Tempest in a Teapot

Hi. Sorry I've been so quiet. I am hip deep in a work project that has left me no time for anything extra. I've taken to knitting in the car at stop lights so that I can Christmas gifts finished.

But that's not what I'm here to talk about today.

As I've mentioned before, our fancy suburban neighborhood has a Yahoo listserv group to keep everyone informed of important events, like how to contact someone who wants to sell a wine cooler. Most of the time, the e-mails are harmless and boring - garage sales, lost dogs, found dogs, found keys, and the like.

Then every once in a while, the vigilantes show up. These folks live for taking pictures of speeding cars and then posting them on the listserv asking if anyone knows who the car belongs to. This, of course, triggers a cascade of e-mails that fall into two groups. First are the "me too!" emails. We get a chorus of people reporting that they saw the very same car doing the very same thing the very same day. Then there are "String them up by their toenails" e-mails. These folks want justice. They want someone, preferably a punk teenager, punished. They want to call the sheriff to patrol our neighborhood 24/7.

These e-mail chains don't last very long, mostly because something else comes along to spark outrage. Last week the listserv blew up with e-mails about our annual HOA dues. The bill had come, and people were shocked, SHOCKED to find that the full dues amount needs to be paid by January 15. Nevermind that's what the HOA contract we all signed when we all bought houses here specifies.

In the past, the HOA has allowed quarterly or monthly payments. But this year they want to save money by sending fewer bills and to have more money on hand in the spring when it's time for lots of landscaping maintenance.

But a nice, reasonable answer from the poor girl at the HOA office wasn't enough. There were multiple e-mails complaining that they didn't get notice of the change, dozens of e-mails saying that no one should have to pay HOA dues because some of the street lights are out and there's a pothole at the entrance. Then there were calls for attorneys and lawsuits against the HOA.

Things took a turn for the strange when one resident suggested picketing the annual HOA board meeting next week. The idea of these middle-class suburbanites marching in circles, holding signs, and chanting because they don't like the bill from the HOA just cracked me up. Forget civil rights! We want to pay our bill in quarterly installments.

I told B the board better be ready. Next thing, residents were going to show up at the meeting with pitchforks, torches, tar and feathers.

At this point, the moderator stepped in said she was shutting the thread down and that everyone was welcome to raise their concerns at the board meeting next week.

We went back to postings about dogs and garage sales  - for about 24 hours.

The new uproar is how ours is the only neighborhood out here without elaborate Christmas decorations at the entrance. "Rawr! We want our Christmas lights!" So now there have been dozens of e-mails all saying "Where are our lights?" and "Who is responsible for this?" Over and over again. And then there are the e-mails that lecture the developers, like they read this listserv, on how not putting up decoration depresses the prices of houses and no one will want to live here and then they won't be able to sell as many houses and then they will go bankrupt. All because we didn't have Christmas lights on the entrance.

Earlier this week, one resident sent an e-mail asking why the heck the inside of the amenity center was filled with decorations but not the front entrance.  A helpful woman said it was all the social committee's fault because they had decorated for the neighborhood holiday party a few weeks ago.

Then came the sniffy, passive-aggressive e-mail from the volunteer head of the social committee. Her feelings were very hurt. She had had approval from the HOA to hire a party planner and decorate. She had told the neighborhood multiple times about the planned party. She had requested volunteers to work the party. And even though 150 families out of 500 showed up, only five people volunteered to help. She was just trying to do something nice to build the community y'all, but it seems like no one is interested. So she's taking her ball and going home.

But the Christmas light controversy has allowed the topic of HOA dues to rear its ugly head again.  There are e-mails, some with all caps, saying "See! This is why we don't like paying our dues! We don't even have Christmas lights!"

As I drove in last night, I noticed someone had flung a balled-up, mass of lights on to the sign at the entrance and plugged them in. I was laughing so hard that I nearly crashed. They may be a mess, but at least we have lights. And I might go out in the dark of night to add to the collection.

