Today as my son slept the last bit of his nap, and my daughter decidedly did not nap, I - on the computer, as I often do during their naps, am attempting to get some peace and my daughter talks to me from the bed mere feet away. I open a Word document, font Times size 112, turn my screen to her, and type:

GO TO SLEEP

My daughter is reading very well for her age; she is intrigued by my game and reads each word. "Me?" she asks. I nod my head, type:

OR I WILL SPANK YOU

She is officially delighted. A few more phrases, "Mama loves you", etc. Type a word, pause. She goes back and reads them in series. Soon:

MAMA NEEDS A KISS
ON THE CHEEK

Amping it up a bit:

DINNER TONIGHT IS ENCHILADAS
Sophie continues to amaze me by reading every word, slowly, but gets stuck on the last on this particular missive, of course. I allow her a few times of sounding it out and once she gets what it says, she wrinkles her nose: "I don't want enchiladas! I want a quesadilla!"

NO DINNER FOR YOU THEN

And so on. I feel kind of sinister. She loves it. Communicating without speaking - by sign language, reading, drawing pictures, or making animal sounds - is a thrill for her.

Labels: geekery, Sophie

Today my father and I had a discussion about heart rate. I've been working out at the Y every weekday and just about killing myself on the treadmill. Example: yesterday, after running two miles, my heart rate was (if we are to believe the machine) one eighty-five. I decide to consult my dad, an experienced athlete who ran in road races for years most every weekend and won prizes most every time and beat guys half his age.

My father doesn't run any more. Chemo and its associated nausea, fatigue, and low platelet count keep him from running. Just when he gets a break from his cpt-11 regimen and is feeling better his CEA shoots up and he has to go back on and we're back to weight loss, illness, low-grade depression. I'm not running for him, but I know he loves to support those who run.*

So this morning my father tells me that believe it or not, the most healthy running is at that seemingly mild workout, for a longer amount of time. The trick is, you run to a target heart rate for a long distance; soon, your heart will be stronger and you will have to run faster to elevate it to the proper level. He explains, "I'd run seven miles and my heart rate would stay at 145. And I'm a lot older than you.". I'm thinking how much I'd have to slow down to keep my rate where it needs to be (152 is the magic number - 80% of maximum recommended for a thirty-year old) and feeling like a wuss.

I follow him to the bedroom where he seeks out a device he has to monitor heart rate; a chest strap worn against the skin that transmits a signal to a wristwatch. He can't at first get it to work; he pushes buttons in vain. He lifts his shirt and for the first time I see his colostomy bag, nestled against his ribs next to his bellybutton. The first thing I think is, Why aren't those things manufactured opaque? and note that it's position is lower than I'd thought. The skin on my dad's torso is smooth and young like a boy and I remember when he used to walk around shirtless in the house or go swimming; no more. He fiddles with the strap and tells me it needs to be wet in order to work.

At the gym, I put the strap on and it's comfortable. Running to achieve a steady heartrate is a bit awkward. I spend fifteen minutes on the elliptical machine and it's easy to keep to about 148. The treadmill is harder - I hit on about a 3.8 mph range. A very slow jog, but an awkwardly jarring walk. I mess about with the incline and this helps me walk "slow" (3.8) but strenuous enough to get my cardio rate. For the first time ever in my life I think about my heart, my heart I am now taking care of. I'd always assumed it worked and worked well; now I'm working it out like any other muscle to help it live longer. The thought really stays with me.

And it works. All told, I spend 45 minutes and I feel great. I'm working out but I'm not hating it, or counting the minutes. I'm listening to my iPod and watching John Travolta shake his ass on the Ellen show on TV (I look about the room and see sexy, satisfied smiles on all the female faces lifted to the television). When I get off the treadmill my body moves me, not the other way around.

Another bonus: it's 7 PM and I feel supple, energized, and body-good. I'm excited to go back tomorrow.

* This last weekend we celebrated and as a foursome participated in my father's thirteenth "Mayors' Cup" run, an event that he sponsors to encourage children to do a 2-mile fun run. He buys a trophy and awards the school with the most attendance at the run (percentage) with a cash donation to their library. The event was his brainchild and it grows in popularity every year.

Labels: the bod, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

I ran two miles today. I ran two miles today! Yeah, yeah, I know you're thinking, Hell, I could run two miles. But can you, really? And DID you? Oh and P.S. a certain somebody, your comment re: "treadmill freak" did not go unnoticed. I will be biding my time.

I also got to meet with the HR employee at Ralph's new job. What we learned simply stunned us: a lower health insurance monthly premium than we imagined, we're talking one-tenth what we paid at his previous job! All the benefits were great. Full medical, dental, and vision, with a flex spending account we can use toward deductible. Today I've been feeling a lot of gratitude for his job.

Conversation between me and my brother, five minutes ago:

Me: "Billy, I have some really good coffee in the freezer, you can help yourself."
Billy: "Oh, no thanks."
Me: "I didn't mean right now, I meant if you'd like to try it."
Billy: "Oh, I don't like to waste good coffee on myself."
Me: "Spoken like a true git."
Billy: "What?"
Me [ Don Logan voice ]: "You heard."

Sophie and Nels, sleeping. Sophie is sleeping with a large, very realistic-looking black-widow spider sculpture. She's creepy like that.

Labels: birlo, gratitude

Today in the store I was thinking about dinner and my grocery list and Nels and Sophie were walking in front of the cart in a way that was kind of annoying and we got to a constricted area in the aisle and I sharply asked Nels (again!) to walk in front of the cart, not on the side of the cart. I look up and see an elderly gal hustling her ass to move her cart (which is why the aisle was constricted, which I hadn't even noticed), and say to me quite humbly, "Oh excuse me, I'm very sorry." I am thinking about my children, not thinking about the aisle being blocked and without eye contact, hustling my little baby chicks along I say, "Oh, it's alright." in that polite way you do.

