Armchair Critic

Before writing Rock the Kasbah, I was a perfectionist.  Consumed with meeting the unique expectations of the various people I encountered.  I made the choice to value the opinions and voices of those around me over my own time and time again. In short, I victimized myself.  Writing the blog started the process of shedding the anonymity I clung to.  Writing the book, solidified I wasn't turning back.  And now, I'm a certified, card-carrying Born Again Imperfectionist.

The thing about being a writer, artist, singer, musician, comedian, dancer or anything in the creative field is everything you create is shaped by your life experiences.  And when you share your work with others, it's open to interpretation and here's the big one, the perceptions of others.  Which are shaped by the reader, viewer or listener's unique life experiences.    

The book was therapy for me.  I relived past hurts.  I looked at minuscule accomplishments that I never thought of as small triumphs and relabeled them.  I examined where I'd been and why and reprioritized where I was going.  I laughed a bit.  But, there were far more tears.  Because change is painful.  It hurts.  Especially, when the walls of deception you've clung to are pulled down and you finally see things for what they truly are.  Then the safety net disappears and you realize, the only person who can save you, is you.

With a hell of a lot of effort and contemplation, I live a far more conscious life now.

The writing, the self publishing and the marketing (that I haven't even begun yet), that's all on me, it's all a gift that I gave myself.  To continue to grow and challenge myself.  Warning:  This book was an extremely selfish endeavor filled with self discovery.  Memoirs usually are.  You might be on a similar path.  You might not.  You might like what I have to say.  You might not.  That's entirely up to you, the reader.  Every single one of us is an armchair critic.

Ultimately, our critiques of others are simply fragments of our fears or our loves combined with our unique life experiences reflected back at us.

Up on the Rooftop

Photo courtesy of melih_ozcanli, via Flickr 

Santa was very good to us this year.  But, that's not what this post is about.  This is about the real gift this year.  That after falling off of the roof back in October onto his head, that my husband is alive.  Although, he might not be for long.  Because it's entirely possible with the dumbass things he  does, that I may be forced to kill him.

In social circles I always get the sarcastic, "So's Craig been up on the roof?"

And the person asking always gets more than they bargained for.

"So, lemme tell ya this story…"

 I've told you before how we found out after we returned from living in Morocco that our house settled by 3 inches in our absence.  This may sound insignificant, but when we arrived home in June, to our house that doesn't have air conditioning, we opened the windows almost immediately. And it let in the balmy breeze, until we realized, we couldn't close our stupid crank out windows from the 80's all the way.  There was an inch or so gap. 

Before winter approached, we covered the windows with plastic and duct tape from the outside.  Anxious to see if the house would settle more before we fixed anything.  We already knew we weren't going to have the house jacked back up to level to the tune of $80,000.  But, we did know we would be getting new windows skewed on the same crooked line as the house so they appeared straight.

Just as we took off our ghetto window wrapping, the crazy Colorado winds came.  And they blew the window to Sky's bedroom clean off.  Yeah, that's how strong the wind gets here.  The kid didn't have a window for 2 months.  It was summer!  And he claimed to like the breeze!  And we don't have A/C!  So give me a break people!  We've got a lot going on over here!

Two weeks ago, we had the winds again, blowing at just the right trajectory to threaten our windows.  Except this winter, my husband fell off the roof and nearly died which has slowed him down a bit.  And, it got too cold too quickly to saran wrap the windows.  Which of course would require getting onto the roof. 

This time it was our bedroom window at stake.   And it wasn't a balmy summer breeze, it was a frigid arctic blast.  And the window was blown open to capacity and shimmying, threatening to take flight.   So I pulled it back in and attempted to finger the window shut, but it won't catch the latch.  Continuing to be blown back open.  Over and over.  Finally I tied a rope from the latch on the window to the bed frame.  If the wind was taking the window, it was getting a two for one at this point.  

 When Craig came home from work he examined the window and I left with the kids to chauffeur them to their after school obligations.  When I returned home, the rope was removed and the window pushed in. 

"How did this happen?" I asked knowingly.

"I just went out the other window onto the roof and pushed it in from the outside."  He said innocently.

"Are you fucking kidding me?  There is fucking snow on the roof!  And it's fucking windy as fuck!  And no one was fucking home!  You are not allowed on the fucking roof!"  

And that's how I almost killed my husband two weeks ago, when he almost died two months prior to that.  

Party Games

I'm not a very social person,  most nights I'd rather be in my pj's with a bowl of homemade popcorn sprinkled with nutritional yeast and a glass of red wine falling asleep to some random movie.  Which is why I still don't know how Titanic ends.  But the Christmas season isn't most nights.  And this year especially, we were invited to a shit ton of parties. We're in social demand. I have no idea how it happened.  I can only assume it has something to do with the recent post about my vibrator.

Most of the parties we've been invited to I've known at least half of the people there.  Which is right at my comfort level.  The 50/50 split.  There're friends who can introduce you to other people.  Or now after much practice and many failed attempts at sociability,  I can be bold enough to start up a very awkward conversation on my own with the assist of a smooth Shiraz.  What I lack in a natural ability to schmooze, I make up for in pure determination to disguise my social anxiety and clumsiness.

Which may or may not have resulted in me spilling red wine on my friend's white carpet at one of these parties. Then trying desperately to clean it up with club soda, but the festive red napkins I used for the job only exacerbated the rosy glow.  Which is probably why I won't be invited back next year.

Most of the parties we went to were extremely Colorado casual and I was extremely unanxious about them.  Except for one.  The one where we only knew the hosts.  And I showed up in jeans.  And everyone else was dressed up.  And the house was much too clean and spotless.  And everyone there was either a doctor or an Olympic athlete and already knows each other from Christmas parties past.  I can do this, I told myself.

The polite small talk commences. 

Somehow, my husband and I end up chatting with the woman at the party wearing a wrap dress hiked up to there and down to there.  Actually, my husband starting talking to her first.  And I know why.  Because.  Boobs.  I know this, because during our entire conversation even I, a heterosexual woman,  could not do anything to keep my eyes from intermittently gazing at them.  And intermittently was using my willpower. 

This portion of the post has been edited out.  

It's about meeting someone that knows someone else you know. 

Then later, through a series of weird coincidences, 

finding out things you don't actually want to know.  

But now you do.

Although these things may not even be true.  

Because they're gossip.

After it was over, I thought of this bizarre new knowledge I'd acquired as an entertaining party game.

