I had completely abandoned any and all hope that I had for my manuscript, Having Grace. The querying process was wearing me down.
So I was surprised to open up my inbox this morning and see this:
Dear Randine,
Thank you for your query. I enjoyed reading the pages you sent of HAVING GRACE and would love to read more — would you please send me the full MS as a pdf attachment?
Many thanks, I’ll be back in touch after I’ve had a look.
I read the first sentence, thinking 'here we go again', another rejection: "Thank you for your query, however..."
I about fell off my chair to see the complete and utter lack of that hated word "however."
It's against my better judgement to post anything on here about it.
If the agent reads this (Tricia, her name is. Don't you just love it? I could really see myself bonding with her, calling her "Trish" someday.), it makes me look - or sound- desperate.
I mean, if a guy asked you out on a date, and you said yes but then you read on his website that he nearly fell off his chair when you said yes, you might start wonder about him. Personally- I might run the other way.
But I think it should be OK.
No one from New York is reading this.
So I will spend tonight reading through my manuscript for the billionth time.
I just can't send it out without reading it first, once again.
But no matter how many times I read it, I still laugh out loud, which you wouldn't think I would since I wrote the thing and I know exactly what's coming next.
And then we will wait and see.
This is my third request. I'm expecting another rejection.
Sometimes, honestly, I wonder what I'm more afraid of- being rejected, or not. It sounds stupid. Maybe it is. But sometimes I wonder: can I really bring it?
But, we'll cross that bridge when we get there-- and I'll use 'when' instead of 'if', even though I'm kinda tempted to use 'if.'
And I'm using 'we' instead of "I"-because whatever happens next, you guys will be there to help me through it.
Right?
Monday, September 13, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Whips, Chains and Blood Spatter- What I don't want to see on my Jeans.
Even though I poke fun of certain people for making certain concoctions, I must admit that I, myself, am going the way of describing tomatoes as 'real nice' and wearing 'mom' jeans.
We get the Good Food Box every two weeks at work, and it has become a major event in my life.
I lift the lid and peer in, curious and strangely excited about this weeks selection of fresh, local produce.
"Baby potatoes!" I exclaimed to a coworker. "And lemons!"
I was feeling tingly all over. I could make roasted baby lemon potatoes!
"Corn on the cob!" my other coworker said, pulling out ears of corn.
"Fresh cilantro!" I said, bringing it to my nose and inhaling deeply.
We had hit the jackpot!
I am so looking forward to going home tonight to make a nice, hearty fall soup.
I would put the recipe on here- but I don't want to be one of those people that posts recipes for soup on her blog, complete with photos and annoying captions, pictures of their kids in their home sewn Halloween costumes and biblical passages-- not that there's anything wrong with that.
It just ain't me.
At least, not yet.
And as for jeans- well I am still not quite at the elastic waist band stage of things, I fear that I might not be too far off.
My last foray into jean shopping did not go well. The term 'unmitigated disaster' comes to mind, to which you might think I'm merely overwriting things here- but this is not flowery overwriting. This is the truth.
First of all, I had to wade through a million pairs of size two and four jeans to even get to a size 8.
And that pair still looked super tiny. I looked at them, skeptical.
"They're supposed to be tight fitting," the girl assured me.
"Are they all so tight fitting?" I asked.
"That's the style," she told me.
I wasn't convinced.
"Is there anything- a bit looser fitting?"
She held up a pair of cargo pants with a chain hanging from the waist. "But maybe not quite that loose," I qualified. And maybe less chainy, as well, I thought to myself.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and sighed, snapping her pink bubble gum loudly.
She stalked off across the store, brought back another pair, which were scuffy looking with wide tears across the knees and something that looked like blood spatter splotched randomly on the thighs.
I wasn't trying to be difficult.
But was it too much to ask to get an article of clothing that didn't have a chain hanging off of it or look like it was recovered from a fatal rollover scene??
Apparently it was. I looked at the jeans with open disapproval.
"Is there anything- sort of plain looking?"
She looked at me like I was speaking another language.
Maybe I was.
She threw a pile of jeans at me in a light wash ans showed me to the change room.
Every pair I tried on waist such that it fell right on top of my pubic bone, leaving a bulge of unsightly fat hanging out over top of it.