"No, no it's not," she continues, moving her cart. "You have two little ones and we need to help you look out for them," she warmly continues. I am somewhat speechless, wanting to do as I usually do, apologize for my son slowing traffic down or for them picking up things they shouldn't or being too loud or all the ways I'm told my children are a problem for just being them. Instead I say, "Well... thank you!" continuing along and genuinely feeling grateful. My eyes actually sting that someone is showing me kindness and deference for being a mother of young children. "You're welcome. You're very welcome," she is still firmly following me with her voice as I head to the checkout.

I felt like an astronaut recently returned from the moon, a veteran of foreign wars, heralded as a big fucking hero.

Home, dinner prep, a call to the local preschool co-op. Try to nap. I am getting sick - a sore throat. I can feel it. My son doesn't sleep in his room and I get about 10 minutes before he makes a loud noise and wakes me up and I am so, so sad to be awake again.

Labels: gratitude, the bod

Today we four journeyed to Port Townsend to clean our previous house and establish closure on our tenure living there. Originally it was to be a "girls' day" where I came up alone to meet with a group of friends to help clean, but these last few days I have felt a lack of family time; I ask Ralph and the four of us make the trip together.

Two friends are a no-show but the other three are there - and have already started cleaning my house! A small setback: no water. It takes me a while to figure this out and Ralph has to go to the local auto parts store to find a wrench. I find out cleaning with tubs of water from the neighbor's hose really sucks: mostly from the cold. When Ralph finds the solution and hot comes streaming from the tap it is almost a luxury to clean. Stephanie scrubs walls and floors with a thoroughness I just can't muster from within myself. Abbi, Ralph, and Christee take turns with the fridge and I ask if anyone there knows who stole my placenta from Nels' birth? I am not kidding; it went missing. Spooky.

The entire job takes about an hour and a half. Thank God for a rather clutter-and-dirt free life and thank Sweet Baby Jesus even more for friends who are there for me. Thank you, really.

As I finish rooms I say goodbye to each: "Goodbye, Bathroom Number One." The bedrooms Ralph and I fought in and loved in and nursed new babies in. The shower where I miscarried and the back bedroom where I birthed Nels. A family made in love, error, and intention; now poured out of our crucible and forged strong for a new life.

Abbi joins us for lunch at the Water Street Brew Pub and we dine majestically, and for me this includes a fine Bloody Mary and delicious fish tacos, plus dessert besides. We talk and talk and share lives that are forking in the road but cannot be torn asunder.

We hug Abbi and say goodbye, then hit the road. Coming back to and leaving Port Townsend has been painful, a last booty call in a relationship moved on from. As we drive my daughter asks us to say goodbye: as we pass through towns, "Goodbye, Port Townsend!" "Goodbye, Hadlock!" "Goodbye, Chimacum!" A pause, then Nels: "Goodbye, Ghost Rider!" Whatever the fuck that was about.

The kids fall asleep soon and Ralph and I discuss, mostly, computers. We're home by 6:30 PM to my mother's homemade burgers. My father has eaten even more of that pie, by the way.

Labels: family life, friends, goodbye

Every two weeks my dad receives a chemo treatment called "cpt-11" and I'll bet my parents both bless and curse it. "Bless", because of course, it is what keeps his CEA markers low and keeps cancer from eating another part of his body, this time more dire than his colon. "Curse" because, Jesus, in every other way it sucks. It takes time (about 5 - 6 hours of his day), it really hurts him, it makes him sick, it kills his blood platelets, and it costs (everyone) money. He often sleeps, naps, feels sick, and doesn't eat for days afterwards - and if he's lucky, he doesn't get debilitating hiccups. P.S. those aren't cute when you have them for days at a time.

After moving to HQX I told my mother I'd like to come along for the next appointment and so today she jumped at the chance. In the clinic at 10:30 my mom takes my children under her wing and shoves her copious notes into my arms (my dad has battled cancer for six years now) and my father and I end up in an exam room to wait for the oncologist. An assistant comes in and takes his vitals (weight down to 193) and asks some questions regarding health specifics, medications, then: "Are you having any problems?" "No," he replies, laconic and (I think) rude to this young woman. I wait until she leaves and turn to him: "So your crippling bladder infection is 'not a problem'?" "Not for her," he says - whatever that means, but at least it means he is planning on telling his physician so I don't have to rat out his plumbing business.

My dad and I sit for a while, silently. What hangs in the air for me is his CEA - is it going to be elevated, reduced? I read notes for a while. When I have a handle on recent events I ask questions: "So is Bactrim what you've been on every time you've had a bladder infection?" "When was your last PET scan?" We wait so long for the oncologist he starts to ask me questions, like if we're going to take up the rental we looked at the night before.

By the time Dr. Sui arrives I believe my dad is comfortable with me being in the exam room. I instantly like the doctor; not the least of which I know my parents like him, having had his help for the last couple years. He is very sweet in demeanor, and not afraid to take minutes of quiet to look at the notes. "Sickness and fatigue?" he asks. He pronounces it "furtigue". My dad self-diagnoses a bit and the doctor dissuades him with the tests they run; they talk about a recent bout of nausea and a lack of efficacy in his antibiotic. We discuss everything my mom wrote in the notes: the infection, a pro-active dosage of hiccup medicine, a different anti-nausea medication than the compazine he's taken for years now. Then Sui tells us: his platelet count is good (145). But it's time for another PET scan: if the news is bad, the possibility of weekly cpt-11. My dad is silent. I can sense his disappointment and fear. Sui explains the markers are slowly rising so we need a PET scan to look for a mass. I ask about the CEA - surely they ran one the day before when my dad gave blood? The doctor looks again and this time finds it. Ah - it is actually down a point or two. This isn't definitive news, but it isn't bad news either. My dad is suddenly more cheerful. The doctor moves to him and puts his hands and his instruments on his body. Seeing the tenderness of the physician's hands makes me feel a sadness, a sweetness, for my father.

