But if I told you, then it wouldn't be a secret. So here's a star bullet point update, instead.

★ I keep having the same actor's nightmare over and over and over. Five times in the last three weeks, I've dreamt the same non-existent scene in the play. It has the same words, and the same actors (that I know, and that are not in my current production), and despite having dreamt this that many times, I'm still always wholly unprepared for it. This morning in the dream, the director told me to watch the movie that the scene was in to be better prepared. I wanted to cry. Stupid subconscious.

★ We're having a billion people for Thanksgiving. Or 32. Either way, I'm having to self-soothe... It'll be okay, it'll be okay, it'll be okay... on a loop. It's not the food, it's just having that many people in the house and making sure they're comfortable, etc. I was talking to a friend and fellow actress on the phone yesterday, bemoaning the state of rehearsals the telling her that I'm a control freak and that I kind of want to hide in the closet with a bottle of Crown, and she gave me some pretty sage advice:

Friend: You need to imagine one of those old time-y radios, you know? The ones with the knobs? And you need to envision one of those knobs being your 'give a sh*#' dial. And you close your eyes, take a deep breath and mentally turn that 'give a sh*#' knob way down. Or off.

Me: That's brilliant. Though, to be perfectly honest, I'm going to have to find that button before I can turn it down.

Friend: I'm not gonna lie. It might be in the closet with the Crown.

Love her. She makes me laugh.

★ Spent the better part of Friday refashioning a kind of crappy $40 JC Penney's dress into something sort of wonderful for The 39 Steps. And it only took 6 hours. :P

★ I spent over an hour this morning looking for a book my middle-schooler needed today, and we STILL didn't find it. Tell me this happens to other people, too, so that I don't sell the child into white slavery?

★ Pumpkins are still gross, and are still the devil. It's a fact. Look it up.

★ Due to the fact that I use my children to run lines, they now know how to swear in German. Mother of the year, folks. Right here. Please don't call CPS.

Supernatural spoiler? )

★ I really, really love Monday mornings, where the only noise in the house is Abbey the Lab snoring up a storm. Hope your Monday morning is as relaxing as mine. Happy Thanksgiving week! Or just Happy Monday, for those kajillion people of you out there not celebrating the American Holiday. :)
It has been one hell of a week.

I mean to say.

★So as I start the prospect of my busy weekend, I feel like I need to come to you, my peoples of the intranet, and give you the update of what's been up over here at my house. (Not actually at my house, this particular use of in my house is used as Urban Slang, as in, "This is my house, yo. Stay outta my house."

Because I've got street cred and stuff.

Stop laughing.

I'm not gonna dance for you, though. So you're safe. )

★So now I'm going to go about the business of the grocery store to prepare for the company we're having this weekend (dinners both tonight and tomorrow), cleaning the house, preparing my supplies to paint at church (Yeah, I paint during the service. It's out there, but very cool all the same) and memorize the rest of my lines. All in 48 hours.

Cover me. I'm going in.
(Children are eating breakfast - Cocoa Puffs - because Carrie has given up on foods with nutritional value for her offspring until school starts. During this, children are also playing Harry Potter Lego for the X-Box 360)

Aaron. Cool. Look, I can turn into Filch's cat.

Carrie. (glances at screen) Mrs. Norris? Why do you want to turn into Mrs. Norris?

Aaron. I dunno. She's mean? She's a cat. (shrugs) It's a video game, mom.

Ethan. (puts his controller down, scrutinizes his mother) How do you know Filch's cat is named Mrs. Norris? How do you KNOW stuff like that?

Carrie. (has flashback to Bridget Jones' Diary - how does she know? She knows just as one knows their times tables or ABC's - blanket knowledge) I don't know. I just do.

Ethan. (resumes play) Sometimes I think you might be dorkier than we are.


Drat. I've been found out.

