Dream Interpretation

It's become a running joke between my husband and I, that I have intensely bizarre dreams after eating a Walery's pizza. Something in that spicy pepperoni sets my imagination to whirling and I wake up in awe of myself, and usually sort of peeved that I'm missing out on the rest of the story.  I will often try to go back to sleep in exactly the same position I was in, hoping to pick up where I left off.

Bill is often put in the unenviable position of having to listen to me rattle off these crazy adventures.  Most of the time, he just mutters something like "We'd better lay off the Walery's..." or something completely unhelpful.  If he's feeling chipper, he'll sometimes try to interpret them for me.  "The barking dog signifies your irritation at bill collectors, and the blue diamond embedded in the tree symbolizes your angst about moving from our home on Blue Sapphire drive, as you felt like you had roots there..." blah blah blah.  It's usually amusing, and sometimes, when the dream is really odd, and he gets to interpreting, I decide to leave out one or more of the weirdest details, for fear that he'll realize that I'm completely bonkers, and he'll run screaming into the night.

Here's one I'll share with you dear reader...and if you feel like you want a crack at getting inside my head, you just jot your interpretations below.  Oh, and before I start, I should mention that we've introduced a new dream generator.  This whopper was brought to us by hot, buttered popcorn. Munched with real butter, whilst watching an episode of Glee.

It begins with Bill, Casadie and I driving down Lancaster drive here in Salem. We are on a publicity tour for Casadie, as she has just finished being the voice of the girl in "Bolt."  In the dream, I was describing her part as "she's the voice of Hannah Montana", so that's how I know it was the Bolt movie. Anyway....as we were driving, we turned onto Center street, and passed Roth's supermarket. Behind Roth's, I saw a HUGE grizzly bear. I pointed it out to Bill and Casadie, and then we saw the Papa grizzly, and two babies.  Bill and I discussed that Salem's animal control was so abysmally underfunded that even Grizzlies got to walk around unimpeded. We weren't particularly worried, but more fascinated by seeing them up close.  Our hotel was directly behind Roth's (whoo hoo..spectacular location, Disney..thanks! *rampant sarcasm alert*), and our room was on the 7th or 8th floor.   While Bill napped on the bed (typical), Casadie and I looked out our window to see if we could still see the grizzlies.  We noticed a huge menagerie of woodland-type animals; Moose, raccoons, skunks, etc...and a huge crowd was growing. Somehow, the random grizzly sighting had morphed into some sort of forest-themed petting zoo.  Casadie and I wandered down, and got our pictures taken with the animals.  They all appeared to be unrestrained, and when I voiced some concern to the manager, he pointed out the invisible fencing (very tron-like). This satisfied me, and we went back to the room.   Here, my dream went from a vivid but fairly normal to completely wacky.

The next thing that happened was that I was looking out the side window (we had a corner room, ) and I could hear/feel something huge approaching (think Jurassic park-type tension)  Out of the woods, came a HUGE animal/monster thing that was on two legs. It didn't walk, however, it sort of hopped. Like a kangaroo I guess.?? and it was approaching the other wing of the hotel. Everyone was in danger! I watched in horror as this huge creature made it way to eat us all.  To describe it is difficult..I have a very clear picture in my mind, and if I had any drawing ability whatsoever, I'd upload something...but alas, you'll have to settle for my descriptive skills. Start with an image in your head of the abominable snowman from Monsters Inc. That was the approximate body/head proportions and the right shape...It was roughly 40 ft tall...and dark brown.  Furry all over, but it's  head had more hair, kind of like a big, spiky mane.  It was wearing some sort of clothes, but there was no detail there. It looked awful. and mean. and hungry.

It hopped right up to the building, and glared inside at the -what I assumed to be-terrified occupants. I watched horror as he opened his mouth, teeth bared, and then proceeded to vomit all over the side of the building.  He then turned and hopped his nasty self over to our building...his height put him mouth-nose to our window, and yes, he proceeded to vomit again, all down the side of our hotel.  I was screaming for Bill and Casadie to wake up, because i was certain that once he emptied his stomach, he was going on a feeding frenzy and we were the targets.

It was at this terrifying, unfortunate moment......that I woke up.  I woke up saying WHAT....THE....HELL...WAS .....THAT????????   I just laid there for the longest time, trying to figure out what had just happened.   Here it is...over a week later, and I'm STILL trying to figure it out.  Every night, I nervously go to bed, wondering if he'll make another appearance.

I'm flummoxed on this one, friends and readers.  Help me out. Give me your wildest interpretation theories below. I'm looking forward to your input on my mental state.  I think. *be gentle..I turn 40 on Friday..I'm fragile this week!*  (that can't POSSIBLY fit into this dream, can it??)

Meeting Nowah Why-Lee *name changed to protect the innocent

As many of you know, my daughter Casadie and I got to spend 3.5 weeks in California as part of her acting camp.  During the day, I had errands and tasks galore to complete, but always kept a wary eye out for celebrities to report back to you with.  I was closing in on the last days with nothing to share but a fuzzy distant shot of John Leguizamo at Universal.  Discouragement was high, but then, a chance encounter with one of the great loves of my life salvaged the trip.  This is my account of that day. 100% factual in every detail. Honestly.  

(*editor’s note: we’ll see. *author’s note: seriously, it’s true!)

It was the first performance night for our kids. All of the parents were congregating outside, waiting for our cue to go in.  It was a beautiful, sunny day, and the chatting was pleasant. We were all eager to see our children do well.  I was standing by the door of the small café that was attached to the theater.  As I gazed toward Santa Monica Boulevard, a smartly-dressed man strode by. 

