Notorious NPH

It's Oscar night (I think there's supposed to be a "™" or maybe an "®" in there somewhere), and as per usual for the last ten years or so, I am unprepared.

As a former (recovering?) film student, I take the Oscars very seriously. Perhaps too seriously, but what can I do? I love the movies, always have, and -- this is the part that has become the most important to me now, in my "advanced" age -- I also really, really enjoy watching people wearing clothes that cost more than my house.

Also: Neil Patrick Harris. I will watch anything he is in (and I actually HAVE, since I watched every. single. episode. of How I Met Your Mother).

So help me, I am a bonafide red-blooded American woman, despite all my attempts to avoid becoming such a creature for basically my entire life. I'm a stereotype. I make no excuses.

Used to be, back in the days when we were still dating, G and I would go out of our way if necessary to see all the nominated films. It was easier when we were in college and they would show movies on campus for $2. The hardest part about seeing Oscar movies back then was coming up with the $2. Then we got engaged and got jobs and got married and got a mortgage and got a kid ... and now we barely have time to change our underwear, let alone carve out countless hours to spend at the movies. (I won't even mention that $2 no longer buys a soda at the movies any more -- hell, you care barely get a movie theater box of Junior Mints at Target for less than that.)

ANYWAY.

I'll spare you all the long and boring details (TOO LATE, haha sucker!) and just get to the part I think you're waiting for anyway: "So, which Oscar-nominated movies did you actually see this year?" And perhaps as a corollary: "What did you think of them?"

Here you go. This is the entirety of the list of Oscar movies I've seen this year.

• Boyhood. I honestly can't say enough good things about this movie. It's the best movie I've seen in a long time, perhaps ever. Go see it and get back to me. (You can probably still get it at Redbox, which has been a godsend to patient cinephiles with nice TV's at home.) Patricia Arquette and Ethan Hawke were both beyond fantastic in this movie. I never really gave much thought to Richard Linklater's films (not usually my thing), but I have since reconsidered. I think it would be super if this wins Best Picture, as it is expected to. I usually root against the frontrunner, but I can't in this case.
• Gone Girl. We liked this one well enough. I'd read the book before we saw the movie; my husband didn't. I was not a particular fan of Rosamund Pike in this movie, but I'm not sure it's her fault; could have been the character. Ben Affleck was perfect, which are words I never thought I'd ever say.
• Into the Woods. It was pretty much exactly as I expected it to be. G and I both liked it (me more than him, but that's because he is not always hot to trot on musicals). Chris Pine was a revelation and probably the second-best thing in this movie after James Corden. Maryl Streep absolutely DID NOT deserve a nom for this; they gave her one anyway because she's Meryl, and that's bullshit.
• Big Hero 6. Highly recommended. Will be picking up the Blu-Ray on Tuesday. Okay, Shae? Can we stop with the civil disobedience now? Jesus Mary and Simon Peter. Mommy and Daddy can sometimes bend the laws of physics and space-time, but we just don't have the power to make Big Cinema do what you want it to.
• How to Train Your Dragon 2. Liked it. Basically The Empire Strikes Back, but with, y'know, cartoon dragons. My husband and I very much enjoyed playing our favorite game of "Name That Voice" while watching.
• Maleficent. Yes, this movie got nominated for an Academy Award -- for Costumes, but you know what? An O is an O. It was fine. I like watching Angelina Jolie chew the hell out of some scenery.
• Guardians of the Galaxy. My favorite movie of the year, but I am biased because I love Chris Pratt so hard right now. Not the best movie of the year, but my favorite. Already own the Blu-Ray, and already watched it at least six times. No regrets.
• The Lego Movie. Nominated for Best Original Song for "Everything is Awesome" which you are probably singing right now. I am disappointed that this movie didn't get nominated for Best Animated Feature because I thought it was the best animated movie of the year (and I am absolutely in the bag for Disney).
• X-Men: Days of Future Past. Liked it a lot, but thought Peter Dinklage was criminally underutilized.

That's it. Eleventeen hundred nominated movies, and I've seen nine of them. I suck. I can't make predictions in any categories because I haven't even seen enough to clips to guess what way the Academy might want to go. Although I can say this: I really hope that J.K. Simmons wins for Whiplash -- a movie I haven't seen -- and I hope that Michael Keaton wins for Birdman -- again, a movie I haven't seen -- just because I like those guys a whole lot and want them to have lots of success and stuff.

And if Meryl wins again? I'm flipping a table.

Building The Perfect Beast

Do you realize how difficult it can be to get the "perfect" (HAHAHAHA) Easter portrait of your kid? Completely disregarding all the general tomfoolery associated with "staged" photo shoots, like having props and bribes and actual kid at the ready? And never mind the fact that you have to get the kid to even agree to cooperate in the first place, which is as probable as winning the lottery while being struck by lightning at the same time?

First attempt: too squinty. Also, the shadows are falling across her neck weird. Let's try this again.

Second attempt: more weird shadows. And for some reason now her skin looks a different color than it did before. I blame jellybean consumption.

Third attempt: wrong angle, and that POSE. I thought it would be cute, in theory, kind of like a faux-school-picture kind of thing, but obviously something went wrong here in the execution. (Plus, that isn't quite how I wanted her to pose, but it was the best I could do at the time.)

Fourth attempt: almost great, except for the shadows again. And I swear, I had her turning and spinning and moving all over the yard to try to get the right light angle. I think we had trouble because it was right at mid-day in the early spring and the sun was in Aquarius and Mercury was in retrograde. It's kind of obvious, really.

Fifth attempt: Almost perfect, except THERE IS A STICK GROWING OUT OF HER HEAD NOW. How long have we been outside at this point? (No more than 15 minutes.) And it looks like something might be missing, now, but I can't quite put my finger on it.

Sixth and final attempt: THERE WE GO. Thanks, kiddo, you're done here. Now why don't you run off and change into your play clothes, but not before stopping in the kitchen for 2½ seconds? That's plenty of time to get hot bacon dressing on your sweater. (That totally happened.)

Chew On This

I have bruxism. And apparently it is way worse than I thought.

I just got back from the dentist, and basically I am going to be spending a lot of time in her office over the next six months to a year or so. From grinding my teeth plus overzealous brushing plus drinking soda by the bucketful, I have basically worn almost all the enamel off almost all my teeth. The only tooth in my entire head that appears to be fundamentally unaffected is the one that isn't even "factory equipment" any more -- it's the tooth that had the root canal and now has a crown.

I'm pretty sure this is nothing to be embarrassed about -- this isn't like the last time I went to a new dentist's office, when it had been more than 5 years since my last cleaning. Then I ended up having to have my bottom two wisdom teeth pulled, and I needed a gum debridement, which was maybe the most awful thing ever, mostly because for weeks afterward I needed to use this awful special mouthwash that tasted like black licorice and made everything taste funny.

I am not kidding when I say that black licorice is NOT a good flavor for mouthwash.

