In Which I Attempt To Thank People For Throwing Me A Baby Shower, But Mostly End Up Rambling a Lot

Pin It My seven year old, who I call Sarah on the blog (but who is not really named Sarah, so it seems silly to keep calling her Sarah, because what am I - Pioneer Woman, that I should be important enough to have stalkers? Please. And yet the completely paranoid part of my brain is convinced that if I were to utter her Actual Name dangerous predators would descend from the blogging sky, search the town for children with a similar name and spirit her away to the Land of Stolen Blog Children - so I guess I shouldn't tempt fate and should just continue to call her Sarah), has to have surgery next week.

I would tell you all about it except that Sarah is a little embarrassed about the whole thing, and would rather that I not go around spouting her diagnosis all over my blog. (I'm feeling a little guilty now for my semi-hysterical and very specific Facebook updates, except that I know she will thank me when people drop by afterwards with things made out of chocolate (which I'm assuming they will, because seriously, what is the point of even HAVING surgery if it doesn't result in chocolate)). (For the mother.) So I won't get into the details of the surgery, but I'll tell you that she'll be in the hospital for a few days, a problem will be fixed, and her surgeons are excellent. The surgery is invasive but relatively safe, so I've decided to pretend she's getting her tonsils out or maybe having some hair implants, something fairly benign like that.

(In other words, I forbid anyone from expressing the words "I'm sorry," "I'll pray for you," or anything else that sounds even vaguely compassionate in the comments, because a) people who are going to be FINE, JUST FINE, TOTALLY FINE, don't need compassion and b) concerned comments would imply that there is cause for concern, and there isn't, no there ISN'T - LA LA LA LA LA LA LA I CAN'T HEAR YOU.)

(However, comments like "SUE - your pet monkey is ADORABLE" would be very much appreciated, per usual.)


(This is Sarah taking a pre-surgery class at Primary Children's hospital - a class designed to help the kids work through their fears about what will happen on surgery day.)

Sarah is imaginative and smart, and the combo means that she is an expert worst-medical-case-scenario brewer-upper (she probably gets this from her father). She packed a bag for the hospital the other day, and when she solemnly showed me the carefully packed suitcase with her favorite chapter books and favorite stuffed animal and a note she wanted me to give her little sister on surgery day my heart went crackety-crack. My poor sweet, sensitive little girl. Oh how much I love her.

The baby is still in my stomach, cooking away. I know this because he kicks the living hell out of me all night long. Last night I don't know what was going on in there - soccer drills or something - but I stopped being amused after about fifty-seven straight minutes of it.

On Saturday morning some neighborhood friends threw me a mostly-surprise baby shower. I say mostly-surprise because one of the women in my neighborhood dropped off a gift for me about a week ago, with a note that said, "sorry I couldn't make the shower," which was my cue to badger the living daylights out of my husband - who was throwing it? when was it? where was it? would he warn me in advance so I could get my roots done ? who was throwing it again? - but he wouldn't crack.

I was so touched by the shower. Not just that someone threw one for me, or because I was grateful for the stuff - but the who/what/when/where/why of it all. Throwing a shower for someone is like publicly declaring your friendship for someone, like publicly saying, "OK, yes, I admit to being her friend." That's sort of awesome, especially if you really adore the people who threw you the shower. (And now the women who threw the shower are thinking, oh, CRAP, I didn't realize THAT was what it meant. I just wanted her to get some stuff. HA-HA-HA - sorry girls, IT IS TOO LATE, THERE IS NO RETURNING FROM THIS.)

COMMENCE TANGENT:

This neighborhood is FULL of women I really like - including many who I really want to get to know better, but never quite get around to getting to know - partly because we are all busy, and partly because I am a dork.

Sometimes we'll have a girls night out or I'll be at book club and I'll end up sitting by someone who I know casually but not very well, and I end up thinking I LOVE HER, and I HAVE TO GET TO KNOW HER BETTER but then I do absolutely nothing about it, mostly because I have no idea what to do. I'm horrible on the phone, the most awkward dork in the universe, and the idea of making a phone call without having a SPECIFIC PURPOSE for making the phone call absolutely horrifies me.

(I can't imagine what people say when they call people for no reason - just to chat. How do you do that? What do you say? Do you make up a reason? I suppose if I answered the phone once in a while I would have a better idea of how that works.)

/End Tangent

Oh. Wait.

RECOMMENCE TANGENT:

I have to say something about book club. I've been in a book club for the last four years and I love the other women in the group. We talk about books, we talk about life, we eat, we talk about books and life some more. The women in the group are wonderful, and every single time I leave book club thinking, OH MY GOSH, I LOVE HER (but I end up thinking it about twelve women at once, which is fairly overwhelming).

I have to remind myself before it starts not to talk too much, because I tend to get all overly excited and blurty and almost anxious. Sometimes I write little reminder notes on my hands, things like "don't talk so much," and "it is rude to interrupt people even if you are excited about what they are saying." (That one is long - I have to write that one on my arm or stomach.) (Although frankly, writing it on my stomach makes it more of a problem as far as reminders go, what with it not being visible).

Anyway, between book club and girls night out and the outlawed-by-our-bishop bunko group (long, strange story), there is a circle of women who I interact with more frequently, who I admire and respect and enjoy, but I STILL don't call them on a regular basis, other than to arrange for my kids to play with their kids. Sometimes if we're already on the phone I'll get really brave and ask a question about something non-kid related and we'll end up talking.

I'll get off the phone on this post-phone-talking high because I ACTUALLY TALKED ON THE PHONE, and then I eventually realize the other woman was trying ever-so-graciously to get off the phone for at least the last ten minutes, and I did not notice because I do not speak ever-so-gracious and because I kept having to tell her one more thing, and one more thing, and oh, wait, ONE MORE THING, and then I feel like a moron and swear off the phone FOREVER. Again.

/End Tangent

On Saturday night I went out and bought thank you cards and a little thank you gift for the women who organized the shower and carefully filled out the cards, but I still haven't delivered them. I don't want them thinking I'm some kind of overly eager dork who was counting the minutes until she could express her (possibly inappropriate amount of) gratitude, but rather a cool, cool cucumber of a normal-type friend who was just the right amount of socially acceptable grateful without being a total freak about it.

(Except one of them reads my blog, so the jig is probably up anyway.)

(So maybe I should just go deliver those cards.)

(Yeah, I'm leaving now.)

I'm Not Quitting My Blog, I'm Just Sparing You Posts Like This One

Pin It Despite the long periods of blog silence, things are actually quite normal over here at hypochondria central. Would you like to hear about it?

And would you like to hear about it in run-on-sentence form with no discernible punctuation?

WELL OF COURSE YOU WOULD.

First of all, you should know that every other week or so I wake up at night feeling a sharp stabbing pain in the front of my calf, kind of like a really ticked off hornet is messing with me. I always reach down to brush it away, then realize there's nothing there, then start to say "SON OF A -," then I realize the pain is gone, and then I go back to sleep.

I keep meaning to talk it over with the doctor, but whenever I go to see her I completely forget to mention it, so distracted am I by our regular monthly discussion/game of "so when exactly do you think my uterus might rupture?"

Her standard response is some variation on "there's really no way of knowing if it will, or when it will, but let me know if you have sudden sharp uterine pain," and then I ask her to quantify what she means by pain, exactly. The sharp pain I sometimes get when I sneeze, is that a rupture? Or when the baby kicks an internal organ really hard and I have pain, is that a rupture? Or when I feel this sharp stabbing pain in my leg, is THAT a rupture? And could she possibly give me her cell phone number so that I can call her late at night when I feel a pain that might be a rupture?

By the time we finish having this discussion, she is usually giving me this look (this look like, who referred you to my practice again?) and I've completely forgotten about the leg thing because I'm busy rocking back and forth on the exam table imagining my own death.

Most likely the pain in my leg is from a (non-imaginary) blood clot, and probably I will die. (Farewell, internet.) The good news is that I'm so forgetful lately that most days I don't remember my impending death and life proceeds quite normally.

The first real day of summer vacation for the kids was Monday. I've been busy reading things like Last Child in the Woods and Free Range Kids (which I LOVED and made my book club pick this month), and I'm determined to make sure my kids spend their summer out exploring NATURE, dagnabbit. We have a perfectly good gully across the street with a stream in it, and a park down the road with a stream in it, and mountains five minutes from our doorstep, so in theory we are all set. Now all I need is a non-pregnant friend to con into taking them on all of these nature adventures while I lie on the couch.

Yesterday I took the kids swimming at a completely fantastic pool down the road (complete with water slides, a lazy river, play structures, and water shallow enough to keep my non-swimmers from drowning). They loved it, and I loved it too - as long as I stayed in the water. Since I am not one of those adorable little pocket-sized pregnant women with a cute baby bump, I don't look pregnant - I just look incredibly fat.

I'm fighting the urge to iron a patch onto my swimsuit, something about baby on board, something that will make it obvious to everyone that YES, I'm fat, but at least some of it is virtuous baby-related fat (as opposed to my regular slothful, doughnut-related fat). It turns out that all this time I thought it was obvious I was pregnant, what with my shirts stretched against my baby belly, but a few of my real life friends had no idea because apparently that's JUST WHAT I USUALLY LOOK LIKE. Egads.

