November 13, 2004 | About

Come on in, take off your shoes, and make yourself at home. I’m a lousy hostess but there’s bound to be some snacks around here, somewhere.

So, you like? I have been working like a busy busy little beaver with a generous allotment of help from both Jay and Zoot. Go show those two some loooooove because I know I’m feeling it! All of my dreams about moving off of Blogger have become a reality thanks to them!

Please change your blogrolls and bookmarks to http://wouldashoulda.com/ and kiss the Blogger site good-bye. I jest. Do not kiss Blogger; it does not deserve your love. Thumb your nose at it. If you’re not feeling that childish, just kind of give it the cold shoulder.

I have migrated all my old posts but the migration process is a gigantic hack and so there will be weirdness with some of them. Sorry. Deal with it. (Did I mention I’m a lousy hostess? Have some chips and shut up.) Also, there’s no way to migrate Haloscan comments, so even my most brilliant and witty posts appear to be neglected and ignored here, but oh well.

And now, let the love flow and the settling in commence. I may even get back to actually writing about stuff sometime soon. If I ever stop admiring my pretty, pretty site.

November 9, 2004 | About

I haven’t the heart to embed a pic of myself in the post so that it flashes right up at you when the page loads. Heck; turning the loyal Blog Explosion surfers to stone isn’t explicitly stated as grounds for expulsion from BE, but I’m guessing that if word got around, I’d be in trouble.

But you all responded so kindly to the pic of just my eyes and specs (although someone said my eyes are brown and I cried because they’re hazel and I felt so misunderstood). It became a real personal challenge to figure out how to snap a pic of myself either by stretching my arms or using the mirror. The result is here for your viewing pleasure. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I kid! Obviously, that’s not really me. That chick is way better looking than I am; also in better focus, with some actual color balance, and not smiling the big ol’ fake smile of “dear sweet Jesus make this photo be halfway presentable or I am going to smash this here camera into tiny little bits and never let such a device anywhere near me ever again, amen.” Also, her eyes aren’t hazel. So eventually I gave up, accepting that I am to be slightly blurry and yellow-tinted (you can’t use an attached flash in the mirror, ya know), and vowing never ever ever to promise the internet a picture of me ever again.

November 6, 2004 | About

Hey, guess what! It is incredibly difficult to take a picture of oneself if one or more of the following conditions is true:

1) You’re a lousy photographer.
2) You have normal-length arms.
3) Your fancy camera has a big-ass zoom lens, thereby assuring that there is no way to get the lens a decent distance from your face.
4) Your fancy camera’s LCD display does not swivel so that it can be seen from the other side of the camera, and therefore half the pictures you take are either of the top of your head or your chin.

Who knew?

I promised a picture of the new specs, and I shall deliver. Too bad I can’t share a picture of my whole face, but, well, I never got one that didn’t feature freakily enlarged facial features on account of the above-mentioned issues. Not sharing those has nothing to do with my personal vanity, you understand. It’s just that I don’t want to detract from the beauty of my new glasses. That’s it.

Ahem.

Here they are!

What you can’t tell from this picture, because I suck, is that they are a deep plum purple. And the side pieces are all hammered and texture-y and nifty. Also, I am naked and sticking my tongue out. (Just kidding. I’m not naked.)

November 1, 2004 | About

About Mir

I’m an over-educated, under-appreciated, divorced 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.)

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 eight 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 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 has been diagnosed with depression and oppositional- defiant disorder and a whole lot of other “maybes.” 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 six-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, and air. It’s probably his gastrointestinal issues and serious food allergies that caused him to be a picky 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. Although he claims to hate peanut butter, I pack it in his lunch on a regular basis just because I’m so excited that I can. 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 and copyeditor. 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!

One more thing… actually 100 more

A while back, I did the obigatory 100 Things list about myself. I may revise it in the future, but for now, here’s the original:
(more…)

August 13, 2004 | About

I’m back, and I haven’t killed anyone. Instead, I drank about twelve cups of coffee. All of today’s answers were typed on the ceiling!

Let’s get to it.

Alektra wants to know what music I like.

(I am skipping the Monty Python bit, as we’ve both had it before and you did not specify the breed of swallow or its cargo.)

I listen to mostly twangy country music. (Fiction!) Know what happens when you play a country record backwards? The guy gets his wife back, his truck back, his dog back….

I like lots of different kinds of music. Right now I’m listening to lots of REM, Alison Krauss, Dar Williams, They Might Be Giants, Paula Cole…. This question is nearly moot because I can’t listen to a lot of what I really like with the kids around. They kinda dig TMBG but I’m thinking they need to be a little older for Alanis, ya know? (Fact.)

Rae wants to know how I handle sibling rivalry.

What’s that? (Bwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahahahahahahaha!!)

It depends on what happens, exactly. I encourage my kids to work things out themselves whenever possible, and they parrot me word for word by the time I get to “… otherwise I will work it out for you and you won’t like it.” If they’re squabbling over an item, they have to find a compromise or the item is put up. If they’re flat out being mean, rude, or otherwise hurtful to one another, they are disciplined immediately, either with a time out or the loss of a marble from their jars. (We keep jars in which they receive marbles for good behavior and lose marbles for infractions; once full, the marbles can be redeemed for a prize.) If they are just relentlessly squabbling, they are separated (which they hate, because they prefer to play together.) I often reiterate that in our family we love one another and treat each other with respect, and always ask the offender “how would you feel if it happened to you?” For the most part I’ve been very lucky because I’m told my children get along very well with one another. I don’t know that my methods are stellar; ask me in about 14 years! (Fact.)

