Last post of the year. Maybe.

So this year has been rough in a different way from 2016. 2016 was like a marathon of fear and anxiety, followed up with a little hope at the very end.

2017 was a decent year with lots of changes, and then a few months of constant sucker punches in the gut at the tail end, just when we’d been fooled into thinking that life was going to calm down. Oh, life. You are just hilarious.

My father-in-law is still in the hospital, making progress but still incredibly ill, my mom is struggling with the changes her cancer has brought since finding out it traveled to her lungs and she’d need long-term chemo, and my husband and I are reaching a point where we are just too tired to do anything.

Or maybe it’s just me. I don’t know.

At any rate, all I want for 2018 is to find some happy. My family, his family, and us. Happy for all of us.

Not feeling terribly optimistic about it, but at least I don’t have to work this weekend. And there will be pie for dessert tomorrow. So, yeah. Happy end of 2017, everybody.

Okay, so let’s check our list of the crap that’s gone down this year, shall we?

Kidnapping scare? Check!
Amputation? Check!
Multiple hospitalizations? Check!
Nervous breakdowns (multiple)? Check, check, aaaaaaannnnnddddd check!
Sick dogs? Check!
Moving? Check!
House buying? Check!
Snake in the bathroom? Check!
Cleaning up massive amounts of mouse poop? Check!
Weight gain? Check!
Bad contractor doing a crap job? CHECK!

...but also...

Mom and Dad still here? So grateful for this check!
Beautiful house? Check, check, check, check, check!
Cute baby pterodactyl (or cockatiel, if that feels better)? Check!
Sunsets like crazy? You know it!
New marriages and babies? Yup, that too!

....so....

Maybe 2017 was a little better than 2016. Maybe 2018 will be even better. I don’t know. But, geez, I’m tired. Time for a break.

Does anyone else over-prepare for everything? Or is it just me?

I feel like half of my life is spent preparing for things that would probably never happen. But if I don’t do that, what if it does happen? Then what?

What makes me wonder about this? I just realized that I have a pre-pedicure protocol, and I found that NO ONE ELSE DOES THIS. Does that make me crazy? I think maybe yes, but on the rare occasions my mom hired a cleaner when we were kids, we always had to clean the house for the cleaner. So maybe it’s her fault. Yeah. Going with that.

So I am gearing up for a pedicure this Friday, and I’m pretty excited, but I was too embarrassed for the lady to see the fifty inches of callous on my feet, so about three weeks ago I started prepping my feet. Once a week, I’d soak them for ten minutes, then go to town with a foot filey thing and then put on a ton of lotion and socks. So I’ve done this about four times now, and I feel like maybe they look okay enough that I won’t have to wear a bag over my head so the lady won’t know it’s me (I’ve gone to the same lady the last few times, so she kind of knows who I am).

Or maybe they’re still bad. I don’t know. Are they? Yikes...I am nuts.

Also, what if they’re really gross and she hates painting my toenails and I just haven’t noticed because they’re my own feet so they look normal to me?

What if she mocks my extremely long second toe?

What if I forget a little patch of leg hair when I’m preparing?

What if they change their lotion and she puts some on me and I have an allergic reaction?

What if I pick a color of polish that looks dumb?

See? These are the things I think about before my relaxing pedicure. Not so relaxing.

At least I’ll know I tried. That should make it okay.

Or not. Because, you know, I’m me.

Well, Thanksgiving’s done, so that’s good. It’s been a crazy month, as usual, culminating in me learning a bit of wisdom I thought I’d share with all of you:

DON’T HIRE PEOPLE BASED UPON FACEBOOK INFO.

Just don’t. It’s not great.

How do I know this? Well, I just did, and it turned out....well...okay. Not great, but not completely horrible.

We have these Saltillo-looking concrete tiles throughout the house, and they are stained and dirty as all heck. So we’ve been waiting to strip and re-seal them, but the chemicals are too caustic with my asthma for me to do it, it’s too much work for just my husband, and the quotes we got we astronomical when we first moved in here. So we thought it was just a project for the future.

I mean, I’ve scrubbed and scrubbed, but all the crap was sealed in by some idiot before, who didn’t bother to actually clean or strip the floor before putting the sealant on, so yeah. Nothing we can do.

Last week, this guy posted all these pretty pictures of his tile/stone/brick restoration work, so I thought I’d message him to get a quote. He came out and gave us one, and it was pretty reasonable, so I told him we’d get in touch in the spring, as it was still enough money that we needed to save up a bit. Well, he messaged us back and said he didn’t have a job this weekend, and he’d rather work, so he’d give us a substantial discount if we wanted to go ahead and do it now (it ended up being a 25% discount, which is huge). So we said okay.

He originally thought it would take three days, then said two, then said maybe even one.

Yeah, nope. It took all of three and would’ve taken longer had my husband not helped him.

Late. Every. Time. Also, tried to seal up the floor on the first day without waiting for the stripper to work so the entire floor looked like it had a sunburn and was peeling. Also, obviously didn’t understand how stripper works, so my husband had to explain that a grinder wasn’t going to do it; he needed to scrape off the junk. Also, didn’t have a scraper, so he used ours. And my husband had to go point out all the bubbling because the guy was just going to seal it in.

Also, kept needing money to buy more stripper and also pay his rent. Finally had to say no more until he was done.

Yesterday, we were finally finished and he just left after getting the money, leaving equipment in my garage and a sealed floor that does look better in some areas, but definitely looks worse in places. All in all, could’ve skipped it entirely and not spent the money.

Oh, well. I will publicly take the blame for this one.

And now you can all learn this lesson without having to pay for it, the way I just did. Just, don’t do it. Go by word of mouth or the Better Business Bureau, or a friend of your cousin’s or whatever. But not the Facebook. Ugh.

Oh, man. It is so morningy this morning.

I feel like Tuesday is way worse than Monday. There’s still no end in sight, and you’re not even halfway done,  but you’re already tired from the hell that was Monday.

At least there’s coffee. The sunrise is also quite nice this morning, but since my eyes are still blurry and runny (it takes a good three hours before I stop yawning and making them water profusely) I can’t really see it. Well, not as clearly as I’d like to.

Also, why are there always so many tasks? I swear I got a huge list of stuff done yesterday, and it’s already time to do some more? Crap. When does it end?

Well, alright, I know when it ends. It ends when I go back to bed. For approximately eight hours.

And then it starts again.

Blergh. I need a nap, already.

Is it just me, or is hair really complicated? I’m trying to grow mine out, just to see if I can do it, and I’ve reached that lovely stage where I either have a ginormous wad of hair in my eyes, or I need to learn how to use barrettes without crying/poking my head and bleeding everywhere.

Really. It’s those two options or hit the clippers and shave this bad boy off.

This morning, I was all ambitious. I was going to conquer the crap out of my bangs. I washed and conditioned, put in my product, and I was ready to go.

Except that it was 4:45 am and I had less than ten minutes unless I wanted to forego pants, which I might be okay with, but I think my coworkers might feel a smidge weird about.

So I pulled it to the side, vetoed that because of the strong resemblance to that weird kid in my third grade class who smelled like cheese and always ate tuna fish for lunch, tried pulling it back and then pushing it forward, which just made me look ridiculous, and then tried a couple of other things which I can’t even describe in words, so I’ll just put in a link to an equally bad picture here:

http://weirdrussia.com/2015/01/21/bangs-mens-choice-of-hairstyle-in-russia/

Only click if you feel brave. There’s some bangs on there you can’t unsee.

At any rate, yeah, it didn’t go well. Used a bobby pin, tucked my bangs to the side, looked like a manlier version of Jonathan from ‘Who’s the Boss?’ all day.

