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Monday, December 14, 2009

Wait. What time of year is it?

We have the tree. We have the lights. I have the pile of well-chosen and very exciting gifts from the Big Guy stuffed into a corner of the garage and nonchalantly covered with an old sheet so it looks like just another pile o' crap in my crap-piled garage. I'm behind on the wrapping, can't remember what I've bought for whom (there's a very organized list around here somewhere, but I can't seem to get arsed enough to find it and make the little check-marks), I've bought but not sent the cards, I can't for the life of me come up with a gift for my dad that doesn't involve food.
Yep. Must be Christmas.
But, honestly, I'm just not feelin' it this year.

Maybe it's the music. Instead of flooding my auditory canal with the Nutcracker or Manheim Steamroller or even the Chipmunks Christmas, I've been obsessed with Lady Gaga's Bad Romance. I know. It's like a train wreck, that video; I can't look away. My fingers automatically click-click-click the click wheel on the iPod (aka the iCan't Be Without It) to the 'rah-rah-rum-mah-mah' and just. Can't. Stop. Between that and the Susan Boyle on endless loop at work, I'm just not dreaming of a white Christmas or walking in a winter wonderland.

Maybe it's work. Mine and The Hubby's. I got 'promoted' *polishes nails on shirt* from the one-hour-a-week story lady to a full-blown (albeit part-time) Bookseller at the B&N. Impressive, no? I like it; finding obscure books in the theatre/drama section for frantic students taking Drama 2, figuring out what book the customer needs when all they can tell me is "Um, it's like, square? And has, like, quotes in it?" And let's not forget the joy of watching the Sugarhouse Crazies wander through. Smudged-Glasses-Guy really put in some time lately. Both our Sweet Trannies got new wigs. Meth Gal buzzed around the store all day yesterday and only one guy passed out in the bathroom. Love the Sugar House neighborhood.
The Hubby, who works for the Evil Empire of banking, is still putting in 11 hour days and hitting the gym every night. So, when he's home, I'm usually at work or soaking my tired tootsies and when he's at work or the gym I'm...on facebook. When we're both in the same room at the same time we're too tired to do anything. And so is the Girl who wakes up at 5 a.m. We haven't done any Family Quality Time Holiday Things.

Maybe it's the chaos of my house. It's reached new heights, really. Besides having brought in all 3 rabbits so they wouldn't become bunnicicles, we got a puppy! A BIG puppy! So, crowd 3 cages in the dining room and three dog beds in the den and a Christmas tree and lots and lots and lots of puppy toys and viola! It's a wreck! Not to mention the fact that I still haven't gotten the floors done downstairs. So there are currently about 15 or so boxes of bamboo flooring taking up considerable room in the 'utility room' in the basement. And crap piled around them. And spreading.

Christmas parties? Yeah. Don't get me started.

Hm.

Ok.

Time for Operation Ho-Ho-Ho-Dammit!

I will use the handy-dandy "family share" feature on the iTunes and steal some of the Hubby's vast collection of Christmas music. I will play it. I will like it.

We will, as a happy-frickin'-fambly, go ice skating, see some uber-carbon-footprint lights display somewhere, I will buy Nutcracker tickets.

I will wrap the myriad of probably-not-quite-what-they-want gifts and put them under the tree. I will devise a method of keeping the puppy out from under the tree. I will sit and write addresses on envelopes and put cards in them. I will put them in a pile and forget to mail them.

I will sit on the sofa snuggling with my daughter and a cup of homemade peppermint hot chocolate and just...listen.

Thursday, December 3, 2009

Complicated Santa

It has begun. For the last 7 Christmases I've had it fairly easy (at least nothing in my pickled little brain jumps out as being hard to find on the Girl's list for Santa). A book, a puzzle, a rabbit or three, some of those foot-nabbing Littlest Pet Shop critters. Nothing I couldn't just stroll into any largish toy retailer and get it all in one fell swoop. I'd stop at the quaintly cool locally owned toy shop and get some brain-using thingie and call it good. Santa would then dust off her hands and pour a nice stiff peppermintini.

This year, I'm drinking the peppermintini in an attempt to calm the frustration and desire to choke the living you-know-what out of whoever decided that 7 was a great year to get them started on electronics. I know, I know. What's the big deal? Hey, here's the big deal:
I'm a moron who thought it would be cool to get her the green Nintendo DS instead of the pink DS because I found a green one at best buy.com for cheaper and it came with a really cool cooking personal trainer for me. I figured I'd just buy her little bimbo-in-training and a few college-bound-child games and call it good. Made sure she was okay with green instead of the boring pink that all of her friends have and wouldn't it be GREAT not to worry about getting yours confused with anyone else's because it's GREEN? Santa wanted to know, of course.
Notwithstanding the fact that I gained cool points for having talked to the big man himself, I was pretty proud of the Girl for being willing to break out of the pink mold. I'm tired of pink.
So I smugly snuck back to the computer and ordered the green one. Clicked 'checkout'. Was informed that it was no longer available. NO LONGER AVAILABLE? Then why in the great blue beyond is it still on your everloving website!?!?! And hey, guess what? You can't actually buy a green Nintendo DS lite anywhere in the US of A. It was a Mother's Day special. Ha ha all over me.

Ebay? Ebay! Of course! Oo, look, there are three of them!


Hang on, I'm the highest bidder right now, my ebay bid only has 30 more seconds. I'll be right back.

Crap.

I'm gonna need more Schnapps.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Trauma on 7

It was a normal day. The Girl went to school, I wrote something and was so tired I gave in and took a nap, then dusted the living room while gabbing to my friend Susan for an hour about swine flu vaccinations, husbands' work, the stupid little bimbo-in-training trying to start an exclusive clique in the second grade at our daughters' school. I contemplated an afternoon gin and tonic but decided that would be a good start down a slippery slope. Normal stuff. I picked up our G's (they have the same name and oddly similar personalities, as do Susan and I. Love her. Wish she would drink with me) from school and headed with my G to meet a potential new flute teacher.
I had to stop for gas. The tank meter stood at a half, and that just isn't good enough for the Girl. She insists the tank be full at all times. One thing about my daughter: she's observant. Another thing about her: she's paranoid. She goes 'worst case scenario' in her head for any given situation. So, we stopped at a station/convenience store. I got the gas started, asked her if she wanted to come into the store with me to get a drink. I gathered my wallet and keys, noticed that a sheriff had pulled into the pumps behind us, was grateful it wasn't Friday night. (Me and my girls, New Moon private screening, yeah baby).
Heard the pump auto-feed kick off as we were about to head into the store, and decided to just get that wrapped up before leaving the car. G has never actually seen the process of gassing up a vehicle. She's always inside the car. When she was a baby, I was so paranoid about the whole "this thing could blow at any time' 6 o'clock news feature, I wouldn't get gas if I had her with me. I, despite what snopes.com says, won't use my cell phone at a pump and make sure I shock myself on the car frame before touching the gas pump. I'm careful, I think.
"How do you get that out?" asks the Girl, grasping the pump handle and peering at the hole in the car where the gas goes. She is almost exactly the same height as it is. I put my hand over hers and we pull it out of the car, just like I have done a thousand times. A thousand times I've pulled that fucking thing out, turned around and seated it in its little holster, pushed the three buttons it takes to get my receipt, and gone on my merry way.

So imagine my shock and awe when about a half-gallon of gasoline spurts out of the tank and nozzle. And hits my baby square, soaking her face, hair, shirt, and ohmygod, her eyes.

Thanks to Karma or God or Luck or Whatever, the Sheriff was still there. And now he was chatting with a guy in a SLFD sweatshirt. I yelled for help, and the sweatshirt guy turned out to be an off-duty firefighter/EMT. He very calmly took G in his arms and propelled her toward the station's water hose on the building. She's screaming, I'm freaking inside but trying to stay calm to not further traumatize my daughter, and he got her to lie down on the sidewalk and hosed her off. It's about 50 degrees today, and after a minute or two, she just couldn't take the cold water on her head and face anymore. The sheriff wrapped her in a blanket he had in his patrol car, and I tried to flap away the useless cashier who wanted me to sign a waiver. We huddled on the sidewalk, soaked and crying while the wonderful EMT made sure her eyes were okay before he sent us home with orders for a shower and to call the ER if her eyes started to burn. But, he said, she looked fine.
I think I asked him his name. I think it was Jim. Jim rocks.

So, a shower (her) and a gin and tonic (me) later, we're okay. She's downstairs playing with her other best friend, a little upset that she'll have to have another shower later and have her hair washed with lemon juice to get the rest of the smell out. Shampoo just didn't cut it. I told her it would make her more blonde, and she seemed a bit more receptive. She absolutely and unequivocally will NOT ever put gas in the car again, and doesn't want me to do it either. This little trauma on pump 7 didn't help her inborn sense of paranoia, at all.

I was really tired this morning. Now, not so much. It could have been so much worse; it was just gas on her, after all.
I don't want to think about the 'worse'.
I don't want to think about all the moms who have witnessed and lived through the 'worse'.
I'm pretty sure I'm going to let her sleep with us tonight, and I will be tired at work tomorrow and it will be okay.
Because she's okay. And this was pretty bad, but not too bad. And it could have been worse.

Friday, November 13, 2009

Not my usual post, I know...

