Rosco to Scott: *obnoxiously* “WHY CAN’T YOU HEAR ME?!”

Me to Rosco: “Because he’s DEAF. That means he CAN’T hear. You’re rude. Apologize to Daddy RIGHT NOW.”

Rosco: *refusal*

Me: “Go to your room until I’m ready for you to come out.”

Rosco: *tantrum, tantrum, tantrum* *slams door*

So… how’s your morning starting?

This photo sums up my life in a nutshell.

1. Post these rules
2. You must post 11 random things about yourself
3. Answer the questions set for you in the post you were tagged in
4. Create 11 new questions for your tagees to answer
5. Tag them on Twitter, Facebook or your blog

So…

11 Random Things About Tiffany

1. I get a sick joy out of pens running out of ink because it means I can pick a brand new one out of my well-hidden stash.
2. I hoard little scraps of paper that my grandmother wrote things on. Sometimes the stuff depresses me. Other times it makes me a little less sad she’s gone. Depends on the day.
   
3. I gossip. But let me tell you this – I don’t gossip about any information people themselves aren’t making publicly available. Think about that.
4. I hate checking my email on Monday mornings. As a fiction writer this seems to be when agents and publishers send out batches of “No way, Jose” messages. Acceptances seem to be far more unpredictable.
5. I believe in certain supernatural things and I’m pretty sure one snuck up on me a couple of days ago and scared the shit out of me. That or I need new contact lenses.
6. I’m the fat sister.
7. I’d really like to live out in the boonies again. Perhaps on a ranch in New Mexico or someplace where I won’t get door-to-door solicitors.
8. I’m annoyed that 50% of the people on social media claim to be experts or consultants. When’s this bubble going to burst?
9. I’m a little bit psychic. For reals.
10. Sometimes I get depressed about how I really didn’t try in college. I also wonder if I made the right choice choosing UNC over Duke. If I had gone to Duke would I still be a fiction writer?
11. That Costa Concordia shit has got me sort of terrified to cruise again even though it’s a hell of a vacation.

Okay, next:

Questions I was asked to answer:

1. Where do you buy most of your clothes?

Gap and all of its subsidiaries.

2. What is your favorite drink recipe?

One part snow, one part Southern Comfort.

3. Describe your most memorable high school experience.

Band camp, freshman year. We were in Ferrum, Virginia. We were waiting for some drill corrections. I don’t remember why this happened now, but I started moonwalking. Everyone saw. Everyone figured out quickly from there that I ain’t quite right.

4. Is there a song that you always have to sing aloud every time?

Yes. “Home, Sweet Home.”

5. Do you prefer beach or mountains and why?

Beach. Being on the edge of the Earth is just humbling.

6. Do you still hang out with any of your childhood friends?

It’s hard to do now, but there are a few people I always try to root out when I head home.

7. Coco Pebbles or Coco Krispies?

Pebbles 4 Lyfe.

8. If you could meet one blogger (besides me of course), who would it be?

Nicole from A Silent Storm. I think we’re two versions of the same person.

9. If you were deserted on an island and could only have 3 beauty items, what would they be (not basic hygiene)?

A hair elastic, tweezers, and some sort of scarf. See, I’m a practical sort.

10. What is your favorite fancy coffee choice?

Caramel Frappuchino, no whipped cream.

11. When did you get your first cell phone?

I’m pretty sure it was the summer before college.

Okay.

Some questions for my tag-ees to answer (I’ll be gentle):

1. How many times do you wear a pair of jeans before you wash them?
2. What’s the last thing you cooked?
3. What’s the last thing you ate?
4. When’s the last time someone else touched your hair?
5. How would you describe your decoraing style?
6. Name one trend you wish you hadn’t gotten drawn into.
7. Do you know all of your siblings’ kids’ birthdays by memory?
8. What kind of lip balm do you use?
9. If you could own a vacation home anywhere in the world, where would it be?
10. What’s the last book you read? Was it good?
11. What’s your biggest time-suck? A hobby? Reality television? Something else?

Now I’ll tag a handful of people. It won’t be 11 because I’m running too low on caffeine and my attention span is waning.

1. Nicole. (You saw that coming.)
2. Bimbo.
3. Keya.
4. Cyn.
5. Celeste.
6. You.

Toodles!

Our grocery totals have actually gone up quite a bit since we moved to Colorado and I am trying to troubleshoot whether it’s because Em is eating more, if my shopping habits have changed, or if I just haven’t been conscious of the price differences here. Our new normal seems to be around $130. In Durham I usually spent around $100 a week.