Until I started to wonder what the hell everyone was saying about us after we left…

which is exactly when this game stopped being fun.

Cover Story

I wanted the cover of my book to convey so much.  Maybe too much.   Humor, intrigue and exoticism are just a few.  Then I wondered how I was going to capture all that in one image.  And when I thought about it more, I came back to a photo that Jade took of me in one quick take over a year ago.  One that captures my awkward essence. I had it.  The inspiration for the cover.

 Except it didn't look exotic enough.  Or funny enough.  Something was missing. A few things actually.  I'd have to take a new photo.

Back in October,  just a couple of days after my husband fell off the roof onto his head, almost died with an arm that looked like a billy club, I made him use his good arm to take photos of me. We only had a brief period to fit it in while all the kids were farmed out to friends' houses.  Made all the briefer considering we had to work in Craig's daily post accident nap and the fact that we had a  friend stopping over in half an hour.  No problem.  We can fit this in.  What's it gonna take 5 minutes?  Just snap it and move on, right?

Turns out, it took me over 5 minutes just to get dressed.  You try getting into a cold metal coin bra.  And getting your hair unstuck from the intricate jagged metal chain closure.
Without using scissors.
Then walk down the stairs with your roller skates on.

The stage in the front room has the best afternoon light, so we wouldn't need to use a flash.  I wanted to make sure that the skate was in the shot.  Which required I stick my leg way out (even though it doesn't look that way) arching my back while trying to keep the sword balanced on my oblong head.  And all the while I'm trying to make a face that says "WTF".  But, I'm also trying to make that "WTF look"  look pretty.  Not pretty psycho.  Do you know how hard that is?  DO YOU?  Take a break and try it in the mirror.

Craig, with his left arm in a splint raised above his head keeping his wound elevated to keep the swelling down, has the camera in the other hand.  And he's urging me to change it up and give a variety of expressions.  His arms are starting to tremble with overexertion and he needs his nap.  But we still haven't captured "the one" yet.  What we do have is nearly 100 photos that basically look exactly the same.  Of course, this is precisely when the doorbell rings.

"Am I interrupting something?"  Our friend Hillary asked when she sees me with her young son in tow.

"Oh trust me, it's NOT what it might look like", I retort.

After she left, we finally got it.  The one photo with just enough WTFishness and just enough roller skate.  Which I then passed on to my graphic artist friend, Lisa.  I went on-line and bought the image of a gorgeous Moroccan door.  And she brilliantly put it all together to make my cover a work of art.

So, it's totally ok with me if you judge this book by its cover.

(Wait til you see the back.)

***Addendum:  Craig is getting the plate in his wrist that on the x-ray looked like an IUD removed today.  I guess this means I'm responsible for birth control again.

****Secondary Addendum:  It's now available on Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble as a printed book and an e-book!  Amazon is up and running with free shipping even and Barnes & Noble is taking pre-orders until Jan. 1, the "official" publication date.

Friday the 13th

I didn't realize it was Friday the 13th until I was running errands and heard it mentioned on the radio.  I'm not superstitious and the day was going according to plan.  In that not much was planned besides washing my floors of the tell tale post snow mud prints and grime that filled the house.  I was thinking of calling a friend for a spontaneous lunch date.  It's a good thing I didn't.

When I got home and checked my e-mail, two things were waiting for me that I wasn't expecting.  The interior of the book.  And the exterior of the book.  For a moment I was paralyzed, not knowing what to do next.  I knew I needed a copyright.  So I started there.

I didn't get very far with the copyright website, when absolutely nothing happened.  So I started messaging Leah, my mentor, who's been through all of this before with the details of my snafu.  "Contact them", was the answer. But, I didn't see contact information.  Of course, I couldn't see it because I didn't have my reading glasses on.  Until Leah directed my attention to the minuscule 'contact us' button at the bottom of the page. 

Not to be deterred from getting something accomplished, I went to submit the book to the press for printing.  Of course it's not that easy.  It never is.  There's so many things to decide.  The size of the book, paper type, matte or glossy, just to name a few.  Then there's all the information that needs to be input.  The ISBN number, the publication date, the sale date and I don't even remember what else.  Probably because I didn't have my glasses on. And because I had about 10 tabs open, switching between e-mail, messaging Leah, the press, the copyright place, an alternative copyright place, copyright laws, the interior, the exterior, facebook and Twitter.  That's when I finished and placed my very first order for Rock the Kasbah, the printed book.  I was completely elated.  At least for a minute or two.

Until I switched tabs to Twitter and I heard about the tragedy.

The shooting just outside of Denver at Arapahoe High School.  I have two good friends who moved from Colorado Springs to Denver this past summer.  My friend Suzanne's oldest is in middle school.  My friend Mary's oldest is in high school.  But, I wasn't sure which one.  Until I got ahold of her.  And she confirmed the worst.  Arapahoe.  She was trying desperately to reach her daughter on her cell. I can't even imagine the thoughts that went on in her head.  And yet, I can.

OH GOD, MY BABY!  NOT MY BABY!

And,

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THE WORLD?

After a couple of hours, a virtual eternity, I finally heard back from Mary.  Her daughter was ok and she'd be able to pick her up at a nearby church.  It wasn't until 5 that night, after working her way through all the camera crews that they were finally reunited.  And even though she was elated to see her daughter uninjured,  having survived by cowering in the corner of a classroom listening to the gunshots just two classrooms away, she sat alone in the corner of the church, friendless, 'the new girl' while everyone else comforted each other.  Devastated.  

 That this could happen.  And continues to happen over and over again.  

Elation and devastation.

Pole Vlogging

Good Vibrations

Parental Discretion is Advised

After a frantic search for new batteries, shoving them in and then flip flopping them to make sure I put them in correctly without my reading glasses on, I realized it was dead. Then I did the same thing with my back up vibrator.  Which as luck would have it, was also dead.  Are you fucking kidding me?  What ARE the chances?

So, I took matters into my own hands.  No, not like that.  With the keyboard.  Ok, not like that either.  I went to my favorite on-line supplier to order my favorite vibe that tends to have some wiring issues.  I can tell you this because deep in a landfill somewhere are buried about 12 identical vibes. RIP. 

 When you find "the one", the one that gives you the good vibrations in all the right places, you don't switch simply because of a loose wire coupled with the total frustration/excitement of never knowing when and if it will get the job done.  I prefer to just see this as a whole new layer of kink. For free.

