persephone33

I don't know if I can actually do this justice.

I'm going to try.

( Ranty cut. )

I had PLANS for today.

Unfortunately, my eight year old is huddled on the sofa with a case of what I'm pretty sure is strep throat. My BFA in Theatre Arts somehow gives me the knowledge and experience to diagnose him. That, or battling that stupid bacteria for the last ten years. I've a MOM degree. It's like a sixth sense.  A sixth sense that get's awakened in the wee hours of the morning when your child has stuff coming out of him that should just not BE.

Can I give it back?  Is that an option?  I don't remember checking that particular box.

By the way, whatever happened to Aaron being the iron man in the family? This is the second time the kid's been sick this year. I blame the disgusting breeding ground of germs in which he spends 8 hours a day.

Some people merely call it 'the elementary school.' My name has more flair.

You know how I don't work, right? I'm a stay at home mom, and I teach one afternoon a week. And volunteer at the above breeding ground one day a week. And do odd jobs for the theatre. And cook for my home group every Wednesday. And make sure all my family has clean clothes, vacuumed floors, clean bathrooms and are fed at least two meals 7 days a week. Somehow, even though I don't work, my days are always completely full. For Christmas this year, I have added tasks: getting gifts and door prizes for the company Christmas party, gift certificates for same, wrapping presents, hosting several parties at the house (so far I'm up to 4), sewing several projects for friends and family, making goodie baskets for AAA Electric's customers (which will include two solid days of baking),and currently top on my list of things to do is get new furniture for Nolan's office. It was repainted several months ago, and he's ready to have the pictures back up on the wall and someplace for people to sit when he bawls them out.

I'm glad I don't work for him, anymore. He FIRED me. He fired HIS MOTHER, too. We're both still a little bitter about it.

(In actuality it had something to do with taxes, and we make more money now than we did befopre, but that's beside the point.  HE STILL FIRED US.  And he didn't even do it face to face.  He fired me OVER THE PHONE.  Chuh.)

But that's a post for another day.

What I'm saying in the midst of all the whining and complaining that this post has turned out to be (er, sorry), is that I'm feeling overbooked.  I'm sure it'll pass and by this afternoon I'll be a whirl of wrapping paper and furniture shopping.  But for right now, I'm in a slight panic that not everything is going to get done.  I've had to postpone my Dr. appt. for my bruised ribs (which are SO not better), but kids come first, right?

I'm going to go put on some lipstick and plaster on a smile.  It's always worked before! 

Cover me, I'm going in.

I know I'm not what the world might call a "people person." I get that. Maybe one day, even soon, that the Lord God Almighty will change my heart and I won't be completely misanthropic.

Until then, though, the following list of folks will bother me.

1. People with no concept of personal space. Seinfeld called them 'close talkers.' Admittedly, and I've addressed this before, I have a personal space of about two feet all the way around me (an arm's length) that I like to maintain in public. I'm not talking about people I know, or my family, and I love affection - hugs and so forth. What I don't care for is people who stand within inches of me in the self checkout line at the grocery store. I mean, if I'd swayed even a little in one direction, this guy could've easily kissed me.

That, in my oh, so humble opinion, which incidentally happens to be right, is just too close for public consumption. In the immortal words of Bugs Bunny, "Quit steamin' up my tail." Give it a foot or two. Wait your turn. I'll be done when I'm done. And probably not before then, just so you know.

2. People who know everything. You know the type,right? The ones that give unsolicited advice whether you might need it or not? If I wanted your help, I'd ask for it. I'm not so conceited that I don't ask for help. I do. I ask for help all the time. ALL THE TIME. But sometimes I like to figure things out all by my little lonesome. And if you DO give advice, or unsolicited help, it's probably best if you don't talk down to the person that you're giving the advice to, treating them in the manner of a four year-old or similar.

THAT'S RIGHT. I'm talking to you, FedEx Office Paper Cutter guy. Keep it to yourself. I got along for thirty-seven years without you, and I'll probably make it the next thirty-seven without you, just so you know.

3. People who, in traffic, think they are the most important people on the planet.
You aren't, just so you know. Cutting me off so that you can get ahead of me and remain there through the next four lights? An effort in futility, friend.

The word 'friend' might be used in a sarcastic way.

*sigh*

I have a lot to atone for, this morning. What can I say? I'm a work in progress. God loves those people, and I should, too. But some people are harder to love than others. And until I get a little more grace, these folks will continue to rub my fur the wrong way.

Just so you know.

