Today is the last day of after-school care for the Denizens. School is out for a week starting Monday, the girls’ after school program doesn’t run on days school isn’t in session, and Captain Adventure’s daycare is closed for most of the week for Thanksgiving…so really, this is it.
This is the last day I have a block from 8:00 to 5:00 for, you know, stuff.
I feel as though I should be doing one of two things: Everything, or nothing.
I should either be doing all those things that are difficult to do with young children pelting up and down the hallway, or I should be out there at Starbucks sucking down peppermint mochas and knitting until 4:59 tonight.
Instead, I’m…puttering.
I’m playing at working, followed by a little Internet surfing, then I say, “Hey! Wake up, stupid! Either do something, or go do nothing!!”
And then I do neither something nor nothing until suddenly I realized that I am once again puttering around.
I think a large part of my problem today is that I have absolutely zero motivation. I woke up this morning already dead tired, and it has only gone downhill from there. About the only productive thing I’ve done all day long was creep out a fellow mom by staring fixedly at her precious toddler, muttering to myself, while my husband and I waited for our coffee at Starbucks.
Her adorable child was wearing an equally adorable knitted poncho. Which I could so totally make, probably with something already in my stash.
You know how it is.
ANYWAY.
I just really can’t seem to light a fire under my behind today. Not even to do something vacation-y.
I just keep puttering.
I’m going to be pissed next week, when I can’t do anything because I’ve got four Denizens charging around screaming and carrying on. When I can’t leave the house alone, when I can’t string two thoughts together and call it a chain, when I can’t sit down in my comfy chair and knit for more than five minutes without somebody bursting into my life with some Urgent Thing Or Other.
But even knowing this…I can’t make myself focus.
Sigh.
Right. OK. I’m going to go check the mail drop. Maybe if I just leave the Den, Inspiration will strike I will suddenly find myself passionately engaged with…something.
Anything.
And if nothing else, there’s still $8.55 on that Starbucks card I got from MyPoints last week…
Friday, November 21, 2008
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Self preservation: FAIL
I’ve been knitting a lot of lace lately. Having discovered that I am, too, Knitter enough to handle it, perhaps I’ve gone a little crazy with the lace-knitting thing.
The only “problem” with lace knitting is that while it consumes vast quantities ofcussing wine time, it does not consume a vast quantity of yarn. (You can see why “problem” is in quotes, right? Actually, especially with the KnitPicks $3-4 a skein lace weight yarns, lace knitting is a very economical way to go and hence I am even more fond of it – hours and hours of pleasurable work on something that makes people go, “Oooh! Aaaah!” and it cost me $6?! Ship it!)
So as I was digging around for the next Great Thing, I said to myself, firmly, “Let’s see if we can’t find something to do with one of the bulkier yarns in the old stash…reduce the overall footprint of the stash and like that.”
There then followed about four days of flipping through patterns and guesstimating how much yardage was left on each ball and pondering and other such things before finally I got a kerchunk: a jacket from Sweaters for a Lifetime from Leisure Arts, shown here on the back cover:
I had exactly the right yarn for it, too: Ten balls of Classic Elite Skye Tweed (100% wool, in almost exactly the same green as the jacket on the back cover) I got up at Mendocino Yarn Shop last year during a huge! “happy birthday to me” sale put on by the owner (who is a doll – if you’re in the Mendocino area, you really must check out her shop…go ahead, it’s OK, you can blame me for whatever happens…).
So I cast on and happily knitted away during the news for a few days (nothing helps temper the distress of the national and local news lately like a new knitting project). It’s a simple pattern, easily memorized and pleasant to do even for those of us who have recently decided that really, what we need to do is stop taking all medications and see what happens. (Pain. Pain happens. But so does ‘better concentration’ and ‘less anxiety’ so, uh, well…back to the ‘which finger shall I cut off’ questions, huh?)
Then last night, I showed it to my DH.
(Trust me - the color is greener in real life.)
“This is coming along really well,” I crowed. “It’s going to be a great little jacket – look at how this fabric is coming together, nice and sturdy, not too stiff but I betcha the weather is going to just bounce right off it.”
“Uh, OK. It’s a what, a jacket?”
“Yeah, like this.” I showed him the back cover.
“Oh. Who’s it for?” I mean, it goes without saying that it probably isn’t for me. This close to Christmas? Please. It’s got to be for someone else.
“Actually…” (I am a rebel, yes I am…) “I think I might just keep it.”
“Oh! Wow, you’re knitting something for you?” He was impressed. Then…he snickered.
“What?” The frosty tone really should have been a warning…
“Hee hee hee…it’s just…hee hee…you’re knitting something for yourself, that is, you know, modeled by old people…so you’re ready for Old Person stuff now? I mean, you have been all about Coldwater Creek lately…”
Self Preservation: FAIL.
“Oh. Oh. Oh-oh-oh, no you did not…OK, buster, that’s it – you just totally made the blog!”
He howled with laughter. (Self preservation: double fail.)
Then, my beloved DH raised a finger into the air and bellowed, “The ‘D’ stands for ‘damned’ tonight!!”
Oh, yeah, he thinks he’s soooooo cute.
Wanted: One vest pattern depicting Oldest Man In The Universe, preferably toothless and looking cranky, to be toted around publicly while wearing my Old Person jacket and Coldwater Creek comfort-stretch jeans, with big Post-It note on it saying, “Perfect Vest for Darling Husband!”
The only “problem” with lace knitting is that while it consumes vast quantities of
So as I was digging around for the next Great Thing, I said to myself, firmly, “Let’s see if we can’t find something to do with one of the bulkier yarns in the old stash…reduce the overall footprint of the stash and like that.”
