I think I've been cast in a play. It's not entirely clear, though.
I received an email from a director congratulating Guy 1, Guy 2, and Morgan for being cast in his play, a short play to be included in an evening of short plays. There are only 3 roles in the play, and only one of them is a woman.
Am I Morgan? That's not my name at all...
I emailed the director "Am I receiving this in error? I’d love to do the show, but am not Guy 1, Guy 2, or Morgan… I did audition on Sunday night and would be available for a Sunday afternoon read-through."
He wrote back, "As far as I know your part of my cast. I'll try to set up something for Sunday."
So, does he think my name is Morgan? Or did he intend to cast someone names Morgan and accidentally sent me the email?
I guess I'll find out on Sunday...
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Decision
Yesterday was a lousy day. Seriously rotten. It started with me waking to find one of the dogs had an accident overnight and ended with me crying myself to sleep.
Actually, aside from the poop, the morning was fine. Work was good, I had a good lunch (well, I had a root beer float for lunch and it tasted good), and getting Milo to school was all fine. Then it went downhill.
As you may have deduced, we are trying to conceive our third child. Yesterday, it was obvious that I am, again, not pregnant. Per my doctor's orders, I called her office, chatted with the nurse for a little while, then was transferred to scheduling to make an appointment. The scheduler said, Thursday, April first and I blinked. I said, "The first is on a Monday." And it is -- in February and March. But it is on a Thursday in APRIL. Two months from now. I stammered, "B-b-b-but I'm an established patient..."
I can't recall much of the rest of the conversation as my calendar started swimming before my eyes and my heart started pounding so loud that I couldn't hear. "Nine or two thirty?" Nine or two thirty for what? I answer, "Nine." My desk seems far away, like my arms are telescoping. All I can see on my Outlook calendar is April first and the nine o'clock appointment I scheduled for that day, two months from now. I am crying on the phone to a scheduler and I feel like I'm about four inches tall. When I hang up, I cry hard for about twenty minutes before dragging myself to a meeting across campus. I am actually thankful that the wind is gusting so hard because it hides from my co-workers the fact that I have been sobbing.
The meeting is a blur. I race back across campus to pick up the kids, who protest leaving. Milo, in particular, doesn't want to stop playing with his best friend. I can't blame him -- anyone was more fun than me yesterday. We get loaded into the car and start for home and I drive into a blizzard. Three times the driving snow completely obscures the road and I held the car steady, hoping that we weren't on ice. Three times we emerge from the squall still squarely on the road and I thank my instincts.
We get home and, though only about an inch of snow has fallen, there is a three-foot drift between the garage and the house. I guided my car gently into the garage and told the kids that I would be taking them, one at a time, to the house because the wind and snow were so bad. Milo was too heavy to carry, but he gripped my hand tightly as we started out toward the house. The wind was at our backs and it actually blew him a few feet on the icy driveway, which he thought was fun. We navigated through the drift and to the house. As I let him in, the door flew inside so hard that it nearly took my arm with it. I realized that the garbage cans were tipped and blown across the front yard. Thankfully, they were empty, so garbage wasn't scattered, too.
As I made my way into the wind and back to the garage for Violet, I understood instantly how early prairie settlers could wander into a storm and become lost forever. I couldn't see, the wind was blowing so hard that I could barely breathe, and the only thing guiding me across the drive was the light from the garage door opener. I unbuckled Violet, bundled her and told her to bury her head in my neck as I carried her across the driveway. After setting her safely in the house, I made my last trip back to the car for all of the incidentals -- backpacks, snow pants, purse, shoes, etc. I locked the car and made my last return trip back to the house for the night, thankful that I didn't need to be out any more.
I was greeted by chaos when I get inside -- both kids wanted their winter gear off, the dogs, who had been home alone since morning, wanted out. I was trying to figure out what time it was, concerned that Scott was driving his little yellow car because it doesn't handle well in the snow. As I opened the door to let the dogs out, I see broken glass everywhere. Our recycling bins had been tipped, emptied, and bandied about by the wind. The back yard was glinting with glass, the plastic and cardboard were long gone, swept away by the harsh wind. How ironic that the tubs we were using to keep the environment clean had vomited their contents all over that same environment. Aluminum cans rolled by like sagebrush. I knew that this clean-up would take much time and I wasn't comfortable leaving the kids alone in the house long enough to do it myself, so I apologized to the yard and told the mess it would have to wait until Scott got home.
