Time is nuts, y’all. It is currently the middle of the month of May. That’s the one that comes after April and before June, Rebecca. My short, glorified career as an internet social icon notwithstanding, it’s been a rollercoaster of a 2011, my friends.

Indeed, Shit. Actually. Happened. in between the spilling of the soup and the acquisition of the pretty man on whose shoulder I drooled through an entire episode of “Dr. Who” last night.

This spring, both Sally & Kit celebrated the anniversaries of their respective births and got, thusly, older.

I love consistency.

During this vernal season, we discovered a new -itis in the stupid stupidness of my body and its stupidity – yes, of COURSE it mimics heart-attack symptoms and scares everyone in the vicinity of my screaming, narcotic-needing self.

Just today, I found the prospect of choosing a meal for dinner completely overwhelming and stared at the screen for over an hour. We call this PMS or normal… or something.

In the span of one week this spring, I got a new car, a new boyfriend, new business cards, a new job and a brand-spanking-new bout of HOLY-SHIT-I-HAVE-TO-SCHEDULE-EVERYTHING-RIGHT-NOW calendar-anxiety.

One of these days, make me tell you about how new boyfriend feels about that one. It’s a damn riot. Really.

Last month, I thought it would be a faaaaabulous idea to host 35 of my (geographically) nearest & dearest for an only slightly off Passover seder involving the removal of furniture from three rooms of my house, the use of three refrigerators, a professionally formatted yet typo-filled Mer-written haggadah (you’ve all forgotten I edit for a living, right? Good.), 32 bottles of wine and beautifully decorated plague signs. Obviously.

We’ve finally finished the leftovers, but all the borrowed dishes are still out. I figure they’ll come in handy in about five months when I discover what a great plan it would be to host fifty for Thanksgiving.

You didn’t, like, want them back any time soon, did you, Stacy?

This spring I was handed the leashes of about eight high school students and asked to mold them into better versions of their musically talented selves. So I denied them food and threatened their lives.

It worked.

Throughout the passing of this time, I, of course, had ambitious plans for a variety of posts we all know I haven’t written, like these:

• the one about Kit overcoming his upbringing as a small, disenfranchised African-American child on the streets of South Philly to become the Jon-Hamm-like superhero of a Dr. Sally husband he is today;

• or the one for Sally’s 30^th birthday in which we celebrate each of the individual cells that make up her particular neuroses and I start a letter-writing campaign to get her on the ballot for the 2012 Nobels – any of them;

• then there was the post about the new boyfriend, who I think we should call something along the lines of Captain Amazing or Señor Awesome, if only to watch him blush and squirm awkwardly, awaiting in fear the day he fucks up and loses his fancy moniker – this is obviously evidence I am the best girlfriend EVER;

• there was this one post percolating about how angry I am with God, Shakespeare, Martin Sheen, Disney, Wal-Mart and most of the Western world, but after I put off fleshing out the outline – I DID ACTUALLY WRITE AN OUTLINE – I got laid and reprioritized everything else in my life towards the goal of “more getting laid;”

• or maybe a serious post about identifying as a Jew again, complete with prayer and services and davening and making snarky comments behind my prayer book;

• there’s the post about how proud I am of Bestie Kazz, who has taken the reins of her life in a way I will always envy and admire, tackling the mountains of addiction and recovery and the deserts disappointment and struggle and love with a grace I didn’t know anyone could muster;

• and the one about my babyfever, which is currently so overwhelming I apparently can’t see a small child without finding a way to have him or her in my arms within a brief 15-minute introductory period – we must all give Captain Amazing kudos for not once running from me, screaming, any of the approximately 74,832,067 times I’ve melted into a gooey mess at the image or sound of a baby, and for mopping up my sloppy, sappy self each time this happens;

• or the time Captain Amazing brought me flowers, took me to dinner and the symphony, helped with the out-of-control seder when I was too sick, carried all my stuff when I wasn’t allowed to, helped me buy a new car and get into a credit union, talked me through awful family shit, sat on the dirty floor to win over my skittish dog – ok, ok, I’ll stop gushing.

I’m very good at gushing. I do enthusiasm well.

So I had all these plans and did all these things, and y’all? I’m a fucking grownup. And WHOLESOME.

I feel like I need to run out and get another tattoo just to hold onto my freaky self. The urge to buy a pack of cigarettes and just hold one between the first two fingers of my right hand is out of control.

I don’t actually want the nicotine. I just wanna look badass. You know. Me and my Virginia Slims.

For the record, I feel a bizarre urge to swear I have never smoked a Virginia Slims cigarette in my life. And certainly not out of a shiny gold cigarette case while wearing fuck-me-red lipstick. That so never happened.

But what I find, really, when I open my eyes far too early each morning or suck down cough drops like candy after singing for four hours straight, is that I like this life, this far-too-busy, must-learn-to-say-no, 11-hour workday, actually-have-a-social-life existence? Is pretty fucking rad.

Even when everything falls by the wayside, this crazy, lovely, out-of-control moment in my life – despite pain and illness, exhaustion and debt – is maybe the most beautiful I’ve ever known.

