persephone33

Merry, merry! :)

★I've decided that even though I don't have time to do it myself, I really love National Blog Posting Month, which is, for those of you not all-consumed by the intranets, is this month. I don't do it because I don't enjoy setting myself up for failure. Because honestly, I'm distracted by something shiny every, oh, five seconds or so. I'd never make it. But during NaBloPoMo, all my friends who are usually too busy to blog regularly do so for the whole month! It's like getting a glut of your favorite TV show. It's fun.

★Nolan signed me up to make cornbread dressing (stuffing?) for 40 people to take to our church Thanksgiving dinner. Do I get to go? No. Is Nolan going to go? No. But I'm still making the crap ton of stuffing. I can't even conceive of the amounts of ingredients for that. There's math in my future. Ugh. I'm not upset, though. Not about the signing up, or the making of the dish, or even the fact that I'm not getting to eat it. I'm upset about the math. Math makes me grouchy.

★Ethan just spent ten minutes trying to convince me that those yogurts that have Oreos or M&M's packaged with them to sprinkle on top are low fat and healthy for you. Seriously, kid. This is not my first rodeo. And: Ew, cough, gag and splutter.

★Tomorrow I have too much to do. A jam-packed full day. It's full of all good things, but there's not going to be time to breathe. I've become rather accustomed to breathing, and it bothers me a bit when I'm prohibited.

★Do you know when you do something, and then people really like it? That feeling you get when you get a pat on the back? I've had a dozen of those pats over the past week, for a short story I wrote for an anonymous fest where I still remain anonymous. Every single pat makes me smile. And if I could figure out how to respond anonymously, I would. But I am technologically deficient. It's a good thing I have other talents, for sure. Like making breakfast parfaits. I make a mean parfait.

★Rehearsal. Rehearsal is SO. MUCH. FUN. Rarely have I been with a group of people who are so creative and hard-working and intuitive as these boys. It's a delight and a joy. I've decided I'm going to do a picture a night on instagram. So you can follow the show and my crappy photography skills over there. I'm carriehuckabay on that particular site. Which is my actual name, if you throw in a space, for those of you who don't know.

★Also, and I'm loathe to "announce" it, but here goes: *deep breath* I'm breaking up with Sugar.

*throws self on floor and weeps bitterly*

It isn't Sugar's fault, and it isn't because I don't believe in Sugar's love for me, or even because I'm trying to lose weight (I'm ALWAYS trying to lose weight), or because I read the ebook of Skinny Bitch and secretly liked that the author was cursing at me like some sort of sailor with Tourette's. I'm leaving Sugar because I can trace all of the times I feel like utter and complete crapola to refined Sugar. Quite frankly, I'm sure I'll miss Sugar. I'll have Sugar withdrawals. I'm going to leave 2 a.m. phone calls on Sugar's phone and write Sugar a love Sonnet a day. But Sugar makes me feel like ass, and even if I do love Sugar from the deepest depths of my black little heart and want to have a billion of Sugar's little Sugar Babies, Sugar has to leave.

That metaphor went wrong somewhere. Alas. You have to know when to say when.

★That's all. *points to the icon* Make the right decision.

Cake. No... death. No! Cake.... It really is a difficult choice. As for me, I'm going to go Google 'Crapton of dressing' and see what comes up.

Later.

♥ So many things to pontificate about, so little drive to type it all out...

First and most importantly, for those of you who don't already have an action plan in place, May is evidently Zombie awareness month. The linked article is disturbingly sincere, with suggestions about showing awareness by wearing a grey ribbon and buying a book with clever verse entitled "That's not your mommy anymore." Weird. Even so, I'd like to point out that I'm ready, should the zombie apocalypse ever happen. *cough*


♥ The show is going really well, thought it's hard to tell because I'm working too hard in the scenes I'm in to be sure.

( Pictures of the Scoundrels... )

I'm still the chubby girl, but at least I'm owning it.

♥ I've been mainlining Modern Family episodes. This is the funniest show on television. It's hysterical. All of the characters are believable and well written, even the kids! And I'll be honest, I sort of want to be Sofia Vergara.

♥ Many of you know I'm a bit prone to fits of literary hyperbolic violence. For instance, today I actually said out loud, "If I miss one more important text I'm going to shiv someone with an icepick," which led to the question, 'Can you use shiv as a verb?' and if you can, can you also exchange the word for a makeshift prison weapon instead of a kitchen tool to break up ice ... All that to say, I need a text plan. I'm not going to use it obsessively, dear husband, but I will USE IT. Aaaaand I think I just found the first topic of our new marriage blog. Which can be found at nolanandcarrie, if you're interested. When we're in the same room for more than half an hour at a time, we'll bang one out. We've got all the material in the world, but agreeing on a topic has been, oddly enough, a challenge. Marriage. Go figure, right?

