Random Musings of a Caffeinated Insomniac

Yay, Nano buttons!

Yay, another NaNoWriMo completed. Although I seriously thought I might have to dismember something at times, I DID IT!!!!!!! Mostly. I won in terms of word count, but I didn't finish the novel yet. Still, 62266 words in under a month is worth being psychotically excited about, especially when I also managed to sleep some and take care of the hubby, the 3 year old, and the newborn. Yay me!

Hell Is For Wimps

Ah, the holidays. That time of year when we are able to sit back, relax, and reflect on the beautific lives we lead in this perfect world. Riiiiiiiiiiiiiight. We'll just vote that thought "Least Likely to Succeed" and go from there. It's officially Thanksgiving, and I am hours away from spending the day with my families. First my mom is coming over for lunch, then everyone but mom is going over to the other family's for dinner. I anticipate too much food (some good, some cooked by Theresa), boredom, and general grouchiness. A grand time will be had by all, I'm sure.
Which brings us to the revelations of this particular entry.
1) I am starting to hate the holiday season early this year.
2) Dysfunctional families are the real normal.
3) Hell is for wimps- if you really want someone to scream for mercy, stick 'em with my families for the holidays.

I used the think I didn't like the whole holiday bruhaha because it reminds me of my dad dying, or because I worked retail. Now I know I don't like it because of everything it is:
the anniversary of my dad dying (which I'm feeling more this year now that I have Emily)
forcing me to spend time with a person I don't like for the sake of keeping the peace
hurting my mom because I'm not spending every spare minute with her, and am going over to see the annoying person we don't like
driving me nuts because the year is ending and I don't feel like I've made any real progress in my life
stressful
making me come perilously close to sounding like a bad country song (if I had a can of pisswater, there'd be "a teeeeeear in muh beeeeeeeeer", instead of my coffee)
I could go on, but I think that about covers the gist of it.
****Brief interlude while I accept tips to refrain from any more singing. For those not familiar with the singing pianist duo from the Disney cruises, tips should be monetary, and of sufficient quantity to be an effective bribe. Thank you. We now return you to your regularly scheduled monologue.****

The holidays would be fine if not for family, or if they were just like any other days. But no, its "THE HOLIDAYS!", that time of year when people lose what little common sense they have. They become lemmings, suicidally driving to the mall to buy unwanted gifts for the second migration's return trips. Normally rational (OK, maybe not) family members become petty, punitive [bleep]s, demanding that the other side of the family be ignored, or else issue insincere invitations on the slim chance that they will be accepted and the "hostess" can spend a meal making digs. Forget Jesus- this time of year, dysfunction and insanity reign.

Logic would say that if you have 2 people who cannot get along, but who live close together, it is fair to spend part of an important day with each one. Logic has never met my mother. Specifically, she feels like she gets stuck with last choice because we work around the other family's timetable. Actually, we try to set meal times with Tom's family so that we'll have time to spend with my mom. With everyone's schedules, this is not easy. Tom just doesn't understand why my mom "doesn't like" his mom. (Personally, I find it more surprising that anyone does like her.) He still thinks the perfect solution would be my mom going to his mom's for holidays. After all, his family has always celebrated together, and my mom's all by herself. At this point, I think the perfect solution would be moving to Alaska and not leaving a forwarding address.
Tom's idea of a "normal holiday" is my idea of hell. I would quite honestly rather starve than have to put up with all the bullshit involved with a holiday meal. I don't like being obligated to spend time with someone- anyone- just because some long dead people did something. Once they were no longer get out of school free cards, the holidays were just ordinary days. I don't feel any different on Thanksgiving or Christmas than I do on the second tuesday or the third thursday, or any other damn day of the month. Yes, I appreciate the people in my life. I love them very much and I am very thankful to know most of them. I do not need the overbearing manuvering or sappy sentiment crammed down my throat by some company desperate to turn a profit to tell me this.
I almost wish I were still working retail, too busy to care. I do wish I could just push a button and it would be mid-January. I wish for today to go better than I'm expecting. I wish I could take a vacation somewhere warm and relaxing. Maybe somewhere with red guys toting pitchforks bringing me margaritas.