By the way, thanks so much to everyone who so sweetly and generously offered to send me baby and maternity stuff after my last post. Hormonal as I am, I sniffled my way through most of those comments. Whoever says blogging friends aren't real friends - well, the maternity shirt on my back is here to tell you otherwise.

I See London, I See France...

Pin It There is a robin that sits outside of our window every morning and sings its sweet little heart out. It's very Mary Poppins. Eeeeevery single morning at 5:30 AM.

I freaking hate that bird.

The other morning the bird started singing at precisely 5:17 AM and I was so mad that I got up and went outside intending to do something about it, something involving rocks and a few pointedly stinging remarks. Unfortunately, as soon as I got outside it flew up onto the roof of the neighbors house, right above their master bedroom window where it just knew I'd be scared to throw something, and then it resumed singing. MOCKING ME.

Me, whisper-yelling: "SHUT UP BIRD."
Bird: "Tweedle tweedle twee."
Me, full of impotent rage, jumping up and down: "Go away! Go away! You suck! I hate you!"
Bird: "Tweety tweet tweet."

It was very frustrating.

(One of my neighbors has very mischievous six and ten year old boys, and I cannot for the life of me understand why she has failed to furnish them with BB guns. This seems a tragic oversight.)

(Do you think that would be an unfortunate present for someone to leave at their doorstep?)

The bird's early morning singing leaves me plenty of time for rage-fueled tossing around in bed before it is time to get up. I do this with quite a bit of irritation and loud sighing, since in my sleep deprived haze I feel quite certain that my husband ought to be Doing Something About It, although I'm not sure what that would entail. Just something. I think I would like to hear him out there screaming at that bird, really giving it the what-for. Maybe throwing something heavy, like a patio chair or the swing set.

Despite my bird fueled rage, my attitude about all things baby is finally starting to improve. It helps to have ultra-sound proof that it's a boy and not actually a demon from the netherworld as I was beginning to suspect. Unfortunately the only thing I've really done to prepare for the baby's arrival is whine a lot.

When I found out I was pregnant I walked around the house moaning about how stupid we were to give away all of our baby stuff, stupid, stupid, HOW COULD WE BE SO STUPID - thoughts I cagily kept to myself when my sister-in-law generously offered to give me some of her old baby stuff. She sweetly said she didn't need any of it anymore, because they were Done, and I did my best to nod gratefully instead of mumbling "famous last words SUCKAH," under my breath.

(Actual conversation with doctor this morning after ultrasound: Doctor: In a few weeks we can start talking about whether or not you'd like to have a tubal ligation after your c-section. Me: TIE THEM! TIE THEM NOW! I WANT THEM TIED. WITH DOUBLE-KNOTS! DO YOU DO DOUBLE KNOTS? Doctor: Uh....)

Anyway, thanks to my sister-in-law the baby will sleep in an actual crib instead of a laundry basket, and will have a stroller instead of the conveyance I was mocking up - a trained Labrador with a saddle.

We don't have a stitch of baby clothing in the house, and I'm dreading the inevitable trip to Target, where we will lay down all of our pennies as a sacrifice to the baby apparel gods. Most weeks lately I feel like Alexander, Who Used To Be Rich Last Sunday - payments from my tech writing clients come in the mail and at first I dance my wild dance of crazy glee, and then I realize the dishwasher is broken, and we owe fifty-seven million dollars to the IRS, and Carter grew two sizes over the winter and needs new pants, and the mortgage is due in three days.

I can't bring myself to spend money on maternity clothes. It seems such a waste to buy new clothes that I will use for four months. I have decided to forge ahead with wearing pajama pants and stretching out my existing shirts for the next few months, and if my underwear happens to show, well then it JUST HAPPENS TO SHOW.

All in all, I expect that I will be quite grumpy this summer, what with the pregnancy and the extreme wardrobe, and if anyone says a word about my non-conventional maternity wear, they will RUE THE DAY, because I swear if it is the last thing I do I will find a way to sic that freaking bird on them.

Ginormica LIVES

Pin It

• I've been avoiding blogging, because if I blog, it's proof I'm alive, and if I'm alive then I have to actually read my email and feel guilty for not answering it in a more timely-like fashion, and if I feel guilty then I have to eat more chocolate, and if I eat more chocolate than I have already eaten I will most likely end up in a diabetic coma.

• I'm finally off the cursed hormones, and I feel much more like my version of normal. The hormones not only made me crazy, they also made me narcoleptic. I was falling asleep anywhere and everywhere. While sitting at a stoplight. Standing in the grocery store looking at fruit. Typing a sentence. In the middle of saying something to my husband. I could stay awake and reasonably alert around the kids for most of the day, but by dinner time I was pretty much done. It wasn't all that uncommon for my husband to come home after work and find me dead asleep, sprawled on the hardwood floor in the kitchen, the kids running around scavenging for food and generally recreating scenes from Lord of the Flies.

• I'm at that stage where nothing fits very well, but I'm still resisting maternity pants in favor of sweats and really baggy jeans. The baby is only about the size of a cantaloupe right now, but I do not let this define the size of my stomach. I like to stay ahead of the pregnancy fashion curve (why look five months pregnant when you can look seven? Tres fashion forward).
  
  With all of my other pregnancies I've been pretty careful about gaining weight. I didn't need to be any heavier than I was already, thankyouverymuch - but this time around instead of feeling responsible and excited and careful, I've tended more towards feeling completely freaked out and a little depressed, and I ditched my usual cautionary weight gain attitude in favor of SCREW IT, pass the ice cream.
  
  I am GINORMOUS. (We took the kids to see Monsters vs. Aliens on Saturday afternoon. The female monster's name was Susan and her monster name was Ginormica, and I decided it was probably a sign from God, telling me it was inevitable and to just go with it for a couple of months.)

• I was blathering to my husband about camping this summer - maybe we could take the kids to the Grand Canyon, or maybe to Yellowstone, or - and my husband had to remind me about the baby, and the possible-but-not-certain early delivery issue. I just keep forgetting about the dang baby. I never forget the PREGNANCY, but I space the resulting baby. The reality of the baby still seems like some kind of elaborate April Fools prank.

• The doctor says I should be able to carry the baby all the way through to September, or maybe August, or possibly July. She would narrow it down a little, but it all just kind of depends on "how much your uterus rips and how likely spontaneous uterine rupture looks after each visit." But she says not to worry because they'll "keep an eye out." PHEW.

• The kids all mistakenly stayed home from school today. I pulled up the April school lunch menu online and it said "No School - Professional Development Day." I naively assumed this meant no school. But later, when we were driving by the school on our way to the plant nursery, and I realized that all of the other children in the universe were at school. WELL. Then I realized that it must've meant something else. Something more mysterious.

• Hooky or no hooky it was a gorgeous day, and once I was done with work we spent most of the afternoon outside. We planted a few flowers and I pulled up weeds while the kids jumped on the tramp. My husband came home a little bit later and threw baseballs to the kids while I sat on the steps watching in my lazy I-don't-have-to-play-because-I'm-pregnant way. Everyone was happy, and it was one of those moments I wished I had on tape - not just because it was a happy moment, but so that in a few months I could play it back for the kids and say - SEE?!! BEFORE THIS BABY CAME, I WAS A GOOD MOTHER. IT'S ALL THE BABY'S FAULT.
  
  (So if you were wondering if I had a plan for parenting four children, you can put those fears to rest. Clearly, I am ALL SET.)

The End.

So... The News

Pin It This is karmic payback for all of the times my teenage self scoffed at my mom over my youngest brother and sister’s “accidental” entry into the world.

“How can you have an accidental baby, Mom? Sheesh. Just use birth control. It’s not that hard."

NEVER TEMPT FATE, PEOPLE.

I'm very accidentally pregnant - just past the first trimester.

We are still adjusting to the reality of it all. We're a little shell-shocked, because we were done. DONE. We gave away every last baby thing a long time ago.

And of course, there's stuff making me nervous.

For one thing, I’m old. Thirty-SEVEN. (How is that possible?!)

For another, my uterus is shot. Two different OBs warned me numerous times not to get pregnant and strongly encouraged me to do something to ensure that I didn’t.

(You know, I kept meaning to take care of that…)

The current plan is to take the baby about six weeks early to avoid uterine rupture. (Yeah, if you thought I was a hypochondriac BEFORE...) Apparently this isn't all that uncommon and they know how to handle it, so (insert melodramatic tone here) WE WILL SURVIVE.

We’re trying to work our way into being excited about it, but right now, even though we’ve known for a while, it still seems like something we made up, like a little joke we are telling each other. SURE we’re having another baby. Right. Good one.

I'm a little worried about the kids. I have three good kids and I usually feel somewhat equal to the task of being their mother. But four? I don’t know. I don't know if I can do it and still be the kind of mom I want to be.

Some women have the patience for a large family - the natural knack, the talent for handling crowds. My next door neighbor has seven, and she's a fantastic mother. But if I had seven I'd end up on the news. "Local mother barricades herself inside shed with shotgun, refuses to come out until the children are all asleep."

I know four kids isn't necessarily a large family. (I have eight brothers and sisters. THAT's a large family.) But four kids feels like a lot for me. I'm nervous.  Wish me luck people of the internet.

