Best thing to do when you're facing a tight freelance deadline? Noodle around on the internet, looking at sewing blogs. At midnight. When you don't really sew.
Tomorrow could be a big day. I'm keeping my mouth shut, but we're talking about two words, and they rhyme with Slob Minterview.
And really, I don't know anything about anything. What I do know is that it's good to have options. And clean pants. I'm working on the clean pants part.
11 March 2008
You Make Up a Title, I'm Over It
First, a Question:
Why is Mary-Kashley Olsen famous?
Next, a Quote:
I swooped Bird up on the playground yesterday at daycare and she yanked the neck of my shirt open, looked in, and said:
"Hey Mama, you got a baby sister in your tummy for me?"
Sigh. I could have replied, "You got an extra eight hundred a month lying around somewhere that would pay for a baby sister's daycare?"
But I replied, "No, not yet. Maybe someday."
When what I kind of wished I could say was Yes.*
Now, a Puzzler:
When we bought our house almost six years ago, my mom bought us a set of sheets with an insanely high thread count as a housewarming gift. They are soft and heavy and smooth. They are (were) perfect. They cost a fortune, as sheets go.
I mentioned once to my mom that I never used any other sheets, as we had become so spoiled by the luxury of the perfect ones. I told her how I just strip the bed in the morning to wash them and put them right back on at night.
That year, for Christmas, we got another set of sheets with an only slightly-less-insanely high thread count, though they were also soft and heavy and smooth. They also cost a pretty penny.
For the next 3 or 4 years I alternated between these two sets of sheets.
This week, we noticed a hole in the fitted sheet of the first perfect set. It was a small hole that turned in a matter of nights into a gaping, ripped slash in the fabric and was the official death of that perfect sheet. I mourned.
No, seriously. I grieved that sheet.
Last night I put our OTHER set of sheets on the bed and noticed four (FOUR! MAYBE FIVE!) smallish holes in the fitted sheet, holes just like the ones that killed my first darling sheet. I know it is only a matter of nights before we will be dragging out the green sheets with their regular thread count and bitching about how it is just like sleeping under sheets of newspaper as we grieve these two hard losses. And in such a small amount of time! It's heartwrenching.
What do you think is happening? Did they have a contagious sheet disease? Could these holes be a result of sleeping on the same sheets for six years? (though the fabric was certainly worn it did not show thin spots or major signs of wear.) What the holy eff is going on in there that took two of the most wonderful fitted sheets in the whole entire world to an early grave in just a week?
And, a Non-Story.
Tuesday during my mediocre lunch at Fazoli's in Clarksville, Tennessee (when will I learn?), I couldn't help but notice the group of middle-aged, NASCAR-moms in the booth next to me. The kind of lady who will wear a Dale Earnhardt sweatshirt with a silk-screened autograph across the back, drive a Chevy Suburban and carry two keys and nine keychain doo-dads with pictures of her kids and her sister's kids and her cat and her husband back when they were in high school, and use seven gallons of hairspray each morning to support a weird hairdo only found in the South. The kind of woman who meets her best gal pals at Fazoli's for lunch.
Please note that I'm not judging. I'm observing.
And what I observed that day was that the loudest hen of the group had a cell phone that just would not stop ringing (which she answered every time), interrupting the conversation four or five times during the meal.
Her ring tone was the theme song from "Friends." And I observed in a strictly observational way what a strange thing it was that this early forties, over-sized NASCAR mom in a medium-sized town in the mid-south SO LOVED this show about fashionable, carefree twentysomethings living in New York City, so much so in fact that her love has continued in the many years since the show went off the air, so much so that she would make sure she heard the theme song at least six thousand times a day, each time envisioning those kooky Friends splooshing around in the fountain and walking into each other's apartments unannounced.
Maybe you don't think that's interesting. I think it's interesting.
*Just to make it unmistakably clear, I am not pregnant.
Why is Mary-Kashley Olsen famous?
Next, a Quote:
I swooped Bird up on the playground yesterday at daycare and she yanked the neck of my shirt open, looked in, and said:
"Hey Mama, you got a baby sister in your tummy for me?"
Sigh. I could have replied, "You got an extra eight hundred a month lying around somewhere that would pay for a baby sister's daycare?"
But I replied, "No, not yet. Maybe someday."
When what I kind of wished I could say was Yes.*
Now, a Puzzler:
When we bought our house almost six years ago, my mom bought us a set of sheets with an insanely high thread count as a housewarming gift. They are soft and heavy and smooth. They are (were) perfect. They cost a fortune, as sheets go.