OK, now that feels better. I am the embodiment of patience, cleansed of bitchiness. OK, not possible, but I think I am starting to feel a little less whiney and more optimistic for the next month or so.
And I really am thankful for a lot, but this entry has gone on too long already. The thankfuls deserve their own entry.

Food Orgasms

Wow, I think I can literally smell smoke coming from my brain- time to take a break from NaNoing. I was trying to decide on a title for this entry that wouldn't invite comment spam, but I decided to just go with it.

I was standing in my kitchen brewing yet another pot of coffee and sniffing the grounds (the Candelilla is awesome, as evidenced by the fact that it's mostly gone), and two things occurred to me. The first is that I am useless as a coffee critic- I can tell if I like something, but as far as if it's "fruity", "exotic", or anything else, I dunno. Coffee is either delicious or not in my house.
The second thing I realized is that foods and beverages have a deeply sensual- often downright sexual- effect on people. I remember several years ago on a school trip to New England, a small group of us came across something called a "chocolate whoopie pie". Most, if not all of us bought one, and the vanride back to the cabin sounded like a porno movie. One of the guys professed to be having sex with said dessert, and requested a private moment for an orgasm.

The sensuality I find in an excellent cup of coffee is something I've known about for a while- hell, that was half of the reason it was so hard to give up while I was pregnant- the caffeine's just a nice bonus. I've never really thought about how that pertains to other people, nor am I entirely sure why I'm thinking about it now. (Probably because of the MFGD [insert further strings of expletives here] holiday coming up that I just don't want to deal with, but if I went on that rant here, it would defeat the point of not doing just that. Bonus points to anyone who thinks that makes sense.) For some strange reason possibly owing to phases of the moon, planetary alignment, crossed wires in the brain, etc, etc, it just seems nice to know.

Momentous Timing

Ah, sweet well-rested bliss. I crashed early last night- as in, I barely made it past 10 (Nick, you can stop laughing. I'll mail you my night owl card- I know I've disgraced it) when I got Emmy to sleep. I fell asleep getting Will to sleep. Tom woke me up when he went to bed, so I did manage to stumble to bed before collapsing again. And then a miracle happened.

Emily slept through the night!

The official definition of that is sleeping 6 hours. My definition of it is heaven. And the other great part is that I slept until she woke up, so I wasn't wondering "OMG, is she OK?" as I rushed to check on her. Ah infancy- the only time you pray daily for the kid to sleep, then panic when they do.
So here I sit, well rested and enjoying my first cup of Christmas Blend of the season. Life is good.

You Can Live on Caffeine Alone

I think NaNoWriMo must be going smoother this year for me. Last year by this point I had already added espresso to the beverage mix, but not this year. Nope, instead today I officially crossed the 3 pots a day coffee mark. That's better, right? OK, maybe not. Sigh. Small surprise that I haven't slept in over 24 hours- that much caffeine is enough to keep even my overly addicted self going.
The better news is that the past 2 days of writing have each yeilded 3-5K word counts. The bad news is that those were not consecutive days- more like every second or third day. Still, I've almost caught up to where I need to be, the writing is flowing easier each time, I've passed beyond the halfway point, and after another intensive session I'll be ahead of the game again.
Of course, we won't go into the quality of my written diarrhea, although I have yet to resort to random soft-core porn. All smut so far has been tastefully written (or a reasonable facsimile) and necessary to the plotline. Heck, I'm even being generous and allowing everybody to use contractions while speaking. Actually, the way this is flowing right now, I'll probably/ hopefully/ please dear God! finish ahead of deadline and in the 60-75K range. At this point, I just want 50K+ And sleep. I think I'll take tonight off and get some sleep during actual nighttime hours- the naps with the kiddies are losing a bit of their effectiveness.
Besides, I'm scared I'm starting to drink coffee just to stay awake. It's a crime against Starbucks and all else that is holy! The coffee police will be coming to my door, especially since I just picked up a pound of the Holiday Blend. * (YAY! YUM!) I shudder to think how many pounds of coffee I've gone through this month...
OK, enough procrastinating. Time to go clean and purge my brain of NaNo for a while.

*As a nifty aside note, I just noticed that the Starbucks website contributes to Upromise. Wonder of wonders- I can be lazing about getting my coffee, and get money back!