I took in my side profile, trying to convince myself that maybe- maybe, with the right shirt, say- it could work.
I looked like a recovering alcoholic still working down the beer belly.
Anyways. These days, I wear trousers. Black or charcoal dress pants.
You can dress them up or down and it's much less complicated than jean shopping.
We get the Good Food Box every two weeks at work, and it has become a major event in my life.
I lift the lid and peer in, curious and strangely excited about this weeks selection of fresh, local produce.
"Baby potatoes!" I exclaimed to a coworker. "And lemons!"
I was feeling tingly all over. I could make roasted baby lemon potatoes!
"Corn on the cob!" my other coworker said, pulling out ears of corn.
"Fresh cilantro!" I said, bringing it to my nose and inhaling deeply.
We had hit the jackpot!
I am so looking forward to going home tonight to make a nice, hearty fall soup.
I would put the recipe on here- but I don't want to be one of those people that posts recipes for soup on her blog, complete with photos and annoying captions, pictures of their kids in their home sewn Halloween costumes and biblical passages-- not that there's anything wrong with that.
It just ain't me.
At least, not yet.
And as for jeans- well I am still not quite at the elastic waist band stage of things, I fear that I might not be too far off.
My last foray into jean shopping did not go well. The term 'unmitigated disaster' comes to mind, to which you might think I'm merely overwriting things here- but this is not flowery overwriting. This is the truth.
First of all, I had to wade through a million pairs of size two and four jeans to even get to a size 8.
And that pair still looked super tiny. I looked at them, skeptical.
"They're supposed to be tight fitting," the girl assured me.
"Are they all so tight fitting?" I asked.
"That's the style," she told me.
I wasn't convinced.
"Is there anything- a bit looser fitting?"
She held up a pair of cargo pants with a chain hanging from the waist. "But maybe not quite that loose," I qualified. And maybe less chainy, as well, I thought to myself.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and sighed, snapping her pink bubble gum loudly.
She stalked off across the store, brought back another pair, which were scuffy looking with wide tears across the knees and something that looked like blood spatter splotched randomly on the thighs.
I wasn't trying to be difficult.
But was it too much to ask to get an article of clothing that didn't have a chain hanging off of it or look like it was recovered from a fatal rollover scene??
Apparently it was. I looked at the jeans with open disapproval.
"Is there anything- sort of plain looking?"
She looked at me like I was speaking another language.
Maybe I was.
She threw a pile of jeans at me in a light wash ans showed me to the change room.
Every pair I tried on waist such that it fell right on top of my pubic bone, leaving a bulge of unsightly fat hanging out over top of it.
I took in my side profile, trying to convince myself that maybe- maybe, with the right shirt, say- it could work.
I looked like a recovering alcoholic still working down the beer belly.
Anyways. These days, I wear trousers. Black or charcoal dress pants.
You can dress them up or down and it's much less complicated than jean shopping.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
That Ghoulish Goulash
Disclaimer:
I am telling this story third hand.
I, myself, did not make this goulash, and I want to make that very clear, for reasons which will soon become apparent. However, I will tell the story in first person POV, as it is easier for me this way.
The person involved has asked that her true identity shall not be revealed.
This story is based on actual events.
It may be disturbing to some readers.
I had visions, certain ideas, as a child, that when I was a parent, I would
1)Not have any rules at all whatsoever
2)Not dress in typical 'mom' fare-- ie) light washed, elastic banded, pocketless jeans with a lavender Tshirt with a flower pot applique- or any kind of applique.
3)Not use the term: "I'll give you something to be sorry about."
and lastly: 4 never, ever, not ever, no matter what--serve my kids 'goulash' for supper, or anything icky for that matter.
Needless to say, point #1 went out the window shortly after my first born started walking.
On two and three, I am still holding strong.
On four, I transgressed, rather incidentally. It's not like I just woke up one morning and said "I'm going to make goulash for supper." It was something I kind of fell into.
I was looking at the leftover Shepard's Pie, wondering what could be done with it.
It was composed of: Ground beef, peas, carrots, and mashed potatoes.
There was about half a pan left. It was on the second day, and I knew that if it didn't get eaten soon, it would be garbage.