...but they're giving away a kickass bike. I need a kickass bike. I need something in my life that kicks ass. (My apologies to the TodaysMama person who had to read the word 'ass' there three times. Welcome to my blog.)

Mama’s Holiday Wish List Meme (And hey; what the eff is a 'meme'? Is that a pseudo-intellectual word for 'list of questions and answers?')
TodaysMama and Provo Craft are giving away a sleigh full (Sorry, TodaysMama, I can't let the word 'sleighful' onto my blog. It's not a word and I didn't make it up) of gifts this holiday season and to enter I’m sharing this meme (whatever the eff that is) with you.

1. What 5 items are on your holiday wish list this year?
~Case of Hendrick's gin and a cucumber plant.
~An account at the local plastic surgeon's. I'm getting on in years. Things have begun the sag.
~Cabana boy. With a cabana.
~Whirled peas.
~My daughter being thrilled with all her gifts, which I have already begun to stress over.

2. What is your favorite handmade gift you have received?
A scratchy afghan someone's great grandma crocheted for my wedding. I keep it on the dirty, smelly, squashy old chair under the patio by the garage. It's a good cat blanket. Keeps me warm when I sneak out for a smoke.

3. What handmade gift have you always wanted to tackle?

If by 'tackle' you mean throw to the ground and stomp on? I'm going to say all of them.

4. What was the best Christmas gift you received as a child?
Atari, dude. 1983 or so. Original Atari. I wasted SO many brain cells on Asteroid. That, or the time my brother spent the day puking on Christmas. That was pretty nice of Santa too.

5. What items are on your kid’s wish list this year?

~Nintendo DS (She hates video games, but can't stand the fact that her best friend has one and she doesn't.)
~Moxie girl. (The new brainless, anorexic, hair-styling whore on the street. Look out Barbie; she comes with markers).
~Littlest Pet shop cow, porky pine (sic because Awww, how cute she spells!) and bunny. (Because you can NEVER have too many small plastic animals whose heads bob and can break an adult's foot arch when stepped on).
~a Toy Chinchilla (not a real one because her evil mother has said that three rabbits is plenty of caged rodents in one house, thank you)
~Something called a "paper roonys"? I have no frigging idea. Suggestions are welcome.



6. What is your favorite holiday food?
Candy canes. In my peppermintinis, spiked hot chocolate, and just to suck on to cover the booze on my breath so I can survive the holidays with my mother-in-law.

7. What will you be hand-crafting for the holidays?
I very lovingly and carefully pour, shake and garnish some kickass peppermintinis. I put my heart and soul into every one. They'll put a twinkle in Santa's eye. Yes sir.

8. What is your favorite holiday movie?
Christmas Story, duh. That or the old "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" with the horrible stop-action animation and cheesy hippie-free-lovin' song they snuck into the middle.

9. Favorite holiday song?
"The 12 Things At Christmas That Are a Pain to Me".
Okay, and even though it pains me to admit it in public, I mist up every time I hear "Do They Know It's Christmas?". Young Bono, George Michael and all those other yummy British 80's Pop icons on one song. Sigh. It's inspirational.

10. Favorite holiday pastime?
Did you read the bit about the peppermintinis?

Man, I am SO going to win this contest! Kickass bike, come to Momma!

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Stuff I noticed today

~If you own a hair studio and you're going to hire someone to stand on the corner and wave a sign at passing cars, it might be prudent to not hire a homeless dude with dredlocks and a ZZtop beard.

~ If you are a grown-ass adult and the samples at Costco get you so excited that you find yourself crammed into the corner between two seafood cases ramming a ravioli down your throat and grunting, or so enraptured by the fudge bar samples that you wander into oncoming cart traffic, it might be time to reevaluate where you are in life.

~ People call them "Weird Cat Lady" for a reason. Buying four tubs of litter and a case of K-Y, holding up the line by showing people pictures of your pwecious beeboo keekees and not making eye contact is not helping the image.

~I'm becoming more and more convinced there is a secret Grocery Store Baggers society that has a multi-level plan to circumvent the attempts of well-meaning shoppers who bring reusable bags. That or they are ALL fucking morons.

~If you work in a consignment store, you have no room to be snotty. You sell used shit. You give people money for their old shoes and then sell them for two dollars. Don't talk to me like that. Snot.

~There's a chance I'm in sort of a bad mood and don't like people today.

Thank the Gods for Girls Night Out.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

We've all heard the story: Stay-at-home-mom dutifully makes sure her flock gets their flu shots, even if she has to elbow old ladies out of line to get the last dose for her child. In the chaos her busy daily existence, she forgets to get her own flu shot. (Her dr.'s office is too far away and is out of vaccine, the grocery store clinic is also out, the other grocery store only offers shot clinics at the same time as the Girl's soccer game, the wondrousness of Costco overwhelms her and she forgets to get one when she's there...etc.) So, she gets flu. She fights it, she does not succumb, she faithfully and dutifully arises early in the morning, sees her beloveds off to work and school with fresh homemade lunches, does all her regular chores to keep the household running smoothly, has a hot homemade dinner ready when the family returns in the evening. (And if she's a working mom, let's just add 'goes to work' on top of all that, mmmkay?) She then collapses into bed at the end of the evening, melting into a sore sniffling puddle of goo. But she makes sure to set the alarm and feed the cat first.

Yeah.

That's SO not happening here this week.

I did forget to get my flu shot, again, this year. That part is true. The rest of it, for me anyway, is a cruel joke that society has decided to play on us Domestic Goddesses. It has told us that the very fabric of our family's existence will fray and decay if we take a day off. That chaos will reign if the laundry doesn't remain on schedule. That husbands will implode if asked to make dinner and help with homework. That children will be irreparably scarred if they see their mum prone on the sofa with a cup of tea in smelly frayed sweats for three days. Nay; we must soldier on, there are things more important than our minor discomforts.

Well, I'm calling bullshit on that. Okay, maybe it's just me; maybe I'm a huge whiny baby when I get sick, I won't deny that. But I'm putting out the call to all moms who didn't get their shots or who end up with the creeping gamboo that their kids bring home from the germ-factories we call "school":

Be sick. Lay on the couch all day. Ask for help. Eat crappy comfort food and drink hot chocolate and watch reruns of the Office online. Read a no-brainer novel; maybe something from James Patterson or Nora Roberts. Don't shower, wear your most comfy sweats, don't put on makeup or do your hair. Order Chinese delivered. Watch your husband bond with your kids as he tries not to go crazy helping them learn fractions and write a book report about a book about fairies and/or magical ponies.

If the world cannot deal without us, the world will have to hold on and just fucking wait.

I'm going to go get a cupcake and lie down now.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Oh, Pluck.

Editor's note: This is a fairly long and somewhat boring account of my recent adventures. Please be aware before reading that I am a housewife and nothing exciting ever happens, so this was a Big Damn Deal for me. I'm sorry. I wrote this mostly for me.

So I have cats. I used to like cats, but over the last few years just...don't anymore. My cats are indoor/outdoor versions, and I was really grateful for them when we first moved to this house, because the garden and shed and garages were infested with mice. There was also a lovely family of rats inhabiting our neighbor's dilapidated shed and the "compost heap" she kept in her back yard. The cats very nicely and very quickly disposed of the diseased chew-partiers, lining them up in rows on the back porch. Ew. So that was good. No more rodentates.
But now the cats are bored. And well fed. So what do they turn to for entertainment? Birds, of course. We've always fed birds and love watching them at the feeders. We get swarms of finches and sparrows, and this summer had a visit from a beautiful yellow warbler and some juncoes. I likes the birdies. So do the cats. But they don't just kill them, of course. No; they go Guantanamo on their asses. I hate it. Several times I've had to put a bird out of its misery with a blow from a shovel, and I feel so awful every time. But I can't stand to see a creature in pain. We bury them under the pine tree and say nice things.
Last week while out in the yard, I heard the unmistakable angry chirp/squawk of a bird being tortured and found one of the cats with a mouthful of feathers. The bird appeared near the end, so I left the scene hoping the cat would do the honorable thing soon. An hour later, I heard the squawk again and looked out to see the wiener dog had joined the game and that the little bird, a House Finch, was not only still alive but was trying to fight. The feathers of one wing were upright, bent,all her tail feathers had been pulled out and there was a nasty puncture wound under her eye, but this little bird was still hanging in there. So I stepped in. I know you're never supposed to handle wildlife, but I couldn't stand it anymore. I scooped her up and took her inside and put her in a basket with a cup of water and a towel, hoping she would just pass in peace and quiet. I kicked the cat and admonished the dog and went back to my writing, keeping an ear out for the finch.
An hour later, I heard a rustling and found her sitting on the edge of the basket, alert but a little wobbly. She was still pretty willing to let me handle her, so I snapped this:

and called my husband to tell him to get a cage on his way home.
I spent the next two days frantically trying to figure out what to do. Googling "wild bird rehab" only sent me to bird chat forums, and I was desperate enough to register on one and post a "Help Please!" message. I got some good advice, but nothing on where I could take this bird. My vet friend doesn't do birds and had no idea. So. I figured as long as the bird was healthy, eating, drinking, pooping and hopping around I'd just keep her until she molted and grew her tail feathers back. She spent the days hunkered in my ficus tree:


And in her cage.