I really was hoping for a few more years.
persephone33: (Angry bear)
( Jul. 14th, 2011 06:12 pm)
So I go to the door, since the neighbor kid is ringing it incessantly, and after I tell him that the boys are otherwise engaged, showering after being at the pool, and once is plenty to ring the bell, I see a situation on the front porch that I find bizarre. The cooler that we use fairly often, with a pillow on top of it.


Like the girl I am, I shrieked.

And I put the pillow back.

And immediately went inside and called up to the boys.

Carrie. Why is there a FROG in my cooler?"

Ethan. Because I put him there.

Me. WHY did you put him there?

Ethan. (grins) He didn't have a cooler of his own. I was sharing.

Ha, bloody ha, blond kid. You're on my list. And you're letting that frog go free, I don't care if he has his own cooler or not.

He looks a little forlorn, if you ask me.

Rest assured, there will be a release of the frog, a scrubbing of the cooler with bleach and soap and anything else frog-repellent that I can think of, and a little chat reminding him that WE ALREADY HAVE TWO PETS in the form of 70 pound Labrador retrievers.

The last post was a bit dramatic. It's an occupational hazard. Apologies all around.

Nolan teases me that I'm annoyingly even tempered, but only because I store up all of my upset for six months at a time, until I explode and have an "I Feel" day, spewing hot, molten crazy on everyone in my immediate vicinity. Those days are rare, but they do happen. They hurt a little, too. I need to work on letting it out little by little. A crazy release valve, if you will.

Anyway. Moving forward. Onwards and upwards. Adapt and overcome.

The show is contained, for the time being. The next two weeks will undoubtedly be grueling, but I can actually see fun from where I am. It's promising. The thing that's motivating? The principles are having such a good time; they're funny, talented and well rehearsed, so the ensemble will just be a lovely icing on an already wonderful and yummy cake.

Forgive the food metaphors. I've got cinnamon bun bread in the oven for our breakfast, and the smell is driving me a little nutty.

I tried on the cute cowgirl costume from the last post, and... I could look worse. Talk about barely contained. I'm going to have to do some strategic work with duct tape and bailing wire so that all my business stays where it belongs. A friend of mine says that it's all about the base coat of paint. SO true.

So anyway. Things are looking up. It's Easter, and I do love this particular holiday. His sacrifice puts my problems in perspective as trivial and petty, comparatively. Plus, I made myself a new Easter dress, and always enjoy the coloring and hunting eggs aspect of the weekend.

So have a happy Easter, and may the Easter bunny bring you all the Cadbury creme eggs your heart desires.
persephone33: (dramatic headdesk)
( Apr. 8th, 2011 03:43 pm)
Incidentally, third grade is when math all started going to hell for me.

But I digress.

Yesterday, Aaron needed help with number sentences. When he needs help with actual math, he goes to his father. For sentences, mom is the one. In any case, AJ came up with the problem, 16 x 20 or something, and I suggested a word problem along the lines of 'he had 16 friends and gave them each 20 pieces of candy...'

Aaron. (looks surprised) Wow, Mom. You're good at math.

Carrie. (laughs, in a self-deprecating manner) You think?

Aaron. (considers) Well, you're getting better.

Carrie. Oh, thanks, kid.

Aaron. (yells from the other room) That was a compliment!

It's nice to know I'm getting better. I'd hate to stagnate where I am.
persephone33: (redheaded pinup)
( Oct. 1st, 2010 08:25 am)
(Carrie and the children run through the morning routine, hair combing, breakfast eating, tooth brushing, and she explains the schedule for later in the day.)

Carrie. So when you get home from school, I'll have packed your bag and I'll take you out to Grandma's and Grandpa's house for the weekend.

Ethan. (Frowns) But Dad's gone.

Carrie. (has only had a sip of coffee at this point in the morning) Mmmhm.

Ethan. If dad's gone, then who'll protect you if the zombies attack? I'm in charge of that when he's gone.

Carrie. There's going to be a zombie attack this weekend? And you're in charge of what, exactly?

Ethan. There might be a zombie attack this weekend. And I'm in charge of shooting them. You don't know how to shoot a gun.