(*editors note: He was NOT smartly dressed, he looked like a bum! *author’s note: shut up! It’s my story..let me tell it!) 

I immediately recognized him as the famous doctor from that famous doctor show! My heart skipped a beat or two, even more so when our eyes met, and he winked at me seductively.  As I drew a sharp breath in surprise, he chuckled, and turned into the café. 

(*editor’s note: He did NOT wink! OR chuckle!) 

I stood, frozen for a moment, while rapidly trying to decide what the etiquette would be in Hollywood. Would it be ok for me to ask for an autograph or photo? Would he turn me down flat? I wondered if anyone else recognized him...so far no one else was kicking up a fuss, so I followed him inside the café.  He ordered his drink, a super-tall, mocha, double-light, half-fat, vege-chino, vanilla caramel strawberry frappe.  He ordered a second drink..a hot chocolate. My heart skipped a beat…that was MY favorite drink…could it be? No, of course not.

He stepped back outside, and into the melee. The other moms were on to him. Flashbulbs were popping everywhere.  Like the professional that he is, he graciously allowed a few photographs, including one with me. He chatted with me briefly while someone figured out my camera, asking us why we were there, crowding his favorite café.  He made pleasant conversation with me, took our photograph together, and then he was gone.  I very maturely and calmly 

(*editor’s note: HA!) 

walked about half a block away so that I could text my friends about this very nice moment.   

(*Editor’s note: all of the following is a complete and utter fabrication. It simply didn’t happen. *Author’s Note: You’re not fun at all, you stupid editor. Shut up and stay out of my head!!) 

All of a sudden, I heard “Hey…hey! Over here!” A loud stage whisper called my attention to a side alley.  I walked over, and was surprised to find Nowah peeking out at me.  He beckoned me to come closer and when I stepped into the alley, he relaxed and smiled.  “I noticed you right away. I could tell you’re a big fan of mine, right?”  Coquettishly, I replied “why, yes, I’ve watched you once or twice on that doctor show.” He laughed heartily..”Once or twice, yeah..that sounds right. Walk with me.”  He handed me the second cup. I looked at him with wide eyes, and he just said “Hot chocolate, right?”  We walked northbound for a block or two, through a cluster of small houses that seemed misplaced in such a dirty, industrial area.

We chatted lightly about the acting camp my daughter was a part of. He seemed interested and was very encouraging.  He spoke of his new show, a post-apocolyptic alien type thing. He said he was enjoying it very much.

Suddenly, he stopped in front of a small bungalow. He said “This is my place”, and opened the small metal gate, and ushered me through.  As we entered the house, I noticed it was definitely a bachelor pad. I expressed in the most polite way that I could, that it didn’t seem like the kind of place I would think he would live in, given his celebrity status. Chuckling, (I love how he chuckles), he said “this is just the place I stay in when I’m in Hollywood. It’s close to my studio.”

He set down his super-tall, mocha, double-light, half-fat, vege-chino, vanilla caramel strawberry frappe on the end table near the door.  Taking two steps, he reached for my hot chocolate, and set it down as well. Then, he took me in his arms and kissed me passionately. Shocked..I didn’t respond for a moment, but then I stepped back and said “No, Nowah! I’m married!” Smiling, he said “But, Jennifer…you’re so beautiful. I love voluptuous women who are passionate and fiery. Be mine!”  I remained firm, and reiterated my love for Bill. I said I was flattered by his attention, but that we would have to remain friends only.  He looked sad, forlorn.  He said “I’ve never been turned down before, you are the most amazing woman I’ve ever met! Remember me if you ever change your mind!” I looked into his eyes, and put my finger to his lips. “No, Nowah, it can never happen. There can never be anything between us. You must forget me.”  As he wiped away the single tear that coursed down his cheek, I grabbed my hot chocolate. No sense in letting it go to waste, after all.  I looked at him again, and said my parting words. “Your new show is very good…can your post-apocolyptic band of alien fighters find a Walgreen’s to raid? Your character needs to find a razor. You’re much better looking when your cleanly shaven.”

I turned and stepped outside, closing the door behind me.  I could hear Nowah sobbing softly inside.  My heart melted for him, but my resolve didn’t waver.  I marched down the steps, and back up the block, ready to sit and watch my darling daughter in her debut performance.

When it was over, I stepped outside to wait for Casadie to appear. The crowd was thick with parents and performers all greeting each other with kisses and flowers, agents walking around with thick sheaves of headshots, chatting with those they wanted to pursue.  A few times, I noticed a tall, good-looking man with a beard peeking around trees and lightposts at me.  Oh Nowah, how I hated to break your heart.

(*Editor’s note: does anyone here realize how DELUSIONAL the author is?? I mean SERIOUSLY. DE-LU-SION-AL. With a capital D.)

(*Author’s note: You’re just jealous, you ridiculous editor. Just sitting around editing people’s blogs. What kind of life is that? Just because Nowah falls in love with a  voluptuous mother of six that he cannot be with, isn’t a good reason for you to go crazy in the editorial notes.  Get a life. Really.)

(*Editor’s note part 2: Seriously. This blog is a complete fabrication. This did not happen. She saw him at the café, got a picture with him, chatted briefly, and then he left.  She was a hot mess for 15 minutes afterwards, but the whole seduction thing did not happen. This blog takes no responsibility for this. Nowah, don’t sue. Author has nothing but her imagination.)

Our California Adventure Begins!!!

