The War and Peace of blog posts

I keep threatening to tell you about my mini-breakdown. That's why blogs were invented, right?


So when I was little my dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He lived. But from about ages 3-8, I had this emaciated, frail chemo bald man living in my house who was quite often blown over by the lightest gusts of wind. And my mom had a few gentle talks with me about how my dad was going to die and what that meant.


It all worked out. I think a thirty year remission counts as cured, right? He still died young, but at 59. Not 29, like they told him the first time. And it wasn't cancer that did him in. Anyway, back to me as a kid. A dying dad is a heavy emotional load to carry, but like most kids, I was resilient. Tough, even. That kind of baggage still takes it's toll, but I found ways to deal with it. 


Like, for example, if I slept with my stuffed animals in a certain rotation, nothing bad would happen. Oh, and if I climbed stairs taking an even number of steps on each leg, then chemo would go well. There were light switch things. And not stepping on cracks things. And counting things.


And wouldn't you know that as my dad got better, these tricks became less and less necessary? 


Yeah, I had OCD. It runs in my dad's family, I guess. He didn't have it, but lots of my uncles and cousins do, most of them not too severely. I didn't even know I had it until I was adult. It's been latent for years.


One thing I did know and that OCD points to sometimes is that I am a control freak. I have always been a control freak. Guess what? Totally another coping mechanism.


What I didn't figure out until about a year after I married Kenny is that I also had some anxiety issues. Again, this is all very obvious in hindsight, but in the anxiety spiral, not so much. And in reading more about this over the past few years and thinking through it and analyzing blah blah blah, this is what I've learned: my anxiety is mild to moderate. I've had only two panic attacks in my whole life. My anxiety isn't chronic and it has identifiable triggers. Maybe once have I ever been in a tailspin long enough that had I realized I was suffering from anxiety, I would have been smart to go in and get some meds to help me manage it until my mood stabilized.


But on balance, my anxiety is usually near the mild end. This doesn't mean it's delightful. Or even a mild annoyance. It's super annoying actually, especially for someone who is highly, HIGHLY logical and sure that ALL things can be thought through and resolved through the mere application of reason.


Um, that's not how anxiety works.


Anyway, it's given me an empathy for people who suffer with this to a far greater degree. It really can't be controlled. But it can be managed.



It took a year of being married to my amazing and patient husband for me to realize that I had anxiety and to understand the triggers, etc. But I got to a place finally where I could let go of a lot of it and just be happy. The letting go took a long time, but it happened.

And that brings us to last week, specifically the tail end of the week where I spiraled into some anxiety. For once, I recognized what was happening. Unfortunately, I couldn't simply talk myself through it. Anxiety is more than stress--it's an extreme reaction to stress involving a lack of control over a situation. Or my form of it is.


There are certain things that I know set me off. I used to think that I was weak if I couldn't handle spinning a million plates at once. Now I realize that I totally can do it but my family pays the price because taking on too much can trigger more than simple stress for me. Also, I know that conflicts in really important personal relationships can cause problems (if I'm the reason for the conflict--that makes me even more anxious). And being excluded from stuff. That causes anxiety, not just hurt feelings (I do this crazy obsessive thing of wondering how I can control everyone's perception of/feeling toward me. Stupid.). And then of course, there's this huge category of Huge Life Events I Have No Control Over.


And trust me, I know everyone deals with this stuff. And most of the time, most of these things cause me stress but no anxiety. Sometimes, though, the stars misalign and Venus and Mars duke it or something, I don't know. But when that happens, normal stress turns into This Big Thing, days of insomnia, freak outs, panic, etc. Like I said, it's been a few years, but last week anxiety came to visit again.


I've already gone into a million billion boring details so I won't bore you with more now. Here's the thumbnail: my road to publication was really easy compared to most people's (I'll tell you the story some time) and it's set up a little disconnect between me and reality. And those two things didn't reconcile for me last week. And suddenly I realized how little control I have over the success of my new book despite my intention to be Supreme Ruler of the Universe and Most Especially My Book. And I am not good at relinquishing control over things that really matter to me (I'm going to be a peach of a mother-in-law). And a book release . . . there's very little I control about that in the first place.


And so suddenly I was dealing with a lot of self-doubt and frustration about lack of control and worry and all kinds of things. And that was the trigger and it all went downhill after that. And then I started getting really frustrated that I couldn't sleep and my brain wouldn't turn off and that I couldn't just talk myself into not being crazy which made the anxiety worse. And off went the merry-go-round.


I did some retail therapy. (Kenny, don't flinch: the following damage was done to discretionary funds, I promise.) It resulted in five new skirts, four cardigans, three sweaters, a necklace, a handbag, a pair of stilettos, two new shirts, and a lip gloss.


Yeah, yeah. I have issues. I GET IT. I think some of that will be going back. Not nearly as much as should go back, but some. Like the kinda cute stuff. I'm keeping the really cute stuff.


Anyway, guess what? That kind of retail therapy only makes things worse because then there's this whole, "I suck and have no self-discipline" fueling the downward spiral. Fun!


And finally Sunday I couldn't take it any more. The one advantage of knowing you're sometimes prone to anxiety and that it only reaches moderate levels at your worst points, is that you can explain it out loud even though you can't talk yourself out of how you're feeling.


And so I talked it out with Kenny. And I cried. And I let it out. And he prescribed nightly back rubs for me. And an afternoon in bed reading a funny book. And then he told me how he felt about my talent and why he feels so strongly about supporting me and it was really inspired, what he said. Then he started praying extra hard for me.


And then I got an email yesterday that was a tender mercy. I'll tell you about it soonish because this post is already so long I don't even want to go back and proof it so bless you if you're still reading.


But I realized: I cannot control the advertising for my book. I can't control who I'm positioned against. I can't control who will take the time to rate my book on Goodreads or other places. I can't control who will come to a book signing. I can't control a million other things.