Tell me, how much do you spend on groceries per week? Also let me know how many people you’re feeding and how many meals you make per day. I’ve heard from a lot of people that what we spend for our family of four is a lot less than what they’re spending and I just want to see how far from average we are.

Look. At this point, the only thing keeping me on Facebook is the fact that all my peeps are on the east coast. If there were an actually possibility I’d see my merry band of snarky friends in the flesh on a regular basis, I’d punt it and save myself the stress.

You know what makes Facebook really miserable? VagueBooking.

Let me break that down for you. VagueBooking is when people post really generic or vague statuses for the purpose of generating attention and concern but then don’t respond to requests for information or offers of help.

Here’s an example:

“Oh my God! I can’t believe this shit! This is the last time I’ll fall for that. Never again!”

And another:

“It’s all in God’s hands now.”

And one more:

“In the hospital with little stinker. Send us good thoughts.”

Okay, if you don’t want the world at large to know your business, I understand that. (What you should be doing is using filters so only certain friends read your statuses OR you could just send out a bulk text message.) If all you want to do is seek attention for yourself and waste peoples’ times and emotional investments, I have an instruction for you: Get The Fuck Out of Here.

For real.

And some tough love? To you people who regularly threaten suicide in your status messages and then don’t respond to messages and pleas for you to call? Don’t be surprised if you find yourself picked up by an ambulance and put in a strait jacket someday. You may be sad and just spilling out your feelings and don’t really mean it, but don’t play with shit like that. Suicide is NOT a joke. Suicide IS WHEN YOU KILL YOURSELF and leave your family behind to pick up the pieces. One day someone’s going to call authorities. Maybe me.

I’m just going to start unfollowing people. I’ve got enough going on in my life without having to play Sherlock over suspicious Facebook posts.

Thank you for allowing me this rant. Please rejoin your regularly-scheduled programming.

2009. Ew.

Ready?

Okay.

I hate the way I look right now. I look okay with clothes on because it’s winter, but put me in a pair of shorts or a fitted tee and I’ll probably shove myself into a dark corner.

I’m snarky, but try not to be negative all the freaking time, so if I complain about something publicly I want to already be working on a solution for it. Well, some stuff I can’t fix. I can’t completely correct the diastasis recti that makes my abdomen protrude. That’s a side effect of propagating with a giant.

I can’t [naturally] fix that my chest has basically gone flat since weaning Em. There are some benefits to that–not having to wear a bra in the winter being the foremost. The biggest problem is that having nothing up top means there’s no balance to my bottom half.

When I gain weight it goes straight to my ass, hips and thighs. I’ve always been a bit dominant there to start with because of muscle and I confess I’m sensitive about it. When I was in fifth grade a boy in my class used to call me “porkchop” and “thunder thighs.” Not kidding. Then I cheered in middle and high school and the amount of cardio I was doing kept me from bulking up too much. I got lazy in college and gained some pounds freshman year. I was climbing up the hill next to Kenan Stadium one day and some football player (or support staff member) lurking nearby yelled at me “HEY, GIRL — DO YOU DO SQUATS?”

I promptly called back “Fuck you.”

Now that my twenties are in my rearview mirror and my metabolism is slowing down, my problem isn’t so much bulk but fat. It makes my knees and thighs look lumpy.

We’re mostly settled in now so the shitty eating habits we fell into for a while when we were living in temporary housing (I’ve gained about five pounds since November) have come to a halt and I’ve been getting consistent exercise.

I’m not trying to meet any sort of weight goal. I just want to be able to look down at my knees and not go “Ew.”

I didn’t realize I cared so much until today. In the school system I grew up in we had no choices, really. There was a county elementary school which everyone who lived in the boonies attended and there was a town school that, well, the townies attended. Sometimes folks from town would attend the school in the county and vice versa if their parents worked closer to there but it was rare – you went where your assigned school bus took you. Both of those schools were equal when it came to academics so it wasn’t like there was a great disparity.

Here? Disparity.

Rosco’s a smart kid who’ll probably need extra stimulation (so he doesn’t act like a fool in class). This school can provide that and has a program for troublemakers creative thinkers like Rosco.

I know a lot of a kid’s success in school is attributable to what kind of support their parents give them at home. He has the support here, and now he gets to attend a school that isn’t mired in remediation because of low test scores. What to hear something annoying? Tell Rosco something he already knows and have him yell “I ALREADY KNOW THAT.”

I’m so happy I could dance…and did.

