When Life Hands You Lemons... Gonna Need Sugar. Lotsa Sugar.

Mark turned twenty-nine yesterday. His job gave him the most unusual birthday present: his two-week's notice. Yup, Mark's been laid off. (If you had told me five years ago that both my husband and myself would lose our jobs due to down-sizing before the age of thirty, I would have laughed myself silly.)

We're both holding up fairly well under this. The DDJ is investigating whether they can afford to take me back full-time. Mark's working the network he's developed in his few months at this company (with the full support of all the higher-ups; I think they might feel even worse than we do about this). We're both scrying all job opps in Phoenix and in Tucson (one bonus to living in Casa Grande is that the north side of Tucson is about as far as downtown Phoenix, once you count traffic). We're poised to start calling in favors and/or flipping burgers, whichever's going to make sure we don't default on our very first mortgage. Mark's got some unexpected, unbudgeted poker winnings that he'll try to increase. I've got a couple of short stories that need some revision and might be able to bring in a check and a pub credit eventually.

In short, we're stressed but committed and able to keep this roof over our heads and food in our mouths. My big fear is that, in the quest to keep the cash flowing, we'll both have to start sacrificing our dreams (poker and writing) or twisting them into things we never wanted them to be (desperately needed income sources instead of fun, fulfilling hobbies/vocations). So my goal in all of this mess (other than adjusting my work situation to get us more money ASAP) is to keep our dreams as pristine as we can.

Also heavy on my mind is making sure we don't sacrifice too much family time in the Search for More Money. What good is providing for Drew if we become strangers to him? So I'll be focusing on keeping quality time with the Boy a high priority as well.

I suggested a magic wand for a problem at the DDJ the other day. I could think of a few other applications at the moment.

Effective Viral Marketing

YouTube is a marketing gold mine. Case in point: this spoof music video from the movie Music & Lyrics. It's far more effective than any of the trailers I've seen for the movie, particularly in that it clearly indicates the movie is going to have lots of fun at the expense of 80s cheese pop, and that is the only thing that makes me interested in this movie beyond "Oh, look, another romantic comedy with familiar leading folks. Maybe I'll catch it on DVD or look for it on TV. Maybe."

One thing the video shows is how Wham! and Tears for Fears were basically the same deal, but with slightly different hair. And that the 80s cheese pop will be missed solely for nostalgia's sake, not for any great artistic value. Still, good times.

Deciding the Check-in

I went to Tucson's RWA chatper meeting today. It's a bit of a drive, but it's a pleasant drive through some of my old haunts, and it made for a nice day of me time. Had a lot of fun, really enjoyed the group's attitude toward writing and encouraging others. Liked the way they manage the money they took from me a lot better than the money RMFW took from me. But while these folks would be taking less money from me for annual membership, they will be taking more money from me any time I wanted to attend a workshop. Granted, the workshops are of better overall quality than RMFW's (not speaker-wise; the local pros in RMFW are fantabulous), but still it's more money.

All that being said, I was going to become a member of this writing group tonight when I read the details of membership and realized I had to become a member of the RWA national organization (which is a bit more money in annual dues, and I'm not entirely sure I want to spend that much more money on an organization in which my preferred genres are treated as secondary novel elements). So I've delayed my decision.

It's not going to be easy. I don't have a comparable group to what I was used to in Colorado (meaning good quality critique group that meets regularly not too far from where I live), and I'm not sure that Tucson RWA (or even one of the two Phoenix RWAs) could provide that for me. So that's a decent bit of money for something that's not my primary genre and that won't give me an opportunity for the steady feedback I had before. But I can't seem to find any other writer's orgs that are even remotely close to me, and part of the reason RMFW worked so well for me was that it was a weekly gathering of like-minded folks whose company I enjoyed while we gabbed about the business and art of writing.

I can't ignore the fact that this may be one of only a few chances I get to find some local writing buddies without running a personal ad or holding out for serendipity in the bookstores. And I can't ignore how connected I felt today, similar to how I felt at my first ever critique group meeting. How much is that worth to me?

Always the Main Character, Never the Secondary

In trying to get back into a regular writing schedule for SoZ, I've been digging my way into the heart of the conflict of the story and re-assessing the arcs and act structures of the book. And somewhere in all of this I'm trying to assimilate some sort of writing process so I don't have to entirely reinvent the wheel the next book around--I mean, if I start out knowing that the basic shape has to be round, surely I won't get mired in this again, right?