Maybe I’ll get it tomorrow. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ll give up. We’ll see.

Well, that was an uneventful Halloween. Thank goodness.

I always feel like I should put some effort into it, like handing out candy or dressing up, but the years I dress up, no one notices (like when I was Sheldon from Big Bang and pretty much just looked like myself with a severe hairstyle), or no one rings the doorbell (the year we bought a big bag of premium candy and then proceeded to eat it all ourselves...go us).

So, yeah, not really into it.

I did notice, however, that our new neighborhood is really quiet Halloween night, so that’s good. I wonder if it’s safe to put out pumpkins. I’m guessing it is but I didn’t want to take a chance what with those damn kids out joyriding and smashing things. Hooligans.

Stay off my lawn, youths.

Anyway, I hope everybody had fun, no matter what you did, and stayed safe and didn’t have to clean up pumpkin guts this morning. That’s the worst.

Also, make sure to tell your kids that you have to go through their candy before they eat it, and get you some of those “suspicious”candies. You know, the good ones. Better safe than sorry.

Ugh. My mom has to start chemo again next week, and I feel so awful for my parents. It’s just going to be another reminder of the cancer, even though it seems like this time the side effects will be much milder than the last round of chemo.

And I’m not there to help.

Yes, this is the part of moving that I was dreading. Not being up there when it would be handy for another person to be around to help with stuff. Blergh.

At any rate, we’ll make it work, but I wish it were different. I wish they could’ve had a nice, easy retirement with traveling and stuff. But, no, their retirement thus far has been filled with pills and doctors and yuck. I wish I could fix it.

I can’t. This is dumb.

I was watching Ray Bradbury Theater last night, and I saw a really great episode about an old storyteller in a futuristic setting. I think I’ve seen it before, but I guess I wasn’t paying attention the first time, because what the old man said really made a lot of sense last night, so I thought I’d share it here.

The gist of it was this: Be mediocre.

I know, doesn’t sound super inspiring. But I think a lot of our problems stem from not feeling like we’re good enough and wanting to be super perfect at everything. And we’re just not, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do things.

When I was little, I refused to do anything I couldn’t do really well the very first time I tried it. I think there are a lot of things I would’ve tried if I hadn’t been too scared that I would fail. So now that I’m older, I’ve missed out, and that sucks. But I’m going to change that, or at least attempt a change.

So that’s kind of what I’m trying to impart here. Try. Fail. Be mediocre. Just do things.

I think that’s pretty cool. Go, Ray Bradbury Theater, go.

Yes, the High Holy Days are upon us. I made it through Rosh Hashanah, and now it's Yom Kippur time. If you haven't been to one of these services, it's a really cool experience. I was told it was similar to the Christian Church's Easter or Christmas services, but it's not at all like those, at least in my experience. So I will share a little so you can get the feel of services in the temple. Or, at least, the temple where I sing.

Men wear suits. Real, three-piece, long ties, and nice shoes. I mean, NICE. They shine them and everything. Now, this may not be weird in some churches, but I'm from New Mexico, so the only time I'm used to seeing men in suits is at weddings and funerals. Oh, and in court. Sometimes. At least, the lawyers. But, yeah, really really formal.

The ladies wear real couture things. Suits and formal dresses and also sequins and floral things and whatnot, along with a ton of makeup. So much makeup. Like stage makeup almost, and these services are hours and hours long, so that's a real commitment. And the hair is sprayed to perfection with some kind of industrial strength business. There is no moving of the hair.

Did I mention jewelry? Men and ladies, they've all got a lot. Like, big big rings and necklaces that must weigh a billion pounds. Again, so much discomfort for such a long service. They are champs.

Now, this being Santa Fe, there are those that go for the loose flowy linen clothing, much as I myself prefer to wear, but they are definitely in the minority. They also put the little kids in suits and stuff, and the teenage girls typically wear heels that are way too high for them and hobble to their seats. It's awesome.

My favorite part, though, is the service. It's the most honest service I've ever seen. People screw up, laugh about it, get all emotional and don't apologize, and the temple openly tells them they need to contribute money and help other people. It's so good. Just putting it all out there and not being at all self-conscious.

Love. It.

Best services ever. I'd almost go even if I wasn't singing for them. Almost. But it's SO LONG. Like, sometimes I feel like I want to say my water just broke and I have to rush to the hospital because I just want to get the heck out of there.

But I don't. Because it's overall the most entertaining and also meaningful service of all time. So, so good. I highly recommend it.

And happy new year, everybody! Go be nice!

So I had a fifteen minute long conversation with a friend yesterday about energy, and it didn't seem at all weird or creepy, just normal.

So I realized that the Santa Fe has, in effect, taken over my mind.

It's all good,  but just in case you're wondering, here is a list of things I do now because, well, Santa Fe.

First, I actually use the reusable bag collection in my trunk. They're not just for pretty anymore.

Secondly, I have started getting rid of all clothing that isn't loose, flowy, and linen. Ain't nobody got time for uncomfortable pants.

Third, my turquoise collection is growing at a rate that frightens me.

Fourth, I have started checking the label on my cereal box for poisonous chemicals (especially sodium triphosphate), and I haven't eaten a Lucky Charm in weeks. I also have a fridge drawer full of organic apples and grapes, and I've started cleaning everything with vinegar and baking soda.

And finally, (this is the biggest one), I have had two, count them, TWO microbrewery beers in the last week. TWO. 

So, yep, it's all Santa Fe up in here. Oh, and I baked granola yesterday. GRANOLA. It's gonna get real hippie up in here, real quick (minus the b.o, and patchouli). Woohoo!

If you and I happen to be friends on Facebook, you may have noticed that I am a little tiny bit obsessed with my cockatiel, Lulu.

No, seriously. I am. It's okay.

She is pretty darn awesome. And now it's even better because she has a play gym and she's starting to get less scared of it. (She's a bird. Everything scares her at first, and then she gets used to it and decides it's okay. Well, everything except me. She knew I was her flock immediately, the first second we met.)

Anyway, I've been testing out new TV shows to see what she likes, partially because it's so random I can never guess, and partly because she's started crowing at things when she likes them and it's super cute. So far, I know for sure that she loves Absolutely Fabulous and Scooby-Doo, but yesterday we discovered that Fantasia (the original one, not that Fantasia 2000 ridiculousness) is her all-time favorite. And she prefers Bach to Tchaikovsky.

So proud. So. Proud.

I know, I know, but she's a little piece of happy in my neurotic mess. I can't help it.

So stinking cute.

For some reason, it's getting harder and harder to write about anything funny. Not because things aren't funny, because, trust me, the poop jokes are always a-flyin' around here.

I just can't stop thinking about all the not funniness right now.

So much fighting and so many people who are treated so badly, and so many people who seem to care so little for their fellow humans and their rights, as long as they aren't the ones being oppressed, harassed, or violated in some way.

So many people who only care for money and find no value in feeding the spirit with beauty for nature or art or music or spending time with other people or animals.

So many people who want to work but can't; or, conversely, who have to work all the time, but never get ahead so they can have time to rest.

And so many people who are sick and struggling just to feel okay.

Yeah, it's been one of those weeks.

So maybe I'll try to be a little nicer and a little softer, so I can feel sad for others and not cause them pain. Maybe do a little extra for my neighbors, just because that extra feeds my heart, not because I have to. Not to be an ultra pious goody-goody, but just because it is so rough out there. Just, so rough and I know I'm not the only one who had my entire extra large rear end handed to me this week.

We are all way too tired.

So I've decided that the serenity prayer (you know, the one they use for 12-step programs) is going to be my new mantra. Along with the phrase, "It's none of my business."

