A gobble-gobble-gobble and a ho-ho-ho!

Christmas. I have mixed feelings about this holiday. OK, maybe they're not so mixed: basically, I see this day as entirely inferior to Thanksgiving. You know how sociologists talk about "white guilt"?-- as a Liberal Arts educated kiddo in Austin, I no doubt suffer from it-- well I'd like to talk right now about Thanksgiving guilt. I actually feel burdened by the fact that the rest of the world does not have Thanksgiving. It is positively troubling. We are endlessly fortunate to have one day a year that entails the following:

• Gluttonous food, heavily focused on carbs, fat, and sugar
• A guaranteed four-day weekend
• Copious amounts of alcohol
• Family, friends, and football (American)
• No stressful gifting

But anyhow, this is supposed to be a Christmas post...On the 23rd, PB and I had some friends over to his place for a traditional -English- Christmas dinner. I ate parsnips for the first time. Thumbs up. We made a trip to the Farmer's Market to get all the good vegetables, and of course some duck bacon for the roasted brussel sprouts (shout out again to the Kocurek Family Charcuterie!) Got a small turkey from a farm in Waco (via Whole Foods).

About the turkey: at Thanksgiving, my sister prepared the most heavenly turkey. Well, heavenly for us, not so much the bird. On second thought, maybe heavenly for the bird, assuming he was a good little guy. Anyhow, PB followed her recipe to the T and wow! Success! I was charged with roasting vegetables and making a goat cheese cake (with ginger snap pecan crust and lemon pumpkin topping-- not to brag or anything)

Anyway. The turkey had to bathe in brine for about 12 hours. We needed a very large bucket for this task. Between the two of us, we did not have a very large bucket. At least one *not* covered in paint. I was midway through cheesecake and just about to offer up a quick trip to Home Depot for a new bucket, when I looked over and there was PB: removing the vegetable crisper drawer from his fridge. For reasons unbeknown-st to me, the glass top has always been missing from that section of his fridge. Without blinking, he triumphantly declared he would simply put the brine and turkey in the drawer and return it to the refrigerator. It was one of those moments in the relationship when you think to yourself, "Wait a second. This is my boyfriend, right?" I watched with relative horror as in went a 9 pound turkey, a gallon of ice water, and a gallon of salty brine, with the greatest, most ginger of care (of course).

...But then again, we all have our "things." We clip our nails in the bathtub. We wear the same socks for eight days straight. We drink our milk over ice. We know every word to Big Trouble in Little China. We brine turkeys in vegetable crispers.

Blessedly, we also create love for each other despite it all, despite the oddities and warts. And if that isn't the spirit of the season, by golly, I don't know what is.

Slungover.

Yeah. It's been a while. Truth is, I finished classes for the semester and have promptly checked out of all my daily life responsibilities, save for working and engaging in basic daily hygiene. So while I continue to floss, I'm not up to the task of waking before 9:30 am during the week, or blogging. Before I know it, I'll be back to waking up at 7:30 am and returning home at 10:00 pm, and I'll be damned if I don't take advantage of extra sleep while I can....

Anyhow, today I familiarized myself with a whole new world of pain: The Hungover Nanny. As the kids say, I was "like OMG so bad." Yesterday was a truly fantastic holiday party. In true Sunday Funday style, drinking started around 2:00 in the afternoon. I was pickled by 6:00 pm but just for good measure, stopped eating and continued drinking for two more hours. I didn't drive, but I did manage to fall asleep in the bath tub (why was I in there in the first place??) then wake enough to crawl into bed, still clutching a Santa hat from CVS pharmacy. Class, all the way.

This might not be so bad except that the girls are out of school, which means I take care of them from 8:00 am to 6:00 pm. When my alarm when off at 7:00 this morning, I was thirsty, starving (didn't I eat half an egg casserole the night before??) angry, and suffering from what felt like a giant sweater wrapped around my brain. I was running late so there was no time for an emergency trip to Torchy's. Upon arriving at the house, I realized I work in the single worst environment for nursing a hangover. Not only are there two diabolical munchkins to contend with, but it's also a vegan household, with a parent that works for Whole Foods. So. Not a bit of grease or fat in the whole damn place. In place of chips, queso, a Dublin Dr. Pepper, and a Dirty Sanchez taco, I forced down coconut juice, and brown rice with tofu. Note to self: *not* the same. I survived the day. Just barely.

On a positive note, my holiday cookies were a hit (I'll throw the recipe at the end of this). Plus, I invented a new drink! Ding Ding! So I'm a fan of the Colorado Bulldog. Yesterday, when all the champagne and beer had mysteriously disappeared, I moved onto vodka. We also had cream. But no Kahlua or Coca-Cola in sight. But I did improvise with some Dr. Pepper and voila! The Texas Bulldog was born:

• Ice
• Shot of cream
• Vodka (whenever you think you've poured enough, pour for another three seconds)
• Splash of Dr. Pepper

Oh yeah, and here are the cookies. You can thank me later:

Ingredients:

1 cup butter, softened
1 cup white sugar
1 cup packed brown sugar
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon (I also add in nutmeg)
3 cups quick cooking oats
*Optional: raisins, nuts, choc chips (I add in 1/2 cup white chocolate chips, 1/2 cup dried cranberries, and 1/2 cup chopped walnuts)

Directions:

1. In a medium bowl, cream together white sugar, butter, and brown sugar. Beat in eggs one at a time, then stir in vanilla.