She seemed healthy, alert, and smart enough to hop from the ficus into the cage when I held it up in front of her. She no longer wanted to be handled, and I had to respect that even when the Girl got upset that she never got to hold her.
I started to admire this little being. For her courage, her personality and her naked bum, I named her "Pluck".

Then it was Saturday.

I woke up to find her puffed up and panting. I know from the little experience I had working as a pet store clerk in college that this is a bad bad sign. She was still drinking water, but not eating or pooping. Bad bad. Frantic, I made more phone calls. My vet friend could only suggest humane euthanasia, which I was not ready to do. Out of sheer desperation (Google was really disappointing in this area), I looked up the Great Salt Lake Audubon Society and called them, leaving a message. As a last resort, I called Backyard Birds, a little kitzchy shop that sells bird feeders and windchimes not far from my house. I told them the situation and they finally gave me a person to call.
This person was very knowledgeable and helpful, but not encouraging. See, not only do cats like to pretend to be furry little Dick Cheneys, they also harbor a gram negative bacteria in their saliva that is highly toxic to birds. She told me to keep her warm, make her comfortable and bury her in the morning. We cried, I resisted kicking the cat again and went to bed that night disappointed and sad.

Sunday morning. I postponed going into the living room where her cage was for an hour. I needed coffee and snuggling with The Girl before I could face the still little body that had harbored such a fierce big spirit. But I took a breath and went in.

She was fine. She'd beaten it. I took her cage out into the warm autumn sun and let her sit where she could see and hear her flock eating at the backyard feeder. I emailed the bird expert lady to ask her what to do now, with this now healthy and not dead bird. I think I smiled a lot.

Monday morning the Audubon guy finally called me, leaving me the number for a wildlife rehab center about an hour from my house, in Ogden. I called them and they informed me that it's illegal for me to keep her, that I should bring her to them for rehabilitation. "But she's just a little finch," I said, "do you really rehab finches?" They promised me they did.
So between that and losing her for a while when she went exploring out of the ficus and ended up behind the bookcase (she couldn't fly, remember), having escaped the now inside cats, I decided I probably wasn't the best person to be in charge of her if she was going to make it to be released. I didn't know what I was doing, and was afraid I would kill her with a stew of kindness and incompetence. And I really wanted her to be able to return to a normal finch life, not live in a cage with cats yowling below it and flutes being played in the next room and little girls screaming during a sleepover. She needed professional help.

So today, with a sad but hopeful heart, I took her to the rehab center and handed her over to people who work tirelessly and on no money to rehabilitate and release native birds back into the wild. They were positive about her prognosis, were pretty sure she injured at least one bone in her wing, but since she was flapping and getting around thought she'll heal. She now gets to spend the winter with four other rescued finches in rehab, with the goal that they'll all be better and be released in the spring.

Yes, I drove an hour and donated $20 to the WRC for a teeny little finch, of which there are hundreds in my neighborhood alone. It's just a little bird, why would I go to all this trouble?

Why? Because she was Pluck. My little Pluck. She put my pathetic life, the one I've been internally whining about, right the fuck in perspective. And I'll miss her.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

This Bothers Me.

A lot. It has for a long time. And I need help understanding it. Please.

I generally, in my blogs, try to stay away from controversial things and from things about which people might have an opinion (not that it stops some people from giving me theirs anyway), but I think it's time I got some input on this. Mostly because I look around at society in terms of this issue and ask WTF? But also because I have a daughter who is beginning to process input more personally and who is being exposed to more and more pop culture happenings every day, despite my best attempts at keeping her sheltered to a ridiculous degree, and I want to know why my opinion on this subject might come across as retarded.

So here's the thing:

Why is it that violence is okay and sex is not?

Let me explain. In college, I worked in a video store. One evening, a woman approached the counter with three or four movies and asked me about them. Specifically, she wanted to know why they were rated "R". I told her they had adult content in them (Duh). As I remember it, they were all movies along the lines of "Die Hard" and some sort of killer-robot sci-fi things.
"Yeah," she says, "but is it sex stuff, or is it just violence? I don't want my boys to see sex stuff."
Just violence? So, she's telling me she's all right with her "boys" (who were running around the store yelling and hitting each other with various items and knocking over displays) seeing the hero punch someone in the neck or rip their still-beating heart out , but it's not okay if the hero goes ahead and plants one on his damsel-in-distress? Is an over-the-blouse boob-squeeze really going to warp their little minds more than seeing people get shot, impaled, blown up, decapitated, etc?

When talking to several people about the Twilight books, a woman I don't know very well mentioned that she enjoyed the first three books, but didn't like the fourth one "because of all the sex. I liked that they didn't have any sex in the other ones, but the fourth one was just too raunchy and explicit." UmmmmKay. But Edward ripping out James' throat and dismembering him in the first one was just peachy.

Yesterday I took The Girl to the dentist. Yay! An hour in which I'm forced to sit on a comfy sofa in the waiting room and read. The dentist wanders in and asks what I'm reading.
"Hunger Games," I tell him, trying not to be rude, but obviously returning my attention back to the book. (Great book, btw. I cheered, I cried, I flipped it over and started again right after reading "the end".)
"Oh," he says, "that's a great book. I just listened to the audio version." I nod politely and turn the page. "I really like that there was no sex in it." Freeze mid-turn.
What there is in Hunger Games is a group of starving teenagers forced to play a gladiator/Survivor type game in which the last person alive wins. The heroine and main character shoots a guy in the neck with an arrow, watches the big bad competitor break another competitors neck with his hands, has her face slashed by a crazy chick with a coat full of knives, has to help her love interest recover from having his leg almost hacked off with a sword, watches her best friend get impaled by a spear...you get the idea, right?
"Yeah," I say, "but there's a lot of...kissing." I do my best not to roll my eyes and return to my chapter, perturbed.

So. I think you can probably glean which way I lean on this issue. I'm not a fan of violence. I don't like DickFlicks with people dying in horrible bloody painful ways. I don't want my daughter watching (or reading) that kind of thing. I hate HATE watching little boys play. But I would be okay with her seeing someone kiss someone else. Not that I want her to see anything sexually explicit, but if it came right down to me having to choose between her watching a movie rated R for violence and one rated R for sex, I'm going to have to go for the one with nookie in it, as long as it has a story and the people like each other while they're doin' it.

My question for you, oh patient reader, is: Why is violence in media considered more acceptable than sex?

Thanks.

Friday, October 9, 2009

Radiohead

That's me. I'm one of those people, have been as long as I can remember, who always ALWAYS a song in their head. Even in my sleep. Sometimes it's the last song I heard (like right now, for instance, it's the chirpy little tune from the Farmville game on Facebook. I just harvested my squash and milked two cows. Cha-ching!) Sometimes it's a song that I have just latched on to and can't get enough of and will listen to over and over both on the iPod and in my head. And when I say over and over, I'm not kidding. It's a continuous loop in the neuron net of my sad little brain. It's just stuck. But more about that in a moment.
Sometimes it's embarrassing. I'll unconsciously do the head-bob to whatever beat is bashing around up there. When I was a personal trainer I had a client who was a local DJ on a popular morning show. When I'd work out with him he'd ask me at the beginning, "So what's playing today?" Luckily, most of the time it was something his station played. Sometimes not, and he'd give me endless crap about it.
I think my daughter might have the same issue. She's taking flute lessons, and has started whistling. Incessantly. Sometimes it's the song she's working on for flute, sometimes it's something from her playlist on the iPod, sometimes it's a tv show theme. So now I don't just have a song running over and over and over through my noggin; I have to hear the one in hers. Luckily, she's got pretty good tone. But usually, at some point at the end of the day I can't take it anymore and have to, with teeth clenched, say "Sweetie, let's give the whistler a rest, shall we?" And pour some more wine.

I've always had a somewhat eclectic music taste. I like a little bit of everything. The only exception is Heavy Metal and it's spawn (Speed Metal, Death Metal, those happy little sub-genres), which make me want to grab the nearest spoon and gouge my own eardrums out just to escape the screech-fest monotony of three cords and cheerful death, maiming and rape lyrics. Other than that, if a song is catchy, has a good beat and lyrics that make some sort of sense, I'll listen to it gladly.
I've mostly been a BritPop or Techno gal. In high school, I was one of the freaks not listening much to Poison or Def Leppard (although I must say that "Animal" is one of my all time favorite sexy songs), but instead combed the import bins at the record store when we ventured to Salt Lake. Give me some Roxy Music, Depeche Mode, Bow-Wow-Wow, UB40, English Beat, Dead or Alive, etc. They went well with the black clothes and pierced nose.
And, of course, there has always been Erasure. But that's another blog. Just suffice it to say, for this blog, that there have been hours-nay--DAYS worth of Andy Bell in my brain. Here's my favorite:



You're welcome. That particular diddy went round my brain for about six months. Non stop. Not exaggerating. I sort-of got over it after I met Mr. Bell.

I've always been a little snotty-proud of my eschewing Pop music in general. I've never heard, for example, a Miley Cyrus song. Or Britney Spears, at least on purpose. Who is Justin Timberlake, again? What's this Limp Bizkit everyone talks about? Why is it limp and could some Viagra help them?
So, I'm a little alarmed at the current track that is so entrenched in my head right now. She was another of the pop divas whom I had managed to avoid. But now, sigh, I not only spent $1.29 to get the song on my iPod, I even read her Wiki page. I watch the video over and over and over. I suddenly break out into step-ball-change while folding the laundry. It's in there and it's not budging.
I give you:
Beyonce.

