The Mosher Pit

It has not been a good weekend. I had rescheduled my finish date on Ordinary Time to Sunday, but ds came home with a nasty round of viral gastroenteritis (stomach flu) that made its debut on the floor of my car, right in the middle of the American Legion bridge. It took me 3 hours to clean out the car, and I spent most of the night in and out of bed tending to the not-so-little one. You know, when they are groaning half the night, it’s like they’re 2 again.

So small surprise that by the time his dad came to pick him up Sunday, I was showing every sign of coming down with it.

And I did.

Yesterday was a total loss for being unable to move for as much as Saturday was a total loss for tending ds. And today has been productive, as I finally crossed the 3/4-done threshold I had intended to cross Friday.

This will teach me to be ambitious and proud. In asking for extraordinary time, to finish something on a tight deadline I had set for myself that I was taking exceptional pride in doing, I was smitten with not one, not two, not even five, but seven days of stress beyond measure.

I sincerely hope that I was not contagious while I was at EFM. Everything I read in the CDC guides says that you are contagious from the moment you start experience symptoms to about 3 days after the fact, and this is annoying because I won’t be able to cook dinner for the gang at the beach until I’m past that threshold, which will be Thursday.

And I’m weak.

But it takes little strength to edit, and this virus, at least, can’t be transmitted through the computer, so through Ordinary Time I pass, once, twice, magic fingers twisting apostrophes and quote marks and commas to lie where they will.

And nearly 55,000 words of joy. I can’t wait to see the whole thing.

As a footnote: some of you will recall that at the top of my wishlist was a KitchenAid stand mixer. A friend from EFM, as it happened, had an extra. Oh, blessings! In a week of nothing good, that was wonderful. Thank you, thank you, thank you. And R., I think you’re the one I’m most worried about with regard to this bug. Prayers that the CDC isn’t fooling!

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The bright spot, truly, madly, has been copyediting Ordinary Time. Of course, praying for extraordinary time has not worked, and I haven’t been able to tear through it as prettily as I would have liked to, but trust me, the end result will be worth it.

Among the disasters:
-finding out the step’d is sick with an autoimmune disorder. future mister sad. makes darling ME sad. good news, treatable, and lots of folks seem to have it in my online episcopalia.
-gmail has had more stupid “server down, try again later” errors in the past five days than it has the entire time I’ve used it. I’ve resorted to using my long-neglected FTP space to bounce the file back and forth between my two work spaces, but that’s slowed the thing down a bit, and caused me to have to edit NOT IN ORDER, which, to an editor’s brain, is sort of like asking me to paint a la Da Vinci.
-did my taxes tonight, causing me to fall a little more behind, but needed to: the sticker shock, even after deducting the 4×5 workspace I use to run my so-called business of mostly volunteer work was enough to make me fall out of my chair–one, I owe more in taxes than I made in my business despite it being a relatively good year for the business, and two, they’ve underscored just how much of a kickback you get for being a single parent; i lost that claim this year and my taxes tripled. Granted, I made a lot more, but you can see the difference in deductions and exemptions. As a result of this sticker shock, I’m prostituting my editorial services.
-tax blues triggered biological clock blues, causing me to rail at the fact that (a) we’re not married yet and (b) the want-more-kids factor is very lopsided in this household. GAH.

Dear God. HELP!!!!!!!! SEND CALGON OR SOMETHING! OR A WINNING LOTTO TICKET! HECK, AN EXTRA JAR OF PENNIES WOULDN’T HURT!
Sorry for yelling. At least we found out that our prorated rent for May is nice and 3-digit-y.

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The worst part of living in an apartment complex full of people with various ethnic backgrounds is that the thump thump coming from the full-bore bass under your feet sounds like it might be the accompaniment to a Mexican polka. Given that they have been known to raise poultry on their patio (yes, we woke up to rooster calls last summer, not bad considering we live a half block from Interstate 66).

And it is to this grand boom boom that I am copyediting Ordinary Time (you guys are amazing!!!), having given myself the unfathomable deadline of tomorrow night, not realizing that tomorrow night is also the night I have friends coming from out of town. Fortunately, I have a strong laptop. The problem? They are coming into town to DJ, so I’ll likely be copyediting the rest of Ordinary Time to a whole different breed of boom boom. I’m getting my Goth on.

Friends, pray for extraordinary time. Thank you.

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I just got a press release about Hallelujah Acres, talking about how its author was cured of cancer and just about every other ailment by eating a diet prescribed by God in Genesis 1:29.

Future mister, being very invigorated by tonight’s lecture by Marcus Borg, enquires pleasantly as to the content of Genesis 1:29. Seeing as I’m reading Genesis right now for EFM, I am quick to find it, but in the King James, which is more handy than the NSRV, it being buried amid the BOBs (Big Old Books of EFM, or something like that).