But I can write a good book that does something good for someone. And I did. And I can be thankful for everything my publisher does for me, and I am. And I'm slowly feeling better. (Although full disclosure: I did buy one shirt, skirt, and handbag mentioned above this morning so I'm not ALL the way there yet). And I'm coming out of it and this has turned out to be a very small blip in the grand scheme of things. And I slept well two nights in a row. And I didn't eat my feelings: A HUGE VICTORY. And my pants were too big this morning and I never felt so excited to look so dumb in a too big pair of pants.


And fun things are happening this week. And I did the right thing for once and scaled down my DO EVERYTHING tendencies and turned my impending road trip into a mini writing retreat. The idea makes me feel calm.


Many of you will ask how you can help because that's how you are. You can't help, because the things I need from you are things I want you to give without me asking. I suck, I know. But that's how it is. Maybe I will become better at asking for what I need and accepting that even though what I get in return is prompted it will still be genuine. Baby steps.


But you can do this if you want: win my book at my friend Brittany's blog. I want to help get her twenty new followers and although I'm trying to move away from goals like that because failing only makes me crazy, I also was all humble bragging to her about how I thought this giveaway would be SO GOOD for her blog. So yeah, you can click over and follow her and maybe I will feel a tad less dorky than usual. I think she started at 29 before the giveaway. 


And if you're still reading this post, I probably owe you chocolate. Which, if you live in Utah, you can come see me at the book signing on Thursday night (B&N in Murray, 6-8) I can give you because I'm bringing homemade mint fudge. And since I'm trying not to eat my feelings, you can do it for me. Although, if I run into cool weather and a good corn chowder up there, all bets are off. Probably I will eat my feelings and be totally fine with it.


Thanks for listening. Seriously.

Quit playing games

Our family is fond of games. And you can keep your Parcheesi and Monopoly to yourself, thank you very much. We like to walk the edge. Sometimes we teeter toward the brink of absurdity, like when we play Freeze Face. I've told you about this game before and if you aren't playing it, then you're  missing out. You need a DVR and a complete lack of ego to play and then you're all set. Just pick a show, any show, and randomly press the pause button. The person of your choosing has to duplicate the expression on the screen. You win by. . . um, actually, anyone not doing the actual face-making wins by virtue of getting to mock the face-maker. Good fun. (I'd show pictures but the oldest isn't cooperating. I'm not a fan of the spring break lazies so I sent him to his room to think about why laying around on the sofa and refusing to do anything until the third and fourth request is a bad idea, even if it's a request to pose for pictures of your mom's stupid game. But the banishment had more to do with 18 other things he refused to do this morning until I nagged him for the umpteenth time.)


Sometimes our games teeter on the brink of danger, like in the new Jacobson family classic: Refrigerator Tetris. This game takes nerves of steel and the steady hand of . . . well, Kenny, mostly. He's the champ around here. When you have three different kinds of milks, two varieties of juice, Egg Beaters and regular eggs, four different cheeses, and assorted containers of leftovers, it takes the dead eye and calm demeanor of a bomb squad technician to add anything else to the mix. Fail, and you'll 1) end up with marinara sauce down your shirt front and far worse, you'll 2) incur my wrath. "What do you mean you jumped to avoid a bath in fish stew? You should have just taken it like a man! Now you can scrub the stinky floor on your hands and knees. What? What does being THREE have to do with ANYTHING?"


Yep, I'm a joy to  live with.

NOW it's Shakespeare. Kinda.

Know why I want to be Shakespeare? Do you? Do you?


Guess which of the following reasons is my real reason for wanting to be the next Shakespeare:


1. I could quit waxing my upper lip if I were a dude.
2. I would have an actual reason for rocking a massive neck ruff.
3. He has better hair than me.
4. I could wear tights as pants and it would be real thing, not something I do as if I could bend reality to my will.
5. I could settle the arguments about whether I really write my own stuff. But probably I'd just stir the pot for fun.
6. I could tell dirty jokes and be considered cultured.
7. I could probably get Kenneth Branagh to take my calls.
8. I'd get a lifetime front row pass to Central Park's Shakespeare in the Park every summer.
9. I'd be HUGE on the talk show circuit.
10. I could make up my own words.


The reason, of course, is #10. I would like to make up my own words and then everybody would have to run around using them in sentences like it was a thing. A real, honest-to-goodness colloquialism, instantly coined by MOI.


Shakespeare did that a lot, you know. Took poetic license when he needed something to fit his rhyme and meter and what not. Also, sometimes he just made up phrases because they were awesome and he was sort of a genius. Maybe even a word-coining savant. Did you know he made up these phrases: 

All's well that ends well

Be-all and the end-all (Macbeth)

Refuse to budge an inch (Measure for Measure / Taming of the Shrew)

Dead as a doornail (2 Henry VI)

Faint hearted (I Henry VI)

Fancy-free (Midsummer Night's Dream)

Forever and a day (As You Like It)

For goodness' sake (Henry VIII)

Good riddance (Troilus and Cressida)

Heart of gold (Henry V)

In a pickle (The Tempest)

In my heart of hearts (Hamlet)

Kill with kindness (Taming of the Shrew)

Melted into thin air (The Tempest)

Naked truth (Love's Labours Lost)

Play fast and loose (King John)

And the list literally goes on and on.


So I want to be the next Shakespeare and coin my own phrases. I've worked up a few. Tell me what you think:


"Mac it up, yo!"--This means I don't know what we're having for dinner tonight so let's bust out the mac and cheese.


"DUDE!"--This means that I can't believe you, stupid driver, did something so idiotic while driving, but I can't say a swear word because kids are in the car.


Um, that's pretty much it. Nevermind the feedback. I'll keep working on it.


You know don't who doesn't have to keep working? REBECCA NELSON because the random number generator picked you to win one of Kenny's bowls for your reviews of The List on Goodreads and Amazon. Whoohoo!


Also, The List is now #8 on the Deseret Book general fiction list and #2 on the Deseret Book romance list. YES!


Lastly, if you still want to win something, you can check out the awesome prizes on the Worldwide Ward Cookbook blog. Killer!

Crazy--like a fox.

(Click here and comment on the post for a chance to win The List and rules for winning other cool stuff.)