2. Combine flour, cinnamon, baking soda,and salt. Stir into the creamed mixture. Mix in oats. If you are using nuts or raisins, mix into dough, combining well. Cover, and chill dough for at least one hour.

3. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F (190 degrees C). Grease cookie sheets. Roll the dough into balls, and place 2 inches apart on cookie sheets. Note: they don't spread out much during baking, so I roll them into a ball then flatten slightly.

4. Bake for 8 to 10 minutes in preheated oven. Makes about 24-36 cookies, depending on size.

Fire.

So the other day, I met with the career manager of my master's program. The appointment was depressing, but I suppose not entirely grim. Not surprisingly, the job market is heinous and all the more competitive in the country's fastest growing city. On the upside, I still have mostly functioning brain matter and a pulse. It's a start.

As expected, my dreams of becoming that college professor everyone love's have pretty much been squashed. In fact, I left still desperately searching for the silver lining to the cloud telling me that no, there really isn't much demand for an MLA in English & Writing. Actually, there isn't any demand at all. Have fun paying off that $30,000 master's degree! I should have become an accountant...

Fortunately, I possess an uncanny ability to get myself into jobs for which I have little to no qualification. When I can get face time, I somehow convince otherwise logical, reputable employers that they should hire me based on the fact that...well, probably based on the fact that maybe they like me and have a 'hunch' that I'll be good. I work hard, learn fast and thus far, have never let anybody down.

My only fear is having to return to the corporate world. However, I also recognize that I might have to get a little creative with how I apply my English degree. Ultimately, the one positive of an otherwise drab meeting is that I now have a fire under my ass. I left college with a job lined up, and I intend to do the same post-grad school. Because here's the thing about me: tell me I can't and I must. It's that simple. People told me don't go to Africa- I got myself in at the UN and hopped a plane to Ghana. People told me don't buy a project house- I tore up carpet, stained concrete floors, and painted every square inch, all within 4 weeks. People tell me don't get a Humanities degree- I'll finish, with flying colors, and move confidently onto my next dream. So there.

In that effort, I've started reaching out to people in various fields. The thing is, I have to exploit being a student until that status expires in 2012. Because you can contact someone and say, "I'm currently in grad school and interested in finding out more about how you entered your field" and *bam* you're that diligent student, just trying to figure things out. Maybe you endear yourself because they too, once were students and loved the experience. At any rate, people are receptive. But once I become an alum, I'm just another job seeker, and nobody -not nobody- cares that much about job seekers.

Networking is something I thought reserved for uptight people in stuffy offices, but it turns out even the hippie in me has to kiss some ass. Who knew?? I've paid my application fee to join the Association for Women in Communication, in the hopes I can charm the pants off some people important enough to put me on payroll.

In sum: it'll be a grueling 18 months while I continue working long hours during the day, schooling at night, and getting myself a job that doesn't involve poopy diapers. But watch out world, here I come.

Thanks.

This is a few days late, but since it's still November, I believe I can get away with a Thanksgiving post.

Over the weekend, I spent an inordinate amount of time sifting through old photos while at my parent's house. To my horror and delight, I found that not much has changed since I was five years old.

I still have unruly blond hair. I still get food on my face. I still hate wearing pants. I still over-accessorize. And I am still to this day, the happiest kid on the planet.

I am thankful for that five year old wriggling inside of me. She is enthusiastic, friendly, sweet, quirky, funny, scrappy, smart, and obsessed with ice cream. She makes the adult me love every single day of this unbearable hell, enviable paradise, brutal, and beautiful experience we call life.

On that note, I leave you with this query, courtesy of Mary Oliver:

I ask you again: if you have not been enchanted by this adventure--your life--what would do for you?

Fugitive.

Lately, Thing 1 and I have been locking horns. I'll write more about these episodes later (there is so much fodder, trust) but suffice to say, I was over-joyed when last week, she decided to throw me a bone and stop spewing "NO" every third word. My relief was tragically temporary as she appears to be back in her Defiant Diva saddle. Which brings me to my question:

When playing hide-and-go-seek with a four-year-old, is it wrong to wish they would just stay hidden forever?

This afternoon, we were playing the age old game between lunch and story time. I found Thing 2 easily enough -she generally squats behind a chair leg- but Thing 1 cleverly kept cover. When I still couldn't find her after several minutes of honest searching --not the "gee, I wonder where the girls could be?" when clearly, they're standing in front of the window curtains, but actually looking-- the thought briefly crossed my mind that maybe she had had enough, and run away.

Is it bad that I didn't feel the least bit concerned? Alarmed? I figured that when Mother and Father returned home, I'd explain that #1 misplaced herself, probably down the road and was no doubt enjoying the kindness of neighbors. I mean, I enjoyed the same misadventures myself.

One time when I was maybe 5ish, I decided to make a break for it. Undoubtedly, one or both of my parental units had failed me in a grossly offensive, epic manner, such as not letting me eat my toothpaste straight from the tube, or cruelly measuring only one cap full of Mr. Bubble into my bath. I had to show them and so after dinner, I marched upstairs to my bedroom. I pulled out an overnight bag and started a-packing. I effortlessly enlisted my little sister to join the expedition, as she idolized me and also at the age of two lacked the brain development to operate a straw.

Mom came in.

"What are you two doing?" she asked.
"We're packing to run away," I replied. "Do you want to help?"
"Sure."

And so, there we were: Mom, Clare, and Phyllis preparing for departure. We packed the essentials: hair brush, clean socks, My Little Pony and set off. Mom opened the front door for us and waved good-bye.

"Have fun!"