I think maybe that's the key to not being worried all of the time.

At any rate, there are so many things out there that are out of my control, I might as well just keep concentrating on the ones that I can actually do something about. Or, at least, trying to concentrate on them.

I'm a fixer. I want to make everybody happy and problem-free.

It's not going well.

I found this quote on the Wikipedias by an 11th century philosopher, Solomon ibn Gabirol, and I really like it. He said, "At the head of all understanding...is realizing what is and what cannot be, and the consoling of what is not in our power to change."

I know, I know. Wikipedia is not a real source. This isn't a real source either, so deal.

At any rate, this is my new thing. For today, at least, because most things really are none of my business, and I need to keep reminding myself that that's okay. At least, on paper. I can do this. Really.

Ugh. Got bad news yesterday, and now Mom's in for more treatment.

Just ugh.

I wonder if they're ever going to come with a cure for this thing. Like a whole body zap that you step into and it kills all of the bad cells and leaves the good ones intact, and then you just go through a human car wash type thingy and it takes all the dead cells out and you're all shiny and have that new car smell.

Except with people.

Yeah, I probably missed my calling as a scientist. That sounds totally feasible, right?

Oh, well.

Ugh.

It's been a while since I posted about cancer, so I figured it was time. Here goes.

Cancer is dumb.

There you go.

Seriously, I mean it. It's dumb. And once it's there, the person who has it has to live with the fact that it may come back at any time, so there's always a shadow hanging over everybody. And when you have multiple people in one family with it, especially when it's different kinds with different treatments, it's even scarier because you know what the treatments they haven't had do, and you wonder if they're going to have to do that next. Or who it will hit next.

Ugh.

So every time there's a checkup, it's scary. And every time somebody gets a cold, it's scary. When they feel more tired than usual or get what used to be anormal kind of illness, it's scary. It's just scary all the time.

Also, you remember all life events as either before the cancer or after the cancer, and the person becomes defined as the person with X kind of cancer, which is super awful.

So, cancer is dumb and I hate it.

A lot.

The end.

The following is a post about bodily functions. If you are easily offended by fart talk, you might want to skip reading this one.

I am working by myself in the office, and it smells like farts in here.

I am not farting.

Now, granted, I have been known to let one loose on occasion, but today I just haven't felt like it was necessary. Yet.

Every few minutes, though, I get a distinct whiff of pretty strong fart smell, and it's making me a little queasy because it's pretty burly. Like, cabbage, old socks and cow poop mixed into a nose-burning aroma that keeps getting sprayed in here.

BUT IT'S JUST ME TODAY.

Is there a fart ghost? Am I being haunted? If so, that's messed up. Worst kind of ghost I've ever imagined. 

Also, if it's fart smell from someone working in the other part of the office, they should patent that and use it as some kind of non-deadly (as far as I know) chemical weapon to subdue people who need to be, you know, subdued.

If it was me, I'd calm right down if I was threatened with this kind of nasal assault. It would really only take one time, and then I would totally behave forever.

I can't figure this out. How is it getting in here? Everyone else is so far away. Seriously.

There is one person whom I suspect is the culprit, but I can't figure out how she's spreading that holiday cheer up in my neighborhood. She hasn't even been near the door to my office. I really can't fathom her farts (which are truly impressive both in smell and longevity) traveling the amount of distance necessary to reek up the entire joint this way. 

I guess I'll never know.

For the love of Mike, guys, make it stop. My nose is extremely offended. Unsafe work environment. For reals.

I have to do a shoutout to my parents. After the events of the last 39 years, I feel like a blog post is the least I can do.

My parents did not want two kids, but I surprised them anyway, and they've always made me feel like an integral part of the Riedel experience, even though I was obviously deposited into my mother's baby growing area by aliens who have spent the last few decades guffawing at our family photos because, yeah.

I was the messiest child an OCD mother could've imagined, always crafting it up and such, and never really getting my dishes into the sink. They let me live, and never gave me crap because I had to create. They just tried to contain the tornado of Pegasus drawings and woodcrafts and scarves.

Ha ha ha. There's no containing that. Good try, though.

When it became apparent that I needed to have a career in the arts, and would therefore live on their couch forever, they never said an unencouraging word. They backed me up in every way, even when I chose the section of the arts that is the worst choice a bookwormy introvert could make. They got me trained up for my weird singing choice and always say super nice stuff. My dad even hooks me up sometimes with photos of performances in which I look decent. I know. It's amazing.

My parents are going through so much sicky barftasticness right now, and they remain kind, encouraging, and supportive. My mom even kept her sobbing down to five minutes when we broke the news about moving away so we could have a try at our dream house.

Really. Only the one time for five minutes and then she kept it together. Even when we moved into her house, made a nuisance of ourselves for three weeks, and then left again.

Everywhere I go, if they know my parents in the place, I hear about how special they are. And not just by people who want to kiss my butt because I'm fancy now. Every. Body. It's crazy.

But they are. And they are accepting and love all of our friends and never judge us, even when we do dumb things. Let's face facts: That happens A LOT.

(Just to clarify, that doesn't mean they don't give us crap...that is their right and privilege, and I would never want to take that away from them...that's the price you pay, man.)

So, mom and dad, who don't read this blog anyway so I can say what I want, thank you. Thank you for letting me be myself, even when myself is a mess. I love you right back.

As of today, we've been in our new house a month! We are really loving it, but there are some things to get used to.

First of all, the blinds in the bedroom are not blackout blinds. That means that by 6:30, the bedroom is fully light. Ugh. Sometimes on weekends, I like to sleep until 7:30. We are going to need to get some new window coverings. I need that extra hour.

Secondly, the tile floor has these weird random little black spots on it. They drive me crazy because I think, "MOUSE POOP!!!" and then I run and get all of my cleaning gear (mask, Lysol, gloves, hazard suit, you know, all the stuff normal people put on to clean up one tiny piece of excrement), and then I realize it's a spot on the floor. But, I guess, better safe than sorry.

The weirdest thing of all is the dark. We are from a tiny town. Tiny. No night life at all, and our street didn't have a light on it or anything, so I'm used to it getting pretty dark at night. Nothing like here, though. Last night I drove home from a late rehearsal, and I was honestly nervous that I would pull into the wrong driveway. It gets a level of dark here that is a little freaky. Definitely opens up possibilities for an alien invasion, I tell you.

Otherwise, it's been great. Santa Fe is an amazing town and we love being a little more out in the "country" even though we're closer to the city. The extra land is totally worth the drive every day. Except at 4:45 am. Then I hate it a little.

But only until I've had my coffee. Then it's good again.

Okay, story time.

So we bought this beautiful house that was in our price range because it's never been updated. Like, 1990s oak cabinets and pink and purple tile on the kitchen wall and the floors are Saltillo-looking tile that is cracked and needs to be stripped and sealed.

But, really, that's all cosmetic. Plus, I don't want to pay for somebody's home improvement projects. I'd rather wait and pick good quality stuff myself and then have exactly what we like. At any rate, all of the remodeling we saw around here didn't go with the style of the houses so it looked weird and crappy.

At any rate, we bought a solid house that needs a little work. So that's what we were expecting.

Then we closed and got in here. Wowzers.

Nothing major, still, but, holy crap, the mice had a party. Like, a Taco Bell and beer party and everyone missed the toilet. 

I know. Gross. But there was SO MUCH POOP.

We were off for a week to clean, but before that I came down for a couple of afternoons to just get started, and I'm really glad I did. When they stopped renting the house and decided to sell, no one was in here for a good long time. And they had some places where the mice could get in, so they just came on in and made themselves at home for what appeared to be a while.