I guess I am going to have to have a bunch of teeth bonded, two cavities filled, and eventually I will have the other two wisdom teeth extracted, because basically they aren't doing anything except making it harder for me to keep the rest of my molars. I'll need to change the way I drink my soda -- smaller volumes, use a straw, only at mealtimes -- and then I will need to swish with a flouride rinse immediately afterwards. I have to get prescription toothpaste, too, which is something I didn't even know existed. Oh, and my new toothbrush? Is the same size as the toothbrush my kid uses.

I will say this about the new dentist: she is quite wonderful. She is the same dentist who takes care of Shae, and she is practically an old pro at the office, even though she's only been there twice. I am a complete wuss when it comes to dental work. I know it needs to be done, and I actually think that poor dental hygiene is one of the unforgivable sins, but there is something about getting needles in my mouth that I will never be 100% comfortable with.

I understand that this office also uses nitrous oxide, so maybe I will be okay.

Death by Paper Cuts

Hi there! I'm rockle, and you might remember me as that blogger who used to update more than once every five days, before she kind of hit that pre-vacation wall with a very messy, bloody splat and kind of lost her mind a little bit.

Assuming I ever had one to begin with.

Anyway -- sorry for the virtual radio silence, but HOLY TOMATO do I have a metric butt-load of crap to do before we leave for California in 8 days. We have a lot of stuff ready to go -- like, most of our clothes are organized and just need to get in the suitcases -- but I still have all these little piddly things to do, like filling up the toiletry bags with sunscreen and disposable razors, etc.

OH AND LAUNDRY, oh my heavens.

They fixed our roof yesterday, which included painting the walls and ceiling of my bedroom, and my allergies have been really bad all season, so I decided to use a vacation day and spend the night at my parents' with Shae. I brought some wash with me to do -- yes, I am still secretly on some level a college-age mooch when it suits me -- and what I thought would be two quick loads turned out to actually be four.

FOUR LOADS OF LAUNDRY. Gaaah. It's not so much the washing as the folding. My husband has about half a ton of undershirts, and I can't match up any of the socks because it looks like I just grabbed a random assortment. Awesome. I so win at life.

Also, I somehow forgot to take any pictures of anything over the weekend except for my breakfast from Bob Evans on Saturday. Yes, I know. My life is positively riveting.

Hopefully I will have more stuff to tell you about before we leave next Wednesday, but in the meantime I just wanted to let you know am not dead yet. I'm out of Zyrtec and it's raining like the end of days again, which is never a good combination, and I haven't been getting all the sleep I need because I lay in bed at night making and re-making mental to-do lists with 537 items on them, but I am not dead yet. Check in with me in 24 hours, as this is subject to change without notice.

And if you know of a good fluff-n-fold, send me their number.

In Which The Writing Major Gets Indignant

I regularly listen to a podcast out of Seattle called "Too Beautiful To Live" -- TBTL for short. It's pretty cool, if you are like me and spend a lot of time driving and you think that an imaginary radio show which is basically about nothing but which is nevertheless unfailingly entertaining is a good way to spend a commute. TBTL has a blog, and a recent blog entry links to this Slate article about how the usage of language changes the meaning of words over time.

(Yes, this is probably going to be a week where I write about nothing of interest to anyone except me because I don't have any good pictures. Deal, McNeil.)

Basically, the gist of the Slate piece is that the meanings of words change when the words are used incorrectly by enough people over enough time. Not necessarily fake made-up words like "eleventy" and "stategery" and "agreeance" and "refudiate," but actual real-live words that currently exist in the English language, like "disinterested."

To quote Inigo Montoya: "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."

I believe that this phenomenon is referred to as "the principle of common usage." And this will come as no surprise to anyone, but I don't like it. I admit that I am something of a pedant when it comes to the English language. You might not be able to tell here on Ye Olde Blogge, because I try to write conversationally -- basically, I talk to myself when I am writing these entries, and sometimes I even talk to myself right out loud, and believe me when I say that hilarity does not always ensue, either -- but I know full well that there are Rules. Spelling, grammar, and mechanics count in real life. Anybody who tells you otherwise is at best uninformed and worst outright lying.

Look: I did not read Webster's Seventh Collegiate Dictionary in the sixth grade for my health, people.

So I suppose it goes without saying that I have Thoughts about the Slate story. Ugly thoughts, most of them involving cuss words and liberal use of pejorative terms for "persons who are not very intelligent." It's not because I disagree with the author of the article in question, either, but because I think he should fight harder to protect the legacy of the language. We all should. Words have meanings, and just because a bunch of bozos with basic-level Power Point skills think that "duly noted" means "I agree" does not make it so. Just because some wonk in a corner office thinks that it's perfectly fine to use "irregardless" with abandon does not make it a correct word.

I mean really, it's a single word with a double-negative built in. No one but me sees the problem here?

Right now, of course, I am not Mom-the-Grammar-Nazi, but believe me when I tell you that once Shae gets into elementary school and we start with the Language Arts, there will be a fairly strict enforcement of the Rules in our house. We're not going to let her slack off on the math and science homework, not if we ever expect this kid to have any part of Winning The Future, and you better believe that Spelling and Grammar and Mechanics Rules will be strictly enforced. I abandoned the "no sugar" edict ages ago, but a self-respecting Writing major must have some standards, dammit.

• Ending a sentence with a preposition is something up with which I will not put.
• Misusing "i.e." and "e.g." will be punishable by death. OK, not death, put possibly the loss of dessert.
• One space after a period in emails, two spaces after a period in academic papers, unless the assigned stylebook prescribes otherwise.
• No, you cannot use Comic Sans for your book report. What are you, a Visigoth?
• No, you cannot use 18-point type and 2-inch margins to make your paper "fit" the length requirements. Do you think I am stupid? Do you think I have never tried that myself?
• If you are talking about the liquor, it is "Scotch." If you are talking about the people, it is "Scots." Trust me on this one. Your "History of Great Britain" professor from Glasgow will not think you are funny. It doesn't matter if your MS Word grammar-checker doesn't find the error.
• Know where the quotation marks and other punctuation marks go in relation to each other. Know when quotation marks are required and when they are not. Ditto apostrophes.
• "There" does not mean "their" does not mean "they're." "Too" does not mean "to" does not mean "two." "Its" and "it's" are not interchangeable.
• Learn to properly diagram a sentence. Hardly anybody does this any more, but it is a useful skill for a writer to have, it will help you when you begin studying a second language, and it is a surprisingly effective party trick in college. Engineering and architecture majors love girls who can diagram things.
• Have at least 50 words in your vocabulary that are more than three syllables and ten letters long. Know what they mean and how to spell them, and be able to use them in a sentence. I suggest starting with "onomatopoeia" because it is highly descriptive and useful and also my very favorite word.
• If you ask me what words mean before you look them up in the dictionary, I am going to lie to you. Consider yourself warned. And yes, I will know.
• I don't care what the other kids' parents say: YOU are going to do your History report at the library, using encyclopedias that were published before you were born, exactly as God intended. Wikipedia is not a reputable source for information. Nothing on the Internet is.
• Reading the CliffsNotes is not anywhere near the same thing as reading the book itself. Are you trying to give me a stroke? No, I don't care that you think that Chaucer and Shakespeare are not written in "English."
• No Notre Dame or Yankees fans in the house. Ever. (No, this is not technically grammar-related, but it's a rule that cannot be spelled out often enough.)