In Which the Universe Sends a Little Karmic Justice My Way

Pin It IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!

No, it isn’t my birthday.

OK, actually it is. It's my birthday. (Am I allowed to say that? Is that like some kind of big faux pas? Here's my whole thing about birthdays. You SHOULD get extra recognition on your birthday. You kind of need it to get through the day, because it's not like its a naturally fantastic moment in time. Sure, you might snag a few presents, but really it just means you're one year closer to death.)

(I would never end up having a Sixteen Candles forgotten birthday deal, because after about five minutes I’d be all, HELLO LOSERS, WHERE ARE MY PRESENTS?!)

(My husband likes to claim I forgot his birthday last year, but this is a wretched lie. He was getting ready to leave for work and I stumbled out to the kitchen. I was barely conscious, and he gave me a whole thirty seconds of head clearing time before he said, “I can’t believe you forgot my birthday.” I was like, “I didn’t forget your birthday - I’m not even AWAKE yet.” It’s not like I was going to forget it all day long. Probably.)

We celebrated my birthday on Monday, because Tuesday is one of our horrifically busy days, and today we were all home. Sarah used her actual piggy bank money to buy me a present. My husband tried to pay for it, but she insisted, and actually CRIED when he didn't use her dollar bills to pay the cashier. If that isn't so sweet it makes your teeth hurt, then you are DEAD INSIDE.

I answered some of the questions from the last post in the comments to the last post. Tonguu Mama was right - I’m kind of sick of talking about myself. (I KNOW! Who'd have thought?!) There are a few I didn't answer that I'll probably post about later. I know you can hardly stand waiting for my thrilling answers. Try to contain your excitement.

Aprel, Mandajuice and Melanie all wanted to know how things were going on the book front and I've been meaning to talk about that, because the whole thing is ridiculous. (Me + ridiculous = SURPRISING.)

So how things are going, how things are going, how things are going....

Wait. Before I tell you, first I'd better make sure we're all on the same page, that we're speaking the same LANGUAGE, that you know all about the whole publishing BAG.

Here is how traditional publishing works:

1. In order to get published, you need an agent. They’re the gatekeepers for the publishing world.
   
2. In order to get an agent, you have to write a query letter. Most agents get hundreds, if not thousands of query letters every month – so your letter has to be at least goodish.
   
3. If the agent likes your query letter, she might ask you to send a partial manuscript – usually the first 30 to 50 pages or so.
4. If the agent likes your partial, she might ask you to send her the full manuscript.
5. If she likes your full manuscript enough, she might just go crazy and decide to represent you.
6. If she represents you, she’ll shop your book around to publishers and you MIGHT get a book deal. And CHANCES ARE, if you get a book deal, she's gonna ask you for another cookie.
   

(Wait. Not that last sentence. Scratch that last sentence.)

So if you've read for a while, you know that one night a few months back, I completely lost my mind and sent out query emails to a few agents in the middle of the night. Even though, uh, I hadn’t exactly written a manuscript. And by that I mean I’d written four pages.) But they were GOOD pages.)

I did not expect to get an answer, especially from a national agent who pretty much specialized in the kind of stuff I imagined I wrote. (I mean, I had no actual proof, but I was guessing - if I wrote something, it would be RIGHT UP HER ALLEY.)

But a few days later I did get a response, and she wanted to see a partial. So I got all blithery dithery and pounded out a partial, sent it to my critique partners (who told me exactly what I needed to fix), then sent it off to her after making my changes.

Now this agent said it would take her a couple of months to read the partial, and not to expect to hear from her before that time. So I planned to use the two months to finish the manuscript.

And I started. I did. I started to finish it. But when I didn’t hear from her for a few weeks, I started to have doubts. Because really, would it HONESTLY take her two months? Just because she'd said it would? Of course not. That was probably just her way of letting the bad writers down easily.

Obviously, the only reason she hadn't responded within the first two weeks was that she'd read it and decided it was the most horrible dreck that ever drecked. I re-read the partial approximately eighty times, and by the eighty-first read I was ready to stomp on it, burn it, curse it for the horror it was. There was no way she would like it, why bother finishing it, why bother even LIVING, blah blah dramatic blah.

So I stopped working on it.

And of course, a week or so ago she sent me an email. She really liked my partial and wants to read the full.

Gulp.

So now I'm working on the full, hoping that she'll still want to read it when I'm done. I figure – hey – what’s a little two month lapse, right? Right? RIGHT?

And so I sit here late at night after the kids are in bed and I’m done with my work, trying to write something funny and fluffy and my mind is a total blank. All I can think about is popsicles.

I’ve always wanted to be a real live published writer, and now that I have something close to an opportunity I’m completely frozen. It’s like those dreams you have where you’re back in high school and there’s this really important test you need to study for, and then suddenly you’re in the classroom and the test is right in front of you but you didn’t study, and also you’re naked.

My writer friends are all hating me right now, thinking "CHEATERS NEVER PROSPER," and "THIS IS KARMA" and such. And yes. Yes. THIS, THIS is why you don’t try to cheat the system, my friends.

WHY DO I DO THESE THINGS? WHY? WHY? WHY?

See, this is what being impulsive gets you. (Besides married. And owning a boat.) LET THIS BE A LESSON TO YOU.



PS: No – that isn’t my news. The news – I’m still percolating on that, but it’s nothing very exciting. I'll probably tell you about it later. I was just feeling a tad dramatic that day. (I like to be melodramatic, have you ever noticed? You probably haven't noticed. I'm subtle.)

Highway Freaking Robbery

Pin It (Post Disclaimer: I've been in a funky mood for the last couple of weeks, a mood caused by news that's completely thrown me. Like picked-me-up-and-slammed-me-against-the-far-wall kind of thrown me. I'm not ready to talk about it, but just know that I'm a little off. A little discombobulated. A little brittle. But I should be back to my regular self any day now. Probably.)

I hate Valentines Day. (CHEERFUL!)

Not because the romance is gone, but because it's this one day where it feels like you have to "PROVE IT! PROVE IT NOW! MEASURE YOUR LOVE! IN CHOCOLATE!" And then after Valentines Day, everyone posts about the darling things they did for their kids, or the darling table they set, or the darling gift their significant other got them, and then I end up chasing my eyeballs around the kitchen floor after I roll them so hard they freaking spin right out of their sockets.

Today we performed our annual St. Valentines Day Why-Don't-We-Just-Go-Ahead-And-Set-the-Money-On-Fire-a-thon, buying Valentines for all three children to give to their classmates, along with candy and Valentine plates and cups and drinks and napkins for the class parties. Of course, attempting to find anything red or pink ("Dear Sarah's Mom: The plates and cups must be red. Or pink. Sincerely: Sarah's Sadistic Teacher") at this late date was an exercise in complete futility which required visiting three separate stores, and after all of that I STILL forgot the parmesan cheese.

(For dinner, not for the class party.)

(Tell me about how fun class Valentines Day parties are and I will come over there and rip out your gizzard.)

Class party fury aside, I do try to make Valentines Day fun for the kids. Last year, in a fit of guilt over our impending move, I did all kinds of Type A Valentines Day Motherish things - even attempting pink heart-shaped pancakes (FAIL). This year I will probably... I don't know.... Do... something. (That is my big plan as of 11:00 tonight.)

My husband and I usually go to dinner, and that's what we're doing again this year, but on Friday instead of Saturday because 1) who cares? (romantic) and 2) finding a babysitter in our neighborhood on Valentines Day is impossible.

There are at least fifty-seven families with young children within a three block radius of our house. Babysitters are booked up for seven months in advance and when you do manage to win the babysitting lottery and secure one you have to pay them in Cool Ranch Doritos and freaking GOLD. Bidding wars break out for the good ones until only the babysitting dregs are left and you end up making incredibly desperate choices. "Well yes, I know Margene almost electrocuted Carter last time, but really, what are the odds it would happen twice? Pretty small, right?"

Here's the thing that annoys me about babysitters. My kids are good kids. I'm not just saying that. We won the good kid lottery. They're easy, they get along, they play well together, they do what they're told - and they're even easier with babysitters than with their mom. We usually have them in bed by 7:00, and the sitter typically comes at 7:30. So basically we pay some teenager $7 an hour to sit on our couch and watch TV and eat our food and make sure the house doesn't burn down. It really chaps my hide. A LOT. MAN. SEVEN BUCKS.

When I was a babysitter I did the dishes and cleaned the counters and mopped the floor and organized their 8-track collection, all for $1 an hour. BUT THESE KIDS TODAY. THESE LAZY KIDS TODAY.

MAN. !!!

(Actually, I'm not sure if I'm legitimately upset by this or if this is just a continuation of my MYSTERIOUS ITEM induced bad mood. Maybe I'm doomed to be irrationally irritated for a little while.)

(I apologize in advance if I end up posting tomorrow about how it really ticks me off when the sun is out, and also it ticks me off when the sun is behind the clouds, and also how inconvenient is it that it gets so freaking DARK at night?!)

(Any of these things might set me off. AT ANY MOMENT.)

Happy freaking Valentines Day.

It's ALIVE! It's ALIVE!

Pin It If you've pictured me lying around on the couch this week, sick and feverish and pale, you would be wrong.