So I threw it in the crock pot, an idea forming in my mind.
I opened the cupboard, and withdrew a can of stewed tomatoes, which I would later describe as "real nice" tomatoes- by which I meant diced, not whole. (As an aside: Describing tomatoes as "real nice" is something which I didn't think I would ever do, either. It has me, quite frankly, kind of scared that it's all going to shit. I might as well break out those whitewashed elastic jeans that go up to my ribcage and applique T shirt.)
Anyways.
I added some macaroni to my concoction, which looked concerning. Grayish, slightly congealed looking hamburger at the bottom, covered in grayish patches of potato masses. Stewed tomatoes floated at the top, with peas and carrots poking out at random.
I looked at a can of corn, pondering it. But then I shook myself out of that line of thought. "Fuck.No," I said out loud. "I can't really be thinking about this."
This was getting out of hand.
"Did the kids eat it?" someone would later ask me.
I hesitated. "Not initially. But they did after I added ketchup and Cheez Whiz."
I am telling this story third hand.
I, myself, did not make this goulash, and I want to make that very clear, for reasons which will soon become apparent. However, I will tell the story in first person POV, as it is easier for me this way.
The person involved has asked that her true identity shall not be revealed.
This story is based on actual events.
It may be disturbing to some readers.
I had visions, certain ideas, as a child, that when I was a parent, I would
1)Not have any rules at all whatsoever
2)Not dress in typical 'mom' fare-- ie) light washed, elastic banded, pocketless jeans with a lavender Tshirt with a flower pot applique- or any kind of applique.
3)Not use the term: "I'll give you something to be sorry about."
and lastly: 4 never, ever, not ever, no matter what--serve my kids 'goulash' for supper, or anything icky for that matter.
Needless to say, point #1 went out the window shortly after my first born started walking.
On two and three, I am still holding strong.
On four, I transgressed, rather incidentally. It's not like I just woke up one morning and said "I'm going to make goulash for supper." It was something I kind of fell into.
I was looking at the leftover Shepard's Pie, wondering what could be done with it.
It was composed of: Ground beef, peas, carrots, and mashed potatoes.
There was about half a pan left. It was on the second day, and I knew that if it didn't get eaten soon, it would be garbage.
So I threw it in the crock pot, an idea forming in my mind.
I opened the cupboard, and withdrew a can of stewed tomatoes, which I would later describe as "real nice" tomatoes- by which I meant diced, not whole. (As an aside: Describing tomatoes as "real nice" is something which I didn't think I would ever do, either. It has me, quite frankly, kind of scared that it's all going to shit. I might as well break out those whitewashed elastic jeans that go up to my ribcage and applique T shirt.)
Anyways.
I added some macaroni to my concoction, which looked concerning. Grayish, slightly congealed looking hamburger at the bottom, covered in grayish patches of potato masses. Stewed tomatoes floated at the top, with peas and carrots poking out at random.
I looked at a can of corn, pondering it. But then I shook myself out of that line of thought. "Fuck.No," I said out loud. "I can't really be thinking about this."
This was getting out of hand.
"Did the kids eat it?" someone would later ask me.
I hesitated. "Not initially. But they did after I added ketchup and Cheez Whiz."
Monday, September 6, 2010
The Sixty-Thirty Rule.
A summer sale was held at the lake.
No. Not a sale.
A blow out.
I only intended to buy one thing.
But it wasn't my fault that they had the cutest, cutest pair of Quicksilver board shorts for Alex.
Or the cutest, cutest Roxy bathing suit for Payton.
And other stuff. So much other stuff.
"Don't do it," my sister in law said, looking at the price tag for the board shorts, size 3. "Let's just get out of here while we still can."
But it was too late.
"Save yourself. It's too late for me."
Already I was recalling his current swimwear with disdain. I had bought it at Superstore! It was cute enough, but it looked kind of babyish with little orange shark fins on it. This one was so much nicer, with a blue and gray plaid print. So sophisticated looking.
I couldn't- wouldn't- dress him in that drab, substandard swimwear. Not for another day. Not when I had such a vastly superior product in my hand.
And for 40% off, no less.
In the end, I saved sixty dollars on my purchases, which is pretty awesome.