Clare and I made it to the end of the driveway and I declared the ditch near the sidewalk our first rest stop. The sun was starting to set and I distinctly remember cursing myself for not pinching a jar of pickles from the fridge before we left. Not only are they delicious for any meal, but I could also happily drink the juice in case we couldn't find a natural source of drinking water.

My little belly started to think more and more of the pickles. Not only had we not packed pickles, we in fact hadn't packed any food at all. We also forgot Clare's blankie for warmth. I began to carefully weigh our options: we could lie in the ditch, hoping for a magical change in fortune. We could walk next door to the Fox's house for dinner. Or we could re-enter our own front door and kill two birds with one stone.

Regrettably, we schlepped up the front steps and opened the door which had been kindly left unlocked. We were welcomed back and not to brag or anything, but I'm pretty sure no one had hoped we would stay hidden.

Pee pee.

Today, Thing 1 decided to take a nap with her little sister, Thing 2. I liked this because as of about four weeks ago, #1 decided she had officially outgrown naps, leaving me to entertain a raucous four-year-old for seven hours straight, without the advantage of swats from a meter stick, slotted wooden spoon, or any of the other objects my mother or father would have chosen (love you guys!)

After story time, I excused myself to go "do big girl stuff" such as crush up a Xanax tab into my water and try to forget the previous four days of work. After a while, the peeps and whispers melt into silence and I figure I'm home free...

I'm one hundred pages into The Diving Bell and the Butterfly -enjoying the slow drain on my emotional taps as I follow the burden of Bauby- when I hear feet scampering across the bedroom floor. The girls are awake and #2 is naked, her wet diaper on the nightstand.

I take #2 to put on a dry diaper while #1 supervises the proceedings and also divulges to me that #2 peed twice. NO! Three times!

"She peed three times in her diaper?" I ask.

"No. Only once in her diaper."

I am just this side of fearful as I begin to dread the possible answers to my next logical question, but I inquire anyhow:

"OK. Where else did she pee then?"

"One time in the twashcan and another time on the fwoor next to the twashcan!" My, my, my what a kind informant.

The beauty of children at this tender age (let's face it: maybe the only one) is that they pretty much don't lie ever. It's like the honest truth just tumbles out of their mouth; a tight-rope walker falling to a swift, messy death. While I admire this fact, the adult in me is still thinking, Really? Why the hell would anyone ever pee into a trashcan? Sure, I peed in a dark parking lot once but I was a too-drunk adult and I really, really had to go but there was nowhere in sight, plus I was wearing a dress so at least I didn't have to mess with the trickery of pants. But I digress...but seriously, in what universe does it make sense to piss into a trash can? A two-year-old universe apparently. Furthermore, #2 is not fully potty-trained, which begs the question: why -in the name of all that is good and holy- can she not get her crap to land in the toilet (she prefers her pants on occasion- fun for me!) but she can make her urine trickle perfectly into a wicker garbage receptacle. WHY?

"But don't worry," #1 says. "I cleaned up the fwoor with mommy's shirt."

Well, kid. There's that.
Thanks.

The great outdoors.

I'll just go ahead and stop apologizing now for my continual re-lapses into blog comas. Anyway, the weather in Austin has been perfect: sunny, cool but with a tinge of warmness, sometimes breezy. And while the ravenous mosquitoes have not heeded my pleas to kindly eat shit and die, they have at least slightly calmed themselves...probably lulled into a deep winter sleep from their summer feeding frenzy.

The weather and buzzing predator count is good enough for the girls I nanny to finally "play outside." Now, this is not quite the playing outside I enjoyed as a tiny thing in northern Virginia: long before the days of GPS, cell phones and microchipping (my dog has this in her neck, has the technology moved to children yet? anyone?) my parents more or less tossed us five kids outside and assumed we would return at the end of the day mostly in one piece. If we got lost in the woods, we had to rely solely on our wits and ability to sob loudly enough for a pigeon to get the message, fly home, and relay it to the neighbor's cocker spaniel -Muffin- and hope she could bark the message to a trustworthy adult.

I now work at a house in the most popular and expensive zip code of south Austin. Everyone has a privacy fence leading to locked homes and no one has a screen door. The kids can't walk down to the stream to catch crawfish or minnows, but they can walk to Flipnotics for a cafe au lait (best one in town, btw).

So I was in the kitchen loading dishes, I told the girls to go outside and play. They blinked. "You have to come with us! Mommy always comes with us!" I told them I'd be watching from the kitchen window. They considered this for a moment and -emboldened by their new freedom- both stripped naked and ran out the back door.

I remember The Mother telling me early on that the girls should always be supervised in the backyard. Honestly, by the way she talked you'd think the place was littered with landmines and war heads, with child molesters lurking in every tree branch. As I watched from the kitchen window as #1 picked up an 8 foot piece of bamboo and started swinging it wildly at the hanging hurricane lamps, I felt fulfilled. Here is what every kid needs: the ability to be out of doors, naked as a jaybird, taking their four-year-old lives into their hands, and perilously dangling it at the edge of impending doom and physical harm. This, dear reader, is what we call learning experiences. Character building. In the end, both girls kept their appendages and eye balls and I had an hour of time to read quietly.

Yup, my mom and dad had it right.

Oz.

