Why My Children Will Need Therapy - Reason #462

Pin It (Thanks to the foot post, I now know more about poop and fish eyes than I ever, EVER wanted to know. You're all DISGUSTING. Or rather, your children and animals are disgusting, but in a kind of awesome way. So there's that.)

I must preface this post by saying - I love my daughter and I am NOT AFRAID OF HER.

Still.

The other night I was sitting at my computer in the middle of the night, typing clickety-clack, clickety-clack and chortling to myself, when I felt this PRESENCE.

I looked to my left and the girl from The Ring was standing RIGHT THERE, two inches from my face and I screamed in terror. Except, OOPSIE, it was actually my six year old.

(See, she’s really pale, with long dark hair, and when she’s had a nightmare, she has crazy eyes. So you see how it could happen... Right? Um... Right? Hello? Is this thing on?)

For years I’ve worried about what kinds of things my children will say about me in therapy as adults, and I think for Sarah, it will probably stem from that moment, when I scared the living daylights out of her.

She cried, and I felt like a monster, and slapped myself several times because GET IT TOGETHER WOMAN, she’s your darling, tender hearted, sweet, kind, brilliant daughter. And then I took her back to bed and stayed with her until she fell asleep.

But then. BUT THEN.

Last night, there I was in my bed, innocently sleeping and minding my own business, when again, I felt this PRESENCE. I woke up and looked to my left, and sweet mother of a badger, there she was again, staring at me with the crazy eyes.

“I had a bad dream,” she whispered, in a creepy zombie voice. (Or possibly it was just a scared six year old voice. My imagination - now and then it tends to run up and down the hall, waving its arms and screaming in terror.)

I bit back my screams, held out my arms and she crawled into bed with me. I spooned her and patted her back while she told me about her dream about a poisonous snake in the house.

“How long were you standing there?” I whispered.

“A long, long, long time, mommy,” she whispered back.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

She turned around and looked at me serenely and yet still with the crazy eyes, then said, “I was trying to wake you up with my MIND.”

Um. Ahem. Well. I see.

You know, I love my child, but from 1AM until approximately 3AM (the premium creepy hours), I think I might be just a leeettle bit afraid of her.

In Which I Attempt To Get A Piece of the Blogging Pie

Pin It DUDES. (I love saying that. It's so stupid, but so awesome. DUDES.)

I think my vacuum just died. It's sort of a relic - a Hoover Wind Tunnel circa 1996. Oh man, I'll bet some of you were (give me strength) eight years old when I bought that vacuum. (That is just - not right. Don't tell me if you were eight years old, o.k.? Because then I'll have to start with the moaning and the "woe is me, I'm so old, death is soon upon me" garbage.)

So. Recently it started making a really nasty burning smell when I run it, and it doesn't seem to realize that the mission of a vacuum is to suck up stuff off of the carpet. I've checked out all of the obvious things, and nothing seems to help. I don't think it's really doing ANYTHING at this point, other than gathering up the courage to explode.

Now see, here is where I wish my blog was bigger. As I pointed out to Amy yesterday in the comments of her Valspar post, there is no use in having a (sort-of, kind of, maybe-at-some-point-in-the-future) popular blog if companies don't feel compelled to send you free crap. That is actually my whole goal in life right now - to eventually become Shannon from Rocks in My Dryer.

(If I ever were to reach that particular pinnacle, I would regularly hold contests where I "gave stuff away" that companies sent to me, except I think I would actually KEEP all the stuff and just pretend to give it away. Or demand that the companies send me two of everything. And then keep both of them and give the extras away for Christmas.) (Possibly this is why companies don't send me anything.)

So, back to the vacuum. This is the part where the fine folks at Dyson, or Hoover, or - I don't know, even what I've read is the vacuum company of the devil, Kirby, (good gravy, I never knew there was so much inter-brand vacuum drama - it's like Coke vs. Pepsi all over again), should really just dive in and send me a free vacuum. It just makes good business sense.

So here is what I propose: Whichever company offers to send me a vacuum first, then - THEY ARE THE WINNER. So it's like - if you send me a vacuum, you get bragging rights. Because you won. Something. Kind of.

I mean, I can see how it could get out of hand. Give one blogger a vacuum, and soon, all the mommy bloggers are lining up for their free vacuum too. But I have a solution to that problem. Just give ME the free vacuum, and not anyone else. (See how easy that is?)

So Dyson (or Hoover) (or the company which shall not again be named) I am sure you CANNOT WAIT to participate in this fine opportunity. I will just sit here and wait to be contacted.

I'm sure it will be anyday now.

Hopefully soon.

(There's a lot of crap on my carpet.)

P.S. Um, also - Lexus? I once read about how some car company let some blogger borrow a car for a year. If you would like to get in on some of that action, I am totally here for you. And I would promise to write happy little Lexus oriented posts every day for, oh, at least a week. After that, no guarantees because I would probably get distracted by something shiny. So hey, Lexus - CALL ME. XOXO

P.P. S. Oh, lovely readers - I am sure many of you are sitting there thinking - oh, man, I wish I could do something to help Sue in her quest for free stuff. Because it's not like any of you have LIVES or anything. In fact, I'm guessing that what you each really want to do with your precious free time right now is help me get a free vacuum.

Well, TODAY IS YOUR LUCKY DAY because there is something you can do to help. What you can do is just link to my post from your blog, and there will be such a tidal wave of linkage to my blog that it will rise up above all of the other blogs, and the other pleas for free stuff, and Dyson (or Hoover) will be overwhelmed by the mightyness of my blog and they will have to SUBMIT TO MY WILL. Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.

Anyone up for it? Anyone? Oh.

No? Not really?

FINE. BE THAT WAY.

P.P.P.S. Is there anyone you would shill for in exchange for free stuff?

It's My Blog and I'll Cry If I Want To

Pin It Tonight after putting the kids in bed I sat down to make a list of the things I'm grateful for, hoping it would help me to put things in perspective.

(Sigh.)

Pretty much the only thing I came up with for today, specifically, was that nobody was attacked by rabid flying monkeys.

(It wasn't really a very inspiring list.)

After that, I made a list of things I could do to improve our situation:

- Find friends for my children
- Finish getting things organized
- Get them involved in activities to keep them busy and happy
- Binge a lot

Oh, I know it may not sound like it, but I really am trying so hard to hold it together. I'm trying to stay positive and trying to encourage them to "bloom where they're planted" as the cliche goes. I know this is a nice neighborhood, with perfectly nice people. I know we can be happy here. I'm not sure how or when, but I know it's possible.

In Relief Society (a church class for women) all of the women were friendly and kind - in the way that you're friendly and kind to new people before you go sit with your real friends. To be fair, I sat down by myself in the middle of the back row and didn't make an effort to talk to anyone around me. I'm not particularly shy, and normally I would have tried to reach out a little, but I was feeling beaten down by life and self-indulgently sorry for myself, so I sat there and pouted instead.

A playgroup sign-up list went around the room and I signed it, my hands clammy with anxiety. A PLAYGROUP. This might solve at least twelve of my problems. I had a million questions for the woman sitting in front of me (WHERE? WHEN? HOW SOON? TOMORROW? TONIGHT? WHEN?!!), but she didn't have any answers. (And possibly I scared her a little with my inappropriate intensity about the topic.)

If the playgroup doesn't pan out, I do have an emergency back-up plan. At church they handed out a list of women in the neighborhood complete with pictures and email addresses and I think I'm just going to make a complete freak of myself by emailing everyone in the ward. (Sometimes having no shame or sense of social decorum is a net positive.)

I even resorted to blog-stalking (after my sister-in-law spilled the blog addresses for a few of the women), leaving messages like, "Um, Hi, I live in your neighborhood, and I'm not weird or anything, but I just wanted to say Hi! P.S. I see from your blog that you have children. Would they like to come over this afternoon?" Oddly, they haven't responded. Apparently, contacting complete strangers on their blogs and inviting their children over to play is frowned upon in some circles.

The truth is, I'm not in the mood to start over - to gradually meet people, to eventually become friends with them, to even more eventually become very good friends with some of them. The thought of it (of having to wade through the small talk and artifice before we can get to know each other; of the whole back and forth and trial and error of developing new friendships) exhausts me. My heart is not in it. I know there are lots of wonderful, interesting people in our new neighborhood, and that in a year or so, I won't be able to imagine not knowing them. I know that.

Right now though? I just want my OLD friends back - people who know me and like me anyway. I miss my neighbors - who don't sprint for the garage as soon as they emerge from their cars. I miss being able to look out the back door and see a crowd of kids for my children to play with. I want my old neighborhood back - with trees and grass and open spaces. I want a fairy to descend from the sky, hand me a million dollars and make everything better. That's what I want.