The Perfect Christmas Gifts

I love Christmas catalogs - love, love, love. I love them more than infomercials and the "As Seen On TV" aisle at the CVS. I never buy any of the stuff, because I don't want to be seen carrying something silly out of the store. (Well, there was the shakeweight, but we won't talk about that.)

Since we moved, I haven't gotten any Christmas catalogs. It turns out, they've all be going to my mother-in-law's house, where we briefly forwarded our mail in between the rental and our new house.

On Saturday, my mother-in-law delivered all the junk mail that had accumulated over the past few weeks, including a pile of Christmas catalogs. I was in heaven.

I spent most of the evening gasping and texting pictures to my mom and sister, threatening to buy them the items for Christmas.

Here are some of my "OMFG what the hell were they thinking" gifts.

Light-up Thomas Kinkade Bannerettes - buy two because he's dead and they are extra collectible.

I actually have family members for whom this would be a good gift. I'm looking at you, Uncle T.

Bottles not included. I suppose you'd have to drink 8 bottles of wine to think this was a good idea.

I just can't even. A shower curtain with deer. So you can take target practice while washing your hair?

Well, we are in Texas. 

B, Ella and I all think these are awesome. But we all also agree that Campbell would be on his way to the ER about 15 minutes after opening them. 

Faux jeans with faux rips and faded spots. 

This was actually the one that started it all. I threatened to the monkey and all the outfits to my sister. Shockingly, Ella didn't want one either. 

Faux jeans for the ladies. 

Nothing says "Klassy with a K" like wine in a shoe.

I sent this one to my friend Amy just in case she needed a gift idea for her husband. She asked if it came with a flap. I'm guessing yes.

In case you can't read the caption, you put these on the dash of your car (or truck) and they spin when you stop, start or turn. I just can't even. Who thinks of these things?

People out here in the suburbs take yard decorations very seriously. But I think these might be against deed restrictions. 

Because nothing says Christmas like gnarly zombie feet.

Happy shopping everyone.

My new mortal enemy

A few weeks ago I started a new writing job that I love but that is giving me no end of nervous breakdowns. This past weekend I worked through an entire bag of candy corns. The writing is incredibly challenging and I'm learning a lot. And I signed a non-disclosure agreement, so I'm not even sure I'm actually allowed to talk about it. My editor probably also cringes every time she sees an e-mail from me.

Anyway.

One of the things I have to do with this writing job is make sure my content hits a specific Lexile level. I'm sure any readers in the education field will know all too well about Lexile levels.

For those who are lucky enough not to be in the know, a Lexile level is a mystical, magical number that measures the readability of a text. It's strictly computer algorithms based on the length of sentences, the number of words in a sentence, and the frequency of certain quarter words.

The free Lexile analyzer available online will only analyze manuscripts that are saved as a .txt file and that contain fewer than 1,000 words. Everything I've written for this new job has come in between 1,100 and 1,200 words. This means I have to break each manuscript into two pieces and save them individually as .txt files and then submit each one separately. It is a pain in the ass.

Adding to the fun is the fact that I just don't have the hang of writing to specific Lexile levels yet. People keep assuring me that I'll figure it out quickly, but I don't believe them. I spend a lot of time tweaking the passages I've written, shortening and lengthening sentences, putting in or taking out longer words. Most of the time I miss spectacularly.

This Sunday I spent way too much time trying to get  my passages just right. I had to hit a Lexile level of 1100-1180. My day went like this.

Passage 1= 950
Passage 2=1200
Dammit
Tinker, tinker, tinker
Passage 1=1300
Passage 2= 800
Motherf*cker
Tinker, tinker, tinker
Passage 1= 1150
Wooooo!
Passage 2= 900
Sonofabitch
Passage 2= 1000
Dammit
Tinker, tinker, tinker
Passage 2= 1200
I QUIT

I tinkered with that particular piece so much that it was unreadable, and I had to scrap it and start all over again. Sadly, it took me a few more tries to get to the right level.

I think I'd be better at hitting Lexile levels if I understood the logic behind them. But there doesn't seem to be any. It doesn't look at the content or meaning of what you submit, just the numbers, and as we all know, numbers are not my friend.

