Space Invaders

Taking a look out of the window, it looks like any other grey, rainy November morning. I don't spot either of the following 1.)Fire reigning down and the four horseman of the apocalypse descending to Earth to signal the end of times 2.) Rainbows, unicorns, gold doubloons, and hark the herald angels sing.

So the beat goes on.

And I still have leukemia. The only "change" I am really concerned about right at this particular moment is if the president-elect can come down here and lay hands on me and heal my cancery ass. Call me selfish, but right now I've got bigger fish to fry.

One thing I did read this morning that troubled me is the talk that the embargoes may now be lifted from Cuba with the new administration. Okay,first how about Cuba clean up their human rights(especially in regards to gays), reinstate religious freedom, freedom of the press, end censorship of books and the jailing of librarians, and start letting their people leave legally if they want to instead of forcing them to paddle the sea in homemade boats. Hey, how's that for a thought? You want some embargoes lifted? Work for them.

Last week, we had an invasion of sorts in the Amos household. I meant to write about at the time, but I think I was pretty well traumatized by the whole thing. On and off since we moved into this house (and actually we had the same trouble in our rental house from back in the day), we've had issues with camel crickets. For those of you unfamiliar with what a camel cricket is (also known in some circles as spider crickets), feast your eyes:

Yum, I know. These little boogers are even more revolting up close and personal, and they can jump like nobody's business. It may not look like it, but camel crickets can actually get pretty big, with legs and all enough to cover most of the palm of my hand. For some reason, they have always reminded me of the face suckers from the Alien movies. You know, these guys:
The sight of one of these things in the house is enough to paralyze both The Mister and me. Alastair just points at them and says, "Big bug, mommy." Of course there was that time about nine months ago when he walked into the kitchen carrying the carcass of a camel cricket, "Mommy, what's this, mommy?" I nearly peed myself and vomited and passed out all at the same time. But instead I managed to swoop down and snatch it away from him, exclaiming "Dead bug! Gross!" Oh how I hope one never jumps on him; he'll be traumatized. Then should that happen, I foresee hysterical panic all around at the mere mention of a camel cricket.

Occasionally, our cats will come through in their roles as latent hunters and catch a couple. Rarely though do they kill them, but choose instead to rip off their jumping legs, making them more interesting playthings. Once bored with the camel cricket, they generally leave its not-dead-yet body in the middle of the floor or their food bowl. Our favorite choice of dispatching these little buggers is the vacuum cleaner; sucks 'em right up with minimal contact on our part.

A year or two ago, my dad came and poked around under our house, sealing off potential entry points for the accursed creatures, and it seemed to work. We had minimal intrusions. Apparently, they've found a way back into the house because with the temperature drop last week, these hopping scourge of the earth were back with a vengeance. One night in particular, we dispatched somewhere between ten and twelve camel crickets in matter of a few hours. It felt like every time we came down stairs there were two or three more in the kitchen or dining room or careening around the den or the laundry room. I had these nightmare visions of the floor covered in these jumping minions of Satan. I felt like Ripley, fighting off the never-ending swarm of acid-spitting predators.

Since then, their presence has declined with the odd bugger popping up here and there, as if the word got out about the Purple Weapon of Mass Destruction (aka the Dyson vacuum) welded by the humans. The camel crickets are more weary of mounting another large invasion any time soon. But we are vigilant.

Here's to one good thing about The Big House: no stinking camel crickets.

Oh and one more thing. I'm losing what little hair I have left. AGAIN. And this time it's a mangy look I'm sporting. There's a nice clean bald spot on the top of my head. Hotness. Chemotastic hotness.

The Hits Just Keep On Coming

I am writing this from room 18, eighth floor of North Hospital, where I am starting my clinical trial. It's a brand new cocktail of chemo drugs my body hasn't encountered before, the logic being that the cancer will be taken by surprise and lay down and die. At least long enough to get back on the bone marrow transplant route. I'll be spending Monday through Friday here, and if all is well, sent home for the weekend. Then next Monday I'll be back here for another five days, out on the weekend. From there on out, it'll be clinic visits and such until the transplant process gets up and running. The drugs are in IV and pill form, and because of potential side effects, I'm being monitored pretty closely for the first few days of chemo. Today is my general admission stuff day, followed by some medicines to prevent side effects. I get the poison tomorrow. Goodie gumdrops.

No, seriously though, I really am hoping and praying that this is the right treatment for me right now. Having the bone marrow transplant yanked out from under my feet made me realize that for as much as I was dreading the process and side effects, I really do want to have the transplant. I NEED the transplant. If anything, this latest set back has helped me get over those fears and hesitations I did have about the bone marrow transplant. So over them.

