Saturday, August 20, 2011
Working for a living!
I just realized I forgot my lovely and loyal blog readers - all four of you - may not be up to date on the fact that HubbyMine got himself a job! Sorry to have not mentioned that little fact; I guess I assumed that the shout of joy and victory was heard 'round the world. Also, through Facebook. But anyhoo, we are employed and have been for two weeks now. He was actually offered TWO, count 'em, TWO jobs on the same day, which was an amazing thing. Seeing as how we are so very much looking forward to living in The World's Biggest Rut (no more hair brained schemes - or is it hare brained? - and no more adventures, thankyouverymuch) we chose to take the lesser paying, but also less stressful one. We are so very blessed. Thanks for all the juju, prayers, good thoughts, wishful thinking, and positive thoughts you all sent our way. You have no idea how much your sweet comments and loyalty meant to me in this nutty, zany, tear drenched year of mine!
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Oregon Trailings
I haven't lived in Oregon since I was a wee little sprout. Actually, I was a 15 year old sprout, but I was fairly wee considering I stopped getting any taller at the age of 11 and was on a strict no fat, no dessert diet for that year. I wore a size 2, and lived on carbs because I had no idea that those were not diet foods.
Anyhoo, I'm back in Oregon and very delighted to be calling it home. Medford is a cute town, surrounded by mountains. I'd post pictures but our laptop is pushing up daisies and I'm not smart enough to know how to put the memory card thingamabob in the correct flashdrive attached to the right console whatchmacallit on my in-law's computer. I can only do that with the laptop. So, close your eyes and picture it with me:
Trees
Mountains
The Ginger Rogers Theatre!
The Ashland Shakespeare Festival
Rolling wineries. Well, I guess it's the vineyards that are rolling, not the wineries, per se. Unless you've spent too many hours there, sampling. HAHAHAHAHA!
My favorite places to shop: Ross, The Grocery Outlet, TJ Maxx, and a plethora of thrift stores.
The Oregon coast 90 miles away. They have the ocean, don't you know. Also, crab. And crab cakes, and crab patties, and crab salad, and crab omelets, and crab chowder. And shrimp! And shrimp gumbo...and shrimp - well, you get the picture.
a Dutch Bros coffee stand on every corner.
A pediatric dentist who said Gianni and his teeth should just be left alone! Joy and happiness! Rapture!
A choice of swim teams for Miss Cora.
Lots of rental houses that are snatched up too quickly which I find extremely annoying. We can't move until Oct 1, which means it's actually too early to start looking. Which I find extremely annoying. Somewhere out there is a house for meeeeee! With a vacancy sign so you can come see meeeeeee! Gianni and Milo are both good snugglers, you'll be in very good hands. Er, paws.
It's not too far from Idaho, my other home.
Did I mention the crab? And lobster! And lobster stir fry, and lobster pancakes, and fried lobster, and baked lobster, and lobster with gobs of mayonnaise. That last one was a shout out to Ginger, and the first person who tells me what movie she said that in gets a lobster! Not really on the lobster prize.
Anyhoo, I'm back in Oregon and very delighted to be calling it home. Medford is a cute town, surrounded by mountains. I'd post pictures but our laptop is pushing up daisies and I'm not smart enough to know how to put the memory card thingamabob in the correct flashdrive attached to the right console whatchmacallit on my in-law's computer. I can only do that with the laptop. So, close your eyes and picture it with me:
Trees
Mountains
The Ginger Rogers Theatre!
The Ashland Shakespeare Festival
Rolling wineries. Well, I guess it's the vineyards that are rolling, not the wineries, per se. Unless you've spent too many hours there, sampling. HAHAHAHAHA!
My favorite places to shop: Ross, The Grocery Outlet, TJ Maxx, and a plethora of thrift stores.
The Oregon coast 90 miles away. They have the ocean, don't you know. Also, crab. And crab cakes, and crab patties, and crab salad, and crab omelets, and crab chowder. And shrimp! And shrimp gumbo...and shrimp - well, you get the picture.
a Dutch Bros coffee stand on every corner.
A pediatric dentist who said Gianni and his teeth should just be left alone! Joy and happiness! Rapture!
A choice of swim teams for Miss Cora.
Lots of rental houses that are snatched up too quickly which I find extremely annoying. We can't move until Oct 1, which means it's actually too early to start looking. Which I find extremely annoying. Somewhere out there is a house for meeeeee! With a vacancy sign so you can come see meeeeeee! Gianni and Milo are both good snugglers, you'll be in very good hands. Er, paws.