The life of a compulsive planner is fraught with danger.  If not danger, at least drama.  If not drama, at least some irritating inconveniences.  Today, Friday, we were supposed to get on the road by noon, according to my gloriously detailed timeline.  But, after some last-minute primping appointments went long, we ended up deliriously late.  I mean, when you’ve got an adorable 8 year old wannabe actress ready to hit Hollywood, you can’t skip the basics.  So we got our nails done, had a spray-tan, got a weave to make her hair thicker, tattooed some eyeliner on so she always looks perky, a little seaweed/sea salt wrap for brighter skin, a bikini wax, and a couple of botox injections, and then we were ready to go!

Ok, I’m kidding.  But do you REALLY want to read that I had to get gas, and the cheapest way for us is to go alllll the way down Lancaster to the Fred Meyer where we get three cents off a gallon, and that I had to pick up homemade chocolate chip cookies at Grandma’s, and battle the crowds at Winco to purchase 4 weeks worth of Spaghettios and Apple Jacks?  Oh, wait..you WOULD rather know that I’m human??  Ok, suit yourself.

So anyway, some things we learned in 24 hours on the road, and in our first couple of days.

1.       Two Kimballs with baby bladders can make a 15 hour drive into a 24 hour drive.

2.       Expecting Casadie to entertain me and keep me awake was an exercise in futility.  After an hour and a half of excited chatter, she was out like a light and snoring.  This continued off and on throughout the day.

3.       When you pull over to pee on the side of the road, and you painstakingly park the car at JUST the right angle so it’s less obvious that you’re illegally participating in public urination, and a trillion cars are passing you at 80mph, and next to the freeway is about 500 cows….at least 10 of those cows will stare. Uncomfortably so.  When they get their fill of the peep show, they will immediately go moo to their friends, and it spreads like wildfire throughout the herd.  200 miles later, cows were seen ripping up the “Eat mor Chiken” signs, and posting new ones that said “Got bladder?” Damn gossipy bovines.  At least I keep my udders covered, you bitches.

4.       Some idiot, somewhere, at some time, decided that it would be a good business venture to take ACTUAL Scorpions and place them in lollipops. That you put in your mouth.  They looked like the amber-covered mosquitos from Jurassic Park.  I’d sooner battle a velociraptor than lick one of them damn pops…  On a COMPLETELY UNRELATED NOTE,,..Bethanie..we got you a souvenir!

5.       One hotel’s “kitchen package” is not necessarily like another’s.  We have been temporarily bumped to another extended stay facility due to capacity, and the kitchen is stocked with exactly 2 forks, 2 knives, 1 spoon and a pan.  My other place is supposed to have wine glasses, pot holders, artisian cheese slicers from Italy, a melon baller and a 214-piece Tupperware set among the more tepid offerings.  These managers have no idea who they are dealing with.  To downgrade a former Disney Manager who brought a block of Tillamook Cheddar cheese and now has NO GRATER TO GRATE IT WITH…heads are gonna roll,  I tell you.

6.       Do NOT pack your favorite jeans on the bottom of a 700-gallon suitcase. You will experience 10 minutes of extreme panic that you have no pants for a month, and WILL be experiencing every teenage nightmare of being pantsless.  In Hollywood.

7.       While I did find my pants and do not have to subject the greater Hollywood population to me being pantsless, they do have to deal with me being off my feed from not having my hair dryer.  Yes, the hotel has a substitute...but you just don’t understand.  I’ve had my trusted hair dryer for 20 years.  Yes, 20 years.  It’s a professional model, so the buttons are on the wrong side, and I’m used to it.  Any old substitute won’t work...because if you know me, you know I have thick hair...these little crappy “squeeeeeeeeeeeeee” type motors won’t cut it.  I need a reconditioned 747 jet engine strapped to a vent and an electrical cord.  Seriously.

8.       I CANNOT sleep in the same bed as Casadie for 3.5 weeks.  I was looking forward to the snuggle time, because she’s such a good snuggler, but OMG, that girl flip flops like a trout slapped up on a beach.  I swear she was kicking me on purpose.  I have bruises that are in places I didn’t know could bruise.  Yes I do.  I lasted exactly 15 minutes after she fell asleep before I jumped to our other bed. When we are moved back to our studio apartment we’re supposed to have, that girl is relegated to an air mattress, which I very intelligently threw in the car, just in case.

9.       Casadie is very astute.  When trying to convince her to go on California Screamin’ when we were let into the parks by friends, I explained that “even Aunt Gina went on it, and she’s a chickenbutt!”  Casadie retorted, VERY OFFENDED, “Aunt Gina’s not a chickenbutt!!! She’s just short!”  As I nearly flipped my car on the freeway from laughing so hard, Casadie further mused “It’s true. She’s not as tall as real ladies, but I love her anyway.”

10.   Do not allow yourself to get hungry and dehydrated before going on the giant fun wheel at Disney’s California Adventure.  I’m not joking.  I’m doing this trip on a severe budget, so while in the parks, I bought meals for the girl and just picked a little off her plate, figuring it would hold me over until we got back to the hotel.  Casadie wanted the swinging cars, which are jaw-droppingly scary if you aren’t expecting it.  If you board with a slight hunger headache, and the beginnings of heat exhaustion…fuggedabowdit.  I learned I have a whole new capacity for “throwing up a lil’ bit in my mouth”.  Who wants to puke in a cage with 3 strangers and sit there and stare at it for 20 more minutes?  Not this chicka. “Gulp.”  The last time I got motion sickness was a whale-watching cruise 17 years ago when I was pregnant with Bethanie.  I don’t GET motion sickness.  Totally ruined the ride, and my very nice chat with my very nice friend Erick who met me there since we haven’t seen each other for several years.

