Lovey-Dovey Overdrive

Note: my Domestic Diss poll is still open. Closing end of week. Vote, por favor!

Friends,

Some of you have seen it. Some—not yet. Some of you will think it's sweet. Some of you will sour on me on account of the sweetness. Some of you will say to yourselves, "Finally, that Crabmommy has stopped complaining for one second to count her blessings!" Some of you will say, "I thought Crabmommy swore she'd never count her blessings! Frack this! Outta here!"

Because all week long I've been engaged in a online Crabmommy love festival. Over at the bloglet and elsewhere, I have written up my personal happiness for all the world to see:

1. How I met Crabhubby
2. My wedding

To those of you who wish to witness me happy and thrilled with life, these posts will bring joy and gladness! You will even see a photo of me looking (if I do say so myself) good on my wedding day (and let me assure you that was the very last time I looked so uncrabby and it is the single shot of me in which I managed to tuck my double chin). I needed to post a pic of me dolled up, since the post is at Glamour magazine, and as we all know, Glamour is so filled with Euro-style glamour it has a "u" in its name.

Indeed, I have revealed a sparkly side of the Crabmommy this week. And I'm not entirely happy about it, for it goes against my mission: to complain, whine, and reveal my under-performing, underwhelmed nature in blogging. And if you see me up there, with my delightful husband, looking all fancy, and if you read of chance meetings on subways and all manner of happiness, you might think I'm a sham. You might think I'm bogus. You might wonder what I could possibly have to complain about. So much for lazy, shabby, crabby mommies, eh?

But, dear readers, please realize that on account of having a professional blog gig during a time when, shall we say, incomes are challenged, I believe I must do all that I can to appeal to everyone from teenagers to octogenarians! From my research into other modes of employment available to me, it has become abundantly clear that when the bloglet gig ends, I have one option: sex worker.

Even at that, I don't think I would do very well as a sex worker. For starters I haven't been doing my mom-flap exercises so I'm not in great shape. I tend to wear my hair in a bulbish lid, and I favor plastic track pants lined with tee shirt material. My skin is, as always, deeply chapped because I haven't been drinking those 5 glasses of water a day, and none of the PRs will send me lotions to vivify my carapace, no matter how I plead with them.

In short, I am now on a blogging survival mission and have let go of all principles: I will blog however, whichever and whatever, reaching out to to one and all, young peeps and old, witchy and glammy, chipper and crabby, diversifying my portfolio, myself, my life, my voice, my ethics. And if they want to see me happy, I will show them happy. I CAN DO IT! YES, I CAN!