I'm going to tell you another crazy online dating story in a second, but first, Erin at If You Give a Mom a Moment emailed to let me know that TODAY only, if you order The List online from Deseret Books (just click that link, it'll take you there), you can get 25% off. Just enter MARCH25 in the check out. That way, even with shipping, you'll still pay less than full price. There! Problem solved for those of you not near an LDS bookstore. Yay!


Once upon a time, in a fuzzy space/time bubble that hypothetically existed before I knew Kenny, I used to date. It was unfortunate this had to happen over the space of many years, but let's all keep in mind that I didn't know where Kenny lived and vice versa or I'm sure many of those dates could have been avoided. All of them, in fact.


Anyway, my friend Brita offered to set me up with an acquaintance of hers, Chris. He sounded good. Most single people my age had some sort of LDS online dating presence, so it was easy to find him on one of the sites and decide the details were okay. My age, solid in church, good job, near by. So I said sure. I didn't contact him or anything. I just waited for the date to roll around. And then the afternoon of the double date came and it fell through because this Chris guy went scuba diving with his brother out at Catalina and wasn't going to make it back in time.


Wait, what? He stood me up? 


I don't think so.


This next part will sound stalker-ish. I promise, I'm not now, nor was I, a stalker. But this is what I did next. I decided to go visit my friend Nate at his singles ward. Where Chris happens to go. Nate thought this was very funny. Chris had no idea I was coming. And when he wandered over to meet me after sacrament meeting (I looked good, guys) a flicker of recognition showed in his expression, followed by a a dawning expression that said, "I can't believe I passed on HER to go scuba diving."


Which was really the point of me dropping in that day. 


But neither of us said anything. There was no acknowledgment of the date that never happened. We just exchanged hellos and chatted like I did with several other people that day, and then I went home.


Sure enough, it took about one day flat for a message to reach me from Chris via the same online dating site where I'd found him. The rest of the story is not important so here's the gist: we ended up going out. It was fine, not spectacular. I would have said yes to a second date but he didn't call for one. However, our lack of connection aside, this guy was a good catch at a lot of levels. So I did something half crazy.


I honestly can't remember the details, but I'll reconstruct this next part the best I can. What you need to know before reading it is that I'm an INCORRIGIBLE matchmaker and I'm pretty good at it. Two marriages to my credit, thank you very much. And I don't mean mine. I mean, two friends I set up with other people are now married. 


So this is what I did. I knew Chris and I were not a fit, but it seemed a shame to let him go to waste out in Podunk, CA. I did a little snooping on the dating site and found a profile for a girl that I KNEW would hit it off with him. And I sent her this crazy email. I was like, "DON'T DELETE this even though it's going to sound bizarre. But there's this guy  you should check out . . ." so I pointed her in his direction and warned her not to let him know I was behind it because he would definitely think I was a psycho. 


Girls, I'm not. I am and have always been totally emotionally stable. But the spidey senses were tickling and I knew I had this right. Um, also, I didn't mention to her that I had gone out with him once or she would have that I was a nut job, too. NOT a nut job. Just a good matchmaker.


So she checks out his profile and emails me back. "You're right. He's my type."


Me: Duh. (I didn't type this out loud. It's just that I know these things. I'm exactly like a classy millionaire matchmaker, except totally different.)


Anyway, this girl's name was Angie, and she would email me every now and then to update me. She lived in Arizona, but she was going to come out here to meet Chris. She met Chris. She clicked with Chris. (Duh.)


And then I think my part in everything must have come up with him and it probably came across as extremely odd (it was, I know, but I couldn't help it. The man needed a WIFE and I could tell just what kind he needed so I found him one.)


That's right, IT WORKED. Because the next thing I heard of them was Nate telling me that Chris was getting married to Angie.


Boo-yah! #Winning! Whatever else you want to say for I WAS RIGHT!


And um, of course, thrilled that I could play a small part in them finding joy. Oh, who are we kidding? IT WAS ALL BECAUSE OF ME!


And of course, I have never heard from either of them again because they don't want to keep a relationship with their scary Internet "friend." Or so I assume. The truth is, once they were in touch with each other, I washed my hands of it because my work was done. Angie did ask me at one point why I was doing it, putting them in touch. And I explained. "Sometimes I just know stuff. You guys should date. Believe me or not, but you'll be a good fit."


I guess she believed me.


And though I haven't talked to either of them since, I'm sure I remain an  . . . interesting . . . footnote in their shared history.


And now you guys know I really am a lot bit nuts.

The Nerd Herd

I just bought our tickets to Washington, DC for our spring break vacation.


I have a realization every time my finger hovers over the "Buy Now" button on an airline ticket purchase. It is this: even marriage has not completely beaten my inner commitment-phobe out of me. My commitment issues rear their head again every time I have to buy a plane ticket. "Is this really what I want? Have I done my research? Are there any red flags? Do I have the details right? THIS IS  A LOT OF MONEY."


And that's pretty much the only time I still have issues. Buying plane tickets. Oh, or acquiring new house plants. "I don't know . . . I mean, it has to be watered. Like, twice a week. That's a lot of work. Maybe I should just buy a book instead. Dust only improves them."


Anyway, I'm the only person in my family that has been to our fine nation's capital. Many times, in fact. I love it. But my husband, the Nerd King of Planet Earth (and I am his queen and most loyal subject), has never set foot in DC, much less the Smithsonian.


It's a TRAVESTY and I am packing a suitcase and three children across the country to right this wrong. I cannot WAIT to go wandering through the monuments with them, and the federal buildings, and  . . .  well, it's going to be AWESOME. Me, and my little nerds trailing behind me in a runny-nosed, slightly whiny, flush-cheeked, lung-hacking row.


YAY! (And oddly enough, I mean that.)

LOL

I don't feel funny.


I do feel, however, totally content.


My humor seems to grow out of  . . . well, discontent. I guess? I don't know. Is this true?


All I know is I can't think of anything funny to say, but I am utterly happy at the moment and have been for days. When I am even vaguely annoyed, suddenly I'm hilarious. 


What does this mean? Am I one of those off-putting people who must suffer for their art? Does this mean I must make a trip to Costco where I'm sure something will set me off, probably in the form of a person who does NOT understand the simple concept of keep your oversized grocery car TO THE RIGHT, for the love . . .ahem. You see? Do I have to go to Costco in order to find my funny?