I've been to the theatre a lot lately, even more so than usual for me, and I'd like to get a few things off my chest in regards to theatre etiquette, if I may. Last week as the topper to my birthday, Nolan and I enjoyed the Addison Water Tower Theatre's production of Laughter on the 23rd Floor.  The play is standard Neil Simon fare:  jokes, jokes, funny characters, jokes, poignant moment, more jokes, and a monologue conclusion.  The acting was good, the set was nice, Nolan and I looked good, smelled great and were by far and away the youngest people in the building.  Evidently the Thursday Night Preview 'Pink Tints and Blue Rinse' crowd transcends the boundaries of my little town.  No lie; the median age had to be eighty-seven.  That means that yep, there were indeed some one hundred and forty-two year olds.  I'm just saying.

I digress.

The reason for this little jaunt into internet land is to address the Lady in the Blue Sweater who was sitting two rows ahead and two seats to the right of me ... Yeah, you know who you are:  When they make that clever little announcement at the beginning of the play, you know the one that says "Please silence all pagers and cellular phones?"  What that really means is to FREAKING SILENCE YOUR DAMN CELLULAR PHONE.  That includes the little blip that notifies you of a missed call.  You were HOLDING the silly thing, I KNOW you heard them, too. All TWO DOZEN OF THEM.  If you didn't, Blue Sweater Lady, certainly you could hear the HUFFS of DISDAIN from everyone within a ten foot radius to your seat.  Also, to the couple in front of us last night at The Wizard of OZ?  Maybe during "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead" is not the best time to have your tongues DOWN EACH OTHER'S THROATS.

Ahem.

There is a special hell for people that talk in the theatre, and below that hell is the hell for people that think they're too important to be unavailable for an hour an a half so that you don't ruin the suspension of disbelief for everyone else.  If you're THAT important, you probably don't need to expend the time it takes to see a play. You should be doing something important like manning a space station or performing a kidney transplant or something.

In short, it's NOT all about you, Blue Sweater and Idiot Couple Making Out.  Turn off your cell phone and keep your tongues to yourself, or risk really loud huffs and a petite redhead kicking your shins in the parking lot after the show is over.  I mean it.

Thanks so much,

Carrie Leigh

I like to pretend that I'm still young and hip and cutting edge. But let's face it. It's a sham. I've been putting an a false face to all of you for some time now. I'm living a lie, and it's time for me to come clean.

My name is Carrie, and I can't figure out how to work my damn cell phone.

About two months ago, I got a Blackberry Pearl. (I loatheloatheloathe the thing. With a deep and abiding malevolent passion.) I find myself looking at it and screaming, "AAAAAAHHHHH!" a lot. Nolan got himself an iphone (for business he says), but I got stuck with this damnable POS Blackberry. Today I tried to call Nolan, using the speed dial shortcut thingy, and ended up calling my cousin Beth instead. I mean, it was fantastic to talk to her, but, RAWR! Freaking phone. I feel like my dad, who is paralyzed by all things electronic.

I've watched the tutorial TWICE, and tried to read about what it is that I'm doing wrong. I can't stand when it guesses what word I'm about to type, I figured out how to stop that once, but can't seem to make it stop again. I've browsed the web, looked at my email, but I can't get the facebook app to work.

Don't even get me started on texting. It says I've received three, BUT I CAN'T GET TO THEM. I've yet to successfully SEND one. Bad words. Bad, freaking, punk-ass words.

It doesn't ring loud enough for me to hear, even on its loudest setting, it's so sensitive that I can't put it in my purse without having to lock the stinking keyboard (I will not even go into what a production THAT was) and the worst part? IT CALLS PEOPLE ALL BY ITSELF. I don't know; call me crazy, but I'd like to be the sentient being in the relationship!

*sigh*

1. Mexican Wedding Cookies are the best EVAR.
2. Nano word count is on target.
3. Ethan proclaims me acceptable for running lines for his play, saying that I'm better even than Blakely (10 year-old neighbor girl). He said, "But you probably have more stage experience." *cough* Just a bit, yeah, kid, thanks.

There is NO SUCH WORD as "anyways."  And don't tell me it's a non-standard adverb.  That's a load of crap.  You know it and I know it. 

It's wrong.  Use "anyway."  Or "in any case."  Just PLEASE.  No more "anyways."

Because if I read it ONE MORE TIME I'm going to spontaneously combust all over the internet.

Carry on.  :)

I love my children. I love my children. I love my children.

But my two beautiful boys got up at 4:45 this morning, and were doing what sounded like beating on pots and pans with a metal spoon. I could've slept through that, probably, but Nolan yelling at them (from his snuggly spot under the covers right next to me) to 'go back to bed, already,' made it a little more difficult.

They went upstairs and performed what I can only guess was army-quality calisthenics until 5:30, when instead of hearing them above us, they brought their morning sunshine and joy back downstairs and started playing a video game. Which, you know, wouldn't be bad, but with a running commentary from Aaron, "Oh, man! You got told!" and "You stunk that one up! Why do you keep dying, Ethan?" even the most stalwart of sleepers couldn't have done it. Nolan yelled a few more times, but to no avail.

