said Peggy Noonan, in the Wall Street Journal last week.

And yes, I am now the proud owner of one.

1. My favorite book-buying kid just stopped into the shop again tonight. He bought another Captain Underpants, explaining that his school only has two copies of this particular volume and they are in high demand. I replied that I hate giving books back, that it’s much better to own my own copies. He answered, “That’s exactly why we’re in an economic crisis right now” and then gave me a 20 cent tip.

2. I’m still dreadfully behind in my blog reading. I know you’ll forgive me, but that’s not enough for me. I want to be there, all up in your business. I miss you. And listen, if something huge has happened to you and I’m the dick who hasn’t commented in some way? Never be afraid to email me a verbal slap upside the head. I’m not kidding.

3. Since you were all so curious and supportive about this past weekend, I’ll just tell you: I was meeting with magazine editors. It was like speed dating for writers, like seven job interviews in a row. It was exhausting, terrifying, and ultimately exhilarating. Now you know.

4. The contest has ended! The new owner of Alicia’s beautiful pair of earrings is Cathy at Noble Pig. Congratulations!

5. Finally, the announcement.

If I had to guess, I’d say it’s about 400 square feet. Maybe even 500. I was so excited I forgot to ask.

It is old. It is rich with character and water stains, built-ins and cobwebs. It has freshly scrubbed window sills; a carefully swept pine floor, painted brown. It has stairs for sinking down into inspiration, high vaulted ceilings for dreaming up. It has a donated desk carried in by friends, and a vase-full of fresh flowers delivered in person by my worried but always supportive husband.

The copper key seems to sparkle even more in my palm.

It is a writer’s studio, and it is mine.

Ummmm.

WOOOOOOT!!!!

(Just sayin’.)

I love you, Badger State. Despite all yer fuckin’ snow.

****

P.S. Obama is speaking to Texas on CNN. My Republican husband is noticeably riveted, and my three-year-old just said, “Mama, I wike yo boyfwend.”

My cup runneth over.

.

I lamented earlier today that, although I felt ready to give up MySpace, I hated losing access to all that free music. I said I wished there was a way to add music to my blog so that you might hear what I was feeling, in case I couldn’t explain it quite right. Remember? It was about…oh…three hours ago.

So I got my December issue of Macworld magazine in the mail today, and right there on page 91 is a feature entitled, “The Smart Blogger’s Guide”, and a couple pages into it there’s a blurb about adding music to your blog page. WWWWWOW.

Now, dear reader, if you’ll glance over to your left, you’ll see a brand new pink box. Press the little play button if you want. You’ll hear some of my favorite songs. Not only that, I can pull one song out as a standalone, to specifically describe my mood each day. You’ll find it right below the my profile picture in the upper left corner of this blog.

Oh, how I love the KarmicCyberMagazineMacUniverse.

(And yes, this means I just joined a new online community. DAMMIT.)

MY GIRLS.

(sigh.)

On the left, Miss Gretta The Beautiful. When she was only one year old, riding in the backseat of my Hyundai, we pulled up to a stop sign before a highway marked “H”. She immediately pointed and said “The letter H”, just like they say on Sesame Street. By two she could identify Joni Mitchell on the stereo. She could read exactly two-and-a-half months after her fourth birthday, and bested me in vocabulary contests by her fifth. She gets straight-A’s on her report cards, with parents who never check her backpack….The thing is, it isn’t just what she knows, it’s what she understands. I’m constantly forgetting she’s only seven. Because seven, in Gretta-Years, is more like 24-ish. She giggles like an honest-to-god hyena, and no matter how mad I am, I can’t help giggling myself when I hear it. Her verve is contagious. I am daily outdone.

And then there’s Emma the Diva, on the right. Look at that condescending pose. (“What, you wanna take my picture? Go ahead. Take my picture.”) Watch as she mocks me, listen as she chuckles under her breath. When she came into this world two short years ago, she did the impossible: she followed up the Gretta-Act. (Who among us could pull that off?) Oh, but she has, my friends. She has. She came out of the womb with her hands on her hips. In her first hour of life she sent us on an ambulance ride to the ER because she didn’t feel like breathing. She wouldn’t nurse for two-and-a-half seemingly-endless weeks while I pumped and fed her from a teeny tube. She does everything her own way, in her own time. She is completely impossible, but in an entirely different way than Gretta. She lures you in with her sweetness, her shy shrug, her warm “I wub you!” Then she pounces. Our entire house is under Emma’s control, make no mistake. Even Gretta knows it. Just ask her. She only giggles.

I spend my days on point. Locked-and-loaded, if you will, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I coexist with them in a dissociative state, watching from above as they wreak their terror on some other poor fool of a mother. Part of me is horrified. But part of me (a bigger part, thankfully) worships the ground they walk on.

How did I get so blessed? I’ll never know.