Wait. What if I'm so happy even Costco can't bring me down? What if . . .


What if I have to go to Wal-Mart?


Am I so happy now that it would take a trip to Wal-Mart to ruin it and haul my sense of humor back out?


Is it true? Do I need to feel at least mildly rankled to be find the funny in something? 


You guys . . . I'm scared. Is this the first step (this mining humor from disgruntlement) to writing  literary fiction, once described as "the two most depressing words in the English language"?


Because if it is, I may sit around being all glowy and motherly and housewife-ly and never crack a joke again. 


Yes. That's the plan now because recovering my joke mojo is far too high a price to pay for a trip to Wal-Mart.

Decisions, decisions.

If you had to choose between depression and anxiety, which would you choose?

I feel like that's the choice I'm facing, although not at a clinical level. I'm pretty even-keeled, mostly. But that gets tested during major upheavals like, oh, say . . . buying a new home and moving to a new stake, school, city, blah blah blah, in a month.

I shouldn't feel stressed OR anxious. Our time frame to move is flexible but I have a lot of self-imposed deadlines set that I'm struggling to meet. Deadlines are how I get things done, but at the same time, they're making me nuts. I keep starting and tackling different projects and little to nothing is happening. This makes me feel depressed. To be sure, it's not the dark twisty kind of depression that other people suffer with. I'm more on the blues/funk end of things. But I don't like it because it takes me out of my happy orbit.

The solution is to get things done. That's hard with a toddler and a nursing newborn. Oh, and one dental emergency after another (whole different blog post). My current strategy is to tackle things I know I can finish, even if they're not the most important things. This is why I shop Craigslist exhaustively while nursing (just scored a $100 upright 20 cu. ft freezer for the garage today--woot!) but the dishes go undone. I can't keep up with the volume for one thing, and for another, I can't do them one handed. And when the baby does let me put her down, I usually choose to do something else for those blessed ten minutes.

Don't ask me what. I have no idea. I just know it's not dishes.

I haven't been able to edit for days and I really want my manuscript cleaned up by June 1, but . . . I'm using free time (HA!) to do things like buy paint samples for our new walls and exercise because . . . 

Uh, my pants don't fit. And I sometimes don't have time to shave my legs which makes a full conversion to skirts kind of tricky.

Anyway, I was saying (and mind you, the tangents here are pretty much a road map for how my days go: start cleaning my bedroom, get distracted by changing a dirty diaper, end up trying to locate a tax number for something because I found a paper I forgot about by the diapers, etc. and so forth, GAH!), the solution is to get stuff done. 

And I do know how to do that. Make a list, prioritize, and execute. And I know how to prioritize. I can, when I choose, order things in a way that makes sense. If I do the things that will make my family happier and more comfortable, this will ultimately stress me out less than shutting everything out and revising, which is what I desperately want to do. If I chose to revise all day, I'd feel good about doing that in the same way I would feel good about getting a pedicure, but I'd feel guilty that dinner wasn't cooked and that Grant never got out of his pajamas (you know, because changing his clothes each morning is a half hour project due to his extreme emotional attachment to whatever he fell asleep in).

If I play Mussolini and get all my trains running on time, I CAN do it all. Clean, cook, exercise, play with kids, revise, do errands, and even blog. 

But it's at a price.

All will be well and everyone will be happy AS LONG AS THE UNIVERSE COOPERATES FULLY AND NOTHING DEVIATES FROM SCHEDULE EVER, EVER, EVER.

Because if I regiment the day, and things don't go as planned, my anxiety skyrockets and I LOSE IT when things don't go right. We're talking wig-flipping crazy. We're talking flinging myself on my bed to sob angrily if James takes too long with his homework or Grant spills something that I didn't schedule for.

If things go right, we're all genuinely happy. But I have to gamble that they'll go right and the universe will, for the next thirty days, cease its endless mockery of all my "plans."

So.

Do I stay in my funk, leaving my family mildly dissatisfied with the condition of everything but more or less all right? OR. Do I embrace my control freak tendencies, plan religiously, and have my family swing between deep contentment and well-being and hide-under-the-bed wariness when something goes awry?

Depression and anxiety, meet rock and a hard place.

The joys of sleep deprivation

I'm starting my own online homeschool of the Midvale School for the Gifted, the continuing adult ed version. I'm currently recruiting and while I'm excited to enroll new students, I warn you that I have the highest standards. You MUST be at LEAST on par with one of the most distinguished alumni of the Midvale School: Me.

To decide whether this is really the place for you, ask yourself if you've done  the following at least once. That's a minimum. I've done all of these multiple times. (I told you, I'm one of the best.)

Have you looked everywhere for 

1) Your glasses and found them on your head?

2) A pencil that it turned out was clenched in your teeth?

3) Shaken your keys at your child and demand to know where he put them? (Think about that one.)

Speaking of keys, have you ever attempted to use your key remote to open your house door, clicking it several times before realizing that your CAR is flashing its lights every time you do but your house is totally uninterested?

Have you ever sat at a stop sign waiting for the light to change? You have? Okay. But have you done it more than once in a day?

Have you stuck food items in the wrong place, like the milk in the pantry and the dry cereal in the fridge?

Do you regularly misplace your tv remote and later discover it in a place like on your upstairs nightstand?

Have you accidentally brushed your teeth with something besides toothpaste because it came in a tube and you found it on the bathroom counter? Like say . . . athlete's foot cream?

Have you driven off with the gas pump nozzle still in your tank?

Have you tucked your skirt into your underwear and not noticed? HAVE YOU TUCKED IT INTO THE FRONT?

If you're guilty of some of these things, I'm afraid you're not a fit for us. If, however, you've done ALL of these things plus stuff it's only a matter of time before I do, then drop off your application for the Midvale School for the Gifted in the comment box: you're one of us.

At your service . . .

I bet you know people who would "give you the shirt off their backs," right?

Me, too. Except for I mean it literally. My husband did it for me the other day.

