Look who's back

My lovelies. My beautiful bloggy lovelies. I miss you so much.

You out there? Roll call, please!!!! Check in!

I've strayed from my blogging roots, forced into neglect of my first love when my Etsy shop became suddenly and inexplicably HUGELY POPULAR.

And frankly, Etsy customers pay me actual cash money, and you guys...well, you don't.

That's ok. I love you anyway! (But if you're moved to send me cash, I won't turn it down. Email me.)

But my shop has become too much for little ol' me so I'm taking a hiatus. This is what you'll see if you try to shop there (and if you're like everybody else on the planet, I'm pretty sure you're attempting to shop there RIGHT NOW, aren't you??).

There are a few things I'd like to accomplish in my down time. They include things like upgrading from Etsy to a legit all-on-my-own website, rebranding some aspects of my business, rethinking my inventory and production systems to increase efficiency, sleeping from time to time, reading a book for pleasure, reintroducing myself to my friends, getting a mani/pedi, and guess what? BLOGGING.

Yeah, baby.

Oh, and potty training the Monster. Remember him? Remember my little squishy faced baby boy?

Yeah he's almost 3. Kid needs to learn how to use the potty. It's time.

Aw yeah. Lighting McQueen underwear. Spoiler alert: This was a terrible idea. Back to Pull-Ups for awhile, yo.

An Open Letter to the Jerk in the Blue Car in my Kid's School Parking Lot

Dear Jerk in the Blue Car in my Kid's School Parking Lot,

There's something we need to discuss. I'm writing you out of concern. Concern for your health and safety.

You are dangerously close to being dragged out of your car and murdered in an elementary school parking lot, so please listen to what I have to say before it's too late.

Are you familiar with the school pick up line? No? See, that's funny, because you and I both navigate this line each and every day. You did know there were other people picking up their children at 3:00, right? We all form a line. Let me illustrate.

See the jerk in the blue car? That's you.

It's a line, Jerk in the Blue Car. There's an order to it. We all wait our turn. This is how civilized society operates. See, we all enter the parking lot through one small driveway. Then we pick up our children, and then we circle around the rest of the parking lot until we get to the other driveway. And then we exit.

But not you! You have another strategy entirely, don't you?

What...what are you doing??

This is where things get weird, Jerk in the Blue Car! We're all sitting in line, and then suddenly, your blue car just...gets out of line!

Yes, I know you have already picked up your child. I see that. I saw him climb into the backseat of your blue car. This was before I knew you were a jerk. Does your child know this about you, jerk? Is he a jerk as well? Is this some kind of jerk training program you're running?

Why are you turning? Do you not see the 9 other cars in line in front of you? You may not realize this, but we also have picked up our children and probably have other places to be. Yes, I see that there's a big gap between the parked cars, large enough for your car to fit through. But...I just...DO YOU NOT SEE US HERE?

No! No! Why are you doing that? Are you really doing that? You're really doing that! You're such a jerk!

 Why?? Do you seriously not see all these other cars, waiting patiently??

What's that? You need to get to the bank? Oh, ok. Well, I personally was planning to just pick up my child and then hang out here in this parking lot for the rest of the afternoon. So I can see that your need to exit this parking lot 3 minutes faster is definitely more urgent than anything I have going on.

And look! You have a friend! Did you pay this guy? Threaten his children? I don't understand why he's letting you get in front of him, as if crossing the parking lot in this chaotic manner is a legit route to the exit.

You need to stop this. You're a jerk. Please. Just stop, before somebody (not necessarily me, I mean, anybody could do it) snaps and flies across the parking lot in a fit of rage and tears your car to pieces. I'm just saying.

Think about it.

Sincerely,
Alyssa

That Diet Coke was lying in wait.

I had a Wordless Wednesday post all ready for you guys this morning, but it'll have to wait. Because I have words.

So, you guys remember the Diet Coke that ruined my day last week, right?

It struck again.

OK, this is the point where I'm forced to confess the state of my car. My husband will read this and yell "IT'S DISGUSTING." He won't even sit in my car. Which is good, because there's no room for him.

It's not my fault! You've seen this, right?

I saw this on Facebook and according to that little logo in the corner, it originated at nickmom.com

This is a photo of my passenger seat that I snapped this morning when I got to work. It is undoctored.

I count 3 empty Mountain Dew containers. A box of...stuff. A bag of foam pistols (long story). Some dirty kid clothes (the clothes are dirty, not the kid. Mostly). A random cup. A bag of cherries from my mother's tree. My laptop. A ziploc bag filled with crushed graham crackers. And that's the FRONT SEAT.