I'm actually lying on the floor, sick and feverish and pale. Come on. Nobody's gonna believe you're sick if you're sitting up on the couch like a pansy. Get with the overly dramatic program.

I think I'm starting to be mostly over whatever this is/was. I can tell because instead of moaning and covering my face when my husband turns the TV on, I actually feel the urge to watch it now. Granted, it's through the cracks between my fingers on the hand that is lying across my eyes, so that he will understand I'm not really better yet, not by a long-shot, and as a matter of fact, watching television is taxing enough that it is actually a trial and a sacrifice, but I do it for him, because I'm a giver.

Actually, this is just what I wish happened. In reality, we have jobs and children. Sucking it up is kind of required. Lying around like a drama queen is not exactly on the itinerary.

Except at night when my husband is home and I can harumph about how I can barely move because I had to take the kids to school and to piano and get my work done and make dinner (pouring cereal is exhausting), all whilst practically dying of Dengue fever. So it's sort of on the itinerary. It's actually blocked out right there from 7:30 to 8:15 actually. It's my husband's favorite part of the day.

I did trick the kids into waiting on me the other day, telling them we were going to play "a game" called "the rich sick lady and the orphan servants" and they were to bring me pillows and drinks and snacks and generally see to my every need. I'd ring the bell and they'd come running over to the couch to do my bidding, then creep around quietly afterward, lest the "mean rich lady" punish them for making too much noise. I would periodically yell at them "NOT ENOUGH ICE IN THIS DRINK" and send them to the dungeon (basement), and they would run screaming and giggling for the stairs.

They LOVED this game.

Yeah. We plan to play it again. Obviously.

Lighthearted indentured servitude = good family times.

Noble Cow Sentinel, Bravely Watching Over Us All

Pin It The big news around here apparently has nothing to do with the NieNie book. It's the cow header. I've gotten at least fifteen emails about it, all, "SUE. WE MUST TALK ABOUT THE COW."

Poor cow. She's just doing her job, guarding the top of the blog for a couple of days while I fix up the old blogstead. (I'm working with a blog designer now, you know. I'm FANCY.)

But I do not want to talk about the cow. I want to talk about myself. (SURPRISING)

Tonight I was watching my DVRd Top Chef. I really shouldn't be allowed to watch that show, because it makes me think I can cook. I get all inspired to step away from the pasta - to shake things up a little and try something new.

Yeah. This is never a good idea.

(I occasionally get out my Betty Crocker red plaid cookbook and try to find an interesting new recipe, but half of them use words I don't understand like "seed" and "cumin" and "poach." Which all sound vaguely pornographic, if you ask me. Bow- chika-bow-wow.)

Anyway, I pulled out the cookbook and found something it said would take only 35 minutes to bake. Unfortunately, I interpreted this as - it would only take 35 minutes to MAKE. Basically it was a casserole with chicken and noodles and sauce and bread crumbs and assorted things. (Yes, it WAS as gross as it sounds, thank you for asking.)

It took more than 35 minutes. Much more. It probably would've taken less time if I would've just stopped and read the recipe and thought about it for three consecutive seconds.

Instead I ran around like a frightened monkey, "Boil a chicken! Boil a chicken!" I had no idea how long I should boil a chicken for, so I fried it instead. Then I made the sauce. Then I realized I was supposed to cook the noodles first so I put the sauce away and made the noodles. Then I took the sauce back out and finished making it. Then I realized I had the wrong kind of bread crumbs. Then, then, then, then.

By the time it was finished, my children were committing acts of violence against the refrigerator. (They don't really like it when I cook.)

I have a blogging friend who says it frustrates her when people say they can't cook, because really, how hard is it to just FOLLOW THE DIRECTIONS?!

I'm here to say it's VERY VERY HARD.

THE END.

Something Cleverish

Pin It When I heard about Stephanie Nielson's plane crash, I wanted to help raise funds, but couldn't quite figure out how to go about it. (Just reading CJane's blog and repeatedly freaking out over the horror of the accident turned out to be a surprisingly ineffective fundraising strategy.)

Lots of other bloggers were auctioning off things they'd cooked/sewn/drawn in order to help raise money, but I'm what you might call domestically challenged, so that was out. I thought about selling off one of my kids to aid the cause, but the Husband put a stop to it. (What, we couldn't part with ONE of them? Selfish.)

But laughing at funny stuff other bloggers wrote? THAT was something I could do, and thus the idea of putting together a book of amusing blog posts was born. We held a little contest asking bloggers to submit their funniest posts, and the response was overwhelming. (Seriously. I'd look at that contest email every day and then have to go lie down for a while, visions of editing for nine thousand years running through my brain. There are a LOT of funny people out there.)

The Something Cleverish book features posts from forty-three funny bloggers - all for one great cause. We even managed to rope in a few celebrity submissions from Finslippy, Eric D. Snider, Rocks in My Dryer, Big Mama, Sweetney, Daring Young Mom, TAMN and more. (You can find a list of all of the bloggers included in the book here.)

All proceeds go directly to the NieNie Recovery fund. I know some people may be starting to get a little weary of hearing about this, but the medical bills they have and will continue to have are absolutely overwhelming. This is still a family very much in need. If you've been wondering what to buy people for Martin Luther King Jr. Day, or Groundhog Day, or Valentines Day - WONDER NO MORE. You can purchase a paperback or buy a downloadable copy here.

Please buy a copy (or two) (or three) (or heck - seven) and please spread the word, by posting about it or putting the Something Cleverish Blog Book button on your blog. (Cover art and book button created and generously donated by Melissa Bastow of MissyB Designs. Thanks Melissa!)

GRAB THIS BUTTON:
<a href="http://borrowedlight.blogspot.com/2009/01/something-cleverish.html"><img border="0" src="http://i551.photobucket.com/albums/ii461/suelikestoblog/blogbookforniebutton.jpg" /></a>

They Should Make a Fisher Price Version

Pin It My husband got me an iPhone for Christmas.

It was all a little Gift of the Magi, because I was actually trying to figure out how I could get him an iPhone for Christmas, but I didn't see how it would be possible, since we had this little thing I like to call a "budget" for our presents, due to a stupid thing I like to call a "mortgage." (I also call our house a "house" and our car a "car"- in case you were wondering.) (Ahem.)

So I cut off my hair and sold it and used the money to buy him an iPhone.


O.k., FINE, I didn't do that. I got him a gift certificate to Target instead. (That just doesn't quite have the same ring to it, somehow.)

The iPhone cost significantly more than what we'd agreed we could spend, but he secretly got me one anyway. We'd both gone without Christmas and birthday presents for a few years in a row, and he wanted me to be really surprised.

Now let me tell you something. When I opened the package, I was so excited. It was shiny. It was cool. I mean, I could check my email at the grocery store. At the bank. At CHURCH.

Best toy ever.

But.

But.

But.

I've somehow managed to divest myself of SIX cell phones in the last two years - all within the first three months I had them. I ran over one with the car, washed one in the laundry, dropped one in the bathtub and misplaced three. I've never been able to keep a cell phone for longer than three months. I could totally see the iPhone in about a month, cracked under the wheels of the car, or beeping forlornly from inside a Big Gulp cup where I'd set it down whilst thinking about cupcakes (YUM).

So I gave it back to him.

He refused it. I insisted. He refused it some more. I insisted some more.

I finally said, "You know what's going to happen to it if I keep it."

He looked at me, he looked at the shiny new iPhone and he said, "I've actually been having nightmares about it."

I said, "It's for the best."

And I turned it over to him, weeping.

OK, not weeping. More like snickering and punching him a few times, all, "Way to buy yourself a Christmas present honey," and then we had to go the rounds of "You keep it," "No, YOU keep it," a few more times before he would really believe that I wanted him to take it.

Alright, so maybe it's not exactly like the Gift of the Magi. But there were presents. And it was Christmas. So, almost exactly the same. And it was very touching in an "aw, look, he went against the laws of logic and his better judgment and bought me something expensive he already knows I will destroy" kind of way. At least at Target I can buy stuff that I will lose over time. Kind of spread out the gift destruction and collateral damage.

Goodbye little iPhone. It was a nice idea, but we all know I would've murdered/scratched/lost/broken/disapparated you within the first three weeks.

You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Sneer

Pin It The other day a friend called to apologize for offending me. It was really nice of her to worry. I was kind of touched that she cared. The only problem was that I had NO IDEA what she was talking about. None.

She was sure I was just being polite, and reminded me about a minor comment she'd made the night before - a comment I'd thought was mildly amusing, and not offensive in the least.

Unfortunately, I guess the look on my face after she said it was something akin to: "You have offended me, and now we are mortal enemies, and if I find a knife, I will plunge it into your heart at the earliest possible opportunity."

I explained as best I could that I honestly wasn't offended - it was just my face, getting me in trouble again. My stupid freaking face.

See, I was cursed with a natural frown. (Actually my dentist calls it an Elvis pout, because my mouth actually turns down a little more in one corner than the other, so I really don't just have a natural frown, I have a natural sneer. (BONUS.))

When I'm relaxed, or when I'm listening to someone talk, or even just watching TV, my face settles into a frown. For as long as I can remember, people have been coming up to me and telling me to smile, or asking me what was wrong, or encouraging me to lighten up - even though I was just sitting there thinking about dandelion fuzz, feeling mellow and dreamy.