WTF? I'm not Donna Reed!

Wow, I just scared myself- I realized that I'm turning into a realtively good homemaker. Let's examine the evidence:
1-I've been cleaning on a regular basis.
1a- My basement is not only usable, it gets used on a regular basis. Even by a guest. (Adam, when he and Tom work out.)

2-I'm consistently cooking dinner. And, even more damning, I've been having it ready about when Tom gts home from work.

3-I'm actually balancing having 2 kids.
3a- So far, neither hates the other.
3b- Will even seems happy to have a little sister to play with and hug. (Emily is generally ambivilent about anyone who doesn't produce milk, although she will at least grin at Tom, Will, and my mom.)

4-When Will said he "didn't want to talk to Grandma Trapp, he wanted to talk to Grandma Pam" to the m-i-l, I only felt a minimum of glee (I didn't even laugh out loud). The rest of me was wondering how to keep the peace.

5-I've had several plants for over a year now, and not managed to kill them. One is even flourishing.

6-Same for the fish, but I haven't had them quite as long.

And the single most damning/ scary/ potentially universe ending, appocalypse inducing part? I'm enjoying every bit of it. This calls for tequila. Lots and lots of tequila.
Now I just hope I don't find out Donna Reed drank...

Comfortable in my skin and crock pot

Yay! I'm no longer feeling blase! And now that I'm feeling comfortable in my skin again, I've realized two things (well, probably more than two, but we'll start with these):

1- It's amazing what a crock pot can do. (More on this further down)

&

2- I should kick my own ass over that last entry.

While I will admit that it was quite theraputic, I should really kick my own ass. I spent nearly two days feeling sorry for myself, and not even for a good reason. For godssake, I went on and on (and on and on and on) whining that I don't get paid to stay home with and raise my kids! Even more pathetic, although neither it nor the kitchen sink made it into the entry, part of the whininess was because I was sitting there drinking my last cup of my last pot of my last bag of Starbucks- not even the only coffee in the house mind you, just the best. Forget kicking my ass, I should be shot.
As far as the other issues raised, more info will be posted as it's figured out. That or joyous tidings of lottery winning and six figure book deals- hey, hope springs eternal.

Back to one. I got my free crock pot (and my free coffee grinder, which I like even if no one on Amazon seemed to. What can I say? You can't beat the price.) a few days ago, courtesy of one of my 12 survey companies. The first thing I made (at 4:30in the morning) was Italian chili. It turned out really well, and for some reason I found that very comforting. I've never used a crock pot or made chili before, so it was a cool personal accomplishment, even if I did have a recipe to follow. I wonder how many people get more comfort out of cooking "comfort food" than eating it?

So that's most of what's going on. On the writing front, I've been reading a lot (how unusual x-D ) from some of the authors who've written for Writer's Digest, and I have come to one conclusion- I AM PUBLISHABLE! If these books can see a publishing house, mine should too, because, yikes... Yikes. Not that the books are horrible, but they're certainly not up to what I would expect. I'm withholding final judgement until I read one of the novels I picked up by James Rollins. I've read and loved some of his works under his other pen name (James Clemens), so if I think RJ's stuff is hackish, then I'll chalk this all up to the writers being from different genres than I normally read. That said, I can generally tell the difference between bad writing and disliking the book.
I'm not saying my novels don't need massive work, but at least I no longer feel like an untalented hack with delusions of authordom.

And as another personal feat, my mom gave me her Betta (the pretty Japanese fighting fish). I've had it 2 days now and it's still alive. For me, this is an accomplishment heretofore unequalled, however sad that is to admit.

Blase Days

The past couple of days have been... interesting. Not in any fun sense- nothing new or exciting, but just out of the ordinary. We were discussing finances, and while not really depressing in and of itself, the conversation left me in a funk. the pertinent points are:
- I need to go back to work
- I don't want to go back to work (or, more truthfully and as I told Tom, the thought of leaving my kids again to go back to work is physically painful)
And so we talked about that and Tom decided it was time for him to start hunting for a new job. And that's the majority of my funk.

