Chaos In A Bottle

Yeah, I know, month or so gone by, blah de blah. Life, yanno??

Anyhoo.

I have lots to talk about, but only a little bit is interesting. I’m going to talk about THIS instead.

AT THE CAR WASH!!

Yes sir, ladies and gentlemen, a CAR AND DOG WASH. I was driving through Hampton Roads and I saw this. There was boggling in my mind, I’m not gonna lie. Did I need a convertible to do the dog wash? How did this work? I’m used to seeing weirdness around here, now – like Scooter Man, who rides his scooter wearing a WWI leather flight cap, goggles, leather jacket and NOTHING ELSE. But this?

I came home, and researched, and y’all, this is a THING. Apparently the latest thing to add to your self-serve car wash business. So, in the interests of dog and car owners everywhere, I had to try it. Don’t judge.

It totally rocked my socks! SERIOUSLY! Clean, easy to use, climate controlled, and I washed and dried Archer the Wonder Dog and Stormageddon, Dark Lady of All in less than 45 minutes, for less than $20!! Considering that Archer is a double-coated Aussie, I’d have been happy to do that for him alone, but I got them both done with oatmeal treatment shampoo (tearless, no less), conditioner, dryer and doggy cologne.

Archer is really, really not impressed. I, however, was.

Oh, yeah. We’ll be back. I might even wash my car.

I’m gonna warn y’all now, I’ve got strep throat and I’ve taken a LOT of meds, so I dunno how much sense this is gonna make. Not that it usually makes much sense any way, so, really, there’s no change.

As some of you know, we lost our old lady dog in January. The girls and I and Archer felt the loss a lot, and we decided that we needed to have another dog. Patrick did not decide this. We decided it for him, and he generously decided not to make too much of a fuss, because I know where he lives and he has to go to sleep sometime.

So, we looked around at the rescues, and found:

Stormie and The Girl Child

The dog, not the girl.  I’ve had the girl for almost 17 years.  She’s not available for adoption, unless you’re going to put her through college, then we might talk.

This is Stormageddon (points if you get the reference). She was found with her sisters in the woods, and was the only pup left at the rescue when we got there, and we took a chance on her even though she was quite shy (don’t ever do that, I’m a professional), and I’m so glad we did. She’s come all the way out of her shell, is sharp as a tack and just so much fun, even though she’s chewing through things she shouldn’t.

Archer isn’t sure what to think of her, but as long as she leaves his tennis ball alone, she can stay.

So, there’s the new family member, which has been fun, and the usual debris of life, which has been not so much fun but hasn’t been terrible.

The trip to the dentist to find out I’d cracked two fillings and now needed two crowns I could have done without, since my dental insurance doesn’t cover crowns, and they seem to be the most expensive things on the planet, right up there with gasoline and platinum.

There is a lot of interesting stuff coming up, though.  A dear friend is coming to town next month, and since she lives in California, and, well, I don’t, the chances to get to meet face to face are very, very few.  Because, you know, I’m not independently wealthy.  Or even dependently wealthy. I’m really looking forward to that, and I hope she doesn’t decide that I’m just too weird for face time. She’s a Southern girl, though, like me, so she doesn’t scare easily.

I’ve got a truckload of seeds for my garden, and I’m excited about that, even though I’ll probably kill them all before they germinate because my thumb is THAT black.  I manage to grow mold in the bathroom, and that’s about it.  I keep hoping, though, I keep hoping.  For the garden, not the mold.

I also got some knitting needles and managed to make a swatch that looked almost, but not quite, entirely unlike a scarf.  However, since I didn’t end up knitting my fingers into the weave, I’ll call it a win. I can crochet, I should be able to do this, dang it!

I still hate my neighbors. I take that back. I don’t know them enough to like or dislike them, but I surely do hate their behavior. One of these nights I’m just gonna snap, and I have a tendency to go to pieces so fast people get hit with shrapnel, and so I don’t know how that’s going to turn out. I figure I’ll end up turning the garden hose on them.  Maybe the pressure washer.

And – it just not occurred to me that the title of this post makes it seem like I’m smelly, and I’m not, but I was shopping for perfume earlier and was getting really down at all the kinds I can’t wear. I don’t do florals, I don’t want to smell like food, and I detest that sharp chemical smell that seems to be a mainstay in all couture fragrances. I do get a lot of things from Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab, which is delicious and decadent and all sorts of lovely “d” words. I’m just incapable of fragrance monogamy. Currently I love Anne Bonney, Hellcat and Sin. They’re all sweet and spicy and sensual. Go take a gander at BPAL and see what they have to offer.  It’s pretty impressive.

