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But even as they have both completely let it go for the night, I’m sitting here watching this thing over and over again. Curse the devil that made me buy an iPhone. I will now attempt to embed this little video of love into this blog.

You know the blog where I feel weird about sharing too much about my kids… Yes, that one. Don’t let your heart explode, you know, because of the love.

And it only took me 30 hours to add this clip to my post. What? It’s not like I own a ukulele and post ridiculously cute videos of myself on a weekly basis. That design company I owned came with it’s own PROGRAMMERS. This is all jam and jelly cake to me, YO. Lay the hate down.

But whatever… I hear you. BIG DEAL. The cute kids run and crawl back and forth, laughing, smiling… EMULATING. But…but, but… DON’T YOU SEE IT? They’re both HUGE, and moving around and making noises and attempting to play with each other. It’s called INSANITY, and I am now on the cliffs of thensuch. See you never.

I’ve been busy this and last week with design projects (can I get an AMEN!) and my new passion for becoming a film-maker. Yes. Maker-o-Films. I’m sure all of this excitement will result in mass quantities of manic behavior in the weeks to come, which can only lead to blog abuse. Hold tight.

I know. I’m a little sick of the internet too.

However.

Despite the fact that the internet is currently being over-run by Mom bloggers and social media loving tweet freaks, I still have to maintain that having an online portfolio of work is still somewhat priceless. Kind of like real estate in the Hamptons — you know. Good to own even if you never visit. Like my neighbors whom I have run into three whole times since I moved here almost nine years ago. NINE YEARS. Nine. One less than ten and two less than eleven. ELEVEN.

I am, by the way, one of those Mom blogging tweeting freaks, so I maintain the right to criticize. But even more than that, one of the three times that my neighbors came over to my house was to accuse our dog of relieving himself in their yard. And when I pointed to our pup saying “Are you SURE?” — whilst the Bluedog happened to be in a leg cast due to a severe cut on his paw, and therefore completely INNOCENT of going next door and excusing himself inappropriately. Mrs. Neighbor looked confused but never apologized for suggesting that he was guilty. And that, my friends, was just over eight years ago… I remember it clearly because while our oh so pleasant exchange was bubbling — her daughter, then a toddler, was wandering through my white walled house with melted Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup all over her hands… and eventually my walls.

But whatever. Is it really my fault that I remember instances like this with crystal clarity? I could go back even further, should the need arise… which is kind of what I did as I built my new portfolio website. Looking through old projects — some over a decade in the making. Nostalgic over some that I loved dearly — and still do… Wondering if certain opportunities, such as being a Creative Director or owning a Design Firm are all experiences that have come and gone… Juxtaposed with business partners and employees gone sour as well as clients closing their doors. Tumultuous learning experiences that I can now apply to….

Because almost everything has a timeline, but usually the good stuff reappears. Television shows go, but reruns save face. People stop eating bread. Chocolate eventually comes out of white walls, and if not one can always repaint… And yes. I can still design stuff.

Enter Frank.

Hailing from the archives of unused promotional “Despicable Me”, 2010 movie paraphernalia, Frank entered our lives during one of the sweatier weekends in August. Hanging there — among duplicates of himself in the Carni Whack-a-Mole trailer at the St. Catherine’s Fair. Little did any of us know that he would soon find his way into our lives as a permanent fixture in the arms of our son. The necessity at bedtime – where is FRRAAANNNKKK? And why Frank? Usually when you ask Will what the name of something is, he comes up with something creative like BOKI, CRUD, or TIMBLEBOCHMAN. This one was very decided and definitive. FRANK. I have a few Uncles named Frank, although I don’t think this is an issue of keeping it in the family. We also have a dear friend named Frank, but I fail to see the similarities, although he might be flattered. The attraction? The one eye? The crooked smile? Frank only knows, and having never seen the movie version of this character — we think that FRANK is here to stay.

Frank, who has already required several repairs due to exhaustive play, is an everyday kind of bloak with a serious Boston accent. He practically whispers when he speaks and says things like “balls”, “you gonna eat that”, “he married a girl with ching” and “I’m gonna take him out back and beat the shit out of him” when the mailman makes the dog bark. On more than one occasion I’ve glared back — you know, trying to win the staring contest… but only once have I lost my marbs, screaming “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU LOOKING AT”, when faced with the 5 o’clock frenzies of overtired, hungry kids that won’t admit their delirium. I mean whatever — you try having that eye on you all day… silently judging. But then that crooked smile always pulls me back in — a swamp yankee’s charm.

