Monday Motivation

I'm feeling down and discouraged. My health has been deteriorating in ways that are scary. My kids are out of control with spring fever, my house is a wreck, I have to work on this white paper but I'm hating it more every day. I have a lesson to prepare for writers group Wednesday, and the wonderful dear person I'm trying to collaborate with is going to wonder why I haven't been working on the book to our musical. And I feel I really need to write cards or letters to a few people and I never get around to it.

And in the middle of all this, Satan Herself starts another firestorm over the Easter break that #1 Son gets this year: "What do you mean, I don't get to take all 6 days instead of the usual 1?" Nevermind that the court docs specify 1 day. Whatever Miss Thing wants, Miss Thing had better get, or there'll be... well you know what to pay. And #1 Son doesn't want to get in the middle of it, though he's the only one who can. And he's whining that he still has homework to do even though it's bedtime as if it's my fault he spent 45 minutes on the phone to Miss Thing about nothing in particular and as if it's my fault he didn't do his homework over the weekend because after all, it was his time with Mommy and there were all these parties to go to...

I'm about ready to crawl into a hole and cry. I can't succeed at the tasks before me no matter what I do, the pain is driving me slowly mad, and I'm a failure as a mother. That's how I feel.

Well, felt. As he was lying on the bed kicking me in the face during storytime tonight, Punkin Boy started singing, "Old King Cole." My mind grabbed hold of that; the old boy apparently was an ancestor of mine-- a rather successful Norwegian king back in the far olden times. And suddenly, I remembered where I come from. I come from the land of Valkyries, of strong warriors and successful raiders. I come from people who would spit on the minor troubles that surround me now. I felt them then, Vikings in armor swirling around my head, strong, defiant, utterly capable.

Hand me my axe; I've got some writing to do.

Career Discovery

The saga continues... In the car on the way to school yesterday, #1 Son piped up from the back seat, "I've figured out what kind of scientist I want to be when I grow up!" He hadn't been able to decide on a specialty: geologist, veterinarian, botanist, chemist, etc., so we were excited. "What kind is that?" we demanded, all aflutter.

"An electrician!"

Eureka.

Art Part 2

Now you've probably read my April 1 entry (which by the way was not a joke) and thought, "Gee, she's pretty harsh." But really, I just hate to see people I care about banging their heads against the wall for no good reason. If Plan A doesn't work, try Plan B. And keep trying and revising until you get positive results. It only makes sense. Nonsense is fun for a while, but it's no way to run your life. Not really.

The day after the P/T conference, #1 Son mentioned that he'd had art class that day. So I asked how his teacher had liked his sketch that was their previous assignment. He shrugged. "All right," he muttered.

"No way," I said. "That drawing was awesome. What did your teacher say when she saw it?"

He squirmed, but eventually admitted, "She said it was the best drawing she'd ever seen in fifth grade."

I thought so. The boy's got artistic talent coming out his ears and spilling off his fingers. I will so kick his butt if he stifles it.

His Own Medicine

This week they had parent-teacher conferences at #1 Son's school, and we got to see his grades for the quarter. Actually, I sat out in the car with a sleeping toddler while The Man went and talked to the teacher. When he came back out, he said, "We need to stop giving this guy white bread, and take all the sugar out of his diet." Then he proceeded to tell me about something unrelated that happened in his class that day.

I scowled. Not that I didn't want to hear about his day, because I did. I just really wanted to hear the more urgent news at the time. Well, said TM, #1 Son is probably better suited to being an artist or writer than a scientist or mathematician (which is what he wants to be-- one of those). He got out the report card and pulled the Pollyanna routine that he's so incredibly good at. "Got a B+ in art, an A in karate, an A in music..." (I hope no one heard my gasp, but the boy is, after all, tone deaf.)

After saying something congratulatory like, "That's great, kiddo!" we noticed that #1 Son was in the back seat sobbing. "I don't want to be an artist!" he wailed.

Sigh. So I asked how the rest of his grades were. Spelling: F, science: F, 4th-grade math: D+. Wait, D+? Wasn't he getting a B a few weeks ago? What's up there? No clue forthcoming from the back seat. Composition: C-, Reading: C-, Spanish: C. Well, there's a bright spot. Hey wait, he's got a B+ in history/geography. Excellent! "You don't have to be an artist after all-- you can major in history!"

Louder wails from the back seat. "But I want to do math and science!"

At this point, TM went into lecture mode. You know, about going with your strengths, it's no shame not to be good at everything, or even at the things you really want to be good at. The advice about not burying your talents. You know the spiel.

At some point in this tirade, I burst out laughing and just couldn't stop. My darling husband is an entertaining and creative writer (visit him here), not to mention a budding artist. But he's taking calculus I for the third time (this time, we're gonna pass, darn it!) in an effort to get a biomedical/computer science degree. It would be a really cool degree, honey, in a really cool field, but, um, are you listening to yourself?

I don't know whether he'll re-evaluate his career path, but I'm guessing not. Got to set an example for the kids, you know.

Pic from our Trip

Check this out:

Punkin Boy loves his newest cousin.
We love her too.

Saga Update

It's only fair that I should give a quick update on our week's adventure. First of all, The Man's gone back to that faraway town to pick up our car after repairs. (New axle, anyone?) Great. At least it's not snowing this time.

Punkin Boy has been saying "We're driving this car. Our car is in [Faraway Town Name]" for a couple days now. He's getting a kick out of our rental car, a brand-new (doesn't even have license plates), strangely retro Nissan Altima. Mostly, I think he likes it because he can get into it without a rope harness and pitons. (No, our car's not really that big, but exaggeration is funny, see?)

OK, so what else is going on? Pirate Boy has been giving his younger brother Spanish lessons, which is kinda cool. And Punkin Boy has been studying U.S. geography, which is awesome. He knows at least half of the states by shape, and can place them in the right spot on a map. I love the way these guys just do this stuff with no prompting.

#1 Son is still struggling at his new school. They did warn us his grades would probably drop, but I don't think anyone expected it to be this bad. He's failing two subjects, spelling and science, which is troubling to the editor and scientist who live with him. He is getting a B in math, which was cause for optimism until we discovered that he's in the 4th-grade class. (He's 11 and in 5th grade for those without a scorecard.) Well, at least he's no longer feigning blindness every other day. It's been an interesting adjustment.

Every day is an adventure. Fortunately, I'm a writer always looking for new material. It's everywhere.

Waiting and Wondering

If anyone's reading this tonight, I need your prayers. The Man is out there somewhere in this cold, icy storm, and I don't know when or how he'll get home. He crashed our only car 100 miles from here this evening and eventually managed to let me know about it when some good samaritan came by and lent him their cell phone for a minute. I haven't started worrying (too much) about what will happen in the morning when #1 Son has to get to school or how much the repairs are going to cost or any of the practical stuff. Right now, I only want my sweet husband back home safely.

Places to Do

My cousin sent us a link to this game a while ago, and recently my kids have really gotten into finding the states. On the intermediate setting, most educated adults score in the mid-90s; the Pirate Boy gets about 65-75% correct, and the Punkin can make about 50%. Not bad, considering the littlest guy can't even read...

Pilgrims Progress

When I was a young teenager, I read the John Bunyan classic The Pilgrim's Progress out of some misguided belief that it would inspire me or enrich my life somehow. Even then, the most memorable thing about the whole experience was how unutterably, intensely, and excruciatingly boring it was. But my point (and I do have one) is that this past weekend was so non-boring as to possibly rate as the pinnacle of non-boringness. It was, in fact, an interesting time.

Road to Nowhere
Well, mostly interesting. Actually, it was quite boring driving 10 mph through the lower part of the Rocky Mountains. For more than an hour. For no reason that we could discern. There were some bloody great semi trucks along the side of the road getting tire chains put on, sure. But hey, they were well off the road and besides, the sign said that chains were mandatory. OK, not a great beginning, but sometimes these things happen. I figured our trip was going to be a little longer than usual, but we could probably make up the time later. Pah.

The snow got heavier, and the roads got slushy. No sweat; that happens every time we travel that route in the winter. It never takes us too long to get through. Sigh.

Actually, I was very cheerful and positive, even as the visibility fell to maybe 20 feet ahead, so I was going probably faster than I should have been when suddenly the fog lifted and there, maybe 50 feet ahead of me, was a line of cars nearly a mile long. Stopped. Dead. And those were the words that occurred to me, sort of: "If I can't stop, we're dead." As I thought this, and as I pressed gently on the brake, I knew for a certainty that I wouldn't be able to stop. With my precious babies in the car, I began to feel terrified even as I considered my options. My car slid sideways as the brakes failed (they didn't lock; we have ABS-- they just felt like they were locking), and I realized what I needed to do.

I plunged over the embankment into a ditch full of snow and slid (eventually) to a halt in front of a large, vicious-looking bush. I took a deep breath and looked over at The Man. I smiled. "We're alive." Our little guys were still playing happily in the back seat (#1 Son was riding in the second car with his cousins; we waved to them a few minutes later when they passed). Then I had a heart attack. Well, maybe it wasn't, but it sure felt like what I expect one to feel like. At the same time, my sciatic nerve went all twangy on me. I clutched the armrests for a few minutes until things subsided, then gave The Man another (slightly shakier) smile. "Still alive."

We held hands for a while and watched the cars pass us. Eventually, a trucker called out an offer to call a tow truck for us, and we waved gratefully. There seemed to be a large tanker blocking part of the road up ahead, and when I noticed the flow of traffic seemed to have stopped, I guessed (correctly) that the material in it was hazardous. OK. So, stop and evaluate situation. No traffic coming: Does that mean no tow truck? Well, we had 3 hours to wonder, as we sat there in the snow-- comfortably warm, I must add, because I kept the engine running and the heater on.

