I also started a new job, albeit one I can perform at home, which is great, although it means I have to stop working in time for school pickup and then continue upon reentering the home space until dinner and sometimes I'm working WHILE making dinner and that never ends well. I'm enamored with my new gig because it is entirely unrelated to writing; it's just a nice pay-by-the-hour gig that zips right out of my head the moment I'm done and I can even listen to music or podcasts while I'm working. I don't worry about it, I still have the mental energy to think about my own writing, and I don't require monastic silence. This makes it easier once Henry gets home, because senseless noise-making is one of my son's favorite hobbies. And I don't have to be all I AM ON DEADLINE ENOUGH WITH THE BEEP-BOOP NOISES.

In conclusion, all is well. I'm frazzled, but I'm pretty sure it's temporary. Soon I'll figure out a routine, and I'll be able to write more or at least a weekly post or something for God's sake Alice.

How are you guys? I missed you.

Did you enjoy my use of the iMovie music? Scott is rolling his eyes, probably, or he will be, when he sees this. This is not what this post was supposed to be about. Reading! It's about reading.

The Worst-Case Scenario Ultimate Adventure Novels are Chronicle’s new series for kids. They are similar in format to your classic Choose Your Own Adventure books, but, I think, more appropriate for kids of Henry's age and sophistication.  (He wears a tux to bed.) Henry tore through all three of them within a week. There's one about the Amazon, one about Everest, and one that's Mars-themed. Here's the trailer for the Mars one. It's pretty great. (Almost as great as the video I recently created. Maybe you've heard of it? It's right up there.)

Want these books for a child in your life, or maybe for you? (I'm not going to judge you if you want them for yourself.) Leave a comment. What's the first book you remember falling in love (or at least deep like) with as a kid?  Tell me! I'll pick a winner at random.

I remember my first book-love all too clearly. It was a picture book. Each page featured photos: heaps of pastel cookies, climbed on by curious, fuzzy kittens. I don't remember the story. I just remember the cookies and kittens. The kittens and cookies. It was a magical, soft-focus and probably unhygienic world, and I wanted to be in it. Eating the cookies, owning the kittens. I hope I was a toddler when I had this book, but who knows? I might have been twelve. I was probably not twelve. But I can guarantee you that if I had found that book when I was twelve, I would have kept it, and maybe looked at it every night.

"A roller coaster ride of boredom, horror, hilarity, and sociopathic behavior!"

--pullquote from the imaginary review for my upcoming movie, "Grand Jury: No, It's Not Like Regular Jury, There's Not a Trial, It's…Forget It, Just Forget It."

Well, that happened. For two weeks I was trapped in a windowless room, either falling asleep waiting for a case or listening to an an exhausted ADA listing 48 separate charges that sounded suspiciously alike; trying not to sympathetically break down along with any number of traumatized witnesses; or silently pleading with my associates to stop engaging in asinine fights with each other during deliberations. One of my fellow jurors on the last day observed, "This was like the worst summer camp ever."  Worst summer camp ever, or BEST?  I would rather do just about anything than go back to summer camp, but then I was never much for "team sports" or "deer ticks."

Actually it wasn't that bad. (I went to drama camp! Can you tell?) Sure, it was occasionally harrowing and often dull, and sure, far too many restroom-users seemed to be incapable of flushing (or was this some form of civil disobedience?) but I got to meet a fascinating array of people, the vast majority of whom were committed to sussing out the facts in each case and doing the right thing. Plus, we had laughs. Oh, but there were laughs!

I was determined in the beginning not to a) talk to anyone or b) like anyone but their charms were too much and by the end we were having lunch together and chatting during coffee breaks. Then the talk began of maintaining friendships beyond our duties, and I pretended to take an emergency phone call. Because either a) I have enough friends for whom I don't have enough time, or b) I am a terrible person. Take your pick!

I mean, they were great and all, but I wanted to get back to my regular life. On the last day one of the assistant district attorneys informed us that the grand jurors always went out on the last night, and invited their favorite ADAs. (You meet a ton of them.) (Yes, you have favorites.) I suspect this was a ploy designed to get them free drinks, and anyway the last thing I wanted to do was go out. The first thing I wanted to get the hell out of there. When we were all officially released I could not tear ass from the building fast enough. I literally backed out of the room and if anyone had caught me I would have pretended I was going to the bathroom. Where I would have flushed, because maybe I'm not nice but I am also not an animal.

Listen, we've all forgotten to turn off our ringer at one time or another, right? (Actually I haven't. See above re: scared of getting yelled at.) So she pulls out her phone, at which point of course it's only louder, is in fact almost deafening in its Broadway show-tuniness. But does she turn it off? Does she?

Oh, no. She answers it. Yes. While everyone is staring at her. She answers it.

