wine grew on trees. Oh what a happy world it would be. Right?
Reminds me of that Depression-era song on the “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” soundtrack: Rock Candy Mountain, where there are cigarette trees, the jails are made out of tin, etc.
There are two sick pups in the house and one very busy dad. Where does that leave the MomZombie? Dreaming of wine trees . . .
It was 81 degrees on Sunday. Two weeks ago it got up to 91 degrees, beating a weather record made in the 1930s.
Al Gore, Mr. Global Warming, Mr. Nobel prize, you are onto something. This is Michigan. It’s supposed to be chilly. Most Michiganders (yes, I call us “ganders” not “ganians”; this is a long, useless battle here in the Mitten State) revel in this somewhat unusual weather. I do not.
At the risk of sounding like my mother, summer belongs in summer. I do not want to wear shorts and flip flops and tank tops in October. I want to cover my now-pale skin in layers of fleece. I want to wrap colorful scarves around my neck, zip up my knee-high, high-heeled boots and forget about pedicures and leg shaving for a few months. Is that too much to ask?
On to other things: Oh the irony: One year after declaring my newspaper career road kill, I get a tempting offer to return to a level I had not previously been able to achieve. I wrestled and wrangled with the feelings and the logic of it all. But in the end I decided I left for a good reason and that reason still stands. I have built a life, for better or worse, around my family. To toss it all aside to take on a job that would probably pay well, offer me a new level of respect and experience, well, it may be tempting but only on a superficial level. The reasons why I left, for good, are valid. I have a plan taking shape, one that will allow me to live and work anywhere. This follows our long-term course to leave this godforsaken, rust-belt state for higher altitudes.
Oh the agony: The Mr. Half of this union has been traveling on business off and on for two weeks. This is going to be a big adjustment for all of us. On top of that, Girl from the East has been sick, just diagnosed with croup; Girl from the West has a sinus infection. Mom Zombie is about ready to curl into the fetal position and suck her thumb. My challenge right now is to maintain sanity and health. Without doing anything illegal.
Pictures have been obviousy absent from this blog due to lack of camera.
Did I mention I became camera-less on our August vacation?
As to what happened to the camera and the picture files contained on the disk in the case, well, only the Internet knows for sure. Good thing we’re not into “those” kinds of pictures.
Maybe it was stolen from our unattended baby stroller we had to leave in the lobby of the new indoor theater at Girl from the West’s music camp. It was a crazy day at the camp, as cars, campers and caravans of families clogged the narrow dirt roads. Oh, did I mention it was drizzling, too?
Maybe it toppled out of the stroller and into the dense underbrush as we navigated a city stroller over dirt roads and wooded paths. Who knows.
After weeks of bitchin’ and moanin’ over the loss, I’m over it.
Why? I got a new camera for my birthday. You should have seen me doing the happy dance with my Canon Power Shot Digital Elph. So long, outdated early model digital camera. No elph was that behemoth.
I do miss the vacation pictures, which are sadly lost forever. This one posted was from the few shots the Mr. half of this relationship took while we stayed at a very swanky hotel.
I love this shot because for one moment in time we had twin girls. During the adoption process, we agreed to accept twins should they be presented to us. This didn’t happen, obviously, but I sometimes wonder what it would be like.
Like a giddy school girl, I still get a jolt out of finding a hand-written genuine piece of mail in my mailbox.
And by mailbox I refer to the metal, rectangular object affixed either to the side of your house or to a pole at the foot of your driveway that’s generally overflowing with credit card offers, supermarket fliers and other crap.
In this day of Internets and wireless wonders, the art of letter writing, of pen pals (remember that?) and the sending of postcards has become passe. But not for me.
I’m important. I have a collection of paper greetings on the mantel, wishing me a happy birthday. I have the card from my chiropractor, offering me one free adjustment within 12 business days of my big day. I have the card from the local harware store, with a $5 coupon attached. “Hurry in and save on rakes and leaf bags.”
I have a greeting from the health insurance company I dropped a year ago. They still care, but not that much.
I have a card from the guy who rolled over my 401-K. No money inserted in his card, though.
I feel so damn special right now.