The Blog Book

Pin It As you know, we're trying to put put together a book to benefit the NieNie fund, written by bloggers.

All proceeds from the book will go to the NieNie fund. We'll be self-publishing it through Lulu. (This is a no-upfront-fee internet publishing site that will take a small portion of the price per published book as their fee.) We'll also be offering it as an eBook, for those who want ALL of the proceeds to go to NieNie and who don't care about holding a book in their hand. The working title is "Sometimes Life is Funny."

So now - we need content! If you've always wanted to see your name in an actual book, here's your chance. I'd love to have you submit a post-length essay. The goal of the book is to make people smile - so everything from mildly amusing to laugh out loud funny is needed. Your essay can be about anything - a day in the life, parenting, marriage, dating, growing up, work - anything. We want everything from laugh out loud funny to things that just make you smile. We'd prefer new, unposted stuff, but we're flexible.

Here are the rules:

• You must have a blog where you are currently, actively posting
• It must be amusing on some level
  
• You can submit using your blog name or your real name
• It can't be something you've previously published, other than on your blog
• It must be under 1500 words- ish
• You MUST publicize the book and the contest on your own blog, and if you make it into the book, you must buy it
• You must link back to this post AND the NieNie recovery site (http://www.nierecovery.com/) in order to spread the word about both (By the way, we need a button/graphic to use for the contest - if anyone wants to volunteer to make one, I'd be grateful.)

The deadline for submissions is September 30th, 2008. You can send your submission to us at sometimeslifeisfunny at gmail dot com. You don't have to be a mom, a woman or a mormon to submit. If you've ever written something funny, we want you.

If you've already emailed me or left a comment about it, thank you. If you're not sure if you are funny enough - don't worry! All kinds of things are funny. Just take a shot and submit. I can't wait to see what you all come up with.

Here Is What I Hate About Being Fat

Pin It Where to start.

1) In my head, I'm totally a blonde, blue eyed, 23 year old ingenue, and it always surprises me when I walk by a mirror, like, AAAAAACK! (That picture up there at the top of the blog where I look almost average sized? Outdated by about 25 pounds.) (It's been a stressful year, shut up.)

2) If you are me, which I am, you sometimes feel the need to make jokes about how fat you are, which is just a HORRIBLE thing to do to people. I mean, way to make everyone feel awkward. If they laugh, they're jerks, and if they don't laugh, then it's like they're acknowledging the truth of the statement. What are they supposed to say? "You're not fat?"

3) Yes. That is what you are supposed to say. Even if your friend is 350 pounds, if she says "I'm so fat," the correct response is a quick, automatic, "You're not fat," with a change of subject. Don't worry. You're not enabling her. The thing is - she already knows she's fat. CRAZY TALK, I know. And if you don't say anything, or if you say, "Here, let me give you the number for Jenny Craig," she will drive straight home and eat another gallon of Ben and Jerry's. And yes, I agree that true friends should be able to say anything to each other. Just - not that.

4) I don't appreciate it when my skinny friends give me dieting tips. If I bring the topic up, which I don't all that often, because HELLO, it's not like I need to call attention to it, they will sometimes (gingerly and in a loving way) try to give me weight loss advice. This is annoying because, HELLO again, I know how to lose weight. I've lost my entire body weight, twice (spread out over time, obviously - I'm not MAGIC). I've read every weight loss/healthy lifestyle book known to man. I know about lifestyle change. I know about exercise. I know about muscle mass. I know, I know, I know, I know. I KNOW! I just... ...really like to eat.

A Few of the Diets I've Been On: Weight Watchers, Body for Life, Atkins, the South Beach Diet, Carbohydrate Addicts Diet, the Rotation Diet, the Cabbage Soup diet, and the Diet Dr. Pepper-Fasting-Chewing Gum diet.

Once I talked to a doctor about it, and she actually said, "What you need to do is stop eating so much and exercise." And then on a little pad she wrote Eat less, exercise more.

I stared at her. "Holy mackerel. I have never heard this before. I think you may have just unlocked the door to weightloss for all mankind."

No, I didn't say that. Actually, I just muttered, "That's harder than it looks," which led to talking about my unhealthy obsession with food, which led to her prescribing me an ACTUAL diet drug - phentermine. It was AWESOME. I lost 40 pounds in eight weeks AND I barely ever had to sleep. I was so productive, I can't even tell you. My throat was hoarse from never shutting up, all day long. But eventually Dr. Jerkface made me go off of it, and I gradually gained it all back. (Big surprise.)

5) Highland doesn't have fat people, other than me. I'm SPECIAL. But I love all of my skinny friends, and I never judge them for being all fit and healthy and semi-obsessed with running triathalons. My heart is big. I do not discriminate against the fit. I love ALL sizes (even the 2s and 4s! See? I'm a giver!)

But it would be nice to have a fat friend. It's sometimes nice to have a friend who is fatter than you, so that you can feel like the skinny one. This is a politically incorrect but still true truth. I don't do this anymore (LIE), but when I was younger I cycled between normal and chubby on a regular basis, and if I was with a fat friend, I'd constantly assess our relative fatness, wondering "Do I look like that? Am I that fat? Is she fatter? Or am I fatter? Huh. I think she's fatter." And if my friend was fatter, I felt way more comfortable out in public, because, yeah, I might be fat, but at least I wasn't as fat as her. And then lightning would come down out of the sky and strike me dead, because MAN, that's awful.

But anyway. I feel gross. I've gotten to my gross set point, and I'm ready for a change. (Yes again.) (The folks over at the weight loss blog I started and promptly abandoned are all snickering at me, I know. But I REALLY MEAN IT THIS TIME.)

So - LIFESTYLE CHANGE, HERE I COME. WOOHOO. Yippee. I'm SO excited. or something.

And now I'm trying to figure out how to go about this, so what I'm wondering is - anyone ever eaten a tapeworm?

P.S. I'm KIDDING, don't send me gross pictures. BLECK.

P.P.S. Don't worry fat acceptance people, I'm not down on myself because of my weight. I know that I am STILL FABULOUS. I'm a basically happy person. My weight is not constantly on my mind (um, food however...). It only bothers me every third Tuesday, when my jeans refuse to zip up. I don't let my weight define me, blah blah blah. Whatever.

I Have a Statue of You In My Closet

Pin It The manuscript I'm currently trying to beat into submission (so that I can start the long process of having it simultaneously rejected by hundreds of literary agents) starts off with the heroine dragging a friend along to help her spy on the boy she's in love with. They hide in the bushes and watch in comically stalkerish dismay as the guy picks up his thin and pretty date for the evening.

Did you know there could be comically stalkerish dismay? Because there can. The reason I know this is that back in my (oh so wild and crazy) single days, my friend Becky* and I performed The Stalking not once, not twice, but THREE times.

Becky and I were really good friends. People said we were kind of nuts, which at the time we took to mean, "Aw, they are delightfully quirky and eccentric and cute." But really, looking back on it, I think mainly they just thought we were nuts.

Becky had an enormous crush on this cute guy we knew who I'll call, oh, I don't know, Mike.

Mike was tall and friendly and hilarious. If we'd lived anywhere near an ocean, he would've been a surfer. As it was, he was a wakeboarder and a snowboarder and he was seriously cute. If Becky hadn't had a crush on him, I'm sure I would have picked up the slack.

Becky and Mike went on a few dates, but eventually Mike's interest kind of waned. We all still hung out together, but he stopped asking her out. He would flirt with her, call her late at night and generally mess with her head, but he didn't want to actually go out with her.

You see the problem, right? Sadly, Mike was just not that into her. This was before that was actually a recognized condition though, so Becky and I spent many, many, many, many nights discussing where "this thing with Mike" was going. I empathized my heart out over the situation, partly because I was in the middle of my own never ending, totally doomed crush on a boy who just wasn't that into me, either. (Jerk.)

One night Mike invited a girl he was seeing, Katie, over to his house. He was going to cook dinner for her or something like that. Becky was seriously bummed so we went out for ice cream. Because eating more food? TOTALLY THE ANSWER TO OUR PROBLEMS.

Anyway, we were driving around that night and decided it would be a good idea to drive by his house. Just once. Just to see what was going on. I was pretty sure Mike wouldn't remember my car. I mean, he'd only seen it twenty or thirty times and it was a very inconspicuous, thirty year old, bright orange tank of a Volvo. We were practically in stealth mode.

We parked down the street from Mike's house. We slouched down in our seats, giggling, and watched the front door for a while but nothing really happened and after a while we got bored.

Becky was seized by the desire to just KNOW WHAT WAS GOING ON. Something was undoubtedly going on. Our lives would obviously not be complete until we knew what it was. So we did the only thing that made any sense at all.

We snuck around into the back yard of the house behind his and peeked over the cinderblock wall.

(For the record, Mike's neighborhood was brand new. A lot of the houses were still being built, or were finished but empty. The house behind Mike's was not occupied. So we were trespassing, but only technically. Are you seeing how that makes it all better and marginally less disturbing?)

Unfortunately, the blinds were partly drawn and we couldn't really see much. I could kind of sort of see the top of Katie's head, but that didn't really give us much information, and did not help to contribute to the intelligence we were trying to gather re: why Katie and Mike were sure to break up any minute now, so that he could come to his senses and propose to Becky.

We debated jumping into the yard to check things out, but that seemed a little TOO stalkerish. (It was good that we had boundaries, don't you think?)