I mentioned once to my mom that I never used any other sheets, as we had become so spoiled by the luxury of the perfect ones. I told her how I just strip the bed in the morning to wash them and put them right back on at night.
That year, for Christmas, we got another set of sheets with an only slightly-less-insanely high thread count, though they were also soft and heavy and smooth. They also cost a pretty penny.
For the next 3 or 4 years I alternated between these two sets of sheets.
This week, we noticed a hole in the fitted sheet of the first perfect set. It was a small hole that turned in a matter of nights into a gaping, ripped slash in the fabric and was the official death of that perfect sheet. I mourned.
No, seriously. I grieved that sheet.
Last night I put our OTHER set of sheets on the bed and noticed four (FOUR! MAYBE FIVE!) smallish holes in the fitted sheet, holes just like the ones that killed my first darling sheet. I know it is only a matter of nights before we will be dragging out the green sheets with their regular thread count and bitching about how it is just like sleeping under sheets of newspaper as we grieve these two hard losses. And in such a small amount of time! It's heartwrenching.
What do you think is happening? Did they have a contagious sheet disease? Could these holes be a result of sleeping on the same sheets for six years? (though the fabric was certainly worn it did not show thin spots or major signs of wear.) What the holy eff is going on in there that took two of the most wonderful fitted sheets in the whole entire world to an early grave in just a week?
And, a Non-Story.
Tuesday during my mediocre lunch at Fazoli's in Clarksville, Tennessee (when will I learn?), I couldn't help but notice the group of middle-aged, NASCAR-moms in the booth next to me. The kind of lady who will wear a Dale Earnhardt sweatshirt with a silk-screened autograph across the back, drive a Chevy Suburban and carry two keys and nine keychain doo-dads with pictures of her kids and her sister's kids and her cat and her husband back when they were in high school, and use seven gallons of hairspray each morning to support a weird hairdo only found in the South. The kind of woman who meets her best gal pals at Fazoli's for lunch.
Please note that I'm not judging. I'm observing.
And what I observed that day was that the loudest hen of the group had a cell phone that just would not stop ringing (which she answered every time), interrupting the conversation four or five times during the meal.
Her ring tone was the theme song from "Friends." And I observed in a strictly observational way what a strange thing it was that this early forties, over-sized NASCAR mom in a medium-sized town in the mid-south SO LOVED this show about fashionable, carefree twentysomethings living in New York City, so much so in fact that her love has continued in the many years since the show went off the air, so much so that she would make sure she heard the theme song at least six thousand times a day, each time envisioning those kooky Friends splooshing around in the fountain and walking into each other's apartments unannounced.
Maybe you don't think that's interesting. I think it's interesting.
*Just to make it unmistakably clear, I am not pregnant.
05 March 2008
Spring Forward
The part of my job that makes my stomach sink is when I'm standing on a patient's front porch, poised to ring a doorbell. About to enter someone else's life to talk about terminal illness and death, even though in my personal world no one has died but the very, very old. So what do I even have to say here? What can I tell you about this? About coping? About tragedy? About preparing to lose your spouse? About care giving? About sacrifice? Grief?
On my way to visit a patient last week, I realize I might starve to death if I don't eat before I arrive. I drive through at McDonald's. I order two cheeseburger-hold-the-burger sandwiches and a diet coke. The kid hands me my drink through the window. The lid is not snapped on. He lets go to soon, I squeeze the cup, diet coke explosion. Everywhere. All over my car. Mostly in the driver's seat. All over my ass. I curse. I am kind to the kid, though, it was an accident. He offers me a replacement beverage. I park the car. He brings me a Dr. Pepper. I hate Dr. Pepper. I drag towels from my trunk, blot and dab at my ass in the parking lot and eventually give up and resume the drive, soaking in aspartame and caramel coloring from the top of my ass to the bend of my knee, stuffing bread and cheese sandwiches in my face as fast as I can.
Ten minutes later I stand on the patient's doorstep having the aforementioned sinking stomach moment. I introduce myself and explain that I have brought this old blue sheet covered in dog hair, and I'm going to sit on it to protect his furniture, due to my ass being saturated with soda. I invite myself into his living room and proceed to talk with him about how he's going to die.
Aaaaaaand... .. scene.
I haven't been posting regularly for whatever reason, but I have been keeping a short scrawled list of the things I should be writing about, and it looks like this:
Broken window
Mutual Funds
speeding ticket
Window repair
Cat f*cking up window repair
coke ass
Clearly, I chose to tell you the story about coke ass. It was the best one.