The PET scan is scheduled and we move to the room with armchairs and IVs for his chemo. In the hallway as I wait for my dad to give a urine sample (Sui was keen on this despite my father's underrepresentation of the severity of the pain), the father of my childhood friend and college roommate comes into the hallway. He is scheduled for major surgery next week. He looks good and I know he must be "on break" from the intense radiation / chemo schedule he's been on. I wonder if this is what being an adult child will be like; the care for and about our aging parents and our friends' aging parents. But I am not upset thinking this. I am calm and comfortable in hospitals, around sickness and death. When sadness comes it passes through me and leaves me in peace. I am glad to be allowed time to experience it. I don't want it to be a mystery.

Out in the waiting area my mom is directing the children; I notice everyone else is happy with them there, too. I take them to lunch and my mom joins me afterwards, having brought my father coffee as he settles into hours of taking his medicine. "Medicine", the word we use meaning "life-saving poison".

Later in the day mom comes home with three pounds of shiny Granny Smith apples and says, "Dad says he'd like a pie tonight. It's something he can eat". I'm wondering, Is he exploiting this whole sick thing? But I adore cooking requests so this evening I make a rhubarb custard because Sophie helped me pick out rhubarb today. Served warm with ice cream, it's a hit.

Labels: FOO, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

Days ago I pushed for an upstairs "living room" despite an initially uncooperative family (P.S. it worked out well enough, and my brother apologized for his reticence over moving his possessions, which I thought was very sweet of him, and I apologized that our move-in even happened, goddamnit, because I have not enjoyed displacing other people for our own needs). But as many Kelly Plans end up proving, my push for this space was a very smart move. No longer are we living in a two-room hotel situation - we have a whole wing of a house. In the mornings I have a rule that they are not allowed downstairs until I can go with them; I don't need them all up in the Grampen's business first thing in the morning. I also ask that we do some room and personal cleanup: making beds, toothbrushing, and (usually) getting dressed - before we descend.

So this morning we go downstairs and as they eat their breakfast I wash the dishes and clean the kitchen counters. Then I send the children upstairs to play while I do "computer stuff". I know it probably doesn't make sense to you, dear reader, but writing about my life has become an addiction. I wish I did it more, I wish I did it better. But the point is, it has become important to my own integrity, peace of mind, and whatever "body of work" I am creating to do it as often as I can. And without a space of our own upstairs, I wouldn't have that ability. They'd be downstairs running amock and my father would be pissed, or maybe that's just the way he always looks (thirty years and I'm still not sure!).

The children love having their toys here, love having bedrooms and "a living room", and love having exact places to put our things and it really is possible for me to feel a sense of order and a lack of "cooped up". Which makes all the difference in the world. P.S. No one except Ralph has truly acknowledged that his work is up and swimming the way it was expected to, and my work is a big cock-up. By "no one" I mean specifically my mom, who considers St. Ralph the most important in the family re: happiness, because he's a man and because he throws bigger tantrums than me when he's unhappy so must be mollified at all costs. I'm glad she dotes on him, honestly I am. She only dotes on me less because she thinks I don't need coddling.

Boring, boring. In other news: today, our first visit to one of the many, many Mexican restaurants here. Guess what HQX has PT didn't? Fucking chicken tamales. OK, yes PT friends, Rosa's Mexi-Cart had amazing tamales. Where the fuck was she, ever? And why did they sell out by 10:30 AM every Saturday at the Farmer's Market? Could you buy a bigger truck? Because all you're doing, Rosa, is making me get my hopes up for tamales, and then - no tamale.

The food was good at this place and of course, reasonably priced. Even: we ordered just after two tables of four, but got our order first, and I believe this is because it was myself and two ninos. How sweet! My children ate their weight in authentic pinkish refried beans and rice and I grudgingly even let them have some tamale, although the relleno was mine, all mine.

Labels: cocky, family life, food, HQX

There's something wrong with this picture in that I am standing here in the kitchen, rolling meatballs for a dinner for seven, and my parents are getting stoned in their bedroom.

The thing is, both of them have good reasons - my father attempts to avoid the physical pain and diminished appetite of a chemo-laden life, and my mom... well... quality control? (okay, she's grumpy, having forgone alchoholic beverages for Lent). They don't do it often - as far as I can tell - but in this case my mom has been a bit off today and yeah, I suggested the idea. My dad seduced her into the bedroom, waving matches.

I'm not sure why I'm getting a "grumpy vibe" today. I could be imagining it. Or, in our life in this house as a family (sort of) of seven, it's possible there is something going on. Is it because they are getting tired of us living here? Is it because I have been smoking (cigarettes) on the front porch? (this is OK by the "rules", or at least it has been so far.) Is it that I borrowed my parents' van several times over the last couple days before Ralph got our tabs renewed? Is it because I asked my mom to help me cook dinner? Is it because I took her up on babysitting Nels today so Sophie and I could go to the gym? Do you sense a pattern to these questions? I will never know if the grumpy vibe is imagined or real unless I relentlessly ferret it out because, as I've referenced, my family is not into direct communication. P.S. I am supposed to know, somehow. You know, it should be understood.

Except tomorrow, when I blow that out of the water and say to my mom: "Hey, I was getting a 'grumpy vibe' outta you yesterday. Was I imagining that?" and I'll have my answer.

I am very proud of her for giving up booze for Lent; I hope she can make it. I am an over-drinker too, so I'm just imagining it's hard without knowing what to say to her. I am wishing her better health and better sleep; she has been having trouble since we've been here (and possibly before).

By the way, I noticed a marked difference, post pot-smoking, in meatball uniformity and quantity on the ones she was rolling. She was worse than last summer's Farm Boy Justin cutting carrots for me in the kitchen.

