Monday, August 3, 2015

It's time to Tumblr

If you're not aware of the Tumblr platform, I love it. It's microblogging at it's most hep. Not that hep's the end all, but I like it. I'll keep this blog, but I'm going to also update that blog, so follow me here, too, if you're game.

Not like Monopoly game. More like Killer Bunnies game.

I'll be posting more about random things, from what I ate to new things I'm cooking, so stay tuned!

Thursday, April 30, 2015

It's April! What's new

Sorry about not seeing waiting comments. I love catching up with everyone, so I'll be sure to respond.

I am thinking in June, I just might import this blog over to WordPress.

No offense, blogger (or google). We've had some good times together...

I plan to post more this summer as things wind down ever so slightly.

Oh hell. Who am I kidding? This summer's going to be a raucous romp through the funny fields.

In the meantime, I'm totally crushing on this gorgeous barn: (more after the jump)

Ever since we've moved to Boise on an acre of land, we've been pretty stoked about building a barn. An architect is drawing up plans now. Since our house is pretty small, a structure like this will absorb some of the necessary storage function.

To boot, my husband thinks he's going to store cars in there.

Myself, I'm dreaming of dwarf nubian milking goats.

He wants bees.

I tell him he can't milk those. Their udders are too small.

Friday, February 27, 2015

An update of updatey thingness

It's been a crazy busy year.

I've had the opportunity to work full-time for the most amazing socially conscious grower ever as a copywriter and social media coordinator, moved to Boise, Idaho, and am now working toward my Bachelors in Communication and Marketing while working freelance writing and marketing gigs.

I've also developed a bit of an addiction for car auctions, social anthropology, butter, beekeeping, communication theories and finish sanders.

How have you been?

Saturday, January 25, 2014

Yes, Wii Can!

Like son, like mother.

You can shake the trees on Animal Crossing, but the stuff that falls out always lands near the trunk.

These days, my son spends an inordinate amount of time playing this addicting game called Animal Crossing for the Wii. He fishes, picks up odd knick knacks from the locals (one, a potted plant, looks like a marijuana bush—not that I’d know what that looks like), and shakes trees for fruit to sell at Tom Nook’s store (Now if only I could get him to pick up his clothes).

Even as the microwave flashed midnight (more likely the power had gone out again), the glazed look in his eye and an absent smile on his kid-lips reflected the eerie, blue glow from the television. He was designing a shirt for the older boy’s character. The medium-blue and green orb showed that the front of the shirt design was, in fact, a cartoon globe. The back of the shirt design housed the vintage 70’s balloon letters for the band YES.

Suddenly, he jumped up and ran to the backyard to find out where our pet dog had taken his underwear (don’t ask). On his way out the door, he shoved the wii-mote into my hand. 

In that brief time, a squirrel named Squinky came to talk to my character. I sighed, but decided to talk to the character who looked so happy and friendly. The little rapscallion proceeded to punctuate even the most innocent phrases with the word “Dummy.” Finally, after hearing, “Isn’t this a beautiful evening, Dummy?” one too many times, I yelled to the boy, “Hey! This animal keeps calling me ‘Dummy’!”

“I did that!” my son beamed, walking back into the room, a pair of reclaimed undergarments in his hand (don’t ask). “You can make the animals say stuff at the end of phrases!” He chuckled, because kids always think they’re clever that way.

After an hour more of parental wii research (hey. It’s my obligation), I eventually rescinded my control of the game, saved the three shirts I designed with smiling bits of fruit on them, and went back to reading. Son caught a few extra fish to pay off the additions to our little Animal Crossing houses, and was once again in the chair with a dazed look on his face, wending his way through a cartoon world. The dog gleefully chewed underpants nearby (don’t ask).

“Hey!” he called out a few minutes later. “Why does this animal tell me to ‘stick it!’ in every sentence?”

I shrugged.

Hey. I don’t kiss and tell.

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

Volunteer. Your repairman needs you.

These days, many have a fancy name for what were once considered standard (if not mundane) jobs. Secretaries are now "Administrative assistants". Stewardesses are addressed as "Flight Attendants". Janitors? "Sanitation Engineers." Even the worldly-sounding "Service Associates" and "Customer Satisfaction" purveyors ask joyfully if you would like the Super Squelchy Meal with barbecue or honey mustard sauce.

I am what you might call a volunteer copy mom. Oh, I've tried euphemisms like "Maker of Copy Magic", "Workroom Technician" and "Zelda". After 7 years, mine is really the simple way of saying that I make lamination and copy fanciness on a weekly basis at a local school. Plus it's easier to fill out on the sticky name tag.