Snowball is getting all heavy on me today. Girl, I’d rather have this discussion over stiff drinks, but I’ll see what I can do.
… why do we make incredibly stupid choices in relationships despite being intelligent and educated women?
I can’t answer for you, obviously. For me? There are many personality aspects which go hand-in-hand with my fabulous intellect of which I’m not terribly proud. I tend to look for someone who is opposite me in those ways, to kind of balance me out. So I chose my ex because–when I met him–he appeared to deal with adversity much better than I did. I always said things rolled off his back (and I wished I could be more like that). Unfortunately years of suppressed anger erupted, and lo and behold, he ain’t the paragon of calm I’d once supposed. My bad. Then I chose the next guy because he knew how to have fun, enjoy the moment, and not take everything so seriously. That was a great idea, except that he absolutely couldn’t deal with when life needed to be taken seriously. Oops. Bye-bye. Knowing that I do this doesn’t seem to change the fact that I choose poorly. So what were we saying about how smart I am? Duh. (Fact, egads.)

… have I checked into hitman prices?
There was a period of time when I fantasized about it. Constantly. Now I realize that the longer he’s around, the better I will come out looking, in comparison, to the kids. He’s an annoying but useful foil. (Fact.)

… any progress on the mail-order poolboy?
I’m thinking that if I don’t find a job in another week or so, that’ll be my new business venture. Rumpus Rentals, I’m thinking of calling it. I’ll be like the next Heidi Fleiss, but, you know, smarter. (Heehee.)

Steph wants to know if I’ve thought about writing a newspaper column.

Yeah, I kinda lied on my answer to Snow, above. Instead of hiring a hit man to kill my ex, I’ve decided to bump off Dave Barry. Then I figure, fame and syndication are mine as I step into his vacant shoes. (Fiction. I love ya, Dave, although I prefer you as Mr. Language Person to your recent string of daddy-columns.)

I’ve thought about it. Haven’t done anything about it, yet. Some of that is because I’ve got other things needing more of my attention, right now. Some of that is because I’m a chickenshit. (Bawk bawk.)

Samantha asks two good questions I’ve already covered in previous installments, so I’m skipping her but giving her a little link plug here so that she won’t feel unloved.

Pamalamadingdong wants to know if I love her.

Who are you, again? (Kidding! Don’t hurt me because I’m certain you could kick my ass.)

Pam, I love you even though I don’t understand you. As a fairly unathletic asthmatic, runners puzzle me. I have never had the urge to run “just because” and I’ll cop to being a little suspicious of what the allure might be. But I totally respect your endeavors and also, wish I had your legs. (Fact.)

Randi wants to know if I have any animals, and if so what, and if not, why not.

Wait, can we go over that one more time? If I have what I have and if I don’t why I don’t and why isn’t there anything to DRINK here??? (Fiction, I’m not actually that easily confused. I’m not. Shut up.)

Currently I have no pets. I am frightfully allergic to cats and birds, somewhat allergic to dogs–although I love them–which I think are probably the highest-maintenance pet one could have, and unfond of rodents and reptiles. As a grieving infertile I picked out a mutt puppy with my then-husband, and he turned out to be a handful and a half once the kids came along. He needed a lot more attention than he got, I’m sad to say. Once I booted the husband, this already-hyper dog appointed himself alpha male on speed, and I had to crate him any time someone came to the house to keep him from attacking. Not Good. So Huckleberry has gone to live with my sister-ex-law and her big goofy dog, on a farm, and is much happier now. Someday when my kids are older and I have some money and time, I’d like to have a dog again. (Fact.)

Shawn wants to know what exactly are my so called “outdated” technical skills.

Well, I used to be able to tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue, but now it takes me so long, people aren’t impressed. (Fiction. Heh.)

I am degreed in experimental psychology with a concentration in human-computer interaction. As a human factors engineer, I did software GUI design and evaluation, including rapid iterative prototyping, focus groups and beta evals, usability testing, benchmarking, and all of that kind of stuff (I figure at this point in the sentence, you are either nodding in understanding or wondering what language I’ve lapsed into). It’s a narrow field and having a 4-year gap in my resume doesn’t exactly make potential employers leap for joy, especially when HF engineering is often considered “fringe” and funding for it is being cut left and right. (Fact.)

Genuine is still obsessed with my hindquarters. I’m trying to decide… is that sadder for him or for me?

Sheryl wants to know my favorite smell, and whether there is a memory connected with it.

I love the smell of skunk. It reminds me of the time Huckleberry managed to get sprayed in the mouth late at night, and I stood in the kitchen–after his bath in vanilla extract–eyes watering from his skunk breath, feeding him item after item from the fridge, trying to find something that would alter the scent. (Fiction. Well, the part about liking it!)

I’m gonna cheat and name two, because they’re very different and because I’m a dirty cheater. First, I love the smell of baking bread. Any kind of bread. Even a hint of that smell will make my mouth water immediately. No memories there (other than happy times spent being carb addict). The other scent is ground/grass right after a storm in the summer, when the moisture is evaporating in little puffs of steam and seeming to pull the essence of the earth up with it. That smell evokes my time at summer camp; uncomplicated joy. (Fact.)