I also have, in another place, a second list of things I've been meaning to share here:
1. Uncle Daves.
My brother-in-law and his girlfriend visited last weekend from Indiana. We did the touristy honky-tonk adventure downtown, and a lot of hanging out around the house. Birdy finally warmed up to her uncle, and though she knows other people named Dave, she reserves the plural only for him. It's awfully sweet.
2. It snowed here.
About 4 inches Friday night, so pretty, so rare. We received an invitation from dear friends Saturday morning to turn the toddlers loose in their giant, snow-covered yard, which we happily accepted. And as the kids were running and falling and just generally causing a big joyful ruckus, a snowball sailed over the privacy fence and hit my brother-in-law's girlfriend in the leg, sent by the ten-year-old next door.
One snowball over the fence turned quickly into four men in their thirties winging snowballs at two ten-year-olds, and the younger boys responding with war-like intensity. Okay, maybe not war-like. But they were totally into it. And on our side of the fence, the thirtysomethings ducked and crouched and used the deck to their advantage, whining about their sore, aging shoulders, eventually continuing the battle into the driveway and leaving in a hail of snowballs thudding against the cars. We were all on our way out anyway, but I'm pretty sure those kids think they ran us off, which is a victory I hope they hold onto for a long, long time.
3. Bird had a horrible nap on Sunday. Losing an hour will turn a toddler's life upside down, and having your uncle Daves in town plus going to parents' night out in your jammies the night before can turn a once-peaceful and welcome nap into a battle of wills. Quotes from that nap include:
4. Bird's new YouTube favorites: gold pants and Herman's Hermits.
5. Why I laughed until I cried at work: Garfield. Except without Garfield.
6. What I saw today: Frozen Grand Central.
The end.
On my way to visit a patient last week, I realize I might starve to death if I don't eat before I arrive. I drive through at McDonald's. I order two cheeseburger-hold-the-burger sandwiches and a diet coke. The kid hands me my drink through the window. The lid is not snapped on. He lets go to soon, I squeeze the cup, diet coke explosion. Everywhere. All over my car. Mostly in the driver's seat. All over my ass. I curse. I am kind to the kid, though, it was an accident. He offers me a replacement beverage. I park the car. He brings me a Dr. Pepper. I hate Dr. Pepper. I drag towels from my trunk, blot and dab at my ass in the parking lot and eventually give up and resume the drive, soaking in aspartame and caramel coloring from the top of my ass to the bend of my knee, stuffing bread and cheese sandwiches in my face as fast as I can.
Ten minutes later I stand on the patient's doorstep having the aforementioned sinking stomach moment. I introduce myself and explain that I have brought this old blue sheet covered in dog hair, and I'm going to sit on it to protect his furniture, due to my ass being saturated with soda. I invite myself into his living room and proceed to talk with him about how he's going to die.
Aaaaaaand... .. scene.
I haven't been posting regularly for whatever reason, but I have been keeping a short scrawled list of the things I should be writing about, and it looks like this:
Broken window
Mutual Funds
speeding ticket
Window repair
Cat f*cking up window repair
coke ass
Clearly, I chose to tell you the story about coke ass. It was the best one.
I also have, in another place, a second list of things I've been meaning to share here:
1. Uncle Daves.
My brother-in-law and his girlfriend visited last weekend from Indiana. We did the touristy honky-tonk adventure downtown, and a lot of hanging out around the house. Birdy finally warmed up to her uncle, and though she knows other people named Dave, she reserves the plural only for him. It's awfully sweet.
2. It snowed here.
About 4 inches Friday night, so pretty, so rare. We received an invitation from dear friends Saturday morning to turn the toddlers loose in their giant, snow-covered yard, which we happily accepted. And as the kids were running and falling and just generally causing a big joyful ruckus, a snowball sailed over the privacy fence and hit my brother-in-law's girlfriend in the leg, sent by the ten-year-old next door.
One snowball over the fence turned quickly into four men in their thirties winging snowballs at two ten-year-olds, and the younger boys responding with war-like intensity. Okay, maybe not war-like. But they were totally into it. And on our side of the fence, the thirtysomethings ducked and crouched and used the deck to their advantage, whining about their sore, aging shoulders, eventually continuing the battle into the driveway and leaving in a hail of snowballs thudding against the cars. We were all on our way out anyway, but I'm pretty sure those kids think they ran us off, which is a victory I hope they hold onto for a long, long time.