Eventually, Pirate Boy looked up from his coloring. "Are we in Utah?" he asked. "No, honey." He looked puzzled. "Where are we, then?" "In a ditch." "A ditch?" But he didn't ask why. He sat and did his homework, then decorated it for a his teacher. We had snacks and sang songs. Eventually, I introduced him to the concept of roadside "bathrooms." It gave him quite a kick to make yellow snow, and I was glad, momentarily, that I had only boys. I don't know how a daughter would have taken this.

Spanish Lesson
Throughout all of this, I wasn't particularly frightened or worried. My husband has the strongest and largest reserve of faith I've ever encountered, and he was calm and assured that we'd make it through just fine. I've learned to trust that. Besides, we were on a pilgrimage. More about that later. For now, you can peruse The Man's version of the story for a lot funnier take on it. He goes into detail about what happened once we got to our destination. I hate to even mention it, because I don't want to give La Quinta (slogan: "Spanish for... whatever we want it to be") more press than they deserve.

But then I realized, there is such a thing as bad press for service-based companies. (Of course, in this case, I'm using the term "service" in the loosest possible definition.) So let the slaughter begin. First read this gem from my dear sister in spirit, Surrender Dorothy. Her dear husband was driving the second car in our caravan, and she was riding along bravely, trying so hard not to give in to the stress. And to cope with 3 children of pre-adolescent age, which I didn't try to do. She's my hero, and not just because she gave up her chance to pass out at 3 a.m. instead of 6.
She's my hero in part because she didn't rip off the head of the manager of the La Quinta (Spanish for "your problems are none of our concern") at which we had 3 rooms reserved, prepaid, and with our names on but somehow which weren't available when we got there, despite our having called ahead earlier that night to tell them "We'll be there in a little while; please keep our rooms." Oh yes, they had said. We will.

Well, technically they still had the rooms. They just didn't have them available and ready for us to sleep in. In fact, they were occupied by people who were shortly to join us in being very put out with the management of La Quinta (Spanish for "I'm sure there's no one in that room; OK, this one"). I don't know how many people they called at 3-something in the freaking morning (yes, the "freaking" is necessary there)-- one room they actually broke into at something closer to 4 a.m. because they wouldn't believe that anyone was really inside, despite the security bar being across the door. Hello? Anybody seen a brain around here?

However, I missed the break-in and the reason for strangling the manager because SD and her family had graciously given us the one room that the La Quinta (Spanish for "total incompetence") desk clerk could scare up. It was, as TM notes, the worst one in the place and probably the one they save for only the absolutely desperate, because they are the only ones who will tolerate it. Them and the ones who've been driving through a blizzard for 19 hours and just want a bed to crash on, even a straw pallet in a barn, anything. Somewhere soft to land. So we got our little ones to bed around 3 and managed to grab about 20 winks, despite the presence in the hallway of (I kid you not) most of a high-school marching band enjoying a trip away from home.

After 4 hours' sleep, I was awakened by the squeals of my little sons bouncing delightedly on the hotel bed. Ah joy. TM and #1 Son were still sound asleep, so I began to get ready for the day. The contents of my stomach having clogged up the toilet, I went to the phone to call for maintenance. Except the phone didn't work. Sigh. OK, I'll talk to them when we're down for breakfast. I'll pass over the flimsy bowls that wouldn't hold cereal and milk. The waffle irons that lacked any batter to pour on them. The other stuff.

TM in his post was outraged beyond speech that the morning desk person at La Quinta (Spanish for "do it yourself; what am I, your maid?") had simply handed me a plunger when I informed her that our toilet was stopped up. That part didn't bother me; I can deal with muck. It was the fact that the plunger she handed me was in no way capable of unclogging the toilet in our room (and possibly in any other room in the place) that really got my goat. Baah! The toilet drain was square; the plunger, of course, round. And flimsy. REALLY flimsy. It had no more chance of forming a vacuum seal on that drain than my left sock.

I admit it was unkind of me, but at this point, I woke up The Man. "Good morning, honey; hope you don't need the bathroom." The phone still being out of commission, I ventured back downstairs and informed the already-sobbing desk clerk (who was probably bearing the brunt of several guests' anger for the night shift's unbearable incompetence) that I needed something more. No problem, she said, and a while later, she and another person came up with a drain snake and eventually got things sorted out. Oh, by the way, I said, our phone doesn't work. In fact, it was in pieces. She put the pieces back together and managed to get Line 2 operative again before cheerily making her way back to her front-desk purgatory.

The next time we used the toilet, it clogged up again. I swear, we did not eat the mountains on our way through.

Oh, Give Me a Home...
Eventually, we found out what had happened to our traveling companions. After another 2 hours of waiting in the lobby of La Quinta (Spanish for "Who cares?") for the management to do the right thing, they were sent to a Quality Inn a few miles up the road. To the King suite. With grapes on the canopy and piles of fluffy cushions and a fancy jetted tub. Of course, they only got to enjoy sweet blissful oblivion for 3 hours before the incompetents at La Quinta (Spanish for "inconsiderate in the extreme") called them up and told them that their stay would be gratis. They called us, too, but at this point, I was starting to feel like they'd need to pay us to stay there another day, so wretched was our accommodation.

However, we had other things to do. Our day was packed with fun and family and such special experiences that I can barely put into words how happy I was. To see my sweet little sister and her husband finally make their baby girl part of their family forever was almost overwhelming in its sweetness. And the faces of all the family gathered around, smiling-- how wonderful. You could feel the love in that room very tangibly, and I was so grateful to be there.

Afterward, I picked up the croup medicine for #1 Son-- it was the first free hour I'd had since Thursday afternoon when I took him to the doc. The croup itself was a blessing because it made his Mommy (Spanish for "wicked witch of the South") not want to have him with her for Spring Break, so he got to come on our trip, visit with the relatives, and see his dad baptized. That was the other incredibly wonderful event that happened on this trip. I think I'll keep my feelings about it private because it was so special, but I will say that it was the best thing that had happened to me in a very long time.

The baptism was also a social event, filled with I don't know how many dozen family members and even several friends from the other side of the mountains. (One on vacation, and a family who had moved a while ago.) And in true fan-boy form, TM also invited Howard Tayler, the creator of Schlock Mercenary (one of our favorite Web comics). Howard graciously attended and witnessed the event, then presented TM with an autographed portrait of him done in Schlock style. He's a classy, intelligent guy, and we'd both like to have the opportunity to spend more time around him.

If there's anyone still reading this (hi, Jack!), thanks for listening. I just had to get it off my chest. When we were sitting in Grand Junction eating burgers and thanking God for the lack of mountains and snow, SD's Beloved Husband said, "I can't wait to see the blog entries about this trip!" Rebelliously, I thought, "Oh, I won't be blogging about this. Not even the 3 hours in a ditch." But we didn't know the horrors of La Quinta (Spanish for "It's not Hell-- but you can see it from here") yet. So here it is, in all its glory.

For SD's take on the car trip, click here. She does a great job. I like the split-level effect particularly.

Rhyme Time

You know that scene in The Princess Bride where Inigo and Fezzik are playing their rhyming game and you discover that Fezzik isn't all muscle but has something upstairs after all? (If not, go back and watch the movie again. You know you want to anyway.) Well, my boys like playing that game. Especially Punkin Boy (still 2 years old). Pirate Boy has been studying poetry in kindergarten (I love the Core Knowledge program!), then comes home and plays school with his brother.

So you get little exchanges like this throughout the day:

Pirate Boy: Water tower!
Punkin: Eisenhower!

They play variations on the game, too. The other day Punkin was getting all Gertrude Stein on us, saying things like "a rose is a rose" and "a nose is a nose." #1 Son decided to get in on the action, throwing out similar phrases to see what rhymes his brother would respond with. It went on for a few rounds, then #1 Son decided to get tricky.

#1 Son: A horse is a horse--
Punkin: Of course, of course!

Smirk. Not much gets past that kid.

What a Trip

Back from a whirlwind trip to Kansas City (hi, Filegirl!), where I met some really lovely people who are thinking of maybe just possibly hiring me and where I saw some really unbelievable houses and some others that might even be in my price range if I ever get a job again that pays anything...

OK, stop and breathe. I picked up a cold or something on my trip and did a couple quick rounds with Montezuma's Revenge. Yuck. Oh, and got maybe 4 hours of sleep before my interviews, 'cause my plane had mechanical problems and I didn't get to my hotel until 2 a.m. local time. Ech.

However, I also picked up some great characters and situations for future writing, which is how I live my life now and have a blast no matter what. For instance:

• The woman obviously returning from a ski trip, wearing crop pants and 4-inch heels. Oh, please, honey. Don't you know that this airport is larger than most cities?
• The orange-haired woman wearing rust and brown clothes and a red tie-dyed cowboy hat. I thought this was the weirdest thing I'd see that night until I noticed another woman in a pink felt cowboy hat. Good gravy, people.
• The man(probably on a business trip) who waited in line for the security check semi-patiently for 10 or 15 minutes, then burst out with, "I showed up 15 minutes early and now I'm going to miss my $&%$*# flight!" Ooh. Y'know, even before 9/11, I wouldn't have cut it that close. Not even in a reasonable-sized airport, which this one is, as I've mentioned, NOT.
• The cute young Japanese couple who hugged goodbye outside the security line; he watched longingly for several minutes before leaving the terminal. A few seconds later, I saw her on the phone. I bet it was him.