Need to find out what that testing is all about, though.

We walked around outside for a bit and I let the kids burn off a bit of energy running from sculpture to sculpture.

Then we went inside to look at the paintings (which were magnificent, by the way–I want to go back for a longer look without the kids) for as long as Em could tolerate me carrying her. Rosco pointed out a sculpture of a cowboy holding a rifle: “It’s just like in Star Wars! Is he a bounty hunter?”

Me: “Um, no. That’s a cowboy. He uses his gun for hunting and scaring off wild animals. Bounty hunters are people who get paid to…um…find people.”

Then there was a picture with an Indian (that’s Native American if you haven’t made that distinction yet) with a rifle. Rosco: “What about him? Is he a bounty?”

Me: “No. That’s an Indian.”

Rosco: “What’s an Indian?”

I gave him a brief lecture about the people who lived in Colorado long ago before we got here. I pointed out how they dressed differently from the cowboys and how they wore their hair. I explained that there aren’t many of them around anymore.

He still thinks they’re bounties and that they’re imaginary figures.

I’m…I’m just.

Hell.

One of my grandmothers was Indian so I’m somewhat wary about the topic (and matters of ethnicity in general since I refuse to just pick one), but to be honest I never thought I would ever resort to explaining historical concepts under the purview of the George Lucas universe.

Oof. This isn’t something they prepare you for in child-rearing books. There’s not a section called “How to explain American history to your child in a manner that won’t cause him hysterics.” Holy hell, I’d make an AWFUL homeschooling parent. The kids would grow up to be all cynical and…hmm.

At five he’s starting to notice that he doesn’t look like everyone else around him. We haven’t had many discussions about why people look the way they do because he generally isn’t curious about it. That being said, there’s one part of him that he now realizes is different than most of the folks he encounters.

His hair.

Seriously, have you seen it? Once he’s slept on it a couple of nights it’s huge and generally fabulous. Depending on how far removed from his last bath he is it’s either unstructured and wild or corkscrew springy. Rosco could take it or leave it.

Before we left Durham and when Rosco was still in preschool there was a little boy in his class who had a closely-cropped afro. Rosco told me one day that he wanted hair like that little boy. I asked him why and he really couldn’t articulate a reason.

Fast-forward a few months, and last weekend we were hanging out with a few of Scott’s coworkers and their kids. Before we left the apartment Scott told Rosco that we were taking him to play with some other children. Rosco said “I hope the other kids have hair like me.”

I told him “Rosco–NO ONE has hair like you.”

Mild exaggeration, I’m sure, but y’all know I don’t like beating around the bush. More often than not when he presses me I start regaling him with way-too-scientific explanations which usually causes him to drop the subject (which is my goal).

He was at it again last night after his shower. He wanted to know why his hair couldn’t be more like Scott’s. I told him, “Look, be happy with what you have. It keeps your head warm and keeps your scalp from getting sunburned. Daddy’s scalp gets sunburned sometimes. It’s not cute.”

He hasn’t straight out asked us to change anything about his hair yet, but I fear he will. I’d hate to shear it all off. About 40% of his personality is in his hair.

We’re living in a sea of dead trees right now. Between the huge piles of flattened boxes and packing paper it’s a bit tough to get around downstairs at the moment. I’ve got someone coming today to get some of the boxes, but the packing paper just seems to be multiplying like tribbles. So far I’ve made four trips to the recycling center to drop off trunkloads of paper.

I never want to move again. I don’t care if it’s just down the street. This process is grueling and makes me feel stabby. What y’all probably don’t know about this household is that most of the time it’s just me and the kids. Scott works in advertising so he doesn’t get to clock out at five and come home. He works until projects are done or clients are satisfied. During the week he’s rarely home before seven. He works a lot on weekends, too. We’re in our tenth year of marriage so I’m used to it and don’t even try setting routines here. It’s not something I regularly complain about, but during huge upheavals like this it sucks not having help at home to make it easier for me to get dinner on the table or wrangle kids during the witching hour. I know things will be 1,000 percent better once all these boxes are gone.

Anyway, I’ve got a little video tour of the house for you. Warning: I sound snippy at the end. I was overstressed because I’d been trying to prevent Em from throwing herself down the stairs all morning and Rosco’s boredom was causing him to be a bit hyper.

The house seems large, and I suppose it is, but it’s actually boomerang or L-shaped to conserve space on this corner lot. This neighborhood has some interesting planning. I’ll tell you more about that when I’m feeling less like Cruella de Vil. ‘Til then, a video.