3. Bird had a horrible nap on Sunday. Losing an hour will turn a toddler's life upside down, and having your uncle Daves in town plus going to parents' night out in your jammies the night before can turn a once-peaceful and welcome nap into a battle of wills. Quotes from that nap include:
Mama, stop touching my head. It makes me nervous.
*
I don't want this baby! I WANT MY REGULAR BABY!
*
Bird: Stop talking to me!
Me: I'm not talking to you.
Bird: STOP IT!
*
I don't want this baby! I WANT MY REGULAR BABY!
*
Bird: Stop talking to me!
Me: I'm not talking to you.
Bird: STOP IT!
4. Bird's new YouTube favorites: gold pants and Herman's Hermits.
5. Why I laughed until I cried at work: Garfield. Except without Garfield.
6. What I saw today: Frozen Grand Central.
The end.
29 February 2008
PASS!
And damn, it was pretty freaking hard. Just in case you were wondering, the NCETMB is no joke.
To celebrate, A. and Birdy took me to the new Caribbean place that just opened a location in our neighborhood (so now one by my office and one by my house-- I'm surrounded by black bean salad and couldn't be happier about it).
Birdy also made me a special "booger ham" out of blue playdough. (translation: "hamburger", God bless her).
No long post today, just bask in this relief with me. It's been a big week.
And damn, it was pretty freaking hard. Just in case you were wondering, the NCETMB is no joke.
To celebrate, A. and Birdy took me to the new Caribbean place that just opened a location in our neighborhood (so now one by my office and one by my house-- I'm surrounded by black bean salad and couldn't be happier about it).
Birdy also made me a special "booger ham" out of blue playdough. (translation: "hamburger", God bless her).
No long post today, just bask in this relief with me. It's been a big week.
26 February 2008
And We Are Now an All-Female Office Again.
He came and got all of his crap last night when our little old office in this little old house was empty. He came here in the dark, his pockets heavy with so much money he was paid but never earned. Too ashamed to even say, "hey, nice working with you, thanks for doing my job for me the last five months," he came to the office after hours and took his framed photos, his diploma, his book about leadership. But before he left, he made sure to
leave the fucking toilet seat up.
25 February 2008
Breathing Easier
Saturday morning, on the way to the library, straight from the bakery, we passed the hotdog stand.
A: Ooooh, it's almost time for a hotdog!
Me: You haven't even finished your breakfast sandwich yet.
A: That's why I said it was ALMOST time for a hotdog.
Sorry for the nothin-but-quotes format lately. Exam is in 3 precious days. After which I will prattle on and on in the style to which you are all accustomed.
But until then, the big news:
Sucky Lazy Executive Director resigned today, one hour after landing in our city following a week-long conference in California (hope you enjoyed your vacation, buttface). He didn't come in today at all. Resignation effective immediately, and he made arrangements to pick up his shit after the staff had left for the day, because he is... well, because that's who he is. I was going to say something mean and name-callish, but I won't, because I already called him a buttface and I never have to see him again. And now that he's gone, I can share with you that my nickname for him has been "Mr. Jacksonifyou'renasty." Which I think it's safe to say was a little joke I created to make myself crack up, because nobody else seems to think that's as funny as I do.
A: Ooooh, it's almost time for a hotdog!
Me: You haven't even finished your breakfast sandwich yet.
A: That's why I said it was ALMOST time for a hotdog.
Sorry for the nothin-but-quotes format lately. Exam is in 3 precious days. After which I will prattle on and on in the style to which you are all accustomed.
But until then, the big news:
Sucky Lazy Executive Director resigned today, one hour after landing in our city following a week-long conference in California (hope you enjoyed your vacation, buttface). He didn't come in today at all. Resignation effective immediately, and he made arrangements to pick up his shit after the staff had left for the day, because he is... well, because that's who he is. I was going to say something mean and name-callish, but I won't, because I already called him a buttface and I never have to see him again. And now that he's gone, I can share with you that my nickname for him has been "Mr. Jacksonifyou'renasty." Which I think it's safe to say was a little joke I created to make myself crack up, because nobody else seems to think that's as funny as I do.
22 February 2008
Can You Believe it's a Free Show?
Me: Where are we going in the morning?
Bird: The library!
Me: What are we going to see?
Bird: The Nazi!
She means Anansi, as in Anansi the spider, as in the free weekend puppet show at the downtown library.
Bird: The library!
Me: What are we going to see?
Bird: The Nazi!
She means Anansi, as in Anansi the spider, as in the free weekend puppet show at the downtown library.
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