So. This morning I got the kids in the car, and I got all our stuff in the car (no small feat), and I got in the car, and I realized I had no free cupholder for my morning Dew.

Because that Diet Coke was still there. Yes, it was still there a week later. And because it's Diet Coke, it was still completely full.

I almost just set it on the garage floor to deal with later, but no, I decided to be responsible and take it out to the garbage.

So I took this large, very full, week-old Diet Coke outside, and I opened the lid to the trash can, and I dropped it in. As I was about to let go I thought, wait, I should dump it out, right? Like, in the dirt or something? I mean that's a lot of liquid to dump in the trash can. Plus I think the trash can is empty because it was just trash day so there are no cushy bags of used diapers to break the fall; this thing is going to hit the bottom of the can and splatter.

I thought all these thoughts in the split second before I let go. I leaned forward to confirm that the can was, in fact, empty.

It was.

But I lost my grip. I dropped the cup. While I was still poised OVER the can, peering down at the bottom.

It didn't splatter. Splatter doesn't cover it. Not remotely.

It was like...I'd shot a Diet Coke missile. And the missile hit an immovable object at high velocity and backfired STRAIGHT INTO MY STUPID FACE.

It was indescribable. Truly. One second I'm being a responsible adult, tossing my week-old Diet Coke into the trash can instead of leaving it on my garage floor. The next I am drenched in week-old Diet Coke. Diet Coke that has been sitting in my black car, in June, in California, for a week.

Thank goodness I wear glasses. That's all I can say. My glasses were coated in it but my eyes were largely protected. Until it began to drip, that is.

I turned around and went back into the garage, in a state of shock. My poor children. Mommy steps outside for a moment, her usual svelte and together self (ha), and steps back in looking like a swamp monster. My hair was dripping, my shirt splattered in sticky brown goo, my eyes squeezed shut to block out the toxins.

I went inside and spent a few minutes mopping up. Did you know week-old Diet Coke is an effective makeup remover? Ate my foundation right off my face. Mascara was dripping down my cheeks. And my hair. Oh, my hair.

You guys, my kids were already in the car! It was time to go! I took two minutes to rub a wet wash cloth over my face and through my hair, changed my shirt, rinsed my glasses, and...off we go!

So that's why I was late to work this morning.

How much of that story do you think my boss needs to hear?

My "SORRY!" face

So I went to the gas station the other day.

Because I needed gas.

All the pumps were full except one, and that one was on the wrong side, so I would have had to back in. Only as a general rule I don't drive backwards in public or crowded spaces, because driving backwards has a tendency to make me run into things.

Shut up.

So. I'm looking at this gas pump, and I'm thinking, you know? A lot of these stations have those extra long hoses now, that are made to go on either side of the car.

Now, usually those gas stations have signs indicating that their hoses are extra long and made to go on either side of the car.

You know. Like this.

And I saw no such sign. But, using my highly mathematical brain, I eyeballed the hose and decided it was probably long enough.

Do I really need to tell you the outcome of that experiment?

It wasn't long enough, you guys.

I swiped my card, pushed the start button, dragged the nozzle...halfway around the back of my car. No dice.

Great. Now people were watching, of course. So I put the nozzle back. I'd have to turn around. But my credit card was already in that pump, so I needed to hurry up and get turned around and get back. I climbed back into the car just as this guy pulled up in front of me and hit his blinker, obviously assuming I was leaving.

But I was not leaving. I pulled out into the space right in front of him and executed a stunningly graceful 8- or 9- or possibly 13-point turn until I was facing the right direction, and sloooooowly backed in, up to the pump. I didn't hit anything! So there's that.

While I was doing this, of course, I looked at the guy and shot him my silent "SORRY!" face. You know that face? You have one, too. This face, in my head, is not only totally comprehensible as meaning "SORRY," it's also so very adorable that nobody could possibly remain irritated with me while I'm making it.

In actuality...

I mean...that totally looks like I'm saying "SORRY," right??

By the time I finished this whole spectacle, of course, the machine had canceled my transaction and proceeded to sit there, frozen, for a good 3 minutes until it finally cleared out and let me start over.

By then there were like 4 open spots that would have been on the right side of my car. Turn-signal dude just shook his head and took one of those.

SORRY.

Reasons I don't like you: master's student edition

You guys.

I'm sorry.

That was like, an unprecedented dry spell, wasn't it?

I'm back now.

Here's the deal: May is Hell Month in the life of Alyssa.