A long while. So much poop. So. Much.

Have I mentioned poop?

And the pee. I think the pee is worse because at least you can see all of the poop and get rid of it, but the pee is in places you can't see or get to, and the smell doesn't go away once it dries out. 

So, anyway, once they were ready to start showing, they had a pest company come in and seal up the house, so no more mice were coming in, but they didn't clean up the mess. Not at all. So that's what I was contending with.

I know, we live in the country, sort of, dirt road and all. There will be mice. That's fine, as long as they stay off my roof and out of my house. Because they pee on the roof, too, and that also stinks.

Seriously. I cleaned up mouse pee for a solid week. So much P.U. and there were always new areas popping up that I didn't find before. And if you know me, you know that I can't handle smells. If the world smelled like bleach, my job would be done.

I feel like we've finally gotten the pee situation under control, but I still go through the house on alert, just in case I missed something. It was EVERYWHERE. The kitchen alone took a solid three days of heavy scrubbing, and I felt like my arms would fall off before I was done.

Still worth it, though. I love this house so much. Look at this view! AAAAHHHH!!! Feels like we've finally found our way home.

I'm back.

Yep, try to stay calm. I will, too.

Basically, my old iPad died and I forgot how to log in and I didn't want to reset my password because I knew it was a really good one (obviously, as I couldn't remember it for like six weeks). So then I all of a sudden just remembered and decided to go for it.

Everything has changed since the last time I logged on, but whoa. It's all pretty darn good.

Not to say it was easy.

The month from the middle of June to the middle of July was probably the hottest, sweatiest, grossest month of my life. To start with, it was like a billion degrees. A billion. And after we moved out of our beautiful little house into my parents' house, the lovely air conditioned paradise we had created was just gone.

My parents, who are awesome and let us stay with them a few weeks while we closed on our houses and got the new one cleaned (that is a whole post in itself....for reals....barftastic), do not like the arctic atmosphere that we prefer. Plus, we were doing a lot of hauling, lifting, moving, cleaning, you know, all that delightful stuff to do during a massively hot summer.

This is all to say that there was a lot of sweat and bad hair. I also got pimples, which is weird, and gained a few more pounds because I just gave up on working out and eating vegetables. Lovely plan, me.

Nevertheless, we kept going and after a couple of weeks of cleaning, scrubbing, unpacking, and dealing with contractors (who were fantastic, which is a miracle in itself), we are now living in our dream house and pretty excited to be here.

Really. No sarcasm. It's unbelievable that we get to be here.

Next time, though, stories. Gross, gross stories.

Oh my goodness gracious.

The last couple of weeks have been super rough. The move is moving right along, boxes are packed and ready to go, our room at my parents' house is almost ready, and the concert I've been preparing for is now over, and it went very well.

But last week, our birdy girl got sick, and I absolutely lost my mind.

Quite seriously. It was awful. I uncovered her cage one morning to find her fluffed up in the corner and shutting her eyes. For those who aren't familiar with birds, that's really unusual behavior. She also barfed up seed on Andrew. That was pretty weird, too.

We had an anxious day and night, then my Dad and I took her to the vet the next morning. 

It's terrible how few vets see small non-mammals. Even the emergency vet couldn't see her. So we had to wait, which ended up being okay, because the vet we took her to was fantastic.

It turns out that the longer days, combined with extra cuddling time (which I thought would help her be less stressed during the move) were stimulating her to lay eggs. That, combined with the stress of moving furniture and all, made for a very hormonal, stressed out, and wanting to mate kiddo.

Yes, the bird wanted to start a family. With me.

So I went home, did some research, and discovered all the things I've been doing wrong. Tickling her birdie armpits? Wrong. Feeding a seed diet? Wrong. And most wrong of all was my bobbing my head at her when she bobbed her head at me. That's basically bird speak for, "Hey baby. Let's make some eggs."

Yeeeeaaaahhhhhh. 

So I stopped all that, we changed her diet, and we are keeping her room a little warmer and giving her more dark time. That's it. And she's back to her old self. Well, except that the petting is at a minimum because it's baby-making season and we're being careful, so sometimes we have some hurt feelings. Otherwise, it's going great.

Thank God. It was just too much there, for a bit.

Now back to stressing about the move. Woohoo!

Houses.

I love to look at other people's houses. I think every house has a personality and it's really interesting to see what other people do with the space they inhabit. 

So I watch house buying, decorating, and renovating shows every chance I get.

This time around, though, we were the buyers, and we were looking. So, much less fun and much more stress. Although we did find the house we are buying, which I absolutely love, we found some other stuff, too.

Not good stuff. It was kind of gross.

Our very first house tour was of a place I'd been eyeing on Trulia for ages. Even before we'd decided on the move. It just looked so neat...out in the middle of nowhere with a gorgeous view, solar power (it's free energy FROM THE SUN...don't even try to talk me out of that one, because I love it), and kind of weird and quirky. Well, we drove down this beautiful road with all these ranches and stuff, and I was feeling very excited and then we got to a dirt road that was incredibly bumpy. And we drove. And drove. And drove. For like half an hour. On this horrible road. And then we pulled up to the house and there were some people who looked a teensy bit high sitting on the porch.

Yep. The owners were there. And they'd just finished smoking a whole lot of stuff in the house.

Quick walk-through. Whoever took the online pictures for this one should've won an award, because it was nasty and looked really bad in person. Also, the smell. So much smoke (cigarette and other kinds, too). Also, no one had remembered to flush the toilet after using it, so there was that.

We were gone in five minutes, but we got to enjoy the aromas which clung to our hair and clothes for hours. Sweet!

We drove back into civilization, to the next house. This one looked pretty nice from the outside, but again, the owners were there, so it was awkward. Also, cats.

Did I mention cats? Oh, yeah. SO MANY CATS.

I kid you not, there was a crate full of a mama cat and her brand new babies in one room, and two really old cats in another room who were territorial and hissed at us when we tried to go in, and the lady said they were, "watching their show."

Yeeeeeaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh.

And the owners had set up the living room as an office/bar. Great idea. I'd drink and do paperwork all day long, too, if I could. With cats, of course.

Naturally.

Then we saw the house we were going to buy, except there was some kind of issue with the water, and then we went out another time and saw a beautiful tiny house that was very expensive and very lovely, but laid out weird, and another house that was so unloved and sad, but could've been gorgeous...with about ten years and a couple hundred thousand bucks.

Then, we saw our house. I swear, I almost cried because at that point I had given up. I'm not a real intrepid house hunter, after all. I just like to watch that stuff from the comfort of my living room. At any rate, I am so glad we took a shot at it, because the thought of having to look at any more houses makes me want to barf.

And we still have a month to go before we can move into our house. Blergh. Who decided moving was a good idea? Geez. 

Oh, yeah. That was us.

My last post got eaten by my iPad. Maybe that's the universe's way of telling me it sucked.

It kind of did suck, though. So that's alright.

At any rate, we just finished appraisals and inspections on both house and are at the stage where you just wait for reports and then either hear what the buyers want or, as the buyers, decide what you want.

Ugh. Waiting.

So I am just planning out my next packing spree. I've gotten four rooms, two closets, my dresser and my bathroom all packed, so the kitchen will be next. Unfortunately, we're out of boxes, so I'm waiting on that, too.

More waiting. 

It's good for my patience, but not so good for my nerves.

I am getting pimples and I swear my white hairs have tripled in the last month. It's pretty sweet.

I will just keep reminding myself that we chose to do this and once it's over, it'll be great.

It will, me.

I swear.

For reals.