Chewie is full of questions because she has locked her four children in the closet, I think.
… do I read the Bible frequently>
Hardly ever, undirected. I don’t know why. I sign up for bible studies and small group stuff as often as I can to “force” me to read it more, though. Given how much I enjoy it when I do do it, I wonder why I’m not more compelled to do it on my own. (Fact.)

… do I journal outside of this blog?
Oh sure. I have three other journals, and I’m working on a novel. And… hmmm, when did I last feed the kids? (Fiction. How many hours do you think are in my day, woman?)

… do I sometimes sneak into the children’s bathroom late at night to use their handheld shower head?
Only you would ask that, dear. I know that you and your handheld shower head have a… errr… special relationship, but I simply haven’t gotten that desperate yet. (Fact. Dad? Dad? Chewie, you made my father pass out, again.)

My one true love Kira blames me for her purchase of purple toenail polish, and wants to know if I’m proud of that.

First of all, when you said you only had the boys there to advise you, I was sure you were going to tell me you bought black or maybe bright green. So bright purple is quite tasteful, I think, given that your guide was the Tiny Testosterone Trio. Secondly, of course I’m proud, but I’m still prouder of your use of “better gopher blog fodder” as casually as if that’s a phrase you bandy about on a regular basis. You are smooth, girlfriend! You can carry off bright purple on the tootsies; I know it! (Fact. Smooches!)

That concludes this week’s installment of Friday Facts and Fiction. Thanks for playing! Answers contained herein may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, without express written permission from the moths on my kitchen ceiling.

About

It occurs to me that we haven’t done Fact and Fiction Friday for a while. It is also very clear to me that between the grey, rainy day, a couple of very mouthy children, and my continued joblessness, I am in one heckuva crappy mood.

So rather than inviting you all to my pity party, let’s do some questions. Ask ‘em if ya got ‘em. You might get to learn something interesting about me, or you might–once and for all–conclude that I am just weird.

I’ll be back with answers this evening, provided that I manage to restrain myself from killing anyone today.

Editing to add this meme from Mindy’s; perhaps it will give you some ideas for questions. Mostly I just love that I know so many fellow Leo bloggers so I figured I’d join in. Anyway:

Pick your birth month and cross (strike) out what doesn’t apply to you. To strike out you use the S tag. So for the cross out you would surround the “strike out” with strike out. Then post the whole list for the next person or link back to here.

AUGUST:
Loves to joke. Attractive. Suave and caring. Brave and fearless. Firm and has leadership qualities. Knows how to console others. Too generous and egoistic. Takes high pride of oneself. Thirsty for praises. Extraordinary spirit. Easily angered. Angry when provoked. Easily jealous. Observant. Careful and cautious. Thinks quickly. Independent thoughts. Loves to lead and to be led. Loves to dream. Talented in the arts, music and defense. Sensitive but not petty. Poor resistance against illnesses. Learns to relax. Hasty and trusty. Romantic. Loving and caring. Loves to make friends.

July 30, 2004 | About

We fought the beach, and the beach won. A sandy time was had by all. Monkey and I are still the whitest white people on the planet. (Chickadee has browned up a bit, but Monkey and I are still casting a fierce glare off of ourselves.) The children are now exhausted and “resting” in front of the TV, and I am finishing up your queries rather than looking in the mirror to see how badly burnt I became through the SPF 45 sunblock.

Genuine wants to know what we would be writing about, if we were collaborating on a book.

“You Too Can Overcome Your Obsession With Nudity,” by Genuine as told to Mir (fully clothed). (Fiction.)

Hmmmm, Gen, I dunno. Is that an offer? I think I could probably put some sarcasm into that Genuine Romance for you and double your readership ya know…. (Fact, maybe.)

Angela wants to know what superhero I’ve always dreamed of being or having.

Remember Gleek, the monkey on Superfriends? Mmmmmmm. (Fiction. Ewwwwww.)

As a child, I often dreamt of being part of the G-Force from Battle Of The Planets. I don’t know why that particular show caught my interest so much. I think I liked that they were a family and fought crime together. Or maybe it was just the part where the one guy would put out his magic watch (or whatever it was) and shout “TRANSMUTE!” and they’d all change. Who knows.

Now that I’m grown-up… hmmm… Spiderman is kinda cool (Monkey told me so). Tobey Maguire isn’t too hard on the eyes, either. (Fact. Heheheheh.)

Tonya wants to know the secrets of Target markdowns, like how do you know if the price is as low as it will go, and why would one size be red-tagged but another not.

Stick with me, grasshopper. I shall teach you the way.

First of all, there are scanners all over Target for a reason. Always scan everything. Items that are marked down corporate-wide will be reduced in the computer system regardless of whether the markdown team has gotten to them or not. Items are often lower than marked, if already red-tagged. So, scan, scan, scan.

Second, it used to be true that final markdowns at Target always ended in a 4. I’m not positive that that’s the case, anymore. But if something was $3.74 or whatever, you knew that was the last price drop. Those little red tags? Have a number in the upper right corner. That’s the percentage off. It’s usually 15, 30, 50, or 75. The stuff that hits 90% off rarely has time to be retagged before it’s sold. If you see something you’re dying to have and it’s at 50% and there’s an entire wall of them, you can probably wait. But if you want an item and there’s only a few left, it can be a gamble to wait.

As for some sizes being tagged and not others, sometimes that’s on purpose and sometimes it’s an oversight. Always ask. The day that my friend and I bought all the cute Sunny Patch Kids stuff, the entire display was clearly marked 75% off and several items my friend was buying were in the computer as 50% off. The cashier gave us the additional markdown with no problem. But occasionally they do intentionally not mark down everything in what seems like it ought to be a “set” of the same stuff.