It was right after I hit the ship button that the panic set in.  When I noticed the default shipping address I sent it to.  In Morocco!  First I was mortified and pissed at myself.  Then,  I realized it is the season of giving and all and rationalized  I'd  given some Moroccan woman somewhere the best gift of her whole entire life.  Because, they don't sell sex toys there. You have to go to Turkey to score that stuff.  Which is why the flights from Morocco to Turkey are so inexpensive.  It's a frequent flier packed flight every flight.  

Unbeknownst to me, my husband, who knew of the untimely passing of my vibe, stopped at a sex shop on the way home from work to buy a new one for me.  Seriously?  Whose husband does that?  He's awesome. So he brought home this very thoughtful very phallic gift that looked like a doorknob attached to a shark jaw.  Every kiss does not begin with K. Like that jeweller would like you to believe. Some begin with V.  

That's when I told my husband about my new world-wide feminist non-profit sex toy organization.  AKA:  My Moroccan shipping mishap that unintentionally spread the love world-wide.

You may be shocked to know that my fuck ups no longer surprise him.  Nor did the fact that "JAWS" didn't do the trick for me.  It's hard to buy a vibrator for someone else.  But, that didn't stop him from trying.  He went back the next day and bought a second more subtle, less fishy hardware appliance for me.  The thing is, I didn't even ask him to do so.  But you know what they say:  happy wife, happy life.  

Which led to this conversation.

Me:  So, what is more embarrassing? Going to the store to buy tampons for me?  

        Or going to the sex shop to buy me a vibrator?  

        Not that I've ever sent you to the store to buy me tampons...

Him:  Buying a vibrator makes me look like I'm the man.  Buying you tampons means I'm a pussy.

           You're going to blog about this aren't you?

Me:   YUP.

Serendipity

Today is one of those days that I have about 10 different ideas of what I could write about.  Until I realized that all the stories I had to tell had one common theme.  Serendipity.  A seemingly magical force guiding me to something bigger.  Something deeper.  Something meaningful. 

I don't remember the exact moment I decided to make Rock the Kasbah into a book.  But, somewhere along the line while we were still living in Morocco, I did.  It didn't even seem like I had a choice in the matter.  Not from popular demand, mind you.  But an inner voice.  It could be a mental disorder.  Schizophrenia perhaps.  But, I think the voices would be more destructive if that were the case.  Like burn the books.  Or maybe that's just the delusion I tell myself.  

In the early stages when I talked to my favorite Indy author and mentor, Leah Griffith, I shared how kind of ridiculous I felt writing a memoir about myself.  As if I'm so important or something.  And I asked her about writing her book.  She told me she just felt compelled to write it. She just had to do it. Deja fucking vu!  

Leah was the one who introduced me to Laine, my editor.  The one who urged me to tell more of the story and delve deeper than I wanted to go.  And she told me I absolutely must describe every character physically.  Including me.  Do you know how weird and awkward that is?  

As the book progressed, I needed a proofreader.  While I was having lunch with friends, I found out my friend,Victoria, used to be a Copy Editor. Who knew?  Although we were friends, we weren't close friends at the time and she hadn't read my blog posts.  So she was the perfect kinda almost blank slate-ish former copy editor friend for the job.  Because of this intimate proof reader-writer bond, we've become closer friends.

Which is weird, because before I came back from Morocco, I sent the universe a plea.  Please, please bring me more girlfriends.  Women to laugh with.  Women to cry with.  Women to grow old with. Not that I don't have girlfriends, I DO.  But they're kind of like chocolate,  you can't possibly max out and not need more.

Which brings me to Lisa.  My dark chocolate loving graphic designer friend.  Originally, I was going to have my brother-in-law help me design the cover of the book.  Back then, I didn't have any idea what I wanted until I talked to him about it on the phone.  I started to think about all the things I wanted the cover to convey.  Then, I got an idea.  And he got busy.

Which is when Lisa offered to help me.  I honestly had no idea all the little minute details that go into making a book cover.  And she's brilliantly talented.  I can tell you this because it is done and sent to Kristen, the interior layout chick I found through Laine, the editor.

Over Thanksgiving, we went to my sister Kathy's house in Utah.  I didn't think to bring my laptop even though I knew I'd get the interior layout proof from Kristen and the front and back cover proofs from Lisa.  Which necessitated I  download all of it on my sister's computer.  Which I felt really guilty about.  Taking up valuable space on my sister's computer.  But now, she gets to be the first person to read the edited, proofread completed book. 

Do you see how all intertwined this is?  And how everyone in this post is a woman?  Coincidence?  I think not!

On the day of my annual Halloween party, right before most of the guests arrived, the mailman did.  And he came bearing the business cards I ordered.  Because, from everything I've read, I'm supposed to have a business card.  And I wanted one with style.  Which meant I was looking for one with a vintage typewriter on it.

Skip to my birthday.  No.  Actually, on my birthday I was driving back through the mountain pass of Colorado from Utah with 4 whiny kids.  So, skip to the next day when we celebrated my birthday.  And Craig gives me the gift he had bought 8 months earlier.  Long before I ever realized I needed business cards.  He got me a vintage typewriter made by Karmann Ghia in orange to match the convertible car he got me 4 years before.

Serendipity.

When I think about it, I guess there's always been one man helping me with this book the whole time.

Forty Four

Yesterday was my 44th birthday.  And I'm not into big parties and presents.  No, every year I find myself contemplating who I am and how far I've come.  Because that's just who I am.  How do I know who I am?  Through a number of very scientific methods. Like...

URBAN DICTIONARY

MARIE
A French variation of Mary. Also, the name for that irresistibly mysterious girl whom you see around often, yet know nothing about.

The French call her Marie, but I would call her absolutely divine.

ASTROLOGY

Sagittarians are independent, impulsive, optimistic, idealistic, adventurous and ambitious. And they tend to gloss over problems. Wait. How did they know I do that?

MEYERS-BRIGGS

I'm an INFJ (Introverted, Intuitive, Feeling, Judger). We only comprise 1-3% of the total population. So, as such I'm a protective freak. I live in a crazy, cuckoo world in my head where I drive myself to madness with my idealistic ways. Made even more complex by my sensitive, caring nature and highly intuitive insight. Oh and I'm creative and artistic. So, I'm also likely to either cut off my own ear or become an alcoholic. Maybe both.

PERSONALITY COLOR

My color personality is orange. I took the test on facebook many years ago, so I'm sure it's totally accurate. Everything on facebook is. So clearly, I'm adventurous, quick-witted, charming and spontaneous. And playful and creative. But you already knew that.