Labels: family life, FOO, food, party animal

Even though my entire life I never went for more than six weeks before visiting "back home", to live here again is to be wide-eyed and observing every little difference, all minutae; from the pleasant vinegar-smell of the paneling mill in the west end to the mercurial weather which changes here from sunny and ringingly clear to overcast and grim; torrential rain and then balmy and clear again.

Today my mother took on Nels for a few hours this morning so I could go work out at the Y, which has been my savior in terms of getting some "me" time. And getting out of the house, and out of the communal space, and giving the kids a way to work out their sillies via "Busy Town" or the pool. Sophie started her first swim lessons here today - she missed the first session and today was put in the "pike" class. At 11:20 one hundred million little children splash into the pool. Once I figure out which pool my daughter is in, I slide over to the bleachers where a young mother is formula-feeding her very young infant. I blink a bit; I am not used to baby bottle-feeding. I sit next to her and observe a Spiderman towel in her bag so I say: "Oh, my daughter loves Spiderman. Where did you get that?" I ask, and "Walmart!" she chirpily answers (of course; and P.S. I just found out Hoquiam / Aberdeen's one bookstore is closing). Further P.S. the day before in the Y's daycare another little girl asked her Mama if my willowy, long-haired daughter was a girl or a boy: "A girl's not supposed to wear a Spiderman shirt!" this four year old proclaimed. Groan.

People here make more eye contact, smile more. They talk louder and gawk more. Children are named "Madison" and "Tatum" instead of "River" and "Sage". In the locker room post-swim I see many little boys running about and see they are circumcised; another cultural difference I will have to get used to (but probably not take statistics on, and as my dad asked later, "How old were these boys you were looking at?").

Sophie showers off and gets a granola bar; we head home in the sunshine to a snack and then three-way nap.

Labels: HQX

I feel smashed flat.

I just spent a brief fifteen minutes touring a house in Hoquiam. It was within our price range. It was huge. It had lovely hardwood floors, two fenced yards, a deck, a clawfoot tub.

And the kitchen. Good lord. Counter space. Two ranges, one stainless, one in the island that also boasted a dishwasher. Hell, the laundry room was larger and nicer than the kitchen I was last in.

You know where this is going, right? I called the realtor as soon as I got in. It's taken.

I know I should just decide this means there's something else out there that's as perfect for us. Or maybe I should decide to hate on something about that place. Right now I'm just wilted and depressed.

In other news, the day was good. I got up at 6:30 and cooked my parents and husband a large breakfast - how Chinese-wife of me! (sorry, my latest depressing work of Chinese fiction is still very much with me.) My mom and I readied the kids for a trip to the YMCA which here is affordable, amazing, and has reliable, clean, wondrous childcare. I did the elliptical machine and watched my mom's ass as she jogged the treadmill. We lifted weights including this amazing girlie-machine that allows you to do dips or pullups by virtue of subtracting a certain amount of your own weight (the weight I subtracted was, I think, equivalent to my brother's body including his heavy wool trenchcoat). And the whole time no one knew I was listening to Beyonce.

The kids came home and took monstrously large naps. We are about to head off to a movie. And the feather in the "Good News" cap - my dad and I bought Fat Tuesday doughnuts today:


MMmmm, Lenty!

Labels: FOO, food, worries

My ability to ask for support, for reliable help when I need it, actually keeps me *genuinely strong* (not "stiff upper-lipping it") when I am called on to be strong for others. Mostly emotionally. Example: with this moving thing we're doing? My husband called having a shit-fit on Friday, because U-Haul had fucked up and sent our van 40 minutes away and not ready until the NEXT day (and he without a car of course, because he was planning on driving the U-Haul). On the phone today I talked him down from anger / depression and gave him a plan while he waited for the truck. P.S. this is when on my end of things, down in our new town, the HOUSE WE WERE MOVING INTO was falling through.

I kept this latest information from him because it wouldn't have helped. I wasn't feeling the weight of the world or nuthin' because I'd been asking my parents for help with my kids, I'd been telling my friends what I was up to (and thereby receiving their emotional support, which really matters to me), and taking advantage of favors offered (like letting friends cook for me etc). I was able to be there for Ralph when he really needed it because despite a lot of stress I'd made sure not to stretch myself too thin.

I usually don't look back on difficult episodes of my life and know I suffered needlessly and alone. I usually suffer the right amount, and with my loved ones fully present in my life. Here are some aspects of this trait that are a bit challenging:

1. Asking for what you want means people will sometimes say "no". Far, far worse than this is the ones who say "yes" but really mean "no" (my latest blog entry contains a good example). This is painful, hurtful, assy and lame. You are vulnerable when you ask, and that's all there is to it.

2. Leaning on others means you have to sometimes make a judgment call, and later realize you were being lazy or spoiled. Oh fucking well. All you can do in this case is apologize to the one you asked a favor of, or whatever, and try to learn from your lapse.

I am really trying to think of other "cons" to this character trait, but honestly? It's a good thing.

Labels: HQX, i'm a hater

Bart: "Me neither."

Today. Was a big day.

All of our things are presently either with us and being lived with in a comfortable, sorted-out fashion (photos soon), or stored in heated storage. Did you hear me where I said that means all our possessions, all out of a 24' long truck? Do you know how to do a simple volume calculation, thereby telling you how much stuff that is? The "stuff" didn't go in one place, either: it had to be sorted out as it was moved to differentiate what went into storage units, what came upstairs in our temporary hideout at my parents'. Oh, also: did I mention we had to do a full clean of the rooms we moved into? That was mopping, dusting, vacuuming, and sundry. Holy mother of God.

Not only am I so, so tired from moving my stuff but there are many other people tired from moving my stuff! Let's count who helped today, in very large and valuable ways: My mom, my dad, Bart, Billy (these two appeared out of nowhere to help and it was pissing down rain the entire time). Even Sophie who somehow managed to actually help, and as we unload the truck stay out of grownups' ways and sort things properly into the "keep with us" vs. the "storage" categories. P.S. she did this for the entire duration of our sorting.