(Closes eyes, makes wish:) Make it so.

(Opens eyes, looks around)

Drat.

Oh, GROSS.

Pin It Oh. Hi there! GLAD YOU STOPPED BY. (I don't know why I typed that in all caps. Just because I'm REALLY GLAD.)

Recently, I have had some people* accuse me of never talking about anything important. Why use your blog to discuss so many shallow things, when you could be using it as a FORUM, they ask me. A FORUM for discussing Important Issues. (To which I respond - um, have you read my blog? Ever?)

But I do not want to be accused of never tackling the hard issues, so today, I will attempt to answer an age-old question - one that children and teenagers and certain very immature adults have tried to answer for many tens of years: "What's grosser than gross?"

(I mean - sure - we could talk about world peace, but I think that's sort of been done to death, don't you?)

So please keep in mind - when I tell you this story, I'm doing it FOR THE WORLD.

The other day I gave myself a pedicure. I always have to give myself a pre-pedicure pedicure, to sort of - take the initial winter crust off, so to speak. No way am I going to just - show up at the nail salon with my feet in their natural condition. (The horror.) They give me enough crap as it is, what with the clucking and the whispering and the aggrieved expressions.

On the bright side, the house we are renting has soft water and it's done wonders for my skin and my feet, making them no longer impervious to the effects of the foot razor callous thingie. (I think that's it's official name.) (I LOVE those things. There is something hypnotic about watching the skin peel off. It's like pulling off rubber cement you've let dry on your hand, or peeling off sunburned skin.) (Hmmmm. That last one - that's actually kind of gross. Gross, but nevertheless fascinating and addictive.)

So anyway, I was sitting there using the foot razor callous thingie to unveil the new skin underneath (like opening a present that's been wrapped in REALLY disgusting paper) and flicking the dead skin off onto a towel. My son chose that precise moment to fall or walk into a wall or something (I can't remember what happened exactly), and when I heard him crying I had to very quickly abandon my repulsive little project. As I got up, I accidentally dislodged the towel and dead skin went flying all over the bathroom floor. I groaned, but went to check on Carter.

After ensuring all of his limbs were still firmly attached, I came back into the bathroom.

Gah.

You guys.

My dog was there.

And he was LICKING the dead skin off of the floor and eating it.

Enthusiastically.

I think I dry heaved for ten minutes.

(My floor is really clean though.)

(Top that.) (Er, but only top it if it's rated PG.) (Think of the CHILDREN.)


* Fictional people

The Evolution of Packing

Pin It I wrote this post back when we were in the middle of packing, but I couldn't upload my pictures, so I'm inflicting it on you now. (Because one thing I know people can never quite get enough of is bloggers who whine about packing.) (Yes, that was sarcasm.) You're welcome.

-----------------------------
(DISCLAIMER: It is possible that back when these conversations took place, they involved more swearing. And possibly they involved throwing newspaper at each other. And then again with the swearing.)

(BONUS DISCLAIMER: That is, unless you are reading this and you are a) my mother, b) my next door neighbor, or c) someone I know from church. Because if you are one of those groups of people, you know that I NEVER SWEAR.)

-----------------------------
Packing, Day One:

"Hon, come take a look at this."

"What?"

I show him my box. "My system. I think it's gonna help us stay organized when we move into the new house."

He looks at me skeptically. "I don't think we need a system."

"But this is a good one. Let me explain it to you. See, first I write the name of the room it goes in, and then I write what's in the box."


He snorts. "That's not a system. That's just - writing down what's in the box."

I stare at him. "Well, I write it on every side of the box. And I write the name of the room it goes in."

"Still not a system."

"It's sort of a system."

"It's not a system."

"It is."

"O.k. But it's a dumb system."

I throw something at him.

---------------------
Packing, Day Three:

My husband points to a box. "What's this? There's nothing written on it."

I grab my marker and label it. "Happy now?"

---------------------
Packing, Day Five:

"We forgot to pack the underwear that was sitting in the dryer."

"We're out of boxes. Toss it."

"The kids kind of need underwear."

"FINE." I grab a garbage bag and hand it to him, mumbling under my breath. "Do we have to take EVERYTHING?"

"That's sort of the idea behind moving." He looks at the bag. "How are we gonna know which bag is which?"

I shoot him an incredulous look. "We AREN'T. Does it MATTER? What are you - the labeling police?"

He backs out of the room slowly.

-----------------------------
Packing, Day Seven:

My husband wanders into the room. "Where's the tape?

"We're out of tape."

"Where are the markers?"

"Awww... It's so cute that you think I might know."

"So I'm gathering the system is --"

"It wasn't really a system."

"THANK YOU."

Through the Looking Glass

Pin It A couple of days ago my daughter discovered the medicine cabinets in her new bathroom. Our old house didn’t have medicine cabinets and she thought they were fantastic. She deemed them secret doors and opened and shut them over and over again, hiding something new inside each time. After a minute, I showed her how she could see herself from a whole bunch of different angles by tilting the mirrored door toward the mirror on the wall. She stared at herself in fascination and I remembered something I hadn’t thought of in years.

When I was little I would lock myself in the bathroom, climb up on the sink and sit there staring at my reflection for a long time. Part of the time I was trying to decide whether or not I was cute enough to be on TV. I thought (with all of the self centered vanity of a six year old) that overall I was pretty darn cute, with big eyes and blonde hair, but I was not quite sure about my nose, which was not buttonish, perky, or upturned. Was it a TV quality nose? I wasn’t sure.

It was important for me to figure it out, because more than anything, I wanted to take over Holly Marshall’s role on Land of the Lost. I thought she was awful and stilted, and I just knew that if the people in charge got a look at me in action, I would be in, and she would be out. No question. After all, I was an excellent actress. I knew this because I was able to tell adults absolute whoppers without ever getting caught. Still, I would practice making faces in the mirror, trying out different emotions and examining my face for believability.

I would start looking in those mirrors and I would become transfixed. Not by my face, but by the reflection of the reflection. The reflections would double in on themselves until they almost didn’t look like me. The girl I saw off in the distance looked different, prettier, richer – luckier. But when I closed the mirror she disappeared.

I was sure the mirror girl really existed. I was sure that when I closed the medicine cabinet she was off in her parallel universe, one with a pink canopy bed, voice lessons and a starring role on Broadway in Annie. Sometimes I would press my head to the mirror and I would think, if I hold my head here long enough, I will get through the mirror and I will be in her world.

It became a game – inventing little tests for myself. If I completed the test and wished as hard as I could, I would get through. If I stay submerged in the tub for twenty seconds without hearing any noise… If I can make my way around the house without touching the ground... If I can walk through the whole house while looking down into a mirror so that it looks as though I’m walking on the ceiling… But inevitably in the middle of one of my tests someone would call my name, or make noise, or ask me what I was doing and it would be ruined, all ruined. It was like that old movie, Somewhere in Time, where Christopher Reeve travels back into the past through sheer force of will, but gets called back to the present and torn away from his true love when he catches a glimpse of a present day penny. For me every stray voice was a penny, bringing me back to the reality of what I felt was a very ordinary, non-shiny life.

After a while, the mirrors lost their allure. As a teenager I felt awkward and ugly and had no desire to look at myself from multiple angles. When I did catch a glimpse of the girl in the mirror, she seemed to be going through just as awkward a time of it as I was. Still, sometimes, on very bad days, I would lean against the mirror and wish for something different, something shinier.

Even now, when I’m stressed, I will go into the bathroom, close my eyes and rest my head on the coolness of the mirror, and until recently, I’d completely forgotten why. (Isn’t it funny how certain actions can be comforting long after we’ve forgotten why they were comforting in the first place?)

I guess sometimes we all want to climb inside. We want our lives, our families, our friends - but we want things to be smoother, less complicated, less bumpy - gleaming like the surface of a polished mirror. Yeah - the bumps teach us, they shape us, they mold us - I KNOW. But they also just kind of suck, and we all get tired of them, sunday school lessons notwithstanding.

This week I'll be at the old house in Utah, wrapping things up and giving it a final scrubbing. If you happen to see me out in the backyard, trying to do three cartwheels and then a somersault, all in a perfect line, or trying to make it all the way around the yard without touching the ground, rest assured that I haven't lost my mind completely, I'm just - wishing a little.

Movement

Pin It I keep trying to write about leaving Utah, about leaving our neighborhood, about leaving our friends, about saying goodbye, about all of the wonderful gestures and genuinely sweet moments of friendship - and each time I try it makes me feel weepy. I'll write about it another day, when it doesn't make my throat ache and my eyes well up with tears.