There then followed about four days of flipping through patterns and guesstimating how much yardage was left on each ball and pondering and other such things before finally I got a kerchunk: a jacket from Sweaters for a Lifetime from Leisure Arts, shown here on the back cover:
I had exactly the right yarn for it, too: Ten balls of Classic Elite Skye Tweed (100% wool, in almost exactly the same green as the jacket on the back cover) I got up at Mendocino Yarn Shop last year during a huge! “happy birthday to me” sale put on by the owner (who is a doll – if you’re in the Mendocino area, you really must check out her shop…go ahead, it’s OK, you can blame me for whatever happens…).
So I cast on and happily knitted away during the news for a few days (nothing helps temper the distress of the national and local news lately like a new knitting project). It’s a simple pattern, easily memorized and pleasant to do even for those of us who have recently decided that really, what we need to do is stop taking all medications and see what happens. (Pain. Pain happens. But so does ‘better concentration’ and ‘less anxiety’ so, uh, well…back to the ‘which finger shall I cut off’ questions, huh?)
Then last night, I showed it to my DH.
(Trust me - the color is greener in real life.)
“This is coming along really well,” I crowed. “It’s going to be a great little jacket – look at how this fabric is coming together, nice and sturdy, not too stiff but I betcha the weather is going to just bounce right off it.”
“Uh, OK. It’s a what, a jacket?”
“Yeah, like this.” I showed him the back cover.
“Oh. Who’s it for?” I mean, it goes without saying that it probably isn’t for me. This close to Christmas? Please. It’s got to be for someone else.
“Actually…” (I am a rebel, yes I am…) “I think I might just keep it.”
“Oh! Wow, you’re knitting something for you?” He was impressed. Then…he snickered.
“What?” The frosty tone really should have been a warning…
“Hee hee hee…it’s just…hee hee…you’re knitting something for yourself, that is, you know, modeled by old people…so you’re ready for Old Person stuff now? I mean, you have been all about Coldwater Creek lately…”
Self Preservation: FAIL.
“Oh. Oh. Oh-oh-oh, no you did not…OK, buster, that’s it – you just totally made the blog!”
He howled with laughter. (Self preservation: double fail.)
Then, my beloved DH raised a finger into the air and bellowed, “The ‘D’ stands for ‘damned’ tonight!!”
Oh, yeah, he thinks he’s soooooo cute.
Wanted: One vest pattern depicting Oldest Man In The Universe, preferably toothless and looking cranky, to be toted around publicly while wearing my Old Person jacket and Coldwater Creek comfort-stretch jeans, with big Post-It note on it saying, “Perfect Vest for Darling Husband!”
Monday, November 17, 2008
Snot Rags and Universal Balance
Captain Adventure caught a cold two weeks ago. It was apparently the equivalent of a volcano clearing its throat before erupting.
Again. And again. And again.
As per usual around here, we didn’t all get it at once and be miserable all together for a couple days and then we’re back to real life. Oh no. First, the boy. Then me. Then, Boo Bug. Then me again. Then Danger Mouse. But I was fine! Then Eldest. And me again.
And now, the husband. And as of about 4:00 yesterday, I had to admit that it got me a-frickin-GAIN.
A steady flow of snot is covering the household. We have gone through not one but two Costco-sized packages of Kleenex in less A WEEK.
I mean, really now.
Naturally, with all this recent Kleenex-consumption going on, I’ve found myself thinking about handkerchiefs. I actually prefer handkerchiefs to Kleenex. I know, I know, ‘ew, snot rag!’ and all that.
But dudes...seriously...why is a Kleenex any better?
We have for some reason in our collective minds bestowed some kind of Mystic Powers on Kleenex. Behold, I shall sit at my desk shooting my snot into this little piece of heavily bleached, soft and pillowy paper, and due to its magic-imbued 20% recycled fibers, I shall not need to de-germ my mitts afterward!
We sit at our desks filling up boxes of (apparently) unicorn-horn-healing-powers-blessed paper with our blatantly germ-ridden excretions, and feel as though we have thrown the germs, all of them away with the balled up paper.
AND YET, it has been my personal experience that a Kleenex is far less sturdy a shield when it comes to keeping the wet stuff off my fingers than a decent handkerchief. Point being, I don’t really feel that a Kleenex is any more sanitary than a handkerchief. It’s all in what you do after you use it. I mean, if you’re going to wad up the soaked cloth and stick it into your shirt pocket…OK, ew. Granted. Ew-point goes to the anti-handkerchief camp.
But habitual handkerchief-users are prone to thinking ahead. When I was commuting and using handkerchiefs, I kept a little stash of them and a little zip-up makeup bag in my purse. After I used one, I’d stuff it into the makeup bag, use a little hand sanitizer (see? thinking ahead...) and go on with my life.
Now, let’s say you’ve got one of those little packages of travel Kleenex in your pocket or purse or whatever. What do you do if you’re out and about and OH MY GAWSH, I gotta blow, right now…and there isn’t a handy trash can? (Because obviously, you are not one of those disgusting apes who just drops it on the ground. You have class and breeding and don’t want me to have to exhale noisily and mutter under my breath about class and lack thereof and what is this world coming to, anyway.)
You end up shoving the used Kleenex into your pockets or some other random place, don’t you. And then, an hour later, having completely forgotten you even have a nose, you stick your hand into your pocket and then, uh, remember that whole nose-blowing incident of 8:45 that morning.
Ew. I hate that. Now you’ve gotten your own cold germs on your hands not once, but twice…and now you’re going to go about the rest of your day touching things I’m then going to come along and touch, and really…is that nice?
What?! Why are you looking at me like that? Oh, OK, yes, I’ve got Germ Phobia. I don’t wanna get ‘em, I don’t wanna share ‘em.