♥ Also, on a completely unrelated subject, it's sometimes hard for me to be a recovering bitch instead of a very current and clearly present one. By being manipulatively bossy, I could totally get pretty much anyone to do whatever I wanted or make them cry, whichever comes first. I've been trying, for the last few years to be a nicer person. Unfortunately, 'nice' it not my fallback emotion. Or even an easily accessible one. Still, I try. (Sometimes I try harder than others, but I digress.)

♥ I'm off for a weekend of baby showers and musical performances and a visit from my mom and Tom, so I'm off to scour the house and myself in preparation. Have a great weekend, everyone!

I stumbled across this Marital Rating Chart from the 1930's the other day, and Nolan and I are sort of whimsical, and because I have a compulsion to complete every test with which I come into contact, we both took it.

The mind reels as to how these were used. Were they circulated in a magazine? Where the husband comes home, licks his pen, looks over his glasses at his wife and scores her worth on a sheet? How messed up is that?

Nevertheless, I think just by glancing at this, you can see I would have sucked out loud as a wife in the 1930's.

( A complete an utter failure. *sobs* )

But man. I'm glad we're not in the 1930's. Yikes.

*waves red fingernails around*

If you've ever asked me this question, you know what my answer is.

No. No, dear heart, I did in fact NOT get your text.

I don't get texts.

*waves my hands at the collective gasps*

Nolan didn't sign us up for a text plan. He doesn't think it's going to catch on.

... I'll wait here while you make flabbergasted/hysterical noises.

That's what I tell people, anyway. Because they just don't understand WHY I don't have texting on my phone. Or internet access. Heck, right now, since I lost my fancy schmancy POS Blackberry (I couldn't ever hear that thing RING), I don't even have more than one ringtone.

I was without a phone for half of January and most of February, in fact. I lost my phone (in the HOUSE, of all places, and then I let the battery die before I could CALL it to find it) and at first I was irritated beyond belief. Not having a phone at my disposal whenever I had the whim to place a call was maddening. Spoiled, rotten brat, right here. *waves*

Then I got to LIKE it. I'm enough of a misanthrope that I LIKE being unreachable. I enjoy retreating into my cave and knowing that I'm cocooned until I do something to change that fact. It's dangerous, though. That isolation. But I digress.

Now that I have a replacement phone (a GO phone. It's the AT&T disposable model), I'm reachable, again. It doesn't have any cool features, but people can call (and I can hear the bloody thing RING). I can't call anyone, though. Why, you ask? Because of modern technology, no one has to remember phone numbers, anymore. I had every phone number of anyone who'd ever called my cell programmed into that little puppy that got lost, and never thought to write any of them down anywhere.

So when the phone doesn't ring, folks, it's me. I don't know your number. Sorry. I really am. No, honestly. I might like to call you, but it's not in the cards.

Speaking of modern technology, I'm not convinced that making everything so easily accessible and digital isn't Big Brother's way of turning our minds to collective mush. On purpose. But that might be the paranoia, talking.

In any case, some of you might be wondering, "Carrie? You have a credit card and a car. Why don't you go down to the store and get yourself a phone with some action on it?"

Because quite frankly, it isn't worth the litter of kittens that Nolan would have to do it. The noise. The screeching. The eyes rolled back into my head lectures about how it isn't necessary and how it's money we don't need to spend.

And we don't. Not really. But I remember him saying something similar back in 1999 about getting a computer. And email. We didn't need it.

Now, however, a good portion of his business is done online. So now it's just a waiting game, really. And I'm patient, baby. I'm more patient than you can imagine. I'm going to outlast him, by golly, and in August, when we get a new phone plan, I'm going to have worn him down to so stumpy a nub that he'll be begging ME to get the texting plan.

Those of you who know him can stop laughing now.

But seriously, folks. It you ask me the title question, "Did you get my text?" in August, I can answer differently.

I won't, though. My answer will remain the same, because chances are, I won't be able to find my phone.

So an hour ago, I dropped off my husband to join his father and several dozen other people at the airport to embark on another mission trip to Haiti.

I'm alright with this, by the way. I don't get upset or worried or beside myself when Nolan goes into third world countries (Or any other time, for that matter. I'm not that girl). If there was ever anyone who could take care of himself (and probably everyone else) in a time of distress, it's my husband. In fact, I feel sure that if the people of Haiti gave governmental control to Nolan, he and his dad would have the whole country running smoothly within a matter of hours, if not sooner.

Of course, they'd be shouting at the top of their lungs at each other while they did it, but progress is progress. It works for them.

When I staggered over to my father-in-law (who is a Vietnam Veteran) this morning, eyes bleary and clutching my cup of coffee like it might actually save my life, I asked, "So are you ready to save the world?"

He hugged me and answered, "Again, yes. Though this time instead of an M-16 I'm armed with a Bible. I think that's probably a better deal."

I concur, favorite father-in-law. I heartily concur.

(Carrie's family is having lunch at Saltgrass Steakhouse yesterday, and Ethan is particularly animated, telling us a story about what happened the last time he was at church)

Ethan. You know how you always tell us to eat whatever is put in front of us without complaining?