Of course, I can have all the rules in the world, and none of it will change the fact that I will probably spend the rest of my career taking orders from people who don't know an ellipsis from epilepsy, and who have never even heard of subject/verb agreement, let alone know how to employ it correctly.

"Irregardless" will always make me get up and walk out of the room, though.

The Big Dig

The world is collapsing around our ears.

You think I'm being melodramatic as usual, but of course I am absolutely not making this up. Our roof is leaking into our bedroom and this is causing no end of emotional, psychological, and physical distress to me. You can probably guess why: emotional, because "oh noes, all our stuff!" (which is totally fine); psychological, because "oh noes, we are forcing our poor child to live in squalor and disrepair because we're terrible people!" (which is not entirely the truth, although I'll let you figure out where the line between fact and fiction is perforated); and physical, because "oh noes, we're beating ourselves up over this!" (which, all that self-flagellation really takes a toll, you know?).

(And oh by the way -- that is A LOT of punctuation, right there. My former English teachers and lit professors are either insanely proud, or insanely appalled, or just insane.)

Of course, most of these things are non-starters. The roofing guy came out to the house today to take pictures and assess the damage and the good news, so far, is that it seems like the damage is pretty minor, or at least it only affects a small area of the roof. It's rained on and off for the last two days and we haven't had any more drippage, but in the event that it does, we already have the big plastic trash can from the office in position. On Friday, when we discovered the leak, we found only a tatty old sweater had gotten wet. As far as damage goes, that's so insignificant as to barely register -- that sweater doesn't fit anyway, and it was about to go into the "giveaway" pile.

But now we're waiting on the estimate and then once that comes, and we figure out how many kidneys and liver chunks and potential first-born children we need to barter in order to come up with however much money is going to be needed to pay to fix a roof on an 83-year-old house with a lot of the original fixtures, and then after that there will be strange people tromping through my bedroom on their way to the busted-up spot, and that means that, at some point probably sooner than later, I will really need clean my room.

Our room is a mess. Not quite a federal disaster area, not yet, definitely not at risk of qualifying as a Superfund site, but  ... we have A LOT of stuff. Right now our room is filled with laundry, clean clothes that need to be put somewhere, but our closet space is limited, and some of it is potentially in the leaky-roof danger zone, plus it's time to switch out the winter stuff for the summer stuff, and I don't really have anything that fits, so I don't know what to keep and what to give away and where to put everything in the meantime. There's just SO MUCH STUFF, and when we try to make some headway (a thorough cleaning would take at least a few hours, even if we were uninterrupted by a four-year-old whose idea of "helping" is basically to move stuff from one end of the room to the other and then jump on the bed), we get about half an hour in, tops, before it gets so overwhelming that we both end up fighting and yelling and crying and "accidentally" throwing away the other one's perfectly fine pair of slightly-used-but-still-good-condition Crocs with absolutely no tread left on the soles BUT THEY ARE MY PHILLIES CROCS, DAMMIT, AND I LOVE THEM.

Plus, one of us might possibly have a slight over-accumulation problem, but that's only because I keep losing one sock of each pair every time they go in the wash and it is my fault that I have to wear socks with most of my shoes so that my feet don't freeze and my toes don't fall off? It's sad, really, that two grown adults -- one of whom is an engineer, and one of whom purports to have a major Martha Stewart complex -- just cannot get themselves together, but there you are.

We've gotten exactly nowhere so far, but thanks for asking. We're planning to make a plan as soon as we get the estimate back and we are both in the same place at the same time when the sun is still up, or at least when it is on the sunset side of the deep dark night, and not the sunrise side.

One good thing has come out of this, though: aside from clean clothes, one other big thing that takes up valuable real estate in our bedroom is stacks and stacks of books (most of them mine, I admit), and our bookshelves are just about full to bursting, and I don't want to start moving the clutter from one room to another, hoarders-style, because let's face it, it's not just our bedroom that needs help, and moving the junk around would just make a bad situation worse because eventually we'd need to move it somewhere else, so I've decided to start culling the collection and start a paperback book swap at work. I took three bags full of books into work this morning, and I am taking more tomorrow, and G said he has some he'll contribute to the cause, and you know, I don't even care if nobody else brings any books in, as long as someone takes these off my hands. So far three books have been taken out of the box at work, and not everything is trash, either -- there are Pattersons and Evanoviches and Sookie Stackhouse novels in there.

And I managed to find a beautiful, untouched, unopened copy of Little Women, which I am sad to admit I have not yet read. That might be the most embarrassing thing about this whole plight -- I'm potentially a hoarder AND I am apparently the worst former Writing major EVER.

Anyway. Send us your thoughts and well-wishes and any spare sacks of money you might have lying around. And also, send shovels.

The V is for ... Vah Humbug?

Eh, we're not really doing Valentine's Day this year.

I can't really tell whether I am upset or disappointed or just filled with extreme ennui or what, but Valentine's Day is in three days and neither my husband nor I has made any particular plans, that I know of, to do anything special.

Last year's Valentine's Day flowers

We usually do. I get flowers almost every year, and I absolutely love them. I don't know where he orders his arrangements from, but they're always exquisitely lovely and fragrant and you can smell them all the way down the hall when I pick them up at the front desk -- like I've left a visible vapor trail of rose-and-stargazer-lily essence wherever I've walked.

I get a lot of dirty looks from people who don't get anything, even the people who say they don't want anything. It's usually kind of awesome.

But this year, I'm just not into Valentine's Day.

I'm not anti-romance or anything. We were going to do dinner and a movie tomorrow, leave Shae with one or more of her grandparents so we could get some alone time, but my mother-in-law broke her leg so she is not available to babysit and anyway, there is LITERALLY NOTHING in theaters right now that I want to see. Not for Valentine's Day, anyway. I might like to see True Grit or The King's Speech, but to be totally honest, they don't look like feel-good rom-coms.

And on Monday, the actual Big Day, he has to work, and so do I -- I will get to see him for maybe half an hour before I go to work, and that's all. Not exactly optimal conditions for the making of the romance. I can't even make him dinner. Well, okay, I can, but he'll eat it on Tuesday night at work, and what is the point of putting all that work into a big romantic meal when I'm going to end up fighting with a preschooler over actually EATING IT?