We packed up our moving truck on Thursday night, drove to Las Vegas on Friday, and moved in on Saturday morning. I was relieved to see that the house (which I'd never seen in person) is really very nice. The dining room is carpeted, which perplexes me more than a little, but the kitchen is pretty amazing - full of appliances I have no earthly idea how to use. I'm not sure what to do with a convection microwave or a trivection oven. I don't even know what trivection means. I only know that I'm fairly certain that at some point, something will explode in there.

The kids are a little painfully tender right now. They keep crying over little things - little things that are really all about the same thing when you get right down to it. Carter cried tonight because he was nervous in his new room, and when I sat down next to him he told me he just wanted his old room back, and his old house, and his old toilet. Abby cried because we didn't have time today to go see her new baby cousin, who has the same name as her pre-school friend, a friend she "will never see again, never never never."

But then tonight after dinner my husband puttered around with a screwdriver, I organized stuff, Abby drew, Carter stripped down to his underwear and Sarah practiced the piano.

It was normal. It was good. It was almost boring.

I'm feeling hopeful. Cross your fingers for us.

Change of Heart

Pin It Guys, I'm sorry. I'm afraid I had to delete my last post. I suddenly realized - if any of my friends/neighbors saw my whining about packing, they might decide to drop by and help me pack. And that would be incredibly embarrassing.

"Hey Sue, where's the trash?"

"Right here - Oh. Um. That's my strainer."

"But it's all smashed and broken and --"

"Yeah. Well it still works pretty well."

"Oh. I see."

"Right."

"Uh.... What about this - melted old spoon?"

"Oh. Well. We still like to use that sometimes."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Awesome friend smiles awkwardly as she tries to figure out what is trash and what is actual stuff.

So, friends - NO NEED TO STOP BY TO HELP. EVERYTHING IS UNDER CONTROL.

SORT OF.

JUST IGNORE ANY HOWLING NOISES.

IT'S PROBABLY JUST THE DOG.


P.S. When I find my camera I will have to post a whole series of mushiness about leaving, and my wonderful friends, and the kids, and the whole - moving THING. (I know, you are biting your fingernails in anticipation, aren't you? I can tell.)

Pillow Talk

Pin It

“Honey, I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Do you really?”

“Yes.”

“REALLY?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

He turns over. “Do we have to do this right now?”

“HONEY. I’m just saying - I really, REALLY love you. I really do.”

“You mean, as opposed to my fake love.”

“I know you love me, but I love you so much that sometimes I think my head might explode. I love you so much that if we weren’t already married I might stalk you. That’s the kind of love I’m talking about. Do you love me like that?”

(Long silence) “Hon, I’m really tired.”

“Clearly, our love is dead.”

“Go to sleep.”

“How can I sleep knowing you’re all cold and dead inside?”

“Try.”

“If I had a stroke, would you put me in a home?”

He fake snores.

I steal back some covers. “Fine. I'll leave you alone. But I can't believe you won’t even say those three little words before we go to sleep.”

“I ALREADY DID.”

“But you didn't really MEAN them."

“Here’s three words for you, and I really, really mean them: YOU’RE A DORK.”

“So romantic.”

“And yet, so true.”

I'm Still Alive...

Pin It I keep meaning to blog. Funny little things happen and I think about writing about them, but when I sit down to write, I just want to spill sadness all over my blog.

We're busy packing and organizing. I'm spending a lot of time doing what I've done ever since I was little to cope with stress (um, besides eating) - making list upon list upon list of things to do. I keep thinking that if I can get all of the things on the list done, everything will be o.k. The lists don't just contain the obvious things like turning utilities off and forwarding the mail, they contain things like "take pictures of the kids with their friends," "play outside as much as possible on Friday," and "make the last few days special" (something I'm just not sure how to do, in the middle of packing and organizing and cleaning).

Carter is extremely confused about the boxes and the whole concept of the move. I know he's going to be very upset once he realizes this is permanent. I packed a few of his teddy bears, ones that sit up on a high shelf in his room, and he became nearly hysterical, so I've decided to wait until the day before we move to pack up his things. The girls are apprehensive but also a little bit excited. We've promised to visit (a promise I'm taking extremely seriously) and I think that's helping them to feel better about the move.

I've been working very hard to keep a stiff upper lip, to look forward to the good stuff, to try to keep the kids excited and positive. I've tried to be glass half full about it. But last night after my husband and I crawled into bed after packing a few boxes, I just fell apart and cried and cried and cried.

I don't want to make them leave. The weather has been beautiful and they've been playing outside with their friends for hours and hours every afternoon and evening. My daughter and her friends made a "scrapbook" - really just a few blank pieces of paper stapled together. Inside they had written letters to each other about how much they love each other and swearing they will always be "best best best always friends." It breaks my heart a little more each time they get a little sad and write something new inside.

And my heart is selfishly breaking a little for myself as well. I love my friends here. The women I've met here are amazing. Smart, talented, accomplished, kind, friendly, compassionate. Women who are great examples. Women who have children who are great examples. I love this place. I love these people.

I know we'll be fine, once this last week is behind us and we are settled into the very nice new home we've leased, in a nice neighborhood around the corner from a park and a library and the school. When I see that the kids are settling in with friends and family I'll feel better, I know. My husband will start his dream job, and I'll be working entirely from home again - all good stuff. I'll get to be around family and old friends. We'll make new friends in our new neighborhood, and I'm sure in no time at all, we'll love it.

But right now, every night as I cross things off my list, my heart whispers over and over again, "I don't want to leave."

I don't want to leave.

My Husband is a Patient, Patient Man

Pin It

“Hon, I think I have narcolepsy.”

“You don’t have narcolepsy.”

“But it says right here on Wikipedia ---“

(muttering) “Oh freakin’ A. Here we go...”

“It says a person with narcolepsy is likely to become drowsy or to fall asleep, often at inappropriate times and places.“

“(silence due to excessive eye rolling)”

“Oh my gosh. That’s SO ME.”

“That’s so everybody. That’s called – being an adult with small children.”

“And it says daytime naps may occur without warning and may be physically irresistible... Holy crap. I TOTALLY HAVE NARCOLEPSY.”

“You don’t have narcolepsy.”

“But what do you call it when I fall asleep instantaneously after I lie down?”

“Really, really annoying.”

Chagrin

Pin It My husband and I have been talking about money a lot lately - what to pay, who to put off, whether or not power and water are really all that necessary - you know, all of the fun stuff you have to weigh when money gets really tight. It all got kind of overwhelming for a while and we forgot to watch what we were saying in front of the children.

The other night when we were driving home from the grocery store, Sarah asked if we could go to McDonalds. I said something dismissive about not having enough money. I meant that I didn’t have the cash on me, but didn’t think about how it would sound to her.

When we got home, Sarah came and sat down next to me. Her six year old eyes solemn, she said, “Here mom, now you don’t have to worry about money anymore,” and she handed me a plastic bag. Inside were crumpled dollar bills, the ten dollar bill she got from her grandparents for her birthday and assorted quarters and nickels and dimes and pennies.

I gave her a huge hug while I pulled myself together, and then we had a long, reassuring (I hope) talk. Afterward, I went into the hallway and smacked my head against the wall a few times, just to make sure the lesson was well and truly knocked into my head.

And it is. They teach me stuff every single day, ya know?

For Sale

Pin It We put our house back on the market. We figure we might as well give it one last ditch effort, now that it's spring and the Utah market is starting to actually do something.

Hey! Maybe one of you would like to buy it, do ya think? Yes? Yes?

No?

Oh. Well, I'll show it to you anyway, since any internet stalkers lurking out there won't be able to track us down anyway - what with the whole MOVING thing. (DANG it.)

It's a lovely 4700 square foot home on a quarter acre with five bedrooms, four bathrooms, and a lovely hickory and alder kitchen with a travertine backsplash, granite countertops and stainless steel appliances... (Don't I sound JUST like a real estate flyer? It would make sense, since I've been trying to sell this flippin' house for the last YEAR.) (Um, sorry, did that sound bitter? I didn't really mean it to sound bitter. I'm not bitter at all. No siree. Not me.) (Stop looking at me like that.)

The house comes with a really fun backyard with a playset and lots of built-in friends for your children. (See the last few posts if you have any questions about my feelings on that topic.)


The home has beautiful finish work and custom paint (paint the homeowner picked out herself, because she was under the impression she would be LIVING there for the rest of her life and - - - - OOPS, sorry, having a moment there).
So anyway... Nice room.

The family room adjoins the kitchen and has a lovely stacked stone fireplace and alder mantle. I love the fireplace SO MUCH. (ACK, excuse me while I choke on the bile in my throat. Ahem. Sorry, I'm better now.)


There's other cool stuff, like a big playroom with a built-in window seat and a spacious basement for all of your random stuff, but I'll spare you the pictures.

Sigh.