See, my regular, full-time day job is at a university. One of my duties is editing and compiling the academic catalog each year. This wraps up in May so it's a very busy month in my day job.

My second, side job is as a Thesis Reader, also for the university. I proofread master's theses and doctoral dissertations before they go to publication. Students turn them in each year in, you guessed it...May. At the moment I have 14 of these (ranging from 50 to 200 pages, depending on the discipline and on the student and quite frankly, on the student's discipline), all due back by the end of the month.

Then there's my third job, blogging. And also my new Etsy shop (coming soon: an actual post featuring products from said Etsy shop and possibly even a giveaway!).

And oh yeah, I have a husband and two children and a home and laundry and what not.

So. That's why you haven't seen much of me.

Thesis reading is a fun job. By fun I mean not really fun so much as interesting except when it's not interesting at all and it's excruciatingly boring or worse, painful.

I've been doing this for 5 years now and I'm quite good at it. I can tell when I open one whether it'll be fun or interesting or boring or painful. Here are some of my red flags.

1. If your thesis is more than an inch thick, I don't like you.
2. If your major is anything in Education, chances are, I don't like you. And also I fear for the youth of America.
3. If there's a typo on your title page (YES IT HAPPENS), I really don't like you.
4. If I go to cross-check your references and I can't find John Bowling because he's on page 4 of the reference list, I don't like you. Anybody whose name begins with B should appear on the first page. If Bowling is on page 4 THAT'S TOO MANY REFERENCES FOR ME TO CHECK AND GUESS WHAT I DON'T LIKE YOU.
5. If your thesis contains more than 2 tables, I don't like you.
6. If your thesis contains figures, I don't like you.
7. If you use a lot of words like "t-test" and "bivariate" and your thesis is peppered with seemingly random italicized letters like n and s, I don't really like you. Yes I know what this stuff means but I don't want to and I blame you.
8. If you're a Psychology major with a concentration in Behavior Analysis and you've written a 150-page thesis about pigeons pecking colored buttons, I do not like you.
9. If your margins are wrong, I don't like you. Seriously. They're margins. If you can't handle setting your margins, I'm terrified of what else I'm about to experience.
10. If you didn't use APA to format your thesis, I don't like you. Yes, I was an English major and we used MLA, but that was more years ago than I care to count, and since then I've become thoroughly converted to APA. I especially don't enjoy having to learn Turabian overnight so I can proofread your thesis.
11. If you didn't proofread, I do not like you.
12. If you misuse hyphens, we will never be friends. I don't like you.
13. If you think "data" is a singular, I don't like you.

So. How has your May been so far?

The good news? In June I get paid for this nonsense and in June I WILL BE RICH. And then maybe I'll like all these people a little more.

"Let Alone." Use it right.

"Let alone."

I keep seeing it used wrong and it. is. driving. me. nuts.

pics on Sodahead

PSA: "Let alone" does not mean "not even."

Here is a wrong usage: "I wouldn't follow you across the country, let alone down the street."

You could replace "let alone" here with a version of "not even": "I wouldn't follow you across the country, or even down the street." That would be correct.

That's not what "let alone" is for.

"Let alone" means "certainly not" or "especially not" or, perhaps most clearly, "much less." MUCH LESS. In other words, it's exactly the opposite of the above uses.

If you say "I wouldn't follow you across the country, much less down the street," what does that mean? I wouldn't follow you all the way across the country, probably, but I'm much less likely to follow you down the street? That's not what you mean to say, surely. You mean to make a contrast for emphasis...

"Why would I follow you all the way across the country? Dude. I wouldn't even follow you down the street!"

Correct usage: "I wouldn't follow you down the street, let alone across the country."

See? The first thing is minor...the second thing is major. It's a contrast. I wouldn't do the first thing, so I would be MUCH LESS likely to do the second, bigger version of that thing. I wouldn't EVEN follow you down the street...LET ALONE all the way across the country.

Stop using it backwards. It makes me crazy. I know you don't want to make me crazy, Internet. So stop it.

I'm here to help you stop making me crazy. You're welcome.

If I Only had an Elf

If you're new here (yay!), you might want to familiarize yourself with the Elf on the Shelf saga here and here. Or don't! I don't care. I mean honestly it's an incredibly stupid story, so you probably don't want to waste your time. You can just pick up here if you like. Or go read something less stupid.

Some of my readers aren't familiar with Elf on the Shelf. I wasn't either, until very recently, so allow me to introduce him to you.