Last week I did the facepalm/headdesk thing as I realized that I've become a much more visual thinker and learner than I was in the past (or maybe I've always been so visual, I just never realized it and/or managed to play to that strength without a fuss), and that nothing in my writing process was as visual as I needed it to be. So I got the great idea of putting together a timeline that I could then printout and keep on very large posterboard on the wall by my writing desk. Excellent. Issue addressed.

Only I didn't have a timeline.

So back to the drawing board I went, trying to piece together a timeline. That's when I realized that four-act structures are great, but they're only for the protagonist's story/arc. And here I am with a protagonist for the overall Velorin series, a (different) protagonist for the initial trilogy, and yet another protagonist or two in the nebulous two to three books beyond the initial trilogy. Now, I have arcs and broad outlines for most if not all of these folks (and I'm including "Book 5 or 6: Think Final Fantasy X but with more science fiction and less fantasy, but they're trying to get back to the fantasy" as a broad outline and arc), but what about all of the other characters running around in these stories?

For my own sanity, I stuck with the POV characters from the first book (which are, incidentally, the POV characters from the next two books as well, excluding those who die in the course of the first book, of course). At first, I tried to weave what all the characters were doing in and around my protag's four-act structure. Then I did another facepalm and got to the heart of the "everyone's the star in their own show" saying. I was never going to believably write from a POV of a non-protag unless I got into their stories as if they were the protagonists. Said another way, I went back to each of my POV characters and looked at their stories as if I were going to write their stories for the book. I gave them all their own four-act structures. I'm going to give them all their own conflict boxes, too, I think.

Writing up all of those four-act structures made a few things clear to me: Ayren is definitely the antagonist, she has the most compelling view with which to tell this story as effectively (and efficiently) as possible, considering both the story itself and its salability. For example, I could write the first bit of the Velorin saga from Rayn's point of view, but then I would have to squish the first two books into one and shift my antagonist from Arzakel to Corla. Oh, and that act of squishing the first two books into one would make for either a very hefty first book (on the order of 150 to 200k) or a very superficial book on the order of 100k. Losing Arzakel as the antagonist in Book One also destroys the connection with the overall series antagonist, thus giving Loria's POV nothing to push against until I can re-introduce the series' antagonist much later in that two-into-one squish in Rayn's story. So Ayren is the protagonist, and I now can stop feeling guilty for giving her POV more time in the book than Rayn's. That fixes a lot of problems right there.

Also, looking at those four-acts for the antag and his "goons" made me solidify their backstory much better. In fact, the backstory is so much clearer, that I'm going to write snippets of it as standalone stories that will help me keep focus on character voices and conflicts. Because once the story is written, the image in my mind is solidified in a different way. It has concrete connections to something outside of my mind, and not just in a nebulous, I wrote my notes out or mapped them kind of way. But in an actual "I have translated my mental image into a complete story" kind of way. That really cements things for me, because once the story is complete, I can remember it as a movie, not just random images.

But I do have enough from all of these four-act structures to piece together a timeline and put that sucker up in lights next to my writing desk. I've got a few other things to put up there, too (such, I dunno, how 'bout the map, one of the most visual things I've had for this book since the beginning). Maybe by the end of the month I'll have put myself back on track for writing SoZ again. I really hope so.

Following in His Father's Footholds (While Wearing His Mother's Shoes)

Drew loves to climb. It's been a favorite sport of his for quite some time. We first noticed this hobby when he climbed up into the walker, hoisted himself onto the walker's tray and started reaching for the top of the swing next to the walker. Then there were the stairs at my mother's house. There's every bed and chair in this house. The coffee table (which he then likes to stand on in a King of the Mountain fashion--we're trying to break this habit). Any sort of ladder or jungle gym at the neighborhood playground. Every fence and railing at the zoo. And so on.

He definitely gets it from his father. I told Mark he better get back into climbing shape and soon--his son is going to need a partner when he decides he wants to start grappling up the big rocks, which will probably be the first time he sets eyes on any such thing. I am now reconsidering our vague notion of taking the Boy up to the Grand Canyon in the next few months.