I heart Target.

Alrighty, I think that wraps it up. Looks like everyone else is out enjoying their Fridays as well. My snippet of good news is that one of the resumes I sent out actually yielded a request for further info, so that’s sort of exciting. I’m trying to pretend it’s exciting and might actually turn into a job. Play along with me; it’s fun!

As always, thanks for playing Facts and Fiction Friday with me. Answers to your queries are crafted from organic materials right here in the good ol’ U.S. of A.

About

(Apropos of nothing, I feel compelled to point out that BlogSpot has endorsed me for the position of Shoe Shopping Wife. My banner ads are now for shoe stores! Sweet.)

This week’s edition may be a bit briefer than usual (I can hear you cheering there, in the back!); the kids and I are getting ready for a jaunt to the beach. That pretty much means that they are busy piling up every toy in the house by the beach bag, and I am sitting here wondering if I remembered to shave. Anyway. Let’s get started!

Heather asks, what’s the most peaceful place I’ve ever been?

This one time? When someone locked me in the trunk of their car? It was nice in there. I fell asleep. Curled into the fetal position. (Fiction.)

I have never considered myself a terribly outdoorsy sort of person, but during my first cross-country drive I was seriously tempted to stay in Jackson Hole. My dad and I went horseback riding on a mountain, and I could’ve believed we (along with our guide, and his dog) were the only people in the universe that day. It was very Zen. (Fact.)

mc asks, would the people who know me in real life recognize the person I am here?

Well that’s easy, since my blog is triple-top-secret. No one else here at the correctional facility has any idea that I have a laptop stashed in my cell’s commode. (Fiction. Sorry for the visual.)

Quite a few folks from my “real life” read my blog, including my parents and several friends. I have been told on multiple occasions, “I could just hear you saying that!” I think I’m pretty true-to-life, here. The difference perhaps lays in my willingness to expound on my neuroses. Most of the time, when I get really tied up in something that’s bothering me, I will self-censor with my friends–at a point–because I realize I’m whining and I don’t want to drive them away with my incessant complaining. Here, this is for me, and you can read it or not. So I’m more likely to let it all hang out. (Fact.)

Jules asks a long, convoluted question about watermelons growing in my stomach and regenerating uterii, but points out that I don’t need to answer.

In the interest of soothing the minds of anyone who was worried after my post from last night: I posted about my spotting/cramping to a hysterectomy support board, and someone said it was probably internal stitches dissolving. Good enough for me. Also, so far so good, this morning. (Fact.)

Alektra wants to know my favorite babyword from my kids that we still use.

Sorry, there are no baby words around here. Both of my children popped out with 5,000+ word vocabularies and impeccable diction. (Fiction. Wasn’t that a really bad movie, once?)

I gave this one a lot of thought. Sadly, most of my favorite babyspeak has gone the way of the highchairs and diapers. Chickadee used to hold up her arms and say “Uppy doo!” when she wanted to be picked up. She never just said “up.” Cracked us up something fierce. And my favorite with Monkey has always been the various permutations of him pronouncing his sister’s name. She used to get so angry with his mispronounciation and I tried to tell her she’d miss it once he could say it properly. Now sometimes I catch them playing and her telling him to call her what he used to. Heh. We do still call Oreos “yo-ee-yos” just for fun! (Fact.)

Janet is sucking up to me something fierce, complimenting my intellect, visage, and feet, and wondering just how insane my ex is.

Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful. (BWAHAHAHAHHAAHAHA Fiiiiiiiiiiiiction….)

My ex went through a really difficult time, handled it badly, and I think now–as he puts his life back together–also realizes that we weren’t a very good fit for one another. We might’ve made it, had he not had such a huge crisis… but I’m one of those “everything happens for a reason” kinds of people, ya know? He’s not insane. He’s just really different than I am. I hope that in the final analysis we’ll appreciate our time together because of the two fantastic kids we got out of it, but that both of us will find greater happiness elsewhere. I was not the right person for him, nor he for me. (Fact.)

Marcia wants the dirt on the ex’s new woman.

She’s a mail order bride and rodeo clown. (Fiction. I hope.)

I know very little about her, and the ex is being very tight-lipped so I’m not asking. I know she’s working out-of-state on a 6-month assignment. I know she’s a chemist. I know she was nice to my kids. I know the ex seems much happier. I very much doubt I’ll learn more prior to hearing either that she left him or that they’ve set a wedding date. When I’m not feeling sorry for my pitiful single self, I’m very glad to know she’s around.(Fact.)

Kimberly wants to know where I would live if I could live anywhere in the world.

I believe someone asked this before, and I joked about Alaska (because really, someone who hates the snow as much as I do should just not be allowed to live where I do), but said I’d go to Maui. Weather-wise, that’s true. Culture-wise, I’m not sure. If price wasn’t an object, I think I’d move back to northern California. I miss it there, both for the weather and the culture. (Fact.)

Shelly wants to know how the job-hunting is going, and what’s the worst job I’ll settle for?

Well, I’ve just been hired as the new CEO of Victoria’s Secrets. Free thongs and angel wings for all my readers! (Fiction. Ow.)

