Digital Point Solutions can show you what sort of Google AdSense ads would appear on your blog -- or any site you'd like.

For example, E-Scout would get lots of elephant gifts and Walt Disney movies (I guess they didn't notice I didn't love Dumbo). Adam's blog gets traction software (?) and a novel about 19th century terrorism and DotMoms readers might be interested in working from home, playing family games online and balancing their work and family lives.

Pamie gets marketing secrets, Scrabble and spelling worksheets, while Omar is all about comedy courses and "down-home motivational humor."

I guess it could be worse than elephant love. I could've gotten ads for hair-removal products, how to beat a drug test or Crosby, Stills and Nash CDs.

It's been melancholy around the building lately -- a beloved faculty member is retiring. He's been here 34 years and served in a variety of positions, including dean (read: my boss). As it often does, it fell to me to write (but, thankfully, not give) the remarks for his retirement reception. It's one of the hardest things I've ever done.

He's served as my mentor, my friend, my counselor and my leader. And as a faculty member, he's touched the lives of thousands of students. Summing up his entire career, all he's done and the lives he's influenced, into a 10-minute speech has been a huge challenge.

But words are the best thing I have to give. So I wrote like I would be giving the speech. I know everyone else loves him as much as I do, so it was easy to speak for them, too. Once I was able to blink the tears out of my eyes, honoring him with words came naturally.

I've been searching for the last few weeks for a retirement gift for him. But nothing seemed right for this occasion. So I'm giving him my words. Or mine and Ralph Waldo Emerson's, at least. All prettied up in a brand-new font, matted and framed with art, of course. But words nonetheless.

Sometimes, words are the most precious gift we have to give. We don't use them enough. A woman at the library told Emma yesterday her "thank you" was the sweetest thing she'd heard all day. Emma didn't really get it, but I did.

I often throw away words too easily -- wasting them on "Why are your shoes in the hall?" and "Uh-huh, sure." I don't spend enough on "I love you" and "I'd like to be more like you," "Are you OK?" and "You're a wonderful friend."

Our easiest resource, to waste and cherish as we please, often with no thought given to either. I spend more time thinking about what I'll write here, how I'll deconstruct a book or gossip about a crazy person than telling my family and friends how much they mean to me.

It's time to remember what a word can be worth.

Even though I knew it as I walked in the door, I was still disappointed at book club last night. No one else had finished Invisible Man, and, in fact, only one other person had attempted it (and made it about 100 pages). We had to encourage members to come even if they hadn't read, as we were choosing our lineup for the next six months.

So, just as Adam had said ("You're just going to lecture on it"), I ended up giving a quick synopsis of the book to folks who were there. This is a book that graduate-level courses spend an entire semester discussing, that masters' candidates write their theses on, that is hailed as one of the most important books of the 20th century. I know I didn't get all of the nuance, metaphor and references ... but after reading 439 pages, included in which is some of the best writing I've ever read, I really wish the group could've discussed it. (I'm begging here. If you have thoughts on Invisible Man, email me or leave a comment.)

Why do I take things so seriously? I'm better about it than I used to be. When this book club first started (two and a half years ago), I always went home angry. I was one of two or three people, if that, who'd read and really wanted to discuss. As the group has evolved, we've got a more dedicated base, so there are generally a handful of us who've read at least most of that month's selection. We talk about the book for 30-45 minutes and about our lives for the next hour and a half. And I'm good with that; I love hanging out with these women. But last night, knowing that no one else had finished it, I sat down 45 minutes before time to leave to make sure I'd read every word. I just can't help myself.

About a year ago, a mommy friend and I started Metro Moms' Club, a support and information group for local moms. We had the best of intentions with a topic-based monthly newsletter and meeting, play dates, moms' nights out and more. We lined up speakers to come to our meetings (covering topics like feeding and illness, sleep issues and preschool, reading and pregnancy/childbirth). We put a lot of research into each newsletter, planned fun and innovative outings, talked the library into an extra storytime each month just for our kids. But it quickly became clear that despite all our work, the group would never get off the ground. We couldn't get moms to regularly attend our meetings, even after we cut back to once every two months. With 60+ moms on our mailing list, we'd get two or three kids at the playdates. It was pathetic. We culled the list down to a core group of a dozen and now have a potluck or dinner out now and then. It's much more successful. But why?