When I say they "helped" I mean they really helped. They put the "keep with us" stuff back in the truck, came along to my parents', and hauled it up stairs. P.S. Nels did not help. In fact he took up time from people who could otherwise have helped.

I don't know how to feel about the fact that our moving was expensive and hard for us but also relied on the efforts of others who will receive merely a "thank you" card, dinner, or beer. Not to mention on the packing end of things there were the indespensible talents of Danny, Joe, and Cynthia, who not only helped Ralph immensely but took time away from their own doings and their own families to assist ours.

I have a lot more gratitude to offer, but right now I need dinner and downtime.

Labels: friends, gratitude

Two blocks away from where I sit, a house is emptying of its current tenants. A house with shag carpets swaying in two small bedrooms and a bathroom just as small as the one we left, but without benefit of a second one in the house. The house was that of a girlhood friend and her single Mama. My father, oldest child, and I visited it yesterday. In this case the owner was a calm, friendly person who seemed on good terms with his tenants. A kitchen larger than the one I left (that's good!) but wait, with too small of a dining area for our table (that's bad!) A fenced yard (that's good!). A cyclone fence (that's bad!). I hope to never live in a place with a cyclone fence. "At least it's a fence," says my mom. She's right. P.S. cyclone fences around here usually surround yards peppered with dog turd landmines half the size of my child.

A few hours later and my mom and I cruise a house on Stewart Avenue. A lovely, lovely house that ultimately is too large and yes, in Aberdeen, which my husband is dead-set against and I'm OK with his preference. Why did I look, then? Good question. One minute I'm desperate enough to consider anything including places you need eighteen locks and a shotgun to live in; the next I'm sensibly holding out for my requirements, of which I have a half-dozen that are a bit rare to find overnight.

My point is for every house you look at your mind instantly moves in, you think, what would it be like to live next to that condemned, falling apart shack next door? or, hey look, there's a picnic table in the backyard!, you juggle the type of heat and the power bill estimation and the neighborhood and the distance from school and the jagged tears in the kitchen linoleum and the size of the yard. After days and days of this - the first installment a few weeks ago, now another installment thrust upon us - I start to feel I'm somehow being screwed over by these places. Exhausted. My friends email and tell me not to settle. I am already "settling" in some way. I look forward to and hope for, quite sincerely, a home.

Labels: burnout, HQX

Not too timely I know, but there's my Christmas list in its entirety.

Labels: hilarity, random

"saying yes and meaning no."

Well, Day #3 of camping out at the 'rents and my fears, which and I have nursed since over three years ago when I quit my job and we briefly considered staying here, fears I most recently mentioned about three weeks ago, are starting to come true.

I'm not sure how I could have possibly been clearer, more circumspect, and more open-minded in requesting use of half my parents' upstairs *IF* we ended up "camping" here (God forbid, and apparently He did not). This request of mine involves, primarily, a cleanout of many of my brother's things (in a space he isn't renting, but is using) and a few items of my 'rents. I am the nervous, hyper-organized type so I asked three weeks ago very specifically and got the OK from my parents. On Friday when the shit hit the fan on the new place I offered my parents rent and expressly said it was to secure the space - to make it a formality. They refused rent but agreed, again (my FOO is not big on formalities or keeping agreements, as you will see). I told my brother on Friday that it looked like our staying here might be necessary, for a bit. I told him I was sorry it was even going this way, but we were trying to make the best of it. I also told him I wouldn't bother him a bit about moving his stuff until after his girlfriend (visiting) left - today. And, finally, that Ralph and I were happy to help relocate his things when the time came.

So here I am, chomping at the bit that I have none of my things around me, I don't have my husband, I don't have a nest to entertain my children with their toys and their space, and I don't have a retreat for privacy other than a barely-furnished guest room with a few of my clothes. Until I can set up camp, I am stuck either infrigning my children on my family, downstairs, or confining them to a guest room, upstairs, with little or nothing for them to do besides watch movies. I hate these two options.

So I am looking forward to cleaning my corner and setting up a space. I have decided I "need" that to happen. It is the ONE THING I am looking forward to (besides Ralph's job, which I am anticipating he will love). My "job", which is my home and the running thereof, was taken from me. I have this shaky ground: a place, a temporary one. So tonight, after dinner (which I cooked) I asked my brother about the move-out of his stuff. He said he could get it out. He was reticent. I asked when. He said, "after next weekend", with a tone that implied if I was lucky.

I have everything we own in a big moving truck outside. That moving truck is due back tomorrow and everything has to go somewhere. After everything else, after the house falling through and not another place yet, after worrying over my husband doing the work packing and moving and driving (he got here tonight; he's fine), after feeling strongly I didn't want to be in the position of living here and having my kids for several days while house-hunting and trying my best not to worry too much, after the shit-sandwich knowing we'd have to now move our stuff twice, and rent storage besides - it was too much. "Stunned and dismayed" about covers it. But all I said to my brother was, "I thought we discussed this eventuality three weeks ago, and over the last couple days." He was like grunt, grunt - the typical response from he or my father.

I had to leave, come upstairs, and cry.

This story is not about my brother. It's not about my parents. It's not about moving going horridly wrong (still). It's not about my FOO's tendency to pack-rat, which I live in total fear of and reaction to by having a rather sparse home and feeling inexplicable terror at having it inch into my life, here and now. It's not even a story regarding my intense desire for space and occasional privacy. And it's only partially a story about my FOO's method of communication - non-communication.

This story is about being heard.

Do they think I'm a hinter? That I don't say exactly what I mean? A passive-aggressive type? What do they know of me? In what way do I not ask for what I want? What happens when people say "No" to me? Do I retreat, hate them, emotionally distance myself? Or do I move on and find another plan?