First morning in Australia. Here's my bullet list:

• I struggle with remembering to look right when crossing the street. This makes me think that a plane crash will likely never kill me, but I might very well kick the bucket if getting hit by a car that drives on the left side of the road.
• Staying in Rose Bay, a suburb of Sydney. Sitting on the patio feels like being on the Discovery Channel...these birds sound much nicer than our Texas grackles. Oh, and a cockatoo just flew by.
• Sydney is expensive. This most hurts the boyfriend, who hasn't been here in 13 years...times they are a'changin! Also, we picked a stellar time to visit, as the Aussie and US dollar are on parity for maybe the first time in recent memory. Joke's on us, folks!
• Apparently, you drop the end of basically every word and replace it with an "i" or "o." Breakfast is now "brekki," mosquitoes "mozzies" etc.
  
• For the (14 hour) flight from San Fran to Sydney, Phil and I chose the seats in the middle, against the toilets --the ones that *don't* recline -- disproving conventional wisdom that two brains are better than one.

Jet-lag shot me out of bed at 6:00 this morning, and I feel absolutely famished...it's lunchtime back home. Going to rustle up some herbal tea and see if I can't get myself back to sleep.

Also, had a request from the States to investigate the toilet situation south of the Equator: have not been able to determine if they do indeed flush opposite of northern hemisphere toilets, but will keep you all posted....

Free wheelin'

Today is Tuesday, which is automatically good because it's not Monday. Also, I had a morning so splendid, I simply had to write about it:

After getting up for an early walk with my dog, followed by strategically organizing my guest bedroom closet, I enjoyed my peanut-butter-honey-wheat-toast with African roobois herbal tea. I refinanced my car (I'm saving $40 per month!) and mopped my floors. But even better: I had the best bike ride ever....

About a month ago, I made the commitment to forsake my car for the ol' Fuji road bike. My reasoning had several prongs:

• By my calculations, my poor-graduate-student-self could save about $35 a month in gasoline
• I could also cancel my monthly gym membership...doubling my savings
• My shrinking carbon footprint would be the envy of all my bearded, granola friends

I always enjoy my friendly waves to fellow cyclists, fellow fighters against the evil of motor vehicles. There's a camaraderie. Unity. Solidarity in the battle. I've also learned a few lessons:

• Hills are not your friend. My vintage Fuji is uber-cool, looks great but also somewhat impractical for a bike commuter...the bike is so old, the gear shifts are actually at the center of the handlebar stem. Shifting is not graceful, or easy. This is compounded by hills.
• Traffic lights are not your friend. Rather, hills with traffic lights are your worst enemy. By far, stopping at a red light at the crest of a hill (Stassney and I-35, I'm talking to you!) makes me want to weep...just imagine if you will the trickery of pedaling enough to maintain upward momentum, but not too much that you cruise into the intersection and get yourself flattened.

Oh, and a word to non-cyclists with whom I share the road:

• don't shout at me to get on the sidewalk. Seriously, I don't shout at you to get on a treadmill, do I?
• don't honk at me as I struggle uphill. I mean really, throw me a bone here.
• as you fly by me, gently grazing my arm with your side mirror, please keep in mind that my Fuji and I have a combined weight of oh, say, 140 pounds. That's about 1/bazillionth of you and your tank. I don't want to die.
• also, yes, I am allowed to ride in the middle of the lane. In fact, that's where I'm supposed to be so that ass clowns like you can see me better.
• if you're that bothered by bicycle commuters, you should probably move to Dallas.

K-so.

Man, I tell you what: in the words of my friend Stacy May, "bloggin' -like pimpin'- ain't easy." My grad school classes are back in full swing and I suddenly remember what it's like to have a precariously limited social life. Fortunately, for the remainder of my degree I'll pretty much just be taking writing workshops, which I love love love. That also means anytime not spent at work is spent, well, writing. As the saying goes, be careful what you wish for.

The biggest event of my last ten days of life has been meeting the boyfriend's dad and his girlfriend for the first time...visiting from good ol' foggy London town. OK, not foggy London town at all actually, but England nonetheless. I really wasn't nervous because:

• Parents looooove me
• Grandparents loooove me
• Hell, everyone loves me

We did all the usual Austin stuff: ate shredded rabbit leg and braised pork belly at The Odd Duck, saw the South Congress bats, went wine tasting in Fredericksburg, and had drinks at The Driskill. But most importantly, we introduced them to a culinary delight that they (tragically) have been missing for their seven decades of life on Earth: QUESO.

This was a moment of which I had only dreamed: the opportunity to bring the most greatest food ever to a sweet old English couple. It was like a mission from God. Suddenly, I understood the reason missionaries "go to the savages." This was truly a Genesis moment, like taking two people on a desolate, dark planet and saying, "Let there be Light!" My friends, queso is Gospel to me.

I could hardly contain my excitement as we ordered margaritas, a bowl of queso AND guacamole (I wanted to tell them that in Austin, we like to fold guac into our queso, but not wanting to overwhelm them with too much sheer awesomeness, kept them in separate bowls). I eagerly awaited the reaction to their first taste of heaven. And you know what?

They weren't really blown away.

Strike one for Texas. I'm not really sure how one's toes don't positively tingle at melty, spicy, cheese but I'll blame it on England. Clearly, their taste buds lack the necessary receptors needed to appreciate queso. Or maybe in true English form, they thought it best to downplay their wondrous amazement. Regardless, I basked in the glory of my (low key) conversion, my spreading the good word, and knew that deep down they appreciated -nay, admired!- my good taste and benevolence....

On Earth as it is in Queso. I mean, Heaven.

Amen.

Babysit.

It's Wednesday and I feel fully recovered from an "alter-ego" themed party at my house Saturday night and an 80s dance party downtown on Sunday night. I also spent Saturday evening doing something I haven't done in years: babysitting.