I like volunteering. Aside from providing helpful services to the employees of the school district, it also afforded me a weekly teacher conference.

"Homework turned in?"


"Behaving in class."


"How's the breath?"

"We're working on it."

Mini-meetings aside, becoming adept at the ways of high tech hocus pocus in the form of copy room machinery wasn't all peaches and happy bunnies. Laminators are innocent-looking, hot, and eats people's things, only to return them out the back side in a plastic sleeve. Now, if only I could teach my dog to do that.

Maybe it was because I found that they might have neglected to technically school me in the finer points of use of the machine, save for the general bit of cursory information the secretary gives before she runs back to the front desk to continue her usual work. I'd seen her playing solitaire while filing her nails simultaneously. I can attest that this is hard work, as I often fall off of the treadmill if I'm not holding on while trying to file my nails. I made my first workroom mistake when I leaned over the laminator to make sure the pages were feeding through as they were supposed to. Unfortunately, the machine decided my badge looked tasty and began to pull me through its wide teeth.

Being strangled by the Laminator2000, lamentably, wasn't in my scheduled plans for the day. I had a hair appointment and I needed quaff maintenance. With this in mind, and against the traction of the lami-beast, I pulled for all I was worth. Unfortunately, it didn't matter. This thing wanted to eat me, bad hair and all. I snapped the switch to "off" and tugged in the opposite direction.

In defiance, the laminator inched towards me with each ineffective attempt for plastic-sheet freedom. I propped my left foot on the table next to the laminator and half-sat on the copy machine with my right cheek. I figured if the physics doesn't work if I pull down, by golly, I'll just pull up!

I was not going to let this technology defeat me! Besides, they told me at the front office that I wouldn't get my car keys back unless I returned the badge. I couldn't live at the school. I'd seen their lunches.

It was at that moment I found that the shredder had begun to make linguini out of the bottom of my shirt and was stuck fast to the front of the machine as well. There were now three points of contact, and two weren't letting me go.

Mr. Romeapple, the 8th science teacher came in, picked up his copies from the machine's side shelf and waved hello. He looked at his copies, still warm from the machine, and paused. Turning the pages sideways he said, "I wonder if this moon is waxing or waning." He tilted his head to the side. "Looks like it needs waxing."

Then, waving them, he added, "Could you collate these for me?"

Now working to wrest my hair from the nearby automatic stapler, I chirped, "You bet! Collating is my specialty!"

Mr. Romeapple vacated, and presently the school secretary hurried into the room to check my progress. It was pretty obvious that the machines were going to be out of service indefinitely as a result of this very inconvenient episode. Her jaw went slack, and she proceeded to unleash her tongue upon me for the next 30 seconds. Storming out of the workroom she threw her hands up in the air. I guess that's what I get for referring to her as the "secretary."

The motion sensing power saving lights sensing my paralyzed predicament dimmed and dismally doused themselves fully out. Confounded energy-saving measures.

There I stood in a contorted and glorified closet embraced by three machines, their whirring and blinking lights the only think currently working, even if it was on me. And now I could faintly smell something burning. This reminded me that I would probably be eating school lunch. Again.

It's always about this time, every week, that I hope the senior custodial engineering administrator will show up. He always appears right as I'm about to leave and mumbles aloud that the machines need so much maintenance.

I know. Those machines are darned unreliable.

Monday, January 6, 2014

Truce or Nair

It's exceedingly rare, but there are those triumphant moments stolen during the day occasionally when the kids finally scatter and you have an entire floor to yourself. It's only natural that in these moments of quiet, you grab the bottle of Nair and decide it's time to deforest some of the old growth.

I slathered some of the depilatory on my top lip. Almost immediately, the skin was chemically aflame like Michael Jackson 's hair in a Pepsi ad. In a hurry, I was able to remove the substance before the burns set in too deeply (the scarring should go away eventually).

Well, how do you like them hairy horse apples! I'd apparently used Bikini Nair on my face.

With a wet washcloth attempting to coddle away the stabbing pain, I grabbed a different bottle that promised it was 'more gentle for faces' than the bikini cream (why did I buy bikini cream? I haven't shown any navel since I peeled my last orange) and opted to smoothed that cool, white substance under my nose and under my chin instead. All was well. Sure, I now looked like the Big Lebowski . Still, the Dudette Abides.

I looked at the Nair for bikinis and slapped some decidedly on each lower leg.

I admit I don't remove hair from my legs very often. I mean, who has time? I am usually busy running around after four kids, half of whom exhibit pretty obvious cases of high-functioning autism. The other half are either menstruating or about to menstruate-- at any given time.