Since resuming my search, I’ve sent out two resumes and felt out three possible contacts in addition. It’s slow going. Should I be unable to find something along the lines of what I really want (blogging for pay aside, I’d like to get back into technical writing), I will probably apply for a job at Target. I’m sure the job itself sucks, but it’s Target. And I’d get an employee discount. But yeah, it’s not exactly how I pictured my life. Maybe I can hang up my diplomas in the employee break room…? (Sad, sad fact.)

Aurora wants to know if I’m closer to my real-life friends or my blogger friends.

I don’t have any real life friends. Also? All the comments on my blog are just you, and my other personalities. (Fiction. No offense to Sybil.)

On the whole, of course I’m closer to those friends I can hang out with in real life. I do have a few “internet friends” from waaaaaay back, pre-blogging, with whom I have a very strong bond. I would say I’m as close with a couple of them as I am with my “real life” friends. But blogging friends? I’m meeting fabulous folks, here, but I’ve only been blogging for a few months. Relationships take time to build. (Fact.)

Jennifer asks how serious I am about working in daycare.

I am serious in the sense that I would like to pay less for daycare. I am not so serious in the sense that I do love children, but I have never felt “called” to work in childcare as a serious gig. I’m good with kids but I don’t see it being my career. (Fact. Thank you for the offer of advice, though!)

Jen wants to know where she can get a Wife application.

The form is about twenty pages long, and needs to be filled out in triplicate and notarized. Send me a self-addressed, postage-paid mailer and I’ll get it riiiight out to ya. (Fiction.)

I had no idea that my commune scheme was going to generate all of the enthusiastic interest that it did. And now I feel I’m caught with my pants down, completely unprepared to organize our progress as necessary. Who’s gonna be Paperwork Wife? This is her job. (Fact. Inasmuch as the commune becoming reality is fact, that is.)

My current time is up; the beach is calling! I will answer the rest of the questions later today. Enjoy your day and don’t forget the sunscreen!!

July 23, 2004 | About

We have a busy day ahead of us, so I’m going to put this post up early today. Please accept my apologies if you meant to ask a question but hadn’t gotten to it yet. There’s always next week! But if I don’t post now, I won’t get to it until late tonight. And why am I explaining this? I’m such a dork. Ahem. Anyway.

Genuine asks, in the book of my life, which chapters are the best reads?

You’ve probably already read about that time when I was two and I fell down a mining shaft… riveting stuff…. (Fiction.)

This may be perceived as a cop-out answer, but I hope that the best is yet to come. I strongly suspect that my late thirties and my forties are going to be the most interesting, yet. But, okay… if I have to stick to the chapters already written, I’d guess my freshman year of college makes the best read thus far. Keep in mind that I’m a sucker for a coming-of-age drama, but there you have it. I turned 17 the week before I started college. I was an old soul but a young kid, and it was my first big grappling with reconciling the two. I screwed it up rather badly, but it makes for an interesting story, I suppose. (Fact.)

Angela asks, what did I want to be, as a child and then as a teen, when I grew up?

I’ve always had a fascination with large axes. People made fun of my desire to be the first famous female lumberjack, but I didn’t care! (Fiction; I’m lucky I can use scissors without hurting myself.)

Oh how I hate to be a cliche, but sadly, that doesn’t stop me. As a child, I debated to myself–often–whether I would settle for a life as a famous actress, or whether I’d take the high road and be a famous novelist. No joke: in fifth grade I wrote a short story for Mrs. Simons (in the first person, natch) about a little girl with an unhappy home situation who considers killing herself, but whose problems are basically all solved because she manages to get to an open casting call for “Annie” and lands the lead. On Broadway. Mrs. Simons disregarded the cry for help that this piece so obviously was, and gave me an A+++++. (Yeah, Mrs. Simons was a little loopy that way. I got lots of pluses in her class despite being a mental health train wreck.)

As a teenager, I decided that nothing would stand between me and the Broadway dream. My older brother wanted to study music, in college, and my parents threatened not to pay his tuition if he didn’t major in something more practical. He got his degree in civil engineering and is now a jazz musician. Having watched my brother’s situation before mine, when I announced that I wished to major in drama I was not surprised when my parents threatened not to pay my tuition. I countered with the suggestion that if I could not pursue my major of choice, I simply wouldn’t attend college. Checkmate. I majored in theatre, and went on to become a software engineer. (Fact, and proof that truth is stranger than fiction.)

Regular Cinderella asks, when the summer ends and I turn back into a pumpkin, what do I plan to do for work?

I was thinking of getting a job at Hooters. I hear the tips are awesome. Heard of any specials on push-up bras over at Fishing For Deals lately? (Fiction!)

Well, it’s been made abundantly clear to me that I will not work as an engineer again. And freelance writing feeds my soul but not my bank account. I am trying to find an entry-level job that could potentially lead to more writing, but so far I haven’t found much. The other possibility is that if I work at the daycare center we’ve used for years–although the pay isn’t superb–I get half off tuition, effectively rendering that a very cost-conscious choice until Monkey starts public school. I’ve discussed working there with the director several times, but so far they’ve had more employees than openings. And, um, barring those options? I may just go work at Target for a while. For the discount. (I need to concentrate on the discount, and not on the fact that I hold a Masters degree from Stanford and I would be working at Target with all the local teenagers.) (Fact, *sigh*)

She also asks how I’m feeling, because she is a sweetie!

I’m feeling pretty darn good, thanks! I’m giving a big shout-out to the Vivelle Dot, as I think for the first time in a month, my hormones are actually regulated again. The anti-depressants aren’t hurting matters, either. Heh. The migraine situation seems to be under control, finally; which is good because I was about one headache away from the padded room. (Fact.)