It's not too far from Idaho, my other home.
Did I mention the crab? And lobster! And lobster stir fry, and lobster pancakes, and fried lobster, and baked lobster, and lobster with gobs of mayonnaise. That last one was a shout out to Ginger, and the first person who tells me what movie she said that in gets a lobster! Not really on the lobster prize.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
What I'd Like Right Now
Not in whiney, pity poor me, kind of way, because let's face it, my life is beautiful, but in a day-dreamy, picture in my head, kind of way:
A bed that's big and soft and grown up.
A trip to one of these with a gift card in hand.
A home.
A Nook. In case I finish my book and want to actually READ it. Also because it would be nice to have instant reading in my purse. Nothing brings on a panic attack swifter than being stuck at a swim class, dentist appointment, or family reunion with nothing to read.
A porch to do said reading on.
A bit of stinky cheese and Merlot while sitting on my porch in my home with my used books/Nook.
What do you day dream about?
A trip to one of these with a gift card in hand.
A home.
A Nook. In case I finish my book and want to actually READ it. Also because it would be nice to have instant reading in my purse. Nothing brings on a panic attack swifter than being stuck at a swim class, dentist appointment, or family reunion with nothing to read.
A porch to do said reading on.
A bit of stinky cheese and Merlot while sitting on my porch in my home with my used books/Nook.
What do you day dream about?
Thursday, August 4, 2011
I Dance With The Rice Krispy Boys
These days I am lucky enough to be teaching ballet again. We're talking Creative Movement, guys. Some Pre-Ballet. Maybe a Ballet 1A. Half the class is spent trying to convince little Kaitylyn to come in the studio and the other half is spent trying to untangle tiaras from leotards. Nothing majorly hard, right? Right. Long gone are the days when I could do something like this to impress little glitter bedecked princesses:
...or this spiffy number:
...or even this:
Umm, not entirely sure that last one was ever possible.
But nowadays, as my bones snap, crackle and pop their way down into the splits, I look more like this:
I am not sure when old age crept up on me, but creep it did. In fact, old age is a creep! Yes! I said it! Take that, Mother Nature! Or is it Father Time I should be blaming? They're probably in cahoots, staying up late at night conspiratorially muttering ways to wrench my hip, slip a disk in my back, and pull my hamstrings. Not to mention cause wiry gray hairs to grow in places I didn't use to have hairs. Ahem. Anyhoo.
I swear, today I was sitting on the floor with my little angel monkeys in a side split - a REALLY pathetic one, at that - and as we pretended to paint the air with beautiful colors and then stretch over to our neighbor's feet, I about passed out. My legs were screaming obscenities at me and my back let out a crack that was heard round the world. And I didn't even know my legs could cuss! They used to be well behaved legs who would never dream of cursing in the ballet studio. Back before Old Age hit.
"Can we do leaps now, Miss Melyssa?" the little pink whippersnappers clamored.
"Miss Melyssa has fallen and can't get up, kids...umm, how about a water break? Don't you guys need to go potty? It's been like, three minutes, for the love of Baryshnikov, someone's gotta pee by now, right?"
"Leaps! Leaps! LEAPS! With crowns and wands and fairy rings!!"
"Absolutely," I croak, and try to raise my head off my knee where it has been stuck, "Just help Miss Melyssa up...and I'm gonna try to not throw up. Yep. OK, I need another minute. Leap without me, girls. I'll be right there. As soon as I pop my hip back into place. AAAAARRRRGH! There we go, my little tutu-ed drill sergeants...I'm back."
Yes, indeedy. I'm back.
And I need some Motrin, a heating pad, and a bottle of something red, STAT.
...or this spiffy number:
...or even this:
Umm, not entirely sure that last one was ever possible.
But nowadays, as my bones snap, crackle and pop their way down into the splits, I look more like this:
I am not sure when old age crept up on me, but creep it did. In fact, old age is a creep! Yes! I said it! Take that, Mother Nature! Or is it Father Time I should be blaming? They're probably in cahoots, staying up late at night conspiratorially muttering ways to wrench my hip, slip a disk in my back, and pull my hamstrings. Not to mention cause wiry gray hairs to grow in places I didn't use to have hairs. Ahem. Anyhoo.