All in all, an easy time because I more or less just put the girls to bed, then worked on a reading assignment for my Literary Journalism class. Actually, the whole experience kind of made me feel like being an 8th grader again. It also made me think of the very worst kids in the entire world that I had the great, reeking misfortune of babysitting in the late 90s....

See, babysitting is always kind of hit or miss. The second Texas neighborhood that our family lived in, I sat for two girls that were literally angels. The very first time I ever sat for them, they each gave me a kiss goodnight, said "I love you" and informed me that they hoped some day I might find my very own unicorn, because I was the best babysitter in the world and God would send me just such a magical creature as my Earthly reward. Even the dog, Winston, was curiously kind and well-mannered: I would open the back door and he would only walk on the tile...never a single paw on carpet or rug. Their parents also had a bad-ass stocked refrigerator and paid me $12 an hour, in cash. Sweet gig.

Of course, this scene starkly contrasts with the big "miss" of my babysitting days: the first Texas neighborhood that our family lived in, was home to three little devils. I have completely blotted their names from my memory (recommendation from my therapist) but the family unit contained one clueless father, one nagging, neurotic, medicated mother, two screeching daughters and a rambunctious son.

Funny enough, the parents had an entire bookcase of parenting books. Quite literally a library of "how not to raise three devils" and yet, they managed this Olympic feat. I remember distinctly this stupid effing M&M jar, which was the kids big treat...after dinner they were each allowed to have as many M&Ms as their age. Seems fair, right? Wrong. The fatal flaw in this holy treat system is overlooking the fact that most toddlers hate fairness. Let's be real: they are the center of their own universe and no one should have as much as them. Case in point: today, I cannot tell you how much I had to convince Tot #1 that she did, indeed, get many, many more strawberries than her little sister. So, giving one child 3 candies, one child 5, and one 8 is just plain stupid, something even my 13-year-old brain was able to understand.

Anyhoosen, one evening after allotting just the right number of candies to each kid, the middle threw a fit, as the older had more candies. In one quick flash, that glass jar was shattered on the ground in a sea of "melts in your mouth, not in your hand." Nothing a little broom couldn't fix. But then came bath time, and this family used these really odd soap flakes. Ya know, because liquid or solid soap would just be too difficult? Whatever. Anyway, the fatal flaw in this soap plan is that soap flakes -unlike liquid or solid soap- have the unique ability to be transformed into a projectile in the hands of a toddler, thanks to its powdery consistency which is easily handled by tiny fingers and I'm sure feels absolutely delightful being launched through the air...ever seen a tyke and a bag of flour? Yeah. So there they are, all three in the bath tub when the oldest takes both hands, and in yet another quick flash, tosses a fistful of soap into the eyes of the littler ones. Screaming. Crying. Burning, red eyes. Pretty sure the little boy threw a punch.

After all this, the parents wrote me a check, paying me $6 an hour. A check. To a 13-year-old. What the crap am I supposed to do with a check? I still had a mason jar for crying out loud, with a piece of paper taped to the outside outlining my savings plan for a palomino horse or Nissan Z car. They might as well have paid me in clothes pins. Useless. Absolutely useless.

Oh, and their refrigerator sucked, too.

Wait for me! Wait for me!

Holy hell, when did it become September? And where did my blog go? Ah, here it is! Yowza. As a writer, my personal commitment was to blog every day for no more than 20 minutes...the challenge was to make my everyday, mundane life something interesting -and sometimes funny- to read about, with very minimal editing/re-writing.

Well, here I am after a two week dry spell and I'd like to explain myself: You see, about two weeks ago is the moment when Nugget #1 decided she had outgrown naps. This means gone are the two hours of midday freedom, where after I clean up the zoo -I mean, house- I can sit down for a tiny sliver of time and free write. Now that time is spent inventing games like "vacuum snacks" and (the not so cleverly named) "scrub the sink" in order to have a productive day before I leave.

The realization of my neglected blog also makes me marvel at where this year has gone. It seems like just yesterday I was running down 6th street, in purple tights, sequin top, and red heels and counting down at The Red Eye Fly...but that's another story.

So why is it that time flies if we're having fun, but also seems to positively soar the older I get? Sure, I'm having plenty of fun but geez, does it really have to be going so quickly?! NPR has a great piece on some different theories for this phenomenon.

Currently, I'm looking into solutions for manipulating time. Thus far, some sort of time machine seems the most logical means to this end. Particularly, I would like to add a few more hours to my day that is already full of interning, working, and night school-- slow down nights, so I can get a full seven hours of sleep, speed up the time it takes to receive my spring tax return, and slow down the fine lines appearing on my forehead.

Unfortunately, I've scoured Craigslist and Ebay and my time machine dream may never be fully realized (although I did find this little ditty, the price is right but it's not really my style)...looks like my best bet is a pesky thing I keep hearing about called "time management" which involves making "to do lists" and "monthly goals" and "five-year-plans." Blah.

Maybe flying by the seat of my pants ain't so bad after all.

Sneaky.

OK, obviously I've lost track of time which means I have no clue how many days of freedom I have had, or how many days I've been nannying, or how many days since I've showered or changed my underwear. That's childcare for ya...

Recently, #1 (the older child) has gotten into the habit of shouting out, "you didn't see that!" whenever I have my back turned. To her, this is positively hilarious and is followed by a shower of giggles. To me, this is a special brand of terrifying. Positively incredibly how a four-year-old with 74 pink barrettes in her hair can cause the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end.