Luckily, the Drewbinator doesn't seem to have inherited his mother's fear of falling. That's the reason I can't help Mark get back into climbing shape. I can scramble up any rock wall you put in front of me. I just can't get down without a therapist.

But there is a problem with the Drew Monster's choice of shoes for his climbing adventures. Andrew loves to put on my slip-on house shoes and go clomping around in them. Doesn't care for Daddy's shoes at all (can't really blame him, the things are seconds away from collapsing into a pile of unassociated shoe cells). In fact, Drew will often wander away from his toys in one area of the house, run to get my shoes, and either stuff himself into them and shuffle his way back, or drage them back to me so I can help him into them.

Hmmm. I suppose I better keep all of my strappy heels and such out of sight in our closet for a few years.

Metameme

Saw this running around a couple of blogs lately and thought I'd give it a go again.

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open it to page 161.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don't search around and look for the coolest book you can find. Do what's actually next to you.

"It varies, but in the end it doesn't matter."
from an uncorrected proof of Elizabeth Lowell's The Color of Death (there's a price tag right next to the "NOT FOR SALE" notice; I picked it up as part of the "everything must go" sale at a closing Book Warehouse)

It's a Beautiful Check-in

Today has been absolutely gorgeous. Temps in the high 70s, low 80s. Bright blue sky with whispy clouds. Not a speck of dust or haze cluttering up the skyline, allowing a view all the way to the Catalinas in Tucson. Amazing. Days like these I wonder how I lived outside of this area for so long.

We took Drew up to the Phoenix Zoo today. He had a blast, though he was more impressed with all of the fences and railings he could climb than the animals. He did enjoy the giraffes and the tortoises and the monkeys. And, of course, nothing was more fun than running free on the walkways. He passed out in the car, and we drove around a bit to give him a long nap.

Thus we took the very scenic route home, a two-hour trek through the extreme southeast Phoenix valley (where the suburbs Queen Creek and Johnson Ranch are). The far east of the valley is quite beautiful, though I wouldn't want to live there with Mark having to drive into downtown. There's little to no infrastructure set up out there to handle all of the population boom. We drove for a good twenty minutes without seeing a gas station or a supermarket, just lots and lots of houses. (Of course, there could have been such things tucked away from the road, but that's not usually how the 'burbs are set up.)

We doglegged around the San Tan mountains and into Pinal County, through even more brand, spankin' new housing developments. If Mark worked in Mesa or Chandler or Gilbert, I could see us living there. The market is about the same in that area as it is in Casa Grande, and the views are great. The only downside is that you're awfully close to Florence and the State Pen, and I haven't heard a lot of reassuring things about that facility.

We cut through the reservation at that point (and I'd have to go to my map to remind myself which tribe owned that land) and had to further detour through the reservation and some open desert to avoid a bike race running a circuit using the two roads we needs to take to get back across I-10 and home. We were disappointed because those two roads both looked like neat drives through some craggy hills. As that loop is just five minutes or so from our house, we'll check is out next weekend.

As for the actual "what have I been doing this week" content of this check-in post, I managed to salvage an otherwise bummer of a week with the DDJ, but I didn't get around to writing after my awe-inspiring 5.4K last Sunday. I did, though, do some more mapping for SoZ, and should be able to do more tonight and/or tomorrow night.

The Wonders of the Dollar Store

It's amazing where you can find inspiration. I went into a local dollar store just to see about picking up some posterboard for mapping out SoZ in purty colors. I decided to wander around a bit and see if I could find anything else that might help me visualize my story better. I didn't find much for SoZ, but I did find something so intriguing that I'll have to set aside time to write a different story in the near future.

I was browsing the knick knack section when I saw it. In among some other colorfully painted Victorian hat stands (with attached hats, of course), I found one that was entirely painted in silver. I saw it, and my first thought, I kid you not, was, "Victorians...in...SPAAAAAAACE!!!!" And then I thought, "Damn, now I have to write that."

Why I Can't Head Hop

Sure, I could've posted about Valentine's day, but I figure ya'll are probably getting tired of the "my husband is the most awesome man eva" posts. Suffice to say, love is grand, Mark is amazing.