BIRTH ORDER

As the youngest child from a large Catholic family I'm a persistent, charming, tenacious, uncomplicated, attention seeking clown. It's like they know me or something.

PERFECTIONIST

Perfectionism personality trait characterized by a person's striving for flawlessness and setting excessively high performance standards, accompanied by overly critical self-evaluations and concerns regarding others' evaluations.This is really starting to freak me out.

SPIRIT ANIMAL

A couple of months ago when I was at a friends house, her husband was sure my spirit animal is a bear.  I didn't even know what that meant, until I pulled a card from the deck and wouldn't you know it, I'm a freakin' bear. I mean like conclusively. So I'm courageous, strong and protective. Unless it means I need a lot of alone time, love berries and salmon and can be grizzly at times. Which is also true.

NUMEROLOGY

Ok, I don't know a damn thing about numerology.  But, when I googled my birth name (this is what the website said to use)I apparently have an urge to express myself in writing. I'm drawn to humanitarian and philanthropic causes. And I dream of artistic expression. This is sounding mildly familiar. But, what if I was actually supposed to use my birth year? Which is 1969. What would that mean? I'm just horny?

I think there may be something to all this shit after all...

Vlogger

This is me unplanned and unedited with all the ridiculous, awkward faces I make in regular everyday conversation.  Which is why I try not to converse much.  

 Don't worry, I'll be back in print as planned and edited next week.

The Birthday Season

Mid November begins the birthday season for us, when we have five birthdays in five weeks.  Plus, all the commotion of Thanksgiving, preparations for Christmas and I'm trying to finish my book here.  So, it sucks. It does every year.  And none of us particularly like cake, which is why we switched it up for fondue this year.

So every year I have to double up on gifts to get my kids, all except Jade who had the good sense to be born in June.  Thank god.  Not only that, the boys only want things that explode, shoot things, restrain someone and uranium.  Which I think is an elementally bad idea.  And not conducive to world peace.  The girls…well, Ember would like a cheetah cub.  And Jade would like world peace.  So really, I've got nothing to work with here.  NOTHING!

Not only that, a lot of our friends are also Scorpios and Sagittarians.  So, Jade was invited to a  party scheduled weeks ahead of time.  I technically had plenty of time to take her to the store to choose a gift for her friend.  But, life got in the way and that didn't happen.  So a couple days before the party I was scrambling.

"What do you want me to get for Maddy's birthday?" I inquired.
"I don't know."  She said in typical teen discourse.  Unless that's "I know".  It's one or the other.
"They don't sell I don't know.  Got anything else?"
Tween shrug smirk hand gesture combo.

So when I went to the store to get bubble wrap and the packaging tape I need to ship gifts off via mail, I thought of it.  An itunes card.  Every 12 year old girl loves music.  Done!

When Jade got home from school I proudly showed her my purchase.  "I don't think she has an iPod."  Why did that not even occur to me.  So I fb messaged her mom.  Sure enough, no ipod.  Crap.  Back to square one.  Or negative square one.

"Ok, so do you have any new ideas for a gift?" I beg.
"No.  She likes acting." As if that helps me at all.

The next day, I was back at Target.  Perusing the aisles slowly like a pedophile. Trying my best to channel my inner 12 year old girl.  Scott Baio.  Skateboards.  Baseball shirts.  Jeans with the knees blown out.  Roller skates.  Worms.  Braces, rubber bands AND a headgear.  Ok, this is not working.

Until, I saw it, a cute colorful little pencil bag.  And little lotions and hand sanitizers that smelled like Love's Baby Soft and Brown Sugar.  That's it…BINGO!

When Jade gets home from school on the day of the party, she peers in the bag.

"WHAT's THIS?" She asks with disdain.
"That's an awesome gift.  And if you don't want to give it to her, I'll go to the sleepover and give it to her."

Except there was one huge flaw with that.  I was already going out to a friends birthday party that very same night.  Because it's November people!  And forget about December.  I'm booked all month.

Now accepting applications for friends born in July and August.  I don't know if we're astrologically compatible or not.  And frankly I don't even care.  I would throw you an awesome pool party with slushy drinks.  And a slip and slide.  Unless you prefer jello wrestling.  It would be awesome!

ADDENDUM:  I had this post in my draft file for about 3 days.  It was edited to perfection.  I went to post it this morning and somehow deleted it.  The whole fucking thing.  Of course I did.  Because of course today is River's 14th birthday!  And tomorrow is my sister's birthday.  Do you see what I mean here?  It's freakin' Birthday season people!  And I'm frantic.  Do not get in my way.  Especially not anywhere near the checkout line.

House of Destruction

I've been in a funk for the last couple of days.  And not in a Rick James kind of way either.  I think it's cause it's birthday season combined with the holidays combined with finishing the self publishing process combined with constant stress of four kids.  

Kids who seem dead set on taunting me by destroying our house and everything that's in it.

This is the mark one of them left on the door when he put a piece of packaging tape over the door and then wrote "explosive" in pencil on the tape.  Never mind that I've explained a million times that the only tape that can go on interior walls and doors is masking tape because it's the only one that doesn't take varnish off.

This toothbrush has been on the floor for over 3 days.  I don't know whose it is.  But one of my kids either hasn't brushed their teeth in over 3 days or has decided the floor is truly the best place for it to be stored while destroying their immune system at the same time.  Unless that's storing it in the toilet tank.

Leaving the pantry door open constantly, isn't in and of itself destructive.  But if our dogs eat the kids breakfast cereals and snacks and get type 2 diabetes, then it is.

The other day, the kids thought it would be fun to switch all their pictures on the wall, to when they were little.  Now the little metal tabs are all screwed up and no one hangs straight.

Last night, while I was making dinner, the kids were playing quietly together in my room on the stripper pole, I knew something was up.  But, I didn't dare go up there because I was in my happy place cooking.  I was not in my happy place when I was cleaning up after dinner and discovered that they took all the sheets off my bed and somehow got an ink stain on my bedspread.  Really?  They know my bed is off-limits.  Not that it matters.

But, the kicker came this morning when a plant was watered.  I know that sounds nurturing and sweet. Except it must have been watered via monsoon because there was water everywhere.  And if you look to see what's below the plant, yup, it's my computer stick drive.  With my book on it.  That got drenched!

And when that cord of wood got dumped in my driveway, I thought stacking it would give me some stress relief.  Yes indeed it would.  Because the kids are gonna stack it all outside the house.  As penance for their crimes of destruction.  