Adding to this, the last time I tried to shave my legs, Al Gore called me on the phone. He said, "Excuse me, Jamie. I hate to bother you, but I hear you're going to deforest your legs?"

I said, "Well, sure, Mr. Gore."

"Could you please not do that?" he continued in his sing-song southern drawl. "Deforestation is one of the most difficult issues we face in the wilderness as our Earth hangs in its delicate balance."

Oh sure . The Gorminator is telling me to leave the ecosystem on my calves intact, but I have bigger issues around the corner with shorts season. The last time I tried to wear capris locally with sandals, a swank young mother complimented me on my Ugg mukluk boots.

I was past using a razor. I was past using weed whackers. I was now slathering WMD-Weapons of Mass Depilation -- on my legs. And why not! This is my time. In the bathroom, hidden behind the door, and with no one to disturb me, or to ask me why I'm shaving my legs with a pet groomer in the back yard (again), I lavished the cream on my legs. Then came the small howls of a wee little man.

Jacques was a petit Quebecois who had built a platform in one of the old growth tree hairs below my left kneecap. "Ooooh non! Non ! Go away, bad perzhon !" he howled, as he waved his hands desperately. The cream came closer to his makeshift hovel. He'd been penned up there for quite some time, hoping to wait out the clear cutting of leg hairs that was going to commence at some point.

"Hey there, little man," I asserted as a miniscule beret hit my thumb, "Live on a platform and not bathe for 68 days, and all you might have to show for it are potential chemical burns from hair cream. It's part of the job hazards, buddy."

I made a concerted effort to steer clear of the small protester out of courtesy. Unfortunately, I found getting around the folks spiking the hairs and handcuffing themselves to some of the older stalks was a little more complex. Still, gotta love their moxie.

I still had some bikini Nair left in the tube when all was said and done, so I threw off my tshirt and starting dabbing my armpits with the stuff haphazardly. I figured if I wasn't going to try my trick of corn rowing hair all the way from my head to my ankles (they didn't invite me back for "Wild Kindergarten Mom Talent Night"), I might as well get rid of that, too.

That's when the phone rang.

It was Leonardo DiCaprio . "Hey. I just wanted to say that Jacques called me."

"How does he get reception? I can't even get reception."

Such a tiny little phone ...

"Listen. He's pretty upset. Why don't you cut the guy a little slack and stop the devastation?"

"Hey, you listen," I said, now cross, "Mr. I'm the King of the World in a Prius. You try having such long hair on your legs that your Viet Nam vet father has flashbacks when he sees your ankles. It's not cool, man. I get this stuff stuck in escalators."

"Who are you talking to?" I looked over and saw my younger son, who was now 'frightened younger boy who saw his mom slathered to her pits in Nair Pina Colada Bikini cream having an annoyed discussion with a very small leg hair'. Luckily, son dropped the conversation issue abruptly and ran off yelling, "AhaAa! Mom had weird stuff on her face!"

Later that evening, after working out, I showed my husband that I had successfully removed hair from both legs as I ran through the room on the way to the shower. He surprised me when he said, "Lift your arms."
I did.

"What happened?!" he looked oddly bemused. That tends to worry me.

I looked down and realized the bottle must have run out of cream about half way through the job. I had one really hairy armpit and one as fresh and clean as a Hollywood starlet 10 minutes out of rehab.

"It's DiCaprio's fault," I declared.I scowled and made my fingers into a little pinch in the air.

Those little phones...

Saturday, October 26, 2013

Down 125 Pounds!

Hi there! This is me. I have lost 125 pounds to date.

I still have a heck of a lot more to go, but it feels so amazing to not have to worry about things like waking up with a sore back or twisting my ankle due to excessive weight.

I can work at my desk for hours with no problems, and I get buggy now, which is nice since I have the energy to be physically antsy.

I can even sit in the back seat of a car and I fit into the seat belt, which, as many of us who have lost a lot or who have a lot left to go (keep working at it!), that's a major accomplishment!

Of course, losing weight isn't easy, but it's great having a job because I'm out of the house and focused on things other than just food. As well, ever since I ditched my perfectionist leanings, even when I stall, I still keep going because I love the way I feel.

When I work from home, I tend to snack more. When I work, I have to cook before I leave the house, but it ensures I have something  enjoy later for lunch. I pack bento these days and have three boxes!

I'll share pictures of those soon, along with more pictures of my cubicle (I told you I was going to share fluffy stuff)....

I love working because it's always something new and exciting every day, and I get to exercise my creative self (even if my physical self laughs at the prospect of doing anything that breaks an actual sweat). Maybe I'll share some of what I'm working on eventually! But only if you're interested.