I swear, today I was sitting on the floor with my little angel monkeys in a side split - a REALLY pathetic one, at that - and as we pretended to paint the air with beautiful colors and then stretch over to our neighbor's feet, I about passed out. My legs were screaming obscenities at me and my back let out a crack that was heard round the world. And I didn't even know my legs could cuss! They used to be well behaved legs who would never dream of cursing in the ballet studio. Back before Old Age hit.
"Can we do leaps now, Miss Melyssa?" the little pink whippersnappers clamored.
"Miss Melyssa has fallen and can't get up, kids...umm, how about a water break? Don't you guys need to go potty? It's been like, three minutes, for the love of Baryshnikov, someone's gotta pee by now, right?"
"Leaps! Leaps! LEAPS! With crowns and wands and fairy rings!!"
"Absolutely," I croak, and try to raise my head off my knee where it has been stuck, "Just help Miss Melyssa up...and I'm gonna try to not throw up. Yep. OK, I need another minute. Leap without me, girls. I'll be right there. As soon as I pop my hip back into place. AAAAARRRRGH! There we go, my little tutu-ed drill sergeants...I'm back."
Yes, indeedy. I'm back.
And I need some Motrin, a heating pad, and a bottle of something red, STAT.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Wanted: Editor
Wanted: Editor for what will most likely be a poorly written, smallish novel, to be self published by author and PubIT! Barnes and Noble's ultra cool ebook publishing company.
Qualifications: Good speller, good with grammar, knows when to use then and when to use than, excellent with punctuation. Ruthless, but not too ruthless. Honest.
Applicants who have either: watched me grow up from a close distance, seen me give birth, know my whole family's birthdays, know my middle name and maiden name, know my sister's natural hair color, need two hands and two feet to count the number of years we've known each other, can't say anything that might hurt my feelings, etc, need not apply.
Applicants who have backgrounds in English, creative writing, education, or just someone who just loves to read books and is one of those people who is constantly correcting people's grammar, will be considered.
This is a volunteer position. That's right, no dough involved. I have no income, people! If I become, like my husband dreams, the next JK Rowling, I will most certainly buy my editor a country home in Europe. Or a cabana in Fiji. Or an igloo in Alaska. Whatever floats their boat. Otherwise...yeah. There's really nothing in it for you.
Art work is being done by the lovely and talented Genesis Kohler.
Oh. The book - which is a whole three pages at this point - is well...hmm...a genre for you...YA/Teen fantasy/gothic suspense? Something like that?
All kidding aside, I do need someone I can email chunks to who will indulgently delete excess comas and tell me I have three characters named Bob. Or no characters named Bob and a character named Bob is needed. Those kind of things. I'm a pretty good speller, but I tend to throw in extra punctuation in the defense that it's like chocolate; if a little is good, more must be better.
Also I need that someone to tell me I am terrible and to take up underwater basket weaving immediately.
In fact, I think I'll just tell myself that and save you the trouble. This whole book idea is silly. Nevermind.
No, wait! Nevermind the nevermind.
I need someone to tell me that never mind is actually two words. I'm desperate without you, o editor mine.
And if no one volunteers I have several people in mind, so don't make me actually have to ask you personally and get shot down. Let's save the rejection for when the thing is actually published, OK? OK.
I'm too scared to hit the Publish Post button. You all are gonna keep me accountable for this whole novel thing, aren't you?
Qualifications: Good speller, good with grammar, knows when to use then and when to use than, excellent with punctuation. Ruthless, but not too ruthless. Honest.
Applicants who have either: watched me grow up from a close distance, seen me give birth, know my whole family's birthdays, know my middle name and maiden name, know my sister's natural hair color, need two hands and two feet to count the number of years we've known each other, can't say anything that might hurt my feelings, etc, need not apply.
Applicants who have backgrounds in English, creative writing, education, or just someone who just loves to read books and is one of those people who is constantly correcting people's grammar, will be considered.
This is a volunteer position. That's right, no dough involved. I have no income, people! If I become, like my husband dreams, the next JK Rowling, I will most certainly buy my editor a country home in Europe. Or a cabana in Fiji. Or an igloo in Alaska. Whatever floats their boat. Otherwise...yeah. There's really nothing in it for you.
Art work is being done by the lovely and talented Genesis Kohler.
Oh. The book - which is a whole three pages at this point - is well...hmm...a genre for you...YA/Teen fantasy/gothic suspense? Something like that?