Nolan. Yes.

Aaron. (Pipes up) You get what you get and you don't throw a fit!

Carrie. That's right.

Ethan. (glares at his brother) Anyway, we had cupcakes last week after the lesson, and our teacher's son asked for a cupcake with no icing. (playwright's note: This bit in italics is delivered as if it were "dropped the bomb on Hiroshima.")

Nolan. You don't say.

Ethan. Yeah! She knew that her son didn't want icing, so she saved one without just for him. She must really love him!

Nolan. Love doesn't necessarily have anything to do with that. The world isn't going to scrape the icing off your cupcake, Ethan.

Aaron. (pipes up again) That's okay with me. I like icing.

(There is a silence, in which we all ponder what's been said and the ramifications thereof...)

Aaron. Oh. That was a metaphor, wasn't it, Dad?

Carrie. (narrowly stops herself from swearing) What the-- A.J., what kind of eight year-old knows what a metaphor is?

Ethan. (preens) The kind with a ten year-old brother!

Aaron. (glares at Ethan) The kind that ignores his brother and listens to his mom.

---

I don't know of what I'm more proud: The fact that Nolan USED a metaphor, or the fact that the eight year-old listens to me talk enough to know what that particular figure of speech means.

Mine's not, literally.

I don't post a whole lot about my marriage, I've realized. First of all, it's sort of a private, personal thing, and second of all, it's a work in progress.

Speaking of works in progress, If ever there was one, my sweet and handsome husband is IT.

When we were first married, and I mean within the first month, when the blush of love was new and fresh, and we moved through life with cartoon birds singing 'round our heads, one of his favorite pastimes was scaring the daylight out of me.

I'm serious.

Within the first month of marriage, I didn't have a job, so I was home in the middle of the day, minding my own business. I was doing the dishes, thinking about how much I loved my husband (or thinking about how Amarillo was drastically different from Dallas, one or the other) and Nolan sneaked in - I still don't know what he was doing home in the middle of the day - quietly stood in the back doorway of the kitchen, raised his arms above his head (making his presence over eight feet tall) and yelled in a deep and resonating voice the scariest and most menacing thing I've ever heard.

"Bwahahahahahaha!"

I freaked out, screamed, was frightened out of my wits, and then true to my twenty-five year-old self, burst into tears. This baffled my new husband beyond belief.

He was chastened, though it did not, as it turns out, stop him from perfecting his craft over the years. For instance, just yesterday morning, he sneaked past the dogs, both kids, and stood behind me while I was working on the computer yesterday morning, finally whispering, "What are you doing?" in my unsuspecting ear. This makes him profoundly proud and more giddy than any forty-one year old has a right to be.

When he attacks, I normally just startle, now. I very rarely cry. Though, I won't lie. Sometimes bladder control does play a part. The difference is, now, even though I still don't love being scared, I admire the commitment Nolan has to his work. He's a big guy; he's 6'3 and 205ish, and that's not a package that's easily sneakable, if you will. I'm more aware of his presence, most of the time (well, fifty percent?) and truly delight in thwarting him when he's trying to sneak up on me. Sometimes he shows mercy, and sometimes (okay, maybe three times) I've scared him. Once involved hiding in his closet for nearly twenty minutes.

If you want to play, you have to pay the price.

Luckily, most of the time the dogs or the kids give him away. Most of the time I laugh, because it really is funny. And most of the time, I'm glad that Nolan brings fun into our marriage, makes things into a game, and even gets the boys in on it.

Bust sometimes I just want to knock the snot out of him for scaring me.

Punk.

Happy birthday to my sweet husband, nolankyle !

( Pictures of the hubs... )

( A story for each kid... )

It feels like I've been running, running, running... with absolutely no respite for the last five days.

Of course, if that were the case, I'd be laid out flat in the hospital, because no matter how much time on the elliptical I spend, it isn't the same as running.

I digress.

Saturday morning, one of Nolan's closest friends passed away. We knew it was coming. He developed pancreatitis and had a heart attack, subsequently was in the CCU, and then the last week and a half of his life was moved to hospice. Scott was funny and dry and sarcastic and never gave Nolan an inch. I'd known him for about 16 years, dating back to when Nolan and I were just friends, and the two guys lived together. Nolan's a pallbearer and the funeral is this morning.

I'm emotional about it. 39 year-old men should not die. Parents should not have to bury their children.

Yet I know that God has a plan, and I know that Scott was a Christian. He's in heaven with the Lord and that's fantastic. It gives me comfort. And I'm happy that Scott isn't in pain anymore.

It also leaves us with a lot of questions.

Once I do get to heaven, there's a list of people I need to chat with, starting with Eve. "Why the apple, sister? The rest of the garden not good enough?"

Anyhow, that's where I've been, dealing with family stuff and not feeling altogether chatty. However, I hope everyone out there is well, and that you have a great rest of the week!