11.   On a much nicer note, I learned that Casadie is a sharp and keen observer of details.  She THRILLED future imagineer Alex Williams by pointing out subtle themeing details at the parks.  She knew it was an oddity and should be considered wrong to place “Brother Bear” references on an “UP” themed area. (It had previously been a Brother Bear area, and Disney left several references to BB intact…it’s policy of late being to cater to the lowest denominator of Guest, it saves money that way.

12.   Finally, I’ll sign off saying that I learned this camp is going to be one rollicking roller coaster ride for Casadie and myself.  As a camper, she gets INTENSE preparation from working actors, and as a Mom, I get intense preparation in being the best type of parent for a working child actor.  Agents and Casting directors sometimes cast for the whole package, knowing they have to work with the parents almost as much.  I’ve learned about Coogan Savings Accounts, Work Permits…etc.  We also learned that Casadie will already be part of a commercial shoot on Wednesday…Adrian is using all of his campers in the background for a website commercial.  More details as I get them.  She also gets to attend a taping of Good Luck Charlie, including a backstage tour and photos/autographs.  I’ve got one bouncing-off-the-walls kiddo here.

See you later, so much to do!  Casadie looks a little tired…now where did I lay that botox syringe????  J

***For those readers not following me on Facebook....This post refers to my daughter Casadie who desires to be an actress, and her opportunity to attend an acting camp in Hollywood with Adrian R'Mante, from the Suite Life of Zach and Cody, as well as other celebrities.  Casadie and I are in Southern California for 3.5 weeks so she can have this adventure.

Deep Pressure

Picture yourself, laying under a sheet, in a darkened room…soft music playing, and in walks a hot Russian massage therapist.  He quietly asks “Where do you need special attention?” and for a brief moment, you want to tell him. Ha!  But then you lie, and say “Nowhere *special*, but my shoulders have been tensing up.”

No, this is not some daydream or trashy romance novel; this was my real massage experience just the other day.  My life has been stressful lately.  Wait.  I need to rephrase that...my life has been over-the-moon stressful.  Highly agitating.  Pressure-and-stress-beyond-what-the-typical-full-grown-adult-can-handle kind of stressful.  Cross country move for 7.5 people (one kid staying behind to go to college, but he’ll be travelling with us for the summer, and I’m taking his stuff) and a dog; no heater in our house through the winter, and no A/C now, so our house is hotter inside than it is outside. Car troubles, new job responsibilities, pest problems in our house, oodles of people to see and commitments to meet before we move…it all adds up to Mom being shipped off to the funny farm.

So, for Christmas, my very generous mother gave me a very generous gift certificate to my favorite massage studio.  There, I found the nirvana that is: male therapists.  I had never had a male therapist before…being a large, ample, pooh-sized woman, it’s an uncomfortable and embarrassing thing to be semi-nude in a dark room with a man other than your loving and supportive husband…but one day, I simply had no choice, so I accepted.  AND I WILL NEVER GO BACK.  I have a theory about why my male therapist experience was so life-changing.   I prefer extremely firm pressure.  Stress-filled muscles like mine, hidden under a couple of extra layers of….skin, (yeah, extra skin!) require someone with sharp elbows, steel bones, and a sadist’s outlook on life.  If I don’t get an elbow ground down deep into my shoulder blade, it just ain’t gonna cut it for me.  It’s not a true massage if I’m not near tears at least a few times during the hour.  Yes,  yes... soothing soft touch is wonderful too, and I want a balance, but my muscles need to be beaten into submission.

When you ask a woman to do this, they really have to ramp it up.  Let’s face it…political correctness aside, we ladies generally are not as strong as men.  So to apply the REALLY hard pressure that I need, a female therapist has to go beyond her normal application of pressure, and summon up all her strength. This rarely, in my limited massage experience, lasts long enough to truly work out the kinks.  After a ferocious burst of effort, I can feel the strength ebb out of her fingers and arms...and eventually, the huffing and puffing begins while she slowly winds down and tries to get her heart rate back to normal.  I end up feeling bad for them, and the next time she asks if she's doing it hard enough, I say "Oh yeah, that's perfect."  *sigh*

But for a guy…they often come equipped with near-monstrous levels of strength.  During THEIR massage training, they simply have to learn to harness their strength, and get to spend the entire time learning to perfect the art of soothing, supplicating and caressing.  So when I say “I like firm pressure…like REALLY hard,” their eyes light up, and their little boy excitement of being able to use their entire physical range is fun to watch.  They spend the entire massage asking constantly if the pressure is too much, and I purr back “No, it’s perfect…more, please.”

So Dimitri and Austin at Hand & Stone spa at the Loop, I salute you.  I thank you for spoiling me for any future female massage therapist in the world.   All inappropriate references to a hot Russian asking me if I ‘want any more special areas taken care of’ aside, my husband might thank you too…I have not asked him nearly as often lately to work out my knotty (naughty..haha, see that very appropriate word play I inserted in there??) shoulders for me, because I come home a melted puddle of happily relaxed, bruised and subjugated muscle…ready to do battle with the world.  At least until I enter that 97 degree house and do battle with that itty-bitty bug.

Love Notes

I realize that it’s been a long time since I’ve posted on this blog.  I extend my heartfelt apologies to anyone who uses the blog as their toilet reading. (Yes, I have followers that do exactly that.)  Since early February, I’ve been deeply involved in arranging our upcoming cross-country move.  I will definitely be sharing some stories and thoughts, both funny and unfunny about that whole process and the thoughts and feelings behind it.  Today though, in a slightly related-mostly unrelated topic, however, I want to talk about love notes.