At this point we were laughing and egging each other on and just kind of having fun and being crazy(er). We went back out front and walked across the street and down a few houses, then laid down in the grass so that he wouldn't see us if he came outside. (Since the grass was approximately two inches long, I'm sure we were very nearly invisible. We were BRILLIANT.) We laid there and talked and laughed and laughed and laughed for at least an hour until the door to Mike's house opened and we ran shrieking down the street toward my car.

Yeah. I'm sure he didn't notice THAT.

We thought we were so clever, but really, two chubby blond girls running down the street toward an ancient orange Volvo? In retrospect I'm guessing it probably wasn't that hard for him to figure out who we were.

But he never said anything, as far as I know. And it turned a really crappy night into a really fun one. Mission accomplished.

Man. You have no idea how badly I want to link to Becky's blog right now, but I think if I did that, and outed her, she would kill me dead with a knife.

But I don't think she should be embarrassed. After all, I'm sure you've all stalked someone before. Right? RIGHT?

No?

Just me then?

Alrighty.

*I realized a little late that my friend might not actually be o.k. with my posting this story for the universe to see, so I've changed their names to protect their privacy.

Paddling

Pin It We're dealing with Things this week.

There have been Workplace Injuries, which required Special Conversations with Very Important Officials and even a consultation with an attorney to make sure that Things Are Being Handled Correctly.

The people who are masquerading as doctors tell us that the injuries are Possibly Severe and Life Altering, but also Possibly Not Severe and Life Altering, and that really, it All Just Kind of Depends - on whether or not you consider things like running, and hiking, and bending over, and picking stuff up, and oh, I don't know, being able to perform the normal functions of police work an essential part of life.

I hate it when my life involves so many capital letters.

I'm hundreds of miles away from where all of these Things are taking place, so I'm mostly trying not to think about it - trying not to fret and stew over What It Means. Luckily, I'm incredibly busy right now, between my kids and the five tons of freelance work that's popped up over the last few weeks.

If you ran into me at Target or something, unless you're my mother or my husband I doubt you would know anything was wrong. I've become compulsive about looking on the bright side, and I'm not sure if it's because a) it really does make me feel better, or b) I feel like it ought to make me feel better, or because c) YAY, denial!

But the truth is, I'm kind of tired of Overcoming Challenges in a Positive Way. I'd rather just - coast along on the Lazy River of Being in a Nice, Calm, Boring Rut. Sign me up for some of that, please.

P.S. It IS possible to gain ten pounds in two weeks. In case you were wondering.

P.P.S. It's cracking me up that in the Amazon ad on my blog (scroll down on the right hand side), the showcased books are all by Stephenie Meyer. Apparently Amazon has determined that the readers of this blog LOVE Twilight. :>

Confessions of a Sneaky Mom

Pin It 1. Sometimes when my kids and I are sitting at the piano singing together, I'll get irritated because I want to sing the princess part and they just want me to be quiet and play the piano. (Little princess part hoggers.) They have zero interest in hearing me sing. I might as well be dead. Or more accurately, I might as well be an electric piano.

2. When my kids are irritable and bored and at each other's throats, I sometimes like to help them bond by pitting them against me. I tell them to go clean the playroom and not to come out 'til it's sparkling clean. They'll angrily trudge in there, but a few minutes later I'll hear whispering and the sweet sounds of plotting. Every so often I'll bellow out "You'd better be cleaning!" and I'll hear them giggle because they are SO not cleaning. They get along independently for hours because, hey, THEY SURE PUT ONE OVER ON MOM.

3. Sometimes I put them to bed really, really early. There are days when it's either put them in bed early or completely lose my mind. It works out great because a) I'm not yelling, b) they aren't that great at telling time yet, and c) they're happy as clams playing in their rooms, thinking they've tricked me into believing they're asleep. If I need to walk by their rooms, I just stomp my feet extra hard so they have time to jump in bed and pretend they're snoring. (It almost makes me proud, what good fake sleepers they are. They do the slow breathing and everything.)

4. Cereal for dinner is not a rare occurrence, but that's ok, because it has 14 essential vitamins and nutrients. Or so I've heard.

5. Once, I read this article about how they are starting to think soft plastic toys might actually be dangerous, so I went around the house and bagged up all of the Polly Pockets and My Little Ponies and put them away in a closet until I could do more research. They found the bag when we moved and they were so excited about it that I've just - let them play with potentially carcinogenic toys. Because, wheeeee, cancer is fun!

So spill in the comments, por favor. What are your true mom confessions?

I feel like throwing up right now...

Pin It

All of the times I’ve imagined getting rid of the dog, it never went like this.

He’s been irritable and growly lately, his behavior moody and unpredictable, trying to run away each and every time we let him go out to pee. He's been snapping at the children, nipping them and growling. A visit to the vet revealed nothing, his vaccinations are up to date, and I’ve been at a loss as to what to do with him.

Suddenly this morning, he bit Abby, hard, unprovoked. It wasn’t a gentle warning nip. It was a hard, deep bite, leaving deep bleeding puncture wounds and a bloody scrape on her forearm where he swiped her with his paw after he bit her.

I agonized for a while, then called Animal Control. I didn’t do it lightly. I hate the dog, but my children LOVE him. But biting and hurting my kids? That’s where the line is.

They told me they would quarantine him for ten days, then give him to the county shelter, where he would undergo temperament testing (whatever that is). If they determined that he wasn't a danger, they would adopt him out to a child-free home.

I talked to the kids about it, but they’ve heard me threaten the dog so frequently that they didn’t really take me seriously. When the animal control officer showed up at the door, they all started to cry.

They were totally devastated.

I tried to explain it to them, how we couldn’t risk having a dog who bites, how I could never forgive myself if I kept a biting dog and something more serious happened, how my friend’s son was unexpectedly mauled by the long-time family dog and permanently disfigured.

They didn’t understand. All they understood was that the dog they loved so much was leaving, being taken away in the back of an animal control truck.

Abby tore away from me. She ran down the block after the truck, screaming for him to come back, please come back. It was awful - one of the most heart wrenching things I’ve ever seen or heard in my life. I carried her back into the house, inconsolable.

She loves that dog so much. She hugs him and loves him and carries him around and pets him and talks to him. She draws pictures of him and tells him stories and sneaks him treats and sings to him.

She was (and is) beyond heartbroken. She sobbed, “Mommy, please don’t let them take Wicket, please, please, it doesn’t even hurt at all anymore, he’ll be so good, I promise.”

They choked out questions in between sobs. “Is he coming back?” “Is he gone forever?” “Mommy, I love him, I love him, I love him.” “Please let him come back, Mom.” “Is he gonna be happy?” “Will they take care of him?” “Can he come back if he’s good?”

All I could do was hold them and stroke their hair and cry with them and tell them how very, very, very sorry I was. And I am. I’m so sorry. I'm devastated for my children, and especially for my Abby, who I found sitting by his crate tonight, weeping.

When she said her prayers before she went to sleep, she said, "And please bless Wicket to be happy and good and..." and then she started to cry again, and I had to lie down next to her and hold her until she fell asleep.

The horrible thing is that I don't know if I did the right thing or not. I tried to err on the side of caution, on the side of protecting my kids from harm. But I don't know if it was wrong or right. I just don't know, and I can't stop crying about it, knowing how much they are hurting, how deep of a gash I've inflicted on their tender little hearts.

Why I Think Twilight Sucks, and Other Important Thoughts

Pin It WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS SPOILERS ABOUT THE BOOK THAT IS CURRENTLY EATING THE MOMMY BLOGOSPHERE, TWILIGHT. If you haven't read it and don't want it spoiled, stop reading. O.k.?

...

...

O.K.

Jessica (who I found through Stephanie) just confessed her true feelings about Twilight, and because of her bravery, I am ready to come out of the closet.

I read it last week. EVERYONE I know has read it, and most of them loved it. Since I'm a total romantic sap, I was expecting to love it too.

You guys... I SO didn't get it. I thought it was very meh, starting with the main character, Bella (otherwise known as the Queen of Meh).

(Ooooh, do you hear that sound? It's me, getting delisted from 50 Twilight loving blogs at once. But I CANNOT BE SILENCED.)

Ugh. She was so boring and stilted and dead inside. I kind of wanted to slap her. My theory is that Bella actually has Aspergers Syndrome and also a really bad inner ear infection that destroyed her sense of balance. Because, come on. She can't consistently WALK without falling? She should go see a specialist or something, right? Why didn't she do that? Why didn't her parents have her checked out?

She was very annoying and I didn't get the whole martyr thing. She's on a date with a guy who has admitted that he isn't all that sure whether or not he's going to SLAUGHTER her as the capper to their date, and she thinks it's exciting and romantic? The girl has some serious issues.

I thought she was dull. I didn't get why Edward would be interested in her in the least. I mean, other than his preference for her biological fluids. Which seems kind of a shaky basis for a romance. Plus, she kept reminding us how he was all cold and dead. Gross.

And then there was Edward himself. Pompous, stilted, fatally unhip Edward. I get that the author was going for a 1911 language vibe, but come on. He hasn't been in a COMA for the last hundred years, he's been hanging out in high school. I don't know if it's a good thing when the romantic lead reminds you of Kelsey Grammar. Or rather, would remind you of Kelsey Grammar if Bella weren't constantly reminding us about his topaz eyes and his muscled chest. Did you know he had topaz eyes and a muscled chest? Because he did have topaz eyes and a muscled chest. Did you pick up on that? It was subtle, you might not have caught it.