Generally, when I hear this exclamation she's actually doing nothing, but still I expect to turn around and see one of the following scenarios playing out:

a) #1 juggling a chainsaw, two tennis balls, and a bottle of vodka

b) #1 and #2 running naked while allowing a wild squirrel into the house

c) the dawn of World War III about to begin at the hands of a four-year-old who is quietly plotting nuclear warfare

This all brings to mind my mother's constant refrain that she had "eyes in the back of her head." Somehow, she managed to catch me doing absolutely everything I was never supposed to do. I mean really, the woman could be downstairs in the master suite, sleeping like a log while I was upstairs in my bedroom, crawling out the window and onto the roof and before I could get my hot little feet back on solid ground, I'd already be bending over for a spanking. Respect.

Truth be told, there were times when I was living in Maastricht...or Bangkok...or Buduburam and still feared those eyes from the back of her head, that would come right over and slap that bottle of Absinthe or other illicit substance right out of my hand.

Come to think of it, I may have found my secret weapon....

Deuce.

Day 41 of my freedom, day 4 on the job. I was greeted by an unpleasant surprise in my living room: poopy explosion #2 (please see post below from my first day on the job, for reference) this time, of the doggy variety. Not sure if it was Schatzi or George, but it had clearly happened during the night, as most of it was dry-crusted to the floor. mmmmhhhhhmmmmm.

I get to the house and the family decides to throw me a wild card: potty training has been brought to a whole new level and we're going entirely sans-diapers! (I added the exclamation point so as to appropriately communicate my extreme excitement!!!!) Wow. Little Bit has a delightful way of announcing she has peed...please note here the use of past tense. As in, I can sit her on the toilet (to no avail) and then five minutes later she's standing in a puddle- and not the kind with tadpoles, mind you.

...Never thought I'd miss poopy diapers, but poopy pants have changed me in the worst way. I mean, it wasn't quite on a Chernobyl level, but some sort of meltdown happened. Seriously, I don't get paid enough to deal with this shit (pun intended). Truly amazing how much waste a 22 pound child can create.

Finally got the girls cleaned up and packed up for a walk to Town Lake. Because the Universe loves a good joke (and also because birds are gross) a pigeon shat on the stroller, which landed squarely on Little Bit's shoe (as an aside: absolutely incredible a bird's ability to hit a small, moving target...I mean, of aaaalllll the cars driving down the four lanes of Barton Springs Road *we* get bombed on the sidewalk in a tiny stroller) and before I could grab a tissue from the diaper bag (no longer an accurate name, now I think of it) she's put her finger in the poo, and proceeded to lick it off.

Ugh. I hate that shit.

4x4.

Day 39 of my freedom, day 2 on the job. The house was a teensy bit chaotic: in addition to the usual milieu of clients, architects, musicians, and neighbors coming through, there was also a guest chef from Durham here to develop new recipes, some painting guys, and another man in a baseball hat that was doing something involving bunches of wires coming out of a hole in the wall.

So. Needed to get the girls out of the house and out of the way. Fortunately, we are within walking distance of lovely Zilker Park, made even lovelier by the fact that currently, there are *not* eighty billion sweaty, dehydrated music fans stomping around while trying to figure out who's on the main stage at 8:00.

This marks my first experience with a stroller in, say, ten years. My god, they've come a long way! Truly, this thing was the way of the future. It was a two-seater, with a braking system so complicated it had to be explained to me by the Mrs. Honestly, I had an easier time navigating a mountainous foreign country in a popsicle of a rental car. This stroller actually had a spare tire. I mean, what the hell am I gonna do with that? Wouldn't I need a pump or inner-tube or patch or something in order to fix a flat? And when did strollers start boasting spare parts? I'm pretty sure that when I was a child, the wheels on my stroller could have caught on fire while rolling over a bed of flaming-hot nails, then flown off after being shot at by a drug kingpin and my mom *still* would have jerry-rigged the damn thing with a piece of bubble gum, some baby wipes, and a freakin' bobby pin. Respect.

That's another thing...what's with kids always wanting you to "go faster!"?? Listen tyke: I'm pushing you uphill, in a stroller that also converts into a single-engine airplane, in strappy sandals (they're cute, yet impractical, a hanger-on from my old life), in 100 degree August heat, while my sunglasses ever-so-slowly slip down my sweaty nose...don't you know that slow and steady wins the race?

Tomorrow we make an "adventure trip" to Walgreen's. Can't wait to see what the car seats are like...

Spoon full of sugar.

Day 38 of my freedom and first day on the new job as: super nanny. In an effort to *not* drown in graduate school debt -because spending $30K on a master's degree which will never actually increase my earning potential is always a good idea- I've taken on the glamorous task of dedicating 30 hours per week to two tiny tots: girls aged 2 and 4 years old.

I know the family through mutual friends and Mom and Dad are textbook Austin. Naturally, they live in 78704 in a house rehab'd in the [seemingly effortless, yet impossibly unattainable] rustic-vintage-meets-modern-industrial style. Mom rides her bike to the office at Whole Foods corporate, while Dad works in his [at-home] design studio with Ray LaMontagne crooning in the background. There's a Prius in the driveway, vegan sausage in the fridge, and oh yeah, they also run a recording studio used by the likes of Sarah Hickman and Ben Kweller. Naturally.