Unfortunately, when you go around lost in your thoughts a lot of the time, and your natural expression is a frown, it MIGHT sort of look like you are constantly glowering at people. You MIGHT start to get a rep for being a critical, negative person. EVEN IF YOU AREN'T. It doesn't matter if you are or aren't. You LOOK like you are, and therefore, you ARE.

I can be at a party, and I'll say, "This is a great party," and I'll mean it. But if I've forgotten about my stupid sneer when I say it, people think I'm being sarcastic and wenchy.

Some of you are probably thinking, "Then, um, why don't you just SMILE more, you moron?!" But I try! Whenever I think about it, I smile. But I can't go around thinking about my face all the time. Because who does that? ("Am I smiling now? Now? Now? How about now?" Then I'd be even more nuts.)

The other day after my friend called me, I went into the bathroom to see how bad it had gotten. I stood in front of the mirror, trying on facial expressions.

• I made my mellow, totally relaxed daydreaming face. I looked grim.
• I made my "that's pretty funny, not funny enough to laugh, but you know I think that's pretty hilarious anyway" face. I looked like I was smirking.
• I made my "I'm listening in a sincere way and trying to relate to what you are saying" face. I looked condescending and rude. The girls at book club must hate me, because that is my face. THAT IS MY FACE. CRAP.

But I CANNOT HELP IT. Just as my father before me could not help it. It's genetic. My friends and family know this about me. They know I'm not as serious as I look (I hope), and they (hopefully) look past it and like me anyway. But I wonder about all of the people who don't know it's a facial anomaly - who make assumptions about who I am based on what they see.

When I was about twenty, I went out on the lake with a bunch of my friends. I was happy and relaxed, but not particularly talkative. (There were new cute boys on board, and I was feeling bashful.) At the end of the day, two of my friends completely exploded on me, saying I'd been negative and hostile all day. Because I'd been quiet and frowny. The fundamental unfairness of the comment still eats at me sometimes. Because I was happy that day. I was so happy to be there - almost overflowing with quietly affectionate feelings for my friends. But they thought I looked stuck-up and rude, and they sat there all day resenting me for my imaginary attitude.

A while back I heard that if you get enough Botox, it'll freeze your face into an unnatural smile. An unnatural smile! What more could I ask for? I'm saving my pennies, and I figure by late 2011, I'll be able to afford the first round of shots. In the interim, I'm thinking I'll just staple a post-it to my head, one that says, "This is my mellow face. I realize it looks like I'm sneering, but I'm really not. It's just my STUPID. FACE."

And if you run into me on the street, or at the store, or in the library? Just remember - I might LOOK angry, but I'm not, I swear. I like you. I like almost everyone. I just LOOK like I want to kill you.

The List

Pin It The bloggers who made it into the blogger book to benefit NieNie are shown below. Congratulations guys! I really want to thank everyone for submitting. There were hundreds of entries, and it was impossible to respond individually, but I loved reading the posts. Please don't feel badly if your entry wasn't picked. There were a lot of really great, funny posts that we couldn't include for space or theme reasons. (The higher the page count, the higher the publishing cost.)

The title I chose was Something Cleverish. It just felt right. Probably because I'm the one who said it. (HA! HAHAHAHA! Kidding. Sort of.) It was Green Jello's idea to use it, so - Green Jello? Here's your first link of the week. Everyone go visit her!

Here are the bloggers who are in the book:

Abby, Delusions of Grandeur
Adhis B., A Little Bit Adhis, A Little Bit A-That
Alice Bradley, Finslippy
Amy Lawson, The Lawsons Do Dallas
Annie, Regarding Annie
B., I Gotta B
Barb Cooper, So The Thing Is
Bev, Firelight Academy
Dalene, Compulsive Writer
Carina, The Jet Set
Crash Test Dummy, Crash Test Dummy Diaries
Emily Foley, Something
Eric D. Snider, Eric D. Snider
Erica England, Paper Buttons
Heidi, Hadleyesque
Heidi Ashworth, Dunhaven Place
J., Formerly Phread
Jami, Superfluous Miscellany
Jennie W., Beehive And Birds’ Nest
Jill, Thou Shalt Not Whine
Kate Hood, The Big Piece Of Cake
Kathryn, Daring Young Mom
Kristy Steele, Rabbit in the Headlights
LisaJane, She Talks
Marci Heugly, Heugly News
Mary, Becoming Mary Poppins
ME, Navel Gazing At Its Finest
Melanie, Big Mama
Nemesis, Voice Of Reason
Pam McEwen, McEwens
Randi, Is It Just Me?
Shannon, Rocks In My Dryer
Shellie Kendrick, Seriously Shellie
Sheriece Morris, More Morris Madness
Stacey, Tree, Root and Twig
Stephanie Walker, Laughing At Life’s Little Wedgies
Stephanie, Diapers And Divinity
TAMN, Seriously So Blessed
Tamra, It All Started With A Kiss
Topher Clark, The Jolly Porter
Tracey Gaughran-Perez, Sweetney
Wendy, Nothing Clever Comes To Mind
Whitney Ingram, Rookie-Cookie

If you were selected, PLEASE don't tell your readers which post you submitted, if at all possible. We want them to have to BUY THE BOOK in order to find out - so that we can make as much money for the family as possible.

I want to thank my blogger friends for helping me to push through the last batch of posts, and for helping me make selections. I want to thank the non-contest folks too - the bloggers I emailed begging for a post, because I knew they were funny and their star power would help us to sell more books and raise more money for the family.

And thanks to my husband, who I've been neglecting for the last two weeks solid, typing up a storm every night after the kids were in bed, barely acknowledging his presence. Love ya hon. Thanks for putting up with all of this stuff - the blogger book, the MSHR manuscript, and all of my related stressing. You're a rock.

I'm waiting on book proofs, and need to coordinate with the family on a few things, and then this thing'll finally be a go. Stay tuned - and warm up your debit cards.

Grateful

Pin It My house is a wreck. As of this morning, I have 162 emails to answer. (If yours is one of them, I'm really sorry.) I worked 14 hours yesterday, trying to get caught up with work that piled up during our vacation. The NieNie project languishes on my laptop, making me feel like a huge jerk (although a few awesome blog friends are going to help me get it finished). I have a birthday party to plan, a skit to write for the church Christmas party, and oh, right, Christmas shopping. Not to mention that whole chick lit manuscript thingie. (Let's not mention it, shall we?)

It's all worth it though, because our vacation was really wonderful.

We spent Thanksgiving in Las Vegas visiting our families. We had Thanksgiving with his family on Thursday, and with my family on Friday - two days of pretty much non-stop eating and laughing. (Actually it was more like six days of non-stop eating. I think I gained ten pounds on the trip, no lie.)

On Saturday we packed up and headed to Los Angeles, and on Sunday we went to the beach and the Santa Monica pier. Even at the end of November it was warm enough to play in the waves.



On Monday, Marste (who works for Disney) met us at Disneyland. She spent an hour-and-a-half (at least) driving through a horrible CA traffic jam in order to meet us at the gate and let us in for free. I still can't believe she was willing to do that for us. I didn't know what to say, how to tell her how much I appreciated it and how touched I was, so I just kept compulsively hugging her, which I hope she didn't think was odd, since we were basically strangers. (But not anymore.)

We had the best time at Disneyland. The minute we got through the gates we hopped on the train and headed over to the Princess pavilion to let the kids dance with the Princesses (that's Sarah right there in front, practicing her curtsy for Cinderella).



We rode every ride imaginable. I highly recommend going on the Monday right after Thanksgiving. We've done it twice now, and both times there were almost no lines. We walked on to almost every ride.

In the early afternoon, we were all sitting near a candy shop on Main Street getting a sugar fix when Alice in Wonderland appeared, ready for a game of musical chairs.



A crowd gathered, and all of the kids who were playing were suddenly the stars of their very own show. Each time someone lost their chair, Alice made them get up on stage and tell a joke to the crowd. Luckily, Sarah and Abby have scores of knock knock jokes memorized, so they nailed it, the little hams.


I have to say - this gal wasn't just playing Alice, she WAS Alice. I think we are all a little bit convinced now that Alice does exist, and she lives at Disneyland. Which is just as it should be.



That night we watched the Christmas parade. I'm not big on parades - but parades you watch with your kids, that feature Santa, Mickey and the Princesses? Pretty awesome. We got to the parade route late, my fault - I kept insisting that we had time to go on one more ride, and my husband kept insisting we needed to find a spot or we'd end up watching the back of everyone's head instead of the parade. He was right. We ended up standing behind a bunch of extraordinarily tall senior citizens.

Luckily, one of the women noticed my daughters (my son was on his dad's shoulders), and asked if they wanted to stand in front of her, right on the curb. Thank goodness for grandparents. (Although honestly, I think she enjoyed watching my girls enjoy the parade as much as she enjoyed the actual parade. They were so excited.)



The whole day was magic, from the minute we stepped through the gate until the fireworks at the end. It's good to be home, but it was very good to go. I'm so glad we did.