I hated how he told her what to do all the time. He was so controlling and kind of ambivalent about whether or not he was going to eat her. I was like, dude, take a stand. Just go ahead and eat her, put us all out of our misery. But he didn't. (Maybe that's book three, I don't know.)

There was no build-up to their romance. One day he hated her (because he was trying not to eat her), and the next day they were both in TRUE TRUE LOVE with extra stalking. I thought the whole watching outside her window thing was incredibly creepy. If he was human, Bella would be filing restraining orders all over the place.

I think the main thing that annoys me is this: I don't like it when the heroine is stupid. And Bella is. If I knew my boyfriend was a serial killer, and he invited me to come over and look at his knife collection, and I said yes, would that be amazingly romantic? Or just kind of stupid? But Bella repeatedly says she doesn't care if he kills her, because she loves him. Wuh?? Wuh in the wuh wuh?

I also didn't understand why her dad wasn't raising holy hell about letting her see Edward at the end. If my daughter freaked out after a fight with her creepy boyfriend, took off, disappeared and then reappeared with said creepy boyfriend in Phoenix, where she just happened to fall through a window and end up in the hospital - I don't think I would be encouraging my daughter to continue to date him. You know? Is it just me? Is her Dad supposed to be delayed?

Jessica thought it got better near the end, but I didn't. It was like Stephanie Meyer got tired of writing about their romance and just threw in a random evil vampire. Random characters who hop in late in the novel - not so scary. (I thought it would have been more scary if they would have pulled in the space vampire from Buck Rogers. Because that episode gave me nightmares for YEARS.)

I get it, some people like the whole bad guy thing, the whole "my love makes you dangerous" vibe. I guess I can sort of see it. I mean picture it, if you were married to someone completely sexless, like Mitt Romney or something, fantasizing about dangerous-romantic-vampires might be just the ticket. But for ordinary women? What is the appeal?

Clearly, there IS appeal in the whole dangerous vampire-romantic-fiction genre. I just don't understand it. (Other than Buffy and Angel. THAT I get. But they're completely the exception. I think it helps that he doesn't want to eat her.)

So please enlighten me. Did you like Twilight? If so, WHY? Why why why why why?

UPDATE: I've had to close comments. Not because of the conversation you see in the comments, but because I got a few pretty obnoxious anonymous comments (which I ruthlessly deleted, because I'm drunk with power) from people who obviously have even MORE feelings about Twilight than I do, and I'm not in the mood to deal with them.

Flakes - Not Just for Dandruff

Pin It I'm almost completely unpacked. I'm down to living room books, bedding and laundry, if the box labels can be believed. (Bow before my crazy mad unpacking skills.)

This is possibly a new personal unpacking record. I credit a caffeine rush fueled by copious amounts of Diet Dr. Pepper and the fact that until about an hour ago, I had no internet. NO INTERNET FOR FOUR DAYS people.

It freaked me out to be so cut off. How would I get information? About things? And places? And hours things were open? And locations of stuff? What if I urgently needed to post something on Craigslist?

I needed some information last night and I couldn't find it in the phone book. I had no idea what to do. I paced for a while. I talked to myself. I repeatedly tried to bring up Google on my computer, on the off-chance that the internet might be working, sighing each time I saw the PAGE NOT FOUND error. "Would you look at that," I would mutter in surprise, "I don't have internet."

It was a frightening time. I'm glad it's over, but I think it was kind of good to unhook the internet IV for a couple of days. It was kind of cleansing, like a good enema.

(Um. I've never actually HAD an enema. It just sounded funny.)

(I just thought I should clarify.)

(Because I don't want you all sitting there thinking about me having an enema. That's just not a mental picture anyone should have.)

(So I should probably stop talking about it, don't you think?)

It feels so good to be home. Tonight I let my kids stay out until long past their bedtime. It was a beautiful night and they were having so much fun with a gang of neighborhood kids. I was making brownies (so domestic) (also, no internet) and had the screen door open. I could hear them all out there playing some kind of game on the trampoline - with much laughing and giggling and shrieking and carrying on. It was music to my ears.

I was a little surprised to realize that I'm kind of embarrassed about the whole fiasco. I didn't think I would be, but I am. I guess I thought I'd sort of evolved past caring what people think.

(Internet: Oh, Sue. You thought you'd evolved past having a little dignity? Or a healthy sense of shame? {{The Internet collectively shakes its head}} )

It's not the financial stuff.

It's not.

OK, fine, maybe it's that a little. In retrospect, coming out of the blog closet and giving everyone my blog address right before we moved might have been just a tad hasty.

But really, I think it's more that I feel so badly for imposing on people twice. Asking people who helped us move out a few months ago to help us move back in. Seeing people who came to my farewell night out and having to say, "Oh, HI! Good to see you! Oh, by the way, that whole moving thing? JUST KIDDING." (And if someone gave me a farewell gift, should I give it back? Because really, what if they think this was all just a ruse to get them to send me stuff?) Should I hang the completely wonderful picture they all signed for me when I left, or would that just be weird now that we're back? SO MANY QUESTIONS.

Walking around the neighborhood on the fourth of July, running into friends and acquaintances, waving to people driving by in their cars - it felt so good. Seeing the kids with their friends and realizing we are back home, next door to the most awesome neighbors ever (more on that tomorrow)? Worth every drop of embarrassment.

I hope people haven't written us off as THAT family, but if the price for all of this happiness is being known as the neighborhood flake, then I'll take it. I'll embrace it. Here I am, Highland.

Again.

Ready or not.

Breaking Up Is Not Really All That Hard To Do

Pin It Dear Las Vegas,

I don't think this letter will come as a surprise. I mean, you knew it was coming, right? You and I - we've known each other a long, long time, and this on again, off again thing we've got going? It's gotta stop.

The thing is, you're getting on my nerves. You just think you're so hot. And yes, I won't deny it. You ARE a hot little number. Everybody knows it. You don't have to prove a point. One hundred and twelve - it's just a little extreme, don't you think? All of the other western cities, they're not such show-offs. You could take a lesson. (Just don't look at Phoenix, he's incorrigible.)

But I've had enough. I'm leaving on Friday, heading for greener pastures with my trusty moving truck. By Saturday, you'll be a distant memory.

Oh, maybe I'm not being fair. When I left you back in 2004 I swore I'd never be back, never ever ever, that I was DONE with you forever. After I left, I made fun of you behind your back for years, telling everyone how much I hated you. And yet, when I ran into a rough patch and came crawling back a few months ago you showered us with higher salaries and fancy new parks and access to family and friends. You do have your good points.

The truth is, I could probably overlook all of it - the strippers and the gambling and the late nights and partying - but I have to be honest with you. There's someone else. He's someone I had a four year relationship with, and I've tried, I really have, but I just can't get him out of my head.

Remember that one night, when we were driving back into town and I was mad at you because of your skeazy billboards? You were all, "FREE ADULT SUPERSTORE 24 HOURS," and I was all, "I hate that you hang out with people like that. They're turning you into a sleazebag," and you were all, "LARGEST SELECTION OF ADULT BOOKS EVER," and I was all, "Oh, Utah, how I miss you," and you were all, "SERIOUSLY WE'VE GOT A LOT OF ADULT STUFF IN HERE - HEY, wait a minute. WHO'S UTAH?" And I was all, "Um. Never mind. Nothing."

It almost got very awkward, but then we turned off into a residential area and you got distracted and started yammering on about square footage and desert landscaping and low low prices and you forgot all about my little slip up.

I was surprised you didn't see right through me. Because my lover Utah? He had me in his sweet, sweet, ruggedly outdoorsy yet freakishly clean cut spell even then. If loving him is wrong, I just don't wanna be right.

Shut up! Don't talk about him like that. He is NOT schizophrenic and moody. He just - runs a little hot and cold. Sure, he might get all up in my face during the day (kinda like you actually) all "Look at me, I'm so hot - go away before I scorch you with my hotness," but when the sun starts to go down he cools off and wants to be a good boyfriend again, and he gives me sweet, sweet sixty degree temps to prove it. Yeah, sometimes he freezes me out. But I can live with that kind of moody. Oh yeah, baby, can I ever live with it.

It's gonna be a little awkward for us, Las Vegas. I'm gonna be back to visit a lot. My friends and family are here, and I know they have to deal with you, so we'll probably be a part of each other's lives for a long time. Just - not like this. Not anymore.

Do me a favor, will you? Treat my friends and family right. Don't be mad if they come visit me and my new man. After all, they might love me, but they like you too. During some of the worst parts of our relationship, they kept telling me all of the good things about you. When I called you a sleazy dirt bag they said, "Awww, Sue, he's not so bad. You just have to look for the good parts." They were pulling for you. I mean, they want me to be happy, but they were also sort of hoping we could make things work. In the end, I think they knew it just wasn't meant to be.

If I could give you some friendly parting advice, I'd tell you to hang out in the suburbs a little more. They're a good influence on you. Stop spending so much time hanging out with strippers and county commissioners, don't crush beer cans on your forehead, and try to go a little easier on the porn, o.k.?

I hope you know that I'll always care about you.... In a vaguely repulsed but still sort of caring way.

Thanks for all of the memories.

Sort of fondly,

Sue

P.S. Don't try to contact me, Las Vegas. I won't even have internet until Wednesday, and you know how I feel about the phone.