At this point I am practically hiding under my chair just thinking about how much anxiety I would have about committing such a sin. There is a sign outside the courtroom that commands us not to use our cell phones during testimony, and I am pretty sure this means cell-phone use means we will all be officially Shunned from polite society from now until the end of our days. 

Everyone is staring at her. The Assistant District Attorney is gobsmacked. On the other end, a man is shouting that he can't hear her. How do we know this? Because she has the phone ON SPEAKERPHONE.

"I can't talk right now," she says. "I'm on a jury. I'm in the court. Yes. Here. In the court. I can't talk. I'll call you later." She spends almost thirty seconds describing how poor a time it is to converse. "What? WHAT?" the man is bellowing. The poor ADA is trying to tell her to turn it off. The entire jury is shouting at her to turn it off. Except for me. I'm trying to claw through the floor of the jury box with my bare hands, to escape the shame.

Here's the truly glorious part of this: you would think she would have learned her lesson. BUT NO. Later that day, she did it again. AGAIN. The whole thing. Broadway showtune, speakerphone, guy yelling, her telling him she couldn't talk, everyone shouting, me floor-digging.

But wait! Here's the even more glorious part, the part where all the angels sang in unison. This part occurred on the second day. When, oh Lord in heaven, she did it again. She did it again twice. All the same elements. Broadway, speaker, guy, her, everyone shouting. The third time, she chatted while the ADA and two court wardens berated her. It was a spectacle that went from being mortifying by association to impressive. That third time, I managed to remain sitting upright. (Although I did hide my head in my hands, thus rendering me invisible.) By the fourth time, I was giggling into my court notebook. Would she do it again? I was beginning to get excited about it!

On the third day, some of the other jurors made her promise she would turn off her phone, and either she did or that guy (her grandnephew?) gave up trying to chat with her. I have to say, I was disappointed. Her rule-flouting was turning out to be better than therapy for me. I think I want Phone Lady to become my guru. She seems awfully happy. Although I can't say I care for her choice of ringtones.

Sometimes two authors jabbering about their writing habits can make you want to give up and die. Or maybe that's just me?

I liked these articles about writing. You will like them, too.  

We're leaving today to visit family. I will be gone all week and intend to stay offline the whole time, but we'll see how that pans out. (Sometimes Mama gets the shakes and needs her Twittertime.) I'm bringing my sketchbook and will be attempting to draw my niece and nephew with Henry while taking breaks between cuddle time (my idea) and endless rounds of hide-and-seek (theirs).

We return home just in time for my grand jury duty! I can live-blog grand jury duty, right?

Izzy: What?

Izzy: Muscle weighs more than fat.
 

Me: Oh no you don't.

Izzy: That is science. SCIENCE!

Me: And is not applicable in your case.

Izzy: Appliwhat? I don't get your fancy words MS FANCY WORDS

Me: We need to talk about your attacks on the dog.

Izzy: Those are not your business.

Me: Au contraire, my oversized fluff ball.

Izzy: NOW WITH THE FRENCH TALK SHE SPEAKS

Me: Have you noticed that Charlie doesn't feed you? He cannot. No thumbs. So don't take it out on him when you want to fill your giant cat-maw.

Charlie [scurrying in]: Hey! I noticed! I mean I heard! Hi guys! About the killing me thing! Please! I mean never mind okay what I'm going now-- [scurries out]

Izzy:Yeah, that's right, dog. You go. Run. I'll get you later.

Me: No you will NOT.

Izzy: Look, Bradley. I know I'm just a humorous joke character to you. Because I happen to be a little large!

Me: Did you know your breathing sometimes wakes us up at night?

Izzy: Everyone has to be SUPERMODEL SKINNY IN YOUR WORLD.

Me: I know I've mentioned this before but you still can't clean your own butt.

Izzy: Here's the deal, human. You and the Beard love Charlie more. I get it. I get it.

Me: It's apples and oranges, really. Loving faithful floppy-eared apples and mouth-breathing smelly vengeful oranges.

Izzy: And if you're going to take away what I love--say, a neverending pile of wet delicious--then I'm going to go for what you love. Get it, toots?

Me: Izzy, I hate to say this, but: bad girl.  BAD GIRL, Izzy.

Izzy: Whatevs. Hey, I'll settle down on your chest and you'll love it.

Me: Ow?

Izzy: HACK WHEEZE purrrrrrr. By the way, I could go for a few of those Pounce treats. The moist kind. None of that dusty diet garbage.

Charlie [scurrying in]: I can help! I can do something look how useful! Please don't look at me yellow devil eyes! Nevermind thing in other room have to do--[scurries out]

Izzy: purrrrrrrrrr.

This actually looks like something my old cat could have done. She was kind of flappy.

Speaking of eyes, which it appears I am doing, my sister tore her retina a couple of weeks ago. It wasn't anything she did or (fortunately) anything I did (I would really hate to have injured someone else's eye with my wayward fingers); apparently this can just…happen. Bodies! They are totally fucked.