I don't want to make Tom find a new job. He loves LQ, he's been there long enough that he gets 3 (soon to be 4) weeks paid vacation a year, he gets a very nice longevity bonus each year, he's one of the best in the company at tech, but it's looking like unless we're willing and able to relocate (which, realisticly we are in no position to do), a promotion is nowhere in sight. It's pretty well a dead end situation currently, but again, he loves working there. However valid the logic, I do not want to be the reason he leaves a job he loves. I remember how miserable I was at Circuit, and I don't want him to feel that- not because of me. (Yes, admittedly this is a worst case scenario, but unfortunately, I know more people who hate their jobs than even enjoy them.)

I started feeling like I was being horribly selfish to want to stay home. After all, he's been going to work still ever since Will was born. Other women don't necessarily get to stay home, no matter how much they might want to. So who am I to ask him to find a new job just so I can? I don't mind being a selfish bitch over some things, but I can't stand feeling that way over something like this. So, I'm in between the proverbial rock and hard place- which can I live with? Do I let (and feel like I'm making) Tom find a new job, or do I bite the bullet and leave the kids?

At this point, I'm so confused about my feelings that I'm afraid to make any decision. My brain feels like it's simultaniously stalled and spinning a thousand miles a minute. I'm honestly shocked at how strongly I want to stay home. It's not like it's a cakewalk. There are days that I feel like I'd jump at the chance to hand the kids off to someone competent and run back to work, days that I'd rather torch the house than clean it, and in the rare free moment, I still find it odd that I've gone from being mortally insulted when a childhood friend told me that she though I'd be a good housewife to desperately wanting just that. But most days, I love being able to spend time with Will and Emmy, even if it is chasing after him while holding her and wondering at just what point I lost my mind. I've always felt like a study in dicotomy, but especially now. I'm a homemaker who also supports NOW (among other political groups). Then again, I think being a feminist means working to open every possible option for women, and one of those options is the freedom to stay home. It's not just about being able to get any job you're qualified for, or abortion rights, or any of that- it's being able to make the right choice for your life. But enough politicizing- I digress.

My life would be perfect if stay-at-home moms were paid. I don't mean give out welfare. I mean honest to god recognition that it is a career, not even a job. We pay babysitters, we pay daycare centers, we hand out welfare to some (I know not all) people who are just too lazy to get a job. It's especially disgusting if you look at the figures for what a person would make doing the same general responsibilities for a company. I know I'm politicizing again, not to mention bitching, but I would far rather be paid a small salary to run my household and raise my kids well than recieve social security, even if it meant I had to go back to work once Will and Em are grown and could never retire. It would be worth it. I should read less, or at least different books, because a common notion in most of the novels I've read lately includes paying stay-at-home moms. Not much, but at least something in recognition of the work they do, not just for their family, but for society at large.

But alas, my life is not perfect. I don't get paid for my main career, so I have to either get a job or my husband has to get a new one. I still can't figure out which is the fairer option. On the one hand, Tom suggested getting a new job. I've thought it, but never been willing to bring it up because I didn't want to force him into it. On the other hand, I don't want him to eventually blame me for making him leave the job he enjoys so much. I haven't made any crazy purhases, or even any questionable ones. I've done what I can think of to help us save money on the everyday stuff, and I've cut out the vast majority of the stuff we don't need (I couldn't make myself completely give up the occassional Starbucks trip). I've been in charge of them for years, so I feel responsible for the state of our finances, and I feel like I should be responsible for fixing them. I've done my best, but it's not really enough. The sad thing is, we're not even in trouble- it's just inertia. If we don't get some positive momentum going, we very well could get into trouble.

I just can't figure out the least of the evils.

And so, I've been on auto-pilot the past couple days. It doesn't help that I've hit a sophmore slump with NaNo that I've got to force my way through- that's next on the agenda tonight/ this morning. Strangely, last year is both encouraging me to have a repeat success, and encouraging me to stop now. Amid the crazy buzz of excitement is the little voice saying "you've not even finished editting the piece of reeking shit you wrote last year, and you're going to have another turd lying around?!". I'm no longer even sure that I'll hit the 50K mark this time. I know the story is capable of it, and probably even 75-100K. I just don't know if I am. I do know that if I don't get back to it now, I won't finish the novel at all. I think that would be the final slap in the face for me and writing. I can handle the extremely bitter realization that most of my writing is mediocre at best- mediocre can be improved. But somehow I still feel like a fraud for wanting to be a consistently paid published writer. I have no doubt that I can if I put the work into it, but then again, neither does anyone else. Which raises the question, am I really any good? And either way, why am I writing anymore? Is it because I enjoy it and think other people will enjoy my stories? Or is it just because I've been doing it for so long and I'm in love with the idea?

