You know I'm back, because I'm listing stuff on eBay

Got back from Colorado on the 21st (awesome trip, too much to blog about today) and have been tidying...looking around the house for stuff to list on eBay, in my desperate efforts to make this place look less like a pit.

My other job is Insurance Administrator

I just got my new fax machine yesterday and I swear it will pay for itself in skipped Staples fax fees, stamps, gas, and time before this leg thing is through. Hubby said today that I am working full-time as an insurance benefits administrator, and it sure is starting to feel that way.

On the bright (but still medical) side, I also have been spending a lot of unexpected time at St Mary's Hospital, getting drug screened/infectious disease tested/quizzed on the proper way to lift a patient and protect their HIPAA rights...all because I am doing a freelance writing project for them. It is, in a word, silly.

I keep saying, "You realize I'll never be in contact with any patients, and in fact will only be on hospital grounds, in the administration wing, perhaps one or two hours per month, for meetings?" And they respond, "Yep. Regulations. Take this sheet down the hall." I have already put in about 2 hours just in paperwork/employee physicals. So, let's just hope I end up having a long and profitable relationship with the hospital.

hubby got hired! update

After calls from the singer, drummer, and guitarist in which he was told "the job is yours, man, you're our new bass player," after going out to dinner with the singer and guitarist and hearing, again, "the job is yours, dude," after several practices, after joining the singer at open mike night and being told repeatedly that he "played the shit out of that bass,"; after all this, last night Hubby got the call..."we want you to be our bass player, but we don't want to fire the current bass player. We want to wait until he quits."

This is the bass player they say sucks. The one they say they can't stand as a musician, or on any personal level. The one they know has been stealing money from the band, when he's not just sponging. And, naturally, the one who is obviously not going to quit, because as a member of this band he is tranformed from an unattractive, untalented, mooching jackass loser, into The Bassist Who Gets Attention from Sexy, Drunken Groupies.

Hubby saw this coming. I didn't. I guess it's because these musician types make no sense to me, at all, whereas he's been dealing with their oeuvre since he was a tween. So, he seems less ticked about it than I am.

Perhaps it also helps that his YouTube clips have already attracted the attention of another local band that has asked him to try out for their bassist slot.

But, good grief. How many bands are going to "swear! Man, you are awesome! You are our new bass player!" and then back out before a single paid gig? This makes 2 so far in 2006. I'm going to stop talking about it with Hubby, because it feels like I'm just rubbing it in. But, ugh. Man. Ugh.

Peace Activists in Action

Hubby says they're only doing it to get laid. And if Christiaan Briggs is any example, they take it really hard when they get turned down.

So, ladies, if you can stand it, do what you can for world peace--give a piece to one of those whiny peace activists before they get riled.

One small step for civilization

I'll admit, I'm feeling cranky. Something about lack of sleep, terminal exhaustion and hot flashes. Combine that with yet another interviewee who "forgot" we had an appointment, and I was on a hair trigger when I pulled up at the stop light.

Next to a white guy, trying really hard to be ghetto. Car seat flattened all the way back, arm hanging over the car door, all the windows down, and rap music blasting so loud I could hear it clearly inside my car.

I snapped.

I rolled down MY windows, tuned to the classical station, and blasted violins as loud as I could. He looked over and lurched forward, just about two feet--as far as his car had room to go. He cranked. I cranked. And then the light turned green, and I drove next to him for about a block.

Immature and pointless, I know, but it felt good.

Who's your daddy?

Today Hubby was practicing bass and guitar in the living room. Son #4 walked in and asked him to turn it off. "It was OK at first, but now it's getting a little annoying." Son #1, after a brief bass session, was in the kitchen watching the news for information on Korea's missile testing program.

Pretty weird. Our kids want us to turn off that noisy rock'n'roll music so they can hear the news.

Haircut

I almost never get my hair cut. I tend to push that to the back burner, and have to have been pretty frustrated with my hair for at least a few weeks before I will ignore all urges to the contrary and actually go in for a cut. Mainly because of a horrendous haircut I received about 17 years ago.