"But how much did you SPEND?" Geoff wants to know, cutting me off practically in midsentence when I was telling him of my purchases.
"It's not the point," I told him. "The savings speak for themselves. The sixty dollars I saved is practically money in the bank."
He hates it when I say that. "But it's not money in the bank!"
"I know that," I tell him. "Hence the use of the word 'practically'"
He just sighs.
If I have to tell him how much I spent on any given item, I use the sixty-thirty rule, which is as follows:
If it's over a hundred, just say sixty.
If it's less than a hundred, just say thirty.
And if it's under thirty- you don't- technically speaking- have to tell him anything at all.
Because at that price, they're practically giving it away.
This seems to keep him happy. And I know that there is a certain, slight, deceptive quality to it, but I think that Geoff actually does prefer it this way. I think we have a certain, unspoken, agreement that if I spent too much money on shit we don't need (which is virtually everything in his books) that it's better for everyone if he doesn't know all of the details.
Except the kids always rat me out. Alex will walk into the house with a new toy and tell Geoff "My mommy buyed this for me," in a slightly taunting quality. Geoff just looks at me pointedly. "Yes," he says to Alex. "Mommy buys you everything, doesn't she? She just can't say no to you. But she can sure say no to Daddy." And then another, longer pointed look.
Anyways, needless to say, we made it to the lake safe and sound.
And it was pretty good. Other than an apparent mouse infestation.
"Is it dead?" I asked my mom the day before we departed to stay with them at Candle Lake, referring to the mouse she had told me about the previous week.
"Oh, yes," she assured me. "Dead. Very dead."
So I proceeded with my plans. Make no mistake. If I had known that the mouse was alive, I would have called the whole thing off. I don't do mice. I can't do mice. Like, not at all. I can't even watch Exterminator shows where they portray mice.
So we were at the lake and things were rolling fine. We were at the beach, watching the kids play in the water, and we were on our second beer. "Did you have a late night last night?" I asked my brother, innocously.
"Ya. Kind of. Dad and I were up half the night exterminating."
My blood went cold.
"What?" I asked, looking at my mom, stricken, and then at my brother and back to my mom again. My mom shot my brother a look.
"Just kidding," he said, shaking his head. "No. There's no mice. That was- a bad joke."
"If there's a mouse in that house you guys HAVE to tell me. I seriously need to know."
They continued to look at each other, both of them hesitating.
At that point I could tell that, obviously, there was a motherfucking mouse in that house. Their hesitation told me everything I needed to know, even there was a part of me that didn't really want to know. Ignorance is bliss, sometimes, and I think this was definately one of those times.
"Well, there's not a mouse, per se. More like- mice. Plural. We caught the one- but now we think he has brothers. There have been- sightings."
I wanted to cry.
I wanted to die.
I wanted to throw myself into the water, weight my pockets down rocks, and not come out again.
Except the water looked pretty cold, the tide rough and white capped.
But I did it. I stayed in that mouse house. And it wasn't half bad.
I hope you had a good weekend, as well.
And I will post those pictures of Alex in his board shorts soon, and you will see what I mean.
I had virtually no choice in the matter.
No. Not a sale.
A blow out.
I only intended to buy one thing.
But it wasn't my fault that they had the cutest, cutest pair of Quicksilver board shorts for Alex.
Or the cutest, cutest Roxy bathing suit for Payton.
And other stuff. So much other stuff.
"Don't do it," my sister in law said, looking at the price tag for the board shorts, size 3. "Let's just get out of here while we still can."
But it was too late.
"Save yourself. It's too late for me."
Already I was recalling his current swimwear with disdain. I had bought it at Superstore! It was cute enough, but it looked kind of babyish with little orange shark fins on it. This one was so much nicer, with a blue and gray plaid print. So sophisticated looking.
I couldn't- wouldn't- dress him in that drab, substandard swimwear. Not for another day. Not when I had such a vastly superior product in my hand.
And for 40% off, no less.
In the end, I saved sixty dollars on my purchases, which is pretty awesome.
"But how much did you SPEND?" Geoff wants to know, cutting me off practically in midsentence when I was telling him of my purchases.
"It's not the point," I told him. "The savings speak for themselves. The sixty dollars I saved is practically money in the bank."
He hates it when I say that. "But it's not money in the bank!"