Outwit, Outlast, Outplay

Pin It Me: "Listen, I'm tired of telling you girls to clean up your room. If you don't clean it up in the next FIVE MINUTES, I'm gonna get a garbage bag and whatever I find on the floor, I'm gonna keep. I'm not kidding."

Sarah: "So what if I put my stuff on the bed?"

Me: "Whatever I find on the floor OR your bed."

Sarah: "So what about my pillow? Are you gonna take my pillow?"

Me: "Whatever I find on your bed that doesn't belong there."

Abby: "What if I leave my piano book on the floor?"

Me: "Anything EXCEPT your piano book."

Sarah: "What about my shoes? What if I don't get them cleaned up in time? You can't take my shoes. I need them for school."

Me: "Ok. Anything but the piano book and the shoes and --"

Abby: "I'm gonna leave my blue shirt on the floor for you Mom. I don't want it. It's itchy."

Me: "No, you need to pick it up --"

Abby: "But I don't want it."

Sarah: "Oh, and Mom, I'm gonna leave Carter's stuff on the floor. 'Cuz we don't want it."

Me, possibly yelling just a tiny bit loudly: "JUST CLEAN IT UP."

Abby, in a quavering voice: "We're just askin' a question."

Sarah, in tears: "You don't have to yell."

(They both collapse in a heap of sobbing, because their mean, mean, mean, borderline abusive mother yelled at them.)

...

...

DURFWAD. You know what I mean? Just - slimey hockeypuck freakin' DURFWAD.

HONESTLY.

...

...

(Times like this, I wish I knew how to scrapbook.)

Losing It

Pin It I recently took a personality test that indicated that I was, among other things, "easily distracted and prone to losing things."

There are so many things to say about my new label (isn't it pretty?), but right now I just want to talk about how I'm prone to losing things. Because boy howdy, am I ever prone.

PRONE. (That suddenly doesn't look like a real word to me. PRONE.)

My mom used to call me the absent minded professor, and I used to think that was sort of cute. But it's not. It's not cute at all. I'm so tired of losing my stuff.

I'm constantly losing things - my keys, my rollerblades, my daughter's lunchbox, my keys again, my shoes, my shoes again, my shoes again some more, my cell phone, the house cordless phone, my keys again, my purse, my debit card, my debit card, my debit card, my purse - all day long it goes on.

I'm so glad I have this valuable new tool, the personality type, to help me rationalize away all of my personal failings.

"Honey, you've got to start putting your keys in the same place every time you get home so that you can find them easily."

"I can't do that!"

"Why?"

"Because I'm an ENFP!"

"That prevents you from trying to keep track of your stuff?"

"I can't fight science!"

Before I knew about my ENFP illness, I was starting to think I had holes in my brain. Perhaps some flesh eating bacteria had crawled inside and eaten away the part of my brain that knew where I put my shoes. Because I sure couldn't find them.

So it's kind of a relief. (WHEW.)

Maybe I should give it a try though, the whole putting-stuff-back-in-a-place-where-it-would-logically-go-so-that-I-can-find-it-again THING. Yesterday I used my debit card to pay a bill online, set it down next to the computer when I was done and then walked around all day long looking for it, mystified. Where could it be? Where? Where where where where where? I couldn't imagine.

Tonight I looked for my rollerblades for twenty minutes. TWENTY MINUTES. And the house is perfectly clean right now. My closet is even organized. I just couldn't find them.

"They've vanished," I said to my husband. "I think they disapparated."

"Look in the garage," he said.

And there they were.

He always knows where my stuff is. I used to just call him at work all the time to ask him where my stuff was, but now, because of his job, I can't do that. (It's very inconsiderate of him to have a job like that, I think.)

Sometimes I think he's hiding my stuff just to mess with me, except I know it frustrates him too, the fact that I can never keep track of anything, ever. He knows the last five minutes before we go anywhere will involve what he calls the "walk and mutter." (Well. Walk and mutter and rant and rave.)

"I can't find my shoes. Where are my shoes? They were just here. They were just here. Who took my shoes? Who took them? DOG, did you take my shoes? Because I will kill you. I will kill you if you took my shoes. Who took them? Where are they? Where? Where? WHERE?! Oh look, right there in the closet."

Sometimes I even lose stuff inside my purse. That might not sound all that strange except that my purse is small, almost like a wallet, and there isn't much inside of it. And yet, within it's non-depths I can still repeatedly lose my debit card and driver's license. Even though they are, in fact, still right there in my purse. I'll be at the check-out and I'll go to pull out my debit card and - uh oh, it's not there. It's SIMPLY NOT THERE. I'll pull everything out, look at it and put it back in and it's STILL not there. I'm frantic. Where is it? Where could it be? Is it lost? Is it stolen? Is it disapparated? In another dimension?

And then, WHAM, suddenly it's there.

It happens a lot. (Sometimes I think it's some kind of brain magic. Just - not a good kind. But kind of tricky, all the same.)

Before Fathers Day, I hid one of my husband's presents. I remember thinking that I would remember where I put it. I remember very specifically saying to myself, oh, sure, you'll remember putting it there, no problem.

Um.

Yeah.

I still can't find it.

Sometimes I'll hide treats from the kids, because if they find the cookies they'll never make it into my daughter's lunchbox. Except then I forget where I hid them. It's kind of nice though because sometimes I'll be having a bad day and I'll open a cupboard door and - Oh, LOOK, OREOS FROM HEAVEN.

YUM, Oreos.

Oh. Whoops, I got distracted. (We INFPs tend to do that.) Sorry - I know that's irritating. I BLAME SCIENCE.

Custard, GOOOOOOD.

Pin It Me: "Hey hon, are you gonna be here soon? 'Cuz I made dinner."

Husband: "Cool, what are we having?"

Me: "I made something new. It's called Hamburger Roll-Ups."

Husband: "Hamburger Roll-ups."

Me: "Yeah - my mom used to make them."

(long silence)

Me: "They're GOOD, I promise."

Husband: "What are they exactly?"

Me: "Well, you make this meat mixture and you make this dough from bisquick and you roll it up like a jelly roll and you slice it and bake it. And there's sauce."

Husband: "Hmmmm."

Me: "I PROMISE it's good."

Husband: "Why does this sound like an episode of Friends?"

Me: "It's not a beef trifle."

Husband: "You know, if you want, I can take over the cooking again. I can just whip something up really quick every night after I get home."

Me: "I'm perfectly capable of making --"

Husband: "Or I could make it the night before and freeze it. All you'd have to do is warm it up."

Me: "Hamburger Rollups were good enough for me and my brothers and sisters and I think they're probably --"

Husband: "Or, wait, I KNOW, we could starve. Sometimes starving is good. This could be like the first part of the fasting thing you were talking about."

Me: "I'm hanging up now."

So As It Turns Out

Pin It The house we love and miss?
(This is the playroom.)

In the neighborhood we love and miss?
(How beautiful are the mountains? SO BEAUTIFUL.)

With the friends we love and miss?
(This was from the girl's night out one of my dear friends organized right before we moved.)

And all of the neighborhood kids we love and miss?
(These are a few of the neighbor kids with mine. Seriously, we LOVE these kids.)

We get to keep it. WE GET TO KEEP IT!

WE GET TO KEEP OUR HOUSE. Everything is signed, sealed and delivered. It's ours.

I wish I could say something terribly profound and eloquent about it, but I can't quite form my happiness and gratitude into words yet. Still, I wanted to share the news with friends, family and all those of you who have held your breath right along with us. Your support and friendship and love and thoughts and prayers have meant the world to us.

I'm so happy. We're so happy. The kids are over the moon right now. If I may be really dorky and childish and, well, myself for a second, I think the super sophisticated thing I really want to say right now is simply: YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAAAAAAAAY!

YAY!

(We'll be moving back early next month. Can you believe it? Can you? Because I can't believe it. Holy cow. I've never been so happy to start packing in my life.)

(If you aren't sure what this is all about because you're new to the blog, click on the label "House Drama" (below the comment link) and you can read all about it from the beginning.)

100 Great Picture Books

Pin It Yesterday, we went to the library around the corner. The car was out of commission, so the girls grabbed their scooters and Jake hopped in the wagon (his bike is in the courtyard, which is currently being invaded by hornets). I had this bright idea that I would pull the wagon while rollerblading.

The thing is, I used to be an AWESOME rollerblader. I jumped on and off of sidewalks, I could do one footed turns and jumps like an ice-skater, and I was absolutely fearless. I would blade down huge hills at top speed without even blinking. (I was insane, basically.) Not so much anymore. (Insane OR fearless, take your pick.) Now I'm a lot more tentative and a whole lot less fast. The driveway seems very long and steep and scary.

I was trying to go fast enough to keep us moving, but slow enough to retain control over the wagon and myself if I needed to stop quickly. Jake was not happy with my slowish progress. "Mom, you are not going faster enough."

Oh, excuse me. I'm so sorry to inconvenience you as I huff along on my rollerblades of death.

On the way there, we saw a dead catfish on the sidewalk, which precipitated much screaming. From me. "You guys, you can look, but don't touch it. Don't touch it. Don't touch it! Jake, if you touch it, I'll - DON'T TOUCH IT! DON'T TOUCH DEAD FISH YOU FIND ON THE SIDEWALK!" (Advice for the ages.)