I have had three pregnancy-related meltdowns. Not bad for eight months. The first was when I slipped on a toy my kid left out and it scared the stuffing out of me. I had a PTSD flashback to the weekend before when I tripped on the way into a stadium and scraped up my knee pretty good. Or bad, as the case may be. But I had this horrible fear I would fall on the baby. I didn't, (hence the jacked up knee) but it was nasty flashback when I skidded across the living room floor a few days later.

The second was when one of my hospital tests was taking too long and I freaked out because I was afraid of making my visiting teacher late to pick up her daughter from school. (It turned out fine. She met me at her door with a mug of hot chocolate and a dismissive wave. "Quit worrying.")

The last one was this past Friday and it all went down due to a severe lack of sleep. I had gotten only four hours the night before and it was rough day. I vegged all morning until I felt like I could function. I tapped all my reserves to get through Cubs that afternoon (and yes, I'm a total rock star for even showing up while freakishly pregnant).

It was all gone, those reserves, when I got home. My boys weren't bad at all, just a little rambunctious. But there was something inside of me just waiting to break loose and I knew if it did, I'd start crying and somehow never stop. I felt my hold on my temper and sanity snapping thread by thread. It was this cartoonish sounding "sproing!" with each little fiber that popped.

Finally, in the interests of all our safety, I said to my ten-year-old, "Watch SpongeBob until your eyeballs fall out. Give your brother whatever he wants and for the love of all that is holy, if he cries, feed him chocolate."

Then I went upstairs to my bedroom and for the first time in the history of EVER, I barricaded it with a chair underneath the doorknob because my two-year-old can pop the lock. Then I watched Veronica Mars for an hour until my husband came home and jiggled the door handle.

"Honey?" he called. It must be said he sounded nervous.

I dragged myself off the bed and moved the chair, then crawled back into my pillows.

"Are you okay?" he asked from a safe distance.

I shook my head. I still had that watery sensation somewhere in my frontal lobe, dammed and waiting to flood out in a hysterical torrent. "I can't cope right now."

The nice thing about not melting down on a regular basis is that such a statement from me carries A LOT of weight. It's like a Def Con 5 warning even when said in a perfectly even tone of voice. Especially when said in a perfectly even tone of voice. 

"Okay," he said. And that was all. He changed into his hang out clothes and closed the door behind him. I stayed where I was through another two discs of Veronica Mars and only came out for a moment to say goodnight to Grant when Kenny put him to bed.

Then I went back to our room and proved that I was making some progress in my mood by taking the arm chair instead of crawling back into bed.

A minute later, he slipped in. "Feeling better?"

"Yes," I said. "I just felt like I was going to cry and never stop. I stayed up here so I wouldn't start."

Bless his heart, he nodded like this made sense.

I knew it didn't, so I explained. "It's just that stupid shirt." I pointed at the blue t-shirt now lying crumpled on top of the laundry basket next to a bottle of Spray-n-Wash. "I don't have any shirts that fit any more so I bought two yesterday for ten dollars each and I wore that one for an hour and it already got a stain on the front so then I had to wear this stupid shirt--" I pointed to a so-called maternity shirt that was almost four inches short of doing it's job "--and it made me mad."

And then I burst into tears.

Not cute, understandable pregnant lady tears.

Huge, gulping sobs. What Oprah calls the "ugly cry." I am not a pretty cryer. I look like I have hives the second I tear up. I sobbed, and I bawled, and I wailed. Kenny just sat on the floor by me and rubbed my leg. I recovered enough to say, "I hate not having any shirts that fit," and then that set off more wailing and gnashing of teeth.

He was very sad for me so he did the only thing he knew how. He said, "Here, take mine. I've barely worn it tonight and it will definitely fit you. It smells like me, but not in a bad way."

So I took it because I wanted him to feel like he was helping, not because I thought it would actually help. And while I was struggling out of my stupid maternity shirt and into his t-shirt he slipped out again. I sat down.

And I sniffled.

And I realized . . .

Him giving me the shirt off his back really did help. And so did the bowl of ice cream he had when he returned.

And that's why I love him.

He's not eager to please. He's just happy to serve. Me, or anyone.

But especially me.

Did I mention I love him? 

Getting a leg up.

This is a girls only post. Seriously, BOYS GO AWAY.

Ladies, I have to tell you that I did something yesterday that I have never done before. In fact, two days ago I'd have bet a thousand dollars that I never would have done this EVER. But I did.

I actually begged my midwife for a pelvic exam. (My HMO has white-jacketed midwives.)

Nothing's wrong. It's just that she told me on my visit two weeks ago that we'd be doing a routine one today and so (in the interests of being discreet) let's just say I spent some time making sure I was presentable. Given that this is the current state of my tummy, it was a wonder of contortions, gyrations, grunts, and possibly strategically placed mirrors:

I pretty much can't even find my razor in the winter because I have no idea why I would shave my legs when I own several pairs of sassy boots. Isn't that why boots were invented? And shaving my legs when I'm pregnant?

Ha. Ha ha ha ha ha. Guffaw. Snort!

Suffice it to say, this is not a ritual I engage in lightly, gladly, or frequently. In fact, there's no way I'm doing that whole routine again until we're at a point that it's the last stop before the delivery room. Which is why, for the first time ever, I was disappointed when the nurse said, "Oh, no. We don't do that exam until your NEXT visit."

Um.

What?

That is NOT what I was told two weeks ago. I nearly grabbed a paper surgical drape and my ballpoint pen to draw her diagram of what getting ready for my appointment yesterday entailed. I think it would have been like when they do those white arrows on a football instant replay, only it would also have to involve some cantilevers and fulcrums to really convey what it took.

Finally, she checked the midwife's notes and yep, I was supposed to get that exam yesterday after all. She quirked an eyebrow at me like, "You're crazy for not taking the out I gave you." And I looked her right back in the eye underneath the quirked eyebrow and said, "You don't understand. I SHAVED MY LEGS. I will not go through this again in two weeks." She laughed. And laughed. And got the exam stuff out and then I heard her telling the other nurses about the crazy patient in Exam Room 3.

And here's the lesson: there are certain sentences you think you'll NEVER say, like "Please give me a pelvic exam." But trust me. . . all it takes is the right circumstance. Like a 45 minute wrestling match with a Lady Schick.