"I know that," I tell him. "Hence the use of the word 'practically'"
He just sighs.
If I have to tell him how much I spent on any given item, I use the sixty-thirty rule, which is as follows:
If it's over a hundred, just say sixty.
If it's less than a hundred, just say thirty.
And if it's under thirty- you don't- technically speaking- have to tell him anything at all.
Because at that price, they're practically giving it away.
This seems to keep him happy. And I know that there is a certain, slight, deceptive quality to it, but I think that Geoff actually does prefer it this way. I think we have a certain, unspoken, agreement that if I spent too much money on shit we don't need (which is virtually everything in his books) that it's better for everyone if he doesn't know all of the details.
Except the kids always rat me out. Alex will walk into the house with a new toy and tell Geoff "My mommy buyed this for me," in a slightly taunting quality. Geoff just looks at me pointedly. "Yes," he says to Alex. "Mommy buys you everything, doesn't she? She just can't say no to you. But she can sure say no to Daddy." And then another, longer pointed look.
Anyways, needless to say, we made it to the lake safe and sound.
And it was pretty good. Other than an apparent mouse infestation.
"Is it dead?" I asked my mom the day before we departed to stay with them at Candle Lake, referring to the mouse she had told me about the previous week.
"Oh, yes," she assured me. "Dead. Very dead."
So I proceeded with my plans. Make no mistake. If I had known that the mouse was alive, I would have called the whole thing off. I don't do mice. I can't do mice. Like, not at all. I can't even watch Exterminator shows where they portray mice.
So we were at the lake and things were rolling fine. We were at the beach, watching the kids play in the water, and we were on our second beer. "Did you have a late night last night?" I asked my brother, innocously.
"Ya. Kind of. Dad and I were up half the night exterminating."
My blood went cold.
"What?" I asked, looking at my mom, stricken, and then at my brother and back to my mom again. My mom shot my brother a look.
"Just kidding," he said, shaking his head. "No. There's no mice. That was- a bad joke."
"If there's a mouse in that house you guys HAVE to tell me. I seriously need to know."
They continued to look at each other, both of them hesitating.
At that point I could tell that, obviously, there was a motherfucking mouse in that house. Their hesitation told me everything I needed to know, even there was a part of me that didn't really want to know. Ignorance is bliss, sometimes, and I think this was definately one of those times.
"Well, there's not a mouse, per se. More like- mice. Plural. We caught the one- but now we think he has brothers. There have been- sightings."
I wanted to cry.
I wanted to die.
I wanted to throw myself into the water, weight my pockets down rocks, and not come out again.
Except the water looked pretty cold, the tide rough and white capped.
But I did it. I stayed in that mouse house. And it wasn't half bad.
I hope you had a good weekend, as well.
And I will post those pictures of Alex in his board shorts soon, and you will see what I mean.
I had virtually no choice in the matter.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Grim Statistics, Speed, and Ineffective Threatening Techniques: My plans for the Long Weekend.
We're going to the lake for the long weekend, which I was pretty excited about. Until I drove to work this morning. And heard this: "Your chances of dying in a fatal collision on the highway doubles on the long weekend"- said in sinister tone, which suddenly becomes light, adding: "Please drive carefully."
What the Fuck.
I don't much like the fact that there's a chance I might die out there on the highway, period. The fact that it has just doubled, as of midnight tonight, kind of has me freaking out.
So I plan on leaving tomorrow morning instead of tonight. As early as possible- 7:30. Get on that highway before all the drunk people.
7:30 is too early to be drunk, isn't it??
I think anything before 10 am is too early to be drunk.
Buzzed, maybe, yes, okay.
But if you're drunk on your ass at 7:30 am then you might have a problem.
Maybe.
Unless you're still drunk from the night before. Which is another story. Then you don't have a problem. You're just awesome to party with. Or you overstay your welcome. Or you're on drugs that make you stay up all night- "uppers" "meth" "speedballs"
I know all the lingo.
I watch Intervention.
Anyways. We're going to the lake tomorrow. Hopefully we will make it there.