You should definitely start where I did, with Periwinkle Papillon's video, The Beauty & the Agony of Elf on the Shelf. Go on and watch, it's quick and hilarious; we'll wait.

See, the idea is, the Elf hangs out in your house, disguised as a creepy stalker delightful toy, observing your children. Then as soon as they fall asleep, he comes to life and flies straight to the North Pole to tattle to the big guy! So you'd better be good!

He flies back and spends the rest of the night amusing himself in your home, but when the kids wake up, he turns back into a toy--right in the middle of whatever he was doing! And so the kids leap out of bed with joy and no grumbling and go searching for the Elf.

Here are some photos from Pinterest of Elves in action:

He's a literary Elf.
source

He's a game night Elf.
source

He's an arty Elf.
source

He's a lady's man Elf.
source

He's a mischievous Elf.
source

He's a fishing Elf.
source

Most notably, he's not a Zombie Elf.

Many of you on Twitter have taken up the cause, retweeting and crying out for somebody to send me an Elf and deliver my children from the threat of A Very Gnarly Christmas.

We're expecting delivery of our own Elf any day now. We didn't order one or anything, I just have faith in holiday miracles. And Grandma.

If you don't have a mom like this, I'm truly sorry. But you can order your own Elf on the Shelf through Amazon, and if you use my Amazon Affiliate link I might earn half a penny or so on your purchase!  WIN-WIN!

Desperate, Elfless times

Yesterday I told you how I desperately  need an Elf on the Shelf to keep my kids in line spread holiday magic throughout my house.

These elves are incredibly creepy:

"Hey, girl."

But as you know, I kind of dig creepy. And Christmas. So Christmas creepy is right up my alley.

Knowing this about me, @MotherhoodTruth suggested the possibility of locating a Zombie Elf.

Naturally I thought of Gnarles, who is really wasted packed up in the Halloween box all year when he could be spreading his special brand of cheer year-round.

What do you think?

You better watch out. You better not cry.

The possibilities are endless. He's nothing if not versatile:

Hippity, Hoppity.

Folks, Christmas is drawing ever nearer, and not an Elf in sight. These are desperate times, and I'm not above resorting to desperate measures. Gnarles would be thrilled to come out of the shed and hide in my children's rooms and dreams. Don't think I won't do it.

Somebody send me an Elf, or this might become reality.

Somewhere there's an orphaned Elf looking for me.

OK. I warned you, in my Halloween post, that my Halloween obsession was nothing next to my Christmas mania. I. Love. Christmas.

LOVE IT.

You guys? It's Christmastime. It is! Thanksgiving is over and it's Christmas!

Last month I entered (ok, I obsessively entered every. single. day) a contest over at Periwinkle Papillon to win an Elf on the Shelf.  Now. I had never heard of an Elf on the Shelf before. I had fully enjoyed my holidays for 30 years now without an Elf. But now that I'm aware this magic little creature exists, I need one.

Sara at Periwinkle Papillon foolishly allowed multiple entries to her contest, and I called her bluff. I've done the math (shocking, I know) and my entries totaled 28% of ALL TOTAL ENTRIES. I should have won that thing.

Here's a small sampling of my 17 entry comments:

It begins.

Don't think I won't.

This right here had to be what killed it for me. Stupid!

Did you miss me? 

Why is the universe conspiring to keep me from my rightful Elf?? WHY??

Through it all, I felt Sara had my back. She wanted me to win this Elf, I really think she did.

I'm a prophet. I really am. Pretty sure the girl who won really DID only enter once.

Sigh.

Alas. I did not win. Sara recognized my passion and dedication and expressed her remorse that I hadn't won, but apparently she was not remorseful enough to fix the contest and give me my Elf. Whatever.

So here I am. November 30, and no Elf. I don't even know how I'm going to make it  my kids are going to make it 26 days without an Elf watching their every move and threatening to tell Santa when they whine. Like I can be bothered to discipline them?! Please! I have Christmas movies to watch! Plus, why would I want to be the bad guy? That's why we have Santa. And Elves.

So I've been whining about how badly I want an Elf, but how I don't want to actually pay for one (where's the fun in that?) and then Twitter brought me this:

Elves from Catie. 
Pros: it's an Elf! It's cheaper than Elf on the Shelf. And it supports a good cause.
Cons: Less creepy.

So. In conclusion: who wants to send me my kids an Elf? I don't even need the book, you guys. I'm a writer. I can make up my own story. I just need a seriously creepy Elf to scare my children half to death and instill in them the holiday spirit. Is that so much to ask?