But hey, in my defense: Check out how many times this one bug has reclaimed me in the last two weeks! I’m over it, hey, no I’m not! Yes I am! Nuh-uh, it’s back…gone…back…gone…back…it’s like my immune system is the Tender Heart Homeless Virus Shelter or something. It’s never met a germ it didn’t feel deserved a another chance. “Oh, you poor shivering little bacteria! Why don’t you come on in and rest a spell, have something to eat, make yourself at home for a week or two!”
Everybody else has a mere sore throat…I will end up with strep. Everybody else is over it in two days…I spend two weeks playing “better/worse/better/worse.”
Everybody else doesn’t even catch the fool thing in the first place…I catch it, like, fourteen times.
It doesn’t fit in with my personal perception of Self, which is a bit more robust and could totally survive in the Arctic Tundra with nothing more than a survival knife and a tinderbox, but hey.
There it is.
I would probably die within ten minutes of being dropped into the tundra because I caught a damned cold from a caribou.
ANYWAY. Here’s the other thing about handkerchiefs: They don’t have to be, you know, “handkerchiefs.”
In other words, while getting a package of twelve basic handkerchiefs for $9.95 is a pretty good deal, you can also DIY with scrap fabrics you’ve got lying around.
A worn out dishtowel, a favorite shirt that got the Immovable Stain, those sheets that finally frayed to the point of no return…they all make perfectly good handkerchiefs. A quick hem around the edges and you’ve got custom snot rags! What fun!
Which is the exact opposite of having a cold! Which would totally balance the Universe, right?!
THEREFORE, I suggest we all dig through our “I’m not sure this is good enough to donate but I surely hate to just throw it away” piles of clothing and make ourselves funky handkerchiefs, thus restoring balance to the Universe, reversing the global financial crises and freeing millions from the need for antidepressants!
Why yes, yes I am on pretty heavy duty cold medication right now…why do you ask…?
Again. And again. And again.
As per usual around here, we didn’t all get it at once and be miserable all together for a couple days and then we’re back to real life. Oh no. First, the boy. Then me. Then, Boo Bug. Then me again. Then Danger Mouse. But I was fine! Then Eldest. And me again.
And now, the husband. And as of about 4:00 yesterday, I had to admit that it got me a-frickin-GAIN.
A steady flow of snot is covering the household. We have gone through not one but two Costco-sized packages of Kleenex in less A WEEK.
I mean, really now.
Naturally, with all this recent Kleenex-consumption going on, I’ve found myself thinking about handkerchiefs. I actually prefer handkerchiefs to Kleenex. I know, I know, ‘ew, snot rag!’ and all that.
But dudes...seriously...why is a Kleenex any better?
We have for some reason in our collective minds bestowed some kind of Mystic Powers on Kleenex. Behold, I shall sit at my desk shooting my snot into this little piece of heavily bleached, soft and pillowy paper, and due to its magic-imbued 20% recycled fibers, I shall not need to de-germ my mitts afterward!
We sit at our desks filling up boxes of (apparently) unicorn-horn-healing-powers-blessed paper with our blatantly germ-ridden excretions, and feel as though we have thrown the germs, all of them away with the balled up paper.
AND YET, it has been my personal experience that a Kleenex is far less sturdy a shield when it comes to keeping the wet stuff off my fingers than a decent handkerchief. Point being, I don’t really feel that a Kleenex is any more sanitary than a handkerchief. It’s all in what you do after you use it. I mean, if you’re going to wad up the soaked cloth and stick it into your shirt pocket…OK, ew. Granted. Ew-point goes to the anti-handkerchief camp.
But habitual handkerchief-users are prone to thinking ahead. When I was commuting and using handkerchiefs, I kept a little stash of them and a little zip-up makeup bag in my purse. After I used one, I’d stuff it into the makeup bag, use a little hand sanitizer (see? thinking ahead...) and go on with my life.
Now, let’s say you’ve got one of those little packages of travel Kleenex in your pocket or purse or whatever. What do you do if you’re out and about and OH MY GAWSH, I gotta blow, right now…and there isn’t a handy trash can? (Because obviously, you are not one of those disgusting apes who just drops it on the ground. You have class and breeding and don’t want me to have to exhale noisily and mutter under my breath about class and lack thereof and what is this world coming to, anyway.)
You end up shoving the used Kleenex into your pockets or some other random place, don’t you. And then, an hour later, having completely forgotten you even have a nose, you stick your hand into your pocket and then, uh, remember that whole nose-blowing incident of 8:45 that morning.
Ew. I hate that. Now you’ve gotten your own cold germs on your hands not once, but twice…and now you’re going to go about the rest of your day touching things I’m then going to come along and touch, and really…is that nice?
What?! Why are you looking at me like that? Oh, OK, yes, I’ve got Germ Phobia. I don’t wanna get ‘em, I don’t wanna share ‘em.
But hey, in my defense: Check out how many times this one bug has reclaimed me in the last two weeks! I’m over it, hey, no I’m not! Yes I am! Nuh-uh, it’s back…gone…back…gone…back…it’s like my immune system is the Tender Heart Homeless Virus Shelter or something. It’s never met a germ it didn’t feel deserved a another chance. “Oh, you poor shivering little bacteria! Why don’t you come on in and rest a spell, have something to eat, make yourself at home for a week or two!”
Everybody else has a mere sore throat…I will end up with strep. Everybody else is over it in two days…I spend two weeks playing “better/worse/better/worse.”
Everybody else doesn’t even catch the fool thing in the first place…I catch it, like, fourteen times.
It doesn’t fit in with my personal perception of Self, which is a bit more robust and could totally survive in the Arctic Tundra with nothing more than a survival knife and a tinderbox, but hey.
There it is.
I would probably die within ten minutes of being dropped into the tundra because I caught a damned cold from a caribou.
ANYWAY. Here’s the other thing about handkerchiefs: They don’t have to be, you know, “handkerchiefs.”
In other words, while getting a package of twelve basic handkerchiefs for $9.95 is a pretty good deal, you can also DIY with scrap fabrics you’ve got lying around.
A worn out dishtowel, a favorite shirt that got the Immovable Stain, those sheets that finally frayed to the point of no return…they all make perfectly good handkerchiefs. A quick hem around the edges and you’ve got custom snot rags! What fun!
Which is the exact opposite of having a cold! Which would totally balance the Universe, right?!
THEREFORE, I suggest we all dig through our “I’m not sure this is good enough to donate but I surely hate to just throw it away” piles of clothing and make ourselves funky handkerchiefs, thus restoring balance to the Universe, reversing the global financial crises and freeing millions from the need for antidepressants!
Why yes, yes I am on pretty heavy duty cold medication right now…why do you ask…?
Friday, November 14, 2008
Going Postal
I need to quit getting the mail. If I just stopped faithfully going out there every day and opening up that frickin’ little dungeon of doom and gloom, I would be a much happier woman.
Today in the mail I had the following:
One knitting magazine (this was the bright spot)
One jury summons for the week of, YES WAY, 12/22 (oh, ack)
One bill for $190.76 for a ten minute doctor visit
No fewer than five desperate pleas for MONEY from assorted charities who are all “feeling the pinch” and who have clients who “need us now more than ever.”
The newspaper thinks it is going to be hitting me up for $20a month every four weeks, which would make my local rag $260 a year, which is BWA HAHAHAHAHA, no, I don’t think so. (What are they smoking down there at the old pressroom?!)
Home owners insurance renewal forms. Meh.
Oh look. American Express has decided to lower our credit limit.
Notice from our business banking account informing us that, as new customers, they are going to be putting extra long holds on our deposited checks. Yeah, I knew that and all…but still. Is it National Poke Tama With A Stick Day today, and nobody told me? I mean, I would have dressed nicer if I’d only known…
Chase has a change in terms…lessee…soooooo, if I were to use their card and have a balance, I’d pay 20.9% interest on it? Memo to me: Tell Chase to go chase their own tails…ha ha ha…
And then! I get the COBRA notice. Nine hundred dollars a month.
Holy crap.
That’s it.
No more mail. I mean it! I am never going out to that stupid box again. It’s nothing but trouble, and I’m sick of it.
From this day forth…no more mail here in the Den.
I have spoken.
Hail Pharaoh.
{CLASH!}
Today in the mail I had the following:
One knitting magazine (this was the bright spot)
One jury summons for the week of, YES WAY, 12/22 (oh, ack)
One bill for $190.76 for a ten minute doctor visit
No fewer than five desperate pleas for MONEY from assorted charities who are all “feeling the pinch” and who have clients who “need us now more than ever.”
The newspaper thinks it is going to be hitting me up for $20
Home owners insurance renewal forms. Meh.
Oh look. American Express has decided to lower our credit limit.
Notice from our business banking account informing us that, as new customers, they are going to be putting extra long holds on our deposited checks. Yeah, I knew that and all…but still. Is it National Poke Tama With A Stick Day today, and nobody told me? I mean, I would have dressed nicer if I’d only known…
Chase has a change in terms…lessee…soooooo, if I were to use their card and have a balance, I’d pay 20.9% interest on it? Memo to me: Tell Chase to go chase their own tails…ha ha ha…
And then! I get the COBRA notice. Nine hundred dollars a month.
Holy crap.
That’s it.
No more mail. I mean it! I am never going out to that stupid box again. It’s nothing but trouble, and I’m sick of it.
From this day forth…no more mail here in the Den.
I have spoken.
Hail Pharaoh.
{CLASH!}
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Breaking it to the kids
Our local news ran a segment on how to let the kids know this might be a somewhat less jolly Christmas. As I watched, I found myself growing more and more dismayed. Most of the advice was subterfuge.
Buy them lots of little presents. Lots of $1 and $5 things. So, you know, they still get open fifteen thousand boxes…start a co-op with other parents…enlist Grandma and Grandpa to buy-buy-buy for you, and you’ll pay them back when things improve…
You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me!
Now, I’ll admit that in terms of how many toy boxes they get to open, this Christmas will go just like every other Christmas for the Denizens. I hand each of them a toy catalog and a pen, and they get to circle up to ten things they want.
They will get two of those things, maybe three if what they’ve chosen is inexpensive enough.
They’ll also get some clothes, clothes they need. This is another part of the segment I found disturbing: How to “trick” your kid into “accepting” something “practical” as a “present.”
Sorry. That was way too many quotes. It’s just that the whole concept seemed so unreal to me that…it had to have “quotes” telling you that it wasn’t “really” what they were “saying.”
My kids always get clothes for Christmas. And they don’t question that they are presents, and darned good ones, too. Granted, I’m not boxing up the new underwear and pretending it’s the best gift, ever! or anything crazy like that…but hey. Boo Bug has been pestering me for weeks, months even, about wanting a new nightgown.
She’s going to be super excited to get two warm, fluffy nightgowns with matching slippers and headbands, no less! under the tree at Christmas.
But the thing that bothered me the most was the whole feeling of the segment, which was basically, “How to fool your kid into thinking that nothing is wrong.”
Here’s a novel concept: How about sitting down, looking them right in their earnest little eyeballs, and telling them the truth, instead of trying to create a kind of bubble around them, a Perfect World in which there is no struggle, no worry, no mounting debts and unemployment and crazy?
You don’t have to dump the full horror into their little laps, mind you. I’m not going to tell my kids this is the worst economy I’ve seen in my adult life, that I’m actually a bit frightened about how it will all play out in the end, that even my hopeless optimism is having a hard time seeing a “quick turnaround” here.
But I did tell them that I’ve been looking for work a long, long time now – and have found nothing. That daddy’s job ended, and he’s just starting a new one and doesn’t have a lot of hours yet. That money is really tight, and that we need to be very smart and careful about how we spend it.
I told them another truth, too: We will be OK, in the end. No matter what, we will be OK.
Even if we end up living in an apartment with grouchy neighbors all around us, we’ll be OK.
The house doesn’t matter. The clothes don’t matter. The toys don’t matter.
We matter.
And we will be just fine.
Big hugs, everybody.
Now, go pick up your danged socks and do your homework and do not make me say it again!
I say this with love, my darlings, I say this with love…
Buy them lots of little presents. Lots of $1 and $5 things. So, you know, they still get open fifteen thousand boxes…start a co-op with other parents…enlist Grandma and Grandpa to buy-buy-buy for you, and you’ll pay them back when things improve…
You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me!
Now, I’ll admit that in terms of how many toy boxes they get to open, this Christmas will go just like every other Christmas for the Denizens. I hand each of them a toy catalog and a pen, and they get to circle up to ten things they want.
They will get two of those things, maybe three if what they’ve chosen is inexpensive enough.
They’ll also get some clothes, clothes they need. This is another part of the segment I found disturbing: How to “trick” your kid into “accepting” something “practical” as a “present.”
Sorry. That was way too many quotes. It’s just that the whole concept seemed so unreal to me that…it had to have “quotes” telling you that it wasn’t “really” what they were “saying.”
My kids always get clothes for Christmas. And they don’t question that they are presents, and darned good ones, too. Granted, I’m not boxing up the new underwear and pretending it’s the best gift, ever! or anything crazy like that…but hey. Boo Bug has been pestering me for weeks, months even, about wanting a new nightgown.
She’s going to be super excited to get two warm, fluffy nightgowns with matching slippers and headbands, no less! under the tree at Christmas.
But the thing that bothered me the most was the whole feeling of the segment, which was basically, “How to fool your kid into thinking that nothing is wrong.”
Here’s a novel concept: How about sitting down, looking them right in their earnest little eyeballs, and telling them the truth, instead of trying to create a kind of bubble around them, a Perfect World in which there is no struggle, no worry, no mounting debts and unemployment and crazy?
You don’t have to dump the full horror into their little laps, mind you. I’m not going to tell my kids this is the worst economy I’ve seen in my adult life, that I’m actually a bit frightened about how it will all play out in the end, that even my hopeless optimism is having a hard time seeing a “quick turnaround” here.
But I did tell them that I’ve been looking for work a long, long time now – and have found nothing. That daddy’s job ended, and he’s just starting a new one and doesn’t have a lot of hours yet. That money is really tight, and that we need to be very smart and careful about how we spend it.
I told them another truth, too: We will be OK, in the end. No matter what, we will be OK.
Even if we end up living in an apartment with grouchy neighbors all around us, we’ll be OK.
The house doesn’t matter. The clothes don’t matter. The toys don’t matter.
We matter.
And we will be just fine.
Big hugs, everybody.
Now, go pick up your danged socks and do your homework and do not make me say it again!
I say this with love, my darlings, I say this with love…
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Ummmmmmmmmmm
I applied a few weeks ago for a Reporting Services job. Reporting Services is part of the SQL Server application, and provides a relatively easy way to get pretty slick reports out to your Interested Parties. You can do dashboards, OLAP, all the catch-phrases of the hour.
I’m pretty slick with the Reporting Services stuff. Mad skilz: I haz them. This is my ker-chunk in the world of database work, the part where data is turned into actionable information.
So I apply for this job, and I go through the first interview: Solid.
I have a second interview with the “tech guy”: Solid. (In fact, I knew more about it than he did – he’s more of a .NET programmer than a database guy.)
I have a third interview with the client, who looks at my samples and asks me some questions and I ask him some questions and he says, “OK, this all looks great, I guess the next step is getting the paperwork together – if we get that in order today, can you start Wednesday at 8:30?”
That was last Monday. I called on Tuesday to say, “Hey, how’s it going, am I starting Wednesday and if so where do I show up?”
What? Who? For the which-now? Oh, yeah, that. Ummmmmmmmmmm…they’d have to get back to me.
In case you were wondering what a Kiss of Death sounds like over the phone? It sounds like this: Ummmmmmmmmmm…
I’ve now heard it about eight times. Eight times, in two months. We gallop right up to this same point. You are perfect for this job, you are exactly what we wanted, can you start right away this week, OK awesome we’ll just get the paperwork to our {accounting, HR} department, Ummmmmmmmmmm…
We appear to be experiencing technical difficulties in our checkbook queue. Please just sit around forever hoping it is temporary.
Oddly, I take great comfort in hearing the same thing from everybody. Usually, I don’t like to hear about anybody else’s misery, no matter how miserable I am. But in this case, it actually does make me feel a little better. I don’t personally suck, the whole market does.
Ah. Yeah. I feel so much better now.
Except for the part where we are in the red by, oh, I dunno, a couple thousand dollars each month? Yeah, that part has me taking these little white pills for anxiety-driven insomnia, which are, thank Dog, only $10 a month. Go generics!
Now, when they asked if I could start Wednesday, I made an assumption, and it went like this: I’m taking a six month contract with daily commute starting on Wednesday.
We began discussing childcare and what we’d do about that, because the situation we have is not ideal if both parents are working full time. We have the after school program for the girls, which shuts down at 5:30 (if we’re working at a client site, we’d have to leave their offices by 3:00 to be sure we’d get there in time), and which is closed if the school is closed.
School is closed at least two days per month. Through the holiday season, even more. Employers get kind of testy if you have to say, “I can’t come in next Tuesday – it’s National Polyester Appreciation Day, and school is out.”
I talked to the lady who provides daycare for Captain Adventure and, due to the spike in job losses out here, she’s got plenty of room for the girls. She quoted me a very good (but still nose-bleed territory) price for the three of them. I said, “OK. Well, since I’m going to be starting soon on this deal up in Sacramento…I guess we’ll go with that, then.”
But then I didn’t get that job. Or the two in Modesto. Or any of the half-dozen in Stockton. The two in Pleasanton. The three in San Francisco. The Oakland one. The two in San Jose, the one in Santa Clara.
Damn.
As of 2:30 yesterday afternoon, the absolute last oar I had in the water snapped off and floated away from the canoe.
Well. Isn’t that special.
And now…well, major change of plans. We’re out of time, out of money, out of resources, out of ability to keep paying for daycare while I try to find full-time work.
I’m going to have to go to our daycare lady and say, “Ummmmmmmmmmm…”
Feels great. No really. I have to go to a lady I already know is being slammed, and slammed hard, by this frickin’ job-losing economy with the unemployment rates soaring and funding being cut left right and center, and tell her that instead of adding three more kids to her roster, I’m going to have to reduce her head-count by yet another.
I’m also going to have to break into our post-tax investment account, seal in the losses (ouch) and use that money to pay off the carpet loan and the credit cards that have been creeping upward while I’ve been doing all this running around looking for work.
But hey, between those two things, I’ll be plugging up the hole. We won’t have a whole lot of extra, granted, and I’m going to have to work really hard at bringing in as much income as I possibly can under the new circumstances.
What the husband is making will (mostly) keep the lights on, health insurance provided and the mortgage paid. I’ll be covering the food, clothing and so forth…so I don’t get to “just quit.”
I get to work as hard as I can in spite of the other full-time “mommy” gig.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Captain has turned on the fasten seat belt sign. We are now crossing a zone of turbulence. Please return your seats and keep your seat belts fastened. Thank you.”
Oddly, I don’t feel half as bad about it as you’d think. This morning I’m filling out the paperwork closing out five years worth of hard work saving toward early retirement, and it doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it would. Granted, I’m not exactly skipping my way to the mailbox, either…but I’m not as upset as you’d expect.
Actually…I’m grateful. It isn’t what I thought the money was going to be used for – I thought it would be for that “gap” between 50 (when we wanted to retire) and 59-1/2 (when you can start withdrawing from your IRA without the tax gods frowning upon you).
Instead, it’s pulling our fat out of the fire now. It is giving us the base we need to keep the business going long enough to succeed. In a way, I don’t even feel so much like I’m cashing out investments, as simply moving them around.
I was invested in Chevron, in Johnson and Johnson, in Kraft and Heelys and Coca-Cola.
Now…I’m investing in us.
Incurable optimist that I am, I even feel as though this is going to be a good move, in the end.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go fondle my stash and pick out something sexy to make for my very first Esty listing…
I’m pretty slick with the Reporting Services stuff. Mad skilz: I haz them. This is my ker-chunk in the world of database work, the part where data is turned into actionable information.
So I apply for this job, and I go through the first interview: Solid.
I have a second interview with the “tech guy”: Solid. (In fact, I knew more about it than he did – he’s more of a .NET programmer than a database guy.)
I have a third interview with the client, who looks at my samples and asks me some questions and I ask him some questions and he says, “OK, this all looks great, I guess the next step is getting the paperwork together – if we get that in order today, can you start Wednesday at 8:30?”
That was last Monday. I called on Tuesday to say, “Hey, how’s it going, am I starting Wednesday and if so where do I show up?”
What? Who? For the which-now? Oh, yeah, that. Ummmmmmmmmmm…they’d have to get back to me.
In case you were wondering what a Kiss of Death sounds like over the phone? It sounds like this: Ummmmmmmmmmm…
I’ve now heard it about eight times. Eight times, in two months. We gallop right up to this same point. You are perfect for this job, you are exactly what we wanted, can you start right away this week, OK awesome we’ll just get the paperwork to our {accounting, HR} department, Ummmmmmmmmmm…
We appear to be experiencing technical difficulties in our checkbook queue. Please just sit around forever hoping it is temporary.
Oddly, I take great comfort in hearing the same thing from everybody. Usually, I don’t like to hear about anybody else’s misery, no matter how miserable I am. But in this case, it actually does make me feel a little better. I don’t personally suck, the whole market does.
Ah. Yeah. I feel so much better now.
Except for the part where we are in the red by, oh, I dunno, a couple thousand dollars each month? Yeah, that part has me taking these little white pills for anxiety-driven insomnia, which are, thank Dog, only $10 a month. Go generics!
Now, when they asked if I could start Wednesday, I made an assumption, and it went like this: I’m taking a six month contract with daily commute starting on Wednesday.
We began discussing childcare and what we’d do about that, because the situation we have is not ideal if both parents are working full time. We have the after school program for the girls, which shuts down at 5:30 (if we’re working at a client site, we’d have to leave their offices by 3:00 to be sure we’d get there in time), and which is closed if the school is closed.
School is closed at least two days per month. Through the holiday season, even more. Employers get kind of testy if you have to say, “I can’t come in next Tuesday – it’s National Polyester Appreciation Day, and school is out.”
I talked to the lady who provides daycare for Captain Adventure and, due to the spike in job losses out here, she’s got plenty of room for the girls. She quoted me a very good (but still nose-bleed territory) price for the three of them. I said, “OK. Well, since I’m going to be starting soon on this deal up in Sacramento…I guess we’ll go with that, then.”
But then I didn’t get that job. Or the two in Modesto. Or any of the half-dozen in Stockton. The two in Pleasanton. The three in San Francisco. The Oakland one. The two in San Jose, the one in Santa Clara.
Damn.
As of 2:30 yesterday afternoon, the absolute last oar I had in the water snapped off and floated away from the canoe.
Well. Isn’t that special.
And now…well, major change of plans. We’re out of time, out of money, out of resources, out of ability to keep paying for daycare while I try to find full-time work.
I’m going to have to go to our daycare lady and say, “Ummmmmmmmmmm…”
Feels great. No really. I have to go to a lady I already know is being slammed, and slammed hard, by this frickin’ job-losing economy with the unemployment rates soaring and funding being cut left right and center, and tell her that instead of adding three more kids to her roster, I’m going to have to reduce her head-count by yet another.
I’m also going to have to break into our post-tax investment account, seal in the losses (ouch) and use that money to pay off the carpet loan and the credit cards that have been creeping upward while I’ve been doing all this running around looking for work.
But hey, between those two things, I’ll be plugging up the hole. We won’t have a whole lot of extra, granted, and I’m going to have to work really hard at bringing in as much income as I possibly can under the new circumstances.
What the husband is making will (mostly) keep the lights on, health insurance provided and the mortgage paid. I’ll be covering the food, clothing and so forth…so I don’t get to “just quit.”
I get to work as hard as I can in spite of the other full-time “mommy” gig.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Captain has turned on the fasten seat belt sign. We are now crossing a zone of turbulence. Please return your seats and keep your seat belts fastened. Thank you.”
Oddly, I don’t feel half as bad about it as you’d think. This morning I’m filling out the paperwork closing out five years worth of hard work saving toward early retirement, and it doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it would. Granted, I’m not exactly skipping my way to the mailbox, either…but I’m not as upset as you’d expect.
Actually…I’m grateful. It isn’t what I thought the money was going to be used for – I thought it would be for that “gap” between 50 (when we wanted to retire) and 59-1/2 (when you can start withdrawing from your IRA without the tax gods frowning upon you).
Instead, it’s pulling our fat out of the fire now. It is giving us the base we need to keep the business going long enough to succeed. In a way, I don’t even feel so much like I’m cashing out investments, as simply moving them around.
I was invested in Chevron, in Johnson and Johnson, in Kraft and Heelys and Coca-Cola.
Now…I’m investing in us.
Incurable optimist that I am, I even feel as though this is going to be a good move, in the end.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go fondle my stash and pick out something sexy to make for my very first Esty listing…
Friday, November 07, 2008
If you give a kid a dornfeel…
Tonight, I decided to make cornbread. Because it has corn in it, which is a vegetable, and hey, whaddya know: One baked chicken + one pan of cornbread = Balanced Nutrition.
Go, mommy!
ANYWAY. I got out the new sack of cornbread and fluttered around the kitchen turning on the oven and looking for my 8” square pan.
Captain Adventure wandered through, looking for something tobreak annoy mommy with do, and discovered the bag of cornmeal on the counter.
“Oh,” he commented. “What dat?”
“That’s cornmeal,” I told him.
“Oh. Dornfeel.”
“CORNmeal.”
“Oh! DORNfeel!” Duh, mom, that’s what I just said…
And then he stood there looking at me, eyebrows raised, waiting for me to explain the dornfeel.
“For cornbread. I’m going to make cornbread for dinner. You want some cornbread? With butter and honey?” Oh yeah, I am ALL about the nutrition…
“Oh…” He’s not too sure, actually, and about to move on.
And then Icreated a monster had some kind of mental lapse, possibly due to exhaustion and/or household cleanser fumes an idea.
“Hey. Captain Adventure? Do you want to help make the cornbread?”
Is the Pope Catholic? Is the sun bright? Do monsters live in my closet? PLEASE! Of course I want tohelp make the cornbread – I DO IT!!!!!
I DO IT is apparently the Phrase of the Month around here. It applies to everything from things he can do himself (picking his own clothes, selecting his own Capri Sun from the fridge, getting a book from his shelf) to things he just so utterly can’t or shouldn’t (cutting apples with a paring knife, putting discs into the computer, driving the minivan).
It is non-negotiable (at least in his mind) and becoming extremely frequently yelled. He is suddenly developing a keen interest in controlling the world around him – I don’t blame him at all, and I have to say it really sucks how often we have to say, “Sorry, but no”
He actually did very, very well. It started with one cup of cornmeal, which I dipped out and handed to him in a metal measuring cup to put into the bowl.
“Oh! What do next?” he asked.
“OK, well, we need one cup of regular flour,” I said, taking the cup back and dipping up a cup of all-purpose.
“I DO IT!” he bellowed…you know, in case I had forgotten in the last eight seconds. Carefully, he upended the cup into the bowl and stared at the two flours. “What next?”
“OK, well, we need some sugar…” Uh-oh. Hmm. Three tablespoon is a little advanced here and if he gets direct access to the sugar bin…wait, I’ve got it. “So! Hold up your cup! Ready? We have to count to three, here we go…one, two…Captain Adventure? Are you counting?” I dipped the tablespoon into the sugar and measured them out into his cup.
“Waaaaaaan…dooooooooooo…TEE! TEE!”
“Perfect! OK, in the bowl!”
“In da bowl! I DO IT! I DO IT!”
Four teaspoons baking powder and half a teaspoon salt followed. What next?!
“Now, we stir,” I told him, and handed him a spoon.
“I DO IT!” he yelled. Habit can be such a…constant…master…while he stirred, I frantically whipped together the egg, milk and vegetable oil behind his back. What next? Why look! It’s magic! Mommy has wet stuff! (And didn’t have to deal with I DO IT and raw eggs, which she’d like to save for when you’ve got just a wee touch better fine motor skills.)
The wet went into the dry and was mixed under the constant bellowing of the new battle cry: I DO IT! I DO IT! I DO IT!!
The batter went into the pan. I DO IT!
The batter was scraped from the sides of the bowl. I DO IT!
The pan was proudly borne to the oven. I DO IT!
The oven door was opened. No, you do NOT do it…Mommy do it…
The pan was put into the oven, and the oven light turned on so that the chef could keep an eye on his creation. MOMMY? I DO IT!
He got bored pretty fast and wandered away totorture play with his sisters. He got into watching Animusic, ignored the dinner bell (yes, I actually do bang on a triangle when a meal is ready – hey, it gets old, yelling up the stairs “DIIIIIIIIIIINNER!” The triangle cuts through the noise no matter how bad it might be, and furthermore the kids have always just known, through some kind of prairie-pioneer genetic hive-mind thing, that it means soup’s on!), had to be called four times (oh well, so much for not needing to bellow up the stairs) and eventually be carried bodily down kicking and screaming the whole way.
“Oh. Dat dornfeel!” he announced cheerfully. “Mommy? I do dat dornfeel. Mommy?! I DO DAT DORNFEEL!”
“Cornbread, sweetie. You made cornbread with cornmeal.”
“Yeah. Dat right. I made it.”
“You sure did. Good job, buddy.”
“Did you make cornbread?” Daddy asked. “High five!”
Captain Adventure’s high fives could probably knock over a mule. He was grinning from ear to ear, infinitely pleased with his own cleverness.
“OK! I made it!” A brief pause, and then he looked at me with that same expectant expression. “What next?”
“Well, we’re done now, sweetie. Dinner’s ready!”
“Howwwwwwww ‘bout…hey! HEY! I wanna make-it cake! Yeash! OK! Mommy? WHAT’S NEXT?!”
Sigh.
If you give a kid a dornfeel…he’s gonna wanna make-it a cake…
Go, mommy!
ANYWAY. I got out the new sack of cornbread and fluttered around the kitchen turning on the oven and looking for my 8” square pan.
Captain Adventure wandered through, looking for something to
“Oh,” he commented. “What dat?”
“That’s cornmeal,” I told him.
“Oh. Dornfeel.”
“CORNmeal.”
“Oh! DORNfeel!” Duh, mom, that’s what I just said…
And then he stood there looking at me, eyebrows raised, waiting for me to explain the dornfeel.
“For cornbread. I’m going to make cornbread for dinner. You want some cornbread? With butter and honey?” Oh yeah, I am ALL about the nutrition…
“Oh…” He’s not too sure, actually, and about to move on.
And then I
“Hey. Captain Adventure? Do you want to help make the cornbread?”
Is the Pope Catholic? Is the sun bright? Do monsters live in my closet? PLEASE! Of course I want to
I DO IT is apparently the Phrase of the Month around here. It applies to everything from things he can do himself (picking his own clothes, selecting his own Capri Sun from the fridge, getting a book from his shelf) to things he just so utterly can’t or shouldn’t (cutting apples with a paring knife, putting discs into the computer, driving the minivan).
It is non-negotiable (at least in his mind) and becoming extremely frequently yelled. He is suddenly developing a keen interest in controlling the world around him – I don’t blame him at all, and I have to say it really sucks how often we have to say, “Sorry, but no”
He actually did very, very well. It started with one cup of cornmeal, which I dipped out and handed to him in a metal measuring cup to put into the bowl.
“Oh! What do next?” he asked.
“OK, well, we need one cup of regular flour,” I said, taking the cup back and dipping up a cup of all-purpose.
“I DO IT!” he bellowed…you know, in case I had forgotten in the last eight seconds. Carefully, he upended the cup into the bowl and stared at the two flours. “What next?”
“OK, well, we need some sugar…” Uh-oh. Hmm. Three tablespoon is a little advanced here and if he gets direct access to the sugar bin…wait, I’ve got it. “So! Hold up your cup! Ready? We have to count to three, here we go…one, two…Captain Adventure? Are you counting?” I dipped the tablespoon into the sugar and measured them out into his cup.
“Waaaaaaan…dooooooooooo…TEE! TEE!”
“Perfect! OK, in the bowl!”
“In da bowl! I DO IT! I DO IT!”
Four teaspoons baking powder and half a teaspoon salt followed. What next?!
“Now, we stir,” I told him, and handed him a spoon.
“I DO IT!” he yelled. Habit can be such a…constant…master…while he stirred, I frantically whipped together the egg, milk and vegetable oil behind his back. What next? Why look! It’s magic! Mommy has wet stuff! (And didn’t have to deal with I DO IT and raw eggs, which she’d like to save for when you’ve got just a wee touch better fine motor skills.)
The wet went into the dry and was mixed under the constant bellowing of the new battle cry: I DO IT! I DO IT! I DO IT!!
The batter went into the pan. I DO IT!
The batter was scraped from the sides of the bowl. I DO IT!
The pan was proudly borne to the oven. I DO IT!
The oven door was opened. No, you do NOT do it…Mommy do it…
The pan was put into the oven, and the oven light turned on so that the chef could keep an eye on his creation. MOMMY? I DO IT!
He got bored pretty fast and wandered away to
“Oh. Dat dornfeel!” he announced cheerfully. “Mommy? I do dat dornfeel. Mommy?! I DO DAT DORNFEEL!”
“Cornbread, sweetie. You made cornbread with cornmeal.”
“Yeah. Dat right. I made it.”
“You sure did. Good job, buddy.”
“Did you make cornbread?” Daddy asked. “High five!”
Captain Adventure’s high fives could probably knock over a mule. He was grinning from ear to ear, infinitely pleased with his own cleverness.
“OK! I made it!” A brief pause, and then he looked at me with that same expectant expression. “What next?”
“Well, we’re done now, sweetie. Dinner’s ready!”
“Howwwwwwww ‘bout…hey! HEY! I wanna make-it cake! Yeash! OK! Mommy? WHAT’S NEXT?!”
Sigh.
If you give a kid a dornfeel…he’s gonna wanna make-it a cake…
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