It doesn't help that I have absolutely no idea what to get him, if I get him a gift. The best Valentine's Day present I ever gave him was a mix tape that I made back in 1994. It was absolutely perfect, a blend of old and new songs, covers and originals, standards and show tunes, stuff that expressed all the stuff I was feeling at the time, stuff that I was never able to say in my own words. I've been trying to top that sucker since then, with no luck. I tried again this year, but ... well, let's just say that I'm old and I couldn't really find any songs from the last 17 years that move me the same way that original track list did.

So we're doing nothing, that I know of. Over the weekend I am going to brunch with a girlfriend, but that's pretty much it. We have swimming lessons and family visits and grocery shopping and laundry and all the usual stuff that needs to get done, but nothing special for the holiday. Maybe I'll pick up some cupcakes at the store tonight or something. But basically, I feel like Valentine's Day is just another Monday this year, and ... eh.

If you're doing something special for Valentine's Day, like I don't know going to Denver or something, have a great time! Have enough fun for me too, okay?

Some Kind of Metaphor, Maybe

I haven't had much to say in the past few days, and I apologize. Not that anyone thought I was, but I'm not going anywhere -- just trying to get used to our new schedule. My husband started his new job yesterday -- yippee! -- but after 16 months of him being unemployed, we had gotten ourselves into a routine, and right now I'm having trouble adjusting to a new one.

I'm also -- and this is going to sound weird -- feeling a little threatened right now. While he was out of work I was the breadwinner and also the "master scheduler," and now both of these positions are in flux. I don't entirely mind, but I never before realized (or at least never before admitted) how much of a control freak I am. And nothing rattles a "controlist" like wrangling a 3-year-old for school.

Nothing is changing, but at the same time everything is, and it's an adjustment. Exciting and promising, but also a little bit scary, and one that we need to work through. Not major -- dear Lord, my problems are nothing compared to some people's, and I know it -- but still unsettling. We'll get there in time; this, too, shall pass.

Also: I'm on my fourth consecutive day of this tummyache, and I burnt a pot of chili last night, for the first time ever. I've been making chili for 15 years, and this the first time I can recall ever burning it. I've changed the recipe for better and worse, made it without some ingredients and added others and shuffled things up, but I've never burned it. It's still edible -- I've actually gotten a lot of compliments on it, on the unexpected smoky flavor, that isn't really supposed to be there -- but its unwarranted success has me off-kilter.

Which is probably some kind of metaphor or something, maybe. I'm trying to work with mistakes that have been made, adjusting the game plan on the fly, spinning straw into gold as well as I am able, along with other ridiculous idioms that may or may not work in this particular context. Still me, but different, learning from what has happened and trying to prepare for what is yet to come. Feeling the burn, but not letting it ruin everything else.

Or something.

Spent

I've been quiet the last few days, and I'm sorry, but it's been a big roller coaster and I just can't process everything. It's too much, too overwhelming. I really try not to be a whiner, and I really try not to use this blog as free therapy, but sometimes you need a brain dump, you know? And this is one of those times.

The Good News:
My husband finally found a job. After 17 months and a huge deal of wondering and worrying and kind of aimless wandering in the wilderness, and I don't even know how many interviews at I don't even know how many places, he finally found a job. He starts on the 27th. I am happy for him, and excited, but more than anything, I am relieved. We've made do on his unemployment and my paycheck, and we've been as smart and as frugal as we could so we haven't been hurting as much as so many other people have been, so the money was never really the issue. But already I can sense a change in my husband, a subtle and slight regaining of his confidence, and I glad he's getting his groove back, so to speak. I think the job is a restart for him, a basically entry-level job in his field, especially considering his experience, but I also think it's going to be a great opportunity for him, and he's going to be getting out of the house again, which is more fantastic than I can possibly tell you.

The Bad News:
Somebody stole the bistro table and chairs off our front porch overnight. I have absolutely zero idea why anybody would want it -- it's just some cheap little metal set from Wal-Mart that we got ten years ago -- but sometime between my last cigarette yesterday and my first cigarette this morning, someone took our stuff. All things considered, it's no big deal; nobody was hurt, nothing major was taken, nobody broke into our house or keyed our cars or anything like that. It's more of an annoyance than anything else, and I felt like a major tool having to call the police first thing in the morning. The cops were here before it was even fully light out. It's just -- somebody stole our stuff, you know? I would have sold it for next to nothing.

The Worse News:
We were at my parents' for a yard sale today (made $50 selling my kid's outgrown clothes, whoo!) and while we were there my uncle wandered off. My great-uncle, actually, my grandfather's sister's husband. He's 81 and has Alzheimer's, and he's staying at my parents' with his daughter while his wife, my great-aunt, is in the hospital under psychiatric evaluation. Her diagnosis is Lewy body dementia, which I've never head of before now, and I am not sure about the prognosis but I am not sure it's good. Anyway, sometime around lunchtime, my uncle went out for a walk and ... never came back. He was gone for more than hour, and we had four people out looking for him at one point. We called the police and they found him one township and about 5 miles away. Thankfully some nice lady saw him wandering around, lost and confused, and she brought him inside and gave him water and called the police herself. Apparently he decided that he was going to walk to the hospital to visit his wife. God bless his heart. I can't imagine how upsetting all of this must be for both of them. My husband's grandfather was right: getting old ain't for sissies.

The Worst News Of All:
The closed my grandparents' pool today, and we were not expecting it. We thought we had until next weekend. We packed our suits and everything, and were planning to go swimming this afternoon after the yard sale was over. I didn't even get to stick my feet in the water one last time. All day I was feeling this weird, vague sadness about the whole thing, and I just now realized why it bothers me so much: we might not get to go in that pool again. Ever again. I've been swimming in that pool for like 25 years, and last weekend might have been the last time I got a chance to do that. My grandparents are getting older every day, and their health is getting worse, and every time I see them, it might be for the last time. Probably I shouldn't say that, but the facts are what they are. They are old, and they are ill, and there is no way to know how much time they have left. I am not prepared for this, for what this means. I don't have many pictures of Shae with my grandparents, and we forgot the camera today. What if next weekend ... I don't want to think about it, and I know I have to, and I just can't. Right now I have pictures in my photostream that are ready to be posted, and I don't want to put them up, because I can't bear the thought that those could be the last pictures of my daughter in that pool. It's not just the pool, of course, but that is the only concrete thing I can wrap my head around. The pool might not be opened next summer, because. Because. Because of things that are entirely possible but just too horrible to think about. And now, after only a couple of nights of really relaxed sleep in 17 months (see: "The Good News"), I am going to go back to not sleeping at all again, and I am just so tired. I am an hour away, I only see my family for one day on the weekends, it already makes me crazy because I feel like there is more that needs to be done and I just can't do it, and I feel so guilty all the time, and ... I just can't. I'm exhausted. I'm spent. And tomorrow it will start all over again.

I Swear To God, I Used To Have A Life

It's getting to be that time again where I show you my fall TV schedule and My Anonymous Mother looks at it and basically goes, "Ugh, for this I paid all that money for college?" because apparently in my head M.A.M. is Yiddish. Would you like to see this year's pretty little chart? (If not, too bad, because here it comes anyway.)