I finally figured out exactly why I struggle to read and enjoy books with an omniscient POV. I always imagine myself as the POV character. Woman, man, good guy, bad guy, whatever. So when I'm reading along, happily creating a movie in my head in which I'm the POV character, getting all the good lines, doing all the cool stunts, and then suddenly the POV switches to another character. And I have to stop, adjust the mental image, and start the movie back up from a different set of eyes (and, often, gender or moral outlook). Then in the next paragraph, the switch happens again. Repeat the stop and go. Finally I get so frustrated with all of this "hang on a sec" mental adjusting that I pull back to the surface and just read the words instead of living them vicariously. I read faster this way, sure, but it's not nearly as much fun as watching the book as a movie in my head.

And, in addition to preventing my preferred method of enjoying a book, omniscient POV often gets annoying with mirroring internal thoughts, particularly in a romance subplot. Hero thinks something about the sexy clothing the heroine is wearing and hopes his physical reaction to the ensemble isn't obvious. Next paragraph: heroine is flustered herself, wondering what hero thinks, and then spies the erection. I think the tension is better with the hero, trying to hide the obvious, wanting to do something about the state of affairs, but there's usually some Problem in the way (this is what's known as the primary plot), and generally feeling aroused and frustrated while trying not to get distracted from solving the Problem. That's good conflict, because everyone goes through that. Having the heroine's thoughts immediately respond to the hero's thoughts (rather than in dialog) seems like a cheat and really makes the snap and crackle of the scene fizzle out.

I like the suspense of not knowing what another character is thinking until it is revealed by that character's actions or words to the POV character. That's the way life goes, right? There are other contrivances in fiction that I don't have a problem with (consistent characters, complete plot resolution, etc), but head-hopping isn't one of them.

Happy Birthday, Blog!

My little corner of the vast and mighty internet turns four years old today. I feel like I should commemorate this occasion with a profound and deep post about how reading the four years of this blog can demonstrate how I have been shaped and changed. But it's been a long day, the DDJ has diminished my ability to think to a meager pilot light, and I'm hungry and want dinner pronto.

So. Here's to another four year. It's been great. Can't believe there's actual, digital evidence of how young and stoopid I was in chatting about myself and the world around me. I'm sure I'll have the same thought in another four years. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

The Drewbinator

Drew is so physical, so kinetic. I don't know if all kids this age are, but he always has to be moving, doing. He'll slow down and settle for a book or a puzzle, but usually he's all about spatial exploration and frenetic energy. The downside to this is that he's discovering the world of throwing things, hitting things, and using his head as a blunt weapon. We're trying to give him more appropriate things to throw than blocks and other toys, and that does seem to have curbed the need to throw other things that don't bounce as well because, well, they weren't meant to be thrown. As for the hitting things and head-ramming...we're working on variations of the "time out" strategy because it seems very odd to spank a kid while you saying, "No hitting!"

Honestly, with the head-ramming, we're figuring one day he'll clock himself good by ramming something he shouldn't and that will take care of that. But that boy's head has proved particularly hard.

And I'm Spent

I finished a novelette today. My word count for the day (accumulated over six hours) is a whopping 5,402. How's that for an emphatic return to writing after a month away?

Excuse me while I go see about stopping my eyes from seeing Courier New appear in a dizzying left to right fashion.

Home at Last

Drew and I returned home late last night. We're both fighting the requisite traveler's head cold and dealing with mild general irritation from all of the hustle and bustle of the last ten days without Daddy. And I'm trying to dig myself out of a bad mood after dealing with the DDJ for the past three days in Colorado (yeah, not sure if I made that clear: Drew and I went from Chicago to Denver on Sunday for my monthly trip back to the DDJ, which was bumped up to this week within an hour of my planning my bereavement leave for last week).

So, here's hoping that next week will bring the much-needed return of normalcy so we can actually get on with settling into our new house.

Good-bye, Grandpa. I Love You.

I've spent a lot of time this past week starting posts about my grandfather in my mind and stopping, rejecting each beginning as not good enough for his memory. This is one of those things that you're so desperate to get right because it's so important that everyone know about a special person that they won't have a chance to meet themselves. Each word has to fit just so, each image clear, each emotion strong and touching without being overpowering or gooey with sentiment.

I don't think I'm up to the task.

Instead, I'll sketch out the few things that come quickest to my mind when I think about my grandfather. I have a feeling I'll always look back at this post and wish I had been a better writer at the time to do his life justice. But, as I finally realized tonight, no memorial is worse than a flawed one.