I have just as many commitments as everyone else. But I make time for those things that are important to me. Why am I able to "do things right" (by my own definition of right, of course)? Maybe it's because I really miss the structure of school. I thrived on deadlines and projects (if not always that "going to class" thing). It'll be years before I can even think about going back, so I have to fill that urge in another way: reading and researching for book club or putting together information for a moms' group (or library committee) or planning detailed crafts for Em and I or knowing every possible milestone to expect, food she should eat and book we should read.

It's just who I am. Now if only I could get my head around the fact that not everyone is me ...

Despite my recent frustration with Emma's attitude, we had a really good day today. I work from home on Wednesdays, and today I had a lot I needed to accomplish. Miraculously, though, I got it all done and still had time for her.

I think making that time for her is key. When she suggested doughnuts for breakfast this morning, we went and got some. (I did actually talk her into from-scratch pancakes first, but, alas, we didn't have all the ingredients. Doughnuts, it is.) It was such a treat for all of us -- she told me over and over how the Krispy Kreme glaze looked like snowflakes when it fell off onto her hands. And given that it was only the third or fourth time she's ever eaten them (I have no idea where the suggestion came from this morning), she kept forgetting what they were called. "Daddy, come eat your pretzel with us!" she yelled as soon as we walked in the door. She called them bagels once or twice and all day kept saying, "Isn't it funny that I couldn't remember the name of what we were eating?"

We made our usual Wednesday library trip, and, despite the cold, I let her hang on the rails leading to the entrance for a good two minutes before trying to rush her to the car. She loves to barrel up the ramp, and lately, I would've admonished her again and again to hurry up. Today is our day together. I let her play a bit.

I promised she could watch her just-checked-out Angelina movie or play computer games if she took a good nap. She did, allowing me to get an uninterrupted three hours of work in. And when she wanted to take a minute to dance around the kitchen while we were cooking dinner, I dropped what I was doing and danced.

It makes all the difference in the world.

Now she and Dad are off to a Gymboree art class, and I'm about to head out the door to my book club. I know today doesn't mean our recent problems are over. And it's not that it was perfect. But just a reminder: It's a good life, after all.

MSNBC has a very cool Road to the Nomination interactive. Of course, everyone knows how primaries and caucuses work, right? Even if you're a political savant, it's a cool tool. And I'm not ashamed to admit I learned a thing or two -- it's been a long time since high school government. The only thing that could've made this feature any more nifty would've been a singing bill. But I'm humming Hail to the Chief nonetheless.

And more fun: fonts. Tiff sent some links to free typefaces, and who can say no to that? I promised myself I'd not waste a whole day downloading ... but then I needed something different for just one little project. And once I'd started ... there went the afternoon. Secretarial Pool, from Girls Who Wear Glasses, may be my new fave serif font. And I can't wait to have a design cool enough to call for Blacktop, Kate or Pretty Baby. And Chank has ever-cool free stuff, too. I want to do an invitation using Poker Party and wish I'd discovered Spunkflakes before the tail end of winter. Ah, the joys of design.

Boy, The Source for Youth Ministry is on the ball. Better yet, it's da bomb.

Props to Bryan for pointing out the teen-lingo list that "represents today's culture and many of the problems that go along with it." (This same group is trying to train folks to "reach the unchurched." Um, maybe that's me.)

I have to admit, I'm not up on the latest teen craze these days. But a quick perusal of the list shows they're apparently using a lot of the same slang I did in my youth -- and my parent's generation did in theirs.

They're tripping if they think these words are new. They must have ganked them from McLoud High. (Note: I played this word in Scrabble recently. Adam refused to challenge it, though it nearly killed him. It's not listed on Dictionary.com. Maybe this list will be part of our official Scrabble dictionary from now on). I'll whoop anyone who isn't schooled in da hood talk. Man, this is weak. And wack. Not at all sick. It (and reality) bites. The Man might clock someone for exposing the code. It blows. Enough. I'm spent. Audi 5000, ya'll.

I didn't know chicken head meant girl, so I'll stop hatin'. I do love expanding my vocab and all.