All kidding aside, I do need someone I can email chunks to who will indulgently delete excess comas and tell me I have three characters named Bob. Or no characters named Bob and a character named Bob is needed. Those kind of things. I'm a pretty good speller, but I tend to throw in extra punctuation in the defense that it's like chocolate; if a little is good, more must be better.
Also I need that someone to tell me I am terrible and to take up underwater basket weaving immediately.
In fact, I think I'll just tell myself that and save you the trouble. This whole book idea is silly. Nevermind.
No, wait! Nevermind the nevermind.
I need someone to tell me that never mind is actually two words. I'm desperate without you, o editor mine.
And if no one volunteers I have several people in mind, so don't make me actually have to ask you personally and get shot down. Let's save the rejection for when the thing is actually published, OK? OK.
I'm too scared to hit the Publish Post button. You all are gonna keep me accountable for this whole novel thing, aren't you?
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Nothing much is happening these days so I'm treating this blog more like a diary.
Dear diary...nothing much is happening these days.
Note: when I was about my daughter Anna's age my diary was name DeeDee. I thought that was an unbelievably lovely and grown up and sophisticated name. I also remember very suddenly at this very moment a moment of Who's The Boss? where Sam had a friend who wanted to change her name to Vivian. Sam said why? She said dreamily, Isn't it obvious? Sorry. Sometimes I have random flashbacks of episodes of Who's The Boss. Actually, it may have been Full House.
Last week there were all sorts of job prospects happenin.' This week: nothing. A void of internet emptiness and despair. Being unemployed and living with family alternates between chaos and boredom. It's like a lovely vacation ... that doesn't end. It was wonderful of my in-laws to thoughtfully pick out a home in a subdivision with a pool, ten years ago when they moved here. It's like they knew - instinctively knew - that somehow at least one of their six children would move back in with his spouse and three kids. They're thoughtful and prophetic people like that! So as much as I despise pools (the bathing suits! the pee! the loud small humans! the deep water that could harbor sharks!) we have spent so much time there my children look like I kidnapped them from Mexico. Their tan lines are adorable, especially Gianni's whose white little bottom peeks out from beneath his Star Wars swim trunks. I, on the other hand, have a lovely burn on the backs of my thighs (i.e. tushy) and it now hurts to sit down. Alas. I was going for Bronze Amazon Goddess when I laid out with my SPF 4 Banana Boat tanning oil and got immersed in a Dean Koontz Frankenstein novel. They just don't make SPF 4 like they used to.
Frankenstein is another one of those words that the ol' I before E except after C rule doesn't apply. Is there a second verse to that totally errant expression? Or does it just not apply when the word is ... German?
It's actually good I have so much time on my hands; I obviously have been philosophizing quite a bit.
I have to go now because I'm making my father in law watch Runaway Jury. I'm hoping the ending surprises him but I don't think it will considering the last movie I forced him to watch was The Usual Suspects and he totally figured out the ending before it happened! I mean, who does that? No one knows that little ol' lame Verbal Kent played by little ol' Kevin Spacey is REALLY Keyser Soze!!!! Umm, spoiler alert. But it's like 15 years old, so if you haven't seen it yet, you ain't going to. I heart movies with shocking endings. The Others and Arlington Road, two of my other favorites.
Signing off, dear diary.
Moi.
Dear diary...nothing much is happening these days.
Note: when I was about my daughter Anna's age my diary was name DeeDee. I thought that was an unbelievably lovely and grown up and sophisticated name. I also remember very suddenly at this very moment a moment of Who's The Boss? where Sam had a friend who wanted to change her name to Vivian. Sam said why? She said dreamily, Isn't it obvious? Sorry. Sometimes I have random flashbacks of episodes of Who's The Boss. Actually, it may have been Full House.
Last week there were all sorts of job prospects happenin.' This week: nothing. A void of internet emptiness and despair. Being unemployed and living with family alternates between chaos and boredom. It's like a lovely vacation ... that doesn't end. It was wonderful of my in-laws to thoughtfully pick out a home in a subdivision with a pool, ten years ago when they moved here. It's like they knew - instinctively knew - that somehow at least one of their six children would move back in with his spouse and three kids. They're thoughtful and prophetic people like that! So as much as I despise pools (the bathing suits! the pee! the loud small humans! the deep water that could harbor sharks!) we have spent so much time there my children look like I kidnapped them from Mexico. Their tan lines are adorable, especially Gianni's whose white little bottom peeks out from beneath his Star Wars swim trunks. I, on the other hand, have a lovely burn on the backs of my thighs (i.e. tushy) and it now hurts to sit down. Alas. I was going for Bronze Amazon Goddess when I laid out with my SPF 4 Banana Boat tanning oil and got immersed in a Dean Koontz Frankenstein novel. They just don't make SPF 4 like they used to.