Now you know.

I like big butts and I cannot lie.

Have you ever had a realization that suddenly causes a small part of your personal universe to snap into sharper focus?

I've had a couple of random ones this week. Like this, for example: I learned something important about my butt.

Yeah, you read that right. My butt.

It is large and flanked by generous hips. Disproportionately generous, I would say. And as pregnancy (and my dependence on ice cream) causes my butt to grow, instead of freaking out, I came to a deep truth. I am pretty. I know that. Maybe even very pretty. But I make everyone else feel better about themselves because they can always say, "Well, at least I don't have a big butt like that." And I'm totally okay with serving that purpose.

Here's another epiphany. Part of the reason I don't have a clean house (very often) is because I function better with a deadline. And not the self-imposed kind, either. I need REAL deadlines. The equivalent for me when it comes to cleaning my house is knowing that company is coming. Then it forces me to have everything scrubbed and tidy by then.

The thing is, our place is smallish and so we don't often invite company over. So...no deadlines. I thought of a solution, though. I'm going to invite people over every week. But the thing is, it can't just be week night company because then only the downstairs gets cleaned. I need the overnight variety so that I get to the bathrooms and carpets upstairs, too. Oh, and launder the bedding. And straighten our room in case the door is open when an overnight guest passes by.

Now, it might not come off right if I invite some of our local friends to stay over for the weekend.

In fact, I'm sure that would come off really, really NOT right.

Okay, so I'm inviting anyone that lives more than four hours away. I'm going to start a schedule and I expect every single one of you to sign up to visit me for a weekend starting Friday so that I'll clean my house once a week.

I can offer you either a top or bottom bunk, monkey and lion towels, the beach four blocks away, unlimited use of our beach cruisers, advice on the best nearby burger and barbecue joints, and you'll be invited to join our regular DVD viewing marathons of whatever TV show we've just discovered (right now it's Burn Notice). Oh, and I'll throw in some ice cream.

See? Total clarity. Thank you, Universe.

I got nothin'.

My sister hijacked my laptop for seventy hours last night so she could "research mp3 players" which apparently means "play on Facebook." And by "play on Facebook," I mean she hacked my account and posted that I shaved my head. True story.

Anyway, since laptop custody didn't revert to me until nearly one million o'clock at night, I decided I was just too tired to blog. That's what happens after a long day of. . . sitting around, I guess? I think that's what I did yesterday. I have a vague memory of trying to explain to my grandmother who I was about a half dozen times, scooping some potato salad off of her blouse, and then chatting with a cousin I don't see often enough while I wondered if she noticed how many Ruffles potato chips I was eating. Because it was a lot.

But I figured I'd blog when I got up this morning. And that was a good idea until I realized I didn't have anything to blog about. I'm tired of blogging about being pregnant. Apparently two blog posts per trimester is going to be my limit. As of right now. (Warning DaNae: if I become obsessed with every muscle twinge in my second trimester, I WILL inform Bloglandia and remain completely unchanged in my achy pregancy reports course even as I watch my ranks of followers dwindle ever downward, because I am a CRANKY pregnant woman.)

Anyway, for the first time in months, I opened my Word file marked "Blog ideas." Some of the ideas were boring. Some more were boring. Then a couple of more after that were boring. Then there was the handful that made say, "What the freak?" Like this:

Sometimes I feel like saying “no.” Connect with we’re related = No. Just no.

That is lifted word for word from my list. Clearly I added the second part so I would have some details to jog my memory. Only now it's just making me more confused. What does this mean? I've been sitting here for an hour trying to figure out what I might have been thinking. Retracing my train of thought from a distance of a few months is a little like trying to make sense of a Lil Mama critique on America's Best Dance Crew.

So far, I wonder if little nuggest from my list has to do with some kind of Facebook application that's bothering me. Or maybe it was a response to something a cousin/sibling/child did in public that I've since repressed. I have no idea.

But my point is, I don't have a blog post today.

Ha.

An actual conversation with my husband.

I called my husband Friday afternoon after lunch.

"Hello?"

"Hi, honey. I can't go in the bathroom because I'm afraid of ghosts."

This announcement is met by silence followed by a cautious, "Oh."

"It's just that I got the baby up from his nap and put him on our bed to play while I changed clothes. And the TV was on this show called Haunted and it was super scary. It's about REAL ghosts."

"But ghosts aren't real."

"No! These ghosts ARE real. They had experts!"

"Those are actors, honey."

"No, this one guy used to work for NASA."

"Hm. Well, in that case, they were probably real ghosts."

"I know! And I have to pee."

This is met by silence. Then, "I don't follow," he says.

"I can't go in the bathroom. That's where the ghosts are."

"Ghosts live in our bathroom? Why are they in the bathroom?"

"Because the doors are always shut and it's always dark in there." Duh. "And I really need to go."

"Just go to the downstairs bathroom."

"I am downstairs. Do you have any idea how long it took me to get down here? When I was watching the show, the wind kept blowing the blinds and I couldn't get off the bed to shut them."

"In case that's where the ghosts are getting in at 2 in the afternoon?"

"ARE YOU LAUGHING AT ME?"

"No!" I can totally hear him laughing.

"How am I supposed to go to the bathroom? The creepy pilot ghost might be in there. They said his shadow feels like PURE DREAD."

He sighs. "I don't know, honey. I've never tried to get rid of a ghost before. You're just going to have to hold it until you explode."

"I'm pregnant! I don't have those muscles anymore. I'm totally going to pee in the container garden on the patio."

"Um, the neighbors will see you."

I pause. "Good point." I think for a minute. "What about garlic? Does garlic work on ghosts?"

"Yes, yes!" He sounds relieved that he can offer this solution. "Garlic works on ghosts. Why don't you get the jar of garlic out of the fridge?"

"What should I do with it? Wave it around the bathroom?"

"Yes," he says, distracted. I sense that for some reason this isn't commanding his undivided attention.

"What if I shove some garlic under the door first and then let it sit for a while?"

"I think that will work. The ghost will definitely go away."