I’m so glad I get to share it with you.

which was wonderful. extra love to steph for planning it and wet, sloppy kisses to sally, kit, travis, jason, j.d., kazz & robbie for coming out.

you people make me happy.

now, go read this, because it is funny.

Well. It happened. You’ve ostensibly been anticipating it since exactly 37 days ago, when this post appeared. But now?

It is time. Mer’s birthday time, to be specific.

“So. It’s Mer’s birthday. So what?”, you say, derisively. “I’ve seen people have birthdays before. They’re not exciting. They’re boring because they aren’t mine! Why should I care?!?!”

Mer’s birthday is much more than an annual flaunting of numbers and loot (or AFONAL). It is a ritual. A celebration. A holiday all its own. It is called Mer Day. Or, #MerDay if you’re on Twitter. It is like a second, early, prologue-type Christmas, where only one person recieves gifts. Mer.

How does one celebrate Mer Day? Mer’s companion @EdgeOf30 will tell you.

• On #MerDay all of your sins against food are forgiven. Not forgiven? Sins against cheez sauce, though.
• On #MerDay santa and the easter bunny have a wild orgy that involves entirely too much foie gras.
• On #MerDay groundhogs declare 6 more weeks of #nopants, no matter what.
• On #MerDay the use of pronouns and the final-letter “y” are discouraged from being used. Is Verr Fun.
• On #MerDay, the baby Jesus is all, “Mer? whoa, now THERE’S a miracle.”
• On #MerDay in Canada, #MerDay is a week long parade, with no stopping.
• On #MerDay is the only day where you can see a unicorn at night. The reason? It’s bringing Mer a present.
• On #MerDay tweens the world over discover the wonders of masturbation, all at the same time.

If one had to pick an adjective for today, it’d be “Jubilant or GTFO”.

And now, because I have literally no ideas left, a picture of the tiara I made Mer today in honor of her birthday.

And finally, I’ve just gotta say it:

If you don’t leave Mer a “happy birthday” comment/reblog/etc I will come through the internet and guilt you so hard your mind will spin.

Happy birthday, Mer. We all love you.

Hi. It’s the intern. Again. So, I’m pretty much a fixture here.

Yay for that.

Anyways, in 10 days, it’ll be Mer’s birthday! Whee! Plan your celebrations, guys, because when Mer birthdays, she birthdays HARD. With that, I must introduce another crafter extraordinaire, who is near and dear to my heart. Her name is Ruth. She makes crocheted Cthulhus, at her site, Cthulhu Chick.

Banner links to her Etsy page.

What is a Cthulhu, you may ask? According to HP Lovecraft, its creator, in the 1928 horror story The Call of Cthulhu, Cthulhu is “represented a monster of vaguely anthropoid outline, but with an octopus-like head whose face was a mass of feelers, a scaly, rubbery-looking body, prodigious claws on hind and fore feet, and long, narrow wings behind.”

Ick. Often drawn something like this.

But! When Ruth makes them?

I know what you’re thinking. Yes. They are the cutest thing that you will ever see. And not only are they this cute, but they are snuggly and awesome, too! I should know – I have one.

So now that you’ve seen what she does, this presents a prime opportunity for her to introduce herself to you. This is what Ruth has to say for herself.

Hi, I’m Ruth! I’m 25, studying for a Master’s in Library and Information Science with an undergraduate degree in English Literature. I’ve been working in libraries since I was 16 and I read an awful lot.

I’ve been crafting in some form or another since I was 6 or 7 and my mom introduced me to crocheting. I wasn’t very good at it until I got older. In fact, I rarely crocheted until the last year or so.

Then in 2009 I went on a Neil Gaiman kick.

I realized that to understand some of what Neil had written, I should really get around to reading Lovecraft. I knew a little bit about Lovecraft & Cthulhu before, but hadn’t really studied it. Fortunately, a few months before I decided to do this, Chris Lackey & Chad Fife had started the HP Lovecraft Literary Podcast.

I read most of the stories on my own, but I then discovered and listened to the podcast. It’s helped me read the less appetizing stories (Lovecraft wasn’t exactly the best writer ever and also wrote some disturbingly racist stuff) and formed a general sense of camaraderie.

What got me started on the Cthulhus was wanting a plush Cthulhu. Some people in my family, including me, have a mental issue where we can’t touch velvet/plush/corduroy/etc without our brains freaking out (think fingernails on a chalkboard). So I had to find an alternative and ran across the crocheting pattern. I bought a few eyes, made a couple for me, started giving them to friends… then I got hooked, and eventually started selling them.

I make several varieties of Cthulhu, but in my mind I divide them into 2 categories – commission & regular. They normally get done the same way, but I always preempt regular Cthulhus (to be listed when they’re done) with commissions.

I normally work on Cthulhus:

1) In the morning on my commute when I get a seat on the train

2) At lunch after I’ve eaten

3) On my commute home

4) While watching tv or reading or listening to audiobooks in the evening

5) In the car when I’m not driving.

I have various versions of my Cthulhu-kit I’ll pack… the bag with eyes, a bag with stuffing if I think I’ll get to that point, & my scissors, of course.