By the time I got the dogs out and back in, both kids had gotten their winter gear off and Milo came running to tell me that the dogs had gotten into my bathroom garbage again. And they had. There were used tissues and used ovulation predictor kit strips strewn over the floor. I didn't leave this mess to Scott, who was finally pulling into the driveway safely. I'm not sure I've ever been so happy to see him! He bundled up and attempted to track down the garbage cans and as much recycling as he could gather. We had a casualty in that two of our bins were nowhere to be found, we're assuming that they have gone to live the rest of their lives in a cornfield. It took him about an hour to collect as much as he could.
I was pretty teary most of the night, but my children were extra loving and kind, so I am grateful for that. Both took time to snuggle me, both listened well and were on their best behavior. I couldn't be happier about that.
I did come to a decision about my blog, though. In between my phone call with the scheduling nurse and the meeting across campus, I received an email from an Iowa blogger to whom I had sent a few questions about taking a blog public. She responded with a few tips and suggestions, for which I am grateful. Unfortunately, one of her suggestions didn't land well with me in the emotional state that I was in after talking to my doctor's office. The suggestion was to tone down the site so that it would be more family-friendly because most advertisers wouldn't feel comfortable with mt content. In retrospect, it wasn't a bad suggestion, but at the time that I was reading it, I was so vulnerable and hurting so much already that I felt rejected with a capital R. I fixated on this comment for hours. I heard myself thinking, "If only she'd said 'I read your posts and enjoyed them, but...' before she decided I was foul..." In my mind, I worked up a scenario where the Iowa mom blog fairies were all sitting back, laughing at me because the people reading my blog were deranged, immoral criminals or something. That what I write isn't user-approved or recommended by nine out of ten dentists. That, once again, I didn't fit in. It was crushing.
I cried over that almost as much as I cried over not being about to see my doctor for two months. I cried a lot yesterday. A lot. And this morning, in the shower -- that place where all Good Ideas visit -- I decided that if I wasn't able to take a bit of free constructive criticism, I wasn't going to be able to take reader comments on my very real thoughts and feelings. So I am not going to take this blog public to anyone who doesn't already know and love me. I don't want people who don't get my humor to read this and be repulsed. I don't write for them, I write for me. I know that I am a good person, I know that I am kind to those around me and tolerant of all people. I don't need to fit in anywhere but my own life, and, at 36.5 years of age, I'm so OK with that.
So, if you're reading and love me, great! If you're reading and don't love me, great!
Actually, aside from the poop, the morning was fine. Work was good, I had a good lunch (well, I had a root beer float for lunch and it tasted good), and getting Milo to school was all fine. Then it went downhill.
As you may have deduced, we are trying to conceive our third child. Yesterday, it was obvious that I am, again, not pregnant. Per my doctor's orders, I called her office, chatted with the nurse for a little while, then was transferred to scheduling to make an appointment. The scheduler said, Thursday, April first and I blinked. I said, "The first is on a Monday." And it is -- in February and March. But it is on a Thursday in APRIL. Two months from now. I stammered, "B-b-b-but I'm an established patient..."
I can't recall much of the rest of the conversation as my calendar started swimming before my eyes and my heart started pounding so loud that I couldn't hear. "Nine or two thirty?" Nine or two thirty for what? I answer, "Nine." My desk seems far away, like my arms are telescoping. All I can see on my Outlook calendar is April first and the nine o'clock appointment I scheduled for that day, two months from now. I am crying on the phone to a scheduler and I feel like I'm about four inches tall. When I hang up, I cry hard for about twenty minutes before dragging myself to a meeting across campus. I am actually thankful that the wind is gusting so hard because it hides from my co-workers the fact that I have been sobbing.
The meeting is a blur. I race back across campus to pick up the kids, who protest leaving. Milo, in particular, doesn't want to stop playing with his best friend. I can't blame him -- anyone was more fun than me yesterday. We get loaded into the car and start for home and I drive into a blizzard. Three times the driving snow completely obscures the road and I held the car steady, hoping that we weren't on ice. Three times we emerge from the squall still squarely on the road and I thank my instincts.
We get home and, though only about an inch of snow has fallen, there is a three-foot drift between the garage and the house. I guided my car gently into the garage and told the kids that I would be taking them, one at a time, to the house because the wind and snow were so bad. Milo was too heavy to carry, but he gripped my hand tightly as we started out toward the house. The wind was at our backs and it actually blew him a few feet on the icy driveway, which he thought was fun. We navigated through the drift and to the house. As I let him in, the door flew inside so hard that it nearly took my arm with it. I realized that the garbage cans were tipped and blown across the front yard. Thankfully, they were empty, so garbage wasn't scattered, too.