I Would Just Twitter This If I Actually Used Twitter

Pin It What I Am Doing Right Now: Sitting in my car in the parking lot of an AT&T store in Las Vegas where there is free wireless, using the internet and despairing over the pages I need to submit to the agent by Monday, wondering why I ever thought I was anything other than a total hack.

A friend once told me that when she reads my blog she gets a mental picture of me running around like a chicken with my head cut-off, all scattered and ditzy, getting into trouble just like Cathy the cartoon character, all "ACK" and "ARG" and "BLECK" and all I can say to that is yeah, pretty much.

Super Hopeful

Pin It One thing I've learned about myself over the last few months is that I'm not bad at handling Big Problems.

Big Problems, like the bankruptcy, or losing the house, are not as hard as you might think to get through - all you have to do is just try to gracefully survive. Problem - Solution - The End. Triumph over short-term adversity and hopefully come out the other side a better, stronger person. Easy-peasy.

The reality of the daily grind of life is much harder for me to handle, because it just never ends.

If you've read my blog for very long at all, you know we worked things out with the bank and moved back into our house. We were so happy to be able to move back to the neighborhood we love, and the friends we adore. It was like a fairy tale.

The reality is less rose colored though. Don't get me wrong - we're so thankful we were able to keep the house, but the mortgage is incredibly high and it will always be an anchor around our necks. It was a sacrifice we were willing to make in order to move back, but it means that I have to work - a lot. Yes, it's from home, and yes it's doing something I enjoy - but doing anything for five hours a day and six to eight hours every night after your kids are in bed will get old pretty fast.

I've been feeling really grumpy and tired and overwhelmed lately - realizing it isn't going to end. For the next thirty years, I will always be pushing this rock up the hill. I try to stay positive and be happy (great husband, wonderful kids, at least you have your health, blah blah blah) but on a lot of nights, I just want to throw a tantrum because I'm so tired of pushing the stupid rock.

Tonight I was sitting on the couch with my husband, telling him I just didn't think I could do it anymore - something had to give. It was time to stop blogging, time to stop trying to write - time to give up everything but the things that were absolutely necessary to our survival.

I kid you not, I had my laptop on my lap, and I'd just tearfully said, "I don't think I can do this anymore," when I noticed I had a new email. I stared at it for a minute and burst into tears.

It was from an agent - a bona fide big-time literary agent. She read my crazy middle-of-the-night query email and wants to see a partial manuscript.

I can't believe it.

Who knows what will happen. Probably nothing. She'll probably read my partial manuscript and pass. That's what agents do - they reject stuff. So it's way too early to get excited.

Still. Hearing about it? Right now? Tonight?

It's something. It's really something.

You know what it is?

It's hope.

Worry-wart

Pin It

Kevin, Holly, Me, Mom

One day when I was about six, my four year old brother Kevin disappeared.

I'm not sure how long he'd been gone when we noticed, but I remember the panic I felt as we tore around the house and yard looking for him - a pit in the bottom of my stomach and a creepy crawly feeling on the back of my neck. It's funny how vividly feelings can stay with you.

Sure he was just hiding, I looked all over the place, carefully checking drawers and cupboards that were far too small for him to fit into - even checking in the silverware drawer, because you just never knew. He was tricky that way.

My mother was doing that thing where you are trying really hard to remain calm, but your anxiety manifests itself in the urgency with which you perform every action - almost slammed doors, clipped words, choppy movements.

In the backyard I yelled out, "STOP HIDING. Come out RIGHT NOW. You are in SO MUCH TROUBLE." And then I burst into tears, because where on earth was he?

We eventually found him around the corner, calmly sitting on a stranger's front lawn, watching with interest as construction workers across the street framed houses. He didn't understand all of the commotion - clearly he'd been right there the entire time. Why would anyone be worried?

I remember giving him a big relieved hug, even as he was struggling away from me. I was very upset by his laissez-faire attitude about the whole thing, and scolded him repeatedly on the way home. "I'm glad you're o.k., but don't you ever do that again, you naughty boy." He made a face at me, because I wasn't his mother, after all.

I don't think I let him out of my sight for days afterward.

When my older sister was fifteen, she ran away. I was in the bathroom getting ready for an early class at school, and when I came out, our bedroom window was open and she was nowhere to be found.

I remember wandering around the house, puzzled, looking outside, looking in the bathroom again, checking our room and our tiny closet. After about thirty minutes, I woke up my parents, who exchanged panicked expressions and sprang into the same quiet, tense, anxious activity I remembered so well.

Over the next few weeks, I repeatedly fought the urge to check silverware drawers and the tiny cupboard under the blue hutch. I remember posting flyers and fighting the urge to yell, "STOP HIDING. Come out RIGHT NOW. You are in SO MUCH TROUBLE." And then crying every night as I went to sleep in the room we were supposed to be sharing, because where on earth was she?

After she came back home for good, I had a hard time letting it go. I know in the after school specials they have that one big discussion about it, and then everyone is happily-ever-after o.k. with everything, but that wasn't what happened. I kept bringing it up, over and over again - "Yeah, well you ran away! For three weeks!" - hitting her over the head with it whenever we had the slightest argument. It seemed much easier to continually scold her for leaving than to tell her - I was so scared. I'm so glad you're back. Please don't leave again.

I wonder if she realized that my obnoxious, self-centered, judgmental behavior was actually poorly expressed worry, fear and love for a sister who I idolized in spite of all of our differences.

These days, when my children do something dangerous or especially foolish, I find myself needing to fight the urge to overreact. I may be absent minded and oblivious in the middle of the day-to-day stuff, but let them do something even slightly risky and it's an entirely different story. The caution signs in my brain start blinking and I let fear and anger completely run the show.

"GET DOWN RIGHT NOW! YOU COULD LOSE AN EYEBALL LIKE THAT! GET DOWN! I SAID NOW!!!!!"

- paired with the always handy -

"whatwereyoudoinguptheredon'tyouknowthatsdangerousdon'teverdoitagain"
"younearlygavemeaheartattacknowgetinyourroomanddon'tcomeouttillIsay."

Faced with anything scary, I totally freak. Unfortunately, any lesson I'd meant to teach about the danger of their behavior is lost, obscured by the dramatic delivery of my message. After all, watching mom's head spin around is way more interesting than thinking about what they've done wrong. A day later, they don't remember that time they almost lost an eyeball - they just remember that mom completely lost it.

I sometimes flash forward a decade, to a time when I'll have a 14 year old, 16 year old and 17 year old. It scares me. Not just the idea of being around so many teenagers (who terrify me on principle), but the idea that I might get stuck in continual worry-wart scolding mode, and that we won't ever be able to talk about anything important because they know mom will totally freak.

I can already see a future version of myself, stuck on repeat, worrying them into silence, and somehow I don't think the fact that I was born this way will be much of a consolation to any of us as they stalk sullenly out of the room.

ACK.

I'm Raising My Kids Amish

Pin It For the most part, I'm not a strict mom. I tend to be pretty lackadaisical about discipline. I'll send them to their rooms for a punishment sometimes, but then I forget I've done it. They usually come out after a few minutes and tell me "I'm ready to be good now," and I nod and smile and try to remember what on earth they are talking about. (I tried using a timer, so that when it rang I would have to remember - oh yes, Abby is sitting on her bed. But mostly it would just ring and then I'd stare at it for a while, completely flummoxed about why I'd set it in the first place.)

Luckily they're pretty well behaved kids, other than being somewhat slow to listen and a little distractable. (My husband is very quick to point out that I don't get to complain about that, because it's totally genetic). Sarah's last report card said she was "a joy to teach," but needed to stop humming during class. That pretty much says it all.

Despite my somewhat absent-minded parenting, we've managed to mostly dodge the naughty children bullet. I mean, they're normal kids - they fight and get irritable and have periodic meltdowns - but it's mostly just normal stuff. (Although when my kids are tired - hooooo boy. The tears! The drama! The inexplicable rage!)

(Man. I wonder where they get it from! Ha. Ha ha ha!)

(Awkward silence.)

There ARE some things I'm completely a mean mom about though.

I only let them watch a half-hour of TV a day, and only on the channels I pick. My husband and I only watch TV after they're in bed, so for a long time they had no idea what commercials were. When my husband finally convinced me to unclench a little and let them watch something on Nickelodeon (Commercials! SpongeBob! The path to irreversible brain meltage!), Abby would cry whenever there was a commercial break. "They're stopping the show AGAIN mom! I don't like this show about Moon Sand."

Of course, this means they're complete suckers - they believe everything they hear on commercials. Abby and Sarah are constantly copying down toll free numbers for toys they see on TV, and then reminding me to hurry so we can qualify for free shipping. "We're not buying that." "But it's just three easy payments Mom!"

It also means that they have no idea how to use the remote. To them it's a magical stick that unleashes the power of the TV, but ONLY FOR MOM. Sarah's tried to figure it out a few times on the sly, but she never gets anywhere because she doesn't know the secret - you have to press the satellite button first or you're totally hosed.

In the car we mostly listen to the IPOD. When I lost it for a few weeks we had to listen to the radio. They had no idea what was going on. They'd hear a song and ask me to play it again.