This is cheap, and frees up some time, but it makes it hard to establish a relationship with a stylist. I'm that-woman-I-see-every-three-months-for-a-quick-cut-and-eyebrow-waxing.

I have found 2 great stylists here in the Happy Boondocks. One is quite expensive, and her son spends his free time beating the tar out of Son #1. So, not a great option, even though she is a genius with scissors.

The other is affordable, and baggage-free, but SHE QUIT. She no longer works at the Hair Cuttery. I don't know where to find her. Like I said, if I did this more often she would have told me to follow her, but since I hardly ever show up I am stuck.

So, yesterday I went back to the Cuttery, mainly because they have a photo on display these days of a haircut I have always wanted. In fact, in the weeks before we moved to Thailand, I went to a very expensive salon in an attempt to get this very cut...and the hilarious failure that ensued is fodder for a piece I am going to write and sell, so I'm not putting it up here. Suffice it to say I got a radically different 'do, and was mortified.

Yesterday, I also got something far from the photo fantasy cut. I keep running my hand over my hair and saying "whoa, this is not what I'd planned at all."

Two observations:

Firstly, it helps to have a Buddha-like detachment from my appearance. I KNEW, going in, that even if she cut my hair exactly the way I wanted, I would not be transformed into some fabulous-looking glamor queen. I was aiming just for "nice haircut, Frumpzilla". Pretty low standards, right there. So I have discovered that low standards is a one-way ticket to Dontgiveafuckville. The haircut I got is actually very similar to the one, 17 years ago, that made me cry, and I can't rouse myself past mild amusement. The joys of being nearly forty and grossly overweight, folks...not great on a daily basis, but good for mental health.

Secondly, I need to quiz my new stylists. Just because she owns a pair of scissors, doesn't mean she understands that curly hair looks longer wet than it does dry. Forget assuming a professional knows her stuff. Be rude, and let her know.

Cracked Foam

Is, in my mind, another way of saying "ain't no way we're launching".

I'm not sure why we can't get this right. The "environmental wackos are forcing us to use substandard materials" argument makes a lot of sense, though.

I love cashing checks as much as the next person, but

Wouldn't it be simpler to just tax everyone less, instead of using tax money to send monthly checks to people who have children? Canada's child tax benefits are another way to take money from people who earn it and give money to people the government thinks deserve it.

I still haven't heard a good reason for governments to be in the meddling business. But, hey, Canada, knock yourself out.

hubby got hired!

And is now a working bass player. We've been looking forward to this. So, check out some of his old stuff.

Grossly inappropriate for a kid's t-shirt, #2

I first started carrying my camera around because of a thrift store discovery--a T-shirt that would fit a preteen girl, that spelled out "I'm waiting for my conjugal visit" in sparkly letters.

Today, at Ross, I found the young boys' equivalent shirt. But at least I had my camera, this time.

Insufferable, insecure Starbucks people

I'll admit it, I am one. Hubby is more of a Dunkin' Donuts kind of guy--he wants coffee, hot, black, bitter, fast, and in a large container that won't mess up his truck (like his women?). I, however, want to listen to mellow jazzy music while I wait for a fancy, iced mocha thing. Or maybe herbal iced tea. Just gimme some atmosphere, ok?

My super-elastic expanding office

We moved Son #4 into his own room last week. It had been the sun room, used for miscellaneous storage. Yesterday I moved the last big thing out of his room--my filing cabinet. It is now right behind my desk, meaning I file things the second they're ready--not weeks later, when I walk into the storage room. This is an awesome development.

It also required that I move my desk, which meant that I needed to move the couch...if you give a moose a muffin, he's going to want some jam to go with it.

So now I have a larger, more comfortable, organized office, and a smaller, more cramped official living room. I am bucking for a total removal of the living room furniture, since we never really use that for guests, anyway...some day.

