Help me Internet, you're my only hope!

So, in what is amounting to a curious scheduling clusterfuck, Mate has put a family vacation right in front of Dreamspinner's conference in Portland, and then has managed to schedule all sorts of things for him right in front of it.

Which means the last two weeks-- Squish's birthday, Chicken's visit, laundry, the house sitter, the car maintenance, the children, have all been pretty much on mom.

There would have been a time when this sort of snafu would have sent me screaming for the yarn store, but I've matured since then.

I bought shoes online instead, and had them rush delivered.  If you want to see true pornography, check my house tomorrow, when I'm slobbering over a pair of orthotic walking clogs and some flip-flops with the soles of heaven.  It won't be for the faint of heart.

Anyway, less than a week after Squish's b-day, we're leaving the house in the house sitter's capable hands (and she knows our animals, so that's nice!) and taking off for San Diego.  Where we will do somewhere between diddly and squat. I think Mate's entire focus is on a vacation where we sleep, visit the ocean, and lounge about.  We may visit the zoo.  I am a little at a loss-- who is this Mate, and what are his inner motivations?  However, since I am actually going to need to work-- I have a deadline barreling down on me like a shotgun shell--I think it sounds like a perfect compromise.  Yes, I shall be working, but I shall be working someplace after swimming in the ocean all day and eating stuff I didn't cook.  Excellent idea for a working vacation-- if I can watch the kids have fun from a warm spot on the sand, I'm in.

And as for Squish's birthday-- well, she had a lovely time.  One of the best parts, for me, was that her two big presents were an electronic game and a Hello Kitty doll.  And that she and her friends, after the novelty of the dance game on TV faded, and the electronic game went away, stayed up past midnight with dollhouses and dolls and played their little hearts out.

Because some things should never change, and 8 year old girls and dolls are one of them.  (Boys too-- yes, they're CALLED action figures and Legos, but we all know the truth-- creative play is creative play, and when it's done right, it's completely universal.)

And Zoomboy-- who is in dire trouble for State report related reasons--made us love him in spite of his delinquency by tying his jacket on as a toga and making the girls call him "Dobby".  Now see, on the one hand, that's a little creepy, but since he was fetching their water and juice and helping them dispose of their paper plates all night, I'm gonna give it a go from "creepy" to "sweet".  Cause, yanno, Dobby.

But our family is not as gregarious as some, and I have to admit, after the people went away, we were pretty happy.  We had a mostly clean house to ourselves again, and our relief knew no bounds.  The animals may appear to be the most tuckered, but don't be fooled-- Mate was vastly relieved to have all those strange people out of our house.

And then, of course, Mate went MIA immediately afterwards with a series of obligations and previously scheduled moments, and I've been typing by myself ever since.  I could be bitter, but since my next business trip is going to be made longer on purpose by a road trip (instead of a flight) and a trip to an alpaca farm with my knitting peeps, I figure I can cut him some slack.  If I can manage to finish my story and go on vacation, I'll be a happy girl, really, because a trip to the beach with my family and to Portland with my peeps?  I am spoiled indeed!

But first I have to scale the mountain of laundry, find the cat box (hidden during the party!) and go shopping for Easter (important because Zoomboy has no clothes that do not fit him like he's clubbing.)  And then I have to tell Zoomboy that no he can't read until he does his homework.  And remember that it was those words and those words alone that made me want to run away when I was ten.

And, yanno, somewhere in there research WWII, the Liberator pistol (which is just the stupidest thing I've ever heard of-- the OSS air dropped one-shot pistols into France because WHY?) and what life was like for the returning veteran in 1947.  (I suspect it was a shade less as sucktastic as it is for returning veterans now, because congress was slightly less of an ass-pickling jar of dead flies back then and actually took care of their veterans--but I digress.)  Oh-- and prepare for RT, because right now, about all I've done is order swag and cut some pictures out of magazines for my panel with Cassandra Carr, Marie Sexton, Tara Lain, and Z.A. Maxfield. Okay… I've thought about what to wear too… that's always important.  (Yes and no.  I think I'm going to have to seriously cut down on my idea of the man's T-shirt with the spiffy saying as a wardrobe staple.  Yeah, I know-- it's depressing for me too.)

And even before the laundry, I have to go Easter shopping, for serious and important chocolate bunny reasons.  And maybe nap a little cause I think I'm repeating myself.  And definitely meet Mate for lunch, because sushi.  And revel in the fact that it only took two trips to the car service and hours out of two days to make my car not frightening for the big trek across the central California desert.  And oh crap finish the baby blanket I want to have with me when I go to Portland the week after next!

And, well, apparently business as usual here-- and if the aliens aren't going to take me away, it looks like it's up to me.

Ciaou!