So let's all raise some loud prayers that this treatment gets my stubborn, stupid Zombie Leukemia into remission.

Oh and one more thing, my husband got terminated from his job.

Yeah, awesome.

Breaks down like this: He gets a negative review, the first really negative review he's had in the seven years he's worked for this company. A few days later, he's pulled off of his contract, his place of employment since he started with the company. Then today in a nice tidy little meeting he was told he's being let go. Cool, huh? Way to stick it in and break it off, jerkfaces.

And yeah, I can write this because I AM NOT YOUR EFFING EMPLOYEE.

Because folks, although he never mentioned the name of his employer or the names of any of his fellow employees, my husband was terminated because of things about work he wrote on his personal blog. Not his job performance. Not how he worked with other people. Not his attitude. Not his skill level.

His personal blog.

So all you fellow bloggers out there, be vigilant regarding your company's policy on blogging. They may even have a policy you don't know about. Look it up. Seriously.

In fact, while you are at it, watch any and all conversations you have in public with people about your job because in essence that's what a blog is.

(Paragraphs regarding my gut feelings on the matter have been removed from this post by author. )

Let me reiterate that I have already requested if you are my husband's ex-employer you should cease and desist from reading my blog. Because I AM NOT YOUR EMPLOYEE.

We're still getting our arms wrapped around the notion that a company would fire a perfectly capable and hard-working employee for a few grumpy personal blog posts and what that means to us as a family right now. COBRA (no, not the G.I. Joe nemesis) should take care of insurance for a while, but my kid's gotta eat and bills gotta be paid and stuff like that. The Mister's buckling down for his job search, and for the first time in my life I am actually thinking of going on the dole, looking into the possibility of getting disability. 'Cause I sure can't get a job with all this going into the hospital nonsense and such.

So there you go.

My heart is not concerned. I believe that everything will work out in the long run. When you're in the weeds and crap is flying everywhere, it's hard to see the long-term effects a particularly nasty thing will have on your life. But after some time has passed, you see that what seemed a big ole fat mess in the moment was simply a stepping stone to something better. That and I believe in a Divine Plan. My experiences are, if nothing, a chance to learn more and to serve as a means by which I can better rely on God and reveal to others my personal faith.

But damn, can you give a girl a break once and while?

I'm Still Hanging. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.

Yup. Still sitting on my butt with some brain numbing HGTV show on in the background. I've had a much more positive day today. The highest my temp has gotten (so far, knock wood) has been around the 99 degrees ranch, which isn't high enough to set off the the alarms here. My second and third blood cultures aren't showing any bacteria growth which is a sign the antibiotics are doing a good job. Plus, my visitors today (Mr. Preacher Ken, Kim, and the one-two punch of The Mister and Little A) really lifted my spirits.

The big concern now is that my white cells will start bouncing back. I'm always edgy about how quickly my white cells come back online because that tends to indicate how successful the chemo treatment was in squashing those Stupid Leukemia Zombie Cells. My heart tells me to shut up that chattering bitch in my brain filling me with all these fears and simply lay these concerns before God. But she's a mean motor scooter with acrylics. I just need to get in her face and rip her weave out and throw it across the room. While she scampers for her hair, I'll knock her up side the head, subdue her, and wrap her up in duct tape.

Or I could pray a lot.

I've still got this demon of a headache, one of those face and sinus beauties that are worse when you move your head around. Evil gnomes have crawled into my brain area while I've slept and now hammer relentlessly with ball peen hammers on the inside of my skull. Fortunately, Nurse Awesomeness is looking out for me tonight, and she's got the good drugs. Right now, those bastard gnomes are knocked out cold.

Lucy got to come home tonight. Her upper respiratory issue has almost completely disappeared,but she'll be required to take a number of pills for a while. She nibbled on her food in the dish a bit, but we'll still syringe feed her until she is comfortable eating on her own. Her reunion with the home was a loving one. Nervous-pervis, shypants Lucy even let Little A love on her a bit. Thanks to everyone who sent prayers and supplications on behalf of my sweet girl. I'm so glad she made it through this.

For those of you following the Cannonball Read, Prisco and I are also crossposting our reviews at my internet treehouse fort, Pajiba. I want to send a wee bit of traffic their way because it's a great site and an even more fabulous community of folk who've been a phenomenal support for me during my crazy cancer phase. So if you love pop culture, movies, television, books, and being super-snarky and have no fear of comment threads that often diverge down some, um, interesting paths, stop by Pajiba, check out our reviews, and support the site. Hopefully, I'll have something up from my second book tomorrow. It was a heavy (mentally not lbs) read, and I need some time to pin down my thoughts.