Do they think I'm the type to make idle, half-assed plans? How do they think I live out my life as a stay-at-home Mom? By floating with the tide and hoping for the best?

Who am I? Do I matter? Does the fact that I'm here, sharing space, mean I don't get the courtesy of being listened to? How much more straight-forward and direct-dealing do I have to be?

Why can't they say what they mean, and do what they say?

My friend charitably points out "this is about them", and not me, or their vision of me. But the exact scenario I'd hoped to avoid - the scenario where I would be vulnerable and need direct, honest communication, mean that in whatever way it is about "them", it is also now, necessarily, about "me". Not to mention my family, who I am responsible for.

My only explanation for what is happening, with my FOO's distinctive brand of non-communication and "yes means no" and not saying what they mean - for what may very well continue to happen as long as I'm here - is that their idea of me, or their idea of what they want (which they aren't willing to tell me straight-out, apparently), is more important than who I actually am and what I actually want. It is OK to inconvenience or hurt me because I am some cartoon caricature and I don't really care about the things that I'm telling you I care about.

Diary, dear sweet blog, I only write this because there's nowhere else for it to go. I write here because I want to move on and just live out my time here however long, with as much mental and emotional peace as I can find. I don't want to be angry at them, to hold up hurts and bite them down. I have found those hurts don't go away. But in this case, we can see where directness got me. Now all I can be is direct to you, dear blog, and move my scope to coping as best I can, and take care of my children as best I can.

Labels: FOO, worries

I am a nester by instinct, ability, and natural inclination. So when yesterday in late afternoon my children and I arrived in Aberdeen, met with property manager E. to our new place, I gave her my money, got the key, parked at my 'rents house and checked out our new digs since it was - according to E. - "ready by tomorrow", and found that upon opening the door it smelled like 12 KINDS OF ANIMAL EXCREMENT, well, I was a bit sad. And a few other feelings.

Which is how it smelled before it was cleaned and when we checked it out three weeks ago - because some trash were living there and letting an animal menagerie (which included birds, rodents, and a snake, the latter two categories presumably kept separate) shit or piss wherever, including a poor dog who my parents tell me howled and whined nonstop, poor thing. According to E. yesterday it had been "professionally cleaned, the carpet is clean and it smells good" but it was JUST AS BAD AS YOU CAN IMAGINE and my father who has lost half the senses in his body completely agreed as did anyone else I let in there (the children, telling them not to TOUCH anything). As in, I couldn't even move my possessions in or those possessions would quickly end up smelling like a particularly vile cocktail of animal ass.

OK, breathe. It will be fine. Maybe. Today I went to see E. as soon as her office was open. The conversation did not go well and in fact got worse and worse as she was unwilling to take responsibility - "unforeseen circumstances" - WTF? - let alone apologize that a family of four counting on a move-in date of the 16th will now not have a place to move into. At this point, as much as I loved the house (sans the ass-smell), I was glad I had not signed a piece of paper with this woman. I got my money back and gave her my key. As it sits now - after a heated conversation where she told me I "need to calm down" because as you who know me know, I am just the type to be loud and crazy - she's supposed to check the place out and sort out if and how they are going to make it liveable and if they are, when it will be ready. At this point I honestly don't even know HOW they can get that odeur out without some major carpet tear-out, treatment, etc. perhaps including a match and kerosene. Mostly, also, E. was such a shit that I won't cry tears if I have zero future dealings with her. Which is a shame because it's a neat place, across the street from my parents', I knew the guy who lived in it for years and years back in the day, and I would have loved living there. Again: minus the ass. The worst part for me in some way is that E. will probably rent to some other tenants who will take similar non-care of what will increasingly be a less beautiful old house. P.S. this happens in Grays Harbor, a fair amount.

So Ralph will be here tomorrow with a 24' long u-haul (that's feet, not inches) and I'll probably have to put our shit in storage and be back to square one looking for a place. Balls.

Luckily we are not set up too shabby; camped rent-free (so far) in my parents' large house, Ralph and I are getting along fine, and the kids are doing well. I am very stressed but I hear moving is one of the most stressful experiences to go through, so at least it's par. Which somehow makes me feel better although I don't feel that good.

This afternoon after my children had napped a bit (they are STILL at it) I crept up to the upstairs bedroom, set up my Mac and connected via wireless (P.S. this took three minutes) and took a deep, deep sigh of relief. With my Mac by my side, and family too I guess, things are a bit better already.

Labels: HQX, i'm a hater, other haters, shit

Today was my last full day in Port Townsend. Forces conspired to keep me home and frustrated: my kids woke with pinkeye (highly contagious, semi-gross, but really not a big deal - whatever you do don't click on these links) and I once again was robbed of the family van. Fuck it. It's my last day. I'm going to buy myself my birthday present (#2), I'm going to get some fresh air, I'm going to cook my kids a good lunch and rest them up, and we're going to have a good time. Guess what? It all worked out that way.


Before I even made it out the door this morning lovely Abbi brings me fresh eggs from her chickens. Yay! Cynthia brought over morning pastries and hot coffee, her treat. Thank you, ladies.

At 10-ish we catch the #13 bus and I sit next to Kirsten and her two lovely children. We discuss move-out date: tomorrow! She tells me Port Townsend will miss us. I hear that a lot. My eyes are darting to the back of the bus where my children, experienced bus riders, are making monkey noises.


So I bought myself the bread box, and they filled it with bread, a lot of bread. About one-third of the large box of bread was filled with Pane D'Amore's lovely hearth rolls. Like the ones you see my children eating. P.S. during the day, they ate them all.

At this point my picture-taking was at its end as Nels took over, after asking repeatedly and circumspectly for the camera. Here are three of his efforts:


Me, at the bus stop. Yes, that's my actual hair, not a very bad wig. P.S. I am squinty most of the time or at least that's what the pictures tell me.

