The one in which THE SITE MOVES OMG THERE IS A NEW SITE

Hey! Putting aside any sentimental attachment to blog titles that include the word mom, I am outta here. Please adjust your subscriptions, bookmarks, etc. to

andthenkate.com

Merci beaucoup. See you at the new digs.

Three things that prove I need to get out more. As in, way more. As in, you have no idea how much more.

#1. You get catcalled by a panhandler. I tell you, a girl opts out of elastic-waist pants ONE NIGHT and it’s like hell freezes over. Add some shiny red peep-toe pumps and you get an extra lewd remark (please see below). I really think that we mothers of America are not giving the male homeless population nearly enough credit. They are like the kings of compliments. A little loony, sometimes, and possibly blind, but still, really good with the flattery.

#2. You have vodka for the first time in months. When Adam got into his cocktailian phase three years ago, all vodka was banned from the house, for it is apparently “the shit of the cocktail world.” I’m not sure you knew this, but only PEOPLE WHO DON’T KNOW BETTER drink vodka, for it is COMPLETELY USELESS and also it SHOULD NOT EVEN BE CALLED A SPIRIT. FOR GOD’S SAKE.

So I of course get vodka drinks whenever I go out. Fueled by the knowledge that I have a “rockin’ rack,” I ordered a pear martini with vodka. Two sips in, I felt much like I imagine Moses and his people did when manna floated on down from heaven. I blew a kiss to the bartender. It was embarrassing, but I was four long sips in at the point so I didn’t notice. Viva la ethanol.

#3. You discover that the people inside your computer live outside of it, too. Turns out that the group of people I was meeting was held up at the airport, which meant more time hanging out at the restaurant bar. Another slug of pear martini and the restaurant suddenly seemed like a highly appropriate place to move. What was not to enjoy? There was no one to disparage the vodka, nary a toy in sight (even on the floor I KID YOU NOT), and the menu listed cherry-pepper calamari as an appetizer. If society wasn’t so big on parents staying with their children and actually, you know, NURTURING them, I would have pitched a tent and called it home.

As luck would have it, the ladies below showed up and shocked me back into reality. But you know what? If reality is getting to hang out with the hysterical Cher@The Only Girl, very sweet Jessalyn@Cape Cod Awesome, and adorably raunchy Monique@A Day in the Life of a Surferwife in my hometown, then maybe real life isn’t that bad.

The lack of vodka still sucks, though.

Because sometimes a really good cheddar almost beats a skyscraper.

Hello there, persons of the blogosphere! I write to you from atop the Green Mountains, or at least atop one of them, or at least not far from the top of one of them! We have left the wilds of the Greater Boston area for a four-day weekend in Vermont, an event that is becoming something of a yearly tradition. It is also an event that strikes me as particularly hypocritical, considering I spend the other 361 days of the year moaning about suburbia and how we need to move back to a city. You’d think being this far from a metropolitan area would make my a bit hyperventilatey, yet somehow it doesn’t. I think the sheer distance to a major city simply overrides my City Gene.

That and the fact that it is absolutely freakin’ gorgeous up here. You can’t spit without hitting a phenomenal farmer’s market (because, you know, that would be the classy thing to do), and the locally sourced produce and bread and everythingdelicious is out of control. Plus you just can’t make up views like this:

Or the fact that you’re just ambling through a side-of-the-road sculpture park and stumble upon the most pristine stream you’ve ever seen, the kind you need to wade into and skip rocks through immediately, lest you go back home and remember never doing it:

And then there’s Burlington. While I may not be the worldliest of women, I have been more than a few places and I still maintain that Burlington, VT, is one of the best spots in the world. Honest-to-god hippies stroll shoulder-to-shoulder with Gap-bedecked UVM students, while tourists and locals alike stop to take renewing breaths of the fresh, Lake Champlain-scented mountain air, the foghorns of ferries and the tinkling of head shops and the melodies of live-music clubs all mingling to make you realize you’re really lucky to be there right at that moment.

Every time we visit Burlington, Adam and I throw around the idea of moving there, temporarily shedding our Big City Dreams for a lake-rimmed college town where we could eat our weight in local goat cheese. Then we remember, Oh! Winter! Samosa stands and charmingly dreadlocked neighbors, sure.  But constant multiple feet of snow? We’re just too feeble of soul for that.

Maybe Aura will realize the Burlington dream some day. Adam’s father and uncle both were born and raised in the city, and we tracked down their homestead yesterday. It, much like the city itself, looks like a good place to have grown up.

After all, and as we reminded Aura, it’s always nice to have a legacy, even if it’s far from the place you usually call home.