Aurora asks, did my children understand what surgery I was having and why, and why did I have to have a hysterectomy, anyway?

It was fairly straightforward to explain to the children that they had poisoned my insides when they’d lived there, and that I now had to submit to a painful and potentially deadly procedure thanks to them. (Fiction, don’t get all ruffled. No therapy fund in the world could cover that.)

I discussed the history behind the surgery in this post, if you’d like to catch up. My son is a very happy-go-lucky kind of guy, and young, besides, and so was happy with the explanation that I had an owie the docs were going to fix. Okay, Mama, tralalala, was pretty much his reaction. My daughter–older, and more sensitive, to boot–was a harder sell. She actually remembers several previous, smaller surgeries I’ve had to deal with the endometriosis. So in her case it was a matter of saying, “Remember how Mama gets lots of belly aches and they’ve done some little surgeries before to try and fix it? Well now they’re going to do just one more thing, and it will fix me up for good and after I get better I won’t have those belly aches ever again.” She worried about it a lot, because she’s like that. But they were away visiting my ex-laws for the first week, so by the time they came home I was up and around and they could see that I was moving a little slow but perfectly fine, otherwise. Someday when it’s time to have the birds and bees talk with Chickadee, I will explain what they actually did.(Fact.)

She also asks what state I live in.

I am a proud resident of the Live, Freeze, or Die State. Here in New Hampshire we know how to have a good time… in the snow. (Fact!)

Jennifer wants to know if she should get her own blog.

Well, Jennifer, that depends. Do you like to write? Can you happily prattle on about all manner of minutiae in a way that compels people to read your blather despite its inherent lack of import? Would you like to get sucked in to a huge time-waster? Do you want to be one of the cool kids? If you answered yes to any of these questions, then you need a blog! But, uh, don’t forget me when you’re famous.

Chewie is so brain-drained from four children, she asks a series of questions about how I manage my orgasmic Target jaunts, and how do the kids handle them?

I just lock the kids in the bathroom with some snacks whenever I need a Target fix. Cuz shopping with kids is impossible, as you know. (Fiction. I swear that I only considered doing that once.)

As it happens, yesterday I was kid-free for my trip, as the ex takes the kids one afternoon a week. Of course I try to limit my purchasing of stuff for the kids to the trips when they’re not with me. However, I have been known to take them to Target with me, and they know the drill. We get one of those bench carts so they can both ride, and they either ride or walk (but they must stay right beside me or get strapped back into the cart). They know I only buy items with red tags, and further know that if they behave they’re likely to get a small bit of bribery (usually a special snack, because my kids are all about food). And as I rarely get out of Target without a cart full of stuff, I have sometimes bought future gifts for them while they were with me… I just distract them with something and shove the items in question under other stuff in my cart. And I’d love to tell you that they’re perfect angels there, but sometimes they act up. And then we leave. And there is lots of crying. Mostly by me. (Fact. Please pass the Kleenex.)

Janet wants to know what, short of a brain transplant, would make her blog funnier.

Ummmm… a sex change operation? I would come laugh at that. (Fiction; I would never laugh at you. Maybe with you. And please no hate-mail about transgender stuff because I’m joking for crying out loud.)

I don’t know, Janet. My guess is that you just haven’t had enough trauma in your life! I don’t exactly set out to be funny, most of the time. It’s more like I’ve learned that humor is a great coping mechanism. I’m a huge proponent of the “Well, ya gotta laugh or scream, and laughing is more fun” philosophy. My MO is basically to turn all of the annoying aspects of my life into blog fodder, thereby robbing them of their ability to drive me nutty. While I appreciate that others’ enjoy my writing, the truth is that I do this as much for my own sanity as anything else. Humor heals. (Fact. I feel a little bit like L. Ron Hubbard right now.)

That concludes this week’s installment of Friday Facts and Fiction. I hope that you found enlightenment; I didn’t, but I lose things all the time and find them later, so there’s still hope.

July 16, 2004 | About

Wow, I got lots of questions this week!  Ordinarily I work on the post throughout the day and then publish sometime late afternoon… but out of sheer fear that if I wait there will be a couple dozen more questions, I’m putting it up early, today.
 
Genuine asks, what would be my ultimate job? 

I’ve always wanted to be a particle physicist, on account of my deep love for math and small, sterile laboratories.  (Fiction.) 

I’ve love to actually earn a living writing.  Any publishers or wealthy, handsome men out there reading this?  “Will write for cash!”  I know this comes as a huge shock, because there are so few bloggers who are wannabe-writers…  (Fact, well except for the bloggers wanting to be writers bit.) 

My true love Kira asks…
… what was the worst thing that happened to me this week?
This. stupid. migraine.  I’d love to come up with a creative lie but I am far too busy screaming at my little packages of Axert, “WHY?? Why have you forsaken me so and stopped working on the evil headache that has taken over my brain????”
 
… what was the best thing that happened to me this week?
Monkey waking up dry that one day.  It gave me hope that he may be nighttime potty trained before college.  (Fiction; well, it did give me hope, but it’s not the best thing that happened to me this week.)  Actually, the best thing that’s happened to me this week, my dear Kira, is getting you onto IM.  I haven’t laughed so hard in a verrrrrry long time.  (Fact, and not just because you asked the question.) 