"Okay. I'll call you later."

"Or you could just shove the baby in there," he adds. "If he's okay after five minutes, there's probably not a ghost."

"I think I'm going to stick with the garlic."

I call back ten minutes later .

"Hello?" he says.

"I peed!"

"Congratulations."

"I love you."

"Love you, too. Bye."

Being pregnant doesn't make me crazy at all.

Just FYI, I wrote this before I saw Jillybean's actual conversation with her kids at Walmart. Just so you know.

I'm a Wheel Watcher. Well, I used to be.

I grew up watching the Wheel of Fortune with my Maw Maw Gautreaux and then with my parents, so when my Heather invited me to go try out for the show, I said, "Why the heck not?" After an hour-and-a-half on the freeway, we arrived in the back of beyond, a/k/a Casino Morongo, which springs up out of the desert at you with alarming suddenness. Pulling into the parking lot, we saw this beacon of hope:

We had to wander through the casino for a while, trying to figure out their convulted system for getting a tryout slot. Looooonnnng story short, we were in the second group of people to try out (along with HUNDREDS of others) and we got nifty blue wristbands. They said to come back at 6 to line up, so we did. We passed hundreds of people with yellow wrist bands (the loser third group with a stinky 9:00 p.m time slot) and then we kept walking, and walking, and walking, trying to find our line. And we walked and walked and walked some more. It was like being a pioneer if they had hung out in smoke-filled casinos. We found the line, and walked (I won't even write how many "walks" it took, but just maybe visualize "walked" to the tenth power) past the looooonnnng line of people who got in line BEFORE six, and finally wound our way out of the building to the very end of the line. Maybe a hundred people ended up in line behind us, which sounds like a lot until you realize there were ten times that many people in front of us. This is Heather and I waiting outside. Don't let the idyllic background fool you. The freezing desert wind out there was a marginal improvement over waiting in the smoky casino, but not by much.

The line below winds around a long wall, through the entire massive casino, and all the way to the entrance doors of the huge tower you see in the background.

Finally, after an hour of waiting and losing sensation in our extremities, we got to squeeze into a ballroom with all the other hopefuls in our group:We shared space with ladies like the one below. If she turned around, you would see one of those black bars over her face for those Glamour magazine "Fashion Don't" photos. I like the look myself. I like the visible hot pink bra straps underneath her racer back shirt, but I definitely think the Camel cigarettes tucked into her left boot are the winning touch. Fashion don't? Ha! Why wouldn't you?

On the way into the ballroom, we all dropped our applications (a 5x7 square of paper that asked us to list our favorite hobbies, our passions, and describe what makes us unique...in two lines. Two very short lines) into a box, and they were dumped into this big gold spinner drum:

Then they randomly pulled names out and called them in batches of five for the opportunity to spin the fake wheel for some cheesy W of F swag (fanny pack, anyone?) and play a speed round on this lovely board:

The white spaces are paper, and "Road Vanna" writes the letters in with a Sharpie. Nice.

Anyway, if your name was called, you were supposed to run up with all this enthusiasm, answer Road "Pat Sajak's" questions about your interests and hobbies with all this enthusiasm, join the other four players with all this enthusiasm, and then call out your letter guesses for the puzzle with all this enthusiasm. You want to know why? Because they evaluate you based on your "natural enthusiasm", not your puzzle-solving skills.

I had two favorite contestants. First, was "Emo Chick." She had those big old stretcher thingies in her ear lobes, jet black hair, and a black t-shirt that said "XXX" on it. Total Wheel material, if you ask me. They could tap a completely new demographic. Anyway, here's pretty much a verbatim transcript of her interview.

Host: So, Bonita, what do you do?

Emo Chick: I'm a student.

Host: That's great. What are you studying.

EC: Art. (She sounds kinda surly).

Host: What kind of art.

EC: Drawing.

Host: What do you like to draw?

EC: (shrugs) Mostly stuff like I like.

Host: Okay...what kind of stuff?

EC: I don't know.

Host: (jovially) How about a little more enthusiasm, play to the crowd, you know?

EC: No. I'm shy.

Uh-huh. Exactly what they're looking for, I think.

My second favorite contestant was in a group that got this puzzle. The clue was "Phrase."

_OPES A_D DREA_S.

Anyway, when it got to this one lady, she called out, "Ropes and dreams!!!"

Yep, that was it, lady.

Only about 40 people got called out of the hundreds in our room and we didn't even win the lame door prize, but doing all that people watching? So worth it. And they say they keep our apps on file and may email us in a couple of months to tryout anyway. We'll see. I need to win a minivan so it's easier to convince my husband we're ready to have another baby, because clearly, a minivan is all we'll need to accommodate a whole 'nother kid.

Here are Heather and I, smiling bravely through our disappointment at not being called up:

Our students always got us confused when we used to teach across the hall from each other. we definitely look like twins when I have my glasses on, too.

P.S. You should read this book. It has marauding rattlesnakes and suspenseful explosions!

Hangin' with Vanna

I'm going to try out for Wheel of Fortune today with my friend Heather. Wish us luck! I'll have a full report on Monday of the W of F tryout wackiness.

Sleeping on the job

It occurs to me every so often that I'm not sure how I would feel if I was an actor playing a character in a coma. Would I be like, "Cool. I get to nap on the job," or would I be like, "Borrrring"?

I mean, I really, really like naps. But I also like variety. But I like variety within a structured routine. Yeah, so I'm not sure if I would want to be an actor playing a character in a coma. I do know I don't want to be an actor, but this is just if I were an actor, how would I feel about the coma thing?

And I have no idea.

This is terrible. I don't know myself at all.

I see you got your invitation!

Facebook makes me feel bad about myself. Actually, other people's birthday greetings on FB make me feel bad, because you want to know how many I got on my birthday? One.

That's it.

One.

Now, it's possible that it's because my birthday is Christmas Eve and folks might be a little distracted on that day. It's possible. But I think it's just because FB and the birthday fairy hate me.