[Knock on wood] but the girls are cooperative and mild. I loved that this afternoon, I didn't have to meet with any clients or sit through sales meetings...instead, I collected rollie-pollies (sp?) and caught up on some class reading. Sure, the lack of adult interaction might leave me just this side of brain dead if I did this for, I dunno 18 years, but it's a sweet gig for now.

Today was uneventful, although I'm sure there'll be plenty of blogging fodder. Although, I was a little bushwhacked when I arrived at 8:00 this morning to a "poopy explosion" that had taken place a mere moments before my arrival. I cannot describe to you the horror of these two words, so I'll let your imagination do the talking. Clean-up involved a lot of bleach. And not even organic, fair-trade, dolphin-free kind. Like, real Clorox. It was definitely a "situation."

Other than bug-collecting, I realize one great joy of this job will be that I essentially live in a universe of Casual Friday. No strict dress code! Love it! Especially considering my corporate job was so heinously corporate, that there was no such thing as Casual Friday...the Suits saw denim as nothing short of an abomination against Christ himself.

Actually, I take that back. There probably should be a dress code for nannies: as I left the house [on my way straight to class for the evening] I realized I was covered in peanut butter, purple chalk, yellow finger paint, snot, baby powder, and an unidentifiable substance that was likely radioactive...yeah, I should probably go ahead and invest in a haz-mat suit now.

Nuckin' futs.

Day 35 of my freedom and I find myself at home, waiting for a potential roommate to show up. Last night after class, I interviewed with a family for a nanny position and next week, I'll be interviewing for internships. Seems like we spend an awful lot of time jumping through hoops...always screening. impressing. trying too hard. I mean seriously, we all know that even in the romantic world, the first couple dates aren't really "dates" in the sense that you'd like to enjoy yourself while also forming a connection with another human being; but more "dates" in the sense that they're a thinly veiled screening process in an effort to fill an opening (some may call this a deep, emotional void) in your life.

But here's why I love Craigslist: it does half the work for you! Call me shallow/conceited/lofty/bitchy but if you cannot properly punctuate a sentence, or have an annoying habit of *constantly* splitting infinitives, I don't want you under my roof. I find e-mail is a nice, detached way of weeding out potential renters. Case in point: I received interest from a young lady whose 900 word [first contact] message I will condense and regurgitate here, with my bracketed, [literally] colorful commentary:

Hi! My name is Crazy (typo, but it stays...ok, ok I did that on purpose) I'm 18 years young (young doesn't even begin to describe you, toots) and I graduated this year from McCallum High School. Yay me! (thank you for at least using/spelling the proper form of 'yay' as opposed to 'yeah') It was a rough 4 years, but I got through it. Finally.(hmmm nice use of foreshadowing here. Your pointedly vague use of "rough" sends little shivers up my spine. What does it all mean??) I'm an only child (did you really scare your parents into stopping reproduction?), so having a roommate will be interesting.. lol. (your tone says 'laid-back' but your uneasy ellipsis with 'lol' says 'emotionally wheels-off')

My past: (I like the subtitled chapters. Nice touch. Also means you have too much time on your hands)

During my freshman year in highschool, I began having lots of trouble. (Again, vague use of "trouble" frightens me). I would skip school, cry out of nowhere, have panic attacks, etc. (Ahh, there it is! Some real character exposition. Love it!) Finally, I was admitted into the Shoal Creek Psychiatric Hospital for self-harm. The psychiatrist later diagnosed me with Bipolar Disorder, and I was put on medication. I haven't been back since, and I've been stable (I'll go ahead and assume you use the term 'stable' loosely). Sure, I still have my depression moments and mood swings, but that's all part of being a hormonal teenage girl (really? I thought it was boys, breaking curfew, more boys, drinking Boone's Farm, and lots more boys...I like my version better). By the way, I'm NOT psycho. (No, no of course not!) Bipolar Disorder is a chemical imbalance in the brain. No, I'm not going to come after you in the middle of the night with a knife (I'm sure you prefer a chainsaw). I'm a sweetheart, trust me. (Again, experiencing extreme discomfort at closing this sentence with "trust me." Pretty sure those are the last words you hear when waking up in a basement outside Guadalajara, in a bathtub of ice, with your kidneys neatly packaged in a Zip-Loc bag next to the hairdryer on the sink).

My current situation:

So after graduating high school, I decided to take a year off. Now I work full-time at a pet store, which I love because I get to see and pet animals (do they not smell the crazy on you? I thought animals could do that.) Oh yeah, last week I picked up a German Shepherd puppy off the streets (Because this seems like just the kind of responsibility you can handle at the age of 18).The vet estimates that she is going to be between 80 and 90 pounds. She is already displaying protectiveness signs. And she loves to chew on her toys. (Basically, she will kill you).
Another thing.. my mom and I fight constantly, and my dad doesn't do anything about it, so I'm always feeling kind of helpless (Wow! This just keeps getting better and better! Alright, alright I do kind of feel for you here. Kind of.). I want someone who I can get along with and just will be there for me and will be like a best friend and will talk to me and just let me vent when I need to (Well, I need someone that can just be a responsible grown-up, not flush tampons down the toilet, or set up a meth lab in the closet. How about we both just shit in one hand, wish in the other, and see which one fills up faster, k?).

Anyway, that's currently where I stand right now ('Anyway'? That's it? Whew! Thought I might really have a crazy person for a second there!).

Hope to hear from you soon!

That's the other thing I love about Craigslist: while you might not ever find someone to rent out your third bedroom, at least the shit's entertaining!

Un-office.