Life is a highway. I wanna ride it all night long.

Room 38 redux

You might have heard that I am back in the slammer. I woke up Monday with a fever and got readmitted. For the past two days, I've been running and breaking fevers in excess of 103 degrees. Yeah, it's been fun. According to my blood cultures, this time around I actual have a bacteria growing in my blood, so this isn't your typical neutropenic fever. The White Coat Folks have got me on a plethora of antibiotics trying to kill whatever is troubling me.

So pardon my general absence from the interwebbies. Having high fevers sucks the life out of you. All I've wanted to do is lie in bed and stare into space or watch cable TV.

And to top all of this off, poor Lucy, our sweet black cat, had to be taken to the veterinary's office for overnight treatment. Her cold wasn't getting better, and she really hadn't eaten in days. When Adrian took her into the docs, she was dehydrated and showing signs of possible liver damage. She has been making a slow recovery, but she's still not out of the water. Please keep my darling girl in your prayers.

Jive Talking Turkey

"According to this, I'm a ham."- My husband clutching the meat thermometer around 11:30 p.m. Thanksgiving Eve in the kitchen of Casa Amos.

We successfully survived our first Thanksgiving hosting gig. After Adrian's longstanding Greensboro family gathering disintegrated over the last couple of years, we decided to pick up the banner and create our own tradition, mostly for our son. We invited several family members, but only my parents were apparently brave enough to endure both my cooking and my company. (My mother's only caveat: "Don't give us food poisoning.")

Little A was whisked away to his grammy and pappy's house for most of the day so Adrian and I could prepare the meal. Weirdly, we had a great time, cooking and cleaning. I even manged to sneak in a quick run around the neighborhood while the turkey cooked. The turkey, gravy, stuffing patties, rolls, and cranberry sauce all came to the table courtesy of the Amos Kitchen; my mom provided sweet potato casserole, creamed spinach, and a pie.

And we all walked away from the meal sans food borne illnesses.

According to my husband, my turkey was the best he'd ever had*, including -gasp!-P'Nut's fried turkey. Then again this man also thinks I have a great ass, so his taste is questionable.

Alastair, as any proper American male should, gorged himself on food and voiced a particular fondness for the "sweet po-tay-toe" and "cranbebby".

I'm sad for Adrian and Alastair that the big Greensboro Thanksgiving shindig that I was so fortunate to be a part of for six years has gone belly up. But I certainly look forward to a new, albeit smaller, gathering here in the RVA. And hopefully I can keep up with my own high turkey cooking standards. Maybe next year I'll make Not Yo Mama's Banana Pudding.

Other Little A related news, Mr. Vocabulary just keeps the hits coming. Highlights from the last few weeks of his expanding communication skills:

• When asked at the dinner table if he was full, Alastair replied sincerely, "I full of pee-pee."
• In response to the question of whether he had short or long hair, Alastair clarified with, "I have dirt tah-tah (translation: dirt tractor) hair."
• Little A has taken to scolding the kitties with a firm, "no ma'am" whenever they do something he finds inappropriate.
  
• The latest big, multisyllabic word: Flatbed tow truck. During a trip to The Costco, Adrian pointed one out, and Alastair repeated the word almost perfectly. We both busted out laughing, and Alastair, thinking he'd made a funny, continued to shout "flatbed tow truck!" for the remainder of the trip, giggling to himself every time.
• He was wandering around the den one evening smacking his lips together with a puzzled look on his face. Adrian asked him what was in his mouth, and without skipping a beat, Alastair replied solemnly, "Cat hair." And he was right. And he's never said those two words together, ever. Maybe that was a had-to-be-there moment.
  
• Tonight during bath time, he explained to me that he had two daddies, two mommies, two dirt tah-tah's, two homes, and two cowboys. Folks, I am as puzzled as you on this one.
• My favorite has to be his recap of a recent conversation with my dad:

Little A: I say I a little baby. Pappy say No!
Me: And what else did Pappy say?
Little A: Pappy say I a little boy.

My kid fucking cracks me up.

*(Psst, the secret is brining overnight. To a great turkey. Not a great ass. Wish I knew the secret to that.)

The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things

Yesterday, my uncle (and fellow zombie fighter) had open heart surgery. He just turned 42. This is going to be a difficult recovery for him both physically and mentally. I'd like to ask everyone to please keep him in your prayers and thoughts in general.