As I made my way into the wind and back to the garage for Violet, I understood instantly how early prairie settlers could wander into a storm and become lost forever. I couldn't see, the wind was blowing so hard that I could barely breathe, and the only thing guiding me across the drive was the light from the garage door opener. I unbuckled Violet, bundled her and told her to bury her head in my neck as I carried her across the driveway. After setting her safely in the house, I made my last trip back to the car for all of the incidentals -- backpacks, snow pants, purse, shoes, etc. I locked the car and made my last return trip back to the house for the night, thankful that I didn't need to be out any more.
I was greeted by chaos when I get inside -- both kids wanted their winter gear off, the dogs, who had been home alone since morning, wanted out. I was trying to figure out what time it was, concerned that Scott was driving his little yellow car because it doesn't handle well in the snow. As I opened the door to let the dogs out, I see broken glass everywhere. Our recycling bins had been tipped, emptied, and bandied about by the wind. The back yard was glinting with glass, the plastic and cardboard were long gone, swept away by the harsh wind. How ironic that the tubs we were using to keep the environment clean had vomited their contents all over that same environment. Aluminum cans rolled by like sagebrush. I knew that this clean-up would take much time and I wasn't comfortable leaving the kids alone in the house long enough to do it myself, so I apologized to the yard and told the mess it would have to wait until Scott got home.
By the time I got the dogs out and back in, both kids had gotten their winter gear off and Milo came running to tell me that the dogs had gotten into my bathroom garbage again. And they had. There were used tissues and used ovulation predictor kit strips strewn over the floor. I didn't leave this mess to Scott, who was finally pulling into the driveway safely. I'm not sure I've ever been so happy to see him! He bundled up and attempted to track down the garbage cans and as much recycling as he could gather. We had a casualty in that two of our bins were nowhere to be found, we're assuming that they have gone to live the rest of their lives in a cornfield. It took him about an hour to collect as much as he could.
I was pretty teary most of the night, but my children were extra loving and kind, so I am grateful for that. Both took time to snuggle me, both listened well and were on their best behavior. I couldn't be happier about that.
I did come to a decision about my blog, though. In between my phone call with the scheduling nurse and the meeting across campus, I received an email from an Iowa blogger to whom I had sent a few questions about taking a blog public. She responded with a few tips and suggestions, for which I am grateful. Unfortunately, one of her suggestions didn't land well with me in the emotional state that I was in after talking to my doctor's office. The suggestion was to tone down the site so that it would be more family-friendly because most advertisers wouldn't feel comfortable with mt content. In retrospect, it wasn't a bad suggestion, but at the time that I was reading it, I was so vulnerable and hurting so much already that I felt rejected with a capital R. I fixated on this comment for hours. I heard myself thinking, "If only she'd said 'I read your posts and enjoyed them, but...' before she decided I was foul..." In my mind, I worked up a scenario where the Iowa mom blog fairies were all sitting back, laughing at me because the people reading my blog were deranged, immoral criminals or something. That what I write isn't user-approved or recommended by nine out of ten dentists. That, once again, I didn't fit in. It was crushing.
I cried over that almost as much as I cried over not being about to see my doctor for two months. I cried a lot yesterday. A lot. And this morning, in the shower -- that place where all Good Ideas visit -- I decided that if I wasn't able to take a bit of free constructive criticism, I wasn't going to be able to take reader comments on my very real thoughts and feelings. So I am not going to take this blog public to anyone who doesn't already know and love me. I don't want people who don't get my humor to read this and be repulsed. I don't write for them, I write for me. I know that I am a good person, I know that I am kind to those around me and tolerant of all people. I don't need to fit in anywhere but my own life, and, at 36.5 years of age, I'm so OK with that.
So, if you're reading and love me, great! If you're reading and don't love me, great!
Monday, January 25, 2010
A piece of cake
What a fun weekend! Milo had a friend over for a sleep-over and both little boys did great, though they were so wound up it took them until 10:30 to fall asleep. Which would have been fine, but on one of their umpteen trips down the stairs, they realized that they "forgot" Violet, who was in her crib trying to sleep. At least until they charged back upstairs to get her and realized that neither of them could possibly get her out of the crib. She did fall asleep before they did, but I had to pull the "Daddy will get grumpy" trick on her.