After that we made it there pretty quickly, despite the 170 degree heat. Unfortunately, when we got to the library I realized I'd forgotten my shoes. I wasn't about to haul everyone back home just to retrieve my shoes, so I ended up walking around the library wearing socks and rollerblade liners. (Hey, they were kind of shoe-like. Sort of. If you squint.)

We found our books, cooled down, checked out and rolled away. Back at home, I started cleaning the kitchen and looked over to see this:


YEEEEESSSSS. My DNA manifests itself at last.

Lastly, the local elementary school sent home a list of 100 great picture books. I love anything to do with books, and thought I'd post it for you. I thought my preschoolers were sort of well readish, but there are a lot of books on the list that we haven't read before. I'm excited to take this list with us to the library next time.

100 Great Picture Books, compiled by the New York Public Library

Abuela by Arthur Dorros.
Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by Judith Viorst.
Animals Should Definitely Not Wear Clothing by Judi Barrett.
Anansi and the Moss-Covered Rock by Eric A. Kimmel
Andy and the Lion by Juan Daugherty
Ben's Trumpet by Rachel Isadora
Blueberries for Sal by Robert McCloskey
The Bossy Gallito: A Traditional Cuban Folk Tale retold by Lucia M. Gonzalez.
Bread and Jam for Frances by Russell Hoban.
Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?
Caps for Sale: A Tale of a Peddler, Some Monkeys and Their Monkey Business by Esphyr Slobodkina.
The Carrot Seed by Ruth Krauss.
A Chair for My Mother by Vera B. Williams.
Chicka Chicka Boom Boom by Bill Martin, Jr., and John Archambault.
Corduroy by Don Freeman.
Curious George by H.A. Rey.
The Day Jimmy’s Boa Ate the Wash by Trinka H. Noble.
Dear Zoo by Rod Campbell.
Doctor De Sota by William Steig.
Farmer Duck by Martin Waddell. The Fortune-Tellers by Lloyd Alexander.
Freight Train by Donald Crews.
George and Martha by James Marshall.
Go Away, Big Green Monster! by Ed Emberley.
Good Night, Gorilla by Peggy Rathmann.
Goodnight Moon by Margaret W. Brown.
Grandfather’s Journey by Allen Say.
Happy Birthday, Moon by Frank Asch.
Harold and the Purple Crayon by Crockett Johnson.
Harry the Dirty Dog by Gene Zion.
Henny Penny illustrated by Paul Galdone.
Horton Hatches the Egg by Dr. Seuss.
I Know an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly illustrated by Glen Rounds.
If You Give a Mouse a Cookie by Laura J. Numeroff.
Is It Red? Is It Yellow? Is It Blue? An Adventure in Color by Tana Hoban.
It Could Always Be Worse: A Yiddish Folktale retold and illustrated by Margot Zemach.
John Henry by Julius Lester.
The Judge: An Untrue Tale by Harve Zemach.
Julius by Angela Johnson.
Komodo! by Peter Sís.
Leo the Late Bloomer by Robert Kraus.
Little Blue and Little Yellow by Leo Lionni.
The Little Dog Laughed and Other Nursery Rhymes by Lucy Cousins.
The Little Old Lady Who Was Not Afraid of Anything by Linda Williams.
Little Red Riding Hood retold and illustrated by Paul Galdone.
Lunch by Denise Fleming.
Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile by Bernard Waber.
Madeline by Ludwig Bemelmans.
Masie Goes Swimming by Lucy Cousins.
Make Way for Ducklings by Robert McCloskey.
Martha Calling by Susan Meddaugh.
Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel by Virginia L. Burton.
Millions of Cats by Wanda Gág.
Miss Nelson Is Missing by Harry Allard and James Marshall.
Mr. Gumpy’s Outing by John Burningham.
The Monkey and the Crocodile retold and illustrated by Paul Galdone.
Morris’ Disappearing Bag by Rosemary Wells.
Mouse Paint by Ellen S. Walsh.
Mufaro’s Beautiful Daughters: An African Tale retold and illustrated by John Steptoe.
Mushroom in the Rain adapted from the Russian of V. Suteyev by Mirra Ginsburg.
The Napping House by Audrey Wood.
Officer Buckle and Gloria by Peggy Rathmann.
Old Black Fly by Jim Aylesworth.
Over in the Meadow by John Langstaff.
Owen by Kevin Henkes.
Papa, Please Get the Moon for Me by Eric Carle.
Perez and Martina by Pura Belpré. Illustrated by Carlos Sanchez.
Pierre: A Cautionary Tale by Maurice Sendak.
The Polar Express by Chris Van Allsburg.
The Random House Book of Mother Goose: A Treasury of 186 Timeless Nursery Rhymes selected and illustrated by Arnold Lobel.
Rosie’s Walk by Pat Hutchins.
Round Trip by Ann Jonas.
Rumpelstiltskin retold and illustrated by Paul O. Zelinsky.
Seven Blind Mice by Ed Young.
The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats.
Stone Soup retold and illustrated by Marcia Brown.
The Story of Babar, the Little Elephant by Jean de Brunhoff.
The Story of Ferdinand by Munro Leaf.
Strega Nona by Tomie De Paola.
Swamp Angel by Anne Isaacs.
Swimmy by Leo Lionni.
Sylvester and the Magic Pebble by William Steig.
The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter.
Ten, Nine, Eight by Molly Bang.
There’s a Nightmare in My Closet by Mercer Mayer.
The Three Billy Goats Gruff by P.C. Asbjfrnsen and J.E. Moe.
The Three Robbers by Tomi Ungerer.
Tikki Tikki Tembo retold by Arlene Mosel.
The True Story of the Three Little Pigs by A. Wolf as told to John Scieszka.
Tuesday by David Wiesner.
Two of Everything: A Chinese Folktale retold and illustrated by Lily Toy Hong.
The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle.
We’re Going on a Bear Hunt retold by Michael Rosen.
The Wheels on the Bus adapted and illustrated by Paul O. Zelinsky.
When I Was Young in the Mountains by Cynthia Rylant.
Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak.
Where’s Spot? by Eric Hill.
Whistle for Willie by Ezra Jack Keats.
Why Mosquitoes Buzz in People’s Ears: A West African Tale retold by Verna Aardema.
Zomo the Rabbit: A Trickster Tale from West Africa retold and illustrated by Gerald McDermott.

Stuff I Think Is Dumb

Pin It 1. The fact that dogs, when you take them to the kennel, you can’t just leave them there forever. Why isn’t that an option? WHY?!!? I would pay them a LOT MORE if at the end of the dog stay, they would just keep the dog and send us pictures once in a while. Alternatively, they could have a “Break the Bad News” option where upon arriving at the kennel to pick up the dog, the kennel people tell your children that Fido went to live in heaven while they were on vacation. That way, you get the whole NO DOG thing, but also, your kids wouldn’t blame you for it. (Quick, somebody write a business plan. We could be billionaires.)

2. My hair. It turns out it really DOES make a difference if you have a professional color your hair or if you try to do it yourself. A BIG difference. It's the difference between feeling like a pretty, pretty, princess and feeling like a giant dishwater colored turd.

3. I would like to announce that I have crossed over into the realm of bloggers who receive free stuff. Did I get a Dyson? No. Did I get a Wii Fit? No. I got (Are you ready for this? It's really exciting.) - a BOX OF FREE POPCORN. GLORY HALLELUJAH. I HAVE ARRIVED.

4. I think it's dumb that in large group settings with people I don't know very well, I sometimes get overly anxious and self conscious. Sometimes when I think of something to say, I get all excited to say it and instead of just SAYING IT like a normal person I get all wound up and sick to my stomach and end up blurting it all out in one overly intense, awkward ramble of words. (On the other hand, give me a microphone and a podium and not only will I not be self conscious, I will totally ROCK YOUR WORLD.)

5. Swim skirts on large women. I'm allowed to say this, because I am currently nine thousand pounds. Here's the thing. We know you're fat under there. We know this because we can see the rest of you. Trying to hide the thighs specifically is kind of pointless. Set your thighs free. Let them come out and run wild and free with your arms and your back fat. Yes, that's right. You can do it. Come on out here and join the rest of us tubbies. I may not speak for the fit people of the world, who might sometimes prefer that we hide our unsightly cellulite from view beneath a swimming burka, but seriously - we're swimming, not going to church.

What do YOU think is dumb?

Head Space

Pin It You can always tell a TRUE Anne freak. A true devotee has read not only Anne of Green Gables and Anne of the Island; she’s read all eight of the Anne books – even Rainbow Valley and Rilla of Ingleside.

Rainbow Valley is about Anne and Gilbert’s children, and also about the children of the widowed minister who lives nearby. (The book has its charms, but it’s always irritates me a bit, because once Anne and Gilbert become parents, they become almost non-entities in the Anne series.) The minister’s children are neglected, not because they are not loved, but because their father is lost in his books, in his thoughts, in his sermons, and in his head. He spends 80% of his time locked away in his study while his children run free.

His wife was the person who grounded him, who made him put down his books and connect with his children. Now that she's gone, he's dreaming his way through life. He’s a nominal presence who sees to some of their basic needs, but who isn’t present in any meaningful way.

I feel like that minister. I find it so hard to stay present. I spend my life daydreaming. I'm physically here - I take care of all of my kids needs, take them to their activities, try to spend time interacting with them and playing with them, give them tons of affection - but there are so many times when I resent their intrusion into my head space. In the car, with the music on, I want to drift off into my thoughts, not play twenty questions.