I am considering whether or not to buy the kids a portable DVD player so they can watch a movie on the way up. The drive is two and a half hours, which doesn't sound half bad, but when I'm on my own (which I will be, of course. Honestly- if I ever get married again, it will not only be to an Irish dude, but to someone with a nice 9-5 job, a tax accountant or something. Not a food and beverage manager.) with the three of them, it's not pretty.
Frick, who am I kidding? Even if Geoff is with me, it's not pretty. He doesn't do anything. Last time he got mad at them, said if they didn't stop fighting they were going to have to walk.
That totally backfired.
"I want to walk!" Alex said, trying to break free of his restraint. "Walk!" he kept on calling.
Yes, threaten a kid that's writhing against his restraint system that if he doesn't stay quiet we're going to let him free.
That should work bloody brilliantly.
For the rest of the way there he screamed to get out and walk.
Way to go, Geoff.
Actually, honestly, it was me who made that threat. I cannot lie to you.
I don't know what I was thinking.
It's not the first time I've made a no good threat.
Last month when Gage had a dentist appointment he presented himself wearing a ripped pair of wrinkled jeans that were way too short on him- he looked like one of the kids I saw on a Dateline special- Children of the Appalachia. I told him to go change and he refused.
"If you're not going to change, then I'll just leave you at home."
Wait a minute. What did I just say??
As soon as I said it I knew it was a mistake.
"Sweet," he said, throwing himself back on the couch and picking up his DS.
Anyways, I don't care what Geoff says. The DVD player is an investment in myself and my sanity- possibly my safety. Last time I drove home from the lake with those kids I made it home in under two hours- and we stopped for lunch in PA. I accomplished this feat by first of all going way too fast, and secondly by passing nearly everybody that I saw, even if I was driving myself straight into oncoming traffic.
They'll swerve, I thought.
And if not, I'll either die on impact or be brain damaged enough that I cannot hear the constant bellowing of poorly sung Usher songs alternated with Dora songs alternated with urgent demands to go poopy and soothers being thrown at my head.
Either way, NO DOWN SIDE.
Have a good long weekend.
What the Fuck.
I don't much like the fact that there's a chance I might die out there on the highway, period. The fact that it has just doubled, as of midnight tonight, kind of has me freaking out.
So I plan on leaving tomorrow morning instead of tonight. As early as possible- 7:30. Get on that highway before all the drunk people.
7:30 is too early to be drunk, isn't it??
I think anything before 10 am is too early to be drunk.
Buzzed, maybe, yes, okay.
But if you're drunk on your ass at 7:30 am then you might have a problem.
Maybe.
Unless you're still drunk from the night before. Which is another story. Then you don't have a problem. You're just awesome to party with. Or you overstay your welcome. Or you're on drugs that make you stay up all night- "uppers" "meth" "speedballs"
I know all the lingo.
I watch Intervention.
Anyways. We're going to the lake tomorrow. Hopefully we will make it there.
I am considering whether or not to buy the kids a portable DVD player so they can watch a movie on the way up. The drive is two and a half hours, which doesn't sound half bad, but when I'm on my own (which I will be, of course. Honestly- if I ever get married again, it will not only be to an Irish dude, but to someone with a nice 9-5 job, a tax accountant or something. Not a food and beverage manager.) with the three of them, it's not pretty.
Frick, who am I kidding? Even if Geoff is with me, it's not pretty. He doesn't do anything. Last time he got mad at them, said if they didn't stop fighting they were going to have to walk.
That totally backfired.
"I want to walk!" Alex said, trying to break free of his restraint. "Walk!" he kept on calling.
Yes, threaten a kid that's writhing against his restraint system that if he doesn't stay quiet we're going to let him free.
That should work bloody brilliantly.
For the rest of the way there he screamed to get out and walk.
Way to go, Geoff.
Actually, honestly, it was me who made that threat. I cannot lie to you.
I don't know what I was thinking.
It's not the first time I've made a no good threat.
Last month when Gage had a dentist appointment he presented himself wearing a ripped pair of wrinkled jeans that were way too short on him- he looked like one of the kids I saw on a Dateline special- Children of the Appalachia. I told him to go change and he refused.
"If you're not going to change, then I'll just leave you at home."
Wait a minute. What did I just say??
As soon as I said it I knew it was a mistake.
"Sweet," he said, throwing himself back on the couch and picking up his DS.