Carrie. And you do?

Ethan. I can figure it out. If you're not protected, they'll get you.

Aaron. (Munches on toast) Makes sense.

Carrie. (under breath) None of this makes sense.

Ethan. I'll stay, just in case.

Carrie. No, pumpkin, I'll be fine.

Ethan. (Frowns) Are you sure?

Carrie. (Wishes to God for having drunk more coffee before having this conversation) Yes. Katie and Abbey (the Labrador retrievers) are here. They'll protect me.

Ethan. Katie would, but Abbey will be worthless.

Aaron. (munches on toast) That's true.


Just another Friday at our house. )
So. The saga of The Bed. As promised.

First, let me preface that I am a hardcore sleeper. I'm a champion. I could enter an Olympic event in Sleeping and sweep all three medals, because I am just THAT good at it. I, like my youngest son, can sleep anywhere, at any time, no matter what is happening around me.

But the older I get, I've realized that there's a direct correlation in Where I Sleep vs. How I Feel When I Get Up.

As in: *Nap on the couch = crick in neck

*Crappy ass hotel mattress = sore all over

*Drifting off in a chair at elementary school assembly = just embarrassed, yet refreshed

Anyway. The point is, the WHERE has somehow, in the last fifteen years, become very, very important.

And that's where our story begins.
Got a cup of coffee? Sit down and read the fairy tale under the cut. )
Even though I didn't plan it, I seem to be busy. Really Busy.

I'm pleasantly sore from all the workouts I've been doing to reduce in the name of South Pacific, waist deep in research for costuming Eurydice (now that I understand it, I think I may like it. Still not sure, though),preparing and rehearsing for a women's retreat drama mid-September, dance rehearsals and blocking rehearsals for South Pacific, managing to do the HGC diet without wanting to pull my (or anyone else's) hair out*, writing a little and sewing, painting and keeping the house from exploding with dirt.

I am woman, hear me roar, etc.

We're getting our new bed delivered today. I could NOT be more happy. I still need to document the drama that is The Bed. Gracious. It's an epic freaking saga.

The children have been gone since Sunday, and they return this afternoon. I've missed them! But the house is really clean. And quiet. ;)
* Actually, I'd sell my grandmother for some queso. And you know how I love my grandmother.
I've wondered about the strange phone calls we've been receiving lately.

I'm totally a call screener. I loathe talking on the phone normally, so I don't answer unless I really want to talk to you, or in the case of my husband, who won't be put off by not getting me on the phone; he'll just call my cell and then badger me with emails until I respond.

Love you, husband. Mean it.

Anyhow, now it all makes sense. A bail bondsman evidently is listed somewhere (newspaper? Phone book? I forgot to ask) with our home phone number. I just got a call from a very nice woman who told me that the problem is being fixed.

It makes this exchange not so weird:

(Phone rings, I uncharacteristically answer)

Me. Hello?

Caller. Yeah, I wondered how much you'd give me for my 1994 [model of] boat.

Me. Excuse me?

Caller. Do you take boats as collateral?

Me. What? I think you have the wrong number.

Caller. (swears and hangs up)

Just so you all know, I will not be coerced by any four letter words into buying any of your boats, cars, houses, etc. or loaning out any money for you or your loved ones to get out of jail. Call me selfish, but it's just not happening.

Or maybe I should just start a new career? Thoughts?
persephone33: (Angry bear)
( Jul. 19th, 2010 03:24 pm)
Okay. I have an admission to make. I'm vain about my hair.

I've known that for some time. What I didn't realize was just how vain I am about my kids' hair.

Nolan took Ethan out running errands on Saturday. Evidently they went to the den of mediocrity that is Sports Clips, and long story (which includes a Dennis the Menace comparison, an absentee stylist and some exceedingly bad judgment) short, they both came home looking like someone used a weed whacker to cut their hair.

I normally take the boys to my hair girl, the brilliant and very kind Arviel at the salon 'Reds'. We missed their cut appointment a week and a half ago, and I guess Ethan had enough of hair in his eyes.