Adventures in moving. Well, not that adventurous, but holy crap it's never been this tricky before.

We have lived here for around 8 years, and it's time to move on. We want to try something a little less suburban, a little closer to performing/music opportunities for me, and a little larger so we have some room for guests and a music room.

That's it. 

I have been asked all sorts of questions about why, so here's my blanket answer, which applies to all of them: No, we're not getting a divorce, no, we're not adopting several children from an impoverished country, no, we don't need to get away from our family (we will definitely be seeing more of them than we do now), no, we're not adopting all the puppies in the pound and letting them go free on an acre of land (no one actually asked that, I just wish we could), and, finally, no, we aren't going to go live on some weird commune thingy in the middle of nowhere, although one of the houses we looked at was pretty much one of those, I'm almost positive.

Phew. That's over. 

Why so many questions about why? Is moving really that big of a deal? Can't people just want to try something new and/or different? Geeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeezzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

(Also, ladies, no babies up in here. No matter how high your eyebrows get when you ask me that question, the answer will remain the same. I love babies, bring me your babies to kiss, I'll sit on the floor and play princess or trucks with your kid for hours, but I don't need my own. Too much chaos to add to my chaos. For reals.)

Okay, I get it. I'm usually resistant to change. But seriously, this is a good thing. I swear. This is a change for the better for us. And we're really happy about it, too. Stressed, exhausted, and worried, but happy. Underneath the angst. JUST BE HAPPY FOR US AND DEAL.

Wow, I failed at blogging in April. But now it's May, so I can do a quick recap for everybody, in case you're wondering what April was like in my neck of the woods:

CHAOS.

Ha ha ha. Yes, April has always been a tumultuous month for me, for some odd reason, and this year was no exception. I started the month off with a horrible chest cold that turned into three weeks of coughing. I'm still having to sleep with a cough drop, because I still have a cough or two here and there. Yeah. Not great for a singer.

The other big change has been our new cockatiel, Lulu. This is a wonderful change, though. This girl is the sweetest, cuddliest, most lovable bundle of feathers you've ever seen. I can't believe we've made it through this much of life without this ray of sunshine, but there you go. She just makes our hearts happy in ways we never expected. Awesome.

And, finally, the big news is that we're moving.

I'll let that sink in.

Yes, we are choosing to leave this house that we put all our blood and guts into and move a town away. The market is good, there is way more work there for me, and it just seemed like the right time. Thought about this one pretty hard.

So for the last four days we've been cleaning and showing and cleaning and showing and cleaning and showing. I hope we get an offer on our house soon, because it is exhausting. Not to mention all of the looking and looking and looking for a house where we can live, which is hard because the market there moves pretty darn quick, too.

So yep.

That's our April.

Bring it, May.

This past weekend, we needed to go to another town to get a spray-on liner for our truck. We stayed in a hotel all day while the truck was being worked on, and because we didn't have transportation for the day, we had breakfast in the hotel restaurant, which was actually pretty good. The point to all this? There is one, I swear.

At breakfast, we were seated by a table of teenagers who were all there on some sort of training program trip thing. Not quite sure, but that seemed to be what was going on. They were all around 16, and there was not an adult in sight.

These kids were all bragging about how they were blowing off school and activities because they were so smart it really didn't matter anyway. And how they didn't even have to try, and they could still pass through.

It was all I could do to keep myself from going over to their table and telling them to enjoy their smartness in a few years' time when they didn't get to do any sort of college or training after high school because of their bad grades and lack of effort, so their only available careers would be at fast food restaurants. And even there, since they obviously don't enjoy working, they have no potential for advancement.

Yes, kids. Laziness is just the best. And it's even more fun when you're an adult and your parents aren't paying for you to go to a weekend convention at a fancy hotel with a nice breakfast restaurant.

Which you won't be able to afford in a few years.

So enjoy that.

But I didn't say a word. I merely chuckled to my husband and kept my judgment to myself. I really wanted to throw in a, "You little turds better stay off my lawn!" but I kept it to myself.

#curmudgeonlife

The struggle is real.

Well, we did it. We actually did a thing.....we have a new family member. This kiddo, right here:

                                    

                                   

We have been missing our Bruce so much, but, as anyone who knows me will tell you, I am really good at talking myself out of things. Anything, from eating a piece of cake to buying a pair of shoes.

Seriously. It's highly irritating. Sometimes I want to slap myself. I basically decide I want to do something, and then I take some time to think about it. I make a mental pros and cons list, the cons list gets astronomical, and then I decide not to do it.

All the time.

So, although we've been emailing breeders and looking around at birds, we didn't actually plan on a baby anytime soon. And then I saw something about a small pet store in Albuquerque, and while we were down getting my husband's truck worked on, we decided to swing by.

We walked in and saw a white cockatiel in a cage with a sold sign, and I thought, "Hey, that's too bad, but he looks really pretty and well cared for..." and then I saw a little grey head.

And I was hooked.

The woman went to the back and got her out and she wasn't scared or nervous. And, as you can see from her picture, she is just beautiful. 

So, yeah, we are in love. Her name is Lulu.

It's bananas. 

Happy Monday!

Last night, I went to a rehearsal at someone's house. It was mostly people I don't know, with one or two people who are casual acquaintances. 

So, yeah, it got real awkward, real fast.

For those of you who haven't seen me in situations like this, let me explain. If I don't know you, I don't talk. Well, I guess it's more accurate to say I can't talk. It's like my voice freezes up and I just can't make it do anything. Also, I have a food issue.

Yes. Along with all the others.

I don't like eating in front of other people. I eat in front of my family, but it's really hard for me to eat in front of other people. I don't know why. I'm pretty sure it has something to do with being a fat kid, but I'm also pretty sure people can tell I eat from the way I look, so there you go. My brain is a weird, mysterious place.

Anyway, about halfway through the evening, the host turns to me and says, "Are you always like this?"

That's when I knew I'd wowed him with my sparkling conversational skills.

So I make the usual jokes about not being a real soprano inside and all that. But seriously, holy crap, how did I decide to sing in front of people? Where did I go wrong? Why do I not live in a cave somewhere, only making occasional trips into town and never, ever speaking to another person (except myself, of course, because myself and I have some scintillating convos)?

Gee whiz.

There is no moral to this story. I just think it's funny that someone came out and asked the question we all wanted to ask but were afraid to. Am I always like that? You know, socially awkward, a mass of neuroses, and completely bonkers?

Yes. Yes, I am.

So, since it's Monday and the kids are on Spring Break, and since I vowed not to teach during Spring Break ever again because no one shows up anyway, what am I doing this morning? 

Getting ready to start lessons. At the crack o'dawn.

Every year, I say I won't. And every year, they beg me for makeups because they have blown lessons off this spring and don't have school this week, so of course they'll have time if they're not going off on some crazy expensive vacation that I could never afford because their parents are gazillionaires. And I say yes, because I'm a sucker, and then I sit around and wait. And they don't show. And I call. And they ask if they can come this afternoon.

And I say yes again.

And it happens again.

And then we say screw it, and cancel anyway.

Ugh. Why, oh why, do I do this? I swear, anyone who doesn't show up today is going to feel my wrath. Of course, my wrath is the passive-aggressive kind, so it'll be more like 25 minutes of warmup and all classical songs with embarrassing words in them, like "breast," "bosom," or "tra la la."

I'll do it, too, guys. Don't test me.

Blergh. Monday.

I cannot imagine how embarrassed I would be if the Internet had been around when I was going through puberty.

Because, honestly, all these kids are running around with camera phones and posting obnoxious pictures of themselves being icky at a young age, and we all know that once this stuff is out there, it's out there for good.

