Mandajuice

Bacon

It always seems like the moment I go and say something sappy and earnest about my family, they immediately make me regret it. Dave read that last post, called me a liar (in jest) and then promptly began complaining that I was burning the bacon. Which I was. But still.

IT'S BACON.

Shut your bacon-hole and eat it.

Our every day marriage is actually less romantic than perhaps I've led you to believe. In real life, we sound exactly like a young version of Frank and Estelle Costanza. It's a bit LOUD is what I'm saying, but perhaps love and decibel level are positively correlated. We care enough to holler.

In other news, I'm having a Big November. I'm slowly working up the nerve to submit my novel; I've written half of a second one (40,000 words and counting); and best of all, I'm starting a business (that I'm not ready to discuss quite yet, but is pretty much everything I've ever wanted to do with my professional brain) (and a bag of chips). If everything goes my way, it would be the perfect trifecta of awesomesauce - even better than non-burnt bacon.

I would say something self-deprecating about trying not to get my hopes up, but my hopes are already way above my head and honestly, is there really such a thing as wasted hope, anyway?

On LOVE: say yes

The thing is, I've never loved my husband for his W-2. As generous as it was, even in the blinding brightness of 20-20 hindsight, it pales in comparison to how much I love simply having him here. I know I'm going to miss him when he goes to back to work (or when I do) and that's... strange. Especially since part of me so badly wants to miss him right now. So badly wants to kiss him goodbye and know I have the next eight hours (or 10, or 14, depending on his case load) to eagerly anticipate his return.

But the zeros on his paycheck don't matter; they never will. I keep telling him he should go become a park ranger or work at a gun shop or something. I just want him to be happy. I love my husband because he lets me be me. Hell, he encourages it. And in doing so, he makes me feel like the only woman on earth. I can count the number of times I've ever said no to my husband on one hand. Why would I say no to him?

Our love is hot and cold and far from perfect - is there even such a thing? But I'm pretty sure that if we know the secret to a strong marriage, it's this: SAY YES.

To everything you possibly can.

I say yes when the kids are napping. I say yes when they're downstairs watching Mythbusters. I say yes over the phone and by e-mail and if the old man ever figures out how to use his cell phone, I'll text him YES every day. I purr my yes on Saturday night and grumble it at 3AM on Tuesday, even when all I want to do is go back to sleep.

But I never regret it.

From our very first day, I knew I loved Dave because he felt like coming home. Thick and thin - and lord knows in nearly 15 years together, we've had our share of both  - I still want to come home to him. I still can't wait for him to get home to me.

Because big house in the suburbs or not, DAVID is my home.

I may be worried as hell and biting my nails down to stubs, but when I'm lying in bed with two-day old makeup under my eyes, grease-slicked hair and Ramen-breath, blandly discussing the merits of broccoli salad and my husband interrupts me midstream to say "God, you're so beautiful," well, I know we're going to be okay.

The House

Another truth is that we are doing just fine, financially. When mommy is a financial planner, the family gets to reap the benefits in good times and in bad. Sure, our income has been reduced by about 80%, but Dave is getting unemployment and that gives us what we need to pay our bills and still have enough leftover to eat lots and lots of burritos. Sometimes I even splurge on sour cream!

What it doesn't pay is the mortgage. The mortgage has to get paid from our savings account.

And I HATE THAT.

It's PHYSICALLY painful. I've spent years tenderly nurturing our savings and investments and I refuse to squander all that financial security on a rapidly depreciating asset. Deciding whether or not to keep the house is one of those macro financial decisions that after seven years of telling OTHER PEOPLE what to do with their money, I can see with perfect precision.

My professional experience screams in my ear: let it go.

Sure, we are DESPERATELY optimistic that the bank will decide to negotiate with us, the excellent customers with perfect credit who've never been even an HOUR late with a payment, but if they won't, we're trying to mentally prepare ourselves to walk.

Don't get me wrong, I *LOVE* this house, but I've seen SO MANY WOMEN sell their souls to the devil (usually after divorce or death) just to keep what is fundamentally only a roof over their heads.

I'm smarter than that.

I am NOT defined by my possessions. And I will NEVER be defined by any walls.

So yeah, I want to keep this house, but I'm not at all willing to sacrifice our financial security just to do so.

Nanowrimo Day 17

The book is getting juicier by the minute and hence: less bloggable. I spend half my days with the same thought running through my mind: what happens next? WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?

Anyway, here's a sample. Do the Irish know who the Tasmanian devil even IS?

Colin left Leah’s apartment that morning in a Tasmanian-devil-like cloud of haste and chagrin. He’d made love to her a second time, knowing it would not only make him late for his client meeting, but that even though he’d wiped her tears away, he hadn’t had the clackers to admit he felt the same way as she did. Aye, he’d spent the past decade riding everything in a skirt, but the the only way he’d been able to get it up was to imagine that every skirt belonged to her.

The Truth

I keep hoping that if I just continue posting cute videos of my kids and cheesy excerpts from my next novel, I won't have to talk about what's really going on, but it's not working.

The truth is that my husband lost his job two months ago.

Two. months.

Did I ever tell you guys the funny one about how even though he went to college, got a law degree and passed two bar exams, my husband basically still worked in construction? (His biggest clients were construction companies.)

IT'S HILARIOUS.

I'll give you the punch line: FORECLOSURE!

I haven't really figured out how to write about it yet because doing so makes me feel, look, sound and behave exactly like a schizophrenic.