On to the Food Co-op:


Olives! Our whole family likes them. A pretty picture: I think he should go into Marketing for the co-op's website.


"UUURRGH! ME HAS THE PINK EYE-UMS!" Note my child's version is much milder than those links above that I sincerely hope you did not investigate.

Home on the bus, again. Sophie carries my $33 alaffia grass basket, ANOTHER present to myself to say goodbye to Port Townsend (these baskets are SO PT, and let me tell you, when I asked the Co-op employee to find me a "larger one", I was graced with the entire history of the sweet African community that makes them, and how honored a relationship "we" have with them, yada yada) with a small amount of healthy snack groceries:


Think I'm lyin'? Check it out: veggie booty, kale salad, carrots, and Strawberry Emergen-C. A PT meal. Yes, they ate it. And then they napped. And then they got up and gave me hell.

Tomorrow: bon voyage to greener, if not sweeter, pastures.

Labels: food, friends, Nels, Sophie

A Brief History of Ralph

We were 17 when we met in church. I was an atheist but went with my mom just about every Sunday of my senior year. She'd just become a Christian and this was her church of choice. I liked spending the time with her (it was always hard to get her to spend time with me one-on-one) and I enjoyed a lot in the sermons (the pastor later married us then cheated on his wife and was disrobed or whatever you call it).

Despite the fact he was a nice person, I instantly disliked Ralph because he was very attractive to me, he was unattainable, and he was a "good boy". He had a girlfriend who besides being simply an obstacle to my designs, was someone who rubbed me the wrong way in about thirty different ways (I liked his choice of girlfriend after her, very much). Ralph was an unusual specimen for a 17-year old boy: popular, cute, and smart, he didn't cuss, drink, and he was very polite and deferential to girls. His good behavior was unfathomable to me, although his treatment of girls garnered my esteem quite a bit. Ralph's respect for women went bone-deep, it wasn't a facade and to this day I love him for it. He was also pro-celibacy which just blew my mind (later, I came to see the benefits... not that it was ever easy!).

I wasn't too hung up on Ralph or his girlfriend, being busy chasing and being chased by other boys while extricating myself from my Evil High School boyfriend. The first time I really talked to Ralph - in my memory, anyway - was at a pep band rally - he played the drum kit, another thing that impressed me. He mentioned reading Catch 22, a book I did not like but nevertheless was impressed by this boy who looked like Huck Finn who I would have gladly jumped, had read it. I found out years later he wasn't much of a reader, despite my first impressions.

I went away to college and had some boyfriends there. He and I weren't even "friends" so much as "friendly" - we knew one another, but didn't hang out much. I still remember at the end of my junior year getting an email from him, "Are we going to hang out this summer?" I thought, sure, why not? Within a few days of my return home we were dating. I really fell for him. This was a very troubling time for me. I took his celibacy requirement as a rejection of me, of the fact I'd had sex (he was 99% virgin) and that I wanted to have sex. Now I know better; that it was OK for me to want this, and it was OK for him to want to hold off. It was kind of a battle between us, but between what I wanted and what he wanted (physically, anyway), well, our celibacy lasted about a year. I remember years of push-me-pull-you as we tried to figure out how sexually active was "OK" for us. It was difficult but of course, also fun. I think we were conflicted on this issue until the day we got married.

Oh, and the marriage? Three plus years into our relationship, an unplanned pregnancy! At this point there was no question in either of our minds about keeping a baby. We were very excited about that. We were slightly more jittery about getting married - he wasn't sure if I'd want him (silly!), I was at first still thinking about the baby. The day after I told him I was pregnant (I remember the exact moment - he said, "My little bird has an egg for me!" when I told him) he proposed to me. Using a fortune cookie that he'd cleverly slipped his own fortune into ("you will spend the rest of your life with a man named Ralph") and, when I looked up, doing the bended-knee bit on the kitchen of my rented studio apartment. The memory of those couple days is very special to me.

A little addendum: as he proposed, we were just about to head out the door to meet my parents for dinner - they'd driven three hours to see us, totally unaware of what was happening for us. We met them at the restaurant, me cradling the plastic "engagement ring" in my pocket and a big secret in my heart. As we tucked into our dinner salads we told them we were getting married, and they reacted favorably. A few minutes later we told them about the baby on the way. This was the only time I stumped BOTH my parents, especially my father who can always run his mouth, such that neither could think of what to say. We ate in companiable silence for a few minutes before my parents, with their eyes rolling about in their heads, started faintly asking us our plans.

I still feel pretty awesome about that.

My family is down to our van only, having left our pickup truck at my parents' two weeks ago. Yesterday my husband finds out he has to take a trip to his Bremerton office; ergo, I am without a family vehicle today. This morning at Sophie's preschool drop-off Ralph asks my friend Abbi if she'll not only pick up my oldest child at school dismissal, but also journey uptown to pick Nels and I up from our last day at Playschool. Which of course, being Abbi, she does.

At 11:30 outside the Playschool my son sees her van and smiles: "Abbi's going to get me with the van!" (why that child likes it so rough, I have no idea). She and I pack up fourth carseat, fourth child, my Playschool journal and goodbye-flowers; head to the bakery to pick up a few hearth rolls to keep kids quiet and drive out to Hadlock for a coffee. Our conversation is familiar and full of laughter; our handling of and reaction to the four children is in sync more so than with our own husbands. We get our matching coffee drinks and pass out hot chocolates to children. Our children: "I want a coffee bean," "Give me whip cream! I need whip cream!" I ask Abbi, "Who raised these spoiled children, anyway?" and we laugh.

