We moved…

to here: http://wishboneclover.typepad.com/wishbone_clover/

Disturbia

Plowing through the data on our blogspot site, we were able to see which keywords people had used to find our blog. I was surprised to discover that someone got to ole wc by searching for my first and last name.

-I died of multiple stab wounds after calling police from the trunk of my husband’s car (ghostly white complexion: not an act)

-I ride horses “for western pleasure”

-I’m a secretary and a gracious host in Australia, where I grow hybrid tulips

-I spelled my name wrong, then wrote a book about being a creative mother

-I describe bridal photographers as “sooooo talented”

-I wrote “a wonderful story” that altered the course of someone’s life

-I survived the death of my mother

-I survived Skokie, IL

Here’s to You

On Friday, wc celebrated a milestone: 50 unique visitors. Thanks to the power of Google Analytics, data about users, traffic sources, and geography is at our “Lincoln Park after Dark”-painted fingertips.

You’ve come to us from California, California, California, and—strangely—Minnesota. You’ve come to us directly, because you are our friends and feel obligated to click on the link we sent to you. Repeatedly.

And so we had a drink for you, dear reader. We had several.

Our next milestone? Like incentive goals at our jobs, it must be specific, achievable, and something we can fudge if need be. At 250 unique readers, we’re taking a cheese tour of Sonoma County, via limousine.

The rains are a comin’, and October in Wine Country would be delightful. So hurry up, bitches.

photo: dj wallstrom/farmerbrown

We’re so glad we have this blog

Because now we have a place to put shit like this.

I went to Hawaii a few months ago on a trip for Knickerbocker. I was there with my best friend; we bought tiny bottles of sake and ant-covered rambutan from the farmer’s market in Hilo. At night we played Scrabble, drank dirty martinis and avoided the official musical event featuring Hootie and the Blowfish.

On the final day, I had a red-eye out of Kona. My friend had already left, so I walked along the shoreline, eating cookies smuggled out of the departures lounge.

I ended up at a rocky outcropping across from a luxury housing community/golf course. On the volcanic rock other visitors left love notes and memorials, like the ones that dot the devastated Martian landscape outside of the airport. When my bus passed by the white rock Knickerbocker logo, people clapped.

On the beach, I had one of those weird moments when I reflected on the fact that I should be more self-reflective. “You should take a moment to yourself,” said I. “It’s a beach. No one is here but the turtles. Figure something out.”

There were enough rocks for me to leave a message, but cancer didn’t come for Papi, and I had recently become un-hearted from someone. What to say…what to say?