He also happened to be my boss. My brief career as a stay-at-home Veronica Mars has been waylaid, hopefully only temporarily. I still can claim to be a card-carrying P.I. though.

Little A has many new things on his Baby Agenda. He is working diligently on mastering using a spoon and fork. He's had quite a bit of success, albeit messy. We've also become regular viewers of Seasame Street in the mornings. You should see him egg on Cookie Monster to eat the letter of the day. Another charming skill he's picked up is pressing the "lock" button on my car key to make the horn honk. He gets this big old grin and shouts "Beep Beep!" I let this go on for a few beeps of the horn and then spirit away the key. Just another thing to annoy the neighbors, ya know.

Knock It Off

Saturday morning, Adrian's grandmother Nell passed from this life. She had been struggling with cancer for about six months.

I've been thinking about how many people Adrian and I have lost from our family in the past two years: my uncle Mark, Adrian's great-grandmother Annie, my grandmother Birchie, and now his grandmother. While I have mourned their deaths and removal from my life, I am more saddened by the fact that Alastair won't be able to enjoy the presence of these family members as he grows up. It's more upsetting to think of the loved ones Adrian and I knew that Alastair will never know and never remember.

Dammit. People need to stop f*ing dying in my family. Enough with the death already.

Stitches Put Into Perspective

On Monday, I was going to blog about what can now be referred to as Worst Mom Ever Part Three when my son, only a couple of feet away from his parents, face planted into the entertainment cabinet and gashed his forehead. This exciting turn of events resulted in a trip to the emergency room and two stitches. Little A was such a brave little toaster during the whole ordeal; all the while I felt like crawling under a rock from guilt.

Then this wing nut decided to take out his anger and frustration on a population of innocent Hokies. And commit suicide. Sigh. Coward.

Normally, this sort of mass tragedy would disturb and sadden me, but now that Little A's in my life, my feelings are colored somewhat differently. As a parent, I want to shelter and care for my son, keeping him out of harms way. When something like this happens, I realize that there will come a time, sooner than I like, when Little A will spend more time outside of my care than within it. Some would say, considering my track record, that perhaps that isn't such a bad thing. What totally frightens me is while I couldn't save him from using his forehead like a sledgehammer while I was close enough to grab him, out there in the Big Bad World he'll be facing a lot more dangerous things that our furniture. From the unlikely event of a crazed gunman to a drunk driver to a seemingly mundane patch of ice on a sidewalk. If I stop and think about it, it's enough to keep Little A locked in the house until I die. But of course, I wouldn't do that. It's an accepted risk you take as a parent-allowing your child to go out into a very dangerous world without you at their side.

Unfortunately, as a society, we have a hard time accepting that Life is Hard and Bad Things Happen. Witness this tragedy in Blacksburg and how the media is clamoring to find someone or something to blame. The prevailing thought is that somehow this event could have been avoided. That at some point someone knew this guy was going to go all banana bread and slaughter a bunch of people. Not only does it seem like America can't accept that in life bad stuff is going to happen, but also that no matter what there's always someone at fault.

Because in America when Something Bad happens you should Get Paid. And the only way to Get Paid is to find out who done you wrong and sue the living shit out of them. I am sure that already the sharks are circling in these waters waiting to pounce. It's only a matter of time before the lawsuits will start popping up, probably against everyone from Tech to the local mental hospital to the manufacture of the handguns he used. Somebody's going to Get Paid from all of this.

I swear, there's a new American Dream out there. It's the Class Action Lawsuit.

On a side note, major props to Governor Kaine (who up until this point has really done nothing for me as an elected official) to standing up to the fucking jackal reporters and politicians who wanted to immediately turn this situation into a gun control issue. Good for him that he was willing to stand up for Virginia and our need to grieve rather than starting waving this around as political fodder.

Finally, I have a reason to actually approve of fraternities. My cousin Alex, who is pledging a fraternity and was more than likely up late Sunday, slept though the whole incident. Unfortunately, the girl to whom I sold SpaceMobile, was in the room right next door to the first shooting. She heard the screams and witnessed the dead bodies of her neighbor and RA. She definitely needs our prayers right now.

Ain't Nothin' But A Rock Hound

My mother swears that some of my more interesting personality quirks have been passed down through her family line. The side of my family I like to affectionately call "The Hillbillies". My dad's side is the "Yankee Immigrants".

