Greetings from the pit
For a while there, I had my funk on. I mean for real. For the last couple of days, I have been honing The Wallow into a delicate art form, reaching sublime heights of self-pity and hopelessness. I have consumed naught but Halloween candy and coffee, slept more hours than I care to admit, ignored my phone, discarded my mail, and sported the Sloppy Ponytail Of What The Hell Does It All Matter Anyway.
I was down deep, and wanting nothing more than to burrow deeper still.
If this were fiction, now I would tell you about how the perfect job offer fell out of the sky, or my friends gathered around me and sang Kumbaya, or some crisis with the children forced me to pull myself together, or that I was reaching for a jar of spanish olives at the grocery store and my fingertips brushed those of a tall, dark, handsome stranger. Who was rich. And fell in love with me immediately. You know; something good, like that.
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Limbo
One of the joys of moving to public school and first grade is that Chickadee’s world had suddenly expanded due to “Specialists.” Every day her class “does a Specialist,” which is grade-school-speak for going to music, or art, or gym. Part of the excitement is leaving the classroom and switching teachers as well as locales, making Specialist time quite special indeed.
While most of the Specialists are doing similar things to what she did in private kindergarten last year, the attainment of a gymnasium full of equipment has been the pinnacle of exotic change. I struggle to follow along as she tells me stories on Monday afternoon (“Monday is Gym Specialist!”) of elaborate games involving some children being wolves with rubber chickens while others are hunters on scooter boards, pulling tote bags. I have to admit, it sounds fun (if a bit complicated).
Early in the year, they had a limbo contest during gym. My Chickadee excelled at this, and no wonder. Those are some tricky little birdie feet she has, and very flexible knees, all to go along with her surprising strength that seems impossible for a wisp of a kid. But limbo she did, and limbo she has ever since. “Evvvvvvvverybody liiiiiiiiimbo!” she’ll call out as she drops her shoulders back and shimmies under my arm resting on the bathroom doorway. “Hey Mama, put your hand on the counter,” she’ll exhort as we’re standing in the kitchen. Once I comply she’s dancing under my forearm with a huge grin. “Look how low I can go, Mom!”
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Even my politics come back to food in the end
In my state there is no sort of identification check at the polls. You walk in, give your name, and get a ballot. Three different people mark your name off a list, which is a wonderful system of checks and balances and a good use of time considering that I could walk in there and pretend to be my neighbor, a friend, or just about anyone with a common last name. Polling fraud? No way! Not here! Thanks for your vote, Ms. Smith!
The political signs in everyone’s yards and along the sides of the road baffle me under the best of circumstances. I mean, okay; this is America! Land of the free and the home of the billboard! I get that. And I even sorta kinda get putting a sign in your own yard, if you feel passionate about letting everyone know your political preference. But on the roads? On highway ramps? Why?? This has always confused me. Worse yet are all the people standing along the roads with signs today. Can someone point me to a documented case where an informed voter (heck, even an uninformed voter) was driving to the polls with every intention of casting her vote for Candidate X and then passed a person waving a Candidate Y sign and thought to herself, “Self, I’ve had this all wrong. Look at that font. Behold the red stripe of freedom. And the sign holder is clearly freezing in the drizzle so he must be right about Candidate Y!”? I don’t think so.
Now for some useful information: The antidote for eating way too much Halloween candy is to drop the kids off for their dinner with Daddy and then purchase a quart of hot-and-sour soup from the cheap Chinese takeout. Eat until you feel sick. This will enable you to walk past the candy bags for once without grabbing something. (For an hour, anyway.)
Ready, willing, and filled with dread
Chickadee has the day off from school today, and will be coming with me to the polls. I’m trying to figure out how to make this a learning experience without letting her catch on the to fact that I dread just about everything about election day. Maybe I can tell her that we vote and then we spend several days waiting to hear who really won and then everyone argues about it before, during, and after and that’s just lots of FUN! No? Hmmm.
I’ve also been informed that a decision will be made today about the That Job I’m Not Thinking About and I will hear tonight or tomorrow. So that, on top of it being election day, is just about too much for a control freak like me to take. I need some more snack-size Butterfingers.
Indomitable… kinda
I want to write about something meaningful and deep and all that, but my mind keeps returning to my plethora of interview-related faux pas from this morning. (What is the plural of faux pas? Faux pases? Faux pax? Faux pas de deux?) I may as well just bare all and hope that by allowing the entire internet to see what a dork I am, ultimately I will be able to stop thinking about it for a while. You know, sort of a delegation of responsibility.
Okay, team! Listen up! You, over there, spend the next few hours pondering what a tremendous misfit I am, and when you tire of it, pass the baton to the next person. But I need to move on to some other issues, like why it is that you can buy the Equate brand equivalents of many of my favorite beauty products for half what the name brands cost, and the ingredient lists appear to be identical, but it’s possible that “other ingredients” is actually code for “goat urine.”
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Dontcha just hate…
… when you pinch your eyelid in your eyelash curler?
… when you forget to bring the packages you meant to mail on your way back from the appointment just beyond the post office?
… when the appointment “just beyond the post office” turns out to be about ten miles beyond the post office and you get lost–twice!–on your way there?
… when you go to what you think is the final interview in a loooong process and the person interviewing you says, “We’re in the preliminary stages of talking to people, of course”?
Me too. Happy &*#$^@ Monday.
EVERYTHING YOU NEVER WANTED TO KNOW
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:
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All-points bulletin
Please study the attached mug shot carefully. These criminals are said to be armed with sugar and dangerous. Last seen somewhere in the New England area, they are guilty of previous tantrums, giggle fits, and all-around hyperactivity. They are particularly dangerous when in disguise, as they then believe they are not responsible for their actions, e.g., “It wasn’t me, it was that other knight,” and “Well that’s what dragons DO, I couldn’t help it.”
Forced to wait an entire day to launch their latest campaign to rot out all their teeth, tensions are running high and the infighting has begun. Even with the time change, dark cannot come soon enough. The hours until nightfall will be fraught with tension and they are to be considered most volatile until then. Please keep your distance and speak in quiet, calm tones.
Desperation may cause these suspects to turn to cannibalism. The public is warned to stand back and only dial 911 in case of actual bloodshed or fire. Most importantly, do not attempt to bargain or withhold candy. Comply quickly and they will leave you unharmed. Refusing to meet their demands may result in the suspects forcing you to sniff their stinky feet, followed by consumption of your underwear.
Let’s stay safe out there, people.
So dainty
Me: Please spread your legs a little wider so I can get this lotion on you.
Her: You mean like I’m gonna pee in the woods?
I’m so proud.
What a rollercoaster
On the one hand, it’s not nice to play on the weaknesses of others.
On the other hand, there’s one born every minute. (Corollary: those of us who are smart enough to realize and utilize that fact, are obligated to pay homage to Darwin.)
I just netted over $100 on just a small handful of eBay auctions. My two highest-selling items? Went for three and four times what I paid for them. And one of those was worn by my daughter for over two years before the resale.
Now I am but a shell of my former self, having cycled through all five stages of eBay in a matter of minutes. Friends, I am spent. For the love of all that is holy, can I get a cold drink over here??
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