People are fascinating. Here's another interesting thing. When I got to security, I didn't take off my shoes because I can't really walk without them and I can't bend over to do anything with them without hurting myself. After all, the sign only says "We recommend that you remove your shoes." Well, the security guy told me to do it anyway. When I explained why I hadn't (hoping that they could just do the wand-waving thing around my feet), he said, "I'll have to send you for a secondary check because you fit our profile."

Um, excuse me? <-- See that picture? Does that look like a terrorist to you? Well, unless you're doing reverse profiling, maybe. "Fat white female, rapidly approaching middle age, obviously married, professional, and terribly sedentary." What the heck? Last thing I want to do is blow myself up, along with a bunch of weekend skiers and college students.

Did I mention people are weird? Oh yeah, fascinating. That was it. Hee.

Hyper Haiku

Just for fun. I call this one New Mall.

Stupid, overpriced,
Inconvenient heap of-- wait.
Is that P.F. Chang's?

Ahhh, That's Better

Fixed the earlier post that was messing up my display. Finally!

Had a great interview this morning with a giant megacorp and a little band of environmentalist crusaders (yes, at the same time). It was fun, and they were really impressed with my editing. (Hooray!) I probably won't hear until the end of next week whether either of them wants me, so I can relax (HA!) and prepare for my big interview coming up Monday in the frigid Midwest. (What am I, crazy?)

Apparently, yes, I am crazy, because I have recently taken on a freelance project to write a technical white paper for a certain software company which shall remain nameless (unless this whole thing turns out really well). What on earth could have possessed anyone to ask me to do this? Well, my still-wonderful former boss (not the PHB) had been asked to do it (again, why?) but had way more work than hours in the day to accomplish it. And (unlike other bosses with more angular hairdos), when she needed someone who could do a good job, she thought of me. So maybe she's crazy too. Anyway, I've committed to it, for her sake, and am diligently working away into the night on this thing. And if (when?) it turns out well, I'll have one more thing to add to my portfolio.

And I have Girl Scout cookies. Thin Mints make everything all right.

Headline News

So today on the Web site for the local news station (OK, one of them), the big headline is:


Blizzard warning; storm expected to get worse

Right, OK, I've been out and I know it's ugly out there. But when you check whether you have to shuttle everyone to their various destinations this awful morning, you get this news from the same source:

No Closings Reported

Crazy place.

Because I Love You

Just a couple of quick fun things:

First, I had a phone interview this afternoon for a job in Kansas City. I felt pretty positive about it, but that's fooled me before. At the end of it, the Executive Editor told me that they were going to interview other candidates and would probably get back to me next Tuesday. Whew, I could relax and get ready for my Friday interview. Imagine my surprise when, 2 hours later, the KC people called back and said, "Come out to meet us in person-- next week"! I managed to push it to the following Monday. They're even going to fly me out. Holy cow. I guess I did OK.

Second, have you seen this? I got it from PK, who got it from Phantom Scribbler, and it's making the rounds. I've got a Nohari page, too, if you want to tell me how awful I am instead. But I'll probably never check it.

And finally, I just thought you ought to know

I'm a Dodge Viper!

[The image has been removed for maliciously making my blog unreadable; if you want to see the thing, click above.]

You're all about raw power. You're tough, you're loud, and you don't take crap from anyone. Leave finesse to the other cars, the ones eating your dust.

Take the Which Sports Car Are You? quiz.

Thanks, Kory.

Up to Something

Yes, I'm still alive, for anyone who had bets going. So what has been going on in my universe for the past 4 weeks? Among other things:

• I have taken several editing tests that resulted in job interviews for this week. (One of them is even in the state I live in-- imagine that!)
• I have also had several freelance projects keeping me busy, and I'm collaborating with a friend from writers' group on writing a musical.
• The Man has started a new semester of killer classes and is already hitting the wall in calculus (for the third time).
• Pirate Boy has produced a series of drawings, titled "Dark Hole in the Mist," "Dark Hole in the Sea," and-- "Ten Thousand Pigs." Must be art.
• The aforementioned artistic buccaneer hand-made valentines for everyone in his class, but especially for his best girl A-b-b-y, who warranted a flower and a heart-shaped box of chocolates. He's only 5, but he's already got the hang of romance.
• Punkin Boy has plummeted off the couch, off several chairs and a table, and down the stairs, each time onto his face. His little nose is looking extremely beat up.
• Punkin has also taken to carrying a "purse" and calling himself a pirate girl. I don't make it up, folks, I just report it.
• The Man has decided that my religion is the right way to go after all. And there was much rejoicing.
• #1 Son's name came up in the lottery for the best school in the state (I mentioned this last year when we signed the kids up for consideration). Satan of course refused to even consider the possibility of allowing the boy to attend (did I mention-- yes, I did-- that it's the best school in the entire state?) and threatened to call the police (among other things) if The Man dared to enroll him against her wishes. Because, you know, there could possibly be another school that's better somewhere, and this one is a whole 10 minutes further away than the one he's been attending all year... Obviously, TM was just doing this to inconvenience her, and she wasn't going to stand for it and... blah blah blah, yell, threaten, foam at mouth...
• #1 Son cried all night after being yelled at for an hour by his psychotic excuse for a mother, who tried to convince him that it was his father who was standing in the way of his going to this school. An eternity of smoldering coals and brimstone is way too good a fate for her.
• The Man had the inspiration to offer to split the transportation with her (picking him up from her house two Sundays a month) in exchange for her agreement.
• #1 Son, with much joy and celebration, began attending his new school last Monday. He has already learned some Latin and karate, begun enjoying art class for the first time, and made friends with someone called "Sing"; he wears a tie every day and LOVES it.
• Because his big brother is now enrolled in this school, Pirate Boy has an automatic place for the fall. He is SO excited.
• The new school starts about an hour earlier than the previous one, and it is about half an hour away from us. So we're all a little cranky from lack of sleep. But it's a good cranky.
• Except for last Friday, when the two youngest woke up at 4:30 a.m. and WOULD NOT go back to sleep. Argh!

OK, that's about enough of the bulleted list; I'm getting a headache. And speaking of headaches, Satan's been at it again. Tonight she calls up, ostensibly to talk to #1 Son, but actually of course to pester The Man. No, strike that, make it "give the man nightmares." Again. In her role as "World's Most Loving Mother," she has decided that it is time (because apparently the restraining order has run out) to reintroduce #1 Son to his stepbrother, the molester. Specifically, the guy who molested him. Just 2 months before Mommy Dearest married the guy's dad. Because you want to cement that relationship, you know. Don't give the kid a chance to escape the nightmare. Now, 18 months after the guy was taken away in handcuffs for what he did (and would have continued to do if #1 Son hadn't been brave enough to tell), Satan Herself wants to force a reintroduction. Because it's important that these boys (one of whom is nearly-- if not already-- 18) should have a close relationship. Or in other words, she can't afford a babysitter this summer.

So, she makes this statement to the effect that she wants to get them together and restore the relationship. The Man says no, he thinks that would be very harmful to #1 Son at this time and that if he wants to have a relationship later (i.e., after he's 18 also), that will be his choice. Satan says, tough luck, I'm doing it anyway. The Man bites his lip to the bleeding point and hands the phone to #1 Son, who is standing waiting to talk to his beloved Mommy. Then he goes down the hall and screams very quietly.

After much consideration (well, a short while to calm down and a LOT of ranting off-camera) and a nudge from his wife, The Man sends an email to The Evil One: "I do not approve of your plan to do X with #1 Son. If you insist on doing it anyway, I will pursue all options available to me through the legal system." It was a masterpiece of restraint. And, I hope, of menace. She loves to use the threat of legal/police action when things don't go her way. I can just imagine her going to her lawyer and complaining about this one:

Devil's Advocate: No, sorry; I'm evil, but I'm not omnipotent. No court on earth would buy that one. That'll be $50.

Sick, twisted, evil waste of human life. The worst thing is, she'll do it anyway. And get away with it. Can someone tell me why?

By Popular Demand

A year ago, when I started this blog, my first entry mentioned an idea I'd had for a novel. I began that one and made some good progress, as you might remember. It remains to be finished. Then National Novel Writing Month came along, and I started the book I'd been meaning to write for several years. It's still not finished, either, but it's a lot closer. Some of you have asked for an excerpt, and I've finally worked up my courage to post the first page, in which we meet the main character.

Baltimore Crier

Rrrrrrrinnnng! Rrrrrrrinnnng! The woman on the exercise bike removed one earphone to listen, but made no move to answer the phone. Puffing a wayward ringlet of chestnut hair out of her face, she kept pedaling, her eyes firmly fixed on the middle distance ahead. Despite her unchanged manner, she could feel her heart rate increase much too quickly—too high, too high.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. It’s stupid to feel this terrified of a stupid phone call, she told herself. Biting her lip, she revved up her pedaling speed, adding a little more tension for challenge. And, she chided herself, I make a living with words. I ought to be able to think of at least half a dozen more interesting words for “stupid”…

Rrrrrrrinnnng!

Need to remember to turn on immediate pickup when I’m actually home… she mused. OK, how’s this? “It’s completely asinine to be afraid of a meaningless phone call from an idiot.” More apt, anyway.

Click. “Hello, you’ve reached Thessely and Smedley. We can’t come to the phone right now, so leave a message…” Here it comes.

“Thessely? Are you there?” She stiffened visibly, then pedaled harder. “It’s me, Thessely. You know, your husband.”