For instance, my grandmother had an older sister, Virginia, who when I was in high school was living out the last years of her life in a nursing home and didn't really know who she was and what the hell was going on. But damn if that woman didn't leave her room without her jewelry which included earrings, at least one necklace, bracelets, and two hands full of rings. My mother liked to use Aunt Jen as the genetic reasoning behind my armload of friendship bracelets in middle school and my gypsy-like adoration of rings in high school. I've always had a thing for ornamentation. Witness my current adult stubborn refusal to let go of the 10 earrings I sport.

Anyway, along those lines of reasoning, I present to you an obsession passed down into a third generation. My grandmother was a rock hound. The woman loved collecting rocks. She would hike up into the mountains behind her house and unearth geodes to crack open. On her various trips around the nation, she would pick up an interesting rock here and there (Blatantly disregarding National Park rules sometimes.). Her friends and family would also bring her a souvenir rock from their travels. I brought her a smooth Mediterranean beach stone from Nice in 2003. She was strangely meticulous in labeling the origins of her rocks, as we discovered sorting through her stuff after she passed last fall. The rock collection has now passed into my hands (Sadly returning the Nice rock to me as well.).

Little A is also developing into a regular rock connoisseur. In the past few weeks he has developed two new skills/obsessions: throwing things and picking up the rocks in the driveway. Put them together and one can see the "Danger! Danger, Will Robinson"-factor. Capitalizing on this newfound excitement for hurling rocks, I decided to take Little A down into the woods near our house to chuck stones in the little creek there. Baby Jackpot. It was like he'd gone straight to heaven without passing Go and collecting $200. The creek itself was a marvel to him but when I introduced the concept of pitching a small stone into the shallow depths, he lit up like a Roman candle. Man, we could have been down there chuckin' rocks until Kingdom Come. Score 1 for Mommy. Can't wait until we get another warm streak (March winds be damned!) for our next excursion.

I only hope that in a few years, Little A will also appreciate his great-grandmother's collection of rocks. It would thrill her to no end to know that her rocks from all over the world line the shelves of her grandson's room and that he spent many an hour turning them over in his hands, admiring their beauty and variety.

We've just gotta get past the Little A's current fixation with putting rocks in his mouth.

Busy Busy Little Bee

October always ends up being the busiest month in our yearly calendar. Heck, December isn't even this action-packed (At least in Team Amos terms). Not only is our social calendar pretty darn full, but Adrian's been working almost every night this week. Good thing I've got my crazy baby who reminds me to stop ever so often and roll around on the floor with him.

Last weekend was the National Folk Festival where we encountered great music and intestinally damaging funnel cake.

This Saturday night is the Eighth Annual Amos Halloween Fete, but before that the undead parade through Richmond.

Sunday, my mom, uncle, and I take on the daunting task of cleaning out my grandmother's barely lived-in apartment. I am looking forward to this like a root canal.

Next Saturday, Daniel and Rachel tie the knot. That same weekend is the awesome Festival of India. Can't wait to chow down on some tikka masala and nann. Maybe pick up a fancy piece of jewelry or some sari fabric. I've been inspired by Project Runway to start sewing again (Uli was robbed!) or did I ever start to begin with...?

In between all the social stuff is the usual church committments and of course, All Hallow's Eve! During all this craziness, I need to stop and enjoy the fall colors. Which is why Little A and I will be taking a post-lunch walk today, weather permitting.

Enough already

Apparently, in my family, death is like a giant snowball rolling down the hillside, growing larger as it rolls. Friday, my dad's half-brother John died. John was mentally retarded and lived in a home in Wisconsin. He probably had the mental facilities of a three-year-old and needed constant care. At breakfast, he was enjoying one of his favorite foods, a peanut butter sandwich, when a piece became lodged in his throat and he choked to death. I hadn't seen John since I was a very small child when at the time he terrified me. His image I have in my mind from a few photographs. Unlike a normal adult his age, John probably had no concept nor fear of death. I really hope he left this life doing peacefully and with the childish delight of a peanut butter sandwich to carry him into the afterlife.

I am continuing to mourn my grandmother in small ways every day. I really wanted to tell her how soft and cozy a onesie she'd bought for Alastair turned out to be. Out shopping, I see things I'd like to buy her. Reading her handwriting in a card she'd sent me after she moved, knowing I'll never see that script on an envelope in my mailbox again. Weird little worms of sadness eat at me everyday. Is this worse than bawling my eyes out for a few days and then moving on?

That's it. I'm so over death. No more dying, people. Ya hear me?