My grandfather was a three-pack a day smoker for a long time until one of his lungs collapsed. The docs told him that if he wanted to keep the other one from doing the same thing, he needed to kick the habit. So he did. One thing that helped keep the cravings at bay was hard candy, specifically root beer barrels. He always had a stash handy, and he usually didn't mind sharing (though he shared more of the candy as more time passed from his last cigarette). While I liked root beer well enough, I never did catch onto the taste of the candy, and I remember thinking a couple of times that I wished Grandpa preferred Sour Warheads (very popular at the time) so I could bum some off him.

Grandpa was an engineer, and thus he approached a lot of things with cool logic and heavy use of the "if it ain't broke, don't fix it" axiom. This is why I remember him typing away at a very old model computer for a loooooooong time for games, car mileage/performance, family genealogy and addresses, and most likely a ton of other things that I never witnessed or heard of during my visits and phone calls. The computer was so ancient that it had a black background with green text and was accompanied by a dot matrix printer. But he still dove into new technology when a case was made for it (email, digital photography, TiVo, etc), and he would puzzle everything out so that he could sit you down and explain to you how each new-fangled device worked.

Of course, his sense of logic wasn't without a sense of humor. When we sent along Drew's first ultrasound pictures (way back when he was simply referred to as Junior), Grandpa started a file for the pictures on the computer. The file was named "great1" because it was for the first great grandchild.

Nor was his sense of logic without a resulting sense of frustration on the recipient. When my mom and I were visiting from Germany one summer, I took a driver's ed course so I could get my license. That's a blog post in and of itself, but it's enough for this post to say that my first attempt was unsuccessful. I came back to my grandparents' house feeling the humongous sting of failure, sure I was going to get ribbed endlessly. Upon hearing the official reason the witch of a driving instructor gave for failing me (at the first stop sign, I didn't come to a complete stop at the stop line but rolled forward a bit then stopped so I could actually see oncoming traffic), Grandpa got me right back into the car and took me around to each stop sign in the neighborhood for practice and technique refinement. At the time, I think this only made me feel even more humiliated, but now I understand it as a clear sign of Grandpa's sense of logic and love.

Now that I think about it more, the entire episode connects back to the very first memory I have of my grandfather. It was during my strange patchwork year of kindergarten, when I attended three different schools in two different states due to my father undergoing officer training school and transitioning from an enlisted servicemember to an officer. It was winter, and my mother, brother, and I were living with my grandparents. My grandfather, decked out in his camel-colored winter coat and black hat, walked me to the school just down the street from their house. I don't know if he walked me every day, or if it was just the once. But the sky was that deep blue only seen on a clear, cold winter day in the Midwest. The air bit every exposed patch of my skin and then some. My breath blurred and fogged the view of the sidewalk in front of me every now and then. And my grandfather walked right next to me, holding my hand to cross the street.

Those are the clear memories of my grandfather. All the others are either hazy with time or so wrapped up in memories of my grandmother, the home they created together, my aunts and uncles and cousins, and their neighborhood that it's hard to know where his smile ends and the rest begins.

Actually, I think that's exactly the way Grandpa would have me remember him.

Remembering My Grandfather

My grandfather died yesterday after fighting cancer for nearly two years. He went peacefully, surrounded by much of his family. The rest of his family arrived later in the day to wish his spirit well and join together in celebrating his life. He and my grandmother raised eight kids, and he saw eleven grandkids and one great-grandchild come into and grow in this world. And all of the kids, most of the grandkids, and the great-grandchild are here now to remember him.

I have many memories to choose from when thinking about my grandfather, but the one that will stick with me is from our trip to Grand Forks last year. Grandpa worked the trip in between his chemo schedule and still had the strength and will power to drive himself and my grandmother all the way from Chicago as he would usually do despite his illness. During the trip, he was just as spry, alert, and happy as I had always remembered him before he was diagnosed. We have a great video of him playing with Drew in the hotel pool. It's hard to tell who was having more fun.

Over the next few days, I'm sure I'll have a lot more memories to share. Hopefully I'll have the time to hop on-line and share them here as well as with my family. In the meantime, those of you who pray, please light a candle for my grandfather and for my grandmother, his wife of more than fifty years. For those of you who don't pray, please spare a moment to think kind thoughts for my family during this bittersweet time.