For some reason, even though I will completely admit that I am usually more apt to be short-tempered with the kids, Violet will tell you that daddy is the only one who gets grumpy. In fact, I can be in the middle of a grumpy moment and ask her, "Is mommy grumpy?" and she'll answer, "No, Daddy's gwumpy." I don't know why she thinks that, but sometimes the only I can get her to lie down in the crib and stop asking me to nurse is to pretend that I've heard someone on the steps and tell her that daddy's on his way up. She whispers, "I lie down so daddy doesn't get gwumpy!" This even works when he's not home... poor gullible babe...
Saturday morning brought on a flurry of household activity. The boys were playing Wii and Violet was content coloring, painting, and playing with her babies, so I scrubbed the dining room floor and Scott moved our big old TV into the basement in a way that was a complete tribute to his maternal grandfather, Harry. You see, Harry was sort of an impatient fellow and was generally hell-bent on doing things on his own schedule, the rest of the world be damned. He was infamously stubborn and prone to ramming through things without thinking of all of the options -- or consequences, for that matter.
Scott had been waiting for another adult male to come over to our house so that he and the other adult male could move the huge TV down to our basement to be set up with the treadmill. Due to weather issues, no man under the age of 60 has been out to our house since before Christmas except for my little brother and he helped Scott move the treadmill to the basement. For some reason, moving the TV was going to happen this weekend, come hell or high water. Or mushy snow, in this case.
It started off innocently enough -- Scott says, "I think I figured out a way to move the TV downstairs."
Oh, really?
"Yeah. I'm going to strap it to my wheeled cart and take it out the back door."
Oh, really?
"I figure I'll get it down the steps, then I'll put it on a sled and drag it around the the basement door. I won't have any problems getting it in that door and down into the basement."
Why didn't I grab the video camera?
He got the TV out the back door, down the steps, and onto the sled. He pulled the sled half-way around the side of the house, where it hit a bump in the snow. Then the TV and the cart to which it was still strapped, tumbled sideways into a snow bank. Scott righted the TV, paused for a second, and decided to skip the sled, so he dragged the TV on the cart the remaining 15 feet to the sidewalk. True to his prediction, getting the TV back into the house and down to the basement was a piece of cake. Especially when you think that the TV was frosted with snow...
For some reason, even though I will completely admit that I am usually more apt to be short-tempered with the kids, Violet will tell you that daddy is the only one who gets grumpy. In fact, I can be in the middle of a grumpy moment and ask her, "Is mommy grumpy?" and she'll answer, "No, Daddy's gwumpy." I don't know why she thinks that, but sometimes the only I can get her to lie down in the crib and stop asking me to nurse is to pretend that I've heard someone on the steps and tell her that daddy's on his way up. She whispers, "I lie down so daddy doesn't get gwumpy!" This even works when he's not home... poor gullible babe...
Saturday morning brought on a flurry of household activity. The boys were playing Wii and Violet was content coloring, painting, and playing with her babies, so I scrubbed the dining room floor and Scott moved our big old TV into the basement in a way that was a complete tribute to his maternal grandfather, Harry. You see, Harry was sort of an impatient fellow and was generally hell-bent on doing things on his own schedule, the rest of the world be damned. He was infamously stubborn and prone to ramming through things without thinking of all of the options -- or consequences, for that matter.
Scott had been waiting for another adult male to come over to our house so that he and the other adult male could move the huge TV down to our basement to be set up with the treadmill. Due to weather issues, no man under the age of 60 has been out to our house since before Christmas except for my little brother and he helped Scott move the treadmill to the basement. For some reason, moving the TV was going to happen this weekend, come hell or high water. Or mushy snow, in this case.
It started off innocently enough -- Scott says, "I think I figured out a way to move the TV downstairs."
Oh, really?
"Yeah. I'm going to strap it to my wheeled cart and take it out the back door."
Oh, really?
"I figure I'll get it down the steps, then I'll put it on a sled and drag it around the the basement door. I won't have any problems getting it in that door and down into the basement."
Why didn't I grab the video camera?
He got the TV out the back door, down the steps, and onto the sled. He pulled the sled half-way around the side of the house, where it hit a bump in the snow. Then the TV and the cart to which it was still strapped, tumbled sideways into a snow bank. Scott righted the TV, paused for a second, and decided to skip the sled, so he dragged the TV on the cart the remaining 15 feet to the sidewalk. True to his prediction, getting the TV back into the house and down to the basement was a piece of cake. Especially when you think that the TV was frosted with snow...
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