How NOT to begin NaNoWriMo

1. With a sink full of dirty dishes.
2. With a mountain of unwashed laundry.
3. With an endless to-do list at work (the kind that follows you home).
4. With a Girl Scout guilt trip cupcake order due November 2nd.
5. With no outline or any story-related prep whatsoever, really.
6. Without an official Survival Kit consisting of Mountain Dew, chocolate, fuzzy socks, note cards, post-it notes, guilt-inducing quotes and reminders, etc. (I always make one of these the last week of October.  Until now.)
7. Without a fully-planned menu and housework schedule to get the rest of the family through November with as little drama as possible.
8. With a mind that is totally scattered, distracted, unprepared, and not remotely in writing mode.

What can I say.  I'm a rule-breaker.

Write on, Wrimos!

I'll...um...catch up.

Halloween Madness. No seriously. It is MADNESS.

I like Halloween.  I like it almost as much as I like Christmas.  And I really like Christmas.  But that's another post.

Because this is October.  As you may be aware, October is the month of Halloween (not Christmas. I'm talking to you, retailers everywhere). And because October is the month of Halloween, I've got Halloween on the brain.

I like to dress my kids up:

That's the Princess, age 7 months.

Age 19 months

Age 2.  A pirate with attitude.

Age 3.  Snow White.

Age 4.  Pinkalicious!

The Princess, 4 years, and the Monster, 6 weeks.

Costume 1: Vampire

Costume 2: Wyatt Earp

Wyatt Earp, people!

I like carving pumpkins:

OK. Truth? I do not like carving pumpkins. I like looking at pumpkins carved by my husband and child.

Yes, my husband is the Official Carver of Gourds and Melons in this household for good reason.

I LOVE trick or treating:

 And yes.  I like dressing up.  I work in an office where people are awesome:

Theme: Zombie Prom.  There were balloons and dance music.  And a strobe light.
I brought a fog machine.  It set off the smoke alarm and several hundred people had to evacuate the building.
And everybody was all, "Those zombie prom girls on the first floor know how to PAR-TAY!"

Another year, another zombie.  Mother-daughter zombies!
  This was for my brother's zombie-themed birthday party (his birthday is October 26).
The Princess was 3 and she was a zombie ballerina.

I even like Halloween cakes:

It's a brain.  It's a cake.  It's a brain cake, and I made it for the aforementioned Zombie Birthday Party.

OK.  I don't always dress like a zombie.  I've been Dorothy, Alice in Wonderland, Tim Burton's the Corpse Bride, a fairy, and a host of other things.  But for some reason I can only find photos of the zombie costumes right now.  That's OK.  Zombies are awesome.  There are more zombies to come.  Just wait.

So.  You can imagine that one other thing I like is decorating my house for Halloween.  But see, the thing is, I have kids.  Young ones.  And they get all...scared.  So we've done some cutesy pumpkin crap for the last few years so the Princess wouldn't be terrified of her own front door or whatever.  Kids, right?

But this year she's 5, practically a teenager, and we think it's time to introduce her to the truth about Halloween.  It's scary.  In the most awesome way.  I think she's ready; she's fully aware of zombie and vampire mythology.  Whereas past years have been all about the princess, the costumes she's been considering this year have been decidedly on the side of horror.  (She settled on a witch, by the way, and kind of a cutesy sparkly witch, but a witch nonetheless, which I count as progress.  It's not a princess.)

Also?  We have a new house.  And the front of our new house has a gorgeous roomy porch with bushes and trees and flower beds and lots of space for...creativity.  Space for lots more fun than some stupid grinning pumpkins, right?

Today the Princess spent the day with her grandparents, and tHe O.G. and I found ourselves at the local Spirit Halloween store.  Looking.  And imagining all the various ways we could turn the front of our new house into something that would terrify and repel children, leaving us with a bowl full of candy to consume at our leisure delight the neighborhood children with the true spine-tingling spirit of Halloween.

We came home with some stuff.  A lot of stuff, maybe.  We might have come home with like 3 big bags full of creepy, demented, twisted stuff, OK?

And the crowning glory of this stuff?  Brace yourselves...

...No seriously, brace yourselves.  If you have a weak constitution you might want to turn back now...

INCREDIBLY LIFELIKE ZOMBIE BABY EATING ITS OWN FOOT!!!

That feeling you're feeling right now?  It's called jealousy.  Or nausea.  One of those.

But probably jealousy.



UPDATE:
This post now linked up at the following parties:

(Howleriffic Halloween @ By Word of Mouth Blogging)