In more cheerful news, Alastair is fast approaching his ninth month. He now has one top tooth emerging from his gums and what is especially fun about the new tooth is that he hasn't quite learned the difference between kissing mommy and biting the shit out of mommy's cheek.

No crawling yet. Lots of rolling about and worming on his belly, but no crawling. My kid's just a lazy butt. Plus this is all part of my plan to win Worst Mommy of the Year which is the reason why he is not saying words, walking, or writing his first concerto just like everyone else's kid did at his age.

Rough Week

So, last week was pretty bad. My grandmother died on October 2 from injuries sustained in a car accident. From what I gather, it's likely that she suffered a brain aneurysm which disoriented her and caused her to run a red light. Her car was broadsided by an SUV. This happened Sunday, October 1. After the injuries to her brain where deemed too severe, she was taken off of the ventilator (according to her medical directive) and she passed away shortly after.

I haven't yet really had a good sob or cry or whatever about all this. Maybe I am numb. Maybe my mourning will be slow and drawn out. I think I will be sad about this for a long time. Especially when I start to see something I would have liked to given my grandmother as a gift or think of an activity I would have liked to have done with her. I can't mourn for my grandmother's death, only for this things that might have been. Like I was supposed to go with her and Alastair to the State Fair last week. I had wanted her to finally teach me to crochet.

After much poking and prodding, my family had finally convinced my grandmother to move to Richmond, and she had been living here for only a few weeks when the accident occurred. We were all getting accustomed to having her so close after years of living 6+ hours away. My mom is taking this pretty hard; she had been looking forward to having my grandmother here for a long time. The burden of responsibility has fallen on her shoulders regarding the resolution of my grandmother's estate and effects, and the job will not be a pleasant one.

At least on her last full day of life my grandmother got to spend time with Alastair, playing with him and laying him down for his morning nap. Sadly, he will never remember this, nor her.

My grandmother was a neat lady. She grew up during the Depression, orphaned at twelve-years-old. Her Christian faith was very strong, and I know that she was ready (not in a morbid or suicidal way) for the afterlife. Right now she is reunited with her parents, her siblings, her husband, and her oldest son who all preceded her in death.

I can only hope to live the best life I can in honor of her. To keep her memory alive with my son.

You can't overlove your underwear

I'm lovin' this weather. If only things could stay this comfortable all fall. I'd be happy as a clam.

Little A's learning to wave and beginning to really practice his waving. Especially for some reason on strangers and not his family.

In somewhat of a quandry over our Halloween party this year. I mean, we can't not have one, but there are some logistical issues to overcome. Will Alastair make an appearance? Will he be shipped off to the G'rents? My idea right now is to host a dinner party with light fare the Saturday before Halloween that starts around 6:30 p.m. That was Little A can have a bit of spotlight before retiring to either bed or G'rents. Also, our guest can slip out to attend other fetes if necessary.

Last weekend, we finally moved my Grandmother to Richmond from Grundy. This has been a plan over a year in the making. I think the death of my uncle and my Grandmother's illness over Christmas settled her mind on the issue. There was just this little thing about selling her house, finding a place here, editing and packing up 50 plus years of stuff, and then the moving. My dad, Adrian, my uncle and I drove out Friday night, had the truck loaded by 11:30 a.m. Saturday, and made it to Richmond around 6:30 p.m. that night (At least my grandmother and I did. I drove her in her vehicle.). Whew. A lot of driving and a lot of intense "family time". I'd say this weekend was something like eating the juice concentrate right out of the can instead of diluting it with water. All day Sunday, I my stomach literally ached from all that family concentrate. Bluh. But my grandmother's here now. So I get to see her more often that I ever have in my entire life, and as an added bonus she can snipe over my parenting skills with every one of those visits. Ah, that charming insane asylum known as family.

A few days ago when I went to get some art framed at Michael's I was finally slapped with the realization that my fundage is now severely limited. The framing was a little more costly than I was prepared for and blew my entire budget. Lordy, this whole having no income thing is going to suck. Now who knows when I can buy those cute Rocket Dog shoes or the pretty wrap dress from Macy's. Dang.

Look at them school buses go!

What a gross day. A grey rainy day that pours salt in the gaping wound that is the first day of school. But perhaps it's preferred to a beautiful, sunny day. Then all the kids wouldn't be staring out the windows wishing they were poolside inside of trapped in the hallowed halls of academia.