… what’s my first memory?
There’s a very prominent memory of mine, and I don’t know how old I was… but young enough to be in a highchair, which is where I was… and my mother was screaming something about “no more wire hangers”….  (Fiction, and if my mother reads this I am so dead.)  Okay, seriously: I don’t know if it’s my very earliest memory, but it’s certainly one of them.  My mom put me down for a nap (and I was in a regular bed from quite a young age, due to my habit of climbing out of the crib) and when she came back to check on me, I was gone.  Panic and various scrambling ensued–including a hysterical phone call to my father, and him rushing home–but I, of course, knew none of this until later.  What I remember was thinking that it was too bright in my room, and that it was nice and cozy and dark in my closet.  I can easily conjure the memory of the closet door opening and waking me up.  I was quite pleased with myself, and didn’t understand why my mother was so upset.  (Fact, and this story is the second-most-told in the Chronicles Of What A Difficult Child Miriam Was.  The first-most-told is about the day I decided to wash my hair with Desitin.)

Jennifer asks…
… what color are my bath towels?
Black.  All black.  (Fiction.)  Ummmm… the ones in my bathroom are all either slate blue or lavender.  The ones in the kids’ bathroom tend to be Buzz Lightyear and Disney Princess colored.  And last but not least, the guest towels tend to be whatever-I-received-as-random-wedding-gifts colored.  Hmmm.  Might be time to invest in some new towels.  (Fact, and now I would like to know how this knowledge will enrich your life.)

… how many televisions will be delivered before I demand a refund?
I just invented the entire television saga because I couldn’t think of anything else to talk about.  (Fiction, but oh how I wish it was fact.)  Honestly, if I still had the original TV, I would’ve given up on this after the second delivery.  But I don’t, because I am a moron, so at this point I pretty much have to just hang on until I get a working TV.  At which point I plan to make a big stink until they give me a discount or a gift card or something, because this has been ridiculous.  (Fact.)

Chewie is just chock-full of questions despite having given surprise birth less than two weeks ago and now being a mom to 4 under 6.  Knock it off; you’re making us lesser moms look bad!  Ahem.  Anyway…
… would I say I have good days/bad days or good hours/bad hours?
What makes you think I have anything but bad; have you seen the way I whine around here?  (Fiction.  It is.  Shut UP.)  Hmm.  I think I tend towards good/bad days.  I’m a champion grudge-holder, and that extends into taking a bit of time to break out of a funk.  That’s not to say that I couldn’t have something good happen in what is otherwise a lousy day, but I do tend to categorize the entire day based on my overriding mood.  (Fact.)

… how many days until school starts?
Too many.  Way. too. many.  (Fiction.)  Would you believe, I don’t actually know?  This is the first year Chickadee will be in public school, and her packet of info had everything we’d need to know except the date that school starts!  Our town publishes the school calendar and bus schedules in the local paper sometime in August.  So I’ll know then.  Until then?  “Sometime around Labor Day” is my best guess.  (Fact.)

… tell me more about that woman who had a baby and didn’t even KNOW she was preggers!
Well, Chewie, I love nothing more than to talk about this friend of mine and the miracle of her mystery illness turning out to be a perfectly adorable baby boy.  But I also think that if the lady in question has time to be hanging out on my blog, this indicates two things.  1) She truly is Superwoman, and 2) She needs her own blog, to tell her own story.  Also, you’re a nut and I love you!!  (Fact, baby!)

Hula Doula is also full of questions!  Like…
… have I always been a natural beauty?
Er, sure thing.  People often mistake me for Cindy Crawford.  (Fiction, and, um, bwahahahahaaaaaaaa!)  Well, let’s see.  I’m a little confused here.  If by “natural” you mean “eschewing make-up and most other time-consuming and expensive beauty efforts because I am a lazyass,” then yes, I have.  If you mean “natural beauty” as in, I am actually beautiful, then I would like some of what you’re smoking, please.  Heh.  I have always been thin–through no fault of my own, might I add, as I have a very deep relationship with all manner of junk food–so my theory has always been, at least I’m thin!  As in: I hate my hair… oh well, at least I’m thin!  I cannot believe I still have acne in my 30s… oh well, at least I’m thin!  Etc.  Someday my metabolism will slow down and I’ll blow up like a blimp and have a nervous breakdown.  (Fact.)

… why do I make her laugh so hard with my brilliant writing?
Mostly, because I live to serve and entertain my fellow humans.  (Fiction.)  Mostly, because you are very easily amused.  Which I really appreciate, by the way.  (Fact!)

… am I sugared up good now?
Alas, the migraine makes me nauseous, so other than sipping at my trusty ice water, there’s not a lot of chocolate gluttony happening here (yet another reason to be sad…).  (Fact.)

… do I need a hug?
Always!  And unlike Monkey, I bet you won’t try to cop a feel after you hug me, either.  (Fact, I hope.)

Kym asks…
… why haven’t I told my damn doctor to change me to 1mg Vivelle Dot like my smart friend Kym keeps telling me to do?
Because I am really enjoying this feeling of pain-mixed-with-imminent-insanity, of course.  (Fiction.)  I dunno, Kym.  Sometimes I think I’m just not very bright.  I have a very hard time asking doctors for help, even when I know I need it.  For something as intangible as balancing out my hormones, I fear that I will just be told to “wait a little bit longer” and I keep thinking I shouldn’t make a nuisance of myself until it’s critical (I don’t want to be the boy who cried wolf, er, the woman who cried not enough estrogen).  But rest easy; I have an appointment to see the doc this afternoon, and I plan to lay it all on the line.  Let’s hope she has some answers.  (Fact.  Wish me luck.)