I'm glad school pictures aren't for another few months.

The topper, though? Last night about ten minutes before our dinner guests came over, Aaron CUT HIS BANGS AN INCH FROM HIS SCALP.

Seriously? SERIOUSLY???? HE'S EIGHT YEARS OLD! Rassafrassinfrassin kid.

I wanted to wring his cute little neck. I restrained myself, so no one call CPS. Luckily, Arviel is going to work us in tomorrow morning to try to repair the damage. Nothing can be done about the tragedy that is Ethan's hair.

Yeah. Vain.

From now on, we're ALL going to Arviel. Nolan included.

That's all.
Sometimes, when I forget where I am and have had more than one glass of pinot noir, I confide in my husband about some of my fannish pursuits. I know this is a Very Bad Idea, because although he thinks it's amusing at the time, he teases me about it later something fierce. And although he admits to playing Dungeons and Dragons at age fourteen, somehow what I do is dorky.

I'll describe one such time.

(I'm blathering on about my exchange fic, telling him the dramatic structure behind it and the plot that I thought was pretty good, considering, and he looks at me with a blank expression.)

Him. What? I don't know what you're talking about.

Me. (Indignant) Yes, well, there's a whole subculture out there of people who DO know what I'm talking about.

Him. Mmmhm. We have words to describe them. Twelve-step programs, restraining orders, ankle monitors, offender lists, therapist's couches...

Me. Shut UP.

Grab your torch and pitchforks, girls. He's talking about US. ;)
On Easter Sunday, I started a series of watercolor paintings representing the Fruits of the Spirit. My intent was to finish these during the revival week that we had at the church, but alas, as often happens, I bit off a bit more than I could chew. Does that ever happen to anyone else? My expectations for myself are always a bit higher than I manage to reach.

Anyway, the way I work is that I get inspiration from images... sometimes I paint from memory or mental inspiration, and sometimes I paint from a picture of something I like. I printed off several images to paint during the services, and worked steadily through. Funnily enough, the one I was most concerned about was Self-Control. I had no idea how to paint self control, so I 'Google Imaged' it. One of the things that popped up was the Ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

Ethan. That looks like your style, Mom. You could totally paint that.

Me. (raises my eyebrow) You think?

There's nothing like the blind faith of a ten year-old boy in the talents of his mother. In any case, I'm no Michelangelo, and know my limitations. I went ahead with the plan, even though it took me much longer than I thought it would, (even without bastardizing something once commissioned by The Pope) and I got through Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Gentleness, Goodness and was working on Self-Control when someone came up to look at my progress so far. The words "I'm on my last one," were out of my mouth before I realized...

I completely forgot Kindness.

Well, crap. I'm hoping that this isn't God telling me I need to be aware of the bigger picture in my life, but, you know, I'm afraid it just might be.

So... Kindness. Fine. I'll work on it. And I'll paint it, too, whatever it happens to be.
Ten points if you can tell me what the title is in reference to.

Does anyone out there "get" me? Or am I doing this only to amuse myself?


So most of you know my husband, who is not only handsome and the love of my life, but also, hands down, one of the funniest people I have ever met. I giggle constantly around him. In fact, one of his nicknames for me is 'giggles.' Along with 'baby,' 'sweetie,' and 'beautiful bride.' (Sidenote: He never, EVER calls me Carrie. So when he actually says my name, I go into Panic!Crisis! mode wondering if A) The house is on fire and I need to evacuate immediately, or B) I've made a mistake while amending the checkbook. P.S.? It's usually B.)

Anyhow, Nolan and I were having one of those discussions last night... He'd lured me into the bedroom under false pretenses, I might add, and we were discussing the very BANE of my existence when it comes to Very Important Marriage Issues: Money.

We wrapped up that discussion without any yelling, shedding of tears or gnashing of teeth (and it only took us twelve years of wedded bliss to achieve this!) and the conversation moved on to where it inevitably goes - because he's HIM: Sex.