Between the time I wander around blankly (thinking about imaginary things), the time I spend writing for work, the time I spend writing not for work (yes, o.k., I’ll admit it, I’d like to write a book - well, books), and the time I spend blogging – I’m spending too much time in my own head. I do most of my writing at night, but I think about it all day long. I justify my distraction in all sorts of ways, but that’s the reality. I’m too much absorbed in my inner life. I don't want to daydream their childhood away.

And I guess I'm wondering - how much of your attention is enough? How much of your brain space do you need to give over to your children before you’re a good mom? How much can you keep without being selfish or negligent?

I don’t know.

How I Lost One of My Best Friends and Got In Touch With My Jerky Side

Pin It One of my best friends is (was?) a gal named Terri.

We met when we were about nineteen and hung out together for the next few years - sharing an apartment, a circle of friends, and a crush on the same guy. As we got older we drifted into different social circles and circumstances and gradually drifted apart, but we would still talk on the phone now and then and keep in touch. She was a bridesmaid in my wedding and drove all the way from another state to attend my baby shower.

We were the kind of friends who didn’t have to talk every month, but when we DID get around to talking, it was as if no time had passed at all, and we would laugh and giggle and feel nineteen again.

A while back she called and left me a message. It was a bad week for me. I was in the middle of two hundred things at once so I didn't call her back. It wasn’t a big deal. Sometimes we would play phone tag for weeks before actually getting in touch with each other, and it was almost never urgent.

The next week, she called me again. I was in a non-social kind of mood that day, so I didn’t call her back, but made a mental note to call her the next day. I didn’t get around to calling though, because mental notes are pretty much useless when your brain is a sieve.

The next week, she called me again. I didn’t call her back, but thought, MAN, I really need to call her back.
The next week she called me AGAIN, sounding understandably peeved. This time I thought, MAN, I really need to call her back, with a side order of wait, before I call I have to think of a good excuse for why I didn’t call her back the first three times. So I made a note to call her RIGHT AFTER I thought of a good reason.

Pllllllbbbbt.

The next week she called me again and left a message saying, “I guess you’re never gonna call me back. I don’t understand what’s going on. Are you mad at me or something?”

Ashamed of myself, I finally called her back and apologized.

Oh, except I DIDN’T. I felt dumb, because I’d created this big dramatic thing out of thin air, simply by not calling back. I was too embarrassed to call and tell her the truth - HEY, I’m sorry, I’m a lazy and THOUGHTLESS JERK. I thought she would just be mad if I called her, and I hate drama, and because I’m a cowardly coward who cowards I thought, ah, well, we never talked all that often anyway. So basically I threw our friendship away. Swish-swish-swish, into the trash. Over NOTHING.

Because I’m a self-involved idiot with the emotional maturity of a gnat.

I ask you, who DOES that??!

When I told my sisters about this on Saturday they sat and stared at me for a minute, speechless, shaking their heads at my complete and total social idiocy and dorkitude. I know they were wondering what was missing in my SOUL that I would do that to somebody. So yes, I know. I KNOW. I KNOW!!! (Don’t tell me in the comments – I KNOW! I KNOW!!!)

Why didn’t I call her? Why did I put my own feelings of embarrassment ahead of our friendship? ACK!

I know what the answer to the question is of course. I didn’t call her because I’m a JERK.

I kept thinking, you know, if I had her email address, I could just post about it and send her the link to my blog instead of calling her to apologize (like an actual grown-up). Because heaven forbid I should have to feel awkward for two-and-a-half minutes or actually ask for forgiveness for something I did to hurt someone. But that would kind of be a jerk move. Also, I don't have her email address.

So today? TWO YEARS LATER? (I KNOW - SHUT UP.) I'm going to call her.

Wish me luck. On the phone call, and on perhaps someday achieving emotional maturity.

And Then I Bought A Five Gallon Drum of Purell

Pin It Earlier this week, I helped to chaperone a preschool field trip to the Las Vegas "Zoo."

Guys? I'm using the word zoo, very, very, very loosely, here. It has animals, but it is not affiliated with the city, and not accredited, and it is also just – NOT RIGHT.

I would describe the condition of the place, but when I googled “Las Vegas Zoo -SAD” it zipped me right over to a very funny post on this blog, which describes it perfectly:

Two words come to mind when trying to describe the Las Vegas Zoo
accurately:

1. Ghetto
2. Sad (so very, very sad.)

Yeah. What she said.

What I'm really concerned about though, is the little sanitation issue they seem to be having. If bird flu ever gets off the ground, this is where it will start, because the place is COVERED with pigeon poop.

Now I’m not a germophobe. If my kid drops a piece of his sandwich on the ground, I’ll sometimes pick it up, blow it off and hand it back to him. Good for the immune system and all that.

But when we walked toward the entrance and I saw hundreds of pigeons milling about, I started to get a bit nervous. We paid our admission and once we were inside the gates, I could see that 90% of the structures were made entirely out of pigeon crap.

I was a bit disconcerted.

“Oh look,” I cried, “There’s poo EVERYWHERE.” I laughed nervously, aware that my voice was just a little too loud. I looked at one of the other moms. “Look! Poo! All this poo! It’s on everything! Oh. Wow!”

I spent the next hour trying to make sure that my children didn’t touch anything and obsessive compulsively wiping Abby and Carter's hands off. "Did you get poo on yourself?" "How about now?" "How about now?"

At one point in time the pre-school teacher tried to get the kids to sit at one of the picnic tables to have a snack and I loudly objected.

“But look! There’s poo on it.”

“They can just not touch the top of the table,” she said calmly.

I laughed loudly. “Ha ha ha ha. Um.”

“They’ll be fine.”

I laughed again. “Ha ha ha ha. It’s on the benches." I pointed at one of the kids. "Look – he’s sitting on poo! That’s – that’s – really bothering me a lot.”

After snacktime, we walked around the zoo, all three acres of it, checking out the lion, the alligator, and the chimpanzee (who delighted my children my picking his nose and eating his boogers – they GOT that, it was their kind of comedy).

Did I mention that there was a lot of poo? Everywhere?

So basically? I do not think we will be coming back.

Here are some other fun comments about the zoo, also brought to you courtesy of Mr. Google:

• This is by far the worst "zoo" I've ever been to. I have no idea why they have so many chickens running around, except maybe to eat all the mice I saw.
• This zoo is a city haven...for the pigeons.
• This zoo is a real DUMP, and the folks that run it are to blame along with the city of Las Vegas. The poor, poor animals. May God forgive you all for this sick place!!!!
• I strongly suggest just not going.

Yeah, me too, buddy. ME TOO.

And now I must be going. So little time, so many things to bleach.

Sometimes I Wear Floaties

Pin It (Alternate Title: Wow, This Got Long and Boring Very Fast - Don't Say I Didn't Warn You.)

I find it highly inconvenient that the people who pay me to write things want me to actually finish stuff. They keep giving me deadlines and expecting me to meet them. How am I supposed to blog under these conditions?

Oh. Wait.

(Sigh.)

Right now I'm supposed to be exploring the intricacies of database analysis (while resisting the urge to stab myself in the eye with a fork), but I wanted to pause for just a second to answer the burning question that is apparently on the minds of readers everywhere, judging by my email - namely, variations on the theme of "have you no shame?"

“How can you write about your financial problems? Aren’t you embarrassed?”
“People you KNOW read your blog.”
“Have a little pride.”

There are certain topics that are off-limits for the blog. (My husband: "There ARE?" Me: "Should we talk about last night, with the untimely falling asleep?" My husband: "Point taken. As you were.") Our financial struggle isn't one of them.

I'll admit it. Sometimes it can be awkward. There are a few people in my new church congregation who barely know me but who've read a little bit of my blog, thanks to my avid advance guard blog-stalking. It’s a little like going up to someone you’ve never met before and saying, “Hi! I’m bankrupt! And a hypochondriac! Let’s be friends!” And though they've been universally welcoming and friendly, I know some of them are probably not quite sure what to think.

I have old friends who read the blog, old non-friends who read the blog, and friends of my mother who read the blog. I would imagine that some of those people empathize and wish me well, but I'm sure there are also people who read with a less sympathetic eye. There are a few who I can imagine cackling and rubbing their hands together with glee. "Well, that brought her down a peg or two." (Yes. It sort of did. Congratulations.)

I write about our financial problems because it's part of our life. I write about it because writing helps me to sort through what I feel about it. I write about it because this is the one place where I try to be as honest as possible. In a way, being honest about it is almost selfish. When you stop trying to keep up a facade and open the door, people have a chance to come through it, offering support and friendship and cookies. The support I get from writing about it? It's like my very own personal floatation device.

When I was a kid, my mom would sometimes take us to a different community pool, one that had a high dive and a low dive. I loved to jump off the high dive, reveling in the frightening feeling of freefall, followed by the giant splash into the water. I’d plunge down, down, down, touch the bottom and push off toward the surface, kicking as hard as I could. Once I broke through, I'd tread water for a minute while I got my bearings, then swim for the safety of the side of the pool, delighted that I'd done it, once again.

Losing your business is kind of like that. When you first realize you are going down, and that the crash at the bottom is coming, you might wave your arms and kick and shriek, but you are already in transit. You can’t deny the pull of gravity. It’s inevitable, and all that is left for you to do is to make the best of it, to try to minimize the damage and kick for the financial surface as quickly as you can.