Day 33 of my freedom and here is an excellent example of my typical day, post-Costa Rica bliss, post-corporate life, in my favorite format (aka: list compilation):

* List of things I did not do today:

• Open an Outlook Inbox with 35+ unread emails, all the while wondering how long my stupid freakin' Dell will let me work undisturbed by Malware pop-ups and Unused Desktop Icon alerts before I have to shut down the whole system and call [useless] IT man.
  
• Sit in traffic on northbound I-35, thinking the Jetsons had it right. Especially with the whole fold-up-your-flying-car-into-a-suitcase thing (oh, and the robot-maid was a good call, too)...no traffic *and* no parking issues. Genius.
  
• Drag myself to 6:00 am spin class, so I can get in a work-out before the office at 8:00, cursing myself for again forgetting that 24 Hour Fitness has no actual body wash in the little shower soap dispensers and let's hope I don't get foot fungus because while I did manage to pack my Hair Pro 500, my frackin' flip-flops are in the car.
  
• Guiltily leave behind my dog for a ten hour day, then spend the rest of said day concoting in the back of my mind all sorts of destructive images of how my sweet golden girl has avenged her loneliness by either destroying a pair of shoes, or swallowing a large, unidentifiable object resulting in a frightful pile of vomit for mommy to clean up when she [finally] comes home.
  
• Deal with clients -maybe unhappy- always demanding. 'nough said.
  
• Try to assuage the childlike temper tantrums of a certain Director of Operations, marveling at how one can arrive at the age of 35 and still be such a daft, unbearable assclown.
  

*List of things I did do today:

• Opened an Entourage Inbox with a handful of unread emails, all regarding assistantships
  
• Step over a fuzzy-faced doggy pile on the way downstairs (that's my kinda' gridlock)
• Made an afternoon bikini wax appointment
• Solidified lunch plans
• Put on pants...but then thought better of it. Why wear pants when you work from home?
• Read the remainder of 1968 in America: Music, Politics, Chaos, Counterculture and the Shaping of a Generation for my History class
• Perfectly formatted my email signature in Entourage. Why hadn't I done this before?? Decided on bang-up combination of century gothic in maroon and dakota handwriting in teal, bolded for added contrast. Shazam!
  

In the meantime, I also did not make any money but miraculously feel unbothered by this point...must be the new e-mail signature.

Waste.

Day 32 of my freedom and what have I done with it? Basically, nothing.

Really, I never cease to amaze myself with how I can manage to successfully allow hours of my life to disappear (aka: waste time). This talent is in fact, the reason why -no matter how hard I try- I always seem to be ten minutes late to everything. My thought process goes something like this:

"I should definitely allow myself a solid hour to prepare for [insert activity of the day here]. Because I would hate to keep [insert name of generally important person here] waiting...that'll give me enough time to shower and dry my hair, feed Schatzi and get dressed."

*35 minutes later...*

"Wow. Can't believe I got ready so fast! I might as well check the mail real quick and empty the dishwasher"

*20 minutes later...*

"Golly gee! I've still got a few minutes to spare! I could leave right now *or* I could go ahead and remove this chipping nail polish. And the toilet is looking kinda' funky, too...."

*30 minutes later...*

"Oh shit! I was supposed to be [insert moderately important place here] ten minutes ago! What the hell happened??!"

So yeah, my house is always spotless and my nail beds flawless but I myself always show up sweaty and disheveled from quite literally hauling ass across town. Every. Freakin'. Time.

Wee babe.

OK. Survived my first grown-up baby shower. This was a very surreal experience and one which I will only encounter more as I grow older. My friends are now reproducing and I'm not sure how I feel about this. My uterus also feels very confused....all I know is that I get uncomfortably bloated after three beers, so I really don't want an eight pound meatloaf living rent-free for almost a year in my tummy. There! I said it!

Don't get me wrong: loved hanging out with the ladies this afternoon and I am overjoyed for my friend and her growing family. That being said, I was very happy to come home to my two-year-old golden retriever mutt and not a two-year-old babe.

Yes, you can all start sending me e-mails about how I will one day change my mind. I love it when people say that! Plus, I also really like clicking "select all" and then hitting "delete." It's my favorite!

Regresar.

Aaaaand we're back! Day 28 of my freedom, back in Austin and back to blogging. Apparently, internet can be hard to come by in the remote, mountainous regions of northwest Costa Rica...who knew?

Here are a few reflections for today:

• Updating my online portfolio was a tiny bit painful, as I had to revisit the days of only having an Olympus point-n-shoot. That being said, the process was also a powerful reminder that mediocre equipment coupled with a passion for capturing humanity and a good eye, will always out-shoot a lackluster spirit with an expensive, fancy lens. Always.
• Last night, I drank Franzia Sunset Blush wine out of the box, over ice, in a glass emblazoned with the Confederate flag. Not sure when this became my reality, but c'est la vie.
• Traveling for a straight five days and nights in a foreign country, in a tiny 4x4 with unreliable GPS, across a land that does not have street names or numbers, then getting up at 4:00 am for an international flight on a Sunday, is the ultimate test for a relationship. If you can survive it happily (as we did) then hold on tight...you got something good.
• A few Benadryl, an Imperial beer (ah, sweet nostalgia), and the bf's insanely spicy Thai curry will scare away even the worst case of Austin allergies.
• There is something oddly satisfying about spending the past two hours of this Friday evening cleaning the hell out of my house. I feel domestic and proud, goddamit.

Tomorrow: attending my first baby shower as a grown-up for one of my friends that is, well, preggo. Expect an update for sure.