B is teething and I’m getting some traction with my writing. I would have written earlier about both of these developments, except it’s been bloody hot, swammy to be precise. (Swammy--when the state of a person’s body, the weather, the peel of an orange etc., is both sweaty and clammy). It’s currently 94 degrees in my living room. My computer is emanating so much heat as it rests upon my lap and thighs that I feel as though I might swoon at any moment. I suffer for my art . . .

B, miserable with new molars, has been prone to screaming fits and looks so pathetic trudging through the living room with his favorite fishy teether jutting out from his mouth and his ring teethers held high, one in each hand. He moans and cries through SpongeBob and is constantly looking for Doggie, his favorite stuffed animal, as though clutching Doggie might diminish the pain. And the other day there was a gob of blood on his lower lip. Meanwhile, the women of playgroup are now reading me, I’ve got a few loyalists in northern California, a handful sprinkled in the northeast and now the editor of the Eugene Weekly has taken notice.

I’m kind of pleased with my recent transformation. Where I was once strictly Mama, now I’m orchestrating a pretty smooth transition from “ouch, ouch”, sippy-cup, playgroup, mini-pool, gymnastics class, and brush teeth back into the grown-up world of demographics, opposition research and business plan. With one foot firmly planted in the cat poop B found in his play house and a big toe skimming the surface of the publishing world, I’m starting to feel like a perfectly capable, post-modern Mommy. So there.

Picture me, a few nights ago, on the eve of the day the Editor of the Eugene Weekly emailed me to say that he had read my blog and some sample ideas for an advice column and he “loved” my writing. Picture me, wineglass in hand, planted on the couch watching my Tivo’d episode of So You Think You Can Dance while my husband clickety-clacked on his computer keyboard, looking up ever so often to catch Natalie’s sexy outifit or those crazy leaps by Travis. As the evening progressed and as I lazily worked my way through three quarters of a bottle of expensive red wine, I found myself overcome with childlike giddiness. I would point to my husband and say, “Hey, you over there,” and he would reply “Yes Honey?” and I would cock my head and smile coquettishly and say breathily, “Who loves my writing?” and he would dutifully respond, “I believe that would be the Editor of the Eugene Weekly.” And then he’d lean over and pat my knee as though I were a sugared-up three-year-old whose bedtime was drawing near.

Granted this little story of celebratory inebriation is silly when my friend Phoebe has a six-figure book deal. (Phoebe lives in Manhattan, has a literary agent, quit her job to write full time and Phoebe has no kids) But in the interest of toasting even the smallest of successes, I’m going to try to ride this thing out as far as the wind will take me.

And so when the Editor of the Eugene Weekly tells me they once tried an advice columnist but that she wasn’t well received, I investigate further and find Date Girl, the fallen Eugene Weekly columnist, online. I read a few random Date Girl columns and find myself blushing and my inner voice whispering “Oh my, Oh my” and “no, no, no” as though I were channeling my grandmother, anyone’s grandmother. My eyes dart away from the screen every few minutes to check to make sure B isn’t lurking about because in my paranoid state I forget that B is one and cannot read. Date Girl is entirely too crude for the good folks of the Eugene Weekly, this I am certain of only three paragraphs down. (I won’t be sharing the topic of that random column because by the very act of writing the word, I would be breaking the sacred covenant of not pandering to the vulgar) I’ve lived in this town long enough to know that Eugene liberals like to be tantalized . . . so long as it’s intelligent, witty and finely crafted tantalization—we take issue with the crass gross-out. I'm proud to say Eugene has standards. As for myself, I’m quite difficult to offend. I’ve been known to read a Dan Savage column every now and then and I mostly find him amusing, and if you’ve read enough of my writing you know that I have no problem dishing out the sex. But the bitter, foul-mouthed hetero city woman who is Date Girl’s literary persona does not please. Confidential to Date Girl: Honey, the writing doesn’t work if the reader is squirming in her seat, truly embarrassed for the writer. I will leave you to ponder why it’s socially acceptable, joyful even, when a gay man (Dan Savage) writes explicitly about sex but a straight, single woman can’t pull it off. Or maybe it’s just this individual woman, the vulgar and angry Date Girl, who lacks the finesse. Please discuss at your leisure.

All I know is that someday soon, Mr. Editor Sir, I may have to march right down to your office with teether in hand and toddler in tow and show you why I’m better than Date Girl. I’m post-modern Mommy, dammit.

More shameless self-promotion to follow. Right now it’s just too bloody hot. We’re off to the coast, to the beach, where it’s a nice respectable 68 degrees.