And I might not let them back in.

Broken Record

It's the middle of Saturday night and I'm crazed and won't be able sleep until I get this all down.  Oh, this was scheduled to be a funny post about Ember and Craig's birthday on Friday and how I had lunch with my friends instead of Craig because he got lost in the gluten free, lactose free artificial coloring hoops I tried to jump through for Ember to bring a birthday snack to school.  That's a run on sentence isn't it?  I don't even care because I'm so pissed right now.

Somehow, when my boys were little they could flush a toilet.  Consistently, every time they pissed in one.  Somehow a decade later, flushing a toilet is a tedious unsolved mystery of the universe.  And every time I venture into their bathroom, which isn't much, because I'd rather enter the NIH without a bio hazard suit with free floating Ebola, there it is, a big bowl of frothy teenage boy piss.  Along with the toothpaste globs and black footprints on the white bathmat.  So it's clear, the soap, is the same bar from the last year, and it never touches their feet ever. Either that or we've discovered the never ending soap bar. Yet, they do get in the shower.  And it's a really long affair when they do.  Although, I know for damn sure what's going on in there besides washing.  Which is precisely why, I'd rather not think about it.

The girls however, shower in the master bathroom shower.  My shower.  Which is why every time I get in there I almost wipe out on my ass from the thick patina of conditioner covering the basin.  Plus, there's a big pool of water like a wading pool because the drain is clogged with long strands of hair.  Ok, so most of them are dark, and I'm the only brunette with long hair.  But, let's ignore this fact for now.  Because this isn't about me.  In fact, this is totally NOT about me.  And how I'm inconsistent with following through with the kids.

This is about the kids.  And how they take advantage of my lackadaisical follow through.  And how that keeps me up at night.  In tears.  Frantically keyboarding, when I should be sleeping, but can't because I'm feeling like the shittiest mom ever.  And crying.  And uncontrollably angry like I'm gonna turn into the hulk. Until I'm feeling like the world's shittiest mom again.  It's a vicious cycle.  If you're a mom, I'm positive you're familiar.  I'm not the only one right?

I could go on and on about how I have to remind each kid 4 times each to do the most mundane of things.  Rinse and put their cereal bowl in the dishwasher, close the pantry door so the dogs don't eat all their school snacks, brush their teeth, do their homework.  The list goes on and on.  And when you calculate all the reminders I give in any one day, it's well over 100.   And this always elicits the same response from them, "I know".  Said in sarcastic teenager tone.   Even though I only have 2 teenagers, they all have the same teenage attitude.

And I just sound like a very distant broken record no one is even listening to.

So, tonight, after they go to bed and I find the left over Halloween candy I meticulously hid in the Victrola (because no one EVER looks in there).  Someone, ok, Sky, looks in there, moves the bag of candy on the floor and plays some old records. Really?  Cause he could have just listened to me. Again. I remind him to put the sweets away or the dogs will eat it and they'll get sick.  Again.  Like the time I left the pizza dough rising on the counter.  I reminded him of this fact several times.

Long after the kids have gone to bed, I find the bag of candy laying on the floor.  And then head up the stairs to find a whole heap of Jade's bedding on the floor in the hallway.  Bedding I changed 2 days before when she barfed all over it and the carpet and anything else remotely in her vicinity. She was sick and I was completely sympathetic cleaning up chunks of lasagna mixed with stomach acid off of her off white carpet. The next morning, I cleaned it all over again, because it still smelled like vomit.  And put on the only clean sheets and blankets left in the linen closet after Barfest 2013,  an extra set of  "boy" bedding.

I was mad, but I could move past it.  Or so I thought.

That's when I went back downstairs to find the keys to the safe.  Where we have to keep things like tape and batteries, in addition to adoption paperwork and other important things. Ok, we really need to keep everything in the entire house in the safe to keep things safe from the kids.  Never mind why I had to go into the safe mind you….

But, of course I couldn't find the keys.  And was totally enraged because obviously the kids found the safe keys and moved them.  Because this is what they do.  Things like this that make no sense.  I tried to just go to bed and forget it.  But Craig started talking about how Sky had batteries for something the other day.  Which sent me over the edge.

Obviously he moved the keys, left the candy out and is the purveyor of all the piss and leaver-opener of the pantry door.  In my head I went through everything he'd ever broken, lost, destroyed, mishandled, misplaced and taken apart.  Which is a considerable long list.  I was so mad I couldn't contain myself.  So I went in his room, flipped on his light and started going through his desk. Of course, Sky was awake.  Probably because he heard me swearing every cuss word known to man in my bedroom, while I assumed he was asleep.  This is just one small reason I make a shitty Santa Clause by the way.

During my mid-night tirade. Craig found the keys to the safe.  In my purse.  And just like a broken record, I'm back to feeling like the shittiest mom in the whole world.  Because clearly, I am.

This is my confession.  

The Secret

I was talking to Victoria, my friend and friendly neighborhood proof reader of Rock the Kasbah, the book.   Expressing my last minute pre-publishing-it-will-never-be-absolutely-perfect jitters to her when she told me about The Secret.  I'd never heard of it, but was intrigued, as I am with many metaphysical concepts.   It could sit on my office bookshelves right next to one of the classics in the genre, How to Heal Your Life.

But, I didn't have the time or the inclination to actually buy it, so I reserved it at the library.  It didn't come in right away.  Apparently, it's pretty popular.  The day after I discovered I lost the partner to my oldest and most favorite pair of earrings, it arrived.

The first thing that's no secret when you lay eyes on the book is, the cover and the interior look completely hokey.  And I say this as a person collaborating with my graphic designer friend, Lisa, to make a book cover that does not look completely hokey.  It looks fresh off the Disneyland press or something.  At this point, I can confirm, there will be absolutely no mouse ears or cheesy looking wax seal on my book anywhere, fyi.  But, in an effort not to judge a book by its ridiculous cover, I pressed on.

And found out that the secret about the secret is, there's absolutely nothing to lose.  There are no crystals to buy for a shrine of the secreters who have come before us or feathered quills and waxy seals with which to write testimonials that will be featured in a late night infomercial.  It's really pretty simple.  Be grateful for what you already have.  Feel like you already have the things you want.  Believe it.  And the universe will provide it, whatever it is, for you.  That's it.