Her face purpled and twisted into a snarl. “EX husband, if you don’t mind.” Whir-whir-whirwhirwhirwhirwhirwhirwhirwhirwhir! went the bike as her legs pumped more viciously with each word.

The voice continued plaintively, “Why do you still have my name on your answering machine? Do you want me back?”

“Idiot!” she roared. “Can you clean the wax out of your ears long enough to tell the difference between Smedley and Jerry? Geez, what a wet sack!”

“I don’t know why you won’t take my calls. I can't believe how rude you are!”

“How about ‘cause you’re a psycho stalker who doesn’t know when to SHUT UP.” Whirwhirwhir…

The voice wheedled on. “I just know that you’re only avoiding me because you still care, and you’re just afraid of your feelings…”

Whir-crack-zip-zzzzzz…. “Ouch!” She yelped and jumped off the bike, rubbing her injured calf where the pedal had smacked it. “OK, that was pretty funny there, Jerry,” she groused, half-laughing through the sting of the growing welt. “When I said ‘psycho’ I meant psychotic, not psychiatrist, you know.” She made a face to the world at large. “Jerk. Loser. Wannabe. Cretin.”

Still muttering, she rolled to her feet and headed to the bathroom. The voice droned on, alternately protesting undying love and hurling vicious epithets at the unfortunate sufferer. Bright gold eyes watched the proceedings from under a chair.

“You’re lucky, Smedley," she addressed the chair. "You don’t have to worry about weddings, divorces, emotional troubles, jealousy, or the other ugliness of human relationships.” She winced as she rubbed alcohol on the scrape that adorned her left calf. “With cats, it’s just ‘wham-bam, thank you ma’am’—or whatever.” She fumbled with a sticky bandage, then, feeling much better, she headed for the computer desk. “Some days it would be so nice to be a cat.”

Mixed Bag

Well, rats. The great job didn't pan out, which has its good and bad points, and now things are getting tight. I've actually been doing freelance work lately-- which means I'm making even less than usual with this unemployment thing. This is how it works, apparently. One job I got paid for up front and spent the money before Christmas, and the other one I won't get paid for until February, but I report it all to the Unemployment people when I do the work, and they take out the amount of money I would be paid for that amount of work. I know it all evens out in the end, but this month is slim anyway because we're not getting the money for The Man going to school. So I can pay my mortgage, car, insurance, credit, health, and all other payments on, what, $600? Sure I can. And don't talk to me about the utility companies! Our gas bill alone more than doubled in December. Bother.

And just as a little aside, I finally went to the doctor this week. I had to stop using those nifty little patches because they were giving me welts (and besides, they cost like $10 apiece). I had to stop the anti-inflammatories because they made my stomach sick, so all I had left was the Percocet. This is lovely stuff of course, unless you have to do grownup, responsible things like, say, drive or hold down a job. It was OK for the month that The Man was out of school, but now he's going back and I need something else. 'Cause it turns out that under all that lovely painkilling stuff, there's still a lot of pain. Hmm. So I went to the doc and explained my situation. He gave me another prescription to try, but I think we're scraping the bottom of the barrel. This pill might give me a fatal seizure, but it's safer for driving than the codeine-based stuff? While I was there, he asked what else he could do for me, and I mentioned the numbness and swelling in my hands and feet, respectively. In about a minute, he had diagnosed carpal tunnel (yes, I really have it) and (worse) probable insulin resistance. He says when I get health insurance again (if ever), I should have myself tested for sleep apnea. Oh joy. Well, that would explain a lot. I didn't even mention the tendonitis in my right arm. At this point, it's a minor irritation in all its inflamation. Besides, I know I've got a brace around here somewhere...

Good thing this all makes for interesting story fodder. And so far, we're surviving.

A Quick Update

Sitting by the phone, waiting for the ring that will tell me whether I get a third interview for a very cool job. In fact, at this time of year, it's positively Arctic. Location: Omaha. Good grief. If this wasn't the best job in the country right now, I wouldn't be after it. But after all these months of burnout and shell shock, this opportunity has me interested in having a career again. Interested enough that I'm actually considering how to pull off a move to Nebraska. And liking it. I don't need to go into the complications of the whole situation, I'm sure. You remember what happened when we tried to move to Utah last year. This time we have a bit better chance, seeing as how it's survival and all. But it's still pretty dicey.

Sigh. And on a completely different note, my adorable little redhead, wearing a pirate hat and brandishing a sword, just grinned at me and said, "Shiver me timbers! We must have taken a wrong turn at Bora Bora!" Hee. More later. Must take video.

Picture Time!

We finally got our photos from developed from this past fall and early December. Somehow they ended up out of order on the blog and I'm not patient enough to try and sort it out at this time of night. But I think they're darned cute. What do you think?

Pirate Boy and his adoring fans. (His official fiancee is not in this picture, however.)

Ah, the buccaneer goes a-piratin'. Halloween 2005. Arrrr.

These handsome fellows are ready for their first day of school.

Pirate Boy prepares for his Winter Program. How beautiful is this guy?

Coffin

Haawwrk. Coff, coff. This is the sound of my house this week. Well, the household, to be accurate. The Punkin had an ear infection by Christmas Eve, and Pirate Boy's developed soon afterward. I went to bed right after Christmas dinner; The Man and I have been coughing on each other for days now. And nights; no sleep. Yuck. Will post more post-recovery.

Merry Christmas to All

So, my Alabama in-laws are in town this week, and my kids are going crazy. There are two things I'd forgotten (but really should have remembered) about these visitors from afar:

1) As soon as they arrive, they immediately take my husband away on a shopping trip, leaving me with whatever kids we have (occasionally a newborn) for hours on end. Then they come back, eat whatever I've fixed for them, and go off again. Repeat ad nauseum.

2) They don't remember what it's like to be parents of young children, especially when said children really ought to be sleeping. No, naptime and very early mornings are the times when you need to recount your adventures in 'Nam at the top of your lungs, or for preference, give the oldest kid a trombone lesson.

(A third thing isn't so major but is a kind of funny side note: their accents. Hoo-boy. Or should I say "Bowah"?)

Fortunately, I like my in-laws. Great-grandma even acknowledges the younger kids now (especially Punkin Boy, who, we hear for the 57th time, "looks just like his dad"). And I'm gathering interesting anecdotes from Dad, who was busted in rank more times than Robin Williams' character could ever have dreamed of being. And for better reasons. Someday I'll write a book. Another book.

Meanwhile, I'm actually having a good time. Our guests are spoiling me as much as they are the children. (I didn't think my winter coat looked so bad, really!) My big excitement: They gave us a camcorder! [Dance of joy] It's got video editing software, so if we can figure out how to transfer the film to the computer, I'll be posting some fun stuff. My kids are awesome!

Winter Haiku

16 degrees out.
Our furnace igniter blows.
Brrrr... Cold inside now.

An Upside of Unemployment

This week, #1 Son's teacher noticed that the only protection he had against this unbelievable cold (at the time, around 8 degrees F.) was a padded denim jacket and some ski gloves. I imagine her wondering angrily whether we're criminally neglectful or simply impoverished. She must have checked the roster of "free lunch" kids and found our boy on it, because yesterday the boy came home from school in a wonderful furry-hooded parka, courtesy of some kind donor.

I'm wiping away the tears as I think of it now. Not that I have too much pride to be grateful for such a thing, because I'm willing to suffer anything to take care of my kids. But this coat (glasses going foggy) is so much nicer than we could have bought for him this fall when I was gainfully employed and we were just a little too rich for the welfare rolls. This situation is bringing us the weirdest blessings.

Jeopardy

Answer in the form of a question, please:

The strange marble-sized lump in my breast.

What is GONE, Alex?

That's right! Disappeared completely. Ta-da!

Whew.

Things to Do in the Arctic Cold

In honor of the unholy cold that's got a grip on North America this week (hovering around zero Fahrenheit in my neck of the woods), I've given some thought to what you can really do in weather like this. Here are some suggestions for those who find this weather frustrating and useless:

1. Stay in bed and snuggle with someone you like.
2. Pile on lots of blankets and read a book.
3. Take a nice long nap.
4. Finish writing your NaNo novel, enjoying the warmth of the laptop.
5. Make a fire and sit as close as you can for as long as you can stand it.
6. Enjoy cocoa and popcorn with your family or friends.
7. Board up the igloo doors and wait for the spring thaw.

Notice that all these things involve being indoors (preferrably); also notice the absence of such items as

• Drive all over town taking people to school.
• Go out for yet another mammogram.
• Make another couple round trips picking people up from school and other places.
• Go outside for any reason.
• Drive anywhere in the snow at all.

And yet, alas, my day involves lots of driving in ice and snow, much of it before and after the sun's showtime. Today I'm lucky; I only have to make 3 round-trips. Yesterday I made 5, including the one after sunset with all the kids, who are usually tired and want their dinner anyway. Tuesdays are worse because we get up an hour early to get The Man to his early class. And it was 10 times as bad yesterday because-- OK, storytime here.

Friday, TM says to me "Bad news: My final is on Monday at 7 a.m." Of course the buses don't run at that time of day, and the school is half an hour from our house, and we've only got one car, so this is bad news indeed. It means that we have to bundle the kids out of bed and into their shoes and coats at 6:15 a.m., put them in the car, drive 18 miles to drop their dad off at school, then I have to somehow get them home before they combust from anger at missing their breakfast (not to mention that 75 minutes of sleep), feed them and keep them from killing each other until it's time to take #1 Son to school, bring home the younger ones and somehow survive (at this point, it's that bad-- "Please, kids, just watch a movie or something!") until it's time to take a rather cranky Pirate Boy to afternoon kindergarten, bring a (by this time) screaming Punkin Boy home for a nap...