Me: "I can't, it's the radio."
Abby: "Put on Nobody's Perfect!"
Me: "I can't. We just have to listen to whatever is on."
Them: (generally perplexed expressions)

I gave them a rambling and perhaps somewhat technically inaccurate explanation about the concept of radio - there's a guy sitting in a room somewhere who chooses what we get to listen to, then sends magic space waves out through the air until the song eventually arrives in our car - but all that did was freak them out a little.

We don't have video games either - I'm not morally opposed or anything, I just figure we have enough ways to waste time already. When Sarah went over to a friend's house a few months ago, the friend didn't understand how this could possibly be true. You would've thought she'd said she was an orphan. The friend bought her a Webkinz for her birthday with a note that said, "I hope your parents will let you use this. Tell them to call my mom and she will talk to them." (Because those Amish, they don't like Webkinz.)

I'm never going to win any awards for parenting - I'm a terrible cook, a very marginal housekeeper, and I get entirely too distracted.

Sarah: "Mom. Listen to me."
Me, staring off into space thinking about ponies: "Yeah."
Sarah: "Do I have to practice the piano? Or can I go play?"
Me: "Sure honey."
Me (two minutes later, noticing she's outside): "Hey - what are you doing? Get in here and practice the piano."
Sarah: "ARRRRRGHHHH!!!!"

So it's nice to feel like there is SOMETHING I'm doing rightish, even though I fully recognize there is nothing particularly magical about the half-hour limit we've set. Back when I had a 3 year old, 2 year old and an infant, PBS Kids was on constantly, and nobody was scarred for life, not even a little bit.

Anyway, I'm curious about what your TV/video game rules are? Where do you draw your lines?

How To Be Stupid

Pin It Usually when you're ready to start looking for an agent, you typically:

a) have a completed manuscript that has been edited and critiqued,
b) have worked hard to produce a well written and engaging query letter, and
c) have identified specific agents who would be a good fit for your work.

But - me, I'm a rebel. Here is the process I suggest:

• Write a query letter at 2:30 in the morning, when you are sleep deprived and punchy. This letter will seem HILARIOUS at 2:30 in the morning when you are taking a break from writing technical documents, but not quite so hilarious in the cold light of day.
• Email your hastily written query letter to a few of the top literary agents in the industry before you really think it over. Because hey - why not? What's the big deal? It's JUST YOUR FUTURE.
  
• If you haven't actually finished your manuscript, that just makes the whole thing more exciting. Basically you want to set it up so that the best you could possibly hope for is a rejection.

I don't know. Sometimes I think I must have a brain tumor.

Crocodile Tears

Pin It

A few nights ago my husband and I had a bit of a spat - one that was mostly my fault. He left and I stomped around the house muttering to myself for a while. I threw myself down on the couch and started flipping channels and eventually stumbled onto Titanic - the part right after they've hit the iceberg and it's all starting to hit the fan.

I'm not a huge fan of Titanic - I mostly just like the excitement of the ship sinking and the ensuing fight for survival, but near the end I always get misty (when that mother is reading to her children inside the sinking ship it kills me every time).

By the time my husband wandered back in an hour later Jack was already frozen. We did that thing married people do after a fight where you sort of glance at the other person to see if they are looking at you, and to see if they look sorry, or mad, or neutral.

He looked like he was tired of arguing, so I choked out an "I'm sorry," through my tears. The tears sealed it, and he came over and sat down next to me and gave me a big hug. I hugged him back and sniffled a little.

We sat there for a minute and I watched as old lady Rose tossed her diamond into the sea. (So dumb - give it to a charity or something Rose. Sheesh.) My husband looked at me, then back at the TV suspiciously.

"Wait a minute. Did you apologize because you were sorry or because Jack just died and you needed a hug?"

DANG it. He knows me all too well.

PS: Work allowing, I'll be announcing the entries that will be included in the NieNie book at the end of the week.
PPS: Please check out my friend Annie's latest project: Project Twilight

LOVE...... EXCITING AND NEW......

Pin It My husband keeps telling me that I should write about my own hopeless crush, but the sheer volume of crushes I talked myself into makes that almost impossible. I think I had a crush on someone every year of my life, almost always with semi-tragic results - a tradition that kicked off with Michael in the fifth grade.

I was such a boy crazy freak. I don't know where it came from. Maybe too much Love Boat. (Disturbing fact: back in the day I thought Gopher was "so fine." GOPHER.) (shudder)

When I was twenty I fell madly in love with one of my best friends and spent the next year covertly trying to make him fall in love with me. When that didn't work, I wrote him a long passionate letter explaining how I felt. He wrote me back - a very sweet note, saying that he loved me as a friend, but gently letting me know that it was not happening - now or ever. I read it, cried over it, then decided the note obviously contained hidden meaning. Instead of it meaning that he was not in love with me, which is what it said, it actually could be interpreted to mean that he was TOTALLY in love with me and if I waited around long enough, ALL OF MY DREAMS WOULD COME TRUE. It was all in how you looked at it, really.

I decided that what I really needed to do was step it up to the next level (the level of being completely insane). I repeatedly demanded that he participate in long conversations all about why he couldn't just go ahead and fall in love with me because DUH, it was SUCH A GREAT IDEA. I was pretty sure I could eventually convince him to fall in love with me if I was persistent enough.

Me: But we're so perfect for each other.
Him: I like you a lot, but I don't like you in that way. Please, please stop it.
Me: OK. I get it. I do.
Me: But probably I should ask you again next week, right?
Him: (jams pencil into his brain)

One late night I went to the home of the bishop of my YSA ward (translation: leader of a church congregation for young single people). When he opened his front door I was standing there crying my eyes out. He invited me in, obviously thinking there had either been a) a murder or b) some kind of spiritual crisis I urgently needed to discuss.

I told him I had a terrible, terrible problem that only he could help me with, and that I really needed to talk to him RIGHT that second. He invited me into his family room, where I told him (between sobs) that my life was over, it was OVER, because my crush didn't love me back and never would, and he was seeing someone, and how would I ever get over this, and what oh what oh what should I DO?

You should've seen the look on his face. That poor man. (Being the bishop of a singles ward must totally suck.)

I have to hand it to him - he did give the advice thing the old college try, telling me that the kind of love you have to convince someone to feel for you would never make you happy. This is probably where I should've had an epiphany and recognized the wisdom in what he said, but at the time, I just thought he was nuts. Because OF COURSE it would make me happy. It didn't matter how it happened, it just mattered that it happen.

If I'd been a Harry Potter character I totally would've been Romilda Vane, trying to make Harry mine by spiking his punch with love potion. As far as I was concerned the whole concept of free will was for suckers who weren't trying hard enough.

Man. I was nuts.

I'm Not Sure If I Wrote This or Just DREAMED I Wrote It, ONLY TIME WILL TELL

Pin It Yesterday I went to bed at 5AM and got up for the day at 7 and hallucinated aaaaaall day long.

Last week I was very frustrated with my primary tech writing client. They were having some accounting issues and my invoices weren't getting paid, and as much as I like the people who I was working with, the situation quickly escalated in my mind from 'small accounting glitch' to 'HEAVENS TO MURGATROID you people are RUINING MY LIFE, and if you don't pay me IMMEDIATELY, I will pack up my toys and go home.' And then I kicked them in the shins and ran away.

I was angry enough that I pondered taking a full-time tech writing job at another company, so I spent last Friday night at the bookstore preparing for an interview by reading about network routing and packet switching and Linux implementations and wanting to hit myself over the head with a very large frying pan.

I ended up not taking the new job, partly because it would have been an actual out-of-the-house job, which doesn't really work for me at this stage of my kid's lives, and partly because my client and I made it up over ice cream (yum, chocolate sauce) and a large boost in my hourly rate, but the boredom of those hours at the bookstore, hours of my life that I will never get back, got me thinking about dream jobs I would like to have.

PROFESSIONAL ICE SKATER:
I don't really know how to ice skate, but I just have this feeling that I would be totally awesome at it. Every time I watch the Olympics or the Nationals or whatever, I feel so sorry for the ice skaters because I know if I was an ice skater I would totally kick their trash. I can really feel the music in my soul and I think they would probably say things like, "WOW, she is so expressive and lyrical and dramatic. Look at her go!" Possibly there would be jazz hands involved.

LITERARY AGENT:
This one I think is kind of do-able. TRUE, technically I never graduated from college, and ok, FINE, I don't know anything about being an agent or about publishing in general, but it sounds like something I could totally do. How hard could it be? Quick everyone, send me your manuscripts - I will reject them just like all of those other agents, but I will do it with FLAIR. I will be like Query Shark, but not quite so grumpy.

LIFE COACH:
I would really like to be a life coach. I would teach women how to be awesome and the name of my company would be "YOU CAN BE AWESOME LIKE ME, INC." Lessons would include things like how to start a blog (people who blog are just generally more awesome than people who do not blog - this is a true fact), how to quickly eat a lot of various food products (TOTAL TIMESAVER), and how to become generally oblivious (oblivious people are WAY HAPPIER).

FROZEN YOGURT SALES CLERK:
I did this for a while back in high school and trust me when I say it was awesome. My friend Michelle and I worked at Suzie's Frozen Yogurt. I ate that place into the GROUND, I'm not even kidding. Whenever I go to Golden Spoon now, I totally scorn the people who are working there, because what do they know about making a waffle cone? In my day we had to fry our own freaking waffle cones. AMATEURS.