Frankenstein is another one of those words that the ol' I before E except after C rule doesn't apply. Is there a second verse to that totally errant expression? Or does it just not apply when the word is ... German?
It's actually good I have so much time on my hands; I obviously have been philosophizing quite a bit.
I have to go now because I'm making my father in law watch Runaway Jury. I'm hoping the ending surprises him but I don't think it will considering the last movie I forced him to watch was The Usual Suspects and he totally figured out the ending before it happened! I mean, who does that? No one knows that little ol' lame Verbal Kent played by little ol' Kevin Spacey is REALLY Keyser Soze!!!! Umm, spoiler alert. But it's like 15 years old, so if you haven't seen it yet, you ain't going to. I heart movies with shocking endings. The Others and Arlington Road, two of my other favorites.
Signing off, dear diary.
Moi.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Why Mommies Would Be Good Spies
Mommies the world over would be excellent in espionage. I have given this a lot of thought and I think the C.I.A. should hire us. Of course we'd have to have Spy Names, like Scully, or Agent 99, or something like that. Give it some thought. I'll be Tutu. I'll have a pointe shoe phone.
Reasons any secret government agency should hire moms immediately:
1. We have amazingly high pain tolerance. Pretty sure Pierce Bronson couldn't foster a human child inside his body and then expel it - either by hacking it out with a carving knife in an operating room or by pushing it out through his nether regions. I am also fairy certain he would not make it through the first two weeks of breastfeeding without a lot of sobbing.
2. We have perfected stealth. Mommies are sneaky little women. Take nap time: whether it's a brand new babe or one of the toddling variety, we can hold our breath for most of eternity and then maneuver that little bumpkin to his crib or bed without waking him. By the way, all cribs and toddler beds were made by The Enemy and were designed to creak if you so much as look at them. This involves a highly intricate dance that is similar to Ethan Hawke (right Ethan? Wrong Ethan? Thinking of Mission Impossible Ethan, not Uma Thuman's ex Ethan) suspended from the ceiling.
3. We can go days without eating. By the time the food is prepared and on the table, little Emily wants a drink, little George has pooped his pants, little Trixie has spit up, and when you've dealt with all that, there isn't any food left.
4. We can go a long time without sleep. Approximately 18 years.
5. We are adept at cleaning up bodily fluids.
6. Nothing scares us. We have seen it all.
7. We can't be broken through torture. If we can handle upteen viewings of Barney, we can handle water-boarding.
8. We are masters of disguise. Why, you'd hardly recognize me from the 19 year old hottie I used to be now that I've got my pair of Mom Jeans.
Join me! Today the blogging world...tomorrow the world.
Reasons any secret government agency should hire moms immediately:
1. We have amazingly high pain tolerance. Pretty sure Pierce Bronson couldn't foster a human child inside his body and then expel it - either by hacking it out with a carving knife in an operating room or by pushing it out through his nether regions. I am also fairy certain he would not make it through the first two weeks of breastfeeding without a lot of sobbing.
2. We have perfected stealth. Mommies are sneaky little women. Take nap time: whether it's a brand new babe or one of the toddling variety, we can hold our breath for most of eternity and then maneuver that little bumpkin to his crib or bed without waking him. By the way, all cribs and toddler beds were made by The Enemy and were designed to creak if you so much as look at them. This involves a highly intricate dance that is similar to Ethan Hawke (right Ethan? Wrong Ethan? Thinking of Mission Impossible Ethan, not Uma Thuman's ex Ethan) suspended from the ceiling.
3. We can go days without eating. By the time the food is prepared and on the table, little Emily wants a drink, little George has pooped his pants, little Trixie has spit up, and when you've dealt with all that, there isn't any food left.
4. We can go a long time without sleep. Approximately 18 years.
5. We are adept at cleaning up bodily fluids.
6. Nothing scares us. We have seen it all.
7. We can't be broken through torture. If we can handle upteen viewings of Barney, we can handle water-boarding.
8. We are masters of disguise. Why, you'd hardly recognize me from the 19 year old hottie I used to be now that I've got my pair of Mom Jeans.
Join me! Today the blogging world...tomorrow the world.
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