That he won't take because he has just grown big enough to open bedroom doors AND climb out of his crib. No prison can hold him, and he may never sleep again. Last night, he was up every 2 minutes till long past midnight, at which point he got too tired to keep it up and passed out on the bottom of his long-suffering brother's bed. Poor Pirate Boy has to share a room with this guy, so he's not getting enough sleep, either, but he's developing the ability to sleep through a tornado in his room (i.e., Punkin Boy). I alone of our family have the unfortunate habit of waking up at the slightest noise, especially when it's made by a small child. I haven't slept since Sunday, when I did a lot of napping because of...

The post-NaNo party! (Need to link to some pictures here. There were vast amounts of silliness perpetrated that night.) That, however, is a story for another day.

Postscripts: (1) Unfortunately, TM got mixed up about which Monday his final was on, so we went out 2 days ago amid the aforementioned chaos and personal sacrifice, only to find out that the final is really next Monday, and we'll have to do it all over again! No, I haven't yet committed murder. (2) No, I still haven't gotten anyone to tell me anything about that last mammogram. I waited around for an answer from the doctor's office for 2 weeks, but they were even less informative than the radiology tech, so here I go (right about now, in fact) for an ultrasound. If I ever find out what the deal is, I promise I'll post it here. For now, you can share my frustration at the wait.

I Win the Marathon!

I did it! I did it! And the crowd goes wild!

Now to collapse for a few days while I recover...

Almost There!

Covering the final distance to tomorrow night's finish line. Only 1500 words to go. I'm going to make it! (Puff, puff, pant.) But until then, miss me. (*Blows a big kiss to her adoring fans*) Back to the race...

More in December, I promise!

Na Na, WRIte MOre!

In lieu of a real post, I'm going to follow Purple Elephant's lead and present you with this little quiz for N... you know, that novel-writing thing. (Those of you who aren't participating, answer as if you were.)

Here's my results. Enjoy!


Hooray for you! You're going to win Nanowrimo!
Persistence and hardwork reap great rewards.


It's Nanowrimo Time! Will you reach 50K? What kind of novel will you write?
brought to you by Quizilla



[Edited just before midnight, 11/17: And Scone pulls ahead! She's passing the daily word average and is more than on-track to finish this blasted novel. Huzzah! And there was much rejoicing.]

Why I'm (Still) Behind on My Novel

Oy. Dead tired. I had counted on tonight to catch up on my novel, but no. I forgot that The Man had a late study group in Nearby College Town from whence I'd have to pile the children in the car and pick him up-- at bedtime. I also didn't anticipate #1 Son being hit in the head at school today. Despite losing his vision and becoming extremely dizzy, he didn't think to tell anyone, go to the nurse, or anything, until I came to pick him up a few hours later. I wavered about taking him to the doctor, planning to talk it over with The Man when he came home-- but I didn't realize he wasn't going to come home at the normal time until after I'd piled the kids into the car and driven in a snowstorm to the bus stop a few miles away. Because there has to be a complication. Foolishly fed the children spaghetti (ever tried cooking anything while a 35-pound toddler head-butts you repeatedly and two other children scream and fight in another room?); had to bathe two youngest (without being able to bend over or lift either of them, don't forget) and get everyone ready to go yet again before urgent care clinic closed. Then got lost in the dark and the snow and went around in circles. Fortunately, #1 Son is OK aside from some inner ear jostling. Younger ones entertained the front office staff while I was chaperoning their brother. Then Punkin Boy escaped just as we were leaving (nearly too late to pick up TM) and ran up this stone stairway that looked as if it had no railings at all between him and a 30-foot drop. Argh.

Oh, I could go on. But I won't. Must sleep now. Got to get up in 5 hours and do it all again. Maybe I'll catch up some other time.

What's Wrong With Me, Anyway?

I don't know why I'm writing this. I only have a few minutes before I have to go pick up the kids. Somehow, I've got to get food ready for my writers group banquet tonight right about the same time as I need to be picking up The Man from the bus stop. (I feel really rotten that he won't be able to go for the first time in 5 years.) I'll have to just dump everyone and leave, and I won't be home until after the kids' bedtime, and I haven't written on my novel today, and...

I have something weird in my breast tissue.

I had a second mammogram today because the first one showed an "anomaly" (whatever). The perky technician came back in after showing today's results to the doctor and with a smile told me that I was done. I almost stopped listening at that point, but it's a good thing I didn't because she went on to say that I'd have to come back later for an ultrasound--nothing to worry about, no big deal, the doctors had wanted to do it anyway... Sure, fine, OK. I'll schedule that later. I was fine, too, until she went out. Then I burst into tears like an idiot.

So here I am, just sure I feel something weird in there, trying to tell myself that just because this same thing happened to my mom and hers turned out to be nasty it doesn't mean that it will be the same for me (sure it won't), and feeling guilty for worrying about how much it will cost, since we're still bringing in very little money and Christmas is coming. And tonight I get to hang out with a bunch of wealthy people who will wonder what on earth is wrong with me.

Glorious!

I've broken the 20 percent mark, and only 23% of the way through the working month. (Omitting Sundays does put a cramp in my word count, but I'll make it anyway.) Over ten thousand words into my novel, I still haven't gotten to the main action, and that's OK. I've been fascinated to see what the early bit has turned out like.

For anyone who hasn't tried this experiment before, I totally recommend it. What a rush!

Four days down...

... and I've reached the 10% mark on my novel. Don't do the math; I know I'm still behind, but I'm making up ground, and I'm making progress. And I haven't even gotten to the good part yet.

I love this stuff. Am I crazy?

Yee-ouch! Carpal Tunnel Syndrome

Is it really the 3rd already? (Well, technically the morning of the 4th now.) A tenth of the way through the month: Got to get moving on that book...

I've been typing nonstop for the past 3 1/2 hours, and ooh, does my right arm ache! (Why not the left one, eh? What has that slacker been doing all this time?) I'm still behind on where I should be by now, but I did a good 1800 words this evening, and the weekend is coming up. So I'm hopeful for a good conclusion to NaNoWriMo.

Meanwhile, I finished the first part of my freelance work for the month. I clocked only about 8 hours' worth of work on this thing, when I had budgeted for closer to 12 or 15. I've got to either start working slower or start charging by the project instead of the hour. Oy. Let me sleep on it.

I Got It Going On

Testing... Does this show up? Finally?



In case anyone was wondering where I am lately. Dig the new photo, too.

Go Figure

It just figures: Here I sign up for NaNoWriMo because I have nothing else to do in November than write a novel (and OK, I really wanted to do it). So what happens? First, our kids are out of school the first 3 days of November, so no afternoon respite while Punkin Boy takes his nap. Second, (wait for it...) I actually got offered some contract work for almost half the month of November. Which is great, don't get me wrong... In fact, it's fine. I do my best writing late at night anyway.

Now I just need to figure out how to balance all that and get the payments to fall in only one or two of the weeks in November so that I don't lose too much of my unemployment. (Y'know, for a gal who's opposed to the dole, I sure am taking to it well. Bother.)

OK, so it's not just me...

Overheard in passing the other day:

"I always know winter is coming because my fingers start to crack and bleed."

Oh yeah. That's why they do that. It's been so long.

It's a Fine Life

[Tried to post this Friday night, but Blogger was acting up.]

I received my first unemployment check yesterday. Today's groceries were courtesy of welfare. And I had a "post-midterm celebration" date with my husband tonight for virtually free (thanks, Kory!). So life on the streets isn't all that bad.

Meanwhile, it's #1 Son's 11th birthday and his "Mommy" managed not to completely stand him up this time. It's a step in the right direction. But he's gone all weekend, so we'll have to celebrate with him Monday. My folks are giving him a spankin' new Boy Scout uniform; someday he might appreciate the thought. Fortunately, he's got other grandparents.

The little punkins have had a great week learning and playing. The weather (which for quite a while was around 80) has turned cool and wet, finally, but it's still pleasant enough to get outside and have fun in. We spent some time discovering autumn things like leafstorms-- what a magical experience that was for a toddler!

Also, since the editing gigs aren't coming in quite yet, I signed up for NaNoWriMo and am now priming the word pump. I've been working on my murder mystery more diligently lately and (can you believe it?) started a new book (non-fiction this time, just for spice) this week. Wheeeee!

Running Down

I'm losing steam. Not sure whether it's an attitude thing, but I'm just not trying as hard as I was. (That ought to be a good thing, right?) I sit down to job hunt, and I end up checking blogs. I sit down to write on my book, and I end up job hunting. Neither of these has been particularly helpful.

I didn't even go to my writers group meeting this week. After missing the previous 2 months' meetings because of that stupid job, I ought to have been leaping into my car, but no... I was too tired. Well, I was, but that shouldn't have been an excuse. I love my writers group. I live for it. It's what kept me going so long... what is my problem?

Monday Again? Already?