Honestly, it's just a house. A house is a house is a house. And as much as I don't really want to leave,

I'm praying REALLY HARD that it sells. Quickly. Super quickly. Miraculously quickly even. Like, before the bank comes calling. Selling it won't solve our problems, but it would be nice to not completely destroy the property values for the folks who are still gonna live here after we leave.

But if we DO have to give it to the bank instead of selling it, would I be completely out of line to dismantle the fireplace rock by rock and take it with me to Las Vegas, do ya think?

Yeah, I thought so.

Comment Requested

Pin It I want to make a comment box to hang around my neck and take to parties. And after I meet someone new, after we’ve talked and laughed and parted ways, I will request a comment.

If you think about it, a comment box would clear up so many things - Did they like me? Do they want to be friends? Did they think I was boring or dorky or dumb?

After they leave a comment for me, I could send one back to them, getting right to the point (not just dancing around it) - “Oh, me too,” “Yes, I’d love to be friends, I’m so glad you asked,” “I thought you were hilarious, it was so nice to meet you,” “What you said really touched me - I think you are wonderful.”

Then armed with the evidence of mutual good feelings, we'd skip the waiting period, move past the small talk and the pretend reason to call, and dive right into friendship.

I Call This Game Fun-In-A-Box

Pin It There are those days – days you play in the stream and build sandcastles and swing from trees – and then there are those other days. You know, those days where you sit in a box for three hours.

On Sunday morning my husband didn’t feel like going to church. This may or may not have had something to do with the fact that I sort of impulsively sent the link to my blog to my friends in book club, (who are also in my church congregation) on the same day I posted about bankruptcy and foreclosure, and he is now convinced that everyone in the neighborhood KNOWS OUR SHAME). I didn’t feel like wrangling them by myself, so we had a lazy day at home.

Lazy Sundays are nice and relaxing, except when they are long and unending and boring because you are trapped in the house with three restless children and a husband who keeps understandably shooting you dirty looks and rolling his eyes and sighing audibly. I did not feel like entertaining the children, other than pulling out the playdough and occasional tickling, and they were as stir crazy and irritable as I was. We would normally go for a walk or something but we didn’t, because it was cold and snowy – “Too wet to go out, And too cold to play ball. So we sat in the house. We did nothing at all.”

The children eventually decided that if there was NOTHING ELSE TO DO, (groan, sigh, whine) then they might as well use their imaginations, so they descended upon the boxes, which they used to make a secret hideout and then torture the dog. They put him inside, closed the lid, and pushed it around the room for a while, occasionally turning it on its side. The dog would run out confused, like, “HEY, who put me in that box? Abby, did you know someone put me in a box? Huh? Huh? Didya? Didya? Here, let me lick your face for a minute.” And then she’d pick him up and put him right back in again, giggling madly. (You know, my hatred for the dog is well established, but really, I’ll give him this – he puts up with a lot of crap.)

After a bit they hit upon the idea of getting inside themselves, armed with markers. They sat in those boxes for a good three hours, coloring the insides, savoring having permission to actually USE MARKERS without any consequences or time out. Possibly they were a little bit high on marker fumes, but it was a risk I was willing to take, in exchange for the quiet. (Hey, I checked their pupils! They looked fine!)

My three year old wanted me to close the lid, and so I did. His sisters wanted me to close THEIR boxes. And so I did. They sat in those closed boxes for a while. It was great – very quiet and conducive to large amounts of parental internet surfing. I highly recommend packing your children.

This morning, again, they are in their boxes, coloring and behaving rather like civilized schoolchildren in some alternate box oriented universe, so I’m rethinking this whole – we need a three bedroom house thing. Right now I’m leaning toward one bedroom and three very large boxes.

What I Will Miss

Pin It In the winter, on sunny days, mothers look out the window with determination, and say, "Yes, definitely, go outside," and after a solid half an hour of prep time, finding snowboots and putting on mittens and zipping up jackets, their children head out to play. They build igloos and snow forts and run to the park to sled down the high slope by the baseball diamond. They make snowmen and snow angels until they are too cold to bear it any longer and then they rush into the house with red fingers and noses, to sit by the fire until they are cozy.


In the early spring, they come out, dressed in layers and mittens and gradually casting off clothing throughout the day as they slosh through the waterlogged grass. They dig in the muddy sandbox and poke through the melting piles of slush, discovering toys long hidden under the snow, mixing up magic potions of leaves and early flower buds, and hours later, coming inside with sunburned cheeks, sad because it's starting to snow.

A month later, the flowers start to appear, tulips and crocus and daffodils, and they can’t resist picking them, the first flowers they’ve seen in the yard in months, picking them and bringing them to their mothers. “For you, mom,” they say benevolently, and they wait for a hug and a kiss from a mother who is delighted by the gift (despite her chagrin over the rapidly dwindling supply of unpicked flowers). They play all day long on Saturday, packs of children, pretending to be the Boxcar children or magical fairies, or pirates ("Mom, tell her I don't have to walk the plank!"). They help in the yard, where we plant lavender and penstemon and daisies, and they look at me skeptically as we plant vegetables, not quite sure if they should believe me when I tell them this little pebble of a seed will one day be a cornstalk.

On Saturday, there is soccer, every field and park in town full to the brim with children and their families, children who aren't quite sure if they are running toward the right goal, who lose concentration when they get the ball as they glance up to make sure their parents are watching. On Sunday after church, families are out together, on walks and bike rides around the neighborhood, parents stopping every few feet to talk to people they’ve barely seen all winter as the children urge them forward ("Come ON Dad").

In summer, mothers send their children into the backyard ("Go on, go out and play") and the kids find each other, congregating and planning the morning's mischief as mothers sneak off to check their email, to make a phone call, to read a newspaper, to do the dishes. They play all morning, running through sprinklers and wading pools, discovering neighborhood pets, building dams in the stream at the park, fading over to the shade of porch swings by noon, and disappearing into the house during the hottest part of the day.


They creep back out again in the late afternoon, riding bikes and scooters and trying out skates, knocking on doors to remind their friends that it's time to come outside again. They find a zucchini in the garden and then an onion or maybe a green bean, and vegetables have never been so exciting before. In the evening it’s beautiful out, and we turn on the flood lights, not yet ready for the kids to come in, not quite ready to go in ourselves. The adults congregate in little clumps, talking and gossiping and laughing while the kids race around, squeezing in a few more minutes, a few more minutes ("Hurry before we have to go inside"). I look around at my friends, at my family and stand there thinking, I will always remember this.

In late autumn we pick pumpkins and put the garden to bed and get things ready for winter. We savor the last few warm days before winter comes and spend more time than usual outside, soaking it up, letting them play, letting them enjoy each other’s company. Little arrangements appear on front porches, hay bales and pumpkins and autumn flowers and baskets of apples. We visit pumpkin patches and go on hay rides and run through corn mazes. We plan costumes and on Halloween night, we go around the block and down the street, collecting candy at every door, (except the scary ones with haunted houses, because my kids aren’t quite that brave, at least not quite yet). We hand out eight bags of candy and have to shut off the lights at eight-thirty, because my husband is NOT going back to the store.

The first snow falls, and we are happy, because we made it to November with no snow, and maybe it will be a mild winter, after all (high hopes, quickly dashed). Cabin fever has not yet struck, so we enjoy looking out the window at the huge snowflakes as they come falling softly down, and we drink hot chocolate and put on Christmas music, even though it’s really far too early. We drag out snow boots and mittens and snow pants and a few minutes later, the thin layer of snow in the yard has been obliterated by overly enthusiastic children, who are ready, once again, to make snow angels.

And in Las Vegas, there won't be this, not all of this, but there will be shorts in February and swimming in October and eggs to fry on a piece of tinfoil on the sidewalk in August and it will be different, but it will still be fine - it will be just fine (at least this is what I remind myself when I'm feeling maudlin). Because as it turns out, forts work just as well when you make them with cardboard boxes, popsicles taste even better when it's 114 out, and you can still make perfectly good snow angels in a sandbox.

Life will still be sweet, because there is always sweetness to be found when you look for it, but I will always remember this part of our lives, when we lived for a time in a Norman Rockwell painting.

In Which We Discuss Things That REALLY SUCK because that other stuff? NOT. EVEN. CLOSE.

Pin It (Alternate Title: Tell Me To Look On The Bright Side And I Will Hunt You Down and Kill You, So Help Me...)

Um... Hello! Greetings! Contrary to popular belief, I have not actually succumbed to the runs. I'm alive, but have been resisting the urge to post any of my drafts, which have very melodramatic and self pitying titles, such as:

• WOE IS ME


• A DETAILED LITANY OF EXACTLY HOW MUCH OUR LIFE SUCKS RIGHT NOW


• SERIOUSLY, WOE IS ME


• HEY, MAN UPSTAIRS - ARE YOU KIDDING ME WITH THIS?