For the next few weeks, if you need me, I'll either be in my closet eating candy or cursing at my computer.

Waiting for her wings

Lily is in Ballet Austin's production of The Nutcracker again this year. In the days before the auditions, she was very blase about the whole thing. "I'll probably just be an angel again." On audition day, all the girls got crowded into one room to wait for their turn. I think you could have powered a small city with the combined energy of 80 anxious ballerinas. I fled the room because the noise was overwhelming.

When the director walked into the room, the girls were instantly silent, and they all put on their very serious ballet faces. Then they walked off to the theater without us, looking like the pros they are.

Last year I was a wreck waiting for the cast announcement. And this year, I wasn't much calmer. Ballet Austin e-mailed the cast list instead of making everyone drive downtown, and my heart just about jumped out of my chest when announcement arrived.

Much to my relief, Lily's name was on the list. There was a lot of excited jumping up and down when I showed Lily the e-mail, but not quite as much as last year. "I knew it. I'm an angel again." I reminded Lily that being in the Nutcracker was a big obligation in terms of time and money and told her that if she didn't want to be an angel, she didn't have to be.

She quickly reassured me she wanted to be an angel.

This past Sunday I had to drag Lily out of her sickbed and take her in for official photographs. I may have gotten a little weepy watching her get dressed up. The girls were all helping each other with their belts and halos while the moms stood around and took pictures. They all just looked so sweet.

Mom, the loops go on the side. Because there's a snap in the back for the wings that needs to line up. Duh."

I have to go now, mom. Stop taking my picture.

Last year Lily's debut in the Nutcracker got lost in the chaos of moving. I was frantically packing and unpacking boxes in between trips to Palmer to drop her off at the stage door. We made it in time to see one performance, but just barely. 

This year, however, she is in four performances over two weeks, and we can make a big fuss. I can't wait. 

The decorating gene

You know how I said I lack the accessory gene? It turns out I lack the decorating gene, too.

In a few weeks, we will be mark our first anniversary in this house, and other than the smudged paint and stains on the carpet, there's not much here to indicate that we haven't just lived here a few weeks.

The only artwork on the walls is there because knittergran hung it last Christmas, right after we moved in. There aren't any pictures of the kids hanging or even displayed on tables. All of the rooms are the same color the builders left them. The house looked better back when we first saw it and it had been staged by professionals.

I want to create a picture wall in the dining room. I really do. And I've even pulled out all the pictures I had up at the other house; they're sitting in a box in my room. But when I think about hanging them, I think about how I need to update all the pictures because it's been three years and the kids have changed a bit. And then I think about how I'd have to go through all my albums online and then actually order prints of the pictures so that I could frame them. And then I think about having to go to the store to buy frames.

And that's when I walk away in dispair at ever getting anything done.

We went to a housewarming party for some of B's clients a few weeks back. Their house was perfect - cool artwork, great colors, personal touches. I asked the wife how long they'd lived there. When she said that it had only been two months, I wanted to cry.

We still don't have any kind of window treatments in most rooms. Runnerdude hung blinds in our bedroom a few weeks ago - a mere 10 months after we moved in. The kids' rooms have curtains only because knittergran took over.

I need to hire a decorator, but I don't want it too look like one threw up all over the place. I'm not an over-decorated kind of person. Maybe I need to bribe several family members and friends to come in and fix things.

Or maybe I just need to accept that I will never have a fancy house.

Just write an essay

I hate school projects. I hated them when I was in school, and I hate them now that my kids are having to do them. Ella has had multiple due in the past few weeks, and Lily had a big one due on Tuesday. With all of them, I took a very hands' off approach. My kids are probably the only ones at their school whose projects don't look like their parents helped.

Lily's project, which was about American Indian tribes in Texas, came with several options. She could have researched and cooked an authentic meal, made traditional clothing, written a story, built a diorama or researched and written an essay.

I, of course, voted for writing the essay. "It's the easiest! You just have to look up the facts and then write them all down neatly." She argued for doing a diorama, and I lost the fight.