Sheesh. Somehow I thought I'd been posting more often than this. Well, bother. And of course all the ideas I'd had for posts have gone right out of my head, so you'll have to wait for something intelligent. But for now:

The Status Report

• I have not scheduled a followup mammogram. My mom (a breast-cancer survivor) said I should wait until I can afford it (i.e., get insurance). The referring N.P. also said it was nothing major, so I'm going to wait.
• I spent most of last week playing phone tag with this person I was supposed to interview with. One day, her son broke his arm. One day, I had a migraine. Etcetera. One day I just played hooky.
• I have had no emails or calls regarding jobs since Thursday. This could have something to do with the previous item.
• The Man and I are thinking of incorporating. We'd really rather just write all day, every day, but somehow we try to make a living doing other things.
• It has been raining for 2 days solid.
• We're being stalked by Satan-- or at least his spawn. The Man tried to placate her by giving her a Webcam. Great, another way for her to stalk us.
• We finally got the realtor to take down the "For Sale" sign in front of our house.
• Pirate Boy loves to play chess and Risk, but can't get his little brother to follow the rules. This frustrates both of them no end.
• My Punkin Boy will NOT sleep although he needs to (and so do I).
• I like staying home with the kids and making cookies and zucchini bread. It's kinda fun.
• With an attitude like that, I'll never get another job.
• The only thing I miss about working is having an income.
• Oh, and my laptop. I miss that, too.
• Pirate Boy's alarm clock (which resides in the living room) went off at 2:00 this morning.
• The Man had just gotten to bed at 1 something.
• Did I mention I need a nap? I need a nap. My dear husband needs one worse. And he's wandering around in the freezing rain all day. Lucky, lucky man.

For a post when I didn't have anything to say, this has turned out pretty long. More later...

Spooky II, Electric Boogaloo

You know how the other day I was freaking out about scary stuff? Hmm, well, I'll be doing it again any second now.

1) I have a follow-up interview tomorrow (probably) with the high-falutin newsie people, but I secretly don't really want the job. I applied just on a whim, but I wrote a really good cover letter by accident, and I guess that worked. (Yes, I did keep a copy to modify and use later.) So I've got this weird dilemma going on now: Do I do my very best and risk being offered a job that might stress me out too much? (I couldn't refuse because that would void my unemployment benefits.) Or do I sabotage my chances so that I don't get the offer, which might actually be a really cool opportunity? Or do I just shut up, stop worrying about it, and realize that they probably won't offer me the job anyway?

2) Also tomorrow, I have to schedule a follow-up mammogram because the first one found, um, something they're not sure what it is. Probably nothing, sure. That's what they told my mom. What a good time not to have health insurance!

But on the positive side, I've got a couple more people interested in giving me editing work to do, which will be fun. Well, profitable anyway. I hear the team has lost yet another editor (that makes 4 of us in the past 2 weeks alone). I'm sure it's my fault; shya. (Did I not mention that the PHB blamed me for everyone else resigning? I can't find that in any of my posts... Well, she did.)

And lest I forget how blessed I am, I will now shut down my second computer, go kiss my sleeping angels, and curl up in a nice warm bed where, with any luck, my darling husband will join me before morning.

Take That!

Hmmmm....

I've discovered that the PHB's brand of insanity is not unique, or even rare. It has a name, and that name is "workplace bullying." Monster.com has an active forum devoted to it, and apparently there are books and several Web sites about the phenomenon, too. It's a form of abuse, like spouse, child, or elder abuse, but it's legal.

I was interested to discover that, statistically, workplace bullying tends to mostly target females who are a few years on either side of 40 and who have been with their employers for about 6 1/2 years. No joke. And as I've found, the target is usually forced out of the job and the perpetrator usually sticks around and does it to someone else. Now I'm wondering who's next on PHB's list, and how much this will end up costing the company long-term.

I am SO glad to be quit of that place.

Eeek

Today I washed a mouse. Yech. I was thinking while I sorted the laundry that the pile was big enough to hide a whole colony of mice. But to have it tumble out-- THUD!-- on the floor when I pulled the clothes out of the washing machine was more than I really needed to deal with. So I went to Wal-Mart and bought copious quantities of mouse-killing equipment. Death to Mousie!

Oh, and on a more grown-up note, I've now had the dubious honor of being turned down for health insurance-- because of my health. Duh. I'm hoping they'll at least insure my kids.

Spooky

Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.... That eerie wailing you hear isn't coming from the early Halloween kitsch at your local Wal-Mart; it's all me. This week has had some seriously unnerving spots. I'm still shaking from a job interview I had just now with one of the big names in the tech content world. Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.... They want a news editor to analyze and write about industry trends, manage reporters, .... (major shuddering fit) um, and so on. I think I'm a little nervous about the idea and not really confident in my ability to do the job. YAh.

OK, so changing the subject: I had my first mammogram this week, too. Aaaaaa! Sorry, it wasn't actually as terrible as all that. It's just a scary thing-- for me, anyway-- ever since those wonderful comediennes in the 90's did the standup routines about that particular physical torture. And there's always the fear of them finding cancer. Nevermind that it's much better to detect it early so that you have a better chance of survival; fear doesn't respond to rational arguments. The only way to get past fear is to do an end run around it and pretend you're really doing something else until you're already in the doctor's office where the fear of public humiliation will step up to help keep you from running out the door. Oy.

Anyway, it was just fine; the people were nice; they gave me cocoa and a pink carnation, even. I have no reason to keep screaming. Right? Cut that out. What? What is it? Iiiiiiiice cream... Oh! Ah.....

Making Progress

Getting settled in to the new routine. Didn't get much work-related done today; kids running amuck, housework to do, and so on. However...

I did send in resumes to two good prospects this evening. And here is my first freelance specialization page, go figure. It's only for Google purposes, so that people who want an editor for that topic can find me, so don't judge the content too harshly. Not that I ever want to see that content again, but I do need to eat. Need to come up with more pages to increase my chances of getting gigs I'm interested in.

But more on that later; time to tumble into bed. 'Night.

News Flash

I'm officially registered as a freelance editor. Hooray! Someday I'll even post a link to my official page, but I'm not finished spiffing things up over there yet. I am so enjoying this "not having a job" stuff.

Seasonal Silliness

Time to hibernate!

You Are A: Bear Cub!

Bears are strong and independent creatures who roam in the forest in search of food. Bears are usually gentle, but anger one and be prepared for their full fury! You're tough, you won't back down from a fight, you have a bit of a temper -- classic attributes of a bear. Intelligent and resourceful, though lazy at times, you are a fascinating creature of the wild.

You were almost a: Turtle or a Duck
You are least like a: Chipmunk or a SquirrelWhat Cute Animal Are You?

A duck? I ask you...

Fall... It's Super-Freaky

I've lived in this area for over 6 years now, and I still find it bizarre how closely the local weather follows the calendar seasons. Calendar says "first day of autumn"? Expect to wake up to a wet, dreary morning on a day that will eventually reach a high of 55 degrees. It will happen even if the previous day was hot, clear, and 90 degrees-- just like each of the previous 90 days.

It's weird, I tell ya.

OK, I grew up in a place where the calendar was basically only to tell you when to wear white shoes. (And I didn't pay much attention to that anyway. I never had more than two pairs of shoes before college.) The seasons we had weren't on any calendar: first allergy season, monsoon season, second allergy season, and holiday season-- that couple weeks when the temperature drops below 65 at night. (Bundle up, kids!)

I've adjusted to actually having distinct seasons in my weather. It's nice to have change sometimes. The thing about autumn that I keep forgetting is: It's too cold for our puny weakling mice to sleep outside now. So they invade. And they're not typical scared-of-their-own-shadow mice who only creep out after the household is asleep. Oh no. These are the kind that will play hockey in your kitchen during dinner and run across your toes to beat you to the bathroom.

So I don't feel the slightest bit sorry about poisoning them and flinging their vile little carcasses onto the trash heap. Maybe I can get the neighbor's evil pit bull to eat them. Two birds and all that. Pah.

And So It Goes...

Well, they fired me. I walked into my manager's office Friday morning for our scheduled meeting to discuss how I can better manage my workload, task printouts and written plan in hand, sat down-- and they fired me before I could open my mouth. "It's time for us to part ways. Here's your final check. Any questions?" Um, just one, really. Why the blankety-blank did you tell me you'd let me discuss this with my manager today if you were really just going to fire me, you lying scum? OK, strike the blankety-blank. No need to get vulgar.

I have to admit I felt pretty negative about that situation, though. I had to tell my husband "Happy birthday, honey; I lost my job," which was a totally lousy feeling for both of us. And I miss my laptop. Now we have to schedule time on one PC for both (well, all 5) of us. There's the lack of income, which is really going to hurt after the first of October. But the worst is the lack of healthcare, when all of us are sick and not getting better. That bites.

On the other hand, the beatings have stopped. And I no longer have to work till midnight every night. The stress of having a family to support and no income isn't (amazingly) as bad as the stress of trying to please the people I worked for. I can think of half a dozen reasons why they might have wanted me out, not the least of which is that they're crazy. But speculation will get me nowhere. So, what next? File for unemployment: check. Search diligently for jobs pretty much anywhere: check (ongoing). Follow up with contacts who might have work for me: in progress. Get some rest and try to get healthy: next on my agenda. After that, I plan to get some food into this house before I need to feed the kids again. Rinse. Repeat.

I want to say a HUGE thank you to my family and friends who have been super-supportive during this time when I'm really struggling to regain my confidence. Their love and friendship has meant the world to me and has just helped so much. I'm going to do my darnedest to live up to your faith in me. Thanks.

I Can't Believe This...

No wait, that's a negative statement; must rephrase. I am shocked and awed at the determination of the PHB to push me out despite our shortness of staff. I stand truly amazed at her ability to find negativity in every sentence that comes out of my mouth, including the words "I'm sorry" and "I want to make this work." I'm impressed at the willingness of the other managers to go along with her on everything. I'm curious how much they're paying her and what else she does all day. OK, that one was negative again.

I'm also delirious with fever and in searing pain from an ear infection. I'm fairly certain my kids are worse off. I'm terrified of what will happen if I stay home tomorrow to take care of them.