Now, fear not, gentle reader. My mom reads this blog, and I think a couple of aunts and step aunts and various girls from church, so I'm not going to get explicit or anything. But for the more shy of you, or the ones that don't need too much information about my marriage, I'll put it beneath a cut.

Go ahead! Do the 'Too Much Information' dance with me! )

And don't forget about this month's friends list contest! For all you Angsty Annie Writers who want to win some bubble baths and Lush bath bombs, you can enter your effort in the comments to THIS post. A list of ships I'm particularly fond of can be found HERE. Go forth and give me an emotional catharsis! :D

Oh. And can I tell you this? Writing with other people spoils me. I just finished a rather lengthy story for the [livejournal.com profile] dgficexchange with a dear friend yesterday (who will remain nameless til the big reveal), and it felt effortless, with amazing results.
I'd given them a 'Who What Where' Acting improvisation scene, randomly drawn from a hat. Such as: A princess, making candles, on an African safari. Their task was to create a believable character in the midst of extraordinary situations. The results stretch them as actors and lets face it, they're always entertaining. And I'm all about being entertained while I work. They were rehearsing in groups of three, where the three improbable characters were in the same scene. One group had a terrorist, a queen, and a bullfighter playing cards in an elevator. They're supposed to plan, discuss and rehearse and then perform.

Tall Kid. So... an elevator.

Goth Girl
. Yeah.

Rule Follower. Where are we going to be?

Tall Kid. In an elevator, dude.

Rule Follower
. No, I meant what country.

Goth Girl. I'm the Queen, so let's be in England.

Tall Kid. Man, I can't be from England, I'm a terrorist.

Rule Follower. Why not?

Tall Kid. An English Terrorist? Are you kidding? That's like... an oxymoron! (Adopts very posh upper class British accent) Oh, pardon me, I'm frightfully sorry, would you mind terribly if I blew you all up? Thanks ever so much.

Goth Girl. That's brilliant.

Rule follower
. Hysterical. Yeah. You are so doing that.

Maybe not politically correct, but those moments are one of the reasons that I'm in my seventh year at this academy. These kids are funny.
I love them. Seriously. Great audience tonight.

The show is going very well... I took pictures tonight, but I swear, I have so many quick changes that there isn't enough time to take pictures of all my cool costumes in between!

I made 120 cake truffles and some sugar-free strawberry nut bread (for the diabetics in the cast) for good show gifts tonight, and as I was packing up the empty plates, Allen, the director, asked:

Allen. "Did you make all that?"

Me. (grin) Yep. I'm a whore, but I cook on the side.

Allen. That's my definition of a good wife.

(*rim shot sound effect*)

Now? I think I'm going to have a glass of wine and soak my aching joints in a bubble bath. So that's where I'll be if anyone needs me. :)

Love to all!

OH! Crud. I forgot to do my [livejournal.com profile] 2ormore post yesterday. Stink. Sorry, sorry, [livejournal.com profile] heyurs! I did enjoy the sweet card you sent me, though. It made me smile. You rock. :D
(Ethan and Nolan are playing the Nazi Zombie level at the End of Call of Duty : World at War, and this was the conversation they just had:)

Nolan:  Guard the door, son, guard the door!

Ethan:  Okay!  (Sounds of gunshots, zombies growling)

Nolan:  Guard the window!

Ethan:  Dad?

Nolan (Groans from the exertion or WAR) Yes, son?

Ethan.   If the zombies are dead, how do they know where we are?

Nolan.  Because they can smell our brains!

Ethan:  That is SO gross.

Because THAT's not going to give him nightmares.  And I have to agree with Ethan.  That is SO gross. 

They're having a GREAT time.
persephone33: (maid)
( May. 20th, 2009 10:23 am)
If you're a boy, you can stop reading now.

You've been warned.

Okay. Don't say I didn't tell you to turn back.