(Incidentally, guess who just got a new color computer at work? THIS GAL, that's who.) (Well, it's the department's color printer, but STILL.)

The changes in shows and/or timeslots are highlighted. It looks kind of similar to last year's version, doesn't it? That's because THERE IS NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN, people. I am basically watching the same shows as last year. There are only a couple of differences which I will discuss below:

• You will notice a marked lack of purple on this bad boy; that is because I never know when Top Chef, Project Runway, Burn Notice, White Collar, Psych, In Plain Sight -- basically, all my shows on cable -- actually stop and start. I will keep watching them as long as they are on (especially Burn Notice and White Collar because Jeffrey Donovan, Bruce Campbell, and Matthew Bomer are yummy) but I have no idea what time any of these shows actually air because I have a TiVo.
• Yes, I just said the Bruce Campbell is "yummy." I can't help myself. He is funny and charming and devilish and I have absolutely no defense against that demographic. I don't care if he is old enough to be my (sugar) daddy. Don't you judge me.
• Outside the cable shows, which were intentionally omitted, four shows are completely gone from the list -- Ugly Betty (finished), FlashForward (cancelled), NUMB3RS (finished), and Gossip Girl (too stupid to keep watching). Lost never appeared last year because it didn't have its season premiere until February, and it is the only show that I will actively miss. Thank God for the complete series on Blu-Ray, which of course we will be getting.
• Every year I say I am "done" with Survivor, and every time a new season starts I still get sucked back in. This time I am watching for two reasons: one, to see how long before Jimmy Johnson (yes, THAT Jimmy Johnson) sticks around -- hopefully not very -- and two, to see how badly the changes they keep making are wrecking my show.
• For the record, not that you asked, but I still stand by my assertion that Ethan Zohn is the best Survivor winner in history. He has a foundation. Go check it out. This is a public service announcement. Also, he is very, very funny and charming and have I mentioned that I have no defense against that demographic?
• Yes, I'm going to at least check out the "reboot" of Hawaii Five-O, because I am an asshole, and also because Daniel Dae Kim is lovely and charming and I am glad he has work so soon after Lost. Not entirely sure how I feel about Scott Caan, and I don't understand why CBS is so completely in love with Alex O'Laughlin, but come on -- Hawaii! Cops! "Book 'im, Danno!" You know you're going to watch, too, at least once.
• I would personally like to thank the television executives who made the decisions to move Survivor to Wednesdays and move Glee to Survivor's old timeslot on Thursdays Tuesdays (Ed.: fixed), because that resolved one of my most major scheduling conflicts. Now I only have one left, on Mondays at 8:00, and I am going to have a hard time deciding whether House or How I Met Your Mother gets bumped to repeats. Chuck stays put, always and forever, amen (because of the cute and charming and no defense and hello have you even been listening?).
• No, I don't know why The Defenders looks interesting, but it does.
• Big jeers to both ABC and NBC, who only have two shows each on this chart. Why can't you guys make good television, ABC and NBC? Modern Family and Community are fantastic. Chuck and Castle are great. MOAR PLZ.
• Dear CBS: When can I expect the next mortgage payment on my soul? Get that check in the mail STAT or I will stop watching CSI: NY, which kind of sucks any more anyway.
• I'm giving The Big Bang Theory another chance, even though I kind of didn't like it early in the show's run. If you must blame someone, blame Linda Holmes at NPR's Monkey See blog, who has been making quite a case for it. You can also give an assist to Wil Wheaton, who also loves the show and has been a guest more than once. I trust that Ensign Wesley Crusher will not steer me wrong.
• Gaaah, I still can't believe that I am going to voluntarily watch Jimmy Johnson on television. WTF is WRONG with me? Damn you, Mark Burnett! Damn you straight to hell!
• Oh hell yes I'll be watching Conan's new show when it airs. I will NOT be making that mistake again. Team Coco Forever!

Any other recommendations? Last year someone (my sister?) said something about Grey's Anatomy and Private Practice, but I can't get into them -- not a big soap fan, really (which is a large part of why I gave up on Gossip Girl -- that, and the unrelenting stupidity). I find Mad Men to be intolerably slow, and the entire concept of Breaking Bad scares me, but I am giving Rubicon (also on AMC) a shot. I missed out on BSG and I think I am a little late to the party for Eureka but if someone thinks they're worth trying to find on-demand I will see what I can do.

And for the love of all that is Good and Holy, let's hope that Jimmy Johnson does not win Survivor or my head will explode.

Fear of Flying

I struggled mightily with the order in which the next two posts should go up: do I want to put my favorite pictures up first, and then the terribly embarrassing video? Or do I want to go with the hysterically funny video clip, and then the bittersweetly lovely pictures of the kids looking adorable? In the end, chronological order won out (even though, technically, everything is out of sequence vis-à-vis everything else -- the pictures you are seeing today were taken on Tuesday, and the pictures you will see tomorrow were taken on Thursday, and the pictures you have already seen? Were taken both before AND after both Tuesday AND Thursday. But as I said when I saw Pulp Fiction for the first time, lo these many years ago: Non-linear storytelling kicks ass.)

So. Anyway. On Tuesday night during our vacation, we went to Fantasy Island Amusement Park, which you might remember from last year's trip to the shore. This year we went earlier in the night, because we knew it was there (prior to last year, I swear to God I had never heard of the place, even though My Anonymous Mother swears up and down that my Aunt Kim used to take her kids there). It's not really a dress-up place, but I got Shae all dolled up anyway, because I had packed a little skirt outfit for her, and by God she was going to wear it someplace.

See what I mean about the pictures looking like they were taken for a catalog? Anyway. Things started out well on the boat ride ...

... and were okay on the train ride ...

... but we did not do so well on the traffic jam ride ...

... although we did better on the honey bee ride (you will just have to take my word for it).

BUT. Things really went off the rails on the ferris wheel. Oh, dear sweet Jeebus, my arch-nemesis the ferris wheel!

See that picture of me, holding the video camera? That's going to be important in a minute or so. Shae did great on the ferris wheel ...

... but, um ... okay, let me just put it this way and then cut to the clip. I'll be totally honest here: I am deathly afraid of heights. DEATHLY. Well, not heights, exactly, but falling to my death. I can handle airplanes for some reason -- I love to fly, actually, although I do have trouble with take-offs and landings -- but I really, really don't like being in high, open places because I can picture in my head all the terrible things that can go wrong and I can't stop it and ... well, even though the audio commentary on this clip is all me, having a nervous breakdown in front of my 3-year-old on a stupid ferris wheel at a perfectly lovely kiddie park at the shore, it's still pretty funny. I can admit that.

Next time G is getting ferris wheel duty. Shae's going to be on her own with the roller coasters, though.