I’ve also been spending time on Twitter, partly because interesting people there will talk to me, and partly because I only have to come up with 140 characters at a time and even my brain can do that.  If you’re on Twitter, follow me there, and follow some of the folks there who make me smile, and laugh, and think:

@BarbFerrer, because she’s smart and funny and snarky and a heck of a writer.

@Omundson, because, well, HE’S smart and funny and snarky and a heck of an actor.

@Cincoflex, because she’s brilliant in so, so many ways.

@bridgettamanda because she’s a Girl Raised in the South and I adore her.

@TheBloggess because she’s The Bloggess!

So, I’ve actually managed to bore you to tears, and I’m going to take yet more meds and go to bed.  What? You expected something else? It’s like you don’t even know me.

Once upon a time, this fantastic, flawed, amazing woman named Jenny decided, on her blog, to coin the term “FURIOUSLY HAPPY”. Once upon a time, a not-so-fantastic, even more flawed, no-where-near amazing woman named Amber decided that being furiously happy was, in fact, an abso-freakin’-lutely brilliant idea, and decided to do just that.

The beginning of 2012 tried to dent that decision, like a zombie denting the head of its next victim (see, Bri, I did the zombie thing). A favorite uncle passed away. A beloved pet passed away. Furiously happy wavered on its legs, looking remarkably similar to a newborn giraffe.

However, even though it tilted and stumbled, furiously happy did NOT go quietly into that good night, and I’m writing this blog entry about it because, well, I’m still furiously happy!

So many things and people make me furiously happy, and the recent losses in my life made me decide that I needed to recognize at least some of those things and those people, because you never know when you won’t be able to tell them again. So, I’m telling the whole world (or at least the handful of it that reads this blog).

YOU MAKE ME FURIOUSLY HAPPY. All of you. For so many reasons. From my girlfriends like Bridgett and Mekala and Lisa and Jamie and Georgia and Helen and Kaye…to former students turned beloved friends like Sean…to fellow writers like Jenny and Barb and Gail (and Kaye again, because she’s that good)…to folks I’ve never met in person and who don’t really have a clue who I am, but who inspire me in some way like Tim and Chris and Cherie and Kat.

To the family that is the core of who I am and who I’m still trying to become.

Even to the furballs that share my life and cause no end of frustration and laughter.

So many of you.

I’ll still get angry, and frustrated, and I’ll still battle the lying SOB that is depression, but I will not let them WIN. I won’t give them houseroom in my life or foothold in my soul. I just won’t. If I do, I know you’ll stop me.

So, yeah, I’m still FURIOUSLY HAPPY, and I intend to stay that way, regardless of what life throws at me, because – well, because I deserve to be. We all do.

Yes, you, too.

I decided that my title doesn’t need to have anything to do with the post. I find that decision takes a lot of stress off of me. It’s a win/win, really.

So, it’s pretty obvious that I won’t be able to finish my book by the end of NaNoWriMo. However, I’m writing regularly, I’m not UNhappy with what’s making its way onto the page, AND I’m farther along in the story than I’ve ever been before. I’m counting it a win. And I’m continuing to write. Fairly pleased about that.

Thanksgiving was – calm. Peaceful, even. Just myself, Patrick, the girls and my parents. Of course, despite the fact that there were only 6 people at the table, there was an 18lb turkey, a ham, and four pies. Four.

I ate all the food. Ever. I don’t think I’ll need to eat until, say, 2014 at the earliest. I even had to do the dreaded “pop the button” on my jeans. I’m not proud, but there it is. We’re a southern family – we cook way too much for these things.

I’ll work some of it off tomorrow, since Archer boy is going to hang with the sheep for an hour or so. Ok, so he’s the one that’s going to be running around with the sheep, but I have to take him there. That counts for something, I believe. It should, anyway. That’s what I’m going with. Dunno what I’m going to do when it’s time to start him on cattle.

Here’s a picture of Archer. Just because.

Archer with the ever-present tennis ball

Rhiannon wanted a ukulele for her birthday. I blame Amanda Palmer. She got one, though, and now Brianna wants one, because darn it if they aren’t the cutest, most fun little instruments ever. R immediately set out to learn “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”, which she did in about 15 minutes, and I found you just can’t help but smile when I hear it. 10 year old, playing the ukulele and singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”. I dare you to have a bad day afterwards. Dare. You.