She had to have emergency futuristic laser-cat surgery (except without cats) and then, you guys, THEN. Then she was instructed to not move her eyes for a week.  A WEEK. I still cannot get over this. The period has already come and gone and I am still talking about it to anyone who will listen. No eye movement for a week! She could not: read, email, Internet-browse, cook, use a phone, or take a walk. All she could do was watch television (from a distance), and, I guess, stare into space. Probably she could also bathe. BUT NO READING THE SHAMPOO BOTTLE. No reading! At all! Do you know how much daytime television she had to watch? How many Dove commercials about the perils of discolored armpits? Do you think this caused permanent emotional scarring because I DO. It scarred me, and I only had to hear about it.

I called Liz a few days into her no-eye-moving trial and I was like WAIT A MINUTE WHAT ABOUT RAPID EYE-MOVEMENT. How do you control your dreams, Liz?! And then she had to explain to me that the goal was to minimize movement as much as possible, that of course some movement was inevitable, and I breathed into a paper bag and we were both okay.

And then my eye started itching again.  I wasn't going to call her back to update her on this itching situation. But then I realized she had nothing better to do than to listen to my problems, and anyway she shouldn't watch that much Kathie Lee and Hoda. And the moral of this story is that I am a really, really good sister.

Here's some stuff I made! I now have a Zazzle store, which features a couple of these, if you want to buy a print or a card. Or postage stamps!

I've been experimenting with my new brush pen, which is now the only thing I will ever use to sketch my cat. It perfectly captures her bonkers essence.

Here she's all pissy with me because I kept poking her with my pen. Which in my defense was to keep her from chewing on my sketchbook, which in her defense she was doing because I hadn't fed her. Ours is a complicated relationship.

Then she was enamored of a bird outside the window and I was enamored of her crazy eyeballs.

Once the cat was fed she stopped bugging me, so here is a typewriter! Typewriters do not chew on your sketchbook when you're trying to Create. In reality it's black, but that's no fun. This was also drawn with the brush pen. (Plus some watercolor.) That pen is the very best.

And then I sketched this, from some construction they're doing at my subway stop.

I tried to make a Real Watercolor of the above image, without using pen first, and caa-aarefully laying down layers of paint, going from light to dark, all that shit they tell you to do. And it sucked. Absolutely looked terrible and dead and boring. So then I scribbled this in my sketchbook and slapped some paint on it, and it's not perfect but I LIKE IT. I'm not sure what the moral of this story is, except maybe Only Do It If It's Fun.]]>http://www.finslippy.com/blog/rss-comments-entry-15629764.xmlmemoriesphotosAliceFri, 23 Mar 2012 18:38:41 +0000http://www.finslippy.com/blog/eighth-grade-all-the-way-to-senior-year-in-which-i-discover.html697760:8312002:15564612DonorsChoose Blogger Challenge! DONATE!

Thank you. Now. Here I am in eighth grade.

Derp.

But look how much happier I am! This was undoubtedly due to my brand-new nephew, who I got to see pretty much every day. He is now 28. I am crazy old.

And now…ninth grade.

Dorp.

Okay. First of all, the clothing. Is that a mock turtleneck? How dare I. Secondly, there is a shadow falling across my face that's giving me a unibrow appearance, which I assure you I did not have. That is a mock unibrow. Still, though, it's not good.

Eighth grade was less traumatic than seventh, and ninth was easier still. Tenth and eleventh were socially more exciting, and then things took a steep downturn (in every way) in twelfth grade.

Hello. I am wearing four shades of eyeshadow. My hair has been lovingly blown dry, strand by strand. Why yes, this is my mother's sweater from Ann Taylor. And my mother's necklace! I want nothing more than to look like a guidance counselor.

I look like I have it together, don't I? And yet I was an emotional mess, dabbling with self-harm, panic-attacking like an old pro, screwing up academically, and engaging in disciplinary shenanigans all the damn time. No one believes that I got suspended from school, but oh, it happened. (Okay, it was in-school suspension. BUT STILL.)

I was pulled, if not from the brink, than from some less fortunate conclusion to my school years by an assortment of dedicated, amazing teachers: teachers who listened to my dumb problems; who pushed me to work; who suggested I pursue writing and music; who yelled at me when yelling was called for. My parents had to love me, I thought, so I could discount their opinions, but having these unrelated-to-me adults take an interest got my attention. I was pretty lost for a while, there. I don't know where I'd be without them.

The teachers listed on DonorsChoose can and do change lives, and they can make even more of a difference with a little help. If you've enjoyed this series at all, please donate. It doesn't have to be a lot! Remember, all your donations will be matched. The matching offer is only good until the 26th, so hurry. Thanks.]]>http://www.finslippy.com/blog/rss-comments-entry-15564612.xml