Also, I feel like many of them are incapable of having real-life interactions with other people, so if something happens, and the network goes down, they are all going to have a massive freak out.

Sort of like me when I encounter change. I know, I know, we all have our things.

But for reals, I am just thankful that I destroyed most of those obnoxious film photos from the 90s. 

Mostly. Or did I? I can't remember.

Oh, well. At least my sister has a copy of my senior picture, just to remind me that I should never, ever let anyone do my hair for a photo shoot and then not double check it in a mirror and fix it. Even if the stylist gets hurt feelings.

Because whoa.

And this is my mind. Gone. Gone for good. But at least it's Friday. 

It strikes me as incredibly odd that we have all of these new scientific advances, we are learning more and more things every day, and the Internet has so much information on it that a person could literally look up a thousand topics a day and still have new items to look up for a really long time. Yet the mom jean keeps coming back into style.

Why, guys? Why?

For those of you who don't know what I'm referring to, here's a picture:

WHY? This lady is thin and pretty and would most likely look great in almost any outfit.

I just can't understand what people are thinking with these. Yes, I own a pair. I wear them when we're doing projects around the house and I have to say that, comfort-wise, these homies win. Hands down. It's almost like not wearing pants at all.

I stopped wearing them in public after my trip to Disney World a couple of years ago. I never really wore them out before that, but I figured I wouldn't see anyone there that I knew, and I wanted to be comfortable. My husband took a picture of me, and when I saw what the pants looked like, I swore to never, ever wear them out in public again.

It was pretty bad. I looked a good twenty pounds heavier and the pants were a little short, so maybe flooding was expected that day, I don't know, and the pants themselves seemed to have a mind of their own. I was in danger of them swallowing my boobs, what with the height of the pants, and my butt? Don't even ask.

No one's butt looks okay in those bad boys, and when you have a flat butt to begin with, as I do, you are in trouble.

So, again, why? Why why why? I think we can all tell it's the wrong choice, but we keep getting sucked in with false promises of comfort and attempts to be stylish in a way that doesn't involve showing off buttcrack.

Let's all agree never to do this again, okay? In public, I mean. They're so comfortable you don't want to just throw them out... 

Ugh. I can't even deal with weigh in results today.

Up two pounds.

I feel like my scale must be the problem, because it sure as heck can't be me. I did all the right things. All. Of. Them. 

Okay, I ate a cookie on Monday.

Otherwise, though, I did really well. Treadmill on high intensity, lots of water, protein shakes and salad with no cheese on it. Yeah, no cheese. I left cheese off a food item that can hold cheese.

It was the worst. I cried inside. 

Yogurt and fruit. Plain vegetables with no sauce, guys. NO SAUCE.

And what does it get me? An extra two pounds. Jerks.

Maybe I'll just pretend that each pound went to a boob. I think that's okay. Slightly bigger boobs never hurt anybody, and it doesn't affect pants size at all.

Yep. Bigger boobs. Symmetrically bigger, too, which makes my OCD ecstatic.

Good job, me.

Ugh. At least it's Friday.

So the other day, I was teaching, as usual, and the day was going pretty well, but I noticed that the kids seemed extra whiny. By the time I got to the end of the afternoon, I was sort of....well....let's say cranky, just to be nice.

Okay, no, I was pissed. They were all being uncooperative turds.

At any rate, my last student of the day that day is my problem child. She throws temper tantrums (full-on, on the floor, kicking and screaming) and she's 11. ELEVEN.

My mom would've murdered me if I would've acted this way at four. Much less eleven. Just saying.

Anyway, yeah. I wasn't having it. She wasn't having it. Five minutes in, I could tell that we were going to have a massive throw down, and I was probably going to lose because my hands are tied. Can't discipline anybody. I just have to wait out the clock.

So I asked what song she wanted to sing. She said, "Nnnngggggmmmmgggngngn."

I assume that means she wants me to pick, since I don't speak moron. So I suggest a song. She responds with a long, loud whine, and sits down on the floor.

Five minutes of whine-crying.

Not by me, FYI.

So I just ignore her. The situation does not improve, but I haven't killed her yet, so I figure I'm ahead. Then, I get a bright idea.

"Alright, get up. We're not doing this anymore, I have an assignment for you, and it's NOT OPTIONAL" I say, using my most authoritative voice, which I realize is somewhere between the tones of Buddy the Elf and Winnie the Pooh (it's really good that I don't have kids of my own, because I would fail at the discipline follow-through big time).

She stands up, but is still not thrilled with life. However, I have managed to get her off the floor, so I feel pretty good about that. I then inform her that we are going to sing her favorite song, "Who Will Buy?" from Oliver!

But with a difference...

I tell her she has to make up all new words, going along with the first line, which I tell her is now "Who Will Buy...This Wonderful Chicken?"

Yep. 

So I gave her a back story, all about a wonderful chicken who needs a home, but if the kid doesn't sell her to a nice family, she will have to go to the pound, because the kid who owns her has suddenly developed an allergy to feathers, and she is not an outdoor chicken, so this kid has got to convince someone to give her a good home.

And then, wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, the kid laughed and proceeded to make up words and have a stellar lesson. I mean, she cooperated for the next twenty odd minutes. First time EVER. And her song about the chicken was actually pretty awesome, but I did send her home with another assignment. Also involving chickens, but in a different song.

So now we are having a whole week of alternate lyric composition lessons. 

It seems silly, but it's actually really educational. It helps the kids figure out strong and weak beats and syllabic placement. It's like I'm tricking them into learning. Gasp.

And we'll see how Miss Poopypants is this week. I'm not expecting much, but that twenty minutes gave me a faint glimmer of hope.

I had a really good blog topic for today. I was all prepared, and it was so fun and I was really excited for it.

And then I had my weekly weigh-in, which ruined everything. I just can't bring myself to write about anything happy when I DIDN'T LOSE ANYTHING.

NOTHING. 

So I basically killed it this week. I had one cheat meal, which didn't even push me over my calories for the day or skew my percentages too much AND I walked extra that day, so it was hardly even a cheat.

I kept my sugar below the allowed number, my carbs below the allowed percentage, and my calories right at the allowed amount every single day. Even last weekend. 

I walked on the treadmill every day and added speed and incline and time every day.

I charted and weighed and completely went without any added sugar, even in my coffee (that was the easiest thing, and I've actually decided I like it this way, but never mind that).

And nothing happened. NOTHING.

Sigh.

But I still had my protein shake for breakfast, even though I prefer cereal, and I'm still gong to hit the treadmill later on, because I'm a sucker. And I guess I'll keep on with the no sugar and lots of vegetables thing, even though I'm not very happy about it right now.

Seriously, though, guys. For reals, now. This is lame.

Alrighty, guys. It's Lent. Time to do that whole "Second New Year's Resolution" thing, right?

Or maybe I'm the only one who thinks of it that way...

Anyway, when I was a little kid, we were Catholic, so I guess we must've given something up for Lent, but I was too little and I don't remember. Then, we became Protestant, but it was the kind of Protestant where you don't do Lent, so basically for the next twenty years or so, I was good to go.

Now, we're Lutheran. So there's Lent.

My husband doesn't do it, because it just feels weird to him (I'm guessing), but I kind of like structured times of doing something that encourages me to focus on being a better person, so I like to do it just for an excuse to push myself a little bit.

Also, there's Easter at the end and that means my Mom will make those coconut cupcakes, so I have to save up my sugar.

At any rate, it's day one and I haven't decided what I should do. There are pretty much a billion ways in which I'm not up to par. I need to practice more, I need to eat less sugar and more vegetables, I need to work out more and do more intense exercise, I need to stop buying things that I don't really need...yeah, there's even more than that. I am officially not a good person.