I’ve had the urge to write something political, but this just isn’t the forum for it. I KNOW it’s my blog, and I can write whatever the heck I want, but I just don’t want this one to be the “heavy” one. Of course, it’s the only one I have, so I’ve either got to write it here, start another blog for what might be one entry that nobody reads, or write it down in my personal journal and call it all good. We’ll see what happens. Probably if I lie down long enough the urge will go away. That’s what usually happens to my urge to do housework. Or exercise.

This is what I really want to be doing, but it’s closed today. The range, not my husband. Yeah, that all came out kinda wrong, but take it as it is.

Patrick at the range. Because hot guys with weapons are even hotter.

I did NOT participate in the Black Friday madness. Not only am I planning to shop at local small businesses as much as I can for Christmas gifts, I don’t want to encourage a practice that has retail workers giving up time with their families because they have to work at obnoxious hours. Family time is too precious for that, especially in families where both parents must work. Nope. Not gonna do it.

And, because I spent last Thanksgiving with this guy and his family as well as my own, here is M. I miss this little booger so much it hurts. I miss his family so much it hurts. *sigh*

Sweetest baby boy ever. Ever ever ever.

Sometimes I think the hardest part of blogging is coming up with a title for the post. I’m just sayin’.

So, yeah, I’m actually writing fairly steadily now. Not sure what to think about that. It might mean I’m developing some discipline. It might mean I have a brain tumor. It might be a sign of the apocalypse. We’ll see, I suppose. Or not.

R. turned 10 this week, and while watching my baby girl grow up and reach double digits is amazing, it just underscores how time is not just flying by, but at mach 3. Seriously. I know I just heard the midwife tell me one more push and she’d be here, you know? You’d think I’d learned that with B., but nooooo…

She wanted a camera and a ukulele for her birthday, which she got. She and B. can already play the ukulele. That brings the instruments between them to – well, let’s count. Violin, tin whistle, recorder, guitar, mandolin and now ukulele. 6. They both did a headline benefit concert with the Flowing Tide Ceili Band last Saturday, which was very cool. It was R.’s first “real” gig. B. has been playing paying gigs for years. Fair bit of coin was raised for the homeless meals program at the Jewish Christian Outreach Center, which is the organization that hired FTCB. Much awesomeness all around. Lovely venue, too.

Archer got to go play with the sheep the other day, and I have to say, he did really, really well. He’s matured so much, unlike his owner, and is starting to think before he does something, watching what the shepherd is doing, working in balance with her. No, the shepherd is not me. I don’t have a clue what I’m doing with sheep. I can do neat things with their wool, but not while it’s on their backs. That would just be weird.

Does anyone else on twitter worry that when someone you tweet to doesn’t respond, you’ve been blocked or are considered a pain in the butt? No? Guess it’s just me, then. Figures.

Actual conversation in the car the other day:

B: So, I’m so going to end up married to a military guy.

Me: How so?

B: Uniforms are just hot.

Me: Is that XXXXX in the uniform there?

B: Mmm-hmmm

Me: OMG. You have a type.

B: No, I don’t!

Me: Yes, you do! He could be XXX’s brother, and you have a type!

B: Well, so do you.

Me: I know. Tall, dark, and carrying a weapon. Have you looked at your father? Why do you think I drag him to the range as often as humanly possible?

B: I try not to.

And that is why I won’t be getting any mother of the year awards.

R and I, on one of the days that she decided it was cool to hug her mother.

It’s way later than I should be up, and I should be writing on my NaNoWriMo project, but since I’m really, really good at procrastination muti-tasking, I’m writing on this instead. Where, you know, I don’t need to worry about things like plot, or income, or – yeah.

If you’re wondering what NaNoWriMo is, you can go here and find out. I’ll wait.

Pretty neat, huh? At least I’m hoping it’ll really force me to finish my @#$% book and stop looking at my lack of words-on-paper as a personal failure.

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a writer. Yeah, I wanted to be a veterinarian, too, but since I passed out when the vet let me sit in on my dog’s surgery, that one sort of went out the window. I did my internships in college and wrote for a local magazine. I taught English for 8 years (and yeah, I’d have snatched a kid up for using these run-on sentences), and I enjoyed that, but – couldn’t say I’d achieved my ultimate goal. I’ve written for OTHER people’s blogs and got paid to do it, which was pretty cool, because, hey, getting paid to do what I actually enjoyed, even if writing about RV refrigerators wasn’t the most exciting thing ever. But – it wasn’t the writing I wanted to do for ME.

