It's fine line, I walk, being an actress over thirty. The day of auditions is spent trying to harness restless energy into something positive, pretending like any outcome of the day is fine, when it really isn't. Any outcome but the one I desire will have me second-guessing myself, my worth, my attractiveness, and my talent.

The day is spent exercising my seriously underused singing voice, praying that I don't forget the words like an idiot when I'm alone in the metaphorical spotlight. Clothes are tried on, discarded, the same outfit goes on and comes off again, several dresses don't make the cut and I end up wearing the very first thing I put on. I paint my face, coif my hair, put on a pair of the highest heels I have and hold my breath.

In an audition, you have to go in pretending like you own the damn room. And I will. I do. My song is fun and flirty, and I walk the line of camp precariously, but since South Pacific is the show I'm auditioning for, it'll work. I have on my lucky underwear (featured last at the US post office) and a big smile.

I'm even bringing a friend who's a MUCH better singer than I am, because I want to introduce her to the theatre. I think it would be a place for her to call home. The selfish part of me wants to kick myself for inviting her, that's one more person I'll have to beat out, but in the end, I know that it's all in God's hands, anyway. He has a plan, and His is the right one.

I doesn't help my queasiness, though. Or lessen my desire for a role.

So I just pretend like it doesn't matter. Because it doesn't.

Only it really, really, really does.

ETA: My shirt has a hole in it and my hair isn't behaving. Damn, damn and triple damn!

Every time this commercial comes on, I have to clench my teeth to stop from screaming and running from the room.

And now I've shared my psychosis with you.

You're welcome.

“Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.”


It could be the half bottle of cab I just drank, but...

Someone explain to me what this means?

Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

( Wherein I discuss snoring, tans, state of the bed, jam, diets, big thighs, my immense dorkiness and Commercials on TNT )

Now aren't you glad you read all that? Aren't you a better person for knowing it all?

No?

Well, at least you got to see my new layout. :) Goodnight.

JULY'S CONTEST:

This month we're going to give the writers a rest and do a little something for all you cooks and bakers out there!

Hit me with your best recipe, one that is tried and true, and never fails to get yummy sounds for those who eat it. It can be sweet, savory, main course, appetizers, dessert or a how-to that you think we need to see. If you want to go all out, you can do a picture step-by-step on your own journal and link your reply in a comment to this post, or you can simply post the recipe, whichever you're most comfortable with.

The winner will receive a super cute Anthropologie apron and some kitchen-y things that might come in handy for future cooking endeavors. The runners up will get a little something, too! Entries must be received by the time I drag myself out of bed on August 1. Good luck and have fun in the kitchen!

You can enter HERE.

The Reporter Frock Grosgrain Giveaway because of the cuteness, and this one from Effortless Anthropologie, because of the epic scale of potential cuteness in the form of a $250 giftcard.

Makes my little contests seem puny. :)

Thanks for the heads up, xoxrhapsodyxox!

Okay. I have an admission to make. I'm vain about my hair.

I've known that for some time. What I didn't realize was just how vain I am about my kids' hair.

Nolan took Ethan out running errands on Saturday. Evidently they went to the den of mediocrity that is Sports Clips, and long story (which includes a Dennis the Menace comparison, an absentee stylist and some exceedingly bad judgment) short, they both came home looking like someone used a weed whacker to cut their hair.

I normally take the boys to my hair girl, the brilliant and very kind Arviel at the salon 'Reds'. We missed their cut appointment a week and a half ago, and I guess Ethan had enough of hair in his eyes.

I'm glad school pictures aren't for another few months.

The topper, though? Last night about ten minutes before our dinner guests came over, Aaron CUT HIS BANGS AN INCH FROM HIS SCALP.

Seriously? SERIOUSLY???? HE'S EIGHT YEARS OLD! Rassafrassinfrassin kid.

I wanted to wring his cute little neck. I restrained myself, so no one call CPS. Luckily, Arviel is going to work us in tomorrow morning to try to repair the damage. Nothing can be done about the tragedy that is Ethan's hair.

Yeah. Vain.

From now on, we're ALL going to Arviel. Nolan included.

That's all.

† I am uninspired by the blue strawberry. *frowns* Everything I've started out writing is blerghy. I do like the quote, though. Also, did not get kicked out on the first round. *confetti throw*

† Mosquitoes are from the devil. I've been having a weird reaction to them this year. The bite area gets really red and swollen and hot, and then it hurts for a few days. Also - bug spray is gross.

† Made strawberry balsamic jam, two batches of blueberry peach, and plain peach jam over the past few days. I think I'm done being the pioneer woman, for awhile.

† It's impossible to keep my home clean and orderly with the boys home. They are a whirling tornado of sloppiness that have waaaaay more energy than I do. If I told them to clean up every mess they make, I'd just be cleaning constantly. And yelling all the time... so... School starts in a month. *nods*

† My house is too big. By the time I'm done really giving it a good go, cleaning wise, it's time to start over. No, Nolan, I don't want to move.

† Saw Despicable Me Friday with the kiddos. I laughed a little, I suppose. And little Agnes was cuuuuute ("It's so fluffy, I'm gonna DIE!"), but overall, I'd give it a meh.

† My mom's in Russia right now, and they didn't take their cell phones or laptop, so are unreachable for the next 10 days. It's not like I NEED my mother; I'm 37 years old for crying out loud, but knowing I can't talk to her is irritating. She and Tom are taking a cruise down a river in Russia, though. Sounds cool, right?

And now, for your reading pleasure, here's a story in which I humiliate both myself and a fourteen year-old boy simultaneously. *curtsies*

( Get a coke. This one is sort of long. )

I've been feeling icky today. It's my own fault, as I've not been taking my medicine regularly since last week (never fear, I got the script refilled yesterday, so all will be well in a few days). Anyway, we didn't go anywhere today because of me feeling like death on a cracker.

The boys and I were on the front porch, watching a storm roll in through the sunset (a pretty impressive piece of God's handiwork, for sure) and Ethan leans into me.

Ethan. Do you still feel yucky?

Me. Yeah. Thanks for asking.

Ethan. Really yucky? Are you any better?

Me. No, I still feel bad.

Aaron. Like bologna on a tortilla.

(Ethan and I just look at him)

Ethan. Yeah, that is pretty bad.

Not that either of them are forced to eat bologna at our house. I think that stuff is foul.

Anyway. I've written quite a bit on a multichapter fic, Up to chapter three! It's a Ron/Pansy, and an idea I've not seen explored in that particular slice of fandom. So yay for being creative and stuff. Beta still needed for that one, but it's a bit more work than a drabble. And I'm going to make blueberry peach jam in the morning if I feel better. Honestly, blueberry peach jam might make me feel better. Yep. It's a plan, for sure.