So.

I love my children. I love my children. I love my children.

And WHY, WHY, WHY do who I assume are otherwise normal people lose their damn minds in the school parking lot? You are not the only people in the world, and little Suzie is not going to get frostbite walking from your Cadillac SUV to the door of the school, even in 15 degree weather. Look around! There are other cars that need to drop off their kids, too!

Ahem. Okay. Sorry. Rant over. I have a sore throat? Maybe that's the problem.

No, I think it's probably the stupid parking lot people and getting awakened at an ungodly hour.

I hope all the rest of YOU have a lovely day, though. :D

You walk in the door and the torture begins. The canned Christmas music and the receptionist's saccharine grin are almost too much to bear at 8:25 in the morning. And who knew a Muzaked rendition of "O Holy Night' would make me homicidal? Maybe maureen, possibly? Go figure.

The hygienist tries to make conversation while having HER ENTIRE HAND SHOVED IN MY MOUTH, while scraping what I can only assume must be the dental equivalent to superglue from the surfaces of my teeth. She makes a face; I think she's making a face, because her little mask covers her mouth and nose, and she murmurs in a disappointed tone, "Tartar," like some people say, "Apartheid."

She camped out on one tooth for like 15 minutes. How can one have more tartar than another?? EXPLAIN THIS TO ME, PLEASE! Only I couldn't ask, because she had those torture devices shoved in my mouth, and I swear, I think if you move too quickly, they could lop off your tongue AND THEN WHERE WOULD YOU BE?

She looked like a sweet girl, but honestly, who'd want to spend their days inflicting pain, or at the very least intense discomfort, on the people you work with on a daily basis? There's something fundamentally wrong with someone who chooses that as a vocation. I'm sorry. I'm just sayin'.

The sound of the polishing drill thingy seriously makes every hair on every square inch of my body stand on end. It's awful. And the choice of flavors of toothpaste? Strawberry, chocolate or mint? Um, if I want flavor, I'll EAT, thankyouverymuch. I chose mint. You will not ruin chocolate for me, oh dental hygienist from hell.

And the gritty toothpaste that they use? It isn't like normal toothpaste. It has gravel or something in it. Even after the tablespoon of water that they give you to rinse with, later in the day you bite down and it's like, "Damn! A ROCK! FROM THE TOOTHPASTE!"

Then the dentist (who has mild Parkinson's disease, but I've never needed to be drilled on, so I figure I'm good, for now) comes in. He's a very nice man, and asks me HOW I AM. It took a great deal of restraint (of which I don't have a lot of today, apparently) not to say, "I was alright until Suzie (Joseph) Mengele got hold of me. Now I hurt, frankly."

I said that I was well, thank you.

And then he proclaimed me cavity free, so $150 later, I sprinted from the office, comforted that I don't have to do that again 'til June.

Thank GOD.

Yesterday BLEW CHUNKS.  I'm just not willing to rehash it all, so here's the highlights.

Packed.  Cough came back with a vengeance.  Went to pick up boxes.  Had wreck. (Hung UP on seegrim.  Sorry. )  Colin's bumper is mushed.  Came home.  Nolan snarked. SIL took kids.  Car wouldn't start because children turned on interior light.  Couldn't teach class.   Friend came to jump car off.  Had dinner with in laws.

Termite treatment cost $1200.  TWELVE HUNDRED DOLLARS.  For a house that as of 1:00 today, we no longer own.

Also, termite guy knocked something loose under the house, and the phones aren't working properly.  I'm pirating Internet from one of the neighbors.  *raises coffee mug* Thanks, pal, whoever you are.  No one can go under the house to fix it for a few days beacuase evidently the termite fumes will make you grow an extra head or something.  So I'm using my cell phone for all calls, which costs a bazillion dollars.

That was yesterday.  God willing today will be better.  And I'd post pics of the trip, but my USB cable for the camera isn't working properly.

Really?  Not working?  You kidding me?  

Nope.

And the move in date keeps ketting pushed back, and it's seriously pissing me off.  First it was Friday, then Sunday, Now it's Tuesday or Wednesday?  There are people moving in to this house on next Thursday do it would be freaking HELPFUL if our new house were done by then.

By the way, the new house?  It's very pretty.  And the landscaping is beautiful.  And I'm grateful.  I feel like Cinderella, like this house can't possibly be mine.  If, that is, I ever get to PUT MY STUFF IN IT.

SIL is coming to help me pack.  I'll try not to cough up a lung into the box of table linens.

And P.S.  I miss Caliga.  Miss it terribly.  Having serious withdrawals.  Got giddy over OWLS yesterday.  One more week, one more week, one more week.  Right?  i can do a week standing on my head.

Not that I'd want to.