Anyways, I don't care what Geoff says. The DVD player is an investment in myself and my sanity- possibly my safety. Last time I drove home from the lake with those kids I made it home in under two hours- and we stopped for lunch in PA. I accomplished this feat by first of all going way too fast, and secondly by passing nearly everybody that I saw, even if I was driving myself straight into oncoming traffic.
They'll swerve, I thought.
And if not, I'll either die on impact or be brain damaged enough that I cannot hear the constant bellowing of poorly sung Usher songs alternated with Dora songs alternated with urgent demands to go poopy and soothers being thrown at my head.
Either way, NO DOWN SIDE.
Have a good long weekend.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Happy Birthday to Me
A list of things I did this morning as the day of my 33rd birthday dawned:
-tried to recover my stolen hotmail account, which as it turns out, isn't easy. I have to know the IP adresses of every computer I've ever logged onto my hotmail account and the dates and times. Two days ago I had no idea what an IP address was. Now I know all too much.
Hotmail "Agents" are now investigating. The whole thing is very clandestine. They give me secret passwords that let me into secret websites where they communicate with me on secure servers.
Honestly, when I pictured myself communicating with agents this is not what I pictured.
I wouldn't even care about my hotmail account if it weren't for the fact that I still have twenty some outstanding queries with that adress on them-- a seperate account that I created for this sole purpose.
-phoned the water company and told them that I made a payment on my account and could they please, pretty please, not disconnect my water. That lady did not seem very excited to hear the news that I had made a payment. If anything she sounded bored and irritated.
-Went online and made a payment.
-Tried to convince Alex that it's my birthday and not his. He does not like this. He does not accept this.
-Cut Paytons chicken quesidalla into neat triangles for her lunch today, wrap them and put them in her lunch kit with her Tinkerbell ice pack that she made me buy. I was like, seriously? An ice pack for your lunch kit? We never had those in our days. You just kept your lunch stuffed in your locker all day, and if you got salmonella from it, well, that was your problem. Then again, I didn't exactly get chicken quesidalla triangles in my lunch.
Anyways, as you see- the day is shaping up to be very fun.
Geoff and I have some plans later to go out for supper, and I look forward to that.
Not so much for the food aspect, but for the drink aspects.
Have a good day.
-tried to recover my stolen hotmail account, which as it turns out, isn't easy. I have to know the IP adresses of every computer I've ever logged onto my hotmail account and the dates and times. Two days ago I had no idea what an IP address was. Now I know all too much.
Hotmail "Agents" are now investigating. The whole thing is very clandestine. They give me secret passwords that let me into secret websites where they communicate with me on secure servers.
Honestly, when I pictured myself communicating with agents this is not what I pictured.
I wouldn't even care about my hotmail account if it weren't for the fact that I still have twenty some outstanding queries with that adress on them-- a seperate account that I created for this sole purpose.
-phoned the water company and told them that I made a payment on my account and could they please, pretty please, not disconnect my water. That lady did not seem very excited to hear the news that I had made a payment. If anything she sounded bored and irritated.
-Went online and made a payment.
-Tried to convince Alex that it's my birthday and not his. He does not like this. He does not accept this.
-Cut Paytons chicken quesidalla into neat triangles for her lunch today, wrap them and put them in her lunch kit with her Tinkerbell ice pack that she made me buy. I was like, seriously? An ice pack for your lunch kit? We never had those in our days. You just kept your lunch stuffed in your locker all day, and if you got salmonella from it, well, that was your problem. Then again, I didn't exactly get chicken quesidalla triangles in my lunch.
Anyways, as you see- the day is shaping up to be very fun.
Geoff and I have some plans later to go out for supper, and I look forward to that.
Not so much for the food aspect, but for the drink aspects.
Have a good day.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Flirting with Pizza
Do you think it's bad if some of all of my closest relationships are with people in the fast food industry?
Forget I asked that. It probably is.
But lately the only people I seem to talk to- besides my kids, which, unless you want to call "Get down from the table!" a conversation, I don't actually, really 'talk to'- strictly speaking, are food service workers.
I order pizza for supper.
"Hey, it's Randine," the pizza guy calls out to some other guy when I phone in my order. "We were wondering where you've been. I've got a two word joke for you: Midget Shortage."