Single Ladies

(Mrs. Jay-Z doesn't let her youtube videos embed. So click the link, then come back.)

I can't look away. How the hell does she do that with her hips without throwing her whole spine across the room? In those heels? And what does this say about my taste in music now? Am I going bubblegum in my old age?
Dunno.
But I likes this song. I'm going to go dance around the living room and try not to hurt myself. If you see me later in Costco doing the head bob, you'll know what's spinning in the radiohead.
*humming Uh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!*

Thursday, October 8, 2009

Stay-At-Where-Mom?

I hate answering the question: "So, what do you do for a living?" Mostly because my answer ("I'm a stay-at-home mom") usually results in a polite nod and some bullshit about wow isn't that great. Then their eyes glaze over or they find someone with a real job to talk to. Because, obviously, we housewives don't really do anything, do we? And, obviously, if we were truly interesting people we'd have a real job. Sometimes I mention that I'm a writer, but then I just feel like I'm desperately trying to justify my own joblessness. And writers tend to make people nervous.

This housewife gig isn't bad. At all. I'm incredibly lucky to be married to a man, despite all his other faults, is completely okay with me not having a job even though our baby is now in school full-time. I'm an educated woman; getting a job that would both increase our financial liquidity and fulfill some emotional needs I don't want to go into right now would be fairly easy. And I do, in official fact, have a job outside the home: I'm the story lady at Barnes & Noble. For one hour every Tuesday morning, I punch the clock.
Don't feel sorry for me much, do ya?
That's okay; me neither.
But the thing is, I went into this gig thinking it would be heavenly. That I would simply be home doing homey things like baking yummy yet healthy treats, polishing my rock collection and all the furniture, creating awe-inspiring seasonal decorative motifs in my living room, and, oh yeah, writing a book. It only makes sense, right, that someone with seven free hours in a day could get a lot accomplished at home.
Except I'm almost never here. And when I am, I'm exhausted and have exactly zero interest in or energy to do any of those above things. Or even catch up with the laundry and dog hair.
Typically, my day inexplicably gets filled with Other Things. Take yesterday. I was awoken by a panic-stricken child who is convinced that her first-ever book report (which is due in three weeks) will be a complete failure and we should do it right now. This was at 5:30 a.m. Abandoning sleep at that point, we got up and I commenced the Morning Routine, which included trying to do my hair in less than 30 minutes, which almost never works. I scooted the girl out the door for school at 8:20 and frantically finished the Hair from Hell, found clothes that don't make me look like a housewife, made three phone calls, and headed out the door for a dentist appointment, which I had blown off last week when I had jury duty.
After my new crown was safely cemented in place, I ran to Macy's to try to find the Girl the new shoes she's been begging for. Um, they don't carry kids' shoes. Duh. Well, since the library is just up the street, I ran there to grab some books The Girl had wanted. Then, being hungry, I swung through the McD's drive thru. Remembering that our wedding rings were at the jeweler being antiqued, I ran back home and grabbed the receipt, then drove up to the jeweler. Got the rings, called The Hubby to see when I could bring him his so I wouldn't lose it, stopped at Smith's for some groceries and shoes, ran the ring to The Hubby and snagged some Peets coffee from the canteen at his office. Remembered the Payless has socks The Girl could wear with her new ballet flats that don't show and so drove down there. Made it back home with more new shoes. Picked up the Girl and friend from school, stopped at B&N on the way to the doctor's office. Waited in the doctor's office for 90 minutes to find out that The Girl hadn't broken her wrist. Blasted her home to change for soccer practice, stopped to pick up the friend for soccer practice, dropped her off for soccer practice, came home to...make dinner.
Are you still with me?
This is not an atypical day. The only variables are the wheres.
So days like this, days that have nothing on my calendar, are a sweet treat. I had so many things I wanted to get done today; not the least write the rest of my Halloween dead-haunted-baby story. Instead...I had to nap. Now I have two hours left to pound out some literary crap and justify my claiming to be a writer.

I swear, the next person who asks me "But what do you do all day?" is going to get the above description, in even greater detail.
That or my foot up their ass.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

With a friend like me, who needs enemas?

I'm tired.
Really, right now, that's all I have to say. I'm. Just. Tired.
Sleeping on an ancient futon with a dachshund crammed against the backs of your knees all night because the daughter is in your bed with the husband because the Dane went all passive-aggressive and peed on the daughter's bed will do that.
Buuuuut, I'm trying to get all warmed up. For what? For the writing! Yes! I'm going to write today! Yep! Gonna do it! Nothing's going to stop me! Two pages of a scary-if-slightly-odd Halloween story. Yep. Here I go...
What else is on my mind now? Hmmmm...

I think people are sick of me. Or my grandmother is indeed haunting me with her paranoid bullshit and I'm channelling it. Talk about p-a, Oy,vey, the woman was crazy. But more about me, since this is about me.
I was an obnoxious child. I insisted everything be my way, I was loud, I lied a bit to make myself seem important. I would spend days playing or reading alone, telling my friends I didn't want to play; then I'd be pissed and lonely when I was done wanting to be alone and my friends had moved on and weren't ringing my doorbell to play every day (this was back in the Olden Days before kids had to text each other to say anything, even from across the room).
I'm pretty sure things haven't changed much. I go through phases of just needing to be left the hell alone, not wanting to talk to anyone, biting heads every time someone in my family speaks to me. These phases last anywhere from a week to several months. I don't text anyone, don't invite anyone over, don't write nice letters or emails asking "Hey! How've you been?" Because I just don't care. Isn't that awful? I want to care, I want to be that person to whom everyone runs and commiserates and asks advice. And sometimes I am. People really open up to me once I get them talking. But then, they don't stop talking. And it's the same bullshit over and over and over and I really just want to stop saying "Oh, that's too bad but it'll get better" and tell them to shut the hell up, get over themselves, look around at their problems and see that they are the common denominator.
But that's not what a friend does, right? So instead I just do a slow fade. And they eventually stop calling me. And most of the time, I don't talk to anyone because I really don't feel like I have much to say on any given day. Yes, Grace is getting big. No, my book isn't done. Yep, still have 2 dogs. Blah blah, who cares? And then when I need someone, no one is there. And I convince myself that no one wants to hear my whiney bitch-fest bull anyway. Then I get insecure and depressed because my phone is not chirping and the only things coming into my inbox are healthy recipes and messages from a Nigerian prince. (I must have had too much fun in Tahoe this year, because I don't even remember meeting a Nigerian prince).
Anyway. At the moment, I'm coming out of my solitary mood and miss my friends. But I'm not sure what to do about it. Maybe I'll take an unprecedented step and just email 3 people today and ask them what's up. And try to care.

Ok. Enough indulgence and delving into the Neuroticism of Me. Writing now. Haunted-dead-baby story, here I come!

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Now I understand, oh Master.

I've always listened to older women bitch. Bitch about their sagging boobs, the wrinkles that appear overnight, the saddlebags and expanding waistline, the sudden onset of invisibility around the opposite sex. I laughed it off. (Not to their faces, of course, I might be a socially-retarded bitch but I'm not cruel.) I was able to disregard their whining because I was young. I had a fairly nice body, my face and ass smooth, I could generally count on getting at least one "eye-contact" moment in a day. And my husband is hawt. So, yeah; I was one of those smug asshole women who probably think they're better looking than they actually are.
Hey, then I turned 37. And as some saying or other goes: the bottom dropped out of the market.
I have boobs that I can feel on my stomach when braless.
I have happy little waves of skin and that shall-remain-nameless subcutaneous substance cascading over my bra strap, the top of my pants, and oh dear lord, my jaw.
My waist is now inverse.
The folds of skin on my eyelids could now safely smuggle in a Mexican.
I swear men were purposefully looking away if I looked in their direction at the gym today. I was less than invisible; I am avoid-at-all-costs.

Now let's get something straight, before you click away in a huff thinking I'm one self-centered snotty cougar-wanna-be whose deep end couldn't drown a toothpick. I've never considered myself all that. I very realistically would put myself squarely at the "barely average" mark. My husband is an incredibly handsome man (and I am eternally grateful that he has no idea of it) and I am faithful to him. Yup. 101 percent. My number one concern on a minute-by-minute basis is the health and well-being of my daughter.
And I have been totally content with who I am, what I look like (other than the giant schnoz I got from my dad), my past history of feeling attractive. Really. I embrace much more important, profound, serious philosophies of life than whether I could still get laid by a 26-year-old swim-shop manager from South Africa.
But I do wonder about it. If I still could, I mean. But there's a sensible, grounded bit of me that knows that I really need to stop worrying about it. Right? There's nothing to be done, anyway. In ten years I'll look at photos of myself now and wonder what the hell I was complaining about. Will wish for the waist I don't have currently.

We all age; we all sag and get confused and leave the ones we love. Maybe I'm not really as shallow as all that. My hope is that I can age gracefully, stay healthy (K, gotta get healthy first), learn something everyday, make sure those I love are safe and happy.
Or, drink more martinis, get a shitpot of plastic surgery and botox, keep wearing inappropriately low-and-high-cut clothing, and someday strive to be voted "Sluttiest Senior" at the nursing home.
Yeah.
I'm hawt.

Friday, August 28, 2009

Feast, famine, fuck it.