• WHAT A WORLD, WHAT A WORLD (I'M MELTING, I'M MELTING)

I thought I would spare you until I was able to get some perspective.
What's that? You want to know what's been going on with us? It's so nice that you asked, because I'm feeling in the mood for a rather large vent. (WARNING: EXCESSIVE AMOUNTS OF PERSONAL INFORMATION AHEAD, AVERT EYES IF SQUEAMISH.)

If you've been reading for a while, you might know that we had a business. A business we were pretty sure was going to do well. Oh. Hold on. Excuse me for a moment.

(bitter laughter) ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha (/bitter laughter)

Sorry, where was I? Oh - right, the business. It didn't work out (UNDERSTATEMENT) and we've been scrambling a bit (MASSIVE UNDERSTATEMENT) to get things back on track, with very little success (SPECTACULAR UNDERSTATEMENT) in spite of our best efforts.

The weekend before last, we went to Las Vegas to look for a house to rent. We're moving back there - leaving the little town we love and going back to the horrifying hell hole (UNDERSTATEMENT) we grew up in. My husband has a good job waiting for him there, I can keep my job and work from home in Vegas, and it just made sense in a whole bunch of very boring ways. We made the decision together and agree it's the best thing to do, but it still feels like a failure - leaving a place we love, a neighborhood we love, and returning to a place we both despise. Ugh.

Anyway, we spent the weekend looking at rental houses and eventually found one that did not make us want to impale ourselves on sharp sticks. The kids all got sick, making the trip home very suspenseful and interesting: Who would barf next? Would they barf into a bag, or share with their siblings? And how many times do you think you can you barf in a car before EVERYBODY gets sick? (Answer: Approximately four) Those were super fun car games. The trip home just flew by.

But the best part of the whole trip? Happened right after we got home.

We pulled into our driveway. My husband parked the car in the garage and went out front. I started helping the children out.

He came back and looked at me grimly. "The car's gone."

I looked at him blankly. "Gone? Somebody stole it?"

He gave me a wry smile. "No."

I didn't understand. "Then where is it?"

"I'm guessing probably at a repo yard somewhere."

They repossessed it.

On Sunday.

Which also happened to be my birthday.

BEST.

BIRTHDAY.

EVER.

So, uh, we've been adjusting to life with one car while we negotiate with the bank to get it back. (Magic 8 Ball Says: Outlook Hazy, Ask Again Later)

We filled out some credit counseling stuff the other day in preparation for (HOLD ON, IT GETS BETTER....... WAIT FOR IT...........) our bankruptcy, and part of it involved entering your debts and expenses and income into an online calculator. After you enter all of the information, a little automated person tells you how much money you have left over after paying your bills each month.

My husband and I sat there and cracked up for, oh, gosh, probably an hour, making the little robot voice repeat over and over again, "MRS. SMITH, AFTER PAYING YOUR BILLS YOU WILL HAVE NEGATIVE $9,050.00 THIS MONTH." He was just so chipper and happy to let us know about our negative cash flow. There was nothing to do but sit on the floor and laugh.

We're doing pretty well, in spite of it all. Husband and I are in this together, deeply, and we've managed to (mostly) avoid sniping at each other and fighting. And we have our sense of humor. And we have our kids. And nobody has cancer. Yet. (PLEASE DO NOT TAKE THAT AS AN INVITATION, LORD.) Things will be better in a few months when we're back on our feet.

The hardest part of all of this is dealing with the blow to my pride. I'm not worried about what my family thinks. I barely know most of my extended family (with a few notable bloggy exceptions) and don't really care about their opinions of me. And in my immediate family - well, bankruptcy and foreclosure - pretty small flashes in the pan quite frankly. To get a bad rep in my family you practically have to rob a bank or marry a cousin or something. Anything else is just another day at the office.

It's letting other people know that makes my stomach churn a little. Neighbors and friends. I'm going to be incredibly embarrassed about the Bank Owned sign swinging in front of our house after we leave. I don't want them thinking we're those people - people who I (JUDGMENTAL) picture relaxing on the couch and eating twinkies while watching the home shopping network and buying Marie Osmond dolls at 2:00 in the morning, until they max out their credit cards and declare their third bankruptcy.

We aren't people who get cars repossessed, or behind on their mortgage or late on their bills. We're resourceful and hard working and smart. We're responsible. We're successfullish. We're from hard working pioneer stock, gosh dang it.

But I guess most people who go through this kind of stuff aren't those people either. They're just - human. And so are we. Human and having a very crappy time of it. (This has been another episode of Very Obvious Life Lessons brought to you by Sue Smith, thank you so much for joining us.)

We'll be okay. We really will be fine, so don't feel sorry for us.

(Unless your particular form of feeling sorry for me involves bringing me baked goods or sending me chocolate. Or money. Yes, feel quite free to send me lots and lots and lots of money.)

(I'll just wait over here by the mailbox.)

I know it will all be o.k. I just never wanted to be a flippin' cautionary tale.
Losing our house to foreclosure, saving our house from foreclosure

Things That Suck, Part II

Pin It Having the runs.

Having the runs at work.

Having the runs on the way to work.

Having the runs on the way to work and having to stop at three gas stations before you get to work.

Having the runs on the way to work and having to stop at three gas stations before you get to work, and then not being able to find another bathroom when you really, really need one.

Having the runs on the way to work and and having to stop at three gas stations before you get to work, and then not being able to find another bathroom when you really, really need one, and then finding one, and almost but not quite making it to the bathroom.

You know how I said yesterday sucked?

I was wrong. As it turns out, any day that you do not lightly poop yourself on the way to work? Really not that bad of a day.

This is gonna be a long morning, I'm thinking.

Things That Suck

Pin It Having a co-worker who feels the need to one-up. About EVERYTHING. (You had 16 inches of snow yesterday? She had 16 and a half. You once had a kidney stone? She had twelve.)

Sitting in a cubicle. Seriously. Kill me. KILL ME. Give me a window or kill me.

Listening to people you barely know talk at length about intestinal blockage.

Waiting in line to use a microwave.

Sitting through what was supposed to be a two hour meeting (the whole reason you came into the office in the first place) as it is continually sidetracked, sidetracked, sidetracked.

Trying not to roll your eyes when people stir up drama over totally inconsequential things. I don't care who got a new chair. My chair is fine. Your chair is fine. SHUT UP so that we can end this freaking meeting.

Trying not to scream as the planning meeting degenerates into a fairly intense discussion about strategies for developing good support teams in order to improve your World of Warcraft score.

Having a 20 minute drive take 45 minutes because you apparently are passing through four separate weather zones on the way home - foggy, sunny, blizzarding, sunny.

Back at home, walking in and finding out your little son is not feeling well, and is sleeping on the couch and warm to the touch.

Having your daughter cry because she missed you. Having that same daughter make a card for her little brother because he isn't feeling well. When he finally wakes up from his nap, he tells her he doesn't want it (because he's irritable and sick). Her feelings are hurt and she cries big heartbroken tears.

Letting your other daughter go out to play in the snow in the backyard, hearing screaming a few minutes later, finding that her boot is stuck in a deep drift. She has been crying for five minutes, and you didn't hear her because you were trying to wake up your son. She's sobbing and hysterical and asking why you didn't come to help her sooner.

Some days, all you can do is hold them, while you all sit and cry together.

Here's hoping tomorrow sucks just a little less.

Quirky? Who, Me?

Pin It Veronica has tagged me for Six Quirky Things About Myself.  Veronica's husband actually came up with the list of things that were quirky about her, which sounded like a terrific idea. Not only would I get a blog post out of it - I wouldn't even have to WRITE the thing. So I asked my husband what was quirky about me.

"I don't know," he said.

"You can't think of anything odd about me?" I asked him incredulously. "Seriously? You don't think I'm a little weird?"

"Oh, no, you're plenty weird," he said. "I just can't think of anything specific."

Oh.

Ok then. I'm so glad we cleared that up.

ANYWAY. Here is my list of six quirky things, NO THANKS TO MY HUSBAND:

1. I am quite sure I'm going to die before I'm 60, probably of cancer, or in an incredibly tragic traffic accident or a horrifying plane crash or something. Everytime I fly, I am sure it's going down. I start obsessing over it several days in advance, and by the time I board the plane I've usually convinced myself that my fears are actually the Holy Spirit warning me that the plane is going to go down with me in it, so I write a letter to my kids before I get on the plane and leave it somewhere easy to find, because I want them to have something to remember me by. The plane is always perfectly safe, and even though my husband teases me and says dramatically, "You're ALIVE, you're ALIVE," I know, deep inside, that it was a close call, and that NEXT time, it's for sure going to crash. Probably. (Did you know I was in a plane that was struck by lightning once? We landed safely, but it FREAKED. ME. OUT.)