I'm tired of having to watch every word I say and of having all my best efforts derided and belittled. I'm looking frantically for a new job. I'm not succeeding.

I'm emotionally and physically exhausted, and I'm going to bed now. Good night.

Morale Has Not Improved; Beatings to Continue

This week has been... less than stellar at the Scone household. On Wednesday, I was worried about our boys being kicked out of their school. On Thursday, I was worried that the stress at work would snap my back again. On Friday, I was told that I am a bad influence who has bad judgement (a reference to some things that earlier I had been praised for) and a bad attitude (this I admit) and that the PHB can't stand to have me working for the company anymore. Also bad.

I'm thinking it's a personal problem on her end, but even if it is, there's very little I can do to keep my job. I have until COB Monday to figure out a plan that the management will accept. However, all the managers concerned will be out of the office/out of touch until Friday, so they couldn't approve my plan if they wanted to. Not a terribly encouraging sign that they want to work with me.

But there's another wave of people leaving the department this month; I don't understand why the PHB would insist on pushing anyone out at this point. We're already shortstaffed and struggling to train a handful of newbies as it is. Why do you suppose we're having such a high turnover lately? *sniff, sniff* I smell a scapegoat, and it's me.

Nothing But Sticks

Usually I like Thursdays. I get to work from home, spend a little more time with my babies (and The Man), and feel a lot more relaxed. It makes up for a lot of the trauma of working where I work. But not today.

Today my team (all 2 of us) had a mandatory 1-hour meeting in the executive conference room with our managers (3 of them) to discuss why we suck. No, why we're so far behind on our deadlines. It's right out of a Dilbert cartoon. Probably several. But our management no longer sees the humor or irony in Scott Adams' work, so I don't bring it up.

First words out of my manager's mouth when we sat down were, "So how did things get so bad that we had a crisis yesterday?" Um, well, good morning to you, too. And as for the crisis yesterday... It was someone else's. I have an ongoing one that leaves me crippled by the end of the day. Every day. Get your own.

She wanted to know why, if we were running screaming with our hair on fire, we didn't ask for help or tell anyone that we couldn't manage the workload. Well, actually, we had. I had, I know. Every time a new project came down the pike toward the new boss (TNB), she deflected it toward me. (Well, y'know, she had this project to work on.) As early as last Wednesday, I was saying "No, I can't do it, I'm swamped. I have 6 deadlines next week, I'm behind on the edits, I've pushed my other main duties completely to the back burner, and that's gonna hurt later, I'm just overwhelmed... and my buddy over here is even worse off." Almost in those words, I said it. And yet, we still had to do it.

So Wednesday this week, we got this scolding note saying, "Where is everything, you losers?!" and people started yelling that we'd missed a deadline, though as far as we knew, the deadline wasn't until today. The answer to where things were: 1) on their way to you already, 2) somebody else has them and we thought they were done, and 3) I'd have had it done already, but you screwed it up so I still need to fix your mistakes. (I am not the most diplomatic person in the world, as you may have noticed.)

So, as I was scrambling to get all my things done for the screaming people upstairs, a new item was dumped on my desk. "Is this yours?" No. "Do you know whose it is?" No, but I'll ask New Person 1, since it has her name on it. (I used to be an analyst; I can figure these difficult things out.) I take the thing to NP1, who looks at TNB and says "Is this in my job description?" TNB goes to look in her office for said document. Meanwhile, NP1 says, "I think it's supposed to go to New Person 2." Possibly, and by this time, TNB has gotten distracted and is looking at me quizzically. Fine.

I go to NP2's office; she's not there. I come back later and show her this thing she's supposed to do. She asks "How?" OK, fine. I start explaining. She looks at me wide-eyed and says, "I don't have access to that." OK. Fine. I take it back to my office, gritting my teeth. I start checking the thing over...

I'm sure everybody in the building heard the ear-splitting roar from my office at that point. "What the...?!" This item was put together by NP1. It was one of the missing items that we were getting yelled at about. It was due in a few short hours. And it was wrong. Ever want an editor to chew your head off and spit down your neck? Hand her a proof at printer deadline of something that's not even close to correct or complete. Otherwise, don't.

The proof in question was also missing some information that my manager should have been responsible for, but didn't supply. I mentioned this to her, but somehow I ended up being the one to go online and dig it up. (Tick, tick, tick...)

So when this meeting was called to ask us how we let ourselves get so far behind without anyone knowing about it, I wanted to scream all over again. What do you say to that?

Key quotes from the meeting:
"Your workweek is obviously not just 40 hours long."
"You knew I was overloaded and didn't say anything?!"
"Why do you two feel that you're responsible for the whole publication?"

Oh, and the highlight of the morning, I thought, was my dear coworker (whom I love to pieces and who should be sainted) telling me that the PHB had called her this morning to say, "It seems that maybe you two are feeling frustrated and upset lately." No... really? What gave it away?

When the managers ask, "What can we do to help you keep this from happening again?" here's the answer I want to give:

"More carrots, fewer sticks."

The End Is Near

Well, the end of the week, technically. Sorry to sound like the doomsayer. Life really isn't that bad, although halfway through this week I almost thought it was. I'd start on these angry rants in my head, and then I'd remember: I've still got a roof over my head (at least until the mortgage check bounces). I've still got clean drinking water and even a cupboard full of food. I've still got money coming in, even though it's nowhere near enough to pay the bills. My Punkin Boy is getting over his horrible illness and has even eaten a few bites of food here and there. And The Man still has his school, even though the brain donors at Financial Aid won't accept the bank's check for tuition and are still demanding tuition payment and we're already paying on this loan for the tuition money they won't accept... I will not call names. No, I won't.

You see, even though all I have to offer the hurricane survivors are kind thoughts and sincere prayers, I know I've really got it good. Unfortunately, I sometimes need reminding of that. It shouldn't take a disaster. Maybe I'll post a note on my mirror.

Next Generation

I neglected to mention that the reason I even knew about Catherine being home was that Little Sis called me yesterday just after noon. I happened to be home to take the call because my Punkin Boy had a raging fever and miserable sore throat. That tiny little voice croaking "Mama" is about the most pathetic thing I've ever heard.

My sister's exhaustion coming over the phone lines was pretty close, though. With Baby C. only taking an ounce of formula at a time, the feedings are pretty near constant. And with her husband in school (though taking some time off work), Little Sis hardly has any time to herself. I might have said, "Welcome to motherhood"; I might have just thought it. Poor sweetie. But I'm sure she got the message, as I gave my little man a sip of awful medicine, carried him (all 31 pounds of him) protesting to his room and put him in the crib, tried to determine whether he wanted a pillow, a book, or a stuffed animal in with him ("NO!" to each), murmured soothing words, kissed him on the head, and shut the door behind me, trying not to be influenced by his hoarse, impassioned wails.

We discussed her discovery of what a pain all the doctor appointments and paperwork and so on can be with a new baby, and how crazy it is to have to deal with all that stuff on 4 hours of sleep. (Four hours! What I would have given some days to have that to look forward to!) She wonders when she'll ever have the chance to scrapbook again. (I think there'll be a period between "sleeping through the night" and "crawling everywhere" when she might have a chance. In my kids, these phases didn't overlap.) I figure she hasn't missed enough sleep yet if her question isn't "When will I ever get to shower and brush my teeth on the same day again?"

But you know what? I found myself wishing I could just leave someone else in charge at my house for a while and fly out to be with her right now. When she was the baby at our house, I spent a lot of time holding her, feeding her, changing her, rocking her, cleaning her spitup off my clothes... Now I hear her crying; I want to go to her and hold her and fix her problems and tell her everything will be OK. But we're grown up now, and I can't. We each have to take care of our own babies. But everything will be OK. Really.

Hurray!

Baby Catherine is officially home!


Little Sis (seen here with Baby C.) called me this afternoon. She sounded exhausted and admitted it was the case. Catey still isn't eating much at each feeding, so she needs more feedings than the average newborn. Result: no sleep for parents. I somehow felt the need to "commiserate" by recalling how little sleep I'd gotten with my babies. I mentioned that at least she can call on relatives in the area if she needs help. My poor sleepy sister just laughed. Those friends and relatives invaded her house all day yesterday and kept her from getting any sleep at all. Ah, the joys of having a newborn.

Tell Me Again Why I Do This

So it's approaching 11 p.m., and my husband is goofing around on the computer-- reading comics, blogging, and generally rubbernecking on the information superhighway. I'm parked on the couch banging away at my work on the laptop-- answering email, editing, checking how our latest survey is doing... I look over to see what he's up to, and he mentions that he'd like to get to sleep soon (hint, hint). Well, isn't that nice.

I stifle the inevitable surge of resentment that I always feel when I'm reminded that I have to work when other people don't and I almost never have a spare moment to even collect my thoughts, much less do anything with them. (And yes, I am taking time off from work, officially, to post this blog.) No, that doesn't bother me this time because I have the Mother Instinct and I know how to use it.

"Did you do your homework?" I ask innocently, knowing full well he blew it off.

"It's not due until Friday," he replies. We both know that he has to finish reading a certain Greek tragedy, plus a chapter each of two seriously heavy science classes. He got through the first half of the tragedy during last night's study session.

I give a heavy sigh that my sisters would recognize as belonging to our mom. "So you'll end up doing it all tomorrow night after the kids go to bed?" I ask, not at all innocently.

He fumes, sputters angrily, then picks up his backpack and retreats into the bedroom. He's still there. Probably reading comics.