He agrees that saying “Oh my GOSH” or “GOODNESS” is acceptable as a replacement for GOD — but has yet to concur with an alternate to “SUCKS”… Referring to this whole Red Sox Francona mess as a “WICKED SUCK BALL” which isn’t quite appropriate, but not entirely off the mark either. He’s simple, yet diverse — and, what I think I like about him the most is, he doesn’t shed — although he isn’t above stinking the place up. Frank, since we’ve had a few months now to grow into one another, for all that he encompasses, just might last as some other plush toys do. Meanwhile, I’m trying to overlook the overall design of his being — the germ like qualities and semi-failure of his movie career. But at the end of the day, how can you blame Hollywood for it’s misgivings when Will emulates nothing short of love.

((Huge Sigh))

There she is. Taking my picture again.

Can’t a dog just take a nap around here without interruption? I mean — I already wag my tail around these kids that she allows to stay in the house, can’t I just have one moment of peace? I know, I know. She’s all happy and proud because the vet said that I lost nine pounds. As if that’s anything to be surprised about… My last appointment was 6 months ago — What? Doesn’t she know that unlike a certain 3 year old around here, I listen?!

And she’s happy like ALL THE TIME.

Remember when she worked in an office? How whack was that? All the screaming over the telephone about press proofs and color matches…UGH – and the money. I mean it smells nice but I never did get the point. I did all I could by laying my head on her lap to calm the crazy down. But now. Taking my picture again. Hopefully this time she won’t go and post it all over the internet like she did last winter when I was “fat”. Hasn’t anyone ever heard of a “winter coat”.

And yes. I get that she loves me…. Despite the fact that she moved my dogbed four inches to the left…. Not the one in the TV room, the other one that I sometimes remove the stuffing from. Because, if that “new one” is going to scream about absolutely nothing, can’t I let out a little frustration every once in a while?

But I’m not some pathetic character dog that enjoys social media and internet attention. Because. I’m stout, stoic, and if being eleven years old hasn’t taught anyone around here anything — I’m in charge.. And I’m not going to stand for all of this laughing and playing around all the time. Don’t people know how to control themselves? Just the other day that 3 year old had a water pistol and thought it would be fun to test it out on me. And you know what? I let him. And I smiled the whole time. Dammit.

All I want is for everyone to behave. And bacon. I’d really like some — Did she ever think of that?

When she’s so irresistible.. and I can’t stand myself. Running around. Where is my camera. I need a camera. SOMEONE TAKE OUR PICTURE. But we are alone. If I could only swing my arm around my body and then up high and balanced from the ceiling while looking through the viewfinder to make sure that I don’t snap a shot of my elbow instead of the cuteness that is now sleeping on my chest. While I balance carefully to capture the deliciousness of tranquility… and how I stop to wonder  — how fast can I share this moment with the world.

Perhaps we’re taking the term a tad too literal.

I keep my socks in a hat box.

And last week, when I had to buy new socks, I had to go through the great sock reorganization… You know, the tossing of the old into the scrap pile — the searching through for the elusive missing socks… always leaving you in wonder as to how or where they escaped to… It might just be me (most likely) playing out the Alcatraz-like break-out from the sock box scene in my head… as the deceivingly warm but thin black pant socks form a union in the planning stage but then realize that they might need a bright white sneaker sock, one that isn’t afraid to get it’s hands dirty in the execution phase… And the constant secrecy to keep the big fat winter sleep socks out of the loop — there’s no way they are getting through the tunnel that they were in the process of digging… with their teeth.

And I know — SO WHAT? Who cares? I’ve never been one for hats — not the kind of hat that would live in a box, anyway, and from one end of the body to the other, keeping my socks in a deep round box just seemed — RIGHT. But that’s not entirely it… Oh no. That isn’t what this is about.

It all started eons ago when I spent a few months living with my Grandma in her apartment on the the Hudson — Irvington on the Hudson, to be exact (not to be confused with my Nana, who was equally sock conscious but lived in a warmer climate…). My Grandma was the master organizer, and socks were one of her specialties. She kept some of hers in a hat box in the little room that I stayed in. She also kept some in her file cabinet, hallway closet, laundry basket, sewing box, AND a sock drawer — which I’m sure was only for the really really good socks. None of these socks had holes in them. None of them even had a thread out of place, and she would check in with them whenever she had a little free time… unrolling them, rolling them back-up. It was great if you were there for this — sitting next to her — something about the socks made her talk about her life… questions came up — like would I evah wear heels with jeans?… No.. Grandma, no I wouldn’t.