2. I think that if I don't die in an incredibly scary, dramatic fashion, I am probably going to die in a very embarrassing, mortifying way - like having a stroke when I'm naked in the tub. Or even worse, maybe I'll have a stroke when I'm pooping or something, and then they'll come in to find me dead but naked, and they'll have to try to move me off the toilet, and it will be gross, and my husband's last memory of me will be all - nasty.

3. I drive like a grandma. I'm the one in the right hand lane on the freeway going 59. I am no longer fazed by people who flip me off. I used to be a bad-ass in the car, and then we moved to a little town where the speed limit on every road is 25 and I rarely went more than 5 miles from home. Traveling on an actual freeway, in actual big girl traffic, is insanely terrifying. The cars are all going so fast, and all that's keeping us from slamming into each other is the tiny little white dotted lines, which, strangely, don't really make me feel all that safe. And of course, I usually don't think to write my children a goodbye letter before I get on the freeway, so I have to drive extra slowly so that I don't die on this particular trip, because if I do they will NEVER KNOW their mother loved them. Tragical.

4. If I lie down, I am asleep within seconds, literally. It drives my husband nuts. It doesn't matter if I'm tired or not, if you put me in a horizontal position I'm out of it within seconds. (Er, except when we're being romantic. Mostly.) I'll be in the middle of a conversation with my husband and a minute later I'm snoring. He always knows when I'm falling asleep because I do that little jumpy thing. (Do you know what I mean? You know how babies startle and jump when they are falling asleep? I still do that.)

5. If my husband looks at me a certain way, with a certain loving look in his eye, I cannot sustain eye contact and I usually giggle, and then he laughs at me. We've been married for 12 years, I should be over it by now, shouldn't I?

6. When I'm at home by myself, I like to tell myself stories I've made up and will actually sort of act them out. I'll walk around the house talking to myself dramatically as I'm cleaning, playing the different parts. I'll get so wrapped up in what I'm telling myself that I'll be disappointed when people come home because they are interrupting my story. I do the same thing in the car by myself. It's endlessly entertaining. Sometimes I drive around the block an extra time, so that I can finish the "chapter." Sometimes I make myself cry. Sometimes I'll get mad at my husband in my imaginary story, and it will carry over into real life. I can't help being irritated with him, and he'll say, "What?!" and I just say nothing, because I can't very well tell him the truth. He'd think I was crazy or something.

I'm tagging Karen, Heidi, Blackbird, Amy, and Hollywood. Unless they don't want to be tagged. Then I take it back. (How embarrassing.)

It's Official...

Pin It

...I'm losing it. Either it's a sign of the impending apocolypse or the women at work are REALLY rubbing off on me, because - LOOK! A movie about my dog.

Maybe I'm still delirious from my close call (hardy har har), but I think I feel something ALMOST, SORT OF, NOT QUITE BUT ALMOST like affection for the horrible animal today. I'm gonna go lie down until it passes.

They Are So Going To Take Away My Chick Card

Pin It So... Shoes. I’m afraid I don’t understand the whole shoe thing. I know that a lot of women love shoes, buy lots of them, covet more of them, and - I really don’t get it. They’re JUST SHOES. They cover your feet. You step on them. They protect your feet from snow and dog poop and dirt and pokey things. I’ve tried really hard to understand (and yet I still really don’t understand) what makes one pair of shoes cute and another ugly.

I don't get purses either, for that matter. My family had a white elephant gift exchange on Christmas Eve. You could contribute a joke item or a nice item, as long as it was under the price limit. The item I opened was a purse. I opened it and stared at it, because I had no idea if it was supposed to be a cute purse or a joke purse. I didn’t know how to react. Should I laugh? Should I be happy? So I looked around at the other girls in the circle who all made encouraging faces at me and said, “Oh – SO CUTE!” and then I pretended like I understood and enthusiastically said, “Yes, very cute, very cute.” I traded it a minute later for two photo albums and an iTunes gift certificate.

But I need new shoes. I really do. The dog chewed up my one pair of appropriate for winter church shoes and next week it's either fuzzy slippers or tennis shoes if I don't do something soon. Specifically, I would like boots. Looking around at church on Sunday I realized that 95% of the women in the room were wearing boots. And I thought - this is like a post-Christmas miracle, a sign from God that, yes indeed, boots were the way to go. He hath allowed mine eyes to temporarily discern shoe related fashion trends, and I have no choice but to take heed.

I don’t have any boots, unless you count short boots you wear under jeans, and my friend Liza recently told me that not only shouldn’t I count them, but really, I should burn them and never buy another pair ever, ever, ever again. And I’m thinking, "O.k., if ankle boots are ugly, why do they sell them?" Is there a crafty shoe designer out there saying, “Ha ha ha ha ha, I know these are butt ugly, but some loser will see them and buy them, and then everyone else will point and laugh. That’ll be awesome.” Why are they trying to trick me into looking dumb?

And I don’t even know, maybe Liza is wrong and they really ARE cute. I mean, who decides what makes it cute? Four teenagers named Chelsea at Hot Topic who quickly spread the word amongst their fashionista friends? And what if they're just messing with us? How can we know for sure that the shoes are cute and we haven't just all been suckered? HOW CAN WE KNOW? For example, look at these Balenciaga DESIGNER shoes! JUST LOOK AT THEM! What in the -


I would buy my shoes at Nordstroms, where the clerks tend to help you out and let you know what looks nice and what looks stupid, but I’m way too intimidated by the shoe department there. Back when we had actual money (oh, money, how I miss you) I would buy clothes there but could never bring myself to buy shoes. The shoe people frightened me. I was too scared to do much more than very quickly walk by the displays, sometimes twice but at full speed, not making eye contact with anyone. "Who, me, buy shoes? Oh, no, I'm much too busy walking around here, no, don't look at me, don't look at me, DON'T LOOK AT ME - Ayeeeee!!!" So I won't be shopping there. Plus I'm broke. DANG it.

That brings me to my other criteria… I need them to be, and this is key, cheap. I’m thinking I would gladly pay approximately two dollars.

No, I’m kidding. I would gladly pay three dollars.

O.k., FINE. I’ll pay more than that. But, when I’m talking about cheap, I just want you to understand the level of cheapness I’m talking about. Cheap. Cheap but cute. And quite obviously, I will need help figuring out what is cute, and what is not cute, and what is crossing the line into tacky, and what will make me look like I just came from a rodeo.

So – help me?

Please?

P.S. I have ginormous calves. GINORMOUS.

P.P.S. (You guys, thank you so much for all of the nice comments on the last post. They really made my day. I was waiting for everyone to call me nuts, and instead you are all just - awesome and real. And I would answer back to every comment saying, thank you, thank you, but that would get really boring for you to read. But thank you. I really do read and LOVE every comment to pieces. Ahem.)

The Life Cycle of a Blog

Pin It

• Get a blog – lie and say you are just doing it to keep in touch with people
• Write a few self conscious posts. Get no comments.
• Post all the time! Sometimes multiple times per day! You have so much to say! All the time! Wheeee!
• Comment other places. Get a few comments back.
• Become addicted to comments.
• Compulsively check comments. When comments are low, let it affect your mood that day.
• Install site analytics/tracking.
• Wonder why Blogger Y is looking at your blog for 12 hours straight. Figure out Blogger Y probably clicked on your blog and then went to sleep.
• Wonder why a certain IP address is looking at your blog 20 times a day. Get freaked out. Realize it's you.*
• Check out other blogs. Wonder why they have awards and you don’t.
• What’s a meme?
• Watch traffic go up. Pretend you don’t care.
• Watch traffic go down. Pout.
• Get awards. Give away awards. Get more awards. Give away awards. Start to be very, very afraid of awards. Write post mocking awards. Never get another award. Sulk.
• Give your blog a makeover (Obviously, I skipped this step ;>)
• Put up ads.
• Have a couple of well received posts. Become self conscious about posting afterwards because you cannot measure up to yourself.
• Guest post places. Suck at it because when you guest post you are supposed to have an actual point and you, my dear, do not have one.
• Get writer’s block. You have nothing to say. Nothing at all. You SUCK.
• Decide to stop worrying about what people think and just - write stuff
• Watch traffic go down, down, down. Wheeeeee!
• Realize you will never be Dooce and become o.k. with that.
• Discover that even when people don't comment, life still has meaning.
• Stop being a total blogging freak and get a little perspective for Christmas
• Stop checking site analytics because you've realized it makes you crazy(er.)
• Achieve blog zen - blog because you want to, not because you have to

Don't pretend you don't do some of this stuff. Maybe not all of it, but some of it? Right?

Anyone?

Anyone?

Just me then?

Okie-dokie.