My mother is perhaps one of the most generous people that I know. She always gives thoughtful gifts, things that she knows that I'll like, and she always brings me presents when she visits: a pound of coffee, good chocolate, sometimes clothes. But one of the things that I love that she does is when she brings me stuff that she's bought for herself that she ends up not liking, or it doesn't fit her right. I've gotten loads of shirts and a few skirts, lipsticks, perfumes, a few pieces of jewelry, etc. It's fun!

So last fall before we went on our cruise and she came to stay with the boys, I really didn't think anything of it when she brought me a bra. We almost wear the same size, and I thought it was just one of her cast offs. And let me just tell you, that this bra is life changing. It's really, really comfortable, has tons of support without an horrific under wire (See, you boys that are still reading? I told you to turn back.) and gives the girls some of their pep back. I love this bra. Love it. And it didn't have any tags at all on it, so before we left, I asked mom, "Where did you get this thing? It's fantastic. I want five more just like it!"

The rest of the bra story )

Oh, and speaking of bras, check this out. Would you wear a bra that pushes your d-cups up and out when your temperature rises? I... think that's a bad idea, personally. But that's coming from a girl who wears hand-me-downs from a unknown park tramp. :)
And found the first issue of National Geographic Kids subscription that Aaron got for his birthday.

In my own mailbox. Mocking me. )
I actually didn't see it until we got home, and I saw Ethan sneak something to Aaron behind his back. Never a good sign.

Me. What have you got?

Aaron. Nothing, mom.

Me. Ethan, what did you give him?!

Ethan. Trust me mom, you don't want to know.

Me. (uses 'mom' voice) Give. It. To. Me.

( the 'mom' voice is irrefutable, so they had no choice but to hand it over. Which they did.)

Me. (screams, shouts, growls, mild, child-appropriate swears)

Aaron. Why don't you like dolphins again, Mom?

Me. Uh... I'll tell you when you're older.

As far as other things going on in and about fandom, I'll say that I'm too angry, too upset and too disappointed in so many things that I really don't want to talk to most anyone about anything. When I'm completely calm, I'll revisit the situation. Maybe. If I feel like it, and if I still feel as if the people involved are worth the time and energy needed to post.

I still say: If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.
So I'm taking some birthday cupcakes out of the oven yesterday afternoon when I get an hysterical phone call from Ethan:

Ethan. Mom! Aaron fell and there's blood and his eye is OUT!

Me. ... WHAT?!

Ethan. (frantic) We need you to com up here. Uhhh. Mrs. Singleton wants to talk to you.

Me. Yes. Good idea.

So I get on the phone and it turns out that sweet Aaron James had RUN INTO A TREE and scraped his face. I get to the school and his teacher said, "Okay, Carrie, we think it's going to need a couple of stitches. I scoff at this, thinking, He ran into a tree! How bad could it really be?

My father-in-law (whose medical background is being a butcher and an electrical contractor - so...none) happened to be there giving AJ his birthday presents and he peeled back the bandage the school nurse had put on, and put it back quickly, saying, "Yeah, you're going to the hospital."

So we went. Aaron is very subdued at this point, and instead of the emergency room, we went to the urgent care center. When we get into the room, I finally see the gash on my baby's head, and do the all over body shiver. Because, YEAH. He got stitches. Seven stitches on his seventh birthday, which is rather poetic, when you think about it. And although he didn't appreciate when they shoved a four inch needle next to his eye, he handled the rest of it very well. He talked to us about learning about the planets in school, and even patted me on the hand and said, "Don't worry Mom, chicks dig scars." He even said he was going to get a little of his own back today and kick that tree on his way out of school, so I think he's going to be fine.

I, however, really don't care for seeing my babies sewn up. Good heavens, mother of mercy.

His father said he needs to come up with a better story than, "I ran into a tree." Like... there were nine... maybe TEN trees, and they all ganged up on me, but I fought em off...

Click for the pics, but not if you're squeamish about stuff...

Poor AJ! )

He's FINE. But the drama king in him is eating this up.


persephone33: (Default)


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