Desperation Samba

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the week before the week before vacation is the worst week of the entire year. I can't put my clothes in the suitcase, because I haven't changed my mind about what I want to pack enough times yet. I can't really switch to autopilot at work, because there are still projects and deadlines that need to be met before I go. And I can't really go grocery shopping, because if I do, and we don't eat every. single. thing. in the house before we leave, then you just know that while we're away we'll have a major electrical storm and my house will be without power for 4 days and the basement will flood and the toilet will overflow and everything in the fridge and the freezer will spoil and we'll get rats and bugs and squatters and looting and our home will be condemned and we'll have to live in our cars or even worse -- WE'LL NEED TO MOVE IN WITH MY MOTHER.

So this week we're doing what I like to call the "desperation samba," a very carefully choreographed dance that involves cleaning out the current provisions and making meals out what basically amounts to random crap in my freezer and cupboards. Mysterious baggies of ground meat. Baked beans of unverifiable provenance. Canned soup out the wazoo. Cereal and PB&J for supper, with sides of creamed corn and freezer-burned lima beans. I mean, yes, we'll go to the store for absolute essentials, like milk and bread and the occasional fruit or vegetable, but my husband is under very strict orders should that unfortunate eventuality occur: quarts of milk only, smallest loaves of bread you can find, only three ears of corn. Our biggest splurge in the last two weeks was buying two pounds on strawberries last Sunday, and we did that only because, hey, we really like strawberries in our house, and I knew they'd get eaten.

I will say this much: doing this? Living like complete savages? It takes a lot of cojones, and confidence in your own cooking abilities. I like to think of myself as a better-than-average home cook, and I pride myself on my ability to make a meal out of basically anything, provided that I have access to basic herbs, spices, and bouillon cubes. But making meals out of scavenged foodstuffs is part skill, part alchemy, part divination, part illusion, and part faith, with a big heaping swig of ballsiness thrown in: "Oh, yes, you WILL eat what I am feeding you."

This is the kind of wackaloony stuff I've served to my actual family this week for dinner:

• Browned loose sweet Italian sausage with chopped onions and canned diced tomatoes, served over elbow macaroni that was tossed with butter and Parmesan cheese
• Thawed package of pre-cooked chicken with a sell-by date of November 2009, with some kind of noodly stuff
• Zucchini gratin -- sliced zucchini sauteed with olive oil and Italian seasoning, with toasted breadcrumbs and Parmesan cheese added
• Frosted mini-wheats cereal

I mean, yeah, this is totally a first-world problem -- "oh, poor poor pitiful me, I am serving my family food that we bought maybe two weeks ago but that we had to properly store in the refrigerator or freezer until we got around to using it" -- and it's more than partly my own fault since I'm such a cheapskate, but still. When was the last time you served chicken to your kid that had been in the freezer for 8 months? I just don't want to waste money on stuff that will just sit around while I am laughing it up at the beach, and I don't want to take two chicken breasts if I don't have enough to share with everyone.

Now do you see why I worry about drinking?

Pack Rat

In 10 days we leave for vacation. This time on that fateful morning, I will be running around the house like the proverbial headless chicken, shrieking and panicking as we start to load up the car, constantly doing an inventory of what we have and what we need and what we forgot. Where is the umbrella? Did we pack the toothbrushes? What about underpants? Deodorant? Beach towels? That one weird kitchen tool that nobody knows what it's for or even how to use it but you know the second we arrive at the rental house we're going to suddenly realize that it is a Vitally Important Utensil? Do we have enough lighters? I only have five in my purse, will that be enough?

Yes: I am aware that I am off-the-charts bananapants crazy and possibly certifiable.

I've been sort of stealthily packing my own stuff for a few weeks already -- stuff I know I want to put in the suitcase that I can manage to do without until then. Some new shirts that I would like to be seen in by my mother at least once before there is a food stain in the bosomal area. A pair of shorts that don't quite fit yet but that should be okay by the time we go. The new outfit I got for when my sister and I go to a concert in Atlantic City. I am not packing a whole lot, because there will be a washing machine, but of course in the next ten days I will reconsider and revise and revamp and reimagine my entire "resort collection."

Which is ridiculous, because I'll just end up packing the same stuff I already have set aside anyway. But then, I am not always the sharpest tool in the crayon box.

We have also already started packing up the non-perishables in the ice chest:

See if you can identify the one thing in there that will definitely NOT be coming out.

Honorary Canadian

Today is our little friend Evan's birthday. He is the son of our grown-up friends Melissa and Eric. It is also Canada Day, so since he was born, I have called Evan an "honorary Canadian." (I am not myself Canadian, so I don't believe I actually have the authority to do such a thing, but ... um, NAFTA? Or something? Whatever. My blog, my rules, etc.)

Evan is three years old today. Same age as Shae. I remember the day he was born. We didn't know our daughter yet. It's weird to think about that, but there it is. At the time I was almost angry about it, because our friends who got married 5 years after we did had children already, and it didn't seem fair. I have long since gotten over it. I blame the fertility hormones, but I really want to believe that being a parent has made me a better person.

Anyway. Evan's birthday party was over the weekend, and everyone had a lovely time. Shae especially, even though we had to publicly sit her in time out -- TWICE! -- because of the geometric escalation of bad behavior when you get when you put numerous small children in the same place at the same time.

It was a bad scene for a little while -- it's embarrassing to have to punish your kid in front of strangers, even though it is something that needed to be done (and honestly, I am sure other parents had to do likewise and felt similarly) -- but Shae got over it pretty quickly because there was a Moon Bounce. Mommy is still recovering. I think perhaps I should have had a couple of extra daiquiris.

Aaaaaaand once again I have turned a post about Someone Else's Story into something that is all about me. Again. The point is: we went to Evan's birthday party, and it was good, the end.

Happy birthday, little Canadian buddy. Go out and light some sparklers and play some hockey or something. Say "eh?" all day. Ask your Dad for some Molson. Throw a parade. Just be happy, and have a great one.

(Practically) Death By (Teeny Weeny Little) Splinter

One of the things that you can never be fully prepared for, as a parent, is the sound of your child screaming and shouting incomprehensibly while fully caught in the grip of sheer, abject terror.

And of course it's only made worse when you're the one who's got your kid terrified -- or, more precisely, the tweezers in your hand. Which you are trying to use to remove a splinter that is starting to get scary-looking.

It's quite something to discover that your fearless little rascal, who likes to fling herself down sliding boards face-first and who likes the swings to go practically all the way upside down and who likes to throw herself on the couch so she can see how high she bounces -- it's quite something to discover that this kid is scared to death of being pinched.

And I am not kidding about the "being scared" bit, either: she was screaming hysterically, so loudly, for so long, that I thought for sure that our neighbors were going to call the cops. In an ordinary neighborhood, they might have.

It was like Noriega with the heavy metal music, is what I am saying.

Apparently the splinter came from pulling weeds at my grandmother's over the weekend, and that (plus the killer mystery poison that makes you want to scratch all your skin off) is exactly why I don't do yard work.