When you are back above water, you have to get your bearings, to reframe not only how you will make a living and where you will land financially, but who you are. Some of your identity gets stripped away because the things you always thought about yourself turn out to be not quite true.

The fairy tale you always told yourself (poor girl makes good, achieves success, keeps up with the Joneses) may not have the ending you pictured, but you learn other things about the main character - that you are more resourceful than you thought, stronger than you thought, more resilient than you thought.

My husband and I never really struggled. Things were relatively smooth sailing once we got married. We were never really sick, we got along like gangbusters right from the start, and we were never really poor. We used to talk about it sometimes, how things had been so relatively easy, and it was almost scary, like waiting for the other shoe to drop. I never really knew – was I, were we - strong enough to handle something Very Bad?

Last month we had the public creditors meeting for our bankruptcy. At that meeting, your creditors have the opportunity to question you under oath to ensure that you aren’t hiding any assets. I was – so looking forward to it. Really. I was barely able to sleep the night before because I was JUST. THAT. EXCITED.

It was anticlimactic though. No creditors attended. It was just us and the bankruptcy trustee, who asked a few questions before dismissing us.

On the way out, my husband gave my hand a comforting squeeze. “You know what this means, right?”

I sniffled. “We’re huge losers, doomed to a life of bad credit and worse teeth?”

“No. Duh.” He rolled his eyes and gave me a big cheesy smile. “It means we’re DEBT FREE.”

I gave him a dirty look.

He grinned at me. “Come on! DEBT FREE! People work their whole lives for that! And we’ve done it! We’re living the dream!”

I half smiled. “Yeah, and all we had to do was lose our business, house, cars, boat, and all of our savings! Paying bills is for SUCKERS.”

We gave each other a big hug and did the laughter through tears thing, and I thought, we're gonna be o.k.

Somewhere out there in blog land, maybe someone else is going through the same kind of stuff. Maybe she's thinking, how are we gonna get through this? If I lose my house, how will I face people? Where will we live? How can things ever be o.k. again?

If that person is reading, here's what I'd want them to know:

1. It doesn't matter what people think. It really doesn't.
2. People will always talk. About anything. About anyone. Even if I only ever blogged about potato salad, there would be people who resented my stance on mustard vs. mayo. (Pro-mustard all the way.) Try not to worry about it.
3. You can go through something like this and come out of it o.k.
4. You really can.

So get out there and swim, baby, because the water's fine.

And if you need to borrow my floaties?

They're all yours.

P.S. That weird ripply thing in the water? Not an alligator.

Yum, LARD

Pin It IMing the other evening, my friend Azucar and I somehow got to talking about the horrible, no good, very bad culinary pranks our parents liked to play on us. AZ reminded me about powdered milk and wheat gum (VOMIT). I cannot talk about that particular bit of wretchedness without having horrifying flashbacks, but luckily AZ just posted about it here.

(Ooooh, also, my sister wrote about powdered milk a few months ago on her food blog, here. I love how in the comments my brother's wife says he is still traumatized, and my mom tries to disavow her role in it. NICE TRY, MOM.)

My mom had other cooking quirks. For a while there she had this thing about gluten, or as I like to call it, wheat dregs. Once she made us gluten and oatmeal cookies. Let me repeat that. GLUTEN AND OATMEAL COOKIES. And she told us they were treats. That is NOT. RIGHT.

We were not allowed to have chips or any kind of sugary cereal. No Fruit Loops or Fruity Pebbles for us. No sireee, we ate Wheaties. Except, and I've never been able to quite figure this out - they let us put brown sugar on TOP of the Wheaties. And they would just - hand us the bag. Here kids, eat this nasty brown tasting cereal because it's good for you, except, also, HERE'S a SHOVEL and a bag of sugar - knock yourselves out. TELL ME HOW THAT MAKES SENSE.

My mom used to lock the fridge. To be fair, she did not really have a choice. There were NINE of us. Defensive measures had to be taken. She had this bungee cord and she would hook one end to the fridge handle and one end to a hook on the wall, and if you tried to open it and actually managed to get it unhooked, it would basically snap you so hard you went unconscious.

Sometimes, if the fridge was unlocked and mom was in another room, we would just rush it and take anything we could find and run away to another room where we would eat it, crouched in corners, stuffing the food into our gullets while keeping a watchful eye on the doorway. I once ate seven raw hot dogs, just because I could. Because they were there. (This explains so much about my eating philosophy. Oh, look, there it is! Hurry, hurry, hurry EAT IT NOW! EAT IT NOW! BEFORE IT'S GONE!)

I remember very clearly that my mom came after us for that one. She said, "Who ate those hot dogs? WHICH ONE OF YOU ATE THOSE HOT DOGS?! They were raw. RAW! You ate RAW MEAT. What are you?! ANIMALS?!"

I pretended to know nothing. "It wasn't me," I said. And then I threw up on her. (So I think she figured it out.)

If we were very good, my mom liked to serve a little dish she called Chocolate Treat. Chocolate Treat consisted of four ingredients. Peanut butter, unsweetened cocoa powder, powdered sugar, and a dash of milk. She mixed the ingredients together until it was the consistency of thick frosting, and gave it to us to eat with a spoon. So basically her philosophy was, "Here my children, eat Wheaties for breakfast and then you may have a nice bowl of lard."

This is me and my older sister. (I'm on the right.) See the nice healthy sheen on our hair? TOTALLY FROM THE LARD.


Ah, memories. So, what foods did your parents inflict on you?

And the Walls Come Tumbling Down

Pin It When I moved to Utah four years ago, it took me about a year to really let my guard down. People I didn't know would wave to me as we drove through the neighborhood and I had no idea what to do in response. After all, I didn't KNOW them. How could I just wave? INSANITY.

In Vegas, you don't wave to strangers on the street. In Vegas, you don't make eye contact with store clerks. In Vegas, you go about your business, are polite but distant with strangers and neighbors, and interact primarily with your family and friends.

I'm not sure if you notice it if you've lived here your whole life. You can't really understand that it isn't like that everywhere, that it isn't normal not to acknowledge a neighbor in the front yard a few houses down, or to pretend like you can't hear your neighbors out in their yard on the other side of the six foot cinder block wall. When someone points it out to you, you may not even really understand what they mean, because it's something you've always taken for granted. It's a normal distance - an unfriendliness borne not of meanness but of culture.

There are people of course, who are friendly everywhere they go, no matter where they live, no matter how other people react. They are the people who surprise you by engaging you at the grocery store, at the post office, at the park. And you may enjoy the interaction, but a part of you is saying, "That was odd. She just jumped right in and started talking to me. Wasn't that odd?"

I had to go to the bank yesterday to talk to them about a Very Important check they'd slapped a two-day hold on. It was destined for Important Things, and I desperately needed them to release the funds.

At the bank, I talked to the teller, who looked bored as she told me that actually, it was a NINE day hold.

It took me a second to process that. "What? Nine - nine days, but that's - I can't - NINE?!"

She nodded, a tired expression on her face. I'm sure she dealt with this kind of thing all the time. I'm sure she was used to people freaking out about money, taking their financial stress out on her when there was nothing she could really do about it.

"Can I talk to your manager?" I asked her quietly.

She waved her manager over and I explained as politely as I could that I could wait two days, but not nine, that in nine days, Very Bad Things would happen, and please, was there anything she could do?

The manager didn't look at me as I spoke. She kept her eyes focused on the screen, tapping the keys as she reviewed our account status. I could tell I wasn't an actual person to her, just a transaction, an interruption in her workflow. She wasn't rude or impolite, but she was detached and curt. After a minute, she shook her head. "There's nothing we can do. Your account is too new, and its an out-of-state check. It'll be released on the 22nd." She tapped another key.

The 22nd. I couldn't help it, tears welled up in my eyes.

Even though we are mostly back on our feet, with good jobs and good income, we've had to pay for so many things lately - security deposits and attorney's fees and licenses, not to mention the occasional bag of groceries, and the money seems to fly out the door faster than we can earn it. But this check - THIS was supposed to be the one that gave us breathing room.

I felt overwhelmed, pushed past my capacity to deal with everything that had happened in the last year. I could handle the bankruptcy, I could handle losing our business, but this one little check was going to push me right over the edge and into a nervous breakdown, I could feel it.

She finally looked over at me, and was obviously startled at my expression and the tears in my eyes.

"Please, isn't there anything you can do?" I said with as much dignity as I could muster, given the way my nose was running.

She stared back at me for a second and her eyes softened. "Let me see." She walked over to another computer and started typing.

I waited nervously, watching as Abby and Carter charmed the loan officer into giving them suckers. The teller really looked at me now, and made sympathetic small talk.

A few minutes later, the manager returned. "I was able to release the funds - all of them." She smiled at me, a real, honest to goodness up-to-the-eyes warm smile, as though I was a friend and not just some random stranger, and I suddenly wanted to bake her cookies.

I tried to smile at her through my tears. "Thank you so much. Thank you. You have no idea - this really - I really appreciate this..." I showered grateful thanks on her, on the teller, on the loan officer.

"No problem," she said, and she shook my hand. She looked genuinely happy to have been able to help.

I took Abby's hand, took Carter's hand, and we walked out of the bank. I was smiling from ear to ear (groceries! gas! wheeeee!), and not just because of the money.

I know it wasn't a big thing. It wouldn't even qualify as a Hallmark moment. A bank manager helped me out, overrode policy - big whoop-de-doo. But the thing is - for a minute she really SAW me.