Of course, simplicity is much more complex than it seems at first glance.  Quelling self deprecating thoughts you've had your whole life doesn't just happen overnight.  It takes hard work and discipline to reprogram yourself to think positively with intention.  Especially when you're gifted at self deprecating thoughts, like I am.  But those result in self sabotage.  Ok, yup, I see a pattern in my own life here. To change that, I need to change my attitude and  rewards will begin to manifest themselves physically.  Ok, it hasn't actually worked for me yet.  And to be honest, I haven't actually finished reading the book yet.  Maybe there's some buying overpriced crystals mentioned at the back of the book I don't know about yet.  Or purchasing the book is mandatory.  But, I don't think so.

Anyway, I'm starting small like the book suggests.  I'm starting with those earrings.  I really feel like I'm going to find it.  I believe this with all of by being.  Ok, some of my being.  Kindof.  Unless I inadvertently left it in the farmhouse in Costa Rica.  Stop doing that!  Think positive dumbass.  Ok, I totally feel like it's here in my house somewhere.  I can visualize it.

Oh god! Please don't be in the crawl space with the Ouija board, cause that's gonna freak the hell out of me…

To be continued...

Birthright

As many of you already know, our four kids are adopted from Russia.  And none of them are natural siblings.  Let me be clear though, they do hate each other just as much as natural siblings.  When they were little we had lots of books about adoption, I spoke my college Russian to them and we were in a Russian adoption group trying to keep their heritage alive.  This is their birthright.  Well, and the boys have the additional birthright of possibly being called to serve in the Russian military at 18.  And Ember's birthright was born in the town that makes AK47s.  Coincidence?  I don't think so.

As the kids have gotten older, a lot of these good heritage intentions have fallen to the wayside.  Because we're just wrapped up in homework, puberty, getting drugs out of the kids schools in addition to the constant stress and worry about how much our auto insurance rates are going to jump when Sky gets his license in about a year.  And we're also trying to drive home the idea to never, ever, ever text while driving.  I didn't even mention we're reffing the fights over who stole whose Halloween candy or that Sky just got certified to referee soccer games.  Which we're going to have to drive him to and from.

Last week we were driving back from Serenity Springs, a big cat sanctuary near us where the kids all got to hold a 9 day old tiger cub.  That's when she said it.  From out of the blue.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm in the orphanage dreaming my future."  

I was so overcome with emotion I didn't even know what to say, plus I was busy searching my purse for my notebook to write it down.  Sure she'd never say it or anything like it ever again.  Or that I'd heard it wrong.  Because Ember isn't a flowery child.  She's an abrasive self starter with no lighter fluid necessary.  Then she said it a second time, in the same week.  I had heard her correctly the first time.  And when she said it the second time, she wasn't under the influence of cute little tiger cub or having just seen a magical liger.

She meant it.

So I immediately went into insecure adoptive mom guilt mode.  Feeling like I had neglected to nurture a part of them.  The part that may wonder and feel rejected.  Because in order for us to be their parents, their birth parents had to give them up.  Then I said what I've said many times before.  "We'll help you find your birth parents if that's what you want to do."  And none of them want to. 

Maybe we didn't choose them from an orphanage after all.  

Maybe we chose each other.

Workweek Style

I absolutely love clothes.  When I was in high school, it was my dream to own a men's clothing store.  This was before I figured out that while I love fashion, I hate sales and numbers of any kind.  I found that out when I failed an accounting class in college and promptly changed my major from business to the extremely impractical political science.  Why didn't I just get a philosophy degree?  Hmmmm....let me think about that.

Anyway, now,  many useless post collegiate years later, I'm happy I work from home in my comfy clothes.  But, sometimes, I miss dressing like a professional.  And I secretly ogle and long to buy work clothes when I'm out shopping.  So I can dress myself for a life I don't live.  Again, completely impractical.  

That's when I decided to dress like I was going to work in a cubicle somewhere for a whole work week.  Which confused the hell out of my family and friends.  And embarrassed my already chronically embarrassed kids.

MONDAY

I thought I'd start the week out with a bang.  A colorful dress, pretty patterned tights and heels.  Yes, heels that I actually used to wear in the mid nineties when I was a professional.  Not that kind of professional mind you.   When I went to pick up my youngest from school, I ran into my friend Lynn.  Who did a double take, turned around and stopped to comment.  "Are you wearing a dress?"  Which of course was just the beginning of the are-you-having-a-mid-life-crisis comments from friends.

THOUGHT:  When the hell can I get into my jammies?  Cause I'm sick of trying to keep the girls jacked up and wrapped up in this getup.

TUESDAY

I'm calling this my librarian after hours biker look.  The photo doesn't show you the impressively subtle coordinated herringbone print layered in the sweater, skirt and tights.  Let me just say, that this outfit was comparably more comfortable than the day before.  Save the droopy crotch on the tights, which just makes you feel like a toddler with 5 pounds of pee dragging down your diaper.  And the buckle on my biker boots ripped a hole in them when I uncrossed my legs at the computer.  So I ended up looking a little rougher than I intended by day's end.

THOUGHT:  Looking professional is itchy and I'm starting to look psychotic constantly scratching myself.

WEDNESDAY

This is a pretty good reflection of my tomboyish style.  Wearing a thrift store shirt I bought for my husband *ahem* that I have borrowed.  Which is very reminiscent of the way I dressed in high school when I stole shirts from my dad's closet.  But I had a mullet then, so it was harder to distinguish that I wasn't a boy back then.

JADE'S THOUGHT:  "This is what you think people who work in an office dress like?"
EMBER'S THOUGHT:  "Who's making you do this?"

THURSDAY

This was a big day.  I was meeting the assistant principal of the high school about the rampant drug problem.  I've been told more than once that I appear younger than I am, I thought dressing up might help me to be taken more seriously. And I wanted to intimidate him.  Which meant boots, for kicking ass.  I desperately wanted to say "LICK MY BOOTS" during our meeting, to further establish my dominance.  Ok, just to entertain myself.  But, I restrained myself and instead extolled a quiet power.  All ninja-like,  sitting myself at the head of the conference table.

THOUGHTS:  Say yes to the dress. I need to channel my inner ninja, wear boots and kick ass more often.

FRIDAY

Ok, you did no doubt see casual Friday coming, right?  Cause by this point, I'm freakin' sick of being uncomfortable.  And worrying about getting dog hair all over my black dress and whether we have a lint brush or not. Then there's taking the time to coordinate the accessories and taking the dogs for their mid-day walk and worrying I'm going to get shit on my dress clothes whilst picking up dog shit.  So today it's comfy funky patterned pants with my funky Moroccan jewelry and converse. Of course this doesn't show up well in the photo.  But don't worry, you'll see this outfit again. Much to my kids chagrin.  Because this is probably the best example of my tomboyish, simple, but kinda bohemian style.  And these are the only shoes my dog Bonnie likes.  She doesn't recognize me and barks if I wear anything that clops.  