But oh my lands -- we bribed her with everything we could think of. Candy. Money. Clothes. Shoes. At one point I might have promised to buy her a bike. Anything, if she would just calm down and be quiet for two seconds so we could pluck that splinter right out. It wasn't very deep, or very big, just on her left hand, right under her pinky finger, but it was red and she was complaining that it was sore, so it needed to come out.

It should have taken ten seconds, max. It ended up being an ordeal that went on for literally more than an hour. She would tense up and make tiny little fists and kick and scream and wail and throw punches and ... well, we ended up not getting the stinking splinter after all.

Until we were in the tub, when it came out on its own, confirmed after another wrestling match to just look at her boo-boo.

Oh and by the way? That kid is strong. Even soaking wet and naked.

She insisted on a unicorn bandaid and some "cream" afterwards, which is really neosporin ointment but she calls it cream because it looks like A&D to her, and then everything was fine.

Except I still have this ringing in my ears, and I think I've run out of nerve pills.

And I don't have the heart to tell my husband that this is nothing compared to what the first break-up is going to be like.

Take This Week and SHOVE IT

Yesterday can KISS MY ASS and ROT IN HELL for all I care. Yesterday was entirely an EPIC FAIL. It was like "Castaway," except longer. Like "The English Patient," but without Ralph Fiennes and Sayid from "Lost." If anyone found themselves in the midst of plagues of flies or frogs or locusts or boils, or riots or fires or mudslides or sushi in the mall, that was probably tangential to my problems, because yesterday was just a bad day of Biblical proportions.

Honestly, it was so bad that I don't even want to recap, but it does appear that I my "Litany of Worries" was not entirely fashioned out of whole cloth. Some of these things, I have reason to be worried about, and indeed, some have already come to pass.

Also, I am thinking of maybe changing my name to Job, except I am afraid I will be mistaken for an "Arrested Development" character, and while that could be cool, for right now my sense of humor has gone off on walkabout without me.

Also: I am not yet 800 years old. Or a man. Or particularly interested in being named after a book of the Bible.

So, hey! Quick! Look at these pictures of my kid!

We're starting to let her pick out her own clothes. Well, partly -- she picked out this shirt and we did the rest. I bought the shirt. Circle of life, or something.

Doesn't it look like she's on a photo shoot for America's Next Top Model here? Miss Tyra's "smizing" has nothing on my kid's.

No idea. I try as much as possible to go with the flow. This might be one of those times when she was pretending to be a cat. I don't know. Kids don't make sense.

GLADYS LEIBOWITZ LIVES, BITCHES! My parents got Shae a new bubble mower. We can't figure out how to make it work, but does this kid know how to work it, or what?

Litany of Worries

I worry about everything all the time. I worry that my spring bulbs aren't going to bloom this year. I worry that my summer flowers will not survive the choking weeds in my back flower beds. I worry that we're going to have grubs in the front yard.

I worry about how much I worry. I worry what people think of me when I wear my Crocs in public. I worry that I will never again be able to wear a pair of stretch pants without looking like a homeless former circus clown.

I worry that I am not getting enough sleep. I worry that I am not getting enough calcium. I worry that I am not getting enough fiber. I worry that I am eating too much red meat. I worry that I am not getting enough fruits and vegetables. I worry that a grown-ass woman with a full-time job shouldn't eat Lucky Charms for dinner two nights a week.

I worry that I am ever-so-slowly but ever-so-surely losing my mind. I worry that I spend too much time playing World of Warcraft. I worry that I will never get my Loremaster achievement. I worry that I will never again be fully happy at work. I worry that my husband will never find a job. I worry that when he does I will have to do laundry again. I worry whether it is possible to die under a pile of unmatched socks.

I worry that maybe I need a vacation. I worry that maybe my only vacation this year will feature tents, worms, and my cousin Jason's stinky shoes. I worry that I will never again stay in a hotel with a swim-up bar. I worry that I will never see Paris. I worry that I will never see Dublin. I worry that I will never see Rio de Janeiro. I worry that I will never see Cairo. I worry that this perpetual hum of barely-controlled panic is probably not healthy.

I worry that I might have toenail fungus. I worry that I will lose my toenail before sandal season. I worry that I will lose my toe. I worry about a couple of freckles that look funny. I worry that I can't remember when I last had a Pap smear. I worry that this sinus thing is actually brainworms. I worry that maybe I watch too much "Fringe." I worry that maybe I should be on anti-psychotics or at least anti-depressants.

I worry that my frown lines and crow's feet are turning into worry furrows. I worry that we'll never get around to making the repairs we need to make to the house. I worry that we'll be stuck there forever. I worry that my daughter won't be able to get into a good college because we live in a crappy school district. I worry that we are not giving her the life she deserves. I worry that we are not giving ourselves the life we deserve.

I worry about not being able to take care of our parents as they get older. I worry about my grandparents. I worry about my sisters. I worry about the cats. I worry about that stupid mouse and whether we're ever going to catch him before he gives us all hantavirus. I worry about gingivitis and when it's time to get my oil changed. I worry about global warming and world peace and gay rights and birthers and wingnuts and moonbats and loonballs.

I worry about what the hell the world is coming to. I worry that maybe I shouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning. I worry that it's all worse than I thought. I worry that it actually isn't.

Someone Send a Plunger

Someone unexpected told me yesterday that they read this blog, and when I asked them what they thought, their answer was this: "Man, what happened to all your stories?"

And to be honest, I wasn't sure what to think about that, because on the one hand, it's not like I don't write something 4-5 times a week, but on the other hand, yeah I kind of have been boring lately. I'll 'fess up to that. For a while I thought it was just the doldrums, and I still think that is part of it, but really, I think the problem is the potty training.

Because: potty training really, really sucks. And it is making me feel like a bad parent.

If you go and Google "potty training methods," you'll get about 16 million results. There are separate methods for boys and girls, one-month plans, one-week plans, one-weekend plans, one-day plans. There are books and DVD's and audio courses and special diapers and panties and cattle prods or something, I don't even know any more. I am really starting to think that there is such a thing as the "potty-industrial complex," which is on the same level as the "wedding-industrial complex" and the "beauty-industrial complex" and the "daycare-industrial complex" and all those industries exist solely to tell me what I am doing wrong.

And I am starting to believe them.

So there are no funny stories lately because there is not a whole lot of funny, because most of the conversations that I am having with my kid can be summed up as follows: me asking, "Shae, do you have to go potty?" followed by 15 minutes of screaming and tantrums and arguments and negotiations. And that's just me. Add in the random noises Shae is making and ... well, it's quite a caterwaul.

I know we'll get through this eventually, or at least I hope we will, and I think it will be sooner than later, but man oh man, right now? Agony. Everybody's mad at everybody else all the time and it's just an unpleasant place to be. She'll tell us when she has to pee, sometimes, but she never tells us when she has to poop, and we are talking split-second precision timing if we want to catch her in the act and get her to the potty on time.