P.S. *Nicki, you know I'm lookin' at YOU. Hee. That still cracks me up.

Love of My Life

Pin It A few weeks before Christmas break, it was my daughter's turn to have her Student Spotlight. We showed the kids in her class the pictures on the poster we'd made, and read her favorite book, and then it was time for the children to ask her questions.

A little boy raised his hand and my daughter called on him.

He smiled up at her. "Who is your favorite boyfriend at this school?"

"Dillon," the teacher said in a warning tone. "You can't ask that kind of question."

He glared at her. "Fine."

He looked at Sarah again. "Who is your favorite boyfriend in this CLASS?"

She responded, "I can't have a boyfriend until I'm 16."

Score one for brainwashing.

Since then I've heard all about which boys want her to come play with them, which boys want her to be their girlfriend, which boys protect her from the other boys that want to kiss her. She is in FIRST GRADE. This cannot be normal. Is it?

Last night, in spite of the excessive amount of romance that seems to be percolating in her brain, we took them to see Enchanted. I don't know what was better - the movie, or watching my daughters watch the movie. They were enthralled. Sarah was so overcome by the romance of it all that she kept kicking her feet and squealing and covering her face. Like her mother.

Tonight after we downloaded some of the soundtrack songs and danced around the living room, she told me that Ian, a boy in her class, is the "love of her life." And then she sang along to True Love's Kiss, giggling.

Help.

P.S. I'm guest posting over at Segullah today, if you'd like to read about my first kiss.

The Christmas Letter

Pin It (I posted this and then somehow, de-posted it when I went to edit it. Sorry for the confusion. I'm a moron.)

I never got around to sending out Christmas cards this year, but I did write a letter. I dobt I will actually mail it, but I figure I'll post it in all it's cliched glory...

Dear Random Family Member and/or Friend Who Happens To Get This Card (Because We Love You And Stuff But Are Too Lazy To Individually Address This Many Letters),

It’s the post holiday wrap-up here at Chez Smith. I'm hoping to get this in the mail prior to Christmas, and if so, Merry Christmas! If not, Happy New Year. But if things go as rather I expect they will - Happy Valentines Day!

What have the children been up to? I’m so glad you asked. Sarah was recently accepted into MENSA and danced Clara in the Nutcracker. The reviews were amazing, and she has been invited to dance with Ballet West on a continuing basis. Our little Abby keeps busy winning championship snowboarding competitions for her age bracket and is involved in a variety of humanitarian service projects, including helping to fetch and carry bricks and mortar for Habitat for Humanity. Sweet little Carter was picked to be the youngest Oliver in the history of the two hundred year old Alpine Playhouse, and we are so proud of his tremendous musical talent. We've been taking phone calls from agents who would like to represent him.

No, I’m totally lying. I just figured stretching the truth is what people typically do in Christmas letters, might as well make them really GOOD lies, right?

But they ARE great kids. Sarah is six and in the first grade and is our tender hearted little girl, a tremendous reader, and the kindest soul you'll ever meet. Abby is five, and is social and imaginative and fun, and also a little bossy. (I have no idea where she gets the bossy from. Probably her dad.) Carter is three, and is not afraid to bat his long eyelashes to get what he wants. He's very loving and affectionate (thank goodness for his mom, who is a little sad that he’s the last baby we can have). Not that I’m allowed to call him a baby. Because as he reminds me daily, he is NOT a baby, he’s a BIG kid. HUGE. All in all, we think they’re pretty awesome. Smarter than the average bear, cute enough to get away with a lot of stuff, and good enough not to try it all that often.

Not having our stuff together, that was sort of our family theme this year. Our business crashed and burned and we have been circling the wreckage for a while now, but are trying to shake it off. Husband will (if things go well) be starting with the Sheriff’s Department in February, and is currently working as a Foster Care Case Manager. He started running a while back and says he loves it. I am somewhat skeptical. How could anyone love to RUN? Running is good for escaping wild animals and catching naked toddlers, but for fun? Doubtful. It is strange to have him back at work after working with him from home for so long. I really miss having him around.

I’m working for a high-tech company in SLC as a technical writer, mostly from home. I also have a variety of freelance clients who use me for everything from developing weekly eZines and writing web content, to preparing technical bid responses for the government. I started a blog a few months ago, and it's been a really fun way to express myself and meet a lot of other amazing women who like to write. I recently put ads up on it and I’m hoping that eventually, I’ll have enough ad revenue to buy a Slurpee. One can dream.

We hope you had a great Christmas. Ours will be small, but wonderful, because we get to spend it with friends and family. And ya know - the toys will probably be broken in three weeks, but the memories, they’ll last forever. Sniff.

With love...

How You Know You Have a Little Problem Called PMS

Pin It (Warning, squeamish men might want to leave the room, because at some point I'm gonna say the word PERIOD. Oops, see, I just did it.)

Christmas Eve:
4:00: At brother and sister-in-law's house, go back and forth between laughing and being incredibly negative, at rapid speed. It's good to keep people off guard.

6:15: Relentlessly correct everything your husband says. When he privately expresses irritation, get all teary eyed, because how could he be so MEAN? Demand that he forgive you, or Christmas is RUINED.

8:00: Realize you brought a dumb white elephant gift. Burst into tears and leave the room. When people ask why you are crying, tell them you don't know, that you just feel pathetic.

8:15: Realize you only brought a couples gift and not separate white elephant gifts for you and your husband. Burst into tears. Again.

9:30: Someone says something nice. Start crying because people are JUST SO NICE.

10:35: Sister does something amazingly nice for you. Sob.

And again.

And again.

Christmas Morning and Afternoon:
Apparently, you are given a respite for Christmas morning that allows you to behave in a fairly normal way. Hallelujah, it's a Christmas miracle. Ponder previous day's teariness, wonder why you were falling apart... You are not usually such a huge cry-baby. What is WRONG with you? Ponder, ponder, ponder - see chips and dip, lose train of thought.

Christmas Night:
7:00: Fly home because you have to be at work in the morning, and husband and kids don't need to be back till Friday. Say goodbye to husband and kids. Cry.

10:00: Land. Find car in long-term parking, covered in ice and snow. You forgot to put windshield ice scraper in the car. In between using an old gardening glove to try to get the ice off the windshield, cry and shake fist at the sky.

11:00: Realize on the way home that the gas light is on and you are below empty. Realize you have entered some type of twilight zone land with no convenience stores anywhere near the highway. Panic. Weep. Locate 7-11. Calm down again. Put gas in car.

11:15: Get on freeway. Try to relax. Take wrong turn, end up in West Valley. Get back on freeway. Swear a lot. Call husband. Ask him to help. Get upset when he reminds you he is 400 miles away. Fail to make the connection. What does that have to do with anything? Why can't he do something to help? WHY? WHY?!!!

11:30: Get off the freeway and onto icy surface streets. Slide around a lot in little car while screaming and cursing. Drive approximately 15 mph toward a stop sign, start skidding anyway. Narrowly avoid accident.

11:40: Very slowly, very cautiously drive into neighborhood. Very slowly start to turn into snowy driveway. Before your front tires even get over the curb, get stuck. Try to go backward. Nope. try to go forward. Nope. Call husband. Tell him you love him, you worship him, and that you will never be separated from him again, ever, ever, EVER. Because you need his snow moving capacity.

11:45: Change into snow boots and parka. Shovel snow. Shovel some more. Shovel again. Try to drive car. Still stuck. Try to push car. Still stuck. Cry. Bang head against car. Fall down in snow. Cry some more, and for added drama, pound the snow with your fist. Curse the heavens.

12:05: Decide to just leave the car there in the street and deal with it in the morning before work. Car is sticking out into the street and will probably get hit, but you do not care. If the car gets hit it was obviously the will of God. Go into the house and change.

12:10: Phone rings. It is your neighbors, your lovely, lovely neighbors, who have noticed that your car is stuck in the road. They are coming to help dig you out. Meet them outside. Shower gratitude on them. In three minutes, the car is in the garage. Weep. Hug them. Weep some more. (Seriously though, how AWESOME are my neighbors? Love them. FLOVE them. SO MUCH FLOVE.)

Morning of the 26th:
8:05: Open the garage to shovel driveway before you go to work. Notice neighbors kids have shoveled driveway and sidewalk. Cry.

Hear Carrie Underwood song. Cry all the way to work.

At work: Get period. Realize the period may be related to weepiness. Cry, because for several years, when you were having kids and nursing, the period was a non-entity - no crazy hormones, no intense pain, nada. Realize that, apparently, both the whacked out PMS hormones (and you thought you just had gotten emotionally MATURE - ha!) and the intense, fever inducing pain are back. Cry.

So... yeah.

I think I may be dehydrated. Excuse me. (Sniffle.)