It meant something to me.

We forget to really LOOK at the people around us. We get so cynical. We learn too many hard lessons about people, and we shut out everyone but those who are closest to us. We save our mental and emotional energy for the people we love, and pretend that the other people we deal with (the checker we fail to acknowledge at the grocery store, the lady we cut off in traffic, the crossing guard we ignore) aren't really REAL people, they're just obstacles in our day.

I'm not saying we should talk to every stranger who crosses our path; but we can acknowledge them, can't we? Acknowledge that we see them, and acknowledge our shared humanity? Smile at someone? Nod politely as we pass each other?

Simple things. Baby steps. That's how it starts, right?

Because as it turns out - that whole Love Thy Neighbor thing? Has its merits.

Hilarious Blogs You May Not Know About Written By People Who Should Totally Be My New Best Friends (Call Me!)

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Need a good laugh? Visit these people:

Kacy, because she feels about her hamster like I feel about my dog

Nicki, because we both have serial killers after us

Heidi, because everything she writes makes me laugh

COMMENTS OFF (Twice in one week? Yes my friends, the Apocalypse is clearly at hand.)

A List for my Mother

Pin It Thanks for making me practice the piano, even when I had an absolute fit about it, screaming like a banshee as you grimly dragged me back to the keyboard.

Thanks for insisting that we, "for heavens sake, turn off the TV and go play outside." I don't remember much about the shows we protested over, but I remember playing with my brothers and sisters and friends - cops and robbers on bikes, don't-touch-the-ground tag in the backyard, rollerskating up and down the street with packs of neighborhood children.

Thank you for dragging the whole brood of us to the library, over and over and over again, and for unlocking my imagination by introducing me to the Boxcar Children, Mrs. Pigglewiggle and The Little Princess, to Roald Dahl and Anne of Green Gables.

Thanks for making me take swimming lessons - for chasing my six year old self around the pool as I screamed "I DON'T WANT TO DIE!" Later, when we spent summer after summer at the rec center pool, I was grateful that you'd been so VERY MEAN.

Thank you for getting me the pink, poofy, STORE-BOUGHT dress I so desperately wanted for my seventh birthday. I will never forget the feeling of a wish truly, sweetly fulfilled.

Thanks for singing with us, for filling the house with music, for letting us do crazy Broadway style dancing in the living room (not even visibly wincing as we leaped on and off the furniture), and for being the attentive audience for an infinite number of impromptu talent shows in the family room.

Thanks for helping me clear off that branch on the mulberry tree because I was in love with the quirkiness of the idea of sitting there to read, and for letting me read there for hours every day when I probably should have been doing chores.

Thanks for sometimes pretending not to notice when I would read in bed at night, flashlight under the covers. Now when I catch my own daughter reading chapter books in the hallway long after she should be sleeping, I smile. (Well, o.k., sometimes I yell GET IN BED, but - you know, lots of other times I smile.)

Thanks for teaching me what it means to look on the bright side. (I think I'm finally FINALLY getting it.)

You know all those times I screamed and lied and had tantrums and was ungrateful and mean and just generally a little snot? Thanks for letting me survive into adulthood. I can't imagine raising nine children and not going stark, raving mad. The fact that we are all alive and in one piece today is kind of miraculous.

There have been times when I judged you harshly. Kids are good at keeping score, at weighing and measuring their slights and hurts. All too often I kept track of all of the things that seemed unfair, storing them up so that I could throw them back at you during our many arguments, all the while swearing I will never do that to my children.

And now each time my children are angry with me, when they shout, "That's not fair," and tell me how I've hurt their feelings, I learn a little more about what a tough job it can be, and how well you managed to do it, and I pray that my own children will be more forgiving than I sometimes was.

Thank you for the countless things you've done for me - and for all of us.

I love you Mom. Happy Mother's Day.

COMMENTS OFF

My Ears Are Broken

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Mom, can I play 'puter? Why not? Why not? I wanna. I wanna play it. I wanna play da guy who takes da word and shocks it POW and goes up high and makes a beep and you get a star and it goes bigger and da guy turns into a monkey. Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on. Let me do it. Mom, COME ON.

(Five minutes later, climbing on me) Oh, mom, I love you. Why you so sweet? Huh? Yous a sweet mommy. Let me hold yours face. Let me kiss yours nose. You so cute. Look at me. Look at me. I love you. I love you. I love you. Mom, I love you. I love you. I love you. Hey, mom, I’m gonna play 'puter. Why? Why? WHY? BUT I LOVE YOU! LET ME PLAY DA 'PUTER!

(Later) Oh Mom, I love you. Gimme me a hug. Gimme me a kiss. Gimme me anudder hug. Hold me. Hold me up. No, not sittin' down. Standin' up. Hold me standin' up. Standin' up. HEY, I SAID STANDIN' UP. Aaaaaaa! AAAAAAGH! STAND UP! NOW!

I don’t wanna go in my room. I won’t! No! Never! NEVAH! NEVAAAAAH! Hey, put me down. Put me down. HEY, I SAID PUT ME DOWN. I won’t stay in here. I won’t. I won't! NEVAH! LET ME OUT!

Hey, mom, I want lunch. Turkey sandwich wit crusts OFF. I didn't want it cut like that. NOT LIKE THAT. AAAAAAAH! Hey! Where you takin' me? Hey! Put me down!

(creeping out of room) Hey mom, look at this. Look at this picture. You like it? It’s for you. Hey mom, look at this. Look at this picture. You like that? Hey mom, look, another picture. Do you love it? Do you love it? Do you love it?

Hey mom, look at this. Look at my finger. Look at my car. Look at my army guy. Look at my shirt. Look at my eye booger. Look. Look. Look. Look. Hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom.

HEY MOM.

Accidents Happen, Part II (This Time Not Fictional)

Pin It I'm ALIVE and feeling much better. Thank you for the well wishes and the comments (and the sometimes a little bit scary intensity). I have been watching the comments on my last post with excitement, gratitude and fascinated interest, but I have not had time to post because I was in an accident yesterday.

DUN. DUN. DUN.

I was backing out of my garage when I was completely blindsided by a large truck.

Luckily, I'm fine. There is a hole in our bumper, but there were no injuries. I keep reminding my husband that he should be grateful I'm alive, but he keeps rolling his eyes at me.

O.k., so technically, it was our truck that I hit, and technically, it was just sitting there behind me in the driveway. So I guess it wasn't really that I was blindsided as much as that I - sort of forgot the truck was there.

(Hey, I had IMPORTANT THOUGHTS in my brain. You try writing the great American novel in your head and also not hitting stuff with your car. It's HARD.)

Besides, it was kind of sneaky of my husband to just park it there in the driveway. Usually he parks on the street. He was kind of asking for it. I did NOT point this out to him when I told him what had happened:

Me: "Honey, I hit the truck."
Husband, staring at me blankly: "With what?"
Me: "With the car."
Husband, spluttering: "How did - how - it was parked - did you even --"
Me: "Um."
Husband, now examining hole in the car: "How did you not see it?"
Me: "I'm not sure."
Husband: "Did you look?"
Me: "I'm sorry?"

This is the hole I made in the bumper:



To my husband's credit, he didn't get angry, he just sighed a lot. He had to know it was coming. It's been almost ten years since I've been in an actual accident. Granted, I tend to run into stuff, but it's usually it's more like - a house or a building or something.

NOTE: Things I've run into: the house, the boat, the car, the garage door, a pole, the door of a loading dock, a shopping cart holder thingie, my bicycle, and my husband (I TOTALLY didn't see him.)

Oh, I just remembered something. When I was 19, I stopped at a 7-11 to get a Big Gulp. When I was done, I pulled out of the parking lot, looked to my left, saw that it was clear and proceeded to make a right turn - directly into into a parked public transit bus.

The bus driver came out of the bus and had pretty much the same reaction that my husband had.

Him: "How did you not see it? It's a BUS."

Me: "Um."

I did not want to tell him the real reason - that 95% of my functioning brain cells were currently devoted to thinking about boys, and it had not occured to me to look to my right. (In my defense, I DID look left. So if you want to look on the bright side, I was actually half-right.)

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In other news, my weight loss efforts are off to a fine start.

The other day I somehow found myself at Golden Spoon (as you do), a nearby frozen yogurt place. Basically it's ice cream, but they try to make you feel all virtuous and healthy for eating it, which would be fine if I wasn't eating enough for four people and topping it with cookies and chocolate sauce.

Once inside, I stood in front of the counter for a WHILE, trying to figure out what would be more virtuous, calorie-wise: a Mini vanilla with yogurt chips or a Small vanilla with strawberries. Standing there, I started thinking about how many miles I would have to walk to burn off the calories in that yogurt. It dawned on me that I could NOT eat the yogurt and that would save me a LOT more calories. I could walk out. I could put the spoon down. I could do it.

And so you know what I did?

I ate the MEDIUM yogurt, and then also, I put snickers on it.

So really, this isn't so much a weight loss victory story. It's more like - a cautionary tale. Because once I start thinking like that, denying myself stuff that is more or less healthy (shut up) and fits within my calorie budget/plan for the day, I'm headed for a downward spiral of disordered thinking ("even fewer calories if you throw it up" "even fewer calories if you don't eat anything at all, all day," "hey, I've heard people on meth lose a lot of weight,") and I give up.

I'm a regular font of inspiration, I know. You're welcome.