The good news is that I know the funk will pass. Today was better than yesterday, and tomorrow will be better still, I'm sure. And even better will be to get more done on the novel. I've noticed that I feel better on the days I write than on the days I don't, even if it means running on little to no sleep. I know I could easily work writing into every single day, at least a little bit, but for some reason it's easier to write for long stretches at a time. Great for a writing career in terms of getting books written, but bad for a mother of 2 young children. Oh well, I'm almost 2/5 of the way done with the NaNo requirement (only slightly behind schedule, and that should be rectified by the end of the next writing session), and we'll see where the novel goes from there. With enough polishing, I know both of them could be published. I just need to finish this one first, then work on fumigating them.

OK, time to get to work. **Deep breath**
OK. Good to go.

Ah, just what I don't need

I was goofing around on astrology.com and got s free sample karma reading. Suposedly, this will tell me just enough about myself in prior lives to see how they're affecting me now. A sample"

Achievement was the primary goal in prior lives, Jenn, forcing you to restrain and control yourself, emotionally and materially. This time around you are learning to allow your feelings to surface and to loosen the reins on your spending.

Loosen the reins on my spending... to reiterate the title, just what I don't need.
I think we'll just file this one under subliminal messaging to buy the full length report, and get back to writing.

50K+ or bust!

I love it!

I just learned about a nifty little thing called Google bombing from one of my writing newsletters. Not amazing in and of itself, but the example used was fabulous. Type in "miserable failure" and click the feeling lucky button, and what do you get? George W. Bush's biography.

Playing Piano With Elton John

Music crosses generations. I remember listening to my mom's old Elton John record with "Crocodile Rock" on it- yes, an honest to god record, as in made of vinyl. Much as it pains me to admit it, I even remember dancing along. Mom had it from back when she was probably around my age now. And now, my son is listening to it- in a slightly more modern form.
We picked up the Bob the Builder - Holiday Video 2003 - A Christmas to Remember (2001) DVD at the library yesterday, and yes, it has "Crocodile Rock" on it. Performed by Elton John (as a clay animation no less, complete with flamboyant outfit and huge star-shaped sunglasses, after being given his stage name by a construction vehicle). Not only did Will get a huge kick out of it, he pulled his little piano into the living room and proceded to bang on it, sing along, and yes, dance.

The Poor Girl Is Going to Hate Me

Ugh. I swear, if I wasn't breastfeeding, my daughter would probably hate me right now. It all started innocently enough with a wet diaper. Should be a quick change, so I don't worry about the changing pad- just lay her down on her blanket. (Lesson 1- there is no such thing as a quick change. Always use the diaper pad). I got the wet diaper off, thinking "gee, she hasn't pooped much yet today". Somebody remind me to find and strangle Murphy, because I'm sure what happened next was in some way his fault.
No sooner had I gotten the diaper out from under Emmy than she pooped. Exploded is more accurate. Sparing the details, the diaper (and the 5 wipes I used before giving up) went in the Diaper Genie, the blanket and everything she was wearing went straight in the laundry, but first, the baby went in the bathtub.

She hates the bathtub. She hates being bathed.

So after torturing the child for about 10 minutes to get her clean (yes, it was that bad), I finally got her out and wrapped up in a towel. At this point, she's been wailing to beat a firehouse siren for about 15 minutes (she understandably started around the time she crapped all over her lower half) and my ears are bleeding. She squalled and flailed the whole time I was trying to dress her. But finally, I got her dried, diapered, dressed, and quiet. It's good to be the lady with the boobs, because otherwise the poor girl probably would hate me.

On a random side note, I have to say baby poop (at least from breastfed babies) reminds me of Denny's buffalo strip sauce. The color's off, but the texture and consistency... definitely buffalo sauce.