Unabashedly, I am a sucker for love notes.  Somewhere in my primordial ooze, a gene established itself as a complete romantic, mushy-gushy scrapbook type of individual, and I cherish and love each note of encouragement, love, affection, holiday greeting, etc that passes through my fingers and my heart.  What this means is that as I pack and purge, I am constantly faced with an impossible choice…to save or toss this amazingly precious bit of paper?  Always. always the choice is to save it, after all, it says so much..and so the packing pile grows.

The love notes can be from anyone.  Of course, notes from my husband and beautiful children melt my heart and are always a good way for any of them to get out of trouble.  And they know this.  My quiet, introspective husband writes a damn fine love note and although you, dear reader will never know their contents, you are certainly allowed to be jealous.  He’s goooood.

But right at this moment, as I make one of the biggest changes in my life, after some of the most stressful years of my life, I find that some of the most precious love notes I have are those that came from my Cast when I was their manager.  Adventureland-Liberty Square Cast Members are people exuding with personality and vitality, and filled with creativity and with no fear of expressing it.  As the job, schedule, policies and other assorted work-related headaches are more extreme than necessary for what should be such a magical place, the Cast was often left feeling discouraged and without advocates.  When I would step in and assist my Cast with whatever they need, or at least listen with a sympathetic ear, I would often return to my office after a long shift and find little love notes written on post-its and pasted to my cubicle.  Anything from the silly: “Jennifer is the lemon in my iced tea” to the suck-up: “Your kids are the cutest kids on the planet!”  Frequently, they were veiled taunts at my other team members: “Jennifer is my favorite manager!” surrounded by swirly hearts.  Once, after loaning my jacket to a former Cast Member who was visiting from England, I put the jacket on 3 days later, reached into the pocket, and found a little slice of sweetness in the form of a hidden note from her.  That note, worn and faded, still resides in the same pocket, and always warms my heart when I wear the jacket.

My cast also enjoyed my subversive ways of dealing with ridiculous management dictates.  My boss, an unnamed ass who will go down in the annals of spectacularly ineffectual and uninspired pseudo-leaders, once pulled me into the office and demanded that I “do something about all those notes.”  I asked what he wanted me to do with them.  He replied that my desk looked messy and disorganized because of all those notes and “all those pictures of your kids.”  Now, keep in mind, other managers had so much Disney/Baseball/Simpsons/Whatever memorabilia that there was no room to write or effectively use a keyboard on their desk, but MY desk was the problem desk.   Even HIS office was a mish-mash of Disney crap, Dolly Parton altar, and ugly cat pictures, but I was supposed to remove the photos of my children.  No waaaay, Mister.  I clung to his claim that it was disorganized, and promptly walked out to my desk, removed everything, and meticulously put it back, in nice neat rows.  All pink post-its were lined up vertically to the millimeter; all the smaller, white ones went horizontally across my cubby door.  My childrens' pictures in frames were lined up in a precise row across the back of my desk, in age order, and all the snapshots under my clear plastic blotter magically became arranged by size.  All the cast leaving notes in the future followed my lead, and each subsequent note continued whatever pattern suited it best, and never did the subject come up again. 

Upon my layoff, one of my greatest fears was that during the packing process, my beautiful and meaningful notes would get “lost.”  Thankfully, a friendly face was assigned to pack up my things, and very sweetly she included every single note.  They reside in a box, ready for the day when I can go through them without bawling my face off, and can put them in a scrapbook of my Disney career.  Each Cast Member who took 15 seconds on some random day to thank me, to brighten my spirits, or to leave me a reminder of some crazy inside joke has no idea how much those notes buoyed me on my difficult days, and how they remain close to my heart to this day.

I challenge you today to write a love note to someone.  Make it long and heartfelt, make it short and silly.  Make it spontaneous and meaningless, or a ridiculous declaration of your love.  Whatever.  Just make someone happy for at least the time it takes to read it, and whether or not they are a pack-ratting scrapper like me who will save and cherish it, it will make an imprint on their heart.

Saturday- Things I can't believe I'm saying February 5th

"What's your sign?"

Don't you just love the random little questions asked by curious and uninhibited minds?  They don't hold back and some can be quite odd, and you wonder what is going through their little minds as they land on the need to know that particular tidbit.

"Do Rhinoceroses have toenails?"

"Has anyone ever been on Jupiter?"

"Why did Lady Gaga's mother name her Lady?"

My girls are currently enthralled with the "Signing Time" Videos.  We check them out from the library, renew them until the end of time, and almost always end up paying late fees too.  We finally drop them back off, and head immediately to the DVD section to see what has landed on the shelf.  Old favorites, or new volumes to devour?  I know the "Signing Time with Alex and Leah" theme song by heart, and I feel as though I know the child actors who star in the shows, and I marvel at "how much they've grown." 

It's not unusual now for the girls to use sign for their requests, and often they have learned signs that I have never even seen.  Even Bethanie is getting into it, and when we played a board game, it was common for her to use the signs for "My turn" and "Your turn" while we played.  It's pretty cool to see that the girls have found a language they love to learn, and that we can all use as a family.

Except that yesterday, the girls wanted to know the sign for vagina.  This subject is not covered in the DVD series.  Evidently the host, Rachel, doesn't feel that stars Alex and Leah (cousins) need to discuss anything below the neck, and I understand that.  But now I have a houseful of little girls who apparently would all like to discuss their private parts via Sign.  So Mom and Dad can't overhear the conversation, I imagine.  Even Bethanie, pretending to be horrified, was interested in finding out if I knew the answer to this question.  For the record, I didn't.