I was so proud of myself Wednesday. I made a to-do list in my happy-green little planner (which is the first one I've bought that I really use, when I remember) and by the end of the housewife day (they officially end when the kids come home from school), I had done:
7 loads of laundry, (check!)
cleaned the kitchen (check!)
vacuumed (check!)
swept the porches and the sidewalks(check!)
watered the garden (check!)
mopped the kitchen (check!)
And cooked a not-too-shabby dinner.

And did I feel good about my productivity? Yes, yes I did. Smug? Maybe. Feeling unfuckingstoppable? You betcha. Have an extra glass of wine as a reward? Well, if you insist.
I even made a list for the next day; the stuff I didn't get to on Wednesday.
Thursday:
Dust and polish
Bathroom
Mop big scary room downstairs.

Yeah, notice all the checks there? Me neither. Apparently, all I've got in me is one big day. Yesterday, I just...couldn't...do it. Still had that extra glass of wine, tho, as a balm to soothe the disappointed ego.
It's just too easy to sit right here. Clicking things, taking umpteen pictures of myself and finally settling on an almost-cute one. I hope nobody notices that my shirt was a little low-cut and pulled over. Call me Elaine. But it's a good pic, and that just doesn't happen very often. Also did some major facebooking, pretended to research something for my book, stalked the artist Wyland for a while, made a horrible loaf of bread, and that's about it.
And today? Suffice it to say my girlfriends came over this morning. Chuh, like I"m going to do anything other than my hair.
Ding! Must go. Housewife day is over.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Shit. I was afraid this might happen. I've lost it; lost the mojo. Lost the will. Lost the drive. Lost the plot. Literally. I can't write! I don't know what comes next! Dunno how they get from the A I need to create to the B in the next chapter that's already written. Poop!
See? I can't even write a decent blog anymore. What do I do now? Give up and join the Stepford Wives that populate my neighborhood? Coz then I'm going to need a makeover; some fake french nails and a shorter haircut that goes all spikey in the back like WhatsHerFace with the 8 kids and husband who likes jailbait. Gonna need baggier capri pants too. Shirts that cover suspiciously large underwear. At least four more kids. A CriCut, whatever the hell that is.
Maybe they'll like me then. Maybe I won't stand awkwardly off to the side at every "neighborhood" event (Read: Ward activity that some big-hearted person invited the gentiles to) smiling like a moron and waiting for someone to talk to me. Maybe they won't suspect that I like my cleavage, that the only recipe I'm trying to perfect is one for a dirty martini, that I really hate Richard Paul Evans, that I think scrapbooking is enough to make me gouge my eyes out.
Ok. Going to go read my whole damn manuscript, again. See if I can crawl back into their heads so they can tell me what they've already done and how they felt about it.
Sigh.
Or maybe I'll just go run some errands...I'm low on gin.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Wait. What's that on the floor?

Good Lord. What the hell kind of shit-bomb hit my house over the last 2 days?! I swear, I swear; I went camping Thursday. When I left, the house was clean. Giant mound of laundry conquered, floors sparkling, sink empty and scrubbed, no newspapers on the floor or empty cups scattered hither and yon. I got home Saturday evening; same. So nice to come home to a clean home, right? So now it's, what, Tuesday? I CAN'T SEE THE FRIGGING FLOOR. Mt. Everest of stinky drawers and sheets has arisen in the laundry room. The weiner dog tore apart his bed. Again. It smells like something might have expired with an evil chuckle in the pantry. There's something suspiciously sticky on the wall in the stairwell.
I keep my house in what I'd like to describe as a half-assed state. As my husband so sensitively put it earlier this evening: "You know, you can clean a house like no one I've ever seen. You are really good at cleaning, and I mean that in a good way. But," he says, "you suck at keeping things neat."
I nodded. I know. I start things; I get interrupted and have to come back to them later. Only later never seems to happen. I set something down, fully intending to put it in its rightful spot in just a minute. A week later, it's in my way and pissing me off. I have too much crap. But, most of the time, I get at least the major things done, like vacuuming, I clean the kitchen every day, the bathroom doesn't smell. At the moment, this place is driving me around the curve. I've suddenly snapped and can't take it anymore.
So: tomorrow I am not going anyfuckingwhere. I am taking the girl to school, I am coming home and brushing my teeth, I am checking emails and downloading the Bob and Tom Show podcast, I am getting OFF facebook after 30 minutes and I am cleaning this mo'fo. I am chucking shit. I am dusting. I will fold. Floors will once again sparkle. Dammit, I just might even *gasp* iron.

And then I'll do it aaaaalllll again next week.
Hey, ask me again why I drink so much.

Monday, August 24, 2009

My Laundry Room Scares Me.

It's the last day of summer vacation. I was hoping to finally spend a whole day with my child, enjoying some relaxing time just absorbing who she is, riding a bike somewhere, making gluten-free zucchini bread (now THAT sounds appetizing, right?), feeling my heart thud when her lovely face shines with laughter, frantically trying to cram in all the reading and workbooks that she was supposed to do over the summer in order to seem really really smart tomorrow...and yet...we're busy today. She's at Mimi's, of course; that escape for her to the land of Whatever I Want, the place I'm so ambivalent about. I love that she has such a close relationship with my parents, I do. I appreciate that I get a night off every week. I'm glad that she has a soft place to fall when her mother gets overbearing and demanding. But. I had such plans today...

And, of course, with school starting tomorrow I have exactly ZERO excuses to not get stuff done around here. Now I'll have seven whole hours every day to myself. I have ambitious plans; I'm going to finish painting the house. I'm going to weed the roses. I'm going to fix it so that the front porch doesn't look like the Clampetts live here. I'm going to finish that little book I started four years ago. I'm going to see if I can shed this inner-tube from around my hips. And I'm going to clean out the laundry room. The scary, overflowing laundry room. That will involve ironing. It will also involve getting rid of crap, which right now is the biggest obstacle on my path to serenity. So. Much. Crap. Where did it all come from? Why, from my flibbertygibbet sprees involving buying stuff because it's on sale. From not putting stuff away. From my mom and my mother-in-law being convinced that they don't need to take anything to D.I.; maybe Vanessa will want it.
I've managed to avoid dealing with all this because we've been so busy the last 12 weeks. Now it looks like I have to swallow my fear and that choking, overwhelmed feeling that I don't know where to start, that I'll do it wrong, that I'll get rid of something that I'll then discover we really need, that there's something else I really should be doing instead but am not sure what that is so I'll just get on facebook.

But not today.
I'm going to go get my child.

Saturday, June 27, 2009

Ummm.....

......yeah. So, it's been awhile since I blogged. Or really been here. Or done much of anything apart from run around like a plucked headless chicken with a bum thumb. I'm sure you've all missed me *snort*, and I thought I'd catch you up on the DG's happs.

There was the thumb saga:




How, you might ask, did the Thumb Saga come about? Well, I'd like to say it was while doing something heroic like rescuing a litter of puppies from an abandoned mine shaft...or something intelligent like a petri-dish mishap in my secret microbiology lab...or something cool like setting the world record for texting.
But, this is me. So it's not that exciting.
I was making a sandwich. There was only one piece of cheese left, you know, the end of the block? It was too thick to be one slice, not wide enough to cover a whole sammich, so I decided to split it through the middle by laying it down and hawing through it horizontally. With a ridiculously large chopping knife that the hubby keeps honed to a laser-like edge. Of course it slipped. Luckily the back of my thumb stopped it from hurting anyone.
I went to the Instacare. Gotta love the instacare. Three effing hours later, the disinterested resident made sure I could still bend and straighten it and glued it together with CrazyGlue. I went home to continue my Spring Cleaning binge and finish planting my garden, thumb cozily wrapped in gauze and that rubbery ace bandage stuff. While scooping the giant Phoebe poo, hefting the ten-pound pile of crap into the garbage bin, I felt a sudden ripping, tearing, sproinging pain shoot up my wrist. And then I couldn't straighten my thumb.
It was funny at first. This limp little digit, waving at half staff. But, since having opposable thumbs, two of them, is what separates us from the lower beasts and since I am a right-thumb space-bar typer, I figured I better get it looked at. Figured it wouldn't be too big of a deal to have it fixed: a few stiches, maybe a splint, some bendy exercises and I'd be good to go in a week or two.
A way-major surgery, two months, three splints, a cast, a brace, and an eerily un-wrinkled thumb later, I still can't space-bar with the right thumb. It throws my whole rythym off.
But I'm plugging along. I'm amazed at how crucial the thumb is to the human existence. Luckily, it was my non-dominant hand, but still. I'm off balance, off-kilter, off the plot. I can't open jars. I can't sweep without making a bigger mess. The right side of my hair is all weird. It takes me three times longer to send a text, and I wasn't a quick texter to begin with. So, basically: it's made me even more of a moron.

But, it's always something with me, right?

Other things that have happened:

The girl finished first grade!


We bought a pop-up trailer!


The Mainers came to visit:


Grace gave her first public flute concert, with Caleb on violin:


And that's about it. Other than feeling fat, old, unattractive and useless, it's been S.O.P. But that stuff isn't for this blog.

And how have you all been? I've missed you! How's your summer, where'd you go, any bodily injuries we need to know about? Hello? Anyone still out there?

Friday, February 27, 2009

So I Have This Pile of Paper...

