My life, since I took the job of costumer for La Cage Aux Folles, has not been boring. Stressful, perhaps, maybe a little trying, rife with nightmares, but definitely interesting. And quite probably, the job has made people think I'm a little strange. (Not news for my tens of readers, but I digress.) As I was saying, the day to day aspects of costuming a drag show are entertaining.

Take today.

No, really. Take today. I'm done with it.


So, first things first this morning, I get my hair cut and colored. Honestly, the inch of grey roots was beginning to affect my self-esteem. I leave the brilliant Arviel's shop, ready for the day. My first stop is JoAnn Fabrics, where I'm getting some silver trim, a few white feather boas, and some bra extenders for some of the costumes. While I'm there, my eye was caught by the breast augmentation doohickeys.

Now, me being who I am with all that God has blessed me, have never really had the occasion to peruse the chicken cutlets. Here was the conversation I had with the store employee.

I loathe explanations. )

So anyway, yeah. Interesting times. Definitely interesting.
My house is arranged in such a way that all of my sons' clothes, toys, furniture and bathroom is upstairs. And that's all that's upstairs. Their stuff.

Once every month and a half or so, I venture up there. I know, I know, I should go more often, but inevitably, every time I go up there, it's like the rooms are a swirling vortex of doom, sucking me in against my will. I get trapped cleaning, rearranging, dumping, shouting and scrubbing until the place is habitable by human beings again.

The nitty gritty... )

Maybe when they go back to school, it'll be less like a pigsty.

Though there's no need to blaspheme the pig, come to think of it.
(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.

Which sounds like I've only been to Wal-Mart again, but this is not the case.

First, I must show you this. It is not for the faint of heart amongst you, FYI.

Eeeek! )
Carrie Fisher wrote, "If my life weren't funny, it would just be true. And that would be unacceptable." I completely understand where she's coming from.

This story, folks. This story, I swear is true. And it all happened because I went against my morals.

I went to Wal-Mart.

Those people are flat out NUTS. )

Lord, have mercy. Save me from the crazy people.
I have two stories for you. The first informs the second.

Story One )

Story Two )
So. It turns out, AJ was doing the same thing, buying ice cream and slushes as often as he could. They're both grounded. Ethan's taking his lunch for the rest of the year. Is that a punishment for me, too? Yes, it is. No, I didn't actually say 'crapload' to the kid. And no, we aren't making him take a Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox. It was a close call, though.

That's all the news that's fit to report. Be back soon, though, I'm sure.

And for the cherry on the cake of my day, I've been up since four thirty, and Ethan, Aaron and I are off to the dentist.
Eclipse has an MPAA rating of PG-13. I knew that going into this. But the boys have watched loads of PG-13 movies without incident. Off the top of my head - The Spider-Man Franchise, for one. And I am by no means a prude. But I was wholly unprepared for this. WHERE IS MY HANDBOOK?

Anywho, parenting is an adventure.

Are you a virgin, Mommy? )

In less horrifying news, my dad is here, and we're have a cool, laid back time. Love to all and happy new year, if I don't see you before.
So I'm lying in bed on this cloudy Sunday morning, feeling vaguely guilty that I'm not at church. To atone, I'm going to tell you a story. We'll see how far that gets me with God. :)

Most of you know that I'm not what you might call an 'outdoorsy' person. I believe that nature is best viewed through a pane of glass, preferably with a adult-like fruity drink in hand. And you know that I'm sideways with dolphins, believe that bunnies are up to far more than everyone thinks, and find woodland creatures on the whole to be vile and abhorrent in every way.

It's a tale of girl vs. intruder: Carrie Style. )

I may not, though when Nolan comes back and finds that I've torn the crap out of Colin, the Sexy, Black Toyota Sequoia's running board by driving over a big ass decorative rock in the Rudy's parking lot.

It's been sort of a weekend.

But I'm pleased to announce that [ profile] goeungurl, [ profile] filia_umbrae, and [ profile] eustacia_vye are the winner's of last month's contest. You'll be receiving your Gap cards in the mail A.S.A.P. All of your stories are fabulous, and I intend to comment at length when I have a moment to do it properly.

Everyone enjoy the rest of your weekend. May it be raccoon and zombie-free.
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. )
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.
† I am uninspired by the blue strawberry. *frowns* Everything I've started out writing is blerghy. I do like the quote, though. Also, did not get kicked out on the first round. *confetti throw*

† Mosquitoes are from the devil. I've been having a weird reaction to them this year. The bite area gets really red and swollen and hot, and then it hurts for a few days. Also - bug spray is gross.

† Made strawberry balsamic jam, two batches of blueberry peach, and plain peach jam over the past few days. I think I'm done being the pioneer woman, for awhile.

† It's impossible to keep my home clean and orderly with the boys home. They are a whirling tornado of sloppiness that have waaaaay more energy than I do. If I told them to clean up every mess they make, I'd just be cleaning constantly. And yelling all the time... so... School starts in a month. *nods*

† My house is too big. By the time I'm done really giving it a good go, cleaning wise, it's time to start over. No, Nolan, I don't want to move.

† Saw Despicable Me Friday with the kiddos. I laughed a little, I suppose. And little Agnes was cuuuuute ("It's so fluffy, I'm gonna DIE!"), but overall, I'd give it a meh.

† My mom's in Russia right now, and they didn't take their cell phones or laptop, so are unreachable for the next 10 days. It's not like I NEED my mother; I'm 37 years old for crying out loud, but knowing I can't talk to her is irritating. She and Tom are taking a cruise down a river in Russia, though. Sounds cool, right?

And now, for your reading pleasure, here's a story in which I humiliate both myself and a fourteen year-old boy simultaneously. *curtsies*

Get a coke. This one is sort of long. )
So. I'm a seamstress. I sew. Before you pass judgment and go, "LAME!" let me explain. I only sew really, really cool stuff. Or stuff that can be used in cool ways. Stuff that I like.

Yeah, maybe it is lame. Read on if you aren't convinced I'm destined for "dorkiest" at my 20 year (gag) high school reunion. Oooh. I hope they don't give out that award. That would SUCK.

Again, I digress. I'm here to tell you a story. And let me preface with this: if I had actually leaned the fundamentals of sewing from my mother, I wouldn't be in this mess. My mother has always sewed. She made me a lot of cute clothes when I was little, along with some unfortunate culottes, but, hey. It was the eighties. What could she do?

I didn't learn to sew from mom. And even if she'd tried to teach me, I wouldn't have let myself BE taught from her. It's like cooking. Our personalities don't mesh well in academia. In other ways, we get on great, just not when she's trying to tell me what to do. Because I automatically want to do it MY WAY; and MY WAY, though well intended, never works as well as Her Way. Probably 'cause she's the mom and has 24 years on me.

Dang it, I digressed again.And it's not for me, either. )
You think life is going along just fine.
Then you download the 100th Bones Episode, watch it, and the cycle of despair is started. You think Temperance Brennan is a FOOL.

You go and teach your class on Thursday afternoon, just like you always do. You meet your family at 575 Pizza and your nine year-old won't eat.

He won't eat? you ask yourself. The kid would gnaw on anything for a snack.

You split from your family, while they go home, you go to see a play about a boy who blinds six horses and is in therapy because of it. You are disturbed by this play. It causes you to feel a lot more than you normally do.

You shouldn't read this if you've a weak stomach, or stories of children and grossness bothers you in any way. )

You can't help but think this is all Temperance Brennan's fault. If she'd done what any NORMAL woman would have done, and thrown Agent Booth down right there in front of the J. Edgar Hoover building and had her wicked way with him, all of this could have been avoided.

I was sort of bemused by the adolescent looking oral surgeon Aaron saw today, with his Taylor Lautner hair, charming grin, and converse sneakers. I refrained from making Doogie Howser jokes, even when he told me that Aaron's "extra" tooth (or supernumerary, like the big doctors call it) may or may not be able to be saved, due to an accident he had when he was two that shoved all of his baby teeth into his gums. (That's an horrific story for another day, let me tell you.) I refrained from making an age crack until the nurse handed me the TWELVE HUNDRED DOLLAR bill for services rendered.

Then I asked her, "Can pre-teen doctors charge that much?"

She just giggled.