Also, in a moment of spectacularly unenlightened and unprepared parenting, I think I said something like: "Oh, I don't think there is a sign for that.  It's a private area, so there's no need to discuss it."  I am normally nonchalant about things like body part names..and we are a potty-humor type of family...so this would typically not be an issue.  But I admit they took me by surprise, and as I could still remember my friends teaching me the signs for "Shit" and "Sex" back in high school, I suddenly had an image of my adorable little daughters running around doing inappropriate signs, and I cracked.  Couldn't do it.  So therefore, "Vagina" has no sign.  At least not right now.

But, I DO know the sign for Rhinoceros now, and could stumble my way through telling you via Sign, that I have no idea if Rhinoceroses have toenails or not.

PS.  www.signingtime.com.  Pretty great videos.  We want the whole set (hint hint for the holidays and birthdays coming up!)

Saturday- Things I can't believe I'm saying

We're going to try a new Saturday feature here at Spilt Milk.  "Things I can't believe I'm saying."  Every Saturday, I'll try to update with a quick post that will detail some item from the week that made me stop and go "hmm."

To start us off, I have a little nugget from this afternoon.  Today, we have a houseguest.  Casadie had a gymnastics workshop this morning, and when I picked her up, she and her friend Andrei pleaded for a playdate.  He's the gorgeous and charismatic son of the owner, an extremely talented young man, 9 years old.  Casadie has had a little crush on him for a while, and honestly, what red-blooded little girl wouldn't?  He's ADORABLE.  So, we get permission from his parents, and off we go!

Once home, they go upstairs to play.  The cleanest, most organized room right now is Alex's room, normally locked and off-limits since he's at college.  I decided to let them play in there while I was doing laundry.  Casadie kept trying to shut the door, and Andrei wanted it open.  I had to step in and say "Casadie, when we have boys over to play, the door should remain open."   Casadie said "Why?!",  and in an effort to avoid an uncomfortable conversation that could actually make them THINK about doing something inappropriate, I just shrugged and said "Because I said so."  Andrei looked at me for a moment, and looked at Casadie, and said "Thank goodness I'm a boy!"  I had to turn away quickly before they both caught me busting out a laugh.

Later, my policy on the open door became very prophetic..but not because Casadie got any wild ideas, but because my 5 year old, Delanie decided that Andrei WILL be her future husband, and was trying to seal the deal with a kiss!  Andrei had to ask (ever so politely..I LOVE that boy) for some assistance, and I had to go up and tell my 5 year old that kissing playmates is not acceptable.  Hopefully, there will not be a repeat with her or any of her sisters today.  I can only have this conversation once.

Kimball Traditions- The Tooth Fairy

Traditions.  Such a wonderful part of any family.  Whether big or small, traditions help unite generations, mark moments in time, and provide a connection to warm family memories for years to come.  I am particularly attached to tradition.  From the time I was a kid, traditional moments dot my reminiscing.  After being picked up from camp, we ALWAYS stopped at this little store for a snack and a potty stop.  Once I got older, started working at the camp all summer and that little store burned down, the tradition became a Saturday evening trip to Dr. Munchie's pizza every weekend.  Our Christmas tree was decorated every year on the Friday after Thanksgiving, and we burst into "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas" at the VERY first glimpse of Christmas lights as the season got started.

Once I had children of my own, I of course continued many traditions and established new ones.  As a new, young mother of two, I took my kids to each new Disney movie, on the first day of release.  Preferably the first showing.  I continued decorating the tree on Friday after Thanksgiving, until Bethanie was born, on December 7th.  For a while, I decided to respectfully wait until after her birthday to do it, but have since become a little more fluid with that date.  We buy each of the kids a Hallmark ornament at Christmas and write a little inscription on the inside lid.  My Mom sent my ornaments with me to decorate my first tree, and I will do the same for my kids.

Over the years, as we've added more children to the Kimball brood, it's easy to see how some traditions, started innocently and easily with just 1-2 kids, can get VERY out-of-hand when you have a large family.  Today's example is the Tooth Fairy.   Of course, the Tooth Fairy serves every family, whether you have 1 kid or 18, but because she knows every family is unique and special, she tailors her tooth-retrieval service to the specific needs of the family.  At least that's the story in our house.  When Alex and Bethanie were little and the only kids on the horizon for this very ambitious mother, the Tooth Fairy delivered a BEAUTIFUL bookstore-quality book complete with inscription, AND a crisp $5 bill.  Yes, over-the-top..but who cares.  The Tooth Fairy loves books, and knows my kids love books, and so she aims to please.  The baby teeth days are fleeting, so my arrangement with the Dental Queen was something to be cherished and celebrated.

Many years later, as Casadie began to lose her teeth and the Tooth Fairy would again be visiting the Kimball household, I stopped short, and quickly counted the number of baby teeth this Enamel-Wrangler would be picking up from our home in the next several years.  4 more girls, 7-8 teeth apiece (how many baby teeth do kids lose, exactly? I've lost count!) Speaking conservatively, we're talking $150 bucks and a veritable library of top-shelf Newberry Award Winners.  The Barnes and Noble CEO should be sending flowers to our house.  Bill hopelessly suggested (he never had a chance) cutting the cash back to $1 and buying paperbacks, but I said the Lady of Floss could afford $5, 2-3 times per year.  He sighed, rolled his eyes lovingly (I swear), and drove me to the bookstore to make a few selections. (The Chomper Collector treasures and uses Mom's suggestions when she delivers the books, of course.)