Just a temp

Today I took Hubby for yet another doctor visit. While we were gone, there was a powerful rainstorm. The Sons came home, followed by a dog. Now we have an unidentified dog in the house for the foreseeable future. We've posted online, taped fliers around the neighborhood, canvassed door-to-door, and taken her to the vet to scan for microchipping. At this point, there's nothing else I can think to do.

So, Otis, New Dog and I just went on a walk--two dogs on the same leash. Fun.

Not that I will admit it to the children. "Conoco", as Son #3 calls her, is Just A Temp.

update: After just about 24 hours, "Whoopie" went home with her family. All's well that ends well.

Summertime, and where's the damned remote?

The public schools got out 2 days earlier than I expected, so swim team started early, too. So our school year is over and a bit ragged at the end, there.

Let me just say once and for all (and with no small amount of shame and frustration with myself for feeling this incompetent):
--Dad went into the hospital mid-March, for 7 weeks.
--By the time he was home, I was full into May Madness at work.
--The day (the actual, very DAY) I said "I'm almost done with all this work, so I'll be able to catch up around the house and finish the school year on a strong note," Hubby broke his leg in 3 places, requiring surgery, umpteen trips to the doctor, and more bedrest than he can let himself take. He is scheduled to have the pins removed from his ankle during the week Son #2 and I are out of town, and is really not supposed to put any weight at all on that foot until then. He is exhausted and in pain and there's only so much I can do in my role as support person to help out, there.

In the face of this, there's an Adam Sandler movie coming out, about a guy who gets a universal remote that actually controls the UNIVERSE. I want one. I would like to put the world on "pause" until the house is clean, rewind back to make sure Hubby doesn't break his leg, and fast forward through most of these swim meets.

No respect, no respect at all

One of my humor pieces got picked up, so naturally I sent the link around. Mom was mildly disturbed that I wrote about her again (although, to be honest, it is only a fleeting mention and fairly flattering) and Sis wants to know "when you're going to write about me."

I gave her "when I do, you'll be the first to know."

Meth use isn't an epidemic, after all

...according to this study

So, does that mean that they'll stop harassing middle-aged moms who just want to buy enough cold medicine to be able to go to bed and recover for a few days? Probably not. We'll still be justifying our families' illnesses to some schmuck in a pharmacist's booth, because Someone, Somewhere, Might use cold medicine to make an illegal drug.

My editors can't spell, Unintentional Pun edition

It happened again. This time, my editor wrote the following article title:

"Illusions of the Eye: Staring Reggie Rice".

The thing is, I don't usually read through my articles when they're published. I just flip open to the page to make sure they're there, to see if the pictures came out, etc. So if there are editor errors in the body of the article, I might not even notice.

But this is driving me nuts.

I am the lowly freelancer. As editor, it is their (better-paying) job to find MY errors and correct them. Not to create new errors of their own.

Ugh. Grrrr. Grunt. Argh.

Just add it to the stack of clips I can't use, I know.

Whadda MAN

Hubby and I saw the X-rays of his ankle today. The screws are holding his leg together, basically. I am in awe.

Gee, Christine, you haven't blogged in a while...

Hubby went to upstate New York to fill in for a drummer friend. On arrival, he hurt his leg. He stayed up there, camped for 3 days, played drums, kicked butt, drove back down here, and thought, "Hmmmm...perhaps my foot should not be blue."

We spent an afternoon in the emergency room, where they diagnosed a broken tibia. Hubby complained about pain higher in the leg, and was brushed off.

The next day, the on-call doctor said the same. And again ignored all mention of pain elsewhere in the leg.

The third day, our insurance changed, so we had to visit yet ANOTHER doctor. Who said, "This is not just a broken tibia. You need more X-rays."

Hubby's leg is broken in three places.

Three.

Tomorrow he gets pins in his ankle. The Mom-in-law is coming down to watch the Sons while we are gone. Which means that today, I clean. A lot.