..that formerly spent its life as twenty or so chapters in little separate files in my computer. Each file had a name, but no numbers because I am not organized enough to either A: outline a whole book, or 2) follow an outline even if I did. So I spent just over an hour the other day figuring out which ones went where and hitting "Copy-Paste" over and over and over and over until they were all tucked nicely onto one big document· Then I hit "Print". Then I changed the ink cartridge.

And now, ta da! I have a manuscript.

*giggle*

230 pages, 88881 words of original crap straight from my noggin.

I won't lie to you: I'm excited as a pig in shit.

I also won't lie to when I tell you not to get too excited yourself if you're one of the wonderful and supportive people who have heard me going on and on about this sucker for the last 3 years (especially my first and favorite blog commentator: CJ. Thanks, dude. You were there from the beginning and you didn't even know it. Just having one person want to read my blog helped me convince myself that I should try putting words somewhere else too). It's not done yet, not by a long shot. This is only the rough draft; the spew of my subconscious trying to tell a story that I think is fairly good, maybe even a concept that is important, but it still needs a lot of work.

And the best part of this for me?

I'm excited to do that work. I'm chomping at the bit so hard to get to work fixing and adding and backfilling and cutting the crap that I can hardly put the thing down long enough to type this. Or go to Office Max to have it three-hole-drilled so I can put it into a binder so I'm not trying to keep track of 115 pieces of paper. My organizational skills just aren't up for that.

It's good to be excited about the revision, because to be honest getting the rough draft out of me was like trying to get a toddler to do something. Didn't wanna! Might be scary! Might not be any good! The only saving grace I had was the brains to join a writers' group that meets every two weeks. That way I had to have something ready, most of the time. There were dry spells where I didn't take anything. There was a period of about a year in which I was writing short stories instead, hoping to hone my skills. (And avoid the scary.) But I finally took a deep breath and plunged. I wrote. I didn't worry that it wasn't coming out perfectly, I didn't worry if I suddenly had an idea that hadn't been properly set up in previous chapters, I didn't care that it was bare-bones with very little sensory detail. I just spewed. And it felt really really good.

So now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go read and clean up some spew.

Thanks for your indulgence of my dorky excitement, I know I'm not the first person to have done this. This is not really that big of a deal, right? I mean, you can't swing a dead cat without hitting someone who tells you they've written a book nowadays.

But it's my first one, and I'm going to revel in it for now. I'm still not comfortable calling myself an "author", and I have no illusions that I'm going to get published immediately upon querying, but, yeah: I wrote a book.

Look! I writerd a book!

(And for those of you who have so nicely asked to see some of it, I'm afraid you're going to have to wait. Due to some of the tricky language in MySpace's "terms of use", I don't feel good about posting it here. There's all sorts of tricky lawyer-types who might try to wrangle some rights of first run bullcrap. If you really want to read some of it, let me know and I'll send you some. Maybe. If I don't chicken out. Thanks again.)

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Catching up

Been awhile since I've bloggded. Nothing much to talk about; which seems to be epidemic here on the Myspace lately. We're all out of topics, are we? And of course, myspace blogs must be topical because, really, who wants to read someone's random stupid daily boring crap?

Haha, you do. Right? Here you go.

So, speaking of MySpace: where is everyone? Oh yeah, you're all on Facebook and Twitter. Me too. I love how I can now find all the same people and follow them somewhere else, getting different little glimpses into their lives.
Why is that? Why isn't Myspace enough anymore? I mean, really, how different are the other social networks? Twitter is basically just like the "status updates" here. Facebook is just one big comment page with a notebook attached and photo albums, right? Are we that capricious and bored that we fool ourselves into thinking that it must be waaaaayyyy more happenin' at another url?
My facebook name is Vanessa Fravel
My Twitter name is NessaLuv.
Just sayin'.

Maybe Tom should poke Rupert and remind him that the little people of the Unwashed Masses don't like to have Big Brother peeking over their shoulder. Just a thought.

I got a job, again. After my happy little four week stint as a "Holiday Cashier' at the Barnes & Noble, I was more than okay being let go, released back into the wild of non-responsiblity and relative autonomy of the housewife gig. Not bored, that's for sure. Nope. Not lonely. Not back to wearing sweats that were chosen based on smell. No, I was just fine.
So I can't really explain why I was so excited when they offered me a 1-hour-per-week position as the Story Lady. I might have yelled something like "Hell Yes!" and bought more new shoes.
It's pretty fun. I get to read a couple of books to the kids whose desperate stay-at-home parent bundles them up and trudges to the upper floor of the bookstore. We do a craft. (Toddlers with scissors; always a good time.) We read some more. I give them sugar and send them back to their glassy-eyed mums who are huddled in a semi-circle trying to remember how to have a conversation with an adult.
I have to admit: I was a little nervous about it. I'm not really "Story Lady" material, you know. But once I put the little martini shakers in their hands and taught them all how to tell the difference between the word "fuck" and the word "buggar", we got on just fine. I might have wanted to choose a book other than "My Life In Gay Porn" from the "Alternative Lifestyles" shelf, but it's a learning process. Apparently those are NOT the picture books that were expected.

What else...what else....Oh! Yeah! I almost forgot.

I wrote a book.

Haha!

(Yes, I will write a more detailed blog about this. Just not today.)
So....what's up with you?

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Putting the Mental in Self Improvement (al) Day 2

Ok, I'm ok. I don't need a smoke right now. Do I WANT a smoke right now? Yes, yes, very much please, can I rip this stupid fucking patch off my ass and just have a cigarette?!

Wheeeeewwwww....deep brefs....deep brefs...going to go put on a new patch....

I've been trying, when these little cravings knock me upside the head, to visualize and remember why I want/need to quit smoking: so I can breathe, so I can smell nice, so I can quit traumatizing my young daughter who fully expects me to die any day now, to maybe halt the crevasse of wrinkles on my forehead and lips, so I can go to the gym and try to recapture my smokin' hawt (ok, sort-of hawt) bod. Good reasons. Healthy reasons. Being a smoker today is like being a leper a thousand years ago. People look on you, huddled outside pathetically, with a mixture of pity and disgust. They wonder how, with all of the health warnings and the proof that it will kill you and the smell how can a person be stupid enough to smoke?

I'll tell you why.

It's the sweet elixir of brain-calming balm in a convenient wrapper. It's a small rebellion for an invisible boring housewife. It's a ten-minute escape from every hour.

I heart smoking. I will miss it.

Friday, January 16, 2009

Book Snobbery

An abashed book snob.
Current mood: embarrassed
Category: Life


Right now, I should be doing many other things. I should be addressing Christmas cards, wrapping presents from Santa, vacuuming and dusting the house, finishing the shopping that I've procrastinated about like I do every year, blah blah yadda yadda. And yet, I'm not.
I don't even want to be sitting here, writing this, really. But I need to write, as I haven't so much as touched my novel-in-progress in a week, even though I'm at a crucial point (as in: It's almost done, after four friggin' years!!!). But, no, I'm still in my jammies, hair all bed-headed, last night's mascara still smudged under my eyes, teeth mildly fuzzy due to an over-abundance of peppermintinis and a hot tub. And still I sit.

Now, some of you know me and know that I am the queen of procrastination, that me letting the house fall into complete chaos is not so much news. But this is just getting insane. It's worse this time, I promise.
Why the over-abundance of procrastination? Why is this normally laid-back-but-at-least-somewhat-productive housewife completely blowing off all responsibilities?

I'll tell you why. But it ain't gonna be pretty.

Twilight.

You heard me.

As loathe as I am to admit it because I swore I would never read it (I'll detail my book snobbery momentarily), I inhaled the first book in 3 days and am halfway through the second one, which I started yesterday. I can't put the stupid thing down.

So why was I so obstinately hesitant to read it in the first place?
1. It's by a BYU graduate. That right there is repulsive.
2. It's being fawned over by the women around here. The women who have very carefully decided that I am not one of them. The women whose idea of a Mom's Night Out involves squealing over the latest scrapbooking crap, whereas mine involves bottomless martinis and squealing over cute men who are not my husband. It is my personal crusade to rebel against all things Utah Housewife. Even though I am, technically, one.
3. I figured that the things in 1 and 2 immediately indicated that these books would be akin to the likes of Nora Roberts (*gag*) and Mary Higgens Clark (*retch*). I hate those kind of books. Hate them. The phony dialog, the implausibly convenient plot twists, the retarded narrative. They are written by and for mental midgets. (See? Book snob. Yes I am. Sorry if you're a fan.) I don't want to read about throbbing manhoods, windswept hair, smoldering looks, and bursting bodices. I need a good story and some realistically angst-driven conflict. Not formulaic crap.

So, then, why the hell am I enjoying this story so much?
1. It's an easy read, and not unpleasant. She's got a good voice, and absolutely does not sound like she's from BYU. There are actual funny quips, snarky lines, the characterizations are realistic (yes, even the vampires), and even though there are smoldering looks, it's done without much cheese.
2. I'm a secret fantasy believer. Love the Anne Rice books, love all things Harry Potter (written anyway. Don't get me started on the movies). Somewhere inside me, I want to believe that this shit could really happen, and love it when authors can make it plausible.
3. There's a chance that I, the snarky Domestic Goddess, might just be a bit of a romantic.

There. I said it. I'll even go further.