Casadie has been working on her top two teeth, which have REALLY taken their time.  I was worried that an Oral Surgeon might be needed to help these along, and that given her age of 7, she might be close to abandoning her belief in the Princess of Plaque.  But, once the tooth came out yesterday, the debate as to where to put the tooth, which bed to sleep in (we really have a musical beds thing going on over here lately..with bunk beds in two different rooms and sisters who like to switch loyalties and alliances..a long story for another day), began in earnest. 

Any doubts I may have harbored, ie "will the kids REALLY remember this as a cherished tradition, or is this Queen of Gleam just wasting her money?" was absolutely dispelled this morning, when Casadie marched downstairs, grinning a toothless smile ear-to-ear, and clutching a large book under her arm, "Zen Shorts."  

"Mommy! Look what the Tooth Fairy brought me!"  She showed me the book with the beautiful water-color illustrations, and read the, may I say, very touching inscription to me.
"That looks wonderful!" I replied, "have you read it yet?"
"No, not yet.  I want to get Library Mouse, & the Marshmallow Incident first. I haven't found them yet."

Mom very confused: "Why do you need those books first?"

Casadie "Well, those were the first and second books the Tooth Fairy ever gave me.  I want to read them in order before I start Zen Shorts.  The Tooth Fairy always gives me such beautiful books."


A Mother's silly indulgences completely validated in the wise and wonderful words of a 7 year old, who is losing her baby teeth kind of late.  She still believes in the magic, and I am absolutely proud and excited to provide it to her.

Rock on, Tooth Fairy.

For the birds....(I mean, KIDS)

Confession time.

I hate birds.  Also, I am not bright.  Impulsive and child-like, but not necessarily bright.  One might wonder why on earth these two things are related, and one might also note that probably only ONE of those two facts is news to anybody.

A little background on my bird-hating-ness.  I haven't always hated birds.  They are pretty.  They have a beautiful, melodious sound.  They eat bugs and such.  I once even owned a bird.  A co-worker of my ex-husband talked him into taking on an orphaned cockatiel.  I believe the cockatiel was orphaned because it was the devil, and no one could stand it, but I digress.  I happily thought that a cockatiel was just the most adorable pet to add to our brand-new little family.  Because every newlywed couple needs a squawking, obnoxious bird that wants out of it's cage at all hours of the day and night, right? That kind of stress is perfect on a budding new marriage when you're all of 18 and 19 years old.  So anyway, to make a long story short...the bird didn't work out (neither did the marriage, but it would be a few more years before we'd admit to that), and we ended up giving him away.  At least I *think* we did..I'm pretty sure I didn't agree to one of Jay's wilder plans to let it go free in the Oregon wilderness.

Cut to several years later, not really on *loving* terms anymore with birds in general, I was pecked, rather ferociously in an aviary at the Portland Zoo.  We had our adorable son Alex with us, baby Bethanie in the stroller, and some horrible little green and red beast nearly pecked me to death while my husband (now EX-husband) laughed riotously at my predicament.  Not long after that, he rented Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds" for us to enjoy in the privacy of our own home.  Evil bastard.  

Ever since then, I avoid aviaries, even if it requires back-tracking half a mile through the zoo or park path to find an alternate route.  I don't need to see any more birds.  They have feathers, two feet, and occasionally one will have a very interesting-looking beak.  Whoopee.  Somehow, the big kids caught on that I wasn't just disdainful and bored..but that there was a real fear involved.  Like my unreasonable fear of popping Pillsbury biscuit cans, this has now become a source of gleeful amusement for them.  They pat me condescendingly on the head or shoulders, offer to hold a map or jacket over my head and escort me quickly through the aviary so I don't have to backtrack.  They say witty things like "Oh..that's RIGHT...you're as scared of birds as you are of loudly popping biscuit cans, AREN'T YOU??" and I just give them my best "I will KILL you when we get home" grin..and run through the aviary at top speed to prove my bravery, flinging other people's small children aside like they are bread crumbs.  Which I hope the birds think they are, at least long enough to distract them from me.

So, when one irrational woman is afraid of birds, and is ridiculously annoyed when the chirping outside wakes her up at the unholy hour of 7am, what is the best course of action?.....

.....buying a bird feeder for homeschool of course.  The girls saw the project in a book, and clamored endlessly and adorably for it, until I gave in.  The project actually involved BUILDING a bird feeder..but since I'm handier with a debit card than a hammer...a beautiful black bird feeder came home, along with a bag of "Songbird mix."  (Is it made of real songbirds?  I hope so!  *maniacal hand-wringing and 'muahahaha-ing'*) So now, the girls can gleefully watch for birds in the backyard, and I can lay in bed at 7 in the morning with a pillow over my head.


.....I'm thinking of buying a BB gun.

PS.  As I wrote this..I realize then, what an oddity it is that I enjoy playing "Angry Birds".  I realized that I'd rather be the pigs.  But I'm still mildly obsessed.  Just an odd coincidence.

I broke my funny...

Sorry folks, my funny got broken.  I have always intended for my blog to be a humorous and light-hearted look at the craziness that is our life..but I suppose it wouldn’t be real and honest if it didn’t occasionally explore the darker, crazed side of my “crazed life as a homeschooling mother of 6”.    The end quarter of the year, all the way through February is what Bill and I lovingly and laughingly call “Kimball Crazy Quarter”..and it’s a time filled with the normal stressful holidays, our anniversary, and not one, not two, but 4 birthdays for our family.  So understandably, my stress level rises during this period anyway.  Add to it the exceptional hardships we’ve been facing financially through our layoffs, the new added stress of a job that doesn’t fit my personality and a few tragic and horrific situations for family and friends, and it’s a recipe for a personal fitting of a white coat for me.