I’m not sure where the fascination with socks came from, or perhaps it was just the comfort of organizing that made it such a ritual. She also loved to empty out her pocket book for the same reason. She kept her make-up in the freezer next to the coffee, weeded the cracks in her patio with a silver spoon AND wouldn’t let me leave the house without a full screening for wrinkles. It was perhaps the most organized few months of my life — and when I left, I immediately bought a hat box.

Subtitle: Ryan doesn’t get her shopping center…

via Curbed Hamptons

But, believe it or not, this really wasn’t about me. I know, it really is hard to believe that a town as large as Southampton could turn its back on someone with such clout and circumstance as myself, but sadly, its true. And who cares that the developer is a really genuine business man that I know personally…. Someone that has built his independent wealth BY HIMSELF (gasp) and gives graciously to local charities. They still held the door open for his departure without giving him the respect of a blink. But, believe it or not, this really isn’t about him either.

No. This is about change. Period.

And I’m really really tired. I went to one meeting as an advocate of the Tuckahoe Main Street project, as some of you may recall, and I would have gone to more — but not only were they strategically scheduled at the absolute most inconvenient times, I also didn’t want to return to that oh-so-unfresh feeling of a recently soiled diaper being wrapped around my naked body as I gurgled and crawled on the floor, whining in order to bring attention to myself by acting like the rest of the town’s anti-change committee… That being the wall between old and new. Because SOMETHING has to change.

So while I might be at fault for not voicing my opinion as graciously those that have perfected the art of spitting on the floor and acting like a crowd of heckling fifth graders — especially when good intentions rear their ugly heads, I also didn’t feel that making myself the pregnant housewife poster child for a new grocery store was really a good look for me. Although, yes, I do have the spatula and apron collection to pull it off in fabulous and unabashed grandeur. And while you may think that I’m just whispering here on my own personal blog that only a few thousand might stumble upon, nationally… Locally, we have serious problems.

I’m not a sociologist (gasp). I’m not even into politics other than what makes for common sense, but I did own a small business once upon a time which has to qualify me for some level of the SAVVE, so bear with me while I lay it out…. Progress equals jobs, which equals revenue, which equals ECONOMIC RECOVERY. So while the current year-round residents of Southampton sit here, watching our neighbors attempt to sell their homes to move to OTHER cities and towns where OPPORTUNITIES are being CREATED, we get to see every other business closing its door due to JUST THAT. Not to mention the hypocrites that seat themselves in opposition to change — as each designer or specialty boutique in the village closes it’s doors for months at a time or indefinitely… How many of them are actually PATRONS or better yet… HOW MANY EVEN NOTICE? Or, how many of them are just like me? Shopping online or packing up on an almost daily basis to head to OTHER cities and towns where shopping is actually affordable?

WHEW, and while I catch my breath… (I said lemon in my iced water, please!) I knew this would happen. It was beyond predictable that the powers that be in our little WORLDWIDE VACATION DESTINATION would clutch the edges of their seats until the whites of their knuckles matched the hideous March snow outside. I mean, REALLY. They won’t even allow for new trees to be planted at the park in town — who was I to get my hopes up that dangerous and trouble attracting VACANT LOTS would be dealt with in such positive and hopeful dreams of infrastructure when the typical attitude takes over …“if it ain’t broke, I don’t know what is broke.” (via 27east.com) — Now that mind is just WIDE open.

Earlier this week I went to Target. As many of you can imagine, I have very little patience for stores that liken themselves to the size and variety of the Atlantic Ocean, but my shopping list included such a range of items that it seemed silly to not go for the convenience factor. Because, obviously, it isn’t the conformity that makes me uncomfortable… no, it’s merely the options and amount of STUFF available for consumption… that and the logo, but who am I to critique the masses?

And so, as we wound are way around shoes and into sporting goods, pausing for a sec to wonder in awe at the new Apple counter, we suddenly found ourselves amid a tizzy of frantic patio and garden enthusiasts… Intrigued, we wandered a little closer to find the seasonal garden department in shambles… hoses all over the place, terracotta pots strewn among the plastics, watering cans and muck boots mingling amongst each other, and the worst — little bags of plant seeds, completely uncategorized… just laying all over the place like no one CARED TO NOTICE…. CUCUMBERS ARE NOT PERENNIALS!!  My head was going to explode. Backing out of this maze of discontent was my only option for escape… And as the hives slowly began to surface on the back of my neck… I suddenly caught sight of a relatively organized seed console. Bags of mixed wild flower seeds at a $1 each. Needless to say, my reaction was gluttonous. Who says anything in excess is bad?

As custom for the first weekend of Spring, this weather is playing tricks on us…

Our yard is not ready….

But we can still look back at last year… waiting, waiting, waiting…