Driving home in the passenger seat my chauffeur and friend takes a couple wrong turns: "I am having trouble taking you back home," she says and I think to myself I am having trouble, too. I am talking and I am cheerful but I also feel a deep sense of loss. My life is going to change and I am so damn sad. Why do we have these people in our lives only to one day sever what we have come to cherish with them? How can I be a friend to someone from miles away? How can they be part of my family if I have taken my family from them? I have come to rely on and enjoy my rituals in my community; my community cries out against my leaving. They are a part of me intertwined with married life and motherhood. Who will I be without them?

I don't know how to tell my friends of the places they occupy within me. Mostly I don't even want to tell them, because in the telling the truth becomes clumsy and inaccurate. For me, something larger is lost if I try to express it. I think they know they are loved as much as I know they love me. My feelings aren't best expressed in sentimental cards or hugs and kisses but rather this: those I care most about I take great care to let them know who I really am. The most pure form and the deepest, calmest place within me.

Back at my house I shuttle my kids inside and get a wet rag to wipe down a chocolate spill in Abbi's van. We discuss a park trip for the children later, if the weather gets a little less damn cold. Tiny, humble rituals meaningless but meaningful that I will soon have robbed myself of.

Labels: friends

I'm not sure how to express the deep shock I felt yesterday when I followed Cynthia and Paige up to the penthouse of the Swan, they opened the door, my mind stuttered and hitched when I saw the fabulous cake on the table (lovely custom cakes that have price tag minimum of $250), and suddenly people sprang out from the balcony and yes, yelled "Surprise!" and I saw all sorts of smiling faces and next Molly was walking toward me with a hand-embroidered handkerchief. I couldn't have been more surprised unless someone jumped out of the cake. Because even as I mounted the stairs behind Cyn and Paige knowing something was up - sure, a ladies' lunch with a half-dozen girlfriends - nothing prepared me for how many people and how lovely they all looked to me. And yes, I cried ("Goddamn it!") but part of it was just overwhelm - the party following one hour after I heard my cat had been murdered by a coyote, turning thirty, seeing my family who I was sure were 120 miles away. I was just floored.

The afternoon / evening was a lovely one and included many lovely goodies* (homemade hummus from Becca, Abbi and my current favorite meatball recipe, truffles and Poison Pussy Pie, this crazy bacon / date / almond appetizer from Nancy), fresh coffee and my favorite beer, my husband waiting on me hand and foot and the kids were out with a babysitter (everyone's were, in fact), a cigarette with Sara and Steph and Molly, gifts - all of them either homemade, very special, or both.

My friend Cynthia was the lead organizer, in close cahoots with my husband and friend Abbi. Cynthia announces to me around the table I am "very difficult to plan a surprise party for" because I am "suspicious" and "not compliant"! I don't know why everyone laughed at that one, but they sure did. The rest of the event I was told a handful of stories where my (I swear!) innocent curiosity caused friends and family to sweat bullets as they tried to keep the lie going.

Today is an extension of the fun as I am treated to the 41 gmail messages between my husband and the organizer(s) - this doesn't count chats, of which Ralph tells me there were many. Example:

Jan 27
Ralph Hogaboom
to Cynthia
Kelly's on to you (not me). She's talking to her mom right now, saying
that you just 'accepted' the lack of party. she's saying that she
expected you to be a little pissy, or put up more of a fight. Your
radio silence about it is clueing her in!

...

Feb 10
Ralph Hogaboom
to Cynthia
Kelly locked in 2 pm with me. I made some noises about her going out AGAIN, but that I'd take the kids up to fort worden or something. That gives me an excuse to get them out early (i.e., go pick up Rachel). I'm coming back from picking her up at 1:30; I'll drop her, kids, and jogging stroller off at Grant Street and head on down to be there early. So, FYI, no Freecycle Documentary story, it's "Fort Worden with the kids".

I did the smallest bit possible pouting about how lame I am for not doing anything for her bday. She bought it! Heh.

You get the idea.

Then there's the Google spreadsheet of Ralph's where I can see the chronicles of my husband and dear friend assimilating the right guest list and sorting out email invitations (see above). The "Notes" field of each entry contains text like "Friends with Kelly from the mill", "... 'cause Kelly has that love/hate thing going on with him!", and "INFANT" (is that a warning or what)?

This morning my bath at the penthouse featured such a large tub I could literally float in it. My FOO left and my children and I had a lovely breakfast together at the Blue Moose with Abbi and Rosie, a walk down at the Marina, then home. Home for a cleanup, pajamas, movie, and yes - a nap. Sophie, Nels and I. I needed it.

* The food and drink were so good, in fact, they kept one person up all night and sent another to the hospital with acute gastritis, and I'm not kidding about that. P.S. that guest is doing just fine now.

Labels: friends, party animal, Ralph

1. Yesterday we found out my cat Fancy had been killed. R.I.P. my beloved, sweetest kitty.

2. The last 22 hours have been me at a surprise 30th birthday party / going away party / slumber party with my FOO and my most dear friends. I am still kinda shell-shocked (including, see #1). I need time to myself with the kids - to clean up (us and the house), rest, relax, nap, and pull myself together.

Individual thank yous will follow, but for now: thank you to all my friends and family who really, really surprised me with a wonderful thirtieth birthday party. It was a lovely experience.

Labels: birthday, FOO, friends, party animal, sorrows

Today is my thirtieth birthday. After brushing my teeth in the bathroom and pulling four combs out of my tangled post-sleep hair I re-entered my bedroom to a full-family seranade (Cyn knows just how sweet Sophie's "birthday" rendition is). My husband presents me with coffee (in a "birthday cup") and a card with a $25 iTunes gift certificate inside (my Ricky Gervais collection will all-too-soon be complete).

Besides Ralph's gift, I haven't received other gifts yet. However I have received so many nice comments and well-wishes for freinds, and they are appreciated. And because it was asked for, I'm going to provide my list of material goods I want:

1. Fancy's return home.

2 An old Euro breadbox from Pane D'Amore in Port Townsend ($80 - $110 apiece).

3. Two items from Escentials: