About Mir

I’m an over-educated, under-appreciated, divorced remarried mom to two. (I used to say that I was “perpetually unemployed,” but I am now actually working quite steadily*, which doesn’t make for quite as dramatic a self-description, but comes in handy when paying the bills.) I have a lot of “how exactly did I get here?” sorts of moments. Trying to figure out what you want to be when you grow up when you’re already into your 30s and two small demanding creatures underfoot assume you know and understand everything can be a daunting task. Sometimes, you’ve just gotta laugh. (Other times, you’ve just gotta scream. I prefer the former.)

I’ve just remarried, to the handsome and wonderful—albeit geeky and pseudonymous—Otto. Darling Otto is now featured heavily here on the blog (with his own category and everything) because I can think of nothing that is a greater testament to either the power of love or the totality of earnest repression than daring to remarry after a messy divorce. Fortunately, Otto and I have known each other since our sophomore year of college, and he already knows I’m neurotic and I already know he likes bad jokes. We’re hopeful. (We also both hate to be photographed, but he’s a photographer and managed this lovely picture of my hair and his eyeball. Aren’t we a nice-looking couple?)

Turn-ons: Chocolate, sleeping, books, hyperbole, big words, being right, being told I’m pretty, bargains, organic milk, fabulous shoes, emotions, clean sheets, geeks, kissing, kissing geeks, really good coffee, worthy causes, a clean house, and a dry basement.

Turn-offs: Rudeness, stupidity, lack of table manners, dishonesty, houses painted colors houses ought not to be painted, being cold, indifference, paying full price, lousy drivers, eating things that are still alive, abysmal spelling and/or grammar, inappropriate neediness, unresolved childhood issues, and sandals worn with socks (particularly in winter).

Now you know it all. I’m not really all that complicated. Shut up.

About My Kids

What can I say about my kids? They are the most fantastic, wonderful, fascinating, aggravating people I know. If you read me for more than a day or two, you’ll come to know and adore them. But here’s your crib sheet.

Chickadee is ten years old. She loves reading, school, playing dolls, and bossing others around. Her picture appears in the dictionary next to “freaky brilliant.” As in, by the time she hits fourth sixth grade she’ll be smarter than me. In the meantime, she remains convinced that she knows everything and is entitled to lie, manipulate, and cajole to get her way. She can make me laugh so hard it hurts. The bottom line for her is a lot like the old poem about the little girl who had a little curl… when she’s good, she’s very, very good. When she’s bad, take cover.

Monkey is eight-and-a-half years old. He is the quintessential younger sibling—enduring his sister’s ministrations with patience and goodwill 99% of the time. (Beware the remaining 1%.) He survives on pop-tarts french fries bananas, pancakes, and air. It’s probably his gastrointestinal issues and serious food allergies that caused him to become a picky selective eater, but I prefer to believe he’s just testing the limits of my sanity. As of Fall 2005 he has officially outgrown the last of his food allergies, having passed a Peanut Challenge with flying colors. He enjoys action figures, fighting crime, drawing aliens, Pokemon, and turning garbage into priceless art.

*What do I do? After having worked as a nanny, software engineer, technical writer, mortgage broker, and marketing drone, I may have finally found the job I don’t hate. I’m a freelance writer. I love to show my resume and portfolio to pretty people who want to give me money. Do you want to give me money? Let me know. You’re pretty!