Random Observations During (But Not Necessarily Connected to) the Upheaval

1. I figured out fanfiction. But it took a fanvid for me to do so. The problem with fanfiction is that I get caught up in the conventions of story and, thus, the concept of "playing in someone else's sandbox" completely confounds me. If I'm writing a story, I like to have all the control, and that means create my own backstory, tweak the characters, spin plots to the extent that what is left is only a kernel of something I found interesting in another series or show. And that kernel is usually a character arc or a juicy bit of conflict I wanted to insert into my own universe.

Somehow watching a House/Wilson fanvid on YouTube set to the musical restylings of Clay Aiken made me figure out in a way that stuck that fanfiction isn't about story at all. It's about call and answer. The call is the work of art itself: the show, the book, the car wreck that is a celebrity's tabloid-infested life. The viewer or reader or rubber necker has a response from that call, and they feel compelled to answer. I can understand this in a video medium because film is not my thing. I wouldn't feel compelled to put a story to my response--or, rather, the story wouldn't be my purpose but would be something Other that I might add for fun. So I get taking pits and pieces of clips from a show and putting them together to a song in a fashion that shares what the call is evoking in you. And in the case of the above it is that House and Wilson relationship is rife with sexual tension. The answer was crafted in a fashion that demonstrated what the viewer saw to get that response.

I can thus understand fanfiction. Still can't write it because writing for me is all about story, even if the impetus for writing something was a response to someone else's work. My need to tell a story very quickly overrides my need to answer the call I felt in another piece of art. Hence why I ran out of steam on my short story that was very, very loosely based on Shakespeare's The Tempest.

2. About a month or so ago, I questioned why I still watched Battlestar Gallactica and why I still seemed to enjoy it. I realized why after the "season" premiere last week: Helo and Athena. Damn near cried at the beginning last week. If only we had more of them and less of the nauseating Starbuck and Apollo tug of war.

3. It seems like every big move creates a vortex in which precisely one box is lost and never seen again. Now, we still have a couple of boxes to go, but our hopes of finding the box in question are dwindling. This box was a random assortment of books, knick knacks, a lamp, a serving dish, and a shower curtain. I have a need for each of the last three items it seems once a day. Here's hoping one of the last few boxes is this missing box.

4. Hanging up pictures, even two small ones, can turn a room into something infinitely more like "home" than it was before.

5. There are worse things than living ten minutes from your mother. Try living within a few blocks of not only your parents and sibs, but also your husband's parents and sibs. Yeah, I met one of my neighbors and she mentioned that just about her entire family and her husband's entire family has moved or will be moving into this development. She thinks it great. I can't even imagine the insanity.

6. The one benefit to Drewbie getting sick this week is that I had ample time to read while he was sprawled on me. I finished Scalzi's Old Man's War and Bear's Carnival. I enjoyed both very much, in very different ways. It was strange reading OMW after a year or so of reading Scalzi's blog, particularly when it came to how the main character's wife was portrayed and that her name began with a K. Whenever the main character would start on about his wife, I often got the sense that I was reading a blog post in which Scalzi was talking about his wife. That's just a peril of reading the daily bits of someone's life and then also reading a novel by that same someone. You get confused, most likely through no fault of the writer. More likely due to an inability to realize that, though a blogger is sharing a great deal of their lives with you, you really don't "know" them or the folks they talk about in any real sense.

7. When trying to figure out which book to start next, I thought I'd like something "up." But Tambo's latest, Valley of the Soul, was burning a hole in my bookshelf, and the only other book I knew to be "up" was a novel that had a fun, snarky main character but conflict and tension that was resolved in cloyingly sweet ways just about as soon as it was introduced. I've been about two-thirds through that book for the past three months, and I don't see myself finishing it. I hate books that set you up for a good character struggle and then don't deliver. I'm betting the write flinched. It's hard to write that stuff.

8. Working from home isn't as wonderful as it's made out to be. The Drew Monster gets confused because he sees me home and wants to play but I keep turning him away to get work done. Very often days go by where I try to compromise and end up feeling like I'm failing both at my job and in giving Drew what he needs. I'm waiting to see what happens when the boxes are all unpacked, the pictures are up on the walls, and the feeling of novelty shifts into a feeling of normalcy. I've been working from home for over three months, but have yet to actually be settled in my home or my own skin for that length of time. Probably the source of my issue right there.