I love falling in love. That whole feeling of finding out you're attracted to someone, of not being able to tell them, of suspecting they want you too, the leaning and the covert glances and the smiling and the yearning. Love the yearning. Ms. Meyer very admirably covers all of this in a lovely literary way, without cheese. Without it being laughable and unrealistic. Even when eyes are smoldering, it's written in way that makes me remember way back when me and the hubby smoldered and leaned and tentatively touched. Sigh. I miss that.

He is my Edward, and even though I've been known to be addicted to the attraction phase of a relationship (or non-relationship, whatever), I still want to have that with him. But it's difficult, right? And I don't think Edward would be an Edward after 12 years. Comfort and happiness and knowing someone's annoying little personality quirks can just....delete the smoldering. I'm pretty sure there isn't much smolder when he thinks of me, either. We love each other, can't imagine life without each other, and there is occasionally some romance.

And we had those first moments with the glancing and the touching and the smoldering. We did. And it lasted longer than with anyone else. But, then, well....life happened.

So, I'm going to go read some more, before I absolutely have to rejoin the real world to get my daughter from school and take her flute shopping.

How about you? Any books that you never thought you'd enjoy and then ended up absorbed in?

Holiday Survey

Everyone else is doing it, so why not I?
Current mood: indescribable
Category: Quiz/Survey

Hey! LOOKIT ME! I finished a chapter!

So, to reward myself and torture you, I'm doing the survey started (in my circle of brilliant bloggers, anyway) by Jo & Honey and completed very nicely by The DirtDiva and uhhhh... .
My brain has been swimming in creative fiction for the last week (for once), so I'm going to chill out with some honest nonfiction. Maybe. If it gets boring I'll try to spruce it up a bit for you.


1. What was your favorite Christmas/seasonal gift this year?

Okay, honestly? I'm not a huge fan of getting Christmas/seasonal gifts. Unless it's brandy balls or peppermint schnapps with a bow. (Sorry Mummy, I really do think the salt and pepper shakers and snack plate and knife are cute. Really. I do appreciate them. I do). I have SO FREAKING MANY Christmas decorations, it's scary. They're stuffed into a giant-size Rubbermaid tub stuffed full of holiday thingamabobs that is stored in the attic of the garage. And that's just the stuff that will fit in it. There's also 3 fake trees of various sizes and a box containing a holiday village. And the kicker is: I've actually purchased or chosen almost none of them. This stuff is taking up serious space in storage, to be taken out and displayed for about three weeks a year. There's a part of me that doesn't get that. Appreciates it, sure, but doesn't get it.
I was quite nostalgic this year, remembering my small apartment and the SHOE BOX that happily and compactly held all of my decor in the back of my closet. Especially as the hubby and I lugged the giant tub from the house across the frozen yard to the garage, where he risked life and limb with it on his shoulder on a ladder to put it away.
So, the short answer is: I love the Snowman and Tree salt and pepper shakers and snack plate my mom gave me.

2. What gift were you the most excited to give and to whom was it given?

(Sylow should skip this answer, I think. CJ too, probably.)
Duh: Santa!
Say what you will, there is nothing like seeing the tangible joyous expression, the awe of magic, the giggly wonder in my child's face every year when she sees the plate now containing cookie and carrot crumbs, the lumpy stockings, the modest pile of gifts where just last night there were none. She's a good kid, and only asked Santa for four things. Thanks to the DirtDiva, Santa was able to provide them exactly as requested. (Except for another rabbit. She got a stuffed one and a note instead). And, Thanks to my personal fairy Kris , Daphne was able to provide a special surprise in a beautiful handmade bracelet for Grace to always remember the magic of fairies.
Her joy made all of the stress, angst, searching, begging and sneaking worth it. Big thanks to the Mimi for sacrificing the pegasus so Santa wouldn't come off short.

3. What is your biggest personal wish for the New Year?

To be done with this book. Done with it. Whether or not it gets published, I just want it out of my head and the story told so it will leave me the hell alone.

4. What did you do New Year's Eve?

Went to "First Night" in downtown Salt Lake City. A rousing gathering of sober people, with tents set up to contain various artsy type people and foodstuffs. Grace ice skated for the first time, which was absolutely a hoot, and was promptly hypothermic when we finally peeled her off the ice. Little budger was so cold we had to go home early.
I must say, waking up New Year's Day without wanting to vomit was a nice change. I didn't know that could even happen.

5. You are on Death Row and being executed at midnight. What do you order for your last meal on earth? (We're going to assume you actually have an appetite.)

Maine lobster.
But more to the point: Why am I on Death Row? Certainly any murder I would commit would be justifiable, right?

6. The Power in Charge of Life and Death is granting you eight hours to spend with a loved one who has passed on. Who, among your loved ones, do you choose and what will you do? (This will take place on Earth, not in some far-flung nebula.)

This is tough. I know I should say my grandfather, because his life was so hard and interesting and he deserved to have a little joy, or my grandmother because I would like to talk to her about me not having to channel all her genetic psychotic energy anymore, please, but...I don't know. I loved them while they were here. And had lots of time with them. They both had good long lives with people who loved them.
So, inexplicably, I'm going to go with a baby that I only saw twice in his short life, and one of those times was when he was already in his teeny coffin. I would like Britain to come back, healthy and whole and happy, and have a few hours of a normal happy babyhood.

7. It has been deemed that you will live a life of abject poverty, but you get to choose where to spend that life - the Amazon Rainforest or Siberia. Which do you choose and why?

I am sick to death of the cold right now. SICK OF IT. So, botflies be damned, I'm going with the Amazon. That's where I was "supposed" to spend my life as a biologist, back in the days of idealistic young optimism. I would like to sit under the canopy and just goggle at the incredibly cacophony of life there, life that is slipping away, being lost and destroyed, and wonder at the miracle of it. And be warm.

8. If you could have one talent at which you excelled, what would it be? (and if you already have a talent at which you excel, unlike many of us, pick another one.)

I'm going to go with writing. Or playing the flute. I'm okay at both of those things, but would like to have one thing that I'm really really good at. I'm tired of being mediocre.

9. You are being forced to share a bed with someone, and you are given a choice between a snorer or a farter. Which do you choose and why?

I already sleep with the world champion of farters. I'm a fairly sound sleeper, I can sleep through snoring. The green clouds though, well, my nose doesn't sleep as soundly as my ears, and I'm tired of it.

10. You just won the gazillion dollar lottery. After all the excitement has died down, what is the first thing you do?

Who says the excitement will ever die down? Travel! Lots! See everything! Go everywhere! Go! Go! Go!
Then probably self-publish. Gotta get it out there somehow.
And then open a Best Friends-type animal sanctuary.

Okey dokey, enough self-gratification for today. I'm off to run errands, fold laundry, vacuum...it's nice to be back to the routine.

Cheers!

Rabbit Rabbit Rabbit

Rabbit Rabbit Rabbit *Updated with comment replies. Thank you!*
Current mood:bunnified
Category: Pets and Animals

Well, I had a right crappy weekend, how about you? After cleaning every pet-related item in my house, which includes but is not limited to: three bunny cages, a frog tank, an aquarium, dog beds and the cats' closet, I was ready to get all pertied up to go on a date with The Hubs. But the headache gods decided they were bored and so smote me with the migraine to end all.

Some of you know I've had just over a year of Lars pounding around in the back of my noggin and have learned to live with my whining about being in semi-constant pain. So, what's a migraine on top of that?

Barfing, hyper-sensitive to all stimuli, full-body muscle aches and a skull full of rusty nails. That's what.

It was a party. For two days. But now I'm better, thanks. I'm drug-free and ready to take on the day!
But first, I'm going to indulge in some bunny talk.

So in case you were counting bunny cages up there, you might have noticed an addition. We got yet another rabbit. No, not the kind that buzzes and keeps Momma happy; an actual Sylvilagus floridanus for the girl. Am I a sucker? Yes. Yes I am.
We had innocently and selflessly stopped at the local Humane Society shelter just to drop off some old dog beds so the pound puppies can be comfy and have something to pee on. Having some extra time before flute lesson, we decided to hold the bunnies. It's something we do; the poor little things are trapped inside plexiglass cages barely big enough for them to stretch their big feet out in, so we feel it our duty to make the slack-jaw attitudinal chick behind the counter come get one out for us to cuddle and pet and talk baby-talk to. Usually I am very firm about not taking one home. We're just holding them. Okay, maybe not so firm; we ended up taking one home the last time we tried this. That's how we got Thumper.
But, no, today we were NOT going to get a rabbit.
But then, here's this ginormous lop. Who not only sits complacently in our laps, but actually snuggles her big head under G's chin.
And the begging and bargaining began.
"But, G, you have two rabbits already!'
"But, Momma, I promise I'll take care of her!"
"But, G, you whine when I ask you to change the bunny boxes now."
"But, Momma, I promise I won't! I'll change their boxes, I promise!"
"But, G, where will we keep her? There's no more room by the other bunny cages."
"But, Momma, she can live in my room. Momma, she needs me. They're going to kill her!"
And she has me there. I'm a sucker for the shelter animals. No-kill shelters, I'm okay, I can walk away. But not from an animal who might be living on borrowed time. And she'd been there for two months. So, we talked to the dad, agreed that it would be her birthday present (to which she says, "That's fine, my friends will get me toys. So will Mimi and Poppa. And Nana too, probably. So it's okay if you don't. I'll have enough. I just want the bunny from you."), and after a day of me running around to various pet stores to procure another set of supplies; Viola! Another bunny in my little, over-run house.

