Here are a few things to remember when you go to a “Dynamic Duos” costume party as Amy Winehouse and her 10,000 ML bottle of vodka.

1. If you dye your blond hair, black, it will come out gray.

2. A borrowed Snookie wig will help.

3. Not everyone knows that Amy Winehouse died from alcohol poisoning. Actually, pretty much, NO ONE knows that. You may have a lot of explaining to do.

4. If you wrap your husband in posterboard, don’t forget a flap for bathroom breaks, as you may get odd looks at the party when you take a steak knife to his groin.

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On Tuesday night I went to bed early because I had to get up at 4:00am on Wednesday. After one-and-a-half Ambien, I was snoozing at, roughly, 9:30pm.

My husband was at a hockey game, so when I started getting ready to hit the hay (at 8:15…because that’s how long it takes a woman to actually move from the couch to bed when there are a dozen obstacles in her way…oh, for instance, like her 12 year old’s paper on kangaroo rats) I sent my husband a text telling him he had a short “honey-do” list waiting on the kitchen counter. It should be noted, that this is something I never do.

The list said:

1. Please fold the clothes in the dryer to the best of your ability.

2. Put the clothes from the washer into the dryer.

3. Throw the towels we use for the dogs into the washer, with lots of detergent, bleach and hot water.

When I woke, long before the sun had risen, I went to finish the laundry he had started, only to find that he had already done it. TWO loads of laundry were folded and stacked on the dining room table instead of just one.

When he got out of bed I asked, “What got into you?”

Which is when any impression that he had done it out of the goodness of his heart was vanquished when he replied, “Because, now you won’t be able to say that I haven’t done a single load of laundry in 16 years.”

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I just got back from a trip to Manhattan where I attended a writing conference for work. There were oodles of editors from Penguin and I even had the opportunity to spend 90 minutes in a mentoring session with a literary agent. Not everyone gets a chance like this and I spent the the days preceding the conference in diligent preparation.

I wrote a query letter and printed out sample chapters of my novel. I made sure that my business cards were packed, my clothes were professional, but not stodgy, and I practiced my elevator pitch until the moment I arrived at the opening reception. Which is also when I realized that I had packed the wrong Spanx.

If there is one thing that you don’t want publishing greats to know about you, it’s that you have visible panty lines and a bloated belly filled with a nerve-calming Corona and lunch; consisting of salt and vinegar chips from the hotel bar.

But, my array of good impressions didn’t stop there. In my middle-age, I have developed lovely dots of mustache sweat when I get nervous. If you see me wiping my upper lip for the first five minutes of our conversation, this is why.

Ah, but those things? They were nothing compared to my dinner with the former editor-in-chief of Redbook Magazine, Stacy Morrison (now a co-worker at BlogHer), and a couple of power–bloggers from NYC. I looked for pictures of Stacy online, but I couldn’t decide between the one of her with Cindy Crawford or the one with Harry Connick Jr.

That’s right, I was like the Ohio Tweedledum at a Times Square sushi restaurant with three, sophisticated New Yorkers.

Do you know that they don’t even give you forks at authentic, NYC sushi restaurants? I had to be taught how to use chopsticks by Stacy. So, understandably, when I got a nice big chunk of avocado between my sticks I was quite proud of my accomplishment. I quickly took the bite and puffed up my chest.

Only, I couldn’t puff up my chest. As a matter of fact, I couldn’t breathe at all. Because I hadn’t eaten a big bite of avocado, I had eaten a big bite of wasabi.

After the taste hit my tongue and my eyes started to water, I felt my nose hairs spontaneously combust. If you inhaled fire through your nostrils, the sensation would be a lot like eating a half-dollar-sized chunk of wasabi. I could actually feel the fumes entering my sinuses and if I hadn’t been sitting on the inside of the booth I would have made a run for the nearest tub of ice and buried my head. The good news is that the cold I was getting was obliterated within seconds.

My face turned red and I couldn’t talk. I thought, for a moment, that the description of “Spicy Titanic Roll” on the menu had been, grossly, under-exaggerated. New York menu designers are crazy, yo! It turned out, however, that “spicy” and “condiment” mean exactly the same things in New York as they do in Ohio.

And, you know what? So does moron.

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My nine year old son started attending school when he was two.

For the first year, or so, he went to a county-run preschool for children with developmental disabilities because of his motor and speech delays. It was a good place for him to get daily therapy and socialization, but it wasn’t really the right fit for him.

When he was old enough, we moved him to a local preschool and into a classroom with a teacher/student ratio of 2/9. The teachers were attentive and patient and we kept him there through Pre-K, which, in the end, turned out to be a pretty disastrous school year.

For Kindergarten, we turned to a small, private school where they hired me to work as an aide. If my son ever had any issues, I was right upstairs, and when he moved into first grade I started working in the cafeteria so that I could be there even more.

This year, he is in third grade. I don’t work at the school anymore and, ironically, it is the first time that I have sent him off in the morning without ever-looming worry. I know he will be fine.

What makes this year so different isn’t that he’s doing better academically; he has always done well in that regard. It isn’t because he’s more independent, because that has been a long, slow process that I couldn’t help but see coming. And, it isn’t because he doesn’t choke as often when he eats…though that is pretty awesome.

This year is terrific because his teacher “gets” him.

There is something to be said for understanding that everyone, even children, have different personalities…and boy, does my kid have one! The third grade teacher appreciates my son’s sense of humor. I know this, because almost every time she approaches me to tell me when he’s been up to, she is laughing.

The other day, when she saw me at the school, she did just that.

Apparently, that day, when the class handed in some papers, she saw that my son’s wasn’t labeled with his name.

She noticed before he walked away and said, “Hey, wait a minute. How will I know this is yours if you didn’t put your name on it?”

He took his worksheet back from her and quickly took pencil to paper.

Then he handed it back and said, “Here. Mine’s the one with the X.”

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