If we get mad, she cries, and if we try to be firm but gentle, she doesn't seem to get it, like it's all a game, and I feel like we're being all overindulgent and blahblahblah and everything that everybody says is wrong with people of my generation who are now parents, with kids who don't have any rules or boundaries or discipline.

Then we whip ourselves up into a froth, where everybody's mad at everybody else and ... well, I already mentioned that it isn't exactly Disneyland.

So that's what happened to my stories. For a little while longer, anyway, they're being flushed.

But hey! Here are some random, entirely out of context pictures to thank you for reading this while big whiny rant.

Brown Paper Packages Tied Up With Strings

I'm trying to get those gosh darn Christmas calendars done and I wanted to make sure I had enough good pictures to use for the December pages, so yesterday I planned a little "photo shoot" for when I got home from work, complete with a prop -- an office supply box that I fished out of the recycling at work, that I then wrapped for Shae to tear into, so I could capture the "magic moment" on film.

This is the point where I tell her there is nothing in the box. She actually handled it pretty well, though -- I told her that she was allowed to play with the box, the paper, whatever she wanted, as long as she didn't touch the Christmas tree or any ornaments, and as long as she helped us clean up before bathtime. For as clean as she is, she does enjoy making a mess from time to time. As we all do. (And she wore the box on her head for a while, and called it a "robot hat." Love this kid!)

I have been worrying though, lately, that I am turning into (or already am) one of those "paparazzi parents," the ones who go nowhere without their digital camera, ready to document anything and everything that might happen. Just in case, you know? It does concern me that maybe my own kid wouldn't be able to pick me out of a lineup, but she can identify my camera from 100 paces. I mean, for crap's sake: I planned a photo shoot for my own kid, in my own house! And the only thing she wants for Christmas is her own "cramera!"

Like any decent and reasonable person, I want to take whatever means are necessary to keep my kid from turning into one of those awful, awful people on shows like "The Hills" or "Keeping Up With The Kardashians." I mean, I think we're going to be fine, because nobody really cares about our life, since we're so average and ordinary and normal in every way (except for the monkeyshit craziness, of course, but even that is your typical kind of monkeyshit craziness).

Still and all, I wonder if maybe we are teaching her bad habits, because I spend so much time being Madame Director instead of being Mommy. I have spent approximately eleventy bajillion hours working on these calendars, and at least half that trying to direct my kid so that I could get the pictures that I want, so as to convey the image that I want, so I could make the pages turn into what I imagined them to be.

And I don't want to be one of those parents, one of those stage or pageant moms.

I don't want to make her into anything other than what she already is, which is COMPLETELY AWESOMESAUCE. She already makes me so happy.

Send in the Clowns

(NOTE: This is long and overwrought and very emo, and possibly upsetting. This was a big ol' stream of consciousness thing that I wrote. You can skip it if you want -- the pictures aren't that great anyway. I almost didn't publish this, but I decided to anyway, for two reasons: (1) these are real feelings, and (2) I feel better for having gotten it out, which is kind of the reason why I started this blog in the first place. I'm fine. I'll be fine. I have to be, and I want to be. You can worry, but know that I have this stuff on the radar, and I am monitoring myself, and I won't actually GET out of control. I just FEEL out of control, sometimes. YMMV, and QED, and etc.)

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This time last year, I was was practically swimming in bliss, what with my team winning the World Series and my guy winning the election and things just generally going much more my way than things are right at this particular moment in time. I'm not exactly talking myself off the ledge, not quite, but ...

... well, let me put it this way: did you ever have one of those days when you have, like, tunnel vision, and all you can see is what's going on right in front of you, and that's probably okay anyway because what's happening off to the side there sounds a little bit terrifying, but anyway you're staring straight ahead trying to concentrate and then all of the sudden you notice that there is a very weighty darkness rapidly closing in around you and you feel this moist hot sulfurous breath on the back of your neck and then you blink and when you open your eyes all you can see is this pinpoint of light on the horizon and suddenly the panting is getting heavier behind you?

No? Just me?

G is still out of work, and right now I am the breadwinner in our family, and let me tell you something about that: my (not-so) inner feminist is at full-on DEFCON-5. It's one thing to be the moneymaker when you want to, when you and he are separate-but-equal-partners, when your marriage is new and you are both young and strong. But when you have to? When there are kids and pets and mortgage payments? When you've been constantly working for 10+ years without breaks except for the obligatory occasional week of vacation and you're old and tired? Whole 'nother ballgame, buster. This is quidditch on the moon.

The fact that there are only 40-something days until Christmas and I have barely started my shopping, barely even started thinking about my shopping, barely even started considering thinking about my shopping, probably gives away how bad things are getting, in my head at least. How can I worry about Christmas presents when I am busy worrying about how we're going to make two car payments and a mortgage payment and a daycare payment with only one job? It's come to this: I am having a hard time justifying spoiling my own child, the child we wanted so long and worked so hard for, because I just can't make the cost-benefit analysis work. Even as I say it myself, it's the saddest and stupidest thing I've ever heard.

And then I think, "If it's this bad for us, how bad must it be for others? The ones with no jobs, no severance, no unemployment, no nothing? How bad must it be for them?" And I can do something for them, I know I can, if I am willing to sacrifice some of the little bit we still have, but ... then again. Then again. They just did a round of layoffs where I work. I know I am lucky to have a job right now. I have survivor's guilt, I guess. I am becoming overwhelmed with all of it. Sometimes I worry myself right into nausea. I need to out my head between my knees. I can't hardly sleep.

I mean, maybe I exaggerate a little bit, but I am starting to hit panic mode right now and I'm not sure how to keep the sky from swirling over me while the earth spins out of control underneath my feet in this maelstrom of my own making. I am starting to crack under the pressure and I wonder sometimes if we're going to make it, G and I, our little family. I feel like I'm going looneypants. Some days I am sad, and some days I am angry, and some days it's a struggle to get out of bed, and some days I am so consumed with so many emotions at once that I force myself to feel absolutely nothing in self-defense. Fuck off, world! Die in a fire.

This is depression, probably a big one, and I know this. I can feel it like a giant octopus or a big hairy spider, twisting its legs around my ribs and squeezing until I can't run and can't move and can't breathe and can't scream. But I can't be bothered with this, I can't, I just can't be depressed right now, not with him depressed and people around me depressed and the whole damn world depressed. I'm the positive one. I'm the cockeyed optimist. I'm Little Miss Sunshine. I'm the Little Engine That Could.

And here I am, standing in the tunnel, and it's getting darker and darker and that panting behind me is getting louder and louder and that tiny point of light is getting farther and farther away and now I'm starting to hear calliope music, which means here come the horrible flesh-eating clowns, and I think it's going to be getting a lot worse before it gets better, and I'm barely hanging on to this high wire here already. Please, send help. And a flashlight.