I’ve struggled lately with severe feelings of self-doubt, plummeting self-confidence, worry about the future , and even confusion about what I WANT from our future.  I had dreams…they were to have a beautiful family, wonderful husband, and a job at Walt Disney World.  Have, Have and Had.  Now what?  It’s definitely time to re-evaluate and set some new goals, but that’s where the self-doubt is coming in.  Our financial hole is so deep, I can’t see the top, let alone the beautiful horizon.

Homeschooling fills part of that horizon.  I see my children enjoying each other’s company, I see Bill and I really reconnecting with them and learning much more of their personalities that I ever would have known if they were in daycare and school for 8+ hours per day.  For this, I am grateful.  It gives me small, meaningful goals for the day, the week, and even a year’s worth, but still, I feel lost.  I worry that my depressive episodes will cause me to lose focus on this particular goal, and that wouldn’t just hurt me, it would absolutely be damaging to the girls and their future.  So the self doubt creeps in, and makes me wonder if they wouldn’t be better off back in school.  I know every homeschooling parent experiences some measure of this worry, but mine are just exacerbated now with my overall hot mess.

I could spend an entire blog complaining about my job, but I’ll just say that I do love Hilton.  I love most of the people I work with.  I could easily see myself leading this team, supporting them in this very difficult job of telemarketing, but the actual job of being on the phone, suffering the abuse of a nation of people that feel it’s ok to demean, demoralize and otherwise rudely treat me simply because I’m a telemarketer is so hard to endure.  Each sale equals success, and refills my bucket a little bit, and the rare no-sale with a wonderful person and a great conversation does as well. 

  But when in a 6.5 hour shift, and well over 400 calls results in no sales, my bucket is empty, overturned, stomped on, and has a hole drilled in it.  Filling it with a success just becomes that much harder.  I’m told I’m very good at this job.  My superiors say that my style on the phone is awesome, and I’m the best of the best.   This is so hard to believe after someone has just cursed at me, and told me I’m worthless because I happened to call them during their 7:47pm dinner.  I can see a future with this company as a leader, and I’m making inroads toward that end, but the emotions that threaten to bubble over and become on display are endangering the professional demeanor I struggle to present.  For those who say “why wait until you can be promoted? If it’s that hard on you emotionally, find something else!”….I’m trapped.  Utterly and absolutely without options.  The money I make when the going is good is absolutely enough to make it impossible to leave.  There are zero comparable options out there for someone like me, with no degree and with my need for reasonable hours and legal work.  I mean, I suppose I could be a prostitute, but then we’d spend so much on bail money, lawyers, etc.   *sigh*  And face it, there’s only so much of a niche market for gals like me.  (ok..so my funny is bruised, not necessarily broken.) 

I struggle with exhaustion.  A job that requires so much mental Olympics and verbal sparring until 10:30 or later each night, means that I am too keyed up to sleep until well into the wee hours of the morning.  In turn, this results in me having to sleep later, cutting into exercise time, homeschooling time, errands, housework, etc..something has to give, and often, it’s ALL of the above, rather than just one or two things.  All of this feeds back into the overwhelming feelings of worthlessness  that are becoming harder and harder to rise above.  On numerous occasions, I’ve called one friend or another only to burst into tears and blubber my way through a rant on how awful my life is.  To those friends who have endured those calls, I can only apologize and thank you for listening.

At the risk of making this the longest post ever, I’ll wind down by saying that I DO remember the positive things in my life.    I do see the value in my beautiful family and my wonderful, generous husband.  I recognize the luck I have in that regard and I count the little things among those things I value the most. 

A husband that continues to get my car door for me, 13 years into our relationship.  He is the best of the best in so many ways, and he supports me  99.5% through all of this, even while dealing with his own feelings of stress and struggle with our situation.  I say 99.5% because no one can truly support 100% the sour moods I get into.  It’s impossible to ask of someone, and he occasionally is just done with them, has his say, and then he slips back into the wonderfully supportive man I know.  I would love to just have him welded to my side.

A talented, intelligent son who has risen above his own personal challenges of autism, and is successfully navigating college life in pursuit of a physics degree.

A beautiful, creative teenage daughter, who while exhibiting normal teenage attitude, continues to provide invaluable assistance to me and her father while we get through this difficult period in our life.

Little girls who love unconditionally, and who always are a source of laughter and fun. 

Our health..recent events with friends and children of friends make me so grateful that my children are healthy and that they continue to thrive. 

Homeschooling.  I am so grateful to have found this outlet for my energy and my need to plan and set goals.  With no other goals in my personal life to strive for at the moment, this becomes a good focus for me, and I get to be closer to my girls.

Friends who listen.  My circle of friends is wide and varied.  I am continually entertained on Facebook, so when I’m at my darkest, reading their observations and anecdotes of their lives truly help me get back on track, at least for that moment, and I gain a lot of positive energy from that.

This blog.  I am grateful that I started this, and I’m grateful for the wonderful feedback I’ve gotten.  My family is special to me, and I’m glad that at least a few of you enjoy their antics.  I’m sorry to post something that is seemingly so out of character, but truly, this is just another side of Jennifer, one that not as many people see.  I am fairly good at faking it most of the time, but lately, I’m just so tired.  I do promise to find my funny again soon, and I am taking notes of the little things that happen.  Maybe another thankful list will be forthcoming soon.

Much love and sincere thanks for popping in and spending time with me.  I promise to follow doctor’s orders regarding my broken or bruised funny, and will be on the mend.