You can't blame me, can you?
Times I went to the Amarillo municipal courts building.................2
times stood before the judge for a speeding ticket and no insurance....1
miles over the speed limit I got clocked..............................13
approximate age of the officer that cited me..........................12
domestic abuse cases before me.........................................2
65 year old drug addict women with "hottie" t-shirts on................1
women the judge said were inappropriately dressed for court............3
times I went to the Potter county courts building......................1
new Vera Bradley purses bought.........................................1
toys I threw away upstairs.................................1,000,000,000
bacon cheeseburgers consumed........................................0.75
glasses of wine drunk................................................2.5
chocolate chips in my homemade ice cream...............................*
boys in Childress with their grandparents..............................2
husband asleep on the sofa.............................................1

*come on. I didn't count that. :D
Yesterday morning, I got attacked by an amazingly big, giant snake.


I'm just gonna let that sink in.

*nods* I KNOW. Horrifying, isn't it?

Perhaps I'm prone to hyperbole... )

Pfft. Living in fear and disgust at the creatures around me. Seems to be my lot in life, it does.

Lastly, and these two things are in no way related, my parents took Ethan and Aaron home with them this morning until Friday. So I'm freeeeeeeee! FREEEEEEEE! *flails* Keep the adults in your prayers over the next couple of days. They're gonna need it. ;)
Let me tell you a tale.

It's a tale of woe. Of tears shed and dinner made lovingly. It might make you laugh so hard you lose control of your bodily functions.

No wait. That was me.

...could cause so much ado? )

It's all in good fun. I'm laughing, he's laughing.... though if he starts in again, I'm not above making good on the threat. *nods*
This, of course to those of you who know and love me, is no surprise at all. 

(And don't think I missed which of you checked the 'dork' box on the Peeps Quiz.  I've got my eye on you.  You know who you are.)

But my husband is an even bigger dork than I am.  One of his favorite things to do is to call people he knows and pretend to be someone else. A cleaner cut, West Texas version of the Jerky Boys. He particularly likes to fool Anne, the administrative assistant at the theatre, my mother, and the revolving door of new secretaries that go through his family's business.  He pretends to be John Welles of the Internal Revenue Service, calling about an audit, an old lady thinking that she's called the humane society about a stray cat, (Nolan's old lady voice is surprisingly good for such a big man) and once for poor Anne, a Monsignor calling from the Catholic diocese wanting to take a group of schoolchildren to see ALT's production of Doubt.

So I get on the bandwagon, right?  I'm a playful, clever girl, and I've started answering the phone as someone different every time he calls.  (God bless the caller ID.)  Some of the favorites from this week:

"Pizza Hut, home of the stuffed crust supreme, this is Wendy, may I stuff your crust?"

"Texas Dodge, home of the award-winning Challenger, this is Marie, how may I rev your engine?"

(In a tearful voice) "High Plains Humane society, this is Shelly.  If you're calling about your cat, I'm sorry, we lost her."  (sobs)

And Nolan's as big of a goob as me, he always plays along.  So this morning, there's an incoming call from his office number and I answer:

"911 Operator, what is the nature of your emergency?"

To my complete and total horrified embarrassment, I hear my mother-in-law sputtering on the other end of the phone, murmuring something about a wrong number.

I owned up; I admitted it was me, and told her about the game Nolan and I play.  And she was sweet about it. 

But I'm pretty sure she would have checked the 'dork' box on the Peeps quiz, too.  Frankly, I'm just glad I didn't proposition her.  :P
You know, I always show you guys the good stuff. The pretty stuff. But I make mistakes, too. Sometimes I pay no attention to what I'm doing. Sometimes my creativity gets the best of me. Sometimes things turn purple. Sometimes I have to scrap stuff and start over.

Long Story short, Nolan won his Fantasy Baseball league last year. Gross winnings of maybe $400, less the total he spent on picking up players throughout the year, $210. Winner brings food to draft night. (Les the $$ I spent on groceries, We're down to a hundred bucks. Go, team. *waves tiny flag*) So Nolan gives me the doe eyes and asks me to cater dinner for his dorky friends. (And he teases me about writing in the HP fandom. As if pretend baseball is ANY less cool than Draco. Um, NO.) I, of course, am a sucker. I cater for him. Nolan loves pecan pie; he had 8 pies at our wedding reception rather than Groom's cake, so I knew that'd be a favorite with him. There will be 20 dorky friends that night, so I decide to do individual little pecan tartlets. So clever! No dessert plates! No messy cutting of the pies!

It's pronounced Puh-cahn, y'all, not pee-can. I don't care what you say. )

FYI, those little monster tarts did get eaten. Nolan & the boys finally finished off the last one yesterday.:) They might have been ugly, but they still tasted good.


persephone33: (Default)


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