THOUGHT:  My boss is a nit picky perfectionist bitch, that makes me do crazy shit like dress up all uncomfortable for the week.  Oh, wait, that's me.  But since I'm self unemployed,  I can do whatever the hell I want whenever the hell I want to.  

If you want to check out my everyday style, you can click on this old post from when we lived in Morocco.

And if you just can't get enough of these style posts, here's the second in the trilogy, which includes the outfit I wore on House Hunters International Morocco.  For my two second tv debut in the party scene where I'm making ridiculous faces.  

Have it Your Way

If you're as old as me or older, you may remember the old Burger King "Have it Your Way" advertisement campaign.  It seems innocent enough.  We all want to customize our lives.  To solidify our individuality.  What's the harm in that, right?

A little more than a year back in the States after living Africa with my four kids, where they had it any way it damn well came.  I can tell you, there is harm in that.  And I tell you that after observing my children both with and without.   The downside to having it exactly the way you want it, is knowing how the hell you want it in the first place.  And the upside  of going without is being happy with what you do have.

Knowing how you want it means considering a considerable number of options these days.

When I was growing up, sharing a station wagon with 5 other siblings meant you were squished and uncomfortable for hours on end.  That was a given.  If it was a hot day and the window was open, your hair would fly in your mouth.  If you were sitting next to a sister, their hair could also be in your mouth, blown in by the hot August air and the fact that my parents never bought a car with any extras like air conditioning.

It was uncomfortable, which was no surprise,  and one accepted it.  Because there wasn't another choice.  Well, besides my dad stopping the car to make sure you knew there wasn't another choice.  So really, no other choice.

Today, I am the owner of a top of the line minivan with a DVD player, adjustable seats, and enough elbow room for each kid. And I hate it.  Because my kids "needs" have increased  with the increased options.  The chair needs to be adjusted to just the right angle, as does the heat and/or air.  They are obsessed about the song on the radio, and are intolerant of any songs they don't personally care for.  Even if their sibling does.  And let me just confirm that all of their conflicting song choices suck by the way.  Because none of it is anything I want to listen to.

When I was growing up, the radio played the news.  That was it. And no matter how many times we heard that news story repeat throughout the day, we were going to hear it again. In the car.  Throughout the house.  And while eating dinner.

Growing up in a large Catholic family, I didn't have a whole bunch of choices.  And looking back now, I'm really grateful for that.  I didn't spend my time wanting.  I spent it outside with the minimum amount of stuff.  An air rifle to shoot mud at my siblings and a pair of stilts.  What else do you need?

I feel sorry for the kids of this generation and the constant choices that they have.  Really, think about how many choices they have during their day.  Between food, entertainment and electronics alone. Because when you have too many choices it becomes overwhelming.  And completely stressful.

Of course my kids don't see any of this.  But I do. Not only do I witness it everyday through them.  But, I feel it in me too.

And I long for the simplicity and not having it my way, but any way it comes. And adjusting my expectations and prioritizing what is worth stressing about. Instead of stressing about everything.

Cause when you get down to it, there's not that much that's truly worth the anxiety.

And we all deserve to be happy.

ADDENDUM;  If you know me from way back in high school, no I didn't work at Burger King.  For the umpteenth time, that was Michelle Nolan.  Yes, we were both quiet brunettes and shared the same initials and we sat next to each other in homeroom.  However, I worked at McDonalds. She worked at Burger King.  We are not the same person.  Which probably only added to the confusion.  But, have it your way and believe what you want.

Ideal Image

How I see myself.  Blurry and snarky.

I'm not talking about laser hair removal here.  I'm talking about social media image.  As I meet more people on the internet, preparing to market my book, I'm increasingly concerned.  I want to come off as I am in real life.  The problem is, when your medium is writing, print can be misconstrued.  Especially when  small abbreviated quotes are taken out of context. Which is exactly what Facebook and Twitter are.

I've always felt like an outcast in real life.  I've never felt like I truely fit in one particular group.

I'm athletic, but I'm not super competitive.  I was never that girl in high school PE who ran in directly in front of you to return the volley ball.  That was Lisa Crenshaw.  And Alisha Sheufelt.  Field hockey was a different story entirely.  And if I smacked you with that little hooked stick, I'm totally sorry.  Now.

I'm completely dorky.  But, I'm not 4.0, math club, Dungeons and Dragons, read the encyclopedia dorky.  Ok, there was a brief period when I read the encyclopedia for fun.  But, I didn't make it past "K", which makes me a dork-loser as far as dorks are concerned.

Some readers have commented that I seem like an extrovert in writing.  Which couldn't be further from the truth.  I'm 100% introvert.  I commit crimes of personality and force myself to do things that make me uncomfortable.  All the freakin' time.  But you will never, ever see me dancing on a table top relishing the attention of a crowd.  Ever.  This is completely against my nature.

I may come off as a narcissist to some with the photos I post.  But, I assure you it comes from a place of   deep, deep insecurity.  I'm only trying to make up for the gangly, bad hair, acne years, which only ended about 5 short years ago.  And I'm in desperate hate with my huge forehead, pasty white skin, small teeth, pointy chin, long face and thin disgusting hair exacerbated by a receding hairline.  And I only have one angle/look that remotely works for me.

What I do pride myself on, is being awkwardly funny.  But, it comes from a very serious place.  I never want to make anyone laugh at someone else's expense.  I don't want to be too vulgar and I believe shocking people for the sake of shock value is a gimmicky. Anyone can do that. It's extremely important to me that the things I write and do have a message and truth in them.  And that it's subtle and doesn't beat you over the head.  Hopefully, just cracking open the door to think about things in a different way.

When the book comes out, even more of me will be revealed.  Which is a very vulnerable place to be, especially for someone who is essentially, a very private person. But, in the end, people are going to think whatever they want about me.  Or not at all.  I'd just prefer to be hated for who I truly am, rather than liked for who I'm not.

Ultimately, each individual reader will form their own ideal image of me based on their own perceptions, history, insecurities and truths.  I relinquish control.  As if I had any anyway.

