persephone33

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:

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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.

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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. :)

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!

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It's nice to know I'm getting better. I'd hate to stagnate where I am.

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? )

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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.

Oh, my word. Pull up a chair and grab a glass of wine. This one's a doozie.

So after a day of deep cleaning in preparation for having folks over for the holiday, I made dinner this evening, a lovely pesto filled pasta in a creamy red sauce. After dinner, Nolan and I retired to the boudoir to watch television and have a glass of wine, and I, like the whimsical girl that I am, decided to paint my nails.

So far a pretty mundane evening at Carrie's house.

But then, I sweetly ask my husband if he would "go and get the clothes out of the dryer, and move clothes from the washer to the dryer," I asked, blowing on my nails, "so I don't mess up my polish?"

He grumbled as he got up, muttering something about "what have you done for me lately?" and reluctantly walked through the living room and kitchen, and into the laundry room.

When he got there, the noise he made can only be described as sonic boom-like.

( Kids do the darndest (read: most dumbass) things... )

My little family unit plays a lot of games.

Not only the kind that you might think, although the boys did get Sorry! and LIFE for Christmas which is hours and hours (and hours) of family fun.

No. The games I like best are the ones we play because we always have. For example: The Slugbug Game. Some of you might call it "Punchbuggy." The premise of the original game is to yell out when you see a Volkswagon Beetle, name its color, and then punch your opposing team member in the upper arm.

We've modified the game for our purposes, because let's face it - My nine and seven year-old boys do not need another excuse to wail on each other.  So we don't hit each other, but it's still the most competitive game you've ever heard of.  Not only are the slugbugs worth a point, but Jeeps are worth one, and purple cars are worth ten.  People switch sides when it's convenient - no, sorry, only Aaron does that - and the screaming and flailing about is just a given.

There is also jinx - Jinx, for those of you who missed out on third grade, is enacted when two people say the same thing at the same time. Then the one who is on the ball, this meaning one of my stinking children, will say, "Jinx, you owe me a coke." If the jinx-ee doesn't want to buy the jinx-er a coke, and come on, I don't have that much pocket change on a daily basis, the jinxee cannot say anything until the jinx-er says their name.

I've been quiet a lot lately, as a result.

When I sat down to write this post I came up with four or five others. As a result of impending old age and/or memorizing lines and the dumping out of old information, I've forgotten them.

What games do you play?

Your kids inherit your sense of humor. And smart mouth.

***

(The family is in my dressing area, and I'm combing the boys hair for school. Ethan is waxing rhapsodic about what he wants to be for Halloween -This process starts in early summer at my house- to the point where Aaron and I are a little eye roll-y about it. Aaron makes eye contact with me in the mirror; he gives me an "I got this" kind of look and interrupts his brother.)

Ethan. But if I'm Indiana Jones again, I want to have his satchel, whip and hat, unless mom can find the Annakin Sywalker from the Clone Wars--

Aaron. If you don't shut up about it, Mom'll make you be a clown.

Ethan. (is distracted for 2 seconds) Ew. (Goes right back into rhapsodizing) Or maybe Commander Rex--

Aaron. (mutters) A clown with a bloody nose it is.

***

In other news, Safety patrol is KILLING ME.

Now that's ironic.

So we went to the cabin.

( Y'all pull up a chair and have a glass of tea. This is a long damn story. )

You know what folks? THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME.

A truer word was never said.

Three things.

1.) I just spent the last hour in the backyard playing catch with my nine year-old*. He's a pretty amazing athlete, especially considering his parents are not just liberal arts, but theatre performance majors. Ethan was catching the ball effortlessly, his feet unmoving, just snagging it backhanded from wherever I threw it. He even made a few jumping catches. Meanwhile, I'm huffing and puffing and flinching, sweating like a maniac an catching about a quarter of what he throws to me. It frustrated me because he was throwing short; the ball would hit the ground about a foot and a half before it got to me. So being the stupid girl I am, I say:

Carrie. Throw it harder, E. Come on, you can do it!

Ethan. (gives me a look) I know I can, Mom, but I don't want to hurt you.

Carrie.  (looks over the top of  sunglasses and glares at  progeny)  Just throw the darn** ball, Ethan."

He shrugs and fires a couple off, and I'm flinching like CRAZY now because I'm essentially afraid of the ball.(With good reason, as it turns out. I'm gonna have nasty bruises this afternoon.)

In short, my nine year-old owned me at catch. *sigh*

2.) I redid my livejournal layout! (All by myself! *puffs up*) Some of the pink is a little too Pepto Bismol, but I'll fix it. I saved my old one, too, 'cause I loved it. But I'd had it for about a year, so it was time for a change.

3.)  I got some mail this week that pissed me off and horrified me at the same time.  One of the funeral homes in town sent me a brochure soliciting my business for their services.  What the hell.  I'm thirty-six.  Do they know something I don't?  I do not want to go shopping for coffins,*** thankyouverymuch.   I digress; Schooler-Gordon funeral home; keep your glossy pictures of final resting places to YOURSELF.

*He's the kid in the icon
**Language censored for the ears of said kid.
***Or in my case, urns, because I've got this irrational fear of being buried alive.

Instead of complaining that I awoke with a headache that felt like an army of pissed off badgers cavorting to a John Phillips Sousa march in my skull, I'll say that I'm thankful for an assload of Advil and a comfy bed, with time enough to lie back down and rest.

When I'd like to say that I was disappointed that Aaron didn't want to go to Vacation Bible School so that I could have some quiet, I'll instead be grateful that my seven year old still likes to cuddle and hang out with mom.

While I'm grumbling that there is a metric ton of laundry around here, and that you cannot see the charming checkerboard pattern of the laundry room floor for all the soiled clothes, I'll instead be glad that I have a laundry room, and fantastic appliances to to the washing for me, so that I'm not stuck out on some river, pounding my batik print dress on a rock.

While I wanted to be crabby about having to attend a church picnic, I'll be glad that the kids (well, Aaron) had a good time and it got rained out after an hour and a half.  PERFECT length of time to be there.

Because I'd like to scream from the rooftops of the injustice that 90% of my home is tile or harwood floors, yet my child picks one of the THREE carpeted rooms in the house to be sick upon (as well as the bed, bedding, pillow and bedside table), I'll change my tune and be thankful for Chem Dry Carpet cleaner and Febreeze.  And the aforementioned washer and dryer.

There are days when you just don't want to be grateful, you know?  My headache did go away, but in the light of all the stuff I had to clean up (FYI  - that's the kind of stuff no one tells you about being a mother.  I swear, if there was some sort of an informative packet, there wouldn't be nearly as many people getting pregnant.) I'm gonna call Wednesday, July 29, 2009 a draw, folks.

Sometimes that's all you can ask for.

Nothing good can come of the phrase, "Hey, Mom?  It's okay; the chandelier didn't fall, but..."

*headdesk*

*heavy sigh*

Will not barricade children from house.

Will not call husband and say, "This is all your fault!!  YOU wanted BOYS!"

Will love children even they are destructo-bots.

Carry on, my lovely friends.  Carry on.

75 days left until school starts.  *whimper*