When we first got the news, my mind just buzzed. Rather painfully so. It was a strange feeling I can really only describe chemically - it felt like what happens when you mix red bull with vodka. I was exhausted, but couldn't sleep. I was starving, but didn't feel like eating. My mind was racing through a thousand thoughts a minute, but none of them stopped moving long enough to grasp. My brain had lost the address to the START line and no matter how many times I tried to click "SEND," I could never quite enter the CAPTCHA correctly.

Is that a W or just two V's?  An H or a crooked I?

MY SPAMBOT BRAIN CANNOT DECIDE.

I was stuck in that hyperactive stupor for about a week when out of the blue, I felt suddenly calm, like I was in the eye of the storm. I was done sitting around doing nothing! I was optimistic! I started making lists. I canceled our home phone service to save money, put all the student loans on deferment and polished my resume. After all, I thought, I'm just as capable of supporting our family as my husband is.

A week later I had my first job interview.

A week after that I had my first "thanks, but no thanks."

A week after that I sent out 70 more resumes. SEVENTY.

I got five responses in all: one interview (for a job that doesn't start until February and wouldn't pay more than I'd make working as a Wal-Mart greeter) (not that Wal-Mart is hiring greeters. I checked.), two really sweet e-mails from other financial planners who would love to hire me, but don't have the resources to do so because of the economy, and two phone calls that didn't turn into opportunities.

There were no opportunities.

For the first time in my life, I began to worry that I didn't actually control my own destiny.

Let me back up and work this point for a minute because it's a rather huge one. Up until about a month ago, I'd coddled a much-beloved, deeply-held CORE BELIEF that everything would be okay as long as I worked hard enough. I was in charge of my own life! I could choose my own adventure!

If you decide to finish college and get a job, turn to page 4.

If you decide to move in with your boyfriend and drop out, turn to page 5.

As a mother, wife, daughter, sister, writer, professional, feminist, libertarian, and everything else that I am - I always believed that my life was the sum of my choices.

And as an American, I always believed I'd have plenty of choices to make.

And it was not a good place to be when I felt like I had none.

But it was also temporary.

I still DO have choices. I choose to be a supportive wife. I choose to be here for my kids. I choose to see this house - the one we could lose - as merely an address, as just one of many bright pushpins on our family's life map. I choose to stop worrying about things I can't control. I choose to keep writing and see where that takes me. I choose to stop waiting for the universe to magically drop opportunities into my lap.

Thanks, Universe, but I think I'll start making my own.

Alex's You Tube Tutorial: How to make a sling-shot

Nanowrimo Day 14

Amazingly enough, I'm still on track with my word count. I came *thisclose* to not making it last night, but then I stayed up past 2AM to finish. The only reason I haven't been posting more excerpts is because honestly, I'm getting to some scenes I'd rather not share on my mommyblog. But I have to admit that I'm having a helluva lot of fun writing a romance novel with an Irish hero. The Irish have the BEST slang I've ever seen, which is making my NSFW scenes colorful, if nothing else.

Anyway, here's a fresh chunk to chew on.

“Hungry?” Like every other inch of me, even my voice was shaky.

“I could eat a baby’s arse through the bars of a cot.”

“A baby’s arse?” I laughed. “As soon as I can move again, I promise to feed you dinner.” I tried to slide myself down off his chest, but Colin trapped me there.

“Stay easy. I’m in no rush. I rather like the way yer smothering me.”

“Sorry.” I tried to move again, but he held me tight.

“No, really, Leah. Snooze a bit. Dinner can wait.”

I nodded my head into the crook of his neck and did exactly as I was told.

Vampire Party

So.

NEW MOON is opening on November 20th!

(See right there how I squelched my natural urge to add six more exclamation points? That's called self control.) (You're welcome.)

And since I love my vampires as much as the next middle-aged** mother of two, I'm thinking it's time for a party. We could meet up at my place for appetizers and cocktails beforehand and then carpool to the theater. (We'll find some designated drivers!)

I was thinking it might be better to wait until the second weekend after the movie release just to avoid all the sullen, salivating teenagers.

Saturday the 28th?

Cinetopia Theatre in Vancouver, Washington.

Any takers?

Anyone? Anyone?

Bueller?

If you're local (in the Greater Portland Metro) and interested, leave me a comment and I'll send you an evite.

** I swear that until I typed the words "middle-aged," it had never before occurred to me that I was, indeed, MIDDLE-AGED. Am I? Is 33 considered a middle-age? HOLY CRAP ON A CRACKER.

Still Edward is, like, technically over a hundred years old, so I'm clear.

Hailstorm

In which we overreact to the weather because we still have California in our blood and OHMYGOD, THE HAIL! WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!**

This was the view from the front porch, a veritable winter wonderland.

We had to run out there again a few minutes later when the gutters overflowed and the HUGE FIERY CRASH was so loud, we thought the house had been hit by a meteor.

 

** That is NOT my real voice. That is my EXCITED MOMMY voice. I swear, I'm not that much of a goob. (Actually, I totally am.)

Required equipment for classical coffee-house concert attendance. Apparently.

1) Eye-wear. Preferably something my father would've worn in 1977.

2) A tie.

OR

3) A suit jacket.

4) NOT BOTH.

5) If you're wearing the suit jacket, it requires an ironic t-shirt beneath it.

6) Or a trench coat over it.

7) An iPhone.

8) Modern hair. "Modern" meaning EXTREMELY SHORT and jauntily cut with a razor or TOTALLY A MESS, like honestly, not only do you not own a COMB, you don't even have running water.

9) An earnest expression.

10) Facial hair.

11) No, seriously. I counted two soul patches.