Given the amount of sheer verbiage that is going to be expended in the course of this blog, it seems appropriate to offer a bit by way of introduction.
I’m Julie, I’ll be your cruise director. Did they have a Julie on the Titanic? No? Perhaps it would be more appropriate to announce myself, “I’m Esmerelda, I’ll be denying you access to your luggage.” (Except my name is really Lori and purposely confusing people really isn’t a hobby I wanted to add to my lengthy-and-often-unfinished list.)
I’m a mmmpphh-mumble-mumble-mrrrph-year-old woman. I work in health care, and am starting my own business. The starting my own business thing is what led me on my quest for Martha Points. It’s turned out to be pretty darn hard keeping up a house while still working a part-time job and launching myself into the glamorous, tiara-filled life of entrepeuneur-ship. If I could afford a housekeeper, I so would. But I can’t. I’m addicted to decorating magazines, HGTV and chocolate.
Himself. My reason for being. Or my system of lapel pins. Whichever feels more appropriate at the time. The man who steals my covers and brings me my coffee. Truly. Both of them. Every night he exposes my tuchus to the cold night air, but makes up for it by bringing me a cup of perfectly executed coffee every morning. (The coffee will be its own blog entry some day.) Together we painted every square inch of this house, installed a hardwood floor and landscaped a patio. When not helping me fulfill my home redecorating dreams he works with laaaassseeeerrrrs.
Child A is the youngest. He lives for code. The computer kind, not the espionage kind (Although, you never know. He could be secretly plotting to launch some thermonuclear something from his cell phone. I’m sure he could figure out how. )
He is an avid drummer, an avid reader, an avid eater of Top Ramen (just wait till he gets to college – he will rue every package consumed voluntarily). His bi-weekly chores include cleaning (along with his sister) the hall bathroom. He has only recently learned to live in fear of the evil-incarnate that is soap scum on a chrome fixture.
Child B is the eldest. Not pictured here is the guitar that has molecularly bonded with his skin. He is a gifted musician and the social conscience of the household. At the age of 18 he does not yet have his driver’s license, but is currently terrorizing the neighborhood wildlife avec learner’s permit.
His bi-weekly chores include vacuuming the carpets and the sheep, and dusting. And that’s only partly because he’s the tallest and can reach all the places that you think about but don’t really see unless you’re 5’10″.
By process of elimination, Child C is the middle one. She’s also the only girl, other than me and one semi-female cat. We’re basically outnumbered. But we make up for it by being loud. She is a Card Carrying Member of the Obsessed with Harry Potter Fan Club. (Yes, they have cards. Laminated ones with magnetic strips on the back.) She plays piano and is prone to falling in love with anything if it’s purple. (Barney the Dinosaur not-withstanding.) She types nearly 100 words a minute and is perpetually shocked by how much she loves math and science. She’s also a gifted writer and has to date refrained from writing beat poetry on the walls with magic marker. We’re pleased. She (with her younger brother who is taller than she is) cleans the hall bathroom as part of her bi-weekly chore duties and is learning to appreciate the true joy of quality hair products.
This photo is misleading. First, the kitten is no longer a kitten. He is a full-grown cat with all the muscle-power of a 130 pound mountain lion. He can go from the floor to the top of the fridge in one leap. His name is Nimbus. He has put clawmarks in the leather furniture, the wooden furniture, the hardwood floor and the finish of my car. The larger cat in the photo is now the smaller cat in reality. Her name is Topaz. She weighs all of 7 pounds. We believe that she may be made of styrofoam.
The second reason the photo is misleading is that it suggests that our cats like each other. They do not. Topaz hates Nimbus. To say that she hates him with the red-hot fury of a thousand suns would not be engaging in hyperbole in any way. A hundred enraged cobras could not hiss the way she does when Nimbus pounces on her. She screams like Janet Leigh in Psycho. It’s unnerving. Especially when it happens at 3 in the morning.