Teacup pigs and possibly misuing the word "stasis"

These were taken like a week ago.
I can't even talk about this weather situation.

Hello, Internet. It's been a while. I should really just strive for quarterly updates here to avoid the constant nagging sensation that my blog is withering on the vine. 

Since I last posted, no birds have entered our home uninvited. The ones we did invite were not available, allegedly. Their excuses were pretty flimsy, if you ask me. Something about wanting to live outside where birds "belong," and not wanting to be eaten by a house cat. Stuff like that.

In other news, I did not win an international writing contest. I did make the top ten, though! They even put my name on the site and everything, and I am inordinately proud; I'm not going to lie. I did a thing! Sort of. I at least caught the eye of someone who had some kind of say in this thing. I'll take it. Since I didn't win or place in the top 3, the essay remains unpublished, which is actually a good thing, because it means I can submit it to places that publish such things. The string of rejections that are sure to follow will bring a good balance to this whole situation. It's all about stasis.

My children continue to grow taller and more smart-alecky. We got a second cat named Merlin; he has quickly become the favorite pet. David has taken to pretending to be a teacup pig named Max for most hours of the day, and Anderson spends much of his free time programming with Scratch and making me feel intellectually inadequate, but in a very sweet way. Kurt has been doing a lot of Kurting, as he is wont to do.

Soon, I will leave this part of the tri-state area and point myself northish, to the land of the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop. At this point, I'm counting down the hours, along with hundreds of others, to that seemingly mundane Thursday in April. It's hard to explain the magic, but I wish I could bottle it for those times when this writing pursuit feels like the dumbest idea anyone in the history of the world has ever dared to admit. While other, more poised attendees might organize their notes after the conference and approach their work with renewed vigor, I plan to soak it up, get home and write like a maniac until the buzz wears off. 

What else? I turned 39 and started a new and somewhat subdued countdown to the dreaded 4-0, or at least that's what you're supposed to say, I guess. I really can't be bothered. It may have finally sunken in that I'm mortal, as are you (and you and you). Apart from the occasional grip of tummy panic that I've possibly wasted a lot of time of my limited time on a lot of really pointless worries, it's all good. I'm happy to wake up and greet the day each day. Someone has to feed the teacup pig.