So, here I am, and I’ve got this FEELING hanging over me that, if I don’t get this done, I’m going to have to cross it off my list unfinished, and I’m just not willing to do that, not yet. Life will always have a string of “I wish I’d have”, and I accept that, but this – this one I’m not willing to count among them. Not yet.

I don’t expect a lot out of the first draft of this. All first drafts are crap, it’s been said (and by much better writers than yours truly) and, really, my biggest obstacle is getting the whole thing down to start with. I tend to over-think. I tend to over-analyze. I tend to then procrastinate, because I’m fed up with my over-thinking and over-analyzing. I think this is where the whole “daughter of a Special Forces military guy and an artist” really shows itself. I wage this constant battle between organization and happy chaos.

So, this is where I ask for you guys to help out. You see – I really do better when there are outside forces curbing my ADDish tendencies and redirecting what brain cells I have back to where they need to be. If you know me (and you probably do, because, let’s face it, I think all of four people read this), nudge me. Poke me with a stick. Whenever you think of it. Try to think of it often, please. I need it.

A lot. Really.

If you don’t know me, but think that’s something you might enjoy, you can poke me with a stick, too. I do carry a gun, but take it very seriously, so you’re not in any danger.

I DO. Take it seriously. If you lived here, you’d carry, too. Just sayin’. I’ve got daughters to protect!

See, there goes that whole tangent thing again. I told you so.

I’ll try to make the post worth your while though. You might want to pour a drink. I find it helps in dealing with me.

So I’ve been TRYING to get into the whole “homeschooling for a new year” thing since the end of August, and to be honest, I still feel like I’m swimming upstream. Wearing ankle weights. And a sweater.

We’re managing, but I haven’t managed to attain that zen attitude I keep hoping for. Maybe I’m just not a zen sort of person. Maybe it’s because my husband is sitting next to me yelling at Texas in the World Series. Maybe I’m the one that needs that drink. Stop judging me.

You’d think, with Halloween so soon upon us (wow, that sounded posh), that I’d be more excited. Don’t get me wrong. I’m excited. I’ve invested so much time making sure that my daughters truly appreciate the macabre and bizarre that I could miss the actual donning of the costumes/sugar coma and still enjoy the moment. Thing is – well, to be honest I dunno what the thing is. I think I’m just in one of those weird places I get when the days get shorter and my husband yells at professional athletes. I need to spend more time with Archer the Wonder Dog. That makes me, if not zen, then at least not bitey and snarly. And I cook more.

My pup makes me happy. Handsome boy, isn't he?

I HAVE been writing, which is a good thing, and I’ve been doing it the old fashioned way. No, not stylus and wax, I’m not that old. Shut up. Fountain pen and paper. This has been good for my creative process, and for my manicure, because I’m sort of a beast at the keyboard. I type violently. I don’t know what this says about me. However, I am discovering that I can still type with nails! I am discovering this right now. This instant. It pleases me.

Writing this way must be good for my creative process, because I’m having very vivid dreams, that I actually remember, and my characters are starting to stand up for themselves and tell me what they’re really thinking, and I’m pretty sure that means I’m becoming more in touch with my creative side. Or more insane. Either/or, really.

I am glad that cooler weather is here, because sweating when you’re just walking to the car is just not on, and my pups really, really, really don’t like the heat. Of course, Ceili the Elder Dog doesn’t like the cold, either. She does like raw chicken, so there is something left in the world that makes her happy. Cooler weather also means, maybe, Archer will get to play with the sheep some more, and that will make him happy. And tired.

It will also give Bri more of a chance to work on her action photography, and Rori a chance to, well, be a kid on a farm for a few hours. There could be baby ducks. There will at least be eggs, and she’s got a good imagination.

If Texas loses tonight I’m going to have to buy a pound of taffy and force feed it to Patrick. I don’t know how much longer I can take the yelling at the television without doing something suddenly and all over the place.

I have a short fuse. Deal with it. Or don’t, really. It’s all ok.

If I’d known about the amount of spam I’d get in my comments, I might have reconsidered writing a blog in the first place. Ok, maybe not, but I would have complained a lot more about it.

Spammers – why do you choose me? I don’t have a large readership. I’m not sponsored by anyone. I can count on my fingers and toes the number of people not related to me who read this, and still have digits left. I’m pretty sure my mom gave up reading after the second post or so. Listen closely to the words that are coming out of my virtual mouth.

I do not want to buy generic drugs online. I am not interested in anime porn. I don’t ride a motorcycle, speak russian, or need a way to increase the size of some anatomy I don’t possess. Really. Your comments aren’t going to help you. No one who is interested will read them, most likely because I won’t approve them, and even if they get through, because I was half asleep (something my kids take advantage of way too often), I’ll figure it out eventually and take them off the blog.