This was one of those times when I was very glad that B and I have different strengths and skill sets. While I protested the paint and clay that was taking over my kitchen, he worked patiently with Lily to make sure her people were structurally sound and helped her research Tonkawa tattoos and clothing.

Still, my kitchen looked like this for three days.

I'd make Lily clear off the table every night for dinner, but the mess kept coming back.

This Tonkawa had some structural problems. Either that or he's aiming at birds. The blue thing on a stick next to him is a fish that's been speared.

From the left we have, a faceless Tonkawa, a horse filled with toothpicks, and a very happy Tonkawa with the world's longest loin cloth.

For some reason, glow-in-the-dark vampire teeth were an important part of the production. And behind them in the Tonkowa's Marge Simpson washing fish in a pot.

More things were added after I took these pictures. Ella helped Lily build a buffalo. I didn't know what was going on when I heard Ella say, "I stuck a toothpick in each eye and gave him a frontal lobotomy." The poor buffalo.

I was so relieved when I carefully delivered Lily and the project to school on Tuesday. The only damage was that the faceless Tonkawa lost his arm somewhere along the way.

Lily really did work very hard and do an excellent job on her diorama. But next time, I'm making her write the essay.

Phobias

I've admitted in the past to having a UFO phobia. Fortunately, this particular little weirdness of mine doesn't affect my life on a daily basis, even if it does mean I will never, and I mean NEVER, visit Marfa. And I still haven't ever watched all of "Close Encounters."

I have other things I'm afraid of, like scorpions, but that's because they are in my house and can actually sting me. Then there's my fear of dentists, but that is well earned. Ask me sometime about the summer I spent $15,000 on my teeth.

But my one other big phobia is talking on the phone. Until today, I'd told exactly four people about this, and one of them is my husband.  Another is my phsrink, who kindly gave me his cell phone number so I could text him if I was having problems with my medications instead of calling him. I've never said anything because talking on the phone seems to be a really, really stupid thing to be this scared of.

If you call me, odds are, I'm not going to answer the phone. I think e-mail and text messages are the world's best inventions, along with the polio and smallpox vaccines, of course.

A lot of my phobia about talking on the phone comes from my social anxiety. When I'm on the phone, I can't pick up social cues like the eye-rolling and sighing that usually indicate I've talked way too much. And I worry all the time about talking too much.

This also means I don't call people very often, except for my mom and sister and childhood best friend. I figure they have to keep liking me even if I talk too much about something stupid.

And not being able to pick up the phone and call people has its drawbacks.

Like the friends I don't talk to ever because I'm afraid I'll annoy them by calling (yes, really). This includes people I've considered close friends for more than 15 years.

Like the calls to the insurance company, wheelchair supply place, and doctors' offices regarding Ella's surgery that I haven't made yet because all of those involve talking to, gasp, strangers.

Like the calls I haven't made to preschools yet because, again, that would involve talking to more strangers.

Like the panic attacks I have before each and every work-related conference call.

Like contacting Ella's school about her unexcused absences because talking to the school secretary, who is actually a very, very nice lady, scares me.

Like the playdates and sleepovers I haven't arranged for the kids because I'd have to talk to other moms on the phone.

Believe it or not, my college job was doing phone fundraising for the University of Florida Alumni Association. I spent three hours a night, three nights a week, calling absolute strangers on the phone and asking them to donate money. I was good at it, too.

Now, there's no way I could do that.

One friend sent an e-mail looking for volunteers to man a phone bank for President Obama's campaign. I really, really wanted to go. But even thinking about volunteering, much less actually going and making phone calls, sent my anxiety levels through the roof. So I didn't even reply to the e-mail.

Today, with B standing next to me for moral support, I actually called the insurance company about billing questions. When I finished talking to three very lovely and helpful staff members and hung up, B asked, "Was that so terrible?" It was. My palms were sweating and my hands were shaking, and it will likely be the last phone call I make for a few days.