Hmm. Maybe today's youth would be better off if they'd had more protection during those dangerous, formative years.

Being the word freak that I am, it excites me to no end when I increase my vocabulary with a word that expresses something I've always needed.

Thanks much to my A Word A Day newsletter, I have such a word this morning. The only bad thing is, I really could've used it yesterday.

As in, "One bite too many of the huge meatball sub, and I was crapulent the rest of the day."

crapulent (KRAP-yuh-luhnt) adjective

Sick from excessive drinking or eating.

[From Late Latin crapulentus (very drunk), from Latin crapula (drunkenness), from Greek kraipal (hangover, drunkenness).]

Over the past three nights, I've dreamt that I:

Killed my mother. And not as some sniper, hundreds of feet away, but hands-on. I broke her neck, after trying to smother her (with a laundry basket, which didn't work for obvious reasons). Of course, I'm not very strong, so I couldn't just do it in one clean snap. I had to twist a little more, then a little more, then a little more, until she was like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. Adam was egging me on, but wasn't exactly helpful. And once she was finally dead, as if that weren't enough for one night, I had to dispose of the corpse. Thankfully, I seem to have fast-forwarded past the worst of the gore, as I ended up trying to hide her head (who knows where the rest of her body went), wrapped in a pillowcase, in a storage shed perched 30 feet off the ground in our backyard.

When I woke, I was understandably a little freaked. Funny, though, it was more about being up in that shed with gale force winds than the fact that my mother's body-less head was in my arms. And now, the whole scenario is pretty damn amusing. I'm sick, I know.

Was snatched by a kidnapper as a young kid. He had a whole slew of children captive. Now and then one of us would get a chance to escape, but we knew if we did, he'd kill everyone else.

Had to juggle three men outside my marriage. (Adam existed, but Emma didn't.) One of them was Theoden, King of Rohan, only riding a Harley instead of a horse. (You know he's hot.) The other two were closer to my age, and one was a college-type guy, with roommates and poor housekeeping. I kept having to break dates with one to go out with another and to try to hide the most obvious details from Adam.

No wonder I'm so exhausted when I wake these days.

Emma's always been a very easy child. Those hazy, crazy newborn days were hard, of course. Trying to figure out how to deal with a brand-new person and total responsibility for every tiny detail of her life, all while total exhaustion threatens to strike if you don't get three hours sleep in a row at some point soon. But once it is figured out, all of the pieces of the puzzle fall into place.

She's had her share of sleep issues -- wouldn't sleep unless someone was holding her when she was very wee, naps are sometimes a struggle, the bedtime routine can get out of hand in a heartbeat if we let it. But she eats better than any kid her age we know (and many older). Potty training was a breeze -- and she's been in control of it so long I don't even feel like I need to knock on wood when I say so. She's bright and funny and affectionate. My darling daughter.

So where is she lately?

Want to find out where she went? Read the rest of this post on DotMoms.

We've been working our way through the classic Disney movies with Emma. And she's decided on a favorite: Dumbo. She says she likes it better than any of the newer flicks -- Toy Story, A Bug's Life, Beauty and the Beast, Monsters Inc. Maybe I should have asked about Nemo, which is usually her fave pick.

I have to admit I hadn't seen Dumbo since I was very young. I can see why she liked it, though. The plot is much simpler and easier to follow. (About once a day, she asks, "Mommy, why did Gaston stab the Beast?" It's been weeks since we watched it.) The characters are easy to predict. The tale is sweet and inspirational, with the strength of a mother's love and the child's ability to succeed. And the elephant is darn cute.

The drunk scene surprised me, though. I didn't remember it at all. We spent a good chunk of time explaining to Emma that sometimes, grownups drink special drinks that make them feel a bit silly. And that the ensuing hallucination was sort of like a bad dream, like those in Sweet Dream Pie. We ended up fast-forwarding through part of the pink elephants.

Even knowing the crows were coming and loving "When I See an Elephant Fly" didn't save me from being uncomfortable during their patois. In fact, I didn't really care much about the movie one way or another. I should probably use it as a good springboard to talk to Em about people being different, about believing in yourself and finding success. But I'd much rather find a good book to use as an example, instead.