But I must admit, caving in to this bunny acquisition was not just about saving an animal from an untimely death or to further teach my daughter that she can have anything she wants. No, it's a much more neurotically driven one, really.
We're still searching for THAT bunny. That bunny who is happiest when it is being held by a small child. That bunny who bounds joyfully up to the nearest human and begs to be picked up and snuggled. That bunny who will complacently sit in my daughter's arms while she hauls it all over the house, and take a happy ride in a doll's carriage and never kicks when it's picked up and never struggles when it's put down.
See, we had THAT bunny once. And now we are forever frantically searching to replace her: the first bunny we had, the one who made my daughter the happiest little chick in the world. That bunny who was tragically and horrifically taken from us one awful night that none of us will forget, the night that not only ripped a little fluffy soul from our furry family, but earned banishment for my mother-in-law's dog. That and a punch to his head from me.
We got Asia to replace that bunny. Asia is beautiful and clever, but hates to be held.
Where the hell is my cage?
We got Thumper to try to at least have one we could hold. He's a sweetie and fairly tolerant, but still not joyful about the holding and the cuddling.
Thumper taking a turn about the garden
They're pretty tight.
bunny wuv
So, now here's Clover.
Clover
G and the new bunny, Clover
She's so far freaking out about this big new world of dogs, cats, children and other rabbits who want to beat the crap out of her. She's not quite sure about this whole litter-box thing. She doesn't want to be held right now, which is again breaking the child's heart. The child doesn't want to be patient, doesn't want to give Clover some time to settle in. The child wants THAT bunny back.
THAT bunny, Luna. We miss her.


I do too.

But I'm settling for these three sometimes letting me rub their little heads. For now.
We could do four rabbits, right?

I'll put up some videos of bunny cuteness right after I figure out how to do that. Technotard Go!

True or False or Just Crap?

Me too! Me too! Oo! Pick me!
Current mood: devious
Category: Games



I hate being left out of anything. So I’m going to follow (or try; they’re pretty clever) Cog’s, Jo’s and Uhhh…’s leads and see how much you all know about me, or can figure out by using what you know about what a dork I am.

So, five of these statements are true, five are false. Do you know which is which? And just for fun, I’m upping the ante; the winner gets a trophy! Yay!

Ok, without further ado-whacka-do:

1. In my senior year of high school, I won a scholarship to study abroad in the summer. Since I had already graduated, I was sent as a “cultural exchange” student. Essentially, all I learned about Greek culture was that there was no drinking age and that Greek men are yummy little momma’s boys, and that it’s indeed possible to put on 20 pounds in six weeks eating cheese. In exchange, I taught the Greeks that American girls can drink and will make out with just about anyone.
2. Most of you know that I’m a writer, working on her “first” novel. What you might not know is that I’m secretly already a published author. Five years ago I wrote an extremely naughty and graphic adult/erotica novel that was published under a pseudonym and for which I receive a quarterly royalties check. Apparently I have some talent there.
3. A guy once pulled a knife on me in a dark corner of a club, I suppose to either rob me or rape me or both. I started to laugh hysterically and point at him, and he got embarrassed, dropped the knife and ran away.
4. While vacationing in London, I stalked Andy Bell (the lead singer of my all-time favorite band, Erasure) and ended up hanging out with him and a group of British music bigwigs in a gay bar until three in the morning. With the Underground and BlackCabs done running for the night, I had to take an illegal cab back to my hotel, which is exceedingly stupid for an American tourist to ever do. It was also Valentine’s Day, and my husband had stayed at the hotel and gone to bed alone while I partied it up in a club full of gay men.
5. I originally wanted to be a biologist, and interned as a zookeeper’s assistant in college, helping to take care of the chimpanzees and orangutans. While I was working one day, I accidentally left the lock to the chimps’ cage open while I ran to grab the rake I’d left down the hall. Since there were double barred doors and the latches were engaged, I didn’t think the lock would make a difference for five seconds. When I turned back to the cage door, the chimps had figured out how to open the double doors and had escaped. One of the other keepers was there, and he quickly tried to get them to go back into their cage. Instead, they attacked him and bit off his nose and half of an ear. All three of them (the chimps, not the wounded keeper) were shot dead by another keeper right there in the hall, while I stood brandishing my rake and nearly peeing my pants.
6. I was once engaged to two different men at the same time and neither of them knew about the other.
7. My husband was the sole heir to a German fortune, via his great aunt. Her estate was worth hundreds of millions of dollars, and she sent us money every year. He was lax about keeping in touch with her regularly and when she died last year, her will was sent to us. We got really excited until we read the last part, where she had changed the will, disinherited us, and instead passed her fortune on to her husband’s great-nephew, who had been taking care of her for the last few years of her life. Instead of being set for life, we got a gold pocketwatch and a lecture from said nephew.
8. I have been engaged four times, but only married once.
9. When I worked as a personal trainer I once entered a body building contest, even though I had never trained for it and had zero idea how do the whole cheesy posing thing. I won second place.
10. In my adult life, I have had fourteen dogs, twenty cats and eight rabbits. All of them were rescues.

Okey-dokey, folks! Wanna guess?

Friday, January 2, 2009

What would a normal person do? Help please!

I am a social retard.

There. Now all of you who know me can feel better knowing that I do, indeed, know what you've already figured out; and any of you who are new around here, well, it'll all just make more sense now.

As much as I'd like to go into defensive specifics outlining the exact nature of my social ineptitudeNess, I've got something of an emergency or three going on and could really use some advice from those of you in my brilliant audience who are not social troglodytes.

So here's my question:
At what point is it okay to tell someone exactly what you think of them and/or where in their life they are complete fucktards? Not in a mean way; just in the hopes that it might enlighten them and nudge them toward realizing that they might be able to make different choices and improve their own lives and those of the people around them.
Is that ever okay? I mean, I wish someone would sit me down and outline exactly what the hell is wrong with me. From their point of view. Like I said before, I know I'm a social retard, but am not always clear on why, exactly, or what to do to fix it.

Here's the situation. Any and all opinions and feedback are greatly appreciated, if you make it through this. Ahem.

I have this friend. We'll just call him "D". We were best friends in high school, in that "When Harry Met Sally" way, without the romantic ending. Just buddies. Really. He was the archetypal 80's wannabe-yuppie; he bragged that he was going to be a millionaire business/financial genius by the age of 30. He was an only child and his financially-struggling parents nonetheless showered him with the best of everything. He drove 2 Porches and wore designer clothes and was the first person in Pocatello with a cd player. Despite his deeply ingrained sense of entitlement, he was a good friend.
Flash forward 15 years. We lost touch after h.s. and reconnected via Classmates.com and facebook. We've exchanged a few emails detailing our grownup lives. He's accomplished some amazing things. Seriously. He's one of those people who wants something and BAM! does it. He attended West Point, went career military, did 3 tours of Iraq and Afghanistan, has received commendations from Senators and Brigadier Generals, has double Master's degrees and a Ph.D., and is now serving as a second-in-command over the NATO troops in Afghanistan. All of them. He's big time over there.
I know all of this because he sends out "fan letters." To the people he regards as his "fans". He forwards the internal emails between the military bigwigs praising the wonders of MGR D. I shit you not. He has very floridly regaled me with all of his wondrous accomplishments, including how he scored a hot wife and has two perfect kids.
Sounds like someone I'd be proud to call a friend, right?
Here's my problem:
He's a self-centered, arrogant little toe-rag.
In all of our exchanges, he's never, ever, not once remarked upon anything I've told him about my life. Ever. Not even when I told him that my husband trained plebes at West Point when D was a plebe at West Point and maybe they'd had some interaction; wouldn't that be some Six-Degrees-of-Separation? Nor when I told him I'm writing a novel or was a teacher or any of the little lame things I've accomplished. Lame compared to his, anyway. But he could have said something, right?
Our latest exchange was about his failing marriage and about how it's all his wife's fault. Because she's not a "Team player". As in "Team D". I sympathized, I empathized with helpful anecdotes from my own roller coaster of a marriage. To which he did not respond. At all. No "Wow, sounds like you know what I'm going through" or "My Gosh, Nessa, I had no idea of your personal struggles." Nup. Just talked over me on the IM about the shortcomings of his wife. He expressed his disgust at her daring to say that no one else would "put up with his shit". "What shit?" he asks.
Um, maybe the shit where you don't listen to anything anyone says and everything is about you? Maybe the shit where you don't give a shit what other people might need? Maybe the shit where nothing is as important as what you are needing/doing/winning right now? Maybe the shit where all you do is brag and expect everyone to sycophantically swoon at your every word?

Ok, I didn't say those things. But I want to. My question for you is: should I? Should I risk losing his friendship (or whatever this is; aren't friendships actually supposed to be two-way?) by telling him he's an arrogant toe-rag who should thank his lucky stars that this woman has put up with his shit for the last 12 years? Is this something that is normal social interaction: calling bullshit for what it is and hoping the person has an A-ha! moment because of it?
Or do I just keep smiling and deleting the fan letters and trying to have normal conversations with him?

Thank you for your time. You are contributing to an important public service with your response.

Social retard out.