Last week was the Amos Family vacation, and we didn't go anywhere (except for a parental jaunt to KD on Saturday). Adrian had the whole week off to spend hanging out with me and Little A. His presence at home gave me something of a vacation as well since he could help with the care and feeding of Little A. It was nice to have another pair of hands and someone around to keep an eye on the munchkin so I could run some errands. Adrian had a relaxing birthday, we watched lots of movies, slept in ('til 8 !), got some much needed house stuff done, and then didn't leave the house on Friday because it was raining like a motherf*er.

This has been a typical Virginia summer. It's been hot and dry for almost two months straight. The city goes into the drought panic with threats of water restrictions. Then at the end of August, rains of Biblical proportions are unleashed upon us, dumping a summer's worth of rain in a few short days. Just keeping my fingers crossed that we don't get hit with any hurricane action.

Yesterday, mom and I had a fun if unsuccessful shopping trip. I managed to find some jeans I liked, but other than that we mostly struck out. Mom couldn't find anything she liked in her size. I found really adorable shoes just not in my size (Zappos, however, has me covered.). There was a great dress-totally out of my price range. Now that I'm "not working" my fashion budget is considerably smaller-next to non-existent. While I don't have to shop for work related clothing, I still want to have nice, reasonably stylish things to wear. No bummy sweatpants and t-shirts that scream "I'm a stay-at-home-mom" (which, by the way, I have now decided is used in a derrogatory manner by working women to somehow imply that non-working mom's are in one of the lower female castes in America). I am hoping that J Crew, American Apparel, and The Gap will fulfill my fashion needs. If not there's always Target and Old Navy.

Speaking of fashion, what the hell is up with the short pants thing? Not gauchos (which are hideous in and of themselves), but normal tailored pants whacked off at the knee. Are these not the most idiotic things? Who wears this shit and why? Just another ridiculous trend the fashion industry is trying to brainwash women into buying. Like skinny jeans which was last popular acompanied by big mall hair and a Whitesnake t-shirt. Can't women enjoy comfortable fashions that are flattering and pretty? Why do we buy into this nonsense year after year,collectively flushing millions of dollars away on silly outfits that will find their way into the back of the closet by next season? I can only imagine what good that same amount of money could do for the world-instead women across the nation are coughing it up for skinny jeans and god-awful, enormous designer handbags that look like pieces of carry-on luggage.

Women can be so totally frivolous. It's hard for me to take my own sex seriously.

Matthew 24:42-44

"Therefore keep watch, because you do not know on what day your Lord will come. But understand this: If the owner of the house had known at what time of night the thief was coming, he would have kept watch and would not have let his house be broken into. So you also must be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him."

Yesterday afternoon my uncle Mark, mom's older brother, passed away suddenly and without warning. He was a few weeks shy of his 53rd birthday.

This is an enormous shock to my family. So far, I've managed to keep myself removed from what I can only imagine is a mounting swell of emotion amongst the family members. I haven't even heard yet if there's been a ruling on the cause of death.

Please keep my family in your thoughts and prayers, especially my aunt Brenda and cousin Hannah. I am very concerned how this is all affecting and will affect Hannah. She is only 15 and was close to her father. Her life up until this point has been pretty sheltered. I hope that she will emerge from this loss a strong young woman, and I also hope that I can be there to help keep her from spiraling too deeply into a destructive grief.

Mark was still young and relatively healthy. We just were at his house not two weeks ago.

Death comes in its own time. Life is immensely precious. Too precious to waste on slavish jobs that tear down our health and keep us from our loved ones. Too precious to waste sitting like drones in front of mindless TV or internet distractions.

We are never guaranteed tomorrow.

Happy B'Earth Day To Me

There’s nothing like the violation of a brutal week at work after a relaxing vacation, a four-day weekend followed by five days of pure hell. Yummy. So what do I do in the face of a rapidly increasing mountain of inescapable work? I blog. Run from your problems, Amanda! That’s always a brilliant solution.

Turning 30 was great, especially when I drew out the celebration over a several days.

Adrian and I kicked off the prolonged weekend with an evening at his parent's new river home in Irvington: a beautiful, old farmhouse, decorated in their typical exquisite taste. No phones (except cell phones), no television, no computer. Total relaxation.

We woke Thursday morning having had one of the most restful nights in weeks. On the way out of town, still cocooned in bliss from such a good night’s sleep, future and frequent return visits to the River House were planned. It’s amazing the peace that falls over you just a few hours outside of your normal life.

So, I have this annoying habit of being totally unprepared for ill-weather when traveling. Leaving Richmond that afternoon for Monticello, the sky was clear and sunny. By the time we reached Charlottesville, however, clouds were fast approaching. No sooner had we stepped onto the grounds of Monticello did the wind whip up and buckets of rain fall from the sky. The temperature dropped about 15 degrees. I was dressed for Richmond as we left it, a sunny day in the 70’s: tank top, skirt, and sandals. Bollocks.

