Among the latest Internet hate-fest rampages is the subject of autumn. I don’t get it. People seem to have lost sight of the fact that pumpkin spice lattes signal the end of the asphalt-melting, sweating-out-your-eyeballs, my-lawn-is-crispy-but-I-no-longer-care season.

But I haven’t.

True, summer around here has yet to come to an abrupt end. It’s still that time of year where the jacket I wear in the morning is something I come regret like that 9^th grade mash-session with the kid from band club by about noon. At least the nip in the morning air heralds a season where I look forward to no longer worrying about whether I’m overdue for a pedicure. See ya, sandals.

I said I never do giveaways, but I lied a little bit. I do that.

A few of my friends (okay, maybe one friend) have asked if I’m going to do a book signing for Motherhood May Cause Drowsiness: Funny Stories by Sleepy Moms, and, while I get a little excited about the thought of people one day mowing each other down to see me, and maybe bringing me beer, I’m not all that organized, and putting together an actual THING so I can scribble in a book sounds exhausting.

But, for those of you who would like a scribbled-in book sent directly to you, here’s the deal: I’m going to do a random drawing of all subscribers on October 31, and an autographed copy to some lucky reader.

Wanna play? It’s easy. Subscribe by entering your email in that little box to the left, then click “subscribe.” You’ll get ManicMumbling right in your inbox once a couple times a week, and never miss a post.

Already subscribed? I’m not leaving you out. You’re already entered in the drawing.

Do it now, before you forget…

There’s a new reality TV show that’s going to be based in my home state of Idaho.

As you can imagine, it’s all about hipsters comparing cruiser bicycle accessories, whining about vinyl becoming too mainstream while sipping cups of free trade pour-over coffee.

Hang on, no. This is Idaho, and the series, focusing on three rival outfitting and guide families, is probably going to have a lot more to do with how to open a beer bottle with a chain saw and lighting farts on fire.

Mike and I have come up with a different idea for a reality TV show, one based upon our reality.

It happened when Mike came in the kitchen the other night and found me rinsing a mountain of plastic containers.

“Hey, thanks for cleaning out the fridge,” he said.

I’m kind of in denial about food waste and am usually overconfident that we will one day eat that leftover chili mac before it morphs into something else. In fact, I’m kind of anti throwing ANYTHING away, so, you know, cleaning the fridge out can be painful.

“Son flojitos,” the woman said to no one in particular. About us. They’re lazy.

She used the diminutive, so I guess it wasn’t an insult. Just like when women here call each other “gorditas.” Little fatties. A term of endearment.

I was sitting in my lounge chair, enjoying a glass of wine and a cool evening, and pretty much inclined to agree with our hostess’ assessment. Lazy. Yup. Got’cher lazy right heya.

We had been recounting our afternoon, which started with a huge lunch (I’d inadvertently ordered a muffaletta the size of the Millennium Falcon, and someone served up a big bowl of the restaurant’s signature dulce de leche ice cream). Then we were ushered into a sunlit conference room.

The room was ours for a two hour presentation on electrometallurgical something-or-other. The presentation may have been scintillating, or it may have been boring as toast. I don’t know.

It was in Spanish.