Running with the Wrong Crowd

There's a line a blogger crosses. From Bad Blogger to Dirty Rotten Blogger. A Bad Blogger posts sketchily, willy nilly, in fits and starts. When she returns to blogland after an extended absence, people say wry things like, "Oh my, you live and breathe." But the Bad Blogger at least has the decency to put in an appearance for solemn occasions such as blogaversaries. The Dirty Rotten Blogger does not.

I've crossed the line. Friday was my second blogaversary, not to mention my 56th birthday. And I refrained from commemorating. I morphed from oaf to scoundrel. I'm a Dirty Rotten Blogger. Maybe that's because I'm in the Terrible Twos. At least in blog years. Maybe it's because I've taken to running with the wrong crowd.

These kids are a bad influence.

Foreground: daughter Flannery.

Back row: David (Flan's boyfriend) and son Oakley.
Their deviousness is outdone
only by this one...

This one is bad to the bone.

He cooked TWO birthday feasts for me,

the first one two days before my birthday.

I came home from the gallery,

walked up the back steps to find

the bad one holding hands with Cinde, Bob, Christy,

and Russ. Their heads were bowed, their eyes were

closed, and they were chanting OOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM.

"What's going on here?" I asked in indignation.

"SURPRISE! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"

Then there's that thug Otto...

Otto, my Stephano-Pirovano-designed

dental floss dispenser,

a gift from the dastardly Christy.

My birthday cards and letters, from various low-lifes:

My mother (who surreptitiously slipped me cash,

then brazenly sang Happy Birthday on my voice mail).

The infamous Sometimes Saintly Nick

(alias Alex the Blogging Cat).

JS (knee-deep in "discernment"--

an Episcopal euphemism for parole--she emailed me her first,

highly subversive sermon).

Paschal (who penned a wicked acrostic based on my name).

Belinda and Armand (from L.A.--lower Alabama--

can't get any lower than that).

Cinde and Bob, who harbored on their premises

Christy and Russ, accessories to the birthday perpetration.

The Out-Laws (disguised as the in-laws).

The Bad Influence Kids.

Bad-to-the-Bone.

Notice all of the cards are rallying around

the large bottle of Reposada,

a gift from Flannery and David.

(I told you they are a bad influence.)

The chocolate from Bad-to-the-Bone is hidden,

as are the various items of intimate apparel.

My birthday roses, grown by my neighbor Cynde

and arranged with greenery from her garden,

in a French tin pot, adorned with a white satin bow.
She's the scourge of the neighborhood.

Four pots of Russian sage,

foisted on me by my in-laws.

They wrote the book on Bad.

A selection of headily fragranced incense

and a heart-carved case to keep it in.

A gift from my insensitive lout of a son.

(That's the hem of my skirt in the foreground.

Not that you were asking.)

My Bradley mixed-media ceramic mask.

Gifted by, you guessed it, Bad-to-the-Bone.

My brand new great-niece Allie Rae,

whose timing could not have been worse.

She arrived home from the hospital on Friday,

my birthday,

my blogaversary,

the official opening day of Santa Fe Fiestas,

the official kick-off of Santa Fe's 400th Anniversary.

Some people are dirty and rotten from Day One.

But I adore the headgear!

VIVA LA FIESTA!

AND WELCOME ALLIE RAE!