phoenix/Tempe.

Not very sexy.

It gets worse. I’ve started and by the time I’m done, I will have crammed the following into my sports bra (thank goodness for big boobs):

my iPhone; two more pieces of moleskin; a baggie of Advil (I won’t say how much, too much, it’s crossed the line into “performance enhancing drug,” I fear — and so do my kidneys); four packages of Gu, the “Chocolate Outrage” flavor; some money; my Shuffle; a house key; lip balm.

I’m wearing my lucky socks (unfortunately, they are dirty) and my favorite pants, which I did wash. A tee shirt since it’s supposed to approach 80 today (just my luck) and an old turtleneck I can discard if I feel too encumbered. Unlike one of my “teammates”, I did not shower, do my hair and put on makeup, but I did put on some coverup over my sunblock, and I’m wearing a necklace Annabelle made me last night.

I think I’m going to throw up. Wishful thinking.

There’s been a lot of talk about the next marathon — and this one hasn’t even started. I’ve made it clear this is my last. Though yesterday afternoon I promised Sophie that when she’s ready for one, I’ll be by her side.

I could tell immediately, from Ms. X’s voice.

“I’m calling about Sophie’s day,” she said. Rut ro.

Bad enough that Sophie threw sand on a first grader at recess and called him a “Poo Poo Head”. But what happened after school was much, much worse.

The worst.

The end of the day was crazy, as it always is, Ms. X explained, and several parents stopped her to talk. Usually, Sophie is very good, Ms. X said, and waits patiently til she’s picked up.

Today, apparently, Sophie got impatient. She left the classroom, walked several doors down and across a courtyard, turned left, passed the office and made it out of the school and all the way to the crosswalk before someone noticed.

Bless Freddie, one of the school custodians, a wonderfully kind man who doubles as crossing guard at the end of the day. And thank goodness Sophie decided to cross properly. Freddie nabbed her and made a special delivery back to the now-beyond-panicked Ms. X.

I was stunned. The internal dialogue began.

So, she made it all the way (a substantial way, a path filled no doubt — at that time of day — with literally dozens of people, most of whom know Sophie, at least by sight) to the crosswalk before someone noticed she was alone?

Let’s say it again, for good measure.

SOPHIE MADE IT ALL THE WAY TO THE CROSSWALK BEFORE SOMEONE NOTICED SHE WAS ALONE.

I took a deep breath. Wait. Someone DID notice. She DIDN’T get to the street — well, she didn’t get ONTO the street. She’s OK. That’s what matters.

And then: I’m not just a Bad Mom, I’m a Horrible Parent. Horrible. What kind of parent doesn’t pick her kid up after school?!

A working parent, of course.

Turns out, the sitter (whom we absolutely, positively adore) was, maybe, three minutes late. That’s nothing in the scheme of things. Or it’s everything. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t Ms. X’s fault. It wasn’t my fault (I’ll say in a more lucid moment). It wasn’t even Sophie’s fault. Well, it was. But what can you do? She’s — well, she’s Sophie.

And regardless of everything else, she’s 5. It happens. Ms. X says it happens. Not just with Sophie. I told Deborah, who immediately had her own story to tell, about the time Anna headed home alone after school. She was 6.

I felt better – for a minute. Then I went out and bought Freddie a big box of fancy cookies. Tomorrow morning, Sophie and I will write a heartfelt apology to the little boy she called Poo Poo Head, and a heartfelt thanks to the man who might have saved her life.

Early this morning — long before dawn — I heard Sophie roll over and cough that kind of I’m-getting-ready-to-barf cough.

My first thought: Oh no! (The stomach flu’s been going around school.)

My second thought: Oh yes! The timing will be just right — at this rate, I’ll be puking myself by Sunday.

A serious bout of stomach flu is about the only thing that can stop the inevitable: I’m signed up to walk a half marathon on Sunday. I am so not a competitive sports kind of girl — I don’t even like to watch competitive sports.

I don’t like to think about competitive sports.

And yet here I am. It’s all thanks to Ms. X, who convinced a group of us to walk with her. (She’s a veteran of several races.)

There have been some positives, for sure, but right now I’m focused on the negative.

Ray is of no use.

“YOU WILL COMPETE IF YOU’RE ON YOUR DEATHBED!” he said (in just that tone) when I told him of my hope for the flu. “THIS IS A COMPETITION! THIS IS SERIOUS!”

I know it’s serious, because my feet hurt constantly. My only solace is that I’ve trained — some. I can say I’ve walked 12 miles in one stretch. (Couldn’t move for days, but still.) Last night a friend/colleague was lamenting the sad state of his life in an email and I replied, “Well, it could be worse. At least you’re not signed up for the PF Chang’s Marathon on Sunday.”

Turns out he is. He plans to walk the half, too. He’s a little concerned, since his only training so far has been to walk the dog around the block.

Suddenly, reading that, I felt better. And it turns out that Sophie’s cough was just a cough. But now that I’ve jinxed myself by writing about it, I’m sure the vomiting’s not far off….

A lot of people blog for fun. That’s at least part of the point of GIAPH. But if you happen to have a job that has a blog component (and I’m betting an ever-increasing blog component) you’re likely experiencing the same love/hate relationship I am.

A lot of complaining goes on, around my workplace, about the whole blah-blah-blah-blogging thing, but finally this weekend, I took the time to read Andrew Sullivan’s treatise on the matter in the November Atlantic Monthly, and I’ve got to say it made me feel a lot better.

You should read it, too, since you’re here, which means you read blogs, if not blog yourself: http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200811/andrew-sullivan-why-i-blog

I also felt much better today after tracking down this poem, parts of which had been floating through my head all morning. It’s recited aboard a boat somewhere in the bowels of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory — I recall it from the original, though it seems too good for Tim Burton to have passed up.  (Did Dahl write it? Or is it a famous literary gem by someone else that I missed along the way?)

In any case, for me, it equates nicely — if a bit on the melodramatic, macabre side — to the whole blogging thing: 

There’s no earthly way of knowing
Which direction we are going
There’s no knowing where we’re rowing
Or which way the river’s flowing

Is it raining, is it snowing
Is a hurricane a-blowing

Not a speck of light is showing
So the danger must be growing
Are the fires of Hell a-glowing
Is the grisly reaper mowing

Yes, the danger must be growing
For the rowers keep on rowing
And they’re certainly not showing
Any signs that they are slowing