And vowing to be a better person for the next six and a half weeks is just too broad. I need a specific task.

I don't actually believe I have to do this for God, mind you. I don't think it really matters to an all-knowing, all-seeing being whether or not I give up cake. I'm pretty sure it's for my own benefit, and a good excuse to work on myself. Like a New Year's Resolution, but more focused and in a shorter time frame, so it's a little easier to stick to.

I think I'm going to go with meditation.

That is something I've been really wanting to do, but I haven't been good about doing it regularly, and I think some mindfulness and focus could be a healthy thing.

Also, I'm already off sugar and exercising more, so I feel like that would be a cop-out.

Okay. It's written down, on the interwebs, so I have to do it. I will meditate every day for five minutes. I can do this. It will be good for me.

Yikes.

WOW.

I mean, I knew I'd been hitting the sugar pretty hard, but yesterday kicked my butt. No refined sugar was so, so lame. 

By the end of the day, I felt cranky and edgy and forgetful. Also super headachey, but I know that's only to be expected. I looked back this morning at my food diary, and my sugar grams each day for the last month had really been climbing. I guess using all of my calories for cookies at the end of the day wasn't the best idea ever.

Ugh. Why can't sugar be the healthy food group, instead of vegetables? I mean, I like vegetables just fine, but after a rough day I don't drive home thinking, "I can't wait to slice me up some radishes!" Nope. It's all about chocolate chip cookies or ice cream.

Or Doritos, because, let's be honest here, those things are a bag of magic. But then, every day is pretty rough, so you can see that it becomes an every day type of thing, which is an issue.

At any rate, I made it through. So now I have four more days, including today, and then on Sunday I can have a delicious Shamrock Shake, if I behave. 

Ah. Shamrock Shake time. It tastes like magic. Magic and shamrocks, with a touch of leprechaun. 

In a good way. Not like leprechaun feet or anything. Just their magical green Irishyness.

Don't judge. I'm off sugar and I've lost my mind.

Since Christmas, I've noticed that I'm getting a wee bit crazy about sugar. I just really, really want it. Like, a lot. So I've decided to go ahead and go as sugar free as possible all week this week. Well, no added sugar and no sweets or bread, but still dairy and a piece of fruit if I'm good all day.

Yes, starting on a Tuesday. You can't start eating right on a holiday Monday. It's against the law.

I'm even going so far as to not have sugar in my coffee. Which is just about the hardest decision ever, besides the whole no cereal thing. 

Although it's really not that bad.

I would rather have the cream than the sugar. So there you go. Me, choosing fat since 1986.

Really. Fat is way more delicious than sugar.

But I'm pretty sure there's going to be some crying as the day goes on. Carb free Monday has gotten harder and harder every week, so I'm pretty sure I have a decent sugar addiction. I will also be extremely surprised if I don't have a massive headache by noon.

I can do this, though. I made it through the coffee and that wasn't bad at all, so maybe the rest will be good, too.

Yeaaaaaahhhhhhh. Sure. Ugh. 

But I get a special reward this weekend if I make it. What's my reward? A Shamrock Shake.

Yup. I know, I know, I know. Don't judge. They are green and delicious. And shamrocky. 

So, big surprise here, I'm not huge into hugging.

It's okay, there are a very few people that I genuinely enjoy hugging, and I typically hug them, but everyone else, especially casual acquaintances and people who smell funny, I have a weird time when it comes to the hug.

This is a difficult thing when you teach lessons to a bunch of super sweet and huggy little girls.

Now, when I was little, I had a huggy piano teacher. So I always HAD to hug her, and I hated it. She wore perfume and had cats, and I always had terribly itchy eyes and trouble breathing after having my face smooshed into her creepy boob area, but I never said anything because I was afraid to be rude, so now my studio is a no-hug zone.

Little people have rights, too, guys.

At any rate, yesterday, my huggiest little girl, who wants to hug every single week but doesn't want to ask and sometimes sneaks a quick one in before running out with her mom, stood next to me and put her arm around me and leaned her head on my shoulder and said, "Happy late Valentine's Day!"

And just stood like that for a good two minutes.

It was freaking adorable AND a hug, so the internal conflict got all real.

But I hugged her back, because the cute won out, and come on. She's a hugger. She's GOT TO HUG.

And it was okay.

But the struggle is real, guys. Hugging is rough sometimes. 

Maybe it's the weather, or maybe I'm already starting menopause (please, please, please don't let it be that), but something weird is going on right now in my neck of the woods.

I'm really hot. Like, 90% of the time. Then, I get freezing cold for like five minutes. It's been this way for several weeks so I know I'm not just getting sick.

Also, I got four pimples this week. Four. That's usually a year's worth. Seriously.

Am I going to go through puberty again? At this rate, it wouldn't surprise me, considering my family tends toward really odd health things, and I'm pretty sure there's some hillbilly way back there in my genetic past with a second puberty happening just before 40 arrives.

I am almost positive that all of my genes come from the super weird parts of my families. Both sides. Like, God went through and hand-picked all the bizarre crap and threw it into my DNA and then chuckled a little bit, because you never know how that stuff's going to turn out.

At any rate, I keep going over to the thermostat, convinced it must be 90 degrees in here, and it's usually right around 68. So, yep, it's all me.

And every time I pass a mirror, I'm starting to flinch, because zits. I mean, my skin is so dry, I can put actual oil all over it and it's not even greasy for a second. I go through tubes and tubes of lotion, and never ever get zits until now.

So what's up?

I think I'll blame El Niño for this one. Jerk.

At any rate, if I'm going to go through puberty again, my husband had better prepare himself for some serious Kleenex usage in our house, because the crying during my previous puberty experience was ridiculous. I also gained a billion pounds, dyed my hair many different, horrible colors, and pierced my ears whenever I felt like it. In addition, we will be buying the entire Cure album collection, and I will be obsessively watching 90s grunge videos all night long.

At least I have Scooby Doo on DVD, so I'm covered for cartoon watching.

Oh, crap. Does this mean my feet are going to get even bigger? Geez.

If this is a second puberty, I just don't know. I may die. It was horrible enough the first time, but I don't think I have the strength for the white face powder and red lipstick again. Ugh. We may be in trouble.

Or I may be overreacting. We'll  see.

Being a girl is hard work.

You're supposed to be pretty all the time, and wear nice stuff with pinchy undergarments, and never burp.

Oops.

So I'm trying to add a couple of the girl things I actually enjoy to my day. One is painting my nails, which, so far, is a magnificent disaster, because I wash my hands like five billion times a day and the polish only looks good for like two hours. I then spend the next day and a half picking the polish off. So I get like two good hours of polished nails, and then two days of rough-looking half-polished nail nubs, since I have to keep my nails super short for the piano.

I've also started wearing lipstick a few days a week. I was going for every day, but yeah....not happening. It's actually not too bad, and I haven't gotten chapped lips once since I started, so that's good.

And that's about it. Yay girltime! Or not. It's a lot of effort. If I make it to Valentine's Day, it'll be a miracle. And the pinchy undergarments? Nope. Not happening.

Hahahahaha and I'm never not going to burp. Never. 

Well, we're all just peachy, aren't we?

Quite seriously. Everybody is scared and mad and defensive and they have every right to feel that way. People on both sides. I'm scared, too.

HOWEVER...we have to stop attacking our fellow people. STOP. The people in positions of authority cannot stop us from being kind and considerate to the other human beings who share our space. Let's all do that. Post on Facebook if you like, peacefully protest as much as you want, read or don't read any news that you feel will give you the info you need. There are many problems, each with a multitude of possible solutions. There is no single right path, in my opinion.