Why Adoption Sucks

How's that for a conversation starter? Actually, I am all for the concept of adoption-- the matching up of children whose biological parents can't or won't raise them with adoptive parents who will and can and want very much to do so. I'm even more in favor of it because my little sister and her husband (married now nearly 10 years) are unable to produce biological offspring and have been trying desperately to adopt from a local agency. Either of them would be a better parental unit than any couple I know, and that's saying a lot.

But the whole adoption process sucks.

A few years ago, they had a near miss with a baby boy. The birth mother was healthy but unmarried, uneducated, and unready for the commitment of motherhood. Her current boyfriend wasn't the child's father and didn't want to raise "some other guy's kid." Good enough: The girl selected my sweet sister and brother-in-law to raise her precious child, despite pressure from her family to keep the baby anyway. She gave birth, everything went well, the new parents drove to the hospital (a couple hundred miles away) to pick up their new sweetheart-- and the girl changed her mind. At the very last possible second, she backed out, caved in to the pressure. I could have killed her. It very nearly killed my sister.

I don't know what it takes to give up a baby you have grown inside your body for most of a year. I could never do it. But my babies were intentional; we wanted them in our family with all our hearts. They were a commitment we will honor all our lives. It would be incredibly hard to commit to give away a baby, even knowing that this would be best for all involved. It would be so hard. But I still sometimes feel violently angry at the person who broke my precious little sister's heart. I still remember when she was the sweet, beautiful baby.

Now this wonderful couple, after more years of prayers and anguish, has been selected again by a birth mother to raise a lovely baby girl. This one was determined to place her baby for adoption; being adopted herself (and only 15), she felt it was the right thing to do. Things went well again, and Baby Catherine was born last week, mainly healthy but lacking one little thing: the ability to eat. She's been fed through a tube for the past 6 days in the NICU, and her new parents were able to visit once to see her, hold her, even take pictures. (She is so beautiful!) But the birth mother has left the hospital without signing the adoption papers; she said she won't until the baby is healthy and can leave too. She's not answering her phone, and nobody seems to know where she is. But because Little Sis and her man aren't the legal parents of Baby Catherine yet, they're not allowed to be with her or even find out much about what's happening to her. And the social workers can't seem to do anything for them-- or for that sweet little baby lying helpless and hungry in the hospital.

So they wait by the phone, hoping. Praying. Crying. Praying some more. Dear God, please...

Adoption is hell.

Watch Your Language, Little Man

Punkin Boy was so angry about parental restrictions the other day that he started cussing-- toddler-style:

"Aww, man! Dang! Jeez!"

The Man and I almost managed to hide our faces from him before we burst out laughing. For a moment, I knew what it was like to parent a teenager.

(Not Quite 101) Things About This Week

• Everybody but me starts school on Monday.

• My boys are insanely revved up about this.

• I'm no longer 37-- does that mean I am old?

• I haven't watched Monty Python in a very long time.

• My new niece was born on the 17th-- the fourth girl in our family to have a birthday this week.

• We are so excited about baby niece's arrival-- my sweet little sister and her husband have been waiting for eons for someone to let them adopt.

• The last person in our office who knew anything about admin stuff is no longer working for us.

• They offered him one of the jobs vacated by our really awesome (but now former) editorial assistants, and he laughed at what they were willing to pay.

• He was our intern.

• The other intern left after only a month.

• We are so hosed.

• Nobody in management seems to care.

• The rest of us are on the verge of quitting, too.

• Even if the PHB knew, she wouldn't care.

• She might hold the door for us.

• Did I mention that we're hosed?

• I got diamond earrings and a couple of fat checks for my birthday.

• My family loves me, and that's all that matters.

• But diamond earrings are pretty darn good to have.

I'm Here!

OK, just so you know: I'm back from St. Louis, I had a good birthday and anniversary, my husband is awesome, my kids are mostly healthy, I'm having bloody awful migraines, and I will write again soon. Much to do, no time at all.

And you...

Purple Elephant passed this meme to me a couple weeks ago, and I'm finally getting around to posting it. I've seen it around the blogosphere before, and felt tempted to do it then, but I was waiting till a day when I was wearing the red velvet pants-- er, trousers-- that I'm so fond of. But nevermind. I'll get this over with now.

The Meme of Three
Three things you like about yourself:
My eyes
My brain
My singing voice (on occasion)

Three physical things you don't like about yourself:
My fat
My chemical imbalances
The aches and pains all over

Three things that scare you:
Dying before my husband can take over supporting the family
My children dying before I do
People who don't understand why I don't want my children to be around child molesters

Three of your everyday essentials:
My husband and kids

Three things you are wearing now:
Black pearl ring
Cat-eye glasses
Burgundy top with a flattering neckline

Three of your favorite bands or musical artists:
Duran Duran
Tom Lehrer
Joan Jett

Three things you want in a relationship:
Honesty
Supportiveness
Attention

Two truths and a lie:
I have as many children as my siblings put together.
I was pregnant four times in the first 5 years of my (current) marriage.
I like Brussels sprouts.

Three physical things that turn you on:
Dark hair
Deep, intense eyes
Slender, sensitive hands

Three of your favorite hobbies:
Reading
Writing
Traveling

Three things you really want to do right now:
Write 15 pages on my novel
Be pain-free
Read all night-- something totally fluffy

Three careers you'd consider:
Writer
Literary Agent
Full-time mom

Three places you want to go on vacation:
Scotland
Prague
Denmark

Three things you want to do before you die:
Get The Man through college
Have a book published
Raise my boys to treat females respectfully

Three people to pass it on to:
The three people in the blogosphere who haven't done this one yet, whoever you are. Fuhzzy? Kory? Bueller??

Quotes of the Day

I love that my kids enjoy Dr. Seuss; reading those books tickles me just in the right spot: my thesaurus. Here are some favorite quotes from the stories Pirate Boy picked out for bedtime reading tonight:

"I will not, will not with a goat."

"I'll blow you," he said, "into pork and wee beans. I'll butter-side-up you to small smithereens!"

The Butter Battle Book became even funnier to me when I discovered that people in England during WWII were encouraged to eat their bread with the butter side down to help them taste the meager amount they could afford to spread on it. Well, OK, not funnier; it actually made more sense, which isn't always the point. But I see it all in a new light. And that's fun.

Comfortably Numb

I can tell the time by my pain level-- if I take the meds right. My afternoon dose of narcotic is due just in the middle of several of my weekly meetings. As you can imagine, this can be a bit awkward, especially when (as this week and last) the PHB is visiting and sitting in on everything. Today went something like this:

12:58 p.m.: I'm starting to feel a little achy in the base of my spine; I glance at the clock, grab the Percocet bottle out of my desk drawer, and take bottle & a big glass of water to my 1:00 meeting.
1:15: The pain is increasing; I check the clock & decide I'd better wait just a little longer. I try to keep my hands from fiddling with the medicine bottle, or at least keep the glass between them and the PHB. Wonder if that glance my way was at all threatening.
1:25: Pain is seriously strong now. I wish I could take my spiffy othopedic chair into meetings, but there's barely enough room for the folding/stacking monstrosities that half the attendees sit on. Consciousness is becoming more difficult to maintain; black spots appear in my peripheral vision.
1:29: I decide it's about time. I start to open the bottle very, very gently...
1:30: I've got the pill in hand. Can't hold out much longer. Curse words start forming and a scream starts in the back of my throat. I pop the pill to stifle it. Then I hold my breath and try to stay upright.
1:45: Ahhhhhh.... that's SO much better... Mmmmm... Oh, hello pain, my old friend. Still at it, I see. That's nice... Ooooh, what a nice floaty feeling... Warm. Comfy. What's that, PHB? Oh yes, that project. Mmm-hmm. I've got it covered. (If only I could form coherent sentences.) Understand? Yes? Lovely... Just lovely...
2:00 Meeting's over and I'm feeling just ducky. What? We can't stay another hour? Darn it. How 'bout a chat? Anyone?

And now:
10:30 p.m.: Heart flutters; stutters, even-- I cough to normalize my heart rhythm, but it starts again. Must be time for my anti-anxiety meds. Not to worry. At least I have them. Every 12 hours, like clockwork. And I'm done with my day's work and it's not even midnight yet. It must have been a good day.

Out Comes the Soapbox...

This was on CNN.com for about 5 minutes today. I'm sure that to many people, it's a minor incident: A kidnapped girl was found alive and returned to her mother. Newsies tend to prefer the perpetually missing/horrendously killed endings to kidnapped-child stories, but they did run this one briefly.

Being a mom who's probably a little paranoid, I read this article from start to finish, and I have to tell you that by the end of it, I was sick to my stomach. It's a peeve of mine, as some of you know, the way the U.S. legal system treats child molestation as if it were a minor peccadillo instead of a horrific, brutal, selfish act that harms only the innocent. Terrorism, in short.

So why don't we treat it as seriously? The man who kidnapped the girl in this article had been convicted before of child molestation. He served one year, got out of jail, started dating a woman, then kidnapped and raped her daughter. In this country, he might get a whole 3 years for the second count. But the kidnapping, ah, that carries a life sentence. Can somebody please explain to me why torture (because that's what it is) is so much less offensive than the means taken to get someone into your hands for the purpose of torturing them? Well, as long as that person is a helpless, trusting child.

I think that the jail time for molesters ought to equal the sum total of all the therapy/recovery/general misery time their victims will have to spend (estimated, unless we can just hold them until everyone's feeling much better). At the minimum. You ruin someone's life, you get yours ruined. The guy in this article got his: he made the mistake of taking his victim to Mexico, and the U.S. authorities are leaving him there. Sure, he may only get 38 years instead of life, but it'll be in a Mexican prison. Hasta la vista, @$$#*!&.