And lo, it says:
“And God said, Behold, I have given you every herb bearing seed, which is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree, in which is the fruit of the tree yielding seed, to you it shall be for meat.”

We go and investigate the website of Hallelujah Acres, and sure enough, stop eating animal products, eat more fiber (we sell fiber stuff with various catchy trademarky names), drink filtered water, drink more juices (we sell juicery stuff with various catchy trademarky names), and eat godly (and how many service marks and trade marks can you find on this page–great fun for kids).

So basically, it’s Marilyn and Harvey Diamond meets Pat’s Diet.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a fairly big proponent of getting lots of exercise (even if I’m not always good about getting it), eating less processed food (which most soy-analogue munchin’ vegetarians don’t really get), emphasizing whole food esp. veggies (you don’t want to know how much salad I eat in a week) and whole grains (not many of my friends have millet on hand, but it makes an awesome stuffed pepper); and I very strongly feel that this whole foods diet is an integral part of environmental stewardship and dietary mindfulness. But what would happen if _I_ took that, found a nice piece of scripture to back it up, packaged it with my pretty face on a series of bestselling books and told you I had the key to your health and your salvation in one cozy volume?

You can justify just about everything using any single verse from the bible. Even better is when you take something that already exists, or something that’s supported by research, and say, ah! I’ll market that information to God-fearin’ Christians by making it Scriptural. Chicken or the egg.

Anyhow, it’s true, I do want to write the bestselling books. I just don’t want the merchandising option. No Mama Helcat action figures, thanks a bunch, and ESPECIALLY not in Family Christian Stores.

Well, ok, as long as they don’t sell them on Sundays.

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Those of you what have known me a long time will laugh when you see the revgals friday five.

1) Do you like your hair?
It’s probably my biggest vanity point, actually. I have thick, straight hair that seldom looks bad even when it’s at its worst, although growing it out from short to long presents its share of awkward moments.

2) Have you ever colored your hair? If not, would you consider it?
I first colored my hair bright orange in 1984. I was 13. My natural hair color has made a few cameo appearances over the years, but honestly, most people know to expect my hair color to change every six months.

3) What’s the longest you’ve ever worn your hair? The shortest?
My hair doesn’t work very well too short because it’s so thick. But I’ve had it that short, when I was 15 or so. Longest was in early 2001, when it was down to the middle of my back and in a perfect Jennifer Aniston set of layers. Right now it’s its second longest, right between my shoulder blades. Short hair works best for me when it’s a short, sassy bob, like it was in late 2002.

4) When and what was your worst. haircut. ever?
Probably the mohawk I gave myself in ‘87. I wasn’t brave enough to go for the punk hawk, so it was shaved in such a way that I could still pull the top over it. Thank goodness it wasn’t ever photographed well.

5) Tell us a favorite song or scene from a book or movie dealing with hair.
Hmm. can I write the book or the movie? But I gotta tell ya–I love Patsy from AbFab.

Here is a pictorial history of my hair, still under construction: most of it is between 1999 and present, although there are a few that date back earlier.

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It’s not a done deal yet by any stretch of the imagination, but it appears that our forthcoming homelessness, begotten of a 15% increase in our rent and a humongous tax bill, has become an opportunity. It will, like many opportunities, require some sacrifice, but we may well find ourselves in the unique position of paying our future selves rent.

How is this time travel possible? Through the generosity of the future mister’s family. Both our employers breathed a collective sigh of relief when they found out Operation Shenandoah Valley had been postponed, but they may rethink that when they discover it’s merely a postponement, not an outright cancellation. Our future selves intend to buy a house in Warren or Clarke County, and if all goes well, we will be there before DS goes to high school.

But the lovely thing about this solution, despite the sacrifices it requires (coughcoughlivingwithfutureinlaws), is that we might actually have this weird alien living in our bank accounts in a year or so, the one known as a “downpayment.”

Again, this is not a done deal just yet. I would ask for your prayers that, as we work together to make this a viable solution, we find a harmonious path that allows everyone to thrive and succeed in the long-term.

Also, apropos of nothing, I have “Rest in Peace” from the Buffy musical stuck in my head.

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Apparently, for Lent, I’m giving up my sanity.

couple of bad mojo in the postal mail yesterday has sent me into an emotional tailspin that closely mirrors that mental illness I used to say that I’d beat.

I’d like to give up Northern Virginia for Lent, actually. And find myself resurrected on the other side of the universe where jobs in my field are still plentiful and yet I can afford a house.

I’m really curious to see Geez magazine’s next issue–Lent-themed, I think, and I’m in it. I wrote an essay about temptation that’s directly related to my lack of wealth and the irony that I write most directly about a profession that’s largely about protecting and preserving wealth.

Dear God, I know what I’m going to give up.
I’m going to give up my pretentions as a writer.

And write one of these blasted books inside me instead of talk about doing so. (I realize that’s ironic, but we’ll be here all day on that loop.)

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