The Seance

I was still freaked out by Saturday nights Ouija board session when my friend Victoria sheepishly asked if I wanted to go to a seance to watch the professionals get their spirits on.  Yeah, of course I do.  And maybe someone there would have advice on what the hell I should do with my Ouija board.  Destroy it?  Or is that bad juju?  Temporarily, its being stored it in the crawl space in our basement for lack of a better idea.

Yesterday was a cold, dreary day here.  Perfect weather for navy bean and kale soup from Whole Foods in the afternoon and conjuring up the dead in the evening.

Victoria picked me up and we were on our way, we were right on time, until we missed the turn.  What were we thinking?  That we mere mortals were in control?  No.  The spirits had a plan.  Clearly, they wanted us to know there were hidden apartment buildings you can't see across from Marshall's until you turn in.  I'm sure there's significance in this.  I'm just too small minded to see what it means in the bigger plan.  Yet.

Miraculously, or serendipitously, whatever, we arrived just in time before the doors closed.  To a hot room jam packed with people.  Thank god we weren't doing Bikram yoga cause someone would've gotten elbowed.  We had a seat and the medium began.   Two things became very clear right away:  1.  She was a medium range medium, at best.  And.  2.  I shouldn't have eaten that navy bean soup.   Because now my gut was bubbling with the worst gas I've ever had.  Not only was it extremely painful, it rumbled loudly and sounded like a spirit was stuck in my intestines and screeching and wailing to get out.

So I did the only thing I could do.  Sucked in my stomach muscles whenever I felt the gas in an effort to muffle the sounds and then roll it down to the lower abs when the gas moved, like a belly dance roll.  Until it moved down to the sphincter and I  clenched my ass with all my might.   Praying to god it didn't reek the way it wrenched.

While I was otherwise occupied, we'd already been visited by Steve McQueen, who apparently liked old cars and told his sister she had a pebble in her purse.  Who the fuck doesn't have a pebble in their purse?  And a photo?  Wow, no one has that!   And really?  That's your message from beyond?  "Hey there! It's me, your long dead brother.  By the way, there's a pebble in your purse."

Then there's "that" lady who's a total spirit whore who won't shut up with her dead people commentary and how everything relates to her.  She was visited by her dead fiance and someone else, by that point, it didn't even matter.  She'd felt their presence in the room she claimed.

So, since I'm fucking dying of gas pains, I try my own little internal spiritual test.  Mom, if you're here, give me a sign by relieving my gas pains.  But don't make me fart a horrendously loud stinking fart.  Thank you.  Unless I'm supposed to say amen.  I'm not sure.  Fill in the appropriate salutation here.  And.  Absolutely nothing happened.  Unequivocal proof that this whole seance thing was a sham.  But forget hot yoga, I did get an incredible ab and ass workout.  So it wasn't all a wash.

Although I should have just let it rip while announcing, "Listen, I think Steve McQueef is speaking through me!"

We left completely underwhelmed.  Victoria confirmed it sounded like I had a demon in my gut and I insisted she drop me at the end of my driveway, so I could let it all out on the long walk up.  Of course that's not what happened.  Oh, I farted all the way up, but I wasn't done yet.  And when I started to tell Craig the story, I let out some more evil spirits mid conversation.

Then, I was laughing, farting and there's a slight possibility I was also sharting.  But, I won't confirm that.

The thing is,  I still don't know what the hell to do with my Ouija board!   Maybe I should skip the middle medium person and consult with it directly.  What I do know for a fact is I shouldn't eat any beans today.

Black Magic

Every year we have a Halloween party.  I handle the food, invitation, cleaning, cooking and nuts and bolts of the operation.  While Craig heads up the fun and games committee doing the decorations and scavenger hunt.  Craig claims he does this all for me because I love Halloween.  But, I don't think it's all as selfless as it seems.  Because he loves this stuff and is completely meticulous, going way above and beyond every year.  He started building things for the party a couple days after his near fatal fall off the ladder.  And I couldn't stop him.

He made this winged tombstone.

And this one, he worried might offend some people.

Rounded out with your standard RIP, just to keep it traditional and classy.

And this one, the open grave to freak everyone the hell out.

Then he made a cemetery sign to tie it all together.

Now, he's doing all this with his one good arm and a broken face looking like a version of Frankenstein.  My sister sent him this nut cracker that bore a striking resemblance.  What's funny is when  Craig was in the hospital with a concussion and didn't know what happened, he made it a priority to check and revel in the fact that his nuts were ok.  No joke.  Making the nutcracker even more hilarious.

Ember was completely alarmed when on the morning of the party she saw this.  And came running to me concerned.  "MOM, DAD'S ON A LADDER AGAIN!"  This time, he didn't fall on his head, thank god.

But, he did make a Ouija board from scratch for the party. 

And a psycho killer in our shower stall.  

He even made a chalk outline of exactly where he landed on the driveway just a few weeks before.  If you look close, you can still see the eriee real-life blood stain he left behind.

 One of our friends came to the party dressed as Craig.

(I'm sure his nuts are ok too.  Although I didn't ask.)

This is Craig and I at the party.  Do you know what we are?

BONUS-BEHIND-THE-SCENES-ALMOST-MIDNIGHT STORY:

Near the end of the night, while the kids took over the karaoke machine, one of my friends suggested a group of us ladies go down into the basement and play with the Ouija board.  Why not?  It's just board with some Sharpe on it. It's not like it's gonna work or anything. 

But, I was wrong.

The six of us sat around the board lit by a black light.  Two friends started by welcoming the spirits and putting their hands on the planchette.   And we all freaked the hell out when it started moving.  Without anyone pushing it.  In fact, they were barely touching it.  And then we had no idea what the hell to do.  So we asked it it's name.  And whether my friend Judy would take that dream trip to Italy. It painfully slowly creeped to "yes".  Which leads me to believe she may have to kayak to get there.

Then, it was my turn.  

And these days, I have one big question on my mind. Will I get published?  And it went crazy.  Linda and I had our hands on it and it swirled madly across the outer edges of the board about 3 times before it landed on the sun.  Meaning.  Ask me in the morning, I'm not a night person.  Or.   Something good is going to happen.  And all of us were completely freaked out.  

Before we went to bed, Craig put the board outside.

Despite this, I still couldn't sleep.  Going over and over whether we had said "goodbye" to the spirits before we left to go upstairs.  We did.  And now, I'm going to pack up the Ouija board and not use it again.  Probably.

Craig asked me if I wanted him to destroy it.  But that seems even scarier than keeping it.  Maybe we should bury it in the open grave...