… do I get a little halo light effect with my migraines?
Silly.  I have a halo all the time!  (*snort*)  Um, I’ve always called it an aura, but I think we’re talking about the same thing, yes.  When it’s really bad, everything I look at appears to be covered in fluorescent cilia.  Delightful.  (Fact, though not actually delightful in the conventional sense.)

… if I were a fruit, what fruit would I be?
Heehee.  I think I’d like to be grapes (a single grape?).  They’re versatile.  You’ve got grapes, which are yummy, anyway.  Then, you can also have raisins.  And more importantly, you can have wine.  If only I were so multi-purpose!  (Fact, because it’s striking me as more amusing than any fiction I could come up with.)

Janet is getting all serious on me, wanting to know whether I would choose to eat all the foods I like but have to become a Satanist or be stuck with foods I hate but get to remain a Christian.

Janet, hon?  Did I mention that I’ve had a migraine for about 6 days, now?  Are you trying to kill me?  Okay.  Hmmm.  I think I’ve gotta go with sucky food, because as much as I like to transfer all my needs for acceptance and affection onto my snacks, I don’t think I could completely reorganize my brain to jive with Satanism.  Plus, many amazing things have happend in my life that I believe wouldn’t have been possible without God.  I’m guessing that after a while Jesus would reward my choice and send me some Oreos.  (Fact, mostly kinda.)

Tani asks, if my ex asked me to get back together, would I laugh in his face or run away screaming?

What do you mean?  If he asked I’d be ecstatic!  (Fiction!  That was actually hard to type.)  Neither.  I’m pretty sure I would either vomit or pass out, or maybe both.  (Fact.)

Lisa wants to know if I’d like to help her blow up the cable company.

Lisa, that sort of violence only increases the violent dischord of the world we live in.  I’m shocked and disappointed that you would even suggest such a thing.  (Fiction.)  Let’s be civilized (read: sneaky) about this.  I’m thinking more along the lines of a little bit of voodoo resulting in all of them having migraines for a week.  That would bring them to their knees, and then they’d be ripe for our demands.  (Fact.  Do you know anyone who knows voodoo?)
       
Debby asks–in an effort to be less of a wiseass–which famous actress would I like to be, and why?
 
Uh… Deb?  You are now officially both a wiseass and senile, because not only did I answer this already, you were the one who asked!!  (If you’re too lazy to go back to the original post, my answer was Glenn Close.)

Julia asks about casting for the movie of my life, but I will have to plead the 5th on that one, rather than risk offending anybody.  She also asks, what room would I have redone on Trading Spaces and what would I like to see?

Ohhhhh that’s a hard one.  You know, I just loved that “Prisoners of Love” bedroom that Doug did….  (FICTION!  Crap; there goes my dad, again.)  I’d be hard-pressed to decide between my kitchen and my family room.  My kitchen is decorated in cheap, chintzy, early-70s-meets-country and could use a serious overhaul.  I would love to have stainless steel appliances, corian counters, no more baskets-of-fruit wallpaper, and all of that sort of stuff.  On the other hand, with just me and the kids, I’m not exactly spending a ton of time dishing up gourmet meals.  The family room sports some very poorly-designed built-ins that could probably be re-engineered to actually hide most of the small ones’ mess and give the illusion of a nice room.  Plus this whole area is beige.  Yawn!  (Fact, but who would I swap with?  I need to start meeting more of the neighbors.)

Sheryl and Aurora are debating my living space: small New England Victorian, or large apartment with wood floors?

Don’t look now, but I’m typing on my laptop from down in your basement right now!  (SQUEEE SQUEEE SQUEEE!)  (Fiction, though that’d make an interesting if totally formulaic geek thriller movie.)  Sorry, you’re both incorrect.  I live in a largish, unimaginative, boxy colonial… as does everyone else in my neighborhood.  No, they don’t all live in my house, we just all have basically the same house.  (Though it is in New England, so Sheryl gets some points, there; and it does have wood floors, so points to Aurora!)  I once discussed how this house is really too large for us, now, but the market here is such that it would cost too much to move somewhere smaller.  And as I have lived in this house longer than any place else in my life save for my childhood home, I am rather attached to it.  I hope y’all can still love me even though I am so rude as to not live in the digs you’d imagined.  (Fact.)

Aurora also asks if I am happy.

Let’s just say that I’m happier.  Happy is definitely in my sights, and sometimes (though fleetingly) in my grasp.  I’m the sort of person who might not recognize happy if it walked up and smacked me in the face, so this is more progress for me than someone of a more zen-like persuasion might realize.  (Fact.)

Liz has bugs on the brain.  Poor Liz.  She asks if I have ever eaten chocolate covered crickets, have I eaten any type of chocolate bug ever, and if I did, would I do it again?

Yes, yes, and absolutely.  They’re better than Nestle Crunch bars, I tell you.  (Fiction… gaggy, gaggy fiction.)  The real answers are: No, NO, and PLEASE STOP TALKING ABOUT THIS BEFORE I PUKE!  Ahem.  Thank you for playing.  (Fact.)

That concludes this week’s installment of “Friday Facts and Fiction.”  Today’s rendition was brought to you by the letter Q and the number 13.    No animals were harmed in the making of this blog.