BUT...be kind. Please be kind. We are not enemies. There are people out there who have a great deal of hate, but meeting that hate with more hate will not fix us. They will continue to try to divide us. Let's not let that happen.

I am not perfect, but I'm trying not to freak out. I'm trying to do things in real life that I feel will be productive, and I'm staying away from too much social media, as I feel like it sucks up time that I can use to make a change in the world, and that is what I need to do. Others may need to be more involved with their community on there right now, and that's great, too. Different strokes for different folks, yo. Just because it's not my way doesn't mean it's wrong.

Finally, although Dickens doesn't usually speak to me, I'm trying to keep Jacob Marley's quote in my mind: "Business!" cried the ghost, wringing its hands again. "Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, benevolence, were all my business." I know, not at all hilarious, but it keeps popping into my head, so I'm putting it out there.

Not trying to be self-righteous. I am a mega-turd a lot of the time, and I have many moments of crappy behavior, every day, but I'm trying. Let's all do what we can. And protect our people and ourselves.

Guys, I love you. So much.

All of the unrest in the world is leaving me with a burning question: Is brown lipstick coming back into style?

I realize this may seem vapid, but seriously, was it not bad enough the first time?

Also, we got a box set of King of Queens and it's making me remember the horribleness of the brown lipstick. Why would we repeat something like that? Why not just all buy mom jeans and, then, hairspray up and tease those bangs while we're at it? No?

THEN WHY BROWN LIPSTICK???

It doesn't flatter anyone. Nope. It's matte and cakey looking and it makes wearers look like goth's older, dumpier sister who doesn't have a date for the prom but doesn't mind because she'll be spending the evening in with her scrapbooks and ninety-seven cats, watching a Hallmark movie marathon. In a t-shirt tucked into a high-waisted pair of Z Cavariccis. 

For the love of Mike, stop. Please.

This has been a public service announcement, brought to you by a teenage girl I saw yesterday outside the grocery store.

Okay, guys. I did it. I taught my very first adult group voice class at the college, and I have to say...WHOA.

Just, WHOA. All caps.

I've been teaching privately for 17 years. I am used to it. I love it, I really do, but large groups of adults????????

Yep. WHOA.

So much eye contact and talking. And the whole time, in my head, is this little tiny voice saying, "Run! Run away! Say you have explosive diarrhea and go hide in the quiet, dark bathroom for the next hour!!"

But I didn't. I stayed. And I talked. And I think everybody had a good time, but I was so exhausted by the end, and my throat hurt, and I woke up this morning with a migraine, so I think it's definitely going to be a learning curve.

I have taught groups of kids as large as 40, and it was not this hard.

What the hell?

Maybe it's the eye contact. Or the fluorescent lighting. Or maybe I was just too nervous about it. But it was really, really difficult.

But I did it.

And I'm going to go back and do it again, because they all laughed at my jokes, and I also forgot to talk about mucus and pee. I'll save that for week two.

Oh my goodness.

Friday the 13th is upon us. What does this mean? Well, really, nothing, although I do have to say that around the dental office, Friday the 13th means that every single patient is going to come in freaked out for his or her cleaning.

Here's a tip: There's no luck involved. Just floss, and you'll be fine.

Since I am working from home today and not at the office, I don't have to deal with the general crazy. Except my crazy, but at least I know what to expect from me most of the time.

Or do I? I have never been weird about doctor appointments, performances, or any other important life things taking place on this supposedly unlucky day (which may or may not be stupid, since I am incredibly unlucky, just in general); however, I have a thing going down today that I have to say I'm a little freaked out about.

A haircut.

Not at a new place or with a new person, just my same lady who always does a great job and all...but...it's Friday the 13th. And what could be more terrifying and unlucky than a really bad haircut?

Like, what if she slips while she's shaving the little hairs off the back of my neck and shaves a big bald stripe on the back of my head and then doesn't tell me and I forget to look until I get home and then I see it and freak out, but I don't want to be a pain, so I don't call her back, but my hair is too short to hide a bald stripe so then in the middle of the night after not sleeping due to my massive anxiety about the ginormous scalp patch on the back of my head, I go a little nuts and just Britney myself except I'm kind of bad at haircuts so maybe I leave a few tufts of hair, but no one tells me because they don't want to hurt my feelings, so I walk around for weeks looking like an escapee from a creepy circus of some sort.

And these are the things I worry about.

The inner workings of my mind.

Geez.

I've been informed that my blog has gotten less hilarious as of late; in fact, that it is no longer hilarious at all and is, most assuredly, depressing. 

Well, crap.

I suppose that life has gotten that way, too, so maybe it's okay, but I do aim to please. Therefore, in 2017, I will meander back into hilarious territory so I don't have to rename this blog to reflect the depressing nature of its contents.

Also, I would like to point out a very positive thing that happened this week. I bought a six-pack of bell peppers at Costco and I've made it through four of them so far. FOUR. 

SO THERE YOU GO.

I'm just oozing with positivity. 

Or neutrality.

At any rate, shifting away from depressing. Baby steps.

Re-reading last New Year's posts, trying to be more positive about this year. 

On the upside, Mom's doing great. Working back to normal (whatever that is), getting all that nasty, albeit life-saving, chemo out of her system, and trying to plan fun stuff for the future. That's awesome.

Remodeling is done on the house, and now we just have little weekend-sized projects to accomplish whenever we can, so that's a lot less pressure.

Starting a new job next week, in addition to to all the old jobs. That'll be fun.

But, despite all of that, there are still hurdles and life is a lot less funny than it used to be. No resolutions of any kind this year, because I think I can fail enough without any extra expectations, thankyouverymuch. 

I'll work on being more optimistic.

Not today, though.

Maybe tomorrow. 

Come on, 2017. Let's try not to suck so bad, shall we?

Okay, everybody. Happy 2017 and all that. My New Year's gift to you is a list of the ten Christmas songs without which no holiday season is complete. Basically, it's not Christmas if these don't happen. Period.

10. Dominick the Donkey by Lou Monte. Because nothing says Christmas like an 

Italian Christmas donkey. https://youtu.be/hYlvfX3nwlc

9. I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day by Harry Belafonte. I just love it. https://youtu.be/B85s8JfldU0

8. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas by Judy Garland. Just in case your holidays aren't depressing enough. https://youtu.be/nH9RyySpkU8

7. Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer by Elmo and Patsy. It's the part with the pudding made of fig. Cracks me up every time. https://youtu.be/MgIwLeASnkw

6. Silver Bells by Anne Murray. I feel like this is my childhood Christmas remembering song, because I bought my Dad a Stetson soap on a rope in the drugstore while this song was playing. And he loved it, I'm sure, because Stetson. https://youtu.be/joEU172x6vE

5. Love is a Christmas Rose by Perry Como. Perry's the business. https://youtu.be/m-l83nUvMK0

4. Tiny Angels by Roger Whittaker. My mom loves her some Roger Whittaker Christmas songs, and this is the one I remember the most. https://youtu.be/xlM6DBexV0c

3. Christmas in San Francisco by Vic Damone. Weirdest song in the world, but really, nothing says Christmas like lychee nuts and barbecued pork. https://youtu.be/vA_0cvyh3oE

2. It Doesn't Have to be That Way by Jim Croce. Another vague childhood memory. Yes, I was born in the late 70s. https://youtu.be/Sxvd8NEd_C8

1. Same Old Lang Syne by Dan Fogelberg. See above. LOVE IT. https://youtu.be/cmVXYOJzAJM

So, there you go. Happy 2017.