A tour of the house got us out of the weather, but unfortunately, we were ahead of the most obnoxious tour guide ever who kept her group literally on our group's heels the entire tour. We’d start to move into the next room, and she would be bringing her people right in on top of us. It got tight at times, what with umbrellas and such. The grounds were gorgeous with some of the biggest tulips I’ve ever seen. Unfortunately, we weren’t compelled to wander much with the rain and all.

I’d forgotten what a totally fascinating and somewhat insane man Jefferson was. I wonder with all his obsessions and eccentricities how he would be viewed today, especially considering the publicity microscope under which we view our public figures.

Of course, by the time we got to the car and were headed out of Monticello, the rain had stopped. Cold and a little soggy, we ventured into the pedestrian mall area of downtown Charlottesville. We scored tasty coffee beverages, noshed on a panini, and indulged Amanda in her love of used and vintage bookstores, of which there were quite a few. Yes, I am a Book Whore. So, while our trip to C’ville was a bit of a meteorological mess, the day was a great opportunity to explore and plan for return trips in better weather.

My actually birth day was pretty low-key. Sleeping in long enough to still catch some morning television (a rare indulgence). There was the opening of copious cards and the presents from Adrian. My husband showered love upon me in the form of Season 2 of Farscape, the Freaks and Geeks sole season, books, and bling. Yes, this Un-Bling Girl now has fabulous, 30th Birthday Bling. You really must see it; my husband and his excellent taste. That evening there was dinner with the ‘rents, more presents, and chocolate ganache cake with pinwheels.

So, now I’m 30. That’s all I have to say about that.

Mad Tea Party will be detailed tomorrow.

Life by the numbers

Recently during a rather dull meeting, I compiled the following list. In the seven years since I started my indentured servitude here at Corporate Hell, I have:
· Worked in four different buildings
· Sat at 14 desks
· Had 11 different managers
· Held six titles
· Called four places home
· Driven two cars
· Used two different last names
· Had three hair colors
· Added two tattoos to my body
· Pierced my ear one last time
· Traveled to one foreign country
· Visited 10 states

Have I frittered the last seven years of my life? Did I goof away my twenties in this god-forsaken place?

I’m sure I could continue adding interesting numerical statistics during the multitude of meetings I’ve been subjected to as of late. But then I don’t think that will help me in my plodding ascent (descent?) through the Rings of Corporate Hell.

Guh.

Happy Fiftieth Birthday Mom!

My cholesterol is 144.

According to the doc, I’m as healthy as a horse. Fifteen days before Thirty, it’s good to know that my body’s not started falling apart quite yet Props to my paternal Portuguese genes. Me and Dad: Two healthy horses. One more thing I frighteningly have in common with him.

Speaking of the impending Thirty, I still haven’t figured out what to do to commemorate the event. Quite evening at home? Riotous evening out with friends? Quite evening out with Husband? Riotous evening at home with friends?

Mad Tea Party?

Yesterday for the first time this year, I wore a skirt bare-legged. Bare-legged in all my Nuclear Winter White with Angry Red Dog Bite Scars glory. The temp peaked in the mid-80’s. This weekend, the weather will turn chilly and rainy. Man, I love Spring in the Old Dominion. Coming soon: The thick film of yellow evil.

Tuesday, my team had a day long meeting/team-building event. After seven years of Corporate Hell, I tend to get cynical about this type of bullshit, but Tuesday’s meeting was actually helpful. I really like our new Tier Five (translation: my boss’s boss). She’s enthusiastic, smart, driven, and compassionate. A far cry from the corporate douche-bags we’ve had to contend with in the past.

I have made a wonderful consumerist discovery: drugstore.com. I can now shop for OPI nail goodness and Neutrogena sunless tanning (Banish the Nuclear Winter White!) products without leaving my desk. Yum.

This weekend, I travel to Grundy with mom to visit my grandmom. We’re going to try and convince her to move to Richmond where she’d be closer to her three children and her two only grandchildren. I hope she can be persuaded. I’d really like to have my only surviving grandparent (I don’t count my bitch-ass paternal grandmother whom I’ve never even met.) closer than half a state away so I could spend more time with her.

Tonight I shop for mom’s Fiftieth birthday presents. I hope I do well with the big 5-OH gifts. I guess I feel like I can never repay all the things my mom has done for me. Any presents I give her feel paltry in comparison.