Go away.

Go far, far away.

You make me unhappy, and that upsets my family’s delicate balance – you know, the one where they tiptoe around and don’t upset the crazy woman who lives in their midst.

So, I’d like to say that the reason I haven’t updated in oh, ever, is because I’ve been doing Really Exciting and Wild Things ™, but in fact, I’ve just been lazy. Sue me – it’s not like I get PAID to write this stuff. Contact me about doing ads on this blog and we’ll talk.

Instead of doing R.E.&W.T. ™ , I’ve been doing stuff like the following:

Threw a ball for Archer the Wonder Dog to catch, but instead he hit it with his nose and it flew back and clobbered me in the head.

Watched my eldest go to her first prom, and nearly died because (a) she’s gorgeous and (b) I’m old.

I am in so much trouble, being this one's mother...

Still not feeling better about my parenting chances here...

Wrote not nearly enough about zombies and way too many tweets.

Became addicted to The Glee Project, because not only do I watch Glee with the sort of rabid intensity I usually save for scifi and chocolate, I am apparently a sucker for people younger and prettier than myself who have so much talent it hurts. If you’re wondering, I’m pulling for Damian McGinty.

Yeah, I wanna see this guy on GLEE.

Realized that all the shows I usually watch are now in hiatus, got very sad, and then realized that Eureka is about to come back for the summer, and got glad again.

Remembered that the next installment of Gail Garriger’s The Parasol Protectorate series is due out very, very soon, and became rather giddy.

Bought Argent Vite by my dear friend Kaye and devoured it in a day. It’s available via Lulu and iBooks, and you should all go out and read it. Right now. Go on. I’ll wait.

Planted growing things in my gardens, realized I hadn’t bought enough of them to do the job, and since I’d already cleared out the OLD things for the NEW things, my flowerbeds look like they have alopecia. I guess that’s ok, though, since that matches my lawn. I rock so hard.

Tried to convince my husband that I could use a pet dryer for things other than drying Archer the Wonder Dog after his bath. The thing is, I actually COULD, but he’s not buying it – the story or the dryer. Why did I ever think practicality was an attractive quality in a man?? It’s a good thing he’s hot, that’s all I’m sayin’.

So – yeah. How did this become my life again?

P.S. – after proofing this for me, Patrick thinks everyone will believe that all I do is watch television and that our life stinks. Ya’ll know better than that – I eat and bathe occasionally, too. Take that, Patrick.

P.P.S. – if you’re just leaving a comment here because it’ll get you more traffic and better ratings with Google, then you need to go away. I actually READ the comments before I approve them, and if you’re putting up things like “this article had great informations can you tell me more?” while coding 482 links to Russian porn into the comment, you’re not going to get approved. Don’t try to sell stuff on my blog, ya’ll. I don’t even do that.

*Author’s Note – WordPress ate this once already. I love you, so I’m rewriting it. Fear me.*

So – there’s this kid I know. Good-natured, hardworking guy with a big heart that I totally want in my corner when the zombies come, because he’s big enough to swing a mean machete and loyal enough to swing it to help out his friends. The problem is his family treats him like crap.

I’m not talking about your ordinary, garden variety crap, either. I’m talking the sort of crap you find encased in glass domes with signs saying “for when the usual crap just won’t do”. THAT kind of crap. This kid’s stepfather is a class A Numbskull, and his mom must either be threatened or drunk, because she allows said Numbskull to dish out the afore-mentioned crap. Oh, not to all the kids, mind you – the kids she shares with the Numbskull get preferential treatment. It’s the kids she had B.N. (before Numbskull) that get the short end of the stick, and you’re not going to convince me that she doesn’t see it, because she’s got eyes in her head.

You know, I’ll take a lot of things from a lot of people, but you don’t mess with my kids. You want to be safe during the Zombie Apocalypse, then stand behind my kids, because I guarantee you they’re gonna survive. Nobody messes with my girls. That means that I don’t understand why in the Sam Hill anyone would treat their children like this, step or other, and since I have seriously great great step-parents, I really really have no frame of reference for this. No one would do this to my child, no matter who is the one doing the “doing”.

I know all I can do, at least at this precise moment in time, is offer support. What I’d like to do is significantly more, um, action oriented. And probably frowned upon. Or not, depending on who you are and what organizations or municipalities you work for. I am open to suggestions, however.