Oh Good Grief

Pin It I forgot to pick up my daughter from school today.

Wait, let me say that again.

I FORGOT TO PICK UP MY DAUGHTER FROM SCHOOL TODAY. MY KINDERGARTNER.

On Mondays they get out half an hour early, and I completely spaced it.

Luckily my friend Michelle saw Abby lurking around near the kindergarten playground, called me, and stayed with her 'till I got there (feeling like an IDIOT).

I thanked Michelle profusely, then started hugging Abby and apologizing to her. She really could not have cared less. She was off in her own little world, busy thinking about ponies or rainbows or something. (I was really lucky it was Abby - if it had been Sarah, she would've been on the ground sobbing in terror. "YOU FORGOT ME, YOU FORGOT ME." It probably would have been the defining moment of her childhood, something she brought up in therapy ten years later.) (I'm really, really glad it wasn't Sarah.)

I kept apologizing to Abby and she finally looked at me and said, "Mom, relax."

Well alrighty then.

Why is it that the things I'm pretty sure will traumatize them have no effect, and the things I'm pretty sure will be no big deal are completely traumatizing?

The Operations Manual I'm Writing Is Slowly Sucking The Creative Life Force Out of My Brain - Somebody Heeeeeeeeelp Meeeeeeeeeee

Pin It ACK. I'm never gonna be done with it either. ACK.

I’ve been kind of annoyed with my work lately, because the engineers I’m working with right now – they’re not all that convinced that I’m actually smart. I’m a contractor, so I work with a wide variety of clients, and this is my first time completing a large project for this particular team. I'm not in the office a lot (I mostly work from home) so they aren’t quite sure what my deal is yet. I think they all just assume I’m some kind of lumpy little team mascot.

I’ll say something like, “I’m working to complete the operations manual for the system,” and they’ll all look at me like, “Aw, how cute. She thinks she understands what our machine does.”

Or I’ll put together a diagram and they’ll be like, “Oh look – she made us a little picture! Good job Sue!” as though I’m five and I just broke out the crayolas.

To be fair, they’re all really nice guys, and the environment is professional and respectful. It’s not blatant. They don’t mean to do it. It’s just the attitude of engineers in general.

Every single place I’ve worked, the engineers tend to think they’re a lot smarter than most of the other people in the room – usually because they ARE. They’re just used to it. And they’re used to people not really understanding what they do.

But that’s my whole JOB. It’s my job to speak engineer and translate it into normal person talk. I may not be as smart as they are, but I'm still smarter than the average bear. It takes them a while to get that though.

The most gratifying part for me is usually the day after they’ve read whatever I’ve put together, when they start looking at me with something akin to respect.

(No, that's a lie. The most gratifying part is totally the paycheck. If I could get a paycheck for just lying around doing nothing, it would still be completely gratifying.)

Still, condescension or no condescension, they are definitely my people. When I DO have to go into the office, it’s cool to be in an environment where they have NO IDEA if I’m fashionable or not. (I’m not.)

Here is ACTUAL SMALL-TALK from a meeting I attended a few weeks ago:

Marketing guy: Dude, you have a hole in your shirt.
Engineer: I know.
Marketing guy: You’re wearing a shirt with holes in it.
Engineer: So what? They’re just little holes.
Marketing guy: It’s time to get a new shirt.
Engineer: I love this shirt. It’s my favorite shirt. I’ve had it since college.
Marketing guy: You got out of school 12 years ago.
Engineer: So? It’s a really good shirt.
Me: It’s like an old friend, right?
Engineer: EXACTLY. See, she totally gets it.
Marketing guy (looking at my t-shirt and jeans): Yeah, I can see that.

THANKS MARKETING GUY.

(Marketing people are NOT my people.)

You know, I think I’d rather be negatively judged for my smarts than negatively judged for my appearance. I’m not sure what that says about me. Probably something dumb.

The NieNie Book Contest Ends Tonight

Pin It Hey guys, I wanted to remind you - the NieNie book contest ends tonight at midnight US Mountain Time. PLEASE don't forget to submit something if you've been thinking about doing it. If you submit something tonight you don't need to link to the contest (since it's over :>), but it would be great if you would talk about the book and let people know that it will be available to purchase in mid-November.

I'm so grateful to everyone who is participating, and I'm really excited to start making selections and editing the actual book. You can send your contest entries to sometimeslifeisfunny at gmail dot com.

Thanks guys - you're the best.

Whack Job

Pin It This weekend, I got my hair cut clean off. It's really short, but with some length on top. I kind of liked it, until I got home.

When I got there, Carter opened the door. He stared at me with an open mouth and said, "Mom, you look CRAZY."

I sort of laughed that off and came inside, then noticed Abby, who was giving me a look that I have not seen since high school - all full of contempt and scorn. She stared at me for a minute, then spat out, "You should not have done that," shook her head and stomped off up the stairs to the playroom.

Sarah was the worst, because I could tell she WANTED to be nice, but could not figure out what to say. She just stood there looking at me dubiously and saying, "Uhhhhhh..........." She eventually just turned around and went upstairs, because I think she realized no good could come of the conversation.

That left my poor husband. Once he stopped snickering over the children's responses, he told me he liked it. "It's nice."

Oh.

Great.

I mean, we all know that when you get a semi-drastic haircut, what you are really hoping for is for your significant other to tell you that it's "nice."

I was in a most excellent mood for the rest of the day. I had to restrain myself from passive aggressively muttering hair related things to the children - "Oh, YEAH Sarah, well at least I didn't try to cut my own BANGS."

The worst was later, when the children came in to my room where I was sulking checking my email, to tell me what they REALLY thought of my hair (now that they'd been coached by my husband). (Nice try honey.)

Sarah: "I like it. It looks nice."
Me: "You don't have to say that."
Sarah: "It's what I really think."
Abby: (continues to stare at me with disgust)
Sarah: "I love you mom. AND your hair."
Me: (looking at my husband) "Stop making them do this."
Carter: "Whack a whack a whack. They WHACKED you Mom. WHACK A WHACK."

I thought it looked o.k., but APPARENTLY I WAS WRONG.

WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY...

Pin It This may only be of interest to approximately twelve of you, but - ARG, I cannot help it, I must post this.

Here's a plot summary for the next Anne of Green Gables movie, directed by Kevin Sullivan, the hack who also gave us the atrocity that was the third Anne movie:

"Anne, now a middle-aged woman, is troubled by recent events in her life. Her husband, Gilbert, has been killed overseas as a medical doctor during World War II. Her two daughters are pre-occupied with their own young families and her adopted son Dominic has yet to return from the war. When a long-hidden secret is discovered under the floorboards at Green Gables, Anne retreats into her memories to relive her troubled early years prior to arriving as an orphan at Green Gables and being adopted by the Cuthberts. Still haunted by her early childhood, the impact of this difficult period has a far-reaching effect on this older woman, once she discovers the truth about her real parents. She begins a delicate search for her birth father." http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1063034/plotsummary

She begins a search for her birth father? Gilbert is dead? She's haunted by her childhood? WHAT IN THE -

I am speechless.

Things That Are Making Me Grouchy

Pin It

• I got in an accident today and put a crack in my front bumper. It would be deja vu, except that this time I was driving the brand new truck. SCORE!
• Bonus: It was all my fault. I was watching the light, and it changed, and so I went, but the car in front of me? Did not.
  
• I got four hours of sleep last night.
• I have a large zit right between my eyes. It's gross, and people can't help but look at it, because it's RIGHT THERE.
  
• The reason I have a zit in the first place is because I tried to wax my own eyebrows. Plucking was taking a really long time, so I got some over the counter strips, because really, how hard could it be?
• VERY HARD. I not only aggravated the skin between my eyebrows, I literally ripped off the skin below my left brow. I have SCABS below my eyebrow now. It is NOT ATTRACTIVE.
• The day I ripped my eye parts open, I had to meet with a group of engineers. My eye was totally swollen, and my wounds hadn't scabbed over yet. I looked like I'd been sucker-punched. The engineers were all concerned about me. I didn't want to tell them how I'd really hurt my eye, so I lied and said my son hit me in the eye with a softball. Unfortunately, since they are ENGINEERS, they were very curious and wanted to know more, like - how did a softball cut your eye, and why is there only swelling on the top, and how come your eyeball isn't all jacked up too, and after a few minutes I cracked and blurted out something like, oh for the love of pete, I WAS LYING, I WAS LYING, OK? They were clearly all thinking that my husband was responsible, so I had to admit the truth. Humiliation.
  
• Now they all giggle when they see me and they keep sending me instant messages saying things like, "Hey, how's that EYE?" I'm guessing that this will not get old for them for a very, very long time.
  
• My son has an explosive poo illness.
  
• I have too much work to do and it's making my imagination die a slow, painful death..
• My kids were dancing to the Prince of Egypt soundtrack this afternoon when "Thus Saith The Lord" came on, which is a really kind of awesomely scary and intense song, and so of course I pretended to be a blind zombie robot (as you do). My daughter thought this was hilarous and fun, and so, egged on, I added scary stomping and very loud crazy singing, which totally terrified my three year old. He burst into tears and sat on my lap, shaking. "You're freakin' me out Mom. You're totally freakin' me out."
  
• Oops.