I laugh. Not even a fake laugh- I'm ashamed to say it. This is the best conversation I've had all day.
"Will you be getting the pepperoni again?" he asks.
"You know it."
And when I get there to pick it up they tease me by telling me that my total is $35,000.25
"That pizza better have golden pepperoni on it!"
And we all laugh.
And then they say "Just kidding, it's 35.25."
"Oh, you got me again!"
I take my pizza and ribs, and notice that they (accidentally?) gave me two pounds of ribs instead of one.
This is the problem.
The pizza people fall for me.
I had to dump my last pizza delivery person for the same reason.
Am I just too irresistible in my sweat pants and pony tail?
Or are they watching too many *ahem* 'mature' movies with a pizza delivery inspired plot??
Or maybe they mistake my bi weekly pizza orders as some sort of romantic interest??
But it's not. I'm just that lazy.
And possibly slightly delusional.
And then today, I go to pick up my lunch at EE Burritos, which is also generally a biweekly occurrence.
I see the cook/server/maybe part owner sitting on the couch nursing a baby. A baby!! I couldn't believe it. I feel so out of the loop. I feel like Geoff, except with more hair.
"Wha? You had your baby?" I ask her, sitting down next to her, taking in the baby, who is, incidentally attached to her nipple.
This does not deter me.
She tells me all about her-- 7lbs 6ozs, a great sleeper, a good nurser.
"Her latch looks great," I can't help but comment. "But I can't believe you had her- you were just here last week!"
"I know," she says. "My water broke in the kitchen! I probably shouldn't be telling you this- I know you eat here all the time." ("But we're down like that", is the implied message.)
Honestly, I'm starting to get a vision of my funeral: a roomful of people from various fast food places, all sobbing gently "I'm going to miss her Quesidalla order every Wednesday.", but then checking their watches and sighing "I've got a delivery to make."
No one will eat the finger food.
It will be a disaster.
Forget I asked that. It probably is.
But lately the only people I seem to talk to- besides my kids, which, unless you want to call "Get down from the table!" a conversation, I don't actually, really 'talk to'- strictly speaking, are food service workers.
I order pizza for supper.
"Hey, it's Randine," the pizza guy calls out to some other guy when I phone in my order. "We were wondering where you've been. I've got a two word joke for you: Midget Shortage."
I laugh. Not even a fake laugh- I'm ashamed to say it. This is the best conversation I've had all day.
"Will you be getting the pepperoni again?" he asks.
"You know it."
And when I get there to pick it up they tease me by telling me that my total is $35,000.25
"That pizza better have golden pepperoni on it!"
And we all laugh.
And then they say "Just kidding, it's 35.25."
"Oh, you got me again!"
I take my pizza and ribs, and notice that they (accidentally?) gave me two pounds of ribs instead of one.
This is the problem.
The pizza people fall for me.
I had to dump my last pizza delivery person for the same reason.
Am I just too irresistible in my sweat pants and pony tail?
Or are they watching too many *ahem* 'mature' movies with a pizza delivery inspired plot??
Or maybe they mistake my bi weekly pizza orders as some sort of romantic interest??
But it's not. I'm just that lazy.
And possibly slightly delusional.
And then today, I go to pick up my lunch at EE Burritos, which is also generally a biweekly occurrence.
I see the cook/server/maybe part owner sitting on the couch nursing a baby. A baby!! I couldn't believe it. I feel so out of the loop. I feel like Geoff, except with more hair.
"Wha? You had your baby?" I ask her, sitting down next to her, taking in the baby, who is, incidentally attached to her nipple.
This does not deter me.
She tells me all about her-- 7lbs 6ozs, a great sleeper, a good nurser.
"Her latch looks great," I can't help but comment. "But I can't believe you had her- you were just here last week!"
"I know," she says. "My water broke in the kitchen! I probably shouldn't be telling you this- I know you eat here all the time." ("But we're down like that", is the implied message.)
Honestly, I'm starting to get a vision of my funeral: a roomful of people from various fast food places, all sobbing gently "I'm going to miss her Quesidalla order every Wednesday.", but then checking their watches and sighing "I've got a delivery to make."
No one will eat the finger food.
It will be a disaster.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)