Well, who needs 'em? I'm throwing myself an un-Facebook unbirthday party and you're invited! Yeah, you. Lurkers too, but don't be mad if I don't know your name. I'll wave, still. You know, that fake, "Hey..." (madly scrambling for your name but can't think of it so the "hey" implied by my wave will just trail off awkwardly in both our inaginations). But it's a wave.

So you don't have to bring anything except for an elephant joke and a birthday greeting. Just drop it off in the comment box. I had a book of 1001 of them when I was a kid and I still miss that book. If you don't know any elephant jokes, you can gimme a knock-knock one instead.

Anyway, I'm a giver. I give people my presents on my birthday all the time. (I'm sure I'd do it even it wasn't Christmas Eve. No, I would.) (Maybe I wouldn't.) For my unbirthday, I'm giving you my two favorite elephant jokes. The first one is actually my life motto. Or one of them, because I have maybe...twenty.

How do you eat an elephant?

One bite at a time.

Why do elephants lie on their backs?

To trip low flying canaries.

Ha ha ha ha ha!

I like you guys so much, I'm throwing in an extra, just for you.

What's gray and lights up?

An electric elephant.

Happy unbirthday to me!

Today, Tim Tams. Tomorrow...the world?

Let's just clear the air up front...today's post is going to suck. Not because it's in and of itself bad. It's just going to suffer from over-hype. You know, like the last Spiderman movie? Anyway, after all the ballyhoo on Thursday, I thought you should be prepared. This is an okay post. Compared to the hype, it's a lame post. Or I think it will be. I haven't actually written it yet. I guess we'll find out together...

So I think Kevin Costner is going to try to sue me for intellectual property rights, or maybe that chick who wrote The Secret is going to come after me, but whatever. I'm dealing with blogging, not baseball diamonds in cornfields or whatever The Secret is. I don't even know the secret, so I can't have ripped it off. That means what I'm about to reveal to you is 100% genius. Ready?

Okay....

If you blog it, it will come.

Seriously.

My blog is kinda just my thinking place, but I see these bloggers who get hooked up with major swag to sample and review or give away, and I've thought, "Nice gig. Wonder how they do that? Huh. I'm gonna make up some random numerology crap now."

I guess I figured if you're blog famous enough, people will want to advertise on your blog and pay you in STUFF. In fact, I think that's how it usually works. But now, thanks to my genius brain, I don't have to become famous to start getting stuff, AND I don't have to just smile and nod over whatever random stuff companies decide they want to send me.

You've got it all backwards, people, if you thought like I did. The truth arrived in a FedEx box last Wednesday. I opened it up and guess what tumbled out? Check it out:

Yep, my beloved Tim Tams. See, I discovered they are temporarily on sale at Target through March and then it's back to Australia only. So in my joy, I waxed eloquent on my love of Tim Tams and even tried to peddle them to unsuspecting Tim Tam virgins, secretly hoping to develop a legion of addicts, thereby increasing the Tim Tam consumer base and perhaps make their U.S. debut permanent.

TWO different companies doing the marketing for Tim Tams discovered my bloggy love and sent me Tim Tams. FedEx. For FREE.

If you blog it, they will come.

Why did I think I would have to be famous? I have very strong anti-fame feelings that I will perhaps post one day, but I just figured I'd have to trade away getting free stuff for the security of blog anonymity.

I don't! I can have free stuff AND still toil in obscurity!

Suh-WEET!

So I had to think carefully about how to wield my knowledge. It's good I used the weekend to ponder this. I mean, if I'm going to proclaim my love for something and have it show up in my mailbox a week later, I gotta pick the right thing, you know? So after careful consideration (True Religion jeans? Concert tickets to a hot show? A cosmic mute button for Paula Abdul? Scratch-n-sniff stickers?), I have made my decision.

I'm shouting to the blogosphere...

I could really use a monkey!

You hear me? Bloggy gurus? Great and Terrible Oz? Yoo-hoo!

Monkeys rock.

Just sayin'.

P.S. FedEx, you can leave it on the doorstep if no one's home. I release you from liability. And it will answer to the name of Sampson. Eventually.

File under: Miscellaneous

Wanna know what I should be doing today?

Baking all day (fudge, toffee, and eggnog loaves) to make stuff for my husband to give as gifts at work tomorrow. Then wrapping presents for my oldest son's Christmas with our side of the family tonight because he leaves on Saturday for his dad's (Hi, Nancy!). That's wrapping his presents from us (a Wii, because I wanted one but what he doesn't know about how I spend my day won't hurt him) and his presents for his cousins.

But I'm not doing any of that. Know what I'm doing instead? I'm going to pick up my brother's girlfriend and we're going to try to get into a taping of Ellen and win a bunch of stuff.

Something is wrong with me.

I'll wave to you from Ellen.

No surrender, no retreat

My laptop is possessed of an evil spirit. It does strange and bizarre things.

I think perhaps it's rebelling against overuse.

But it's my lifeline, the little thread that ties me to sanity and keeps me from sinking into the deepening pool of baby shrieks and discarded toys and Cheerios that fills up at an alarming rate.

The rebellion used to be subtle. My computer, instead of simply going to sleep and being groggily awakened to pick up where it left off, shuts down all of my programs and restarts itself if I leave it for too long. That's how this uprising began, anyway. But I guess it felt that wasn't enough to get my attention. This sly little laptop of mine has added new tricks. It now refuses to let me through my password screen, sometimes requiring multiple reboots before deigning to process my password and pull up my desktop screen. And its best trick of all: my cursor randomly jumps in the middle of typing (regardless of the program I'm using) so that I'm suddenly typing one word in the middle of a sentence I wrote two paragraphs before. I'm constantly having to delete and reorient myself. Seriously. Like every five sentences. This is bad news when I'm trying to meet my daily writing goals.

It's possible I have engaged in laptop abuse. I will neither confirm nor deny the hurling of insults and attempting to shame it into performing.

But this is not a nice laptop. And as soon as my husband breaks the spell that Mistborn 1-3 has held him under for the last three weeks, he's totally ratting you out to Big Brother at Dell, laptop. You hear me, laptop? Your reign of terror is near its end. And if you dare hold any of my files hostage, you don't even want to know what revenge I'll exact.

Watch your back, laptop. Watch your back.