Turning the Corner

Ugh. It's been a while since I've felt comfortable in my life--like, since, I dunno, maybe early September? Stuff's just been coming at me so fast and furious that I've done a nifty turtle-trick and have been running on a somewhat engaged version of autopilot. I've had moments of feeling connected and normal, but they've been the exception.

It didn't take but a couple of weeks after moving to AZ that I realized how safe and secure I felt in our situation back in Colorado. Sure, it wasn't ideal and there was only a brief three-month period in 2002 that we ever thought it might last for a few years beyond Mark's PhD. But. Despite its flaws and inherent transitory nature, the situation really grew on me and gave me stability somehow. Thus, I spent a lot of the past three months feeling lost and, in the very bad places, wondering why we ever moved.

This lost sensation, in and of itself, is not exactly novel. But when coupled with the odd side effects of living with my mother again...how to explain? It took me a while to realize what the side effects were, but I figured it out when I was traveling a couple of weeks ago. As I was driving in the rental to the DDJ, I had this odd, proud, smug feeling of "Look, Ma! I did this all by myself!" The only reasion I dissected the feeling was because I remembered having it when I traveled back to the DDJ in December. I must've had a truly horrified expression on my face when I told myself, "Kellie, you are twenty-eight years old! You've been a Big Girl for quite some time now. Of course you can do this all by yourself."

That's when it hit me. Every child (and parent) can tell you that moving back in with the 'rents is no picnic. It's not fun to give up your hard-won independence (or your hard-won empty nest). But it's more than that. Without realizing it, I fell into old patterns of thought and behavior from my formative years. Because, well, I was living with my mom. I shudder to think how complete my transformation would have been had my parents not gotten divorced and I was living with the both of them in a home completely filled with the flotsam and jetsom of our family's history instead of only partially so. I was completely unprepared for what this aspect of living with my mom did to me, and it's going to take some effort to settle back into my own concept of self from September.

We'll be unpacking the last of the boxes this weekend and hanging up our photos and such. I think that will get me out of transitory mode and back into normalcy. Having a week in which we're not moving (or still tying up the loose ends associated with a move), having a car break down, taking care of a sick kid, traveling, and so on will help as well. It's two weeks before I have to go back to the DDJ. Here's hoping one of those two will be the one.

And the Hits? Well, They Just Keep On Comin'

Andrew was fussy and feaverish all night long, and this morning he progressed to pukey. I'm trying to see if he'll nap in his crib at the moment, but I think I'll end up taking him back out so he can nap on me instead. Ah, the glamour of motherhood.

From the Good News Department: they are towing our car back to the shop for free and will most likely complete the repairs for free since it's quite clear they royally Fucked Up yesterday.

Defeated

Mark got our car back today, and it drove like a charm all the way home. Then I go to have my first few hours of alone time since well before Christmas (unless you count my business trip a couple of weeks ago), and the car is mostly dead. The only sign of life is the sometimes working dome light and the occasional flash of the security light on the dash. Das ist alles. Mark and my mom's significant other are toying with the freakishly expensive driveway ornament as I type this.

We can't catch a break with this car. We've got to do number crunching and figure out when we'll reach the point of wasting money on the thing and need to buy a new (to us) car--and hopefully we won't find that we've already passed that point.

Update the Fourth

The pile of rock "magically" moved from the street in front of our house into our backyard with a neighbor's friend's piece of heavy machinery. This cost us some cash, but seeing as how Mark was sick for several days last week and I was watching the Drew Monster, the money was well spent to get that damn pile of rock out of the way.

There are now only eight boxes left to unpack in the garage, and most of those are either books or photos/wall art.

We have a fully functional guest bedroom.

I have a fully functional office, though there are still Things to be Done before I am content with the space as "finished." Though it feels settled enough that I wrote for the first time in eighteen days last night and will be getting back to the writing tonight as soon as I post this.

Hell broke loose last week at the DDJ and may yet prove itself uncontained this week as well. There is discussion of having me fly back to Colorado not once but twice in February--yes, February, the shortest month of the year.

And, because all our cake needs right now is more icing, our car is in the shop for the fourth time in less than three months, this time for funky ignition problems, a busted central computer, and a cracked radiator. All part of the "normal wear and tear," we're told. Color us reassured.

Hopefully I'll be able to get back into the swing of regular blogging sometime this week. Ish.