Deep Thoughts

Pin It So, uh, I now work in the IT department of a mid-sizish company. We have our own little wing. The dress code is very, very casual. Today I was wearing a white t-shirt with a red sweater, nice dark blue jeans and boots and I felt so freaking overdressed it is not even funny. The guy in the cubicle across the way was wearing jeans that were missing the middle part. I could see all of both of his knees. And not in the fashion statementy way. Just in the - I've had these jeans for a really long time and now they are falling apart and soon I will be nude kind of way. The boss laughed at him, but didn't ask him to change or anything, just sort of shook his head in that, "Oh, you're such a character," type of way.

Anyway. I'm feeling very fashionable. (My friends and family just keeled over laughing, I'm sure.) This is quite good for my ego. It's almost as good as going to the fair. I always feel so slim and classy at the fair, don't you?

Workin' for the MAN

Pin It So... I just started a new technical writing job. A JOB. That's right, after years of working for myself, I've been forced to pack it in and join all of the other miserable drudges on the roadways. (The freeway is seriously FREAKING ME OUT. I used to be a maniac on the road, but for the last three years I've mostly just driven on tiny little 25 mph backroads and now, I swear, my life is flashing before my eyes everytime I drive into the office. Serious anxiety. I'm thinking I need to design a jet pack, Gilligan style. It would probably be safer than Utah freeways.)

From what I understand, the first week or so, I will have to actually get dressed and come in to an actual office, with other worker type people. After that, I've been told I can work from home and work the hours I want, and all of that good stuff. So it will hopefully be a lot like working for myself, but with benefits, and retirement type stuff and a guaranteed paycheck. (That last part is actually sort of important, as it turns out.) It's a great opportunity and I'm excited about it, but nervous.

I spent most of the day sitting around and smiling nervously when people talked to me because hoooooo boy, I'm so not used to having people around when I'm working. And people were talking ALL DAY LONG. It is FREAKY. I usually have to get in my mental writing zone and instead of having relative quiet, all around me I'm hearing, "Man, this server is SOOWEEEEEEET!!" and "I am NOT going up in the ceiling to pull cable," and "No, House is not grumpy, he's manic." It'll take some getting used to.

And guess what?! Did you know, apparently, in an office, they frown on the whole - blogging thing? (Who knew?) I will have to readjust my blogging schedule. I can't stay up all night long either because - I have to get up and get dressed in the morning now. It's all very bizarre. But nice. Nice and bizarre. Bizarre and nice. Cross your fingers for me.

The Birthday Party: A Parable

Pin It 1 And on the 17th day of the twelfth month it came to pass that the daughter of the Queen turned five years old.

2 And behold, it was decreed that a festival should be held and that children should come to pay homage to the young princess.

3 And when the Queen beheld the large number of children in the land, and heard their cries, and saw their eagerness to attend the festival, she knew that she could not invite one save she invite all.

4 And behold, the Queen prophesied that a great number of children would be out of town, and so it came to pass that the Queen did invite a large number of children,yay, even five and twenty children, to the royal festival.

5 And lo, the royal treasury was bare, and so the Queen did visit the market of one hundred cents and did purchase all manner of goods for the royal festival, and behold, when she laid them before the King, he declared that they were good.

6 And behold, the Queen had prophesied incorrectly, and on the day of the royal festival a great number of children appeared, yay, even all children appeared, save only one, and they arrived bearing gifts and tidings of great joy.

7 And there was much decorating of baked goods, and there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth, for the Queen had only one can of purple sprinkles, and there was no yellow frosting, and behold, this did make the children with baked cookies in star shapes exceedingly angry, and the Queen was afraid, for the noise which the children maketh, it did cause her to tremble and quake.

8 And behold their wrath was mighty and the Queen bowed down before them and did work to entice them, yay even to distract them with games and dance and merry making.

9 And behold, the royal dog was freakingeth out, and the Queen did place him in the royal garage, so that he might not pee himself, for so great was his anxiety because of the children.

10 And after much merry making, behold, the Queen looked at her devils food cake, and looked at the King, and cried, woe unto me, for this cake shall not feed such a great number, and thou must travel to the market, and purchase more cake to feed these children who have come to pay homage.

11 But lo, the King said, Nay, oh ye of little faith, fear not, for this cake shall be enough.

12 And the woman despaired, but she began to cut the cake.

13 And lo, there was much rejoicing in the land, for as it turnethed out, there was enough cake, and there were even some children in the land who did not like cake, but who desired only ice cream, and so the cake was enough to feed many children, even five and twenty children, and the news of this great miracle spread throughout the land.

14 And the King said, Woman, I have been called out of town, and must go. Peace be unto you.

15 And the woman wept because there were a large number of children still present, yay, even five and twenty children and the woman cried, oh, surely I am a cursed woman among all women.

16 And behold, the children brought many gifts, and they brought them forward, in a great swarming mass of gift giving, even an obscene amount of gift giving, and behold, the children would not sit down and give heed to the princess, for they were making merry.

17 And behold great was the wrath of the princess when the children would not give her heed.

18 And the princess did endeavor to make the children listen to her, else she would scream and cry out to the people to leave the land.

19 But behold the Queen did show them mercy, and did exile the Princess to her room, until she could get a grip.

20 And behold, after five minutes, the Princess did return, and she did make amends to her people, and brought them good tidings of great joy.

21 And she did bestow upon them gift bags of assorted colors, and the children screamed with joy.

22 For the candy, it was good.

23 And soon, the mothers of the children did return to the land, and they did say unto the Queen, Behold, you are indeed a mighty and brave Queen, for when we droppethed them off, never had we beheld so many children at festival, and our fear was great, and much did we doubt thee.

24 But you are indeed a true and wise Queen and we shall not doubt thee again

25 And the children left, yay, even all five and twenty children, and the young princess and her cohorts were banished to their rooms, but with many amusements, and the Queen did fall onto the couch and did slumber for half an hour, until she was woken by the Princess, who did come bearing thanks and praise, for she hath enjoyed the royal festival exceedingly

26 And behold, how great was her joy.

27 And behold the Queen was joyful also, for she did love the young Princess exceedingly.

28 And behold, the royal festival was ended, at least for the space of a year.

29 And lo, I say unto you, if ye shall learn a lesson from reading this tale, then take heed, and do not invite a large number of children to the winter festival; yay, only invite a small number of children, lest ye suffer the consequences, even like unto the Queen.

30 And if ye have read all of this, yay, even to the end, now tell me, what think ye of my tale? Thinketh ye that I hath too much time on my hands?

31 Yay, verily verily, it may be so, for behold, the Royal King, he is gone, even again, and I am lonely, and so I say unto you, that she who leaveth a comment, shall be greatly blessed in the eyes of the Queen.

P.S. Lest ye doubt this tale, I hath provided this moving picture, that ye may see and believe upon my words.

(had to remove the video - it kept making my posts republish in the feeds :>)

Great Moments in Customer Service

Pin It At a store today - a store I will call, oh, I don't know, Toys R Us - I had one of those moments that makes me weep for the future of America.

I know there must be no fresher hell than working retail at Christmas time in a toy store, so I am normally very sympathetic, very patient. I bring my IPOD with me so that I can just sort of bop around the store getting my stuff, zone out while I wait in line, and not let all the bustle get to me. I say please and thank you to the clerks, have my money ready and generally try not to make life any harder for them than it already is, if at all possible.

Now, you gotta understand, when I go Christmas shopping, I take cash, not credit cards, because if I take credit cards, I am much more lax about how much I can spend. "Oh, it's just $10 more than I thought, no problem." And by the time I've left I've spent $200 more than I planned. So - no credit cards for me.

Anyway, I get up to the check-out lane and realize that I'm going to be over the amount I have, so when I get up to the check-out, I hand the clerk three rolls of crepe paper and tell her, "I'm sorry, I can't buy these."

She glares at me. "You can't buy these?"

I blink. "No."

She sighs heavily. "Let me get this straight. Are you or are you not going to buy these?"

I frown. "I'm not going to buy them."

"So you are not buying these."

Is she messing with me? "Correct."

She is sneering. Clearly, she hates her job and more specifically, hates ME, with the white hot power of a thousand suns. "And yet you brought them up here, to the check-out."

I stare back at her. "Yeah. It was a mistake."

"A mistake," she repeats slowly, with scorn.

"Yes."

"Maybe you should be more careful next time," she said.

"And maybe I should beat you senseless with this Tinker Toy tube," I said.

OK, I didn't say that. But I wanted to.

In reality I just - clenched my teeth and asked her. "Are you going to ring that up now or what?"
And she sneered and did just that.

Now, doesn't that just warm your heart?

Happy freaking holidays you bitter, cynical little twerp.

Next year, I'm shopping online.