So if you haven't heard from me, it's not because I don't love you or care about you. I'll be happy to send an e-mail or text. Just don't make me pick up the phone.

Hairball

Hi. How are you? I'm still here. Barely. During the hot days of summer, I couldn't wait for school to start because I'd have so much more time to work and blog and surf the web for dog shamming pictures. HAHAHAHAHAHA

Between driving Ella to and from school because she can't ride the bus, and driving her to and from doctors' and PT appointments, and sick kids, and taking Lily to ballet class and auditions, and eleventy majillion birthdays, I barely have time to get real work done, let alone blog. 

I know better than to think that the worst of the chaos is over. As soon as I let my guard down, whammo. 

And now for something completely different.

Earlier this summer, after much research and polling of friends and agonizing, I bought a fancy, shmancy European vacuum cleaner, one that's not a Dyson. It's a Miele, which I have no idea how to pronounce. I think I spent more on it than I did my wedding dress. 

I love this vacuum. It lets me vacuum stripes into the carpet. It doesn't leave any dog hair behind. I feel like I've really cleaned after I've used it. And its cord is long enough to let me vacuum the whole downstairs without having to unplug and replug. 

Last weekend I was vacuuming away, sucking everything out from under the sofa, when the vacuum gave a big cough and stopped working. I poked and prodded it. I changed out the bag, just in case. I called B in for help. Nothing. The motor worked, but there was no suction. 

So I called the local fancy vacuum dealership - Long's on S. Congress, if you're interested - and the guy said I could bring it in and that there would be a $20 diagnosis fee that would be applied to the total repair bill. I loaded the vacuum into the car and headed in to town, imagining the outrageous check I was going to have to write.

When we got to the store, the guy whisked the vacuum off into the back room, from where I heard lots of suction noises. Five minutes later, he walked out pushing my vacuum. I said, "Let me guess. There's nothing wrong with it."

The guy laughed and said, "Nope. Nothing wrong with it. But I did find this in the tube."

Sonofabitch.

The nice vacuum cleaner guy didn't even charge me the diagnosis fee. 

But it is reassuring that the vacuum cleaner is powerful enough to swallow a sock. 

Social Media Works!

Two weeks ago, when I published a post about Ella's attempts to get a response from Neil deGrasse Tyson's office, I didn't really think I'd have much chance of success.

But then one of her uncles went on a tear and made it his mission from god to get some kind of answer. He posted links to the pieces on facebook and on some forums he frequents.

Several days later, I got this e-mail:

Jeffrey Simons has left a new comment on your post "Paging Dr. Tyson": 

Dear Ella and Ms. Gardner:

I'm Jeffrey Simons, the Social Media Director for StarTalk Radio, the podcast Dr. Tyson hosts. 

Our apologies for any delay in the response -- it is not intentional.

It’s our understanding that Elizabeth is on a long vacation, from which she has not yet returned.

I am quite aware of Ella's email, and was incredibly impressed by her, as we all were.

As soon as Elizabeth is back I’m sure she will be back in touch with you.

By the way, you can also give credit to her uncle, AB, for bringing this situation to our attention... it was his post in the TexasCHLforum that caught our attention.

Sincerely,

Jeffrey Simons

StarTalk Radio

Social Media Director

jeff@startalkradio.net 

Holy cow! Now I'm not even going to ask why Uncle Ty was in a forum for concealed handgun licenses or what Mr. Simons was doing looking in one. I'm just going to assume the best of everybody.

Keep your fingers crossed that this really does work out.

Treading Water

I have a whole list of things I want to write about - the first day of school, sending Campbell to kindergarten, Campbell's sixth birthday, Ella's recovery, our new neighborhood, how the laundry keeps escaping and threatening to take over the house - but I'm having a hard time putting my butt in the chair to write.

Most days, it's all I can do to make it until bedtime. Ella can't ride the bus because of her knee, so I spend a lot of time driving her back and forth. And I've had a spare kid home sick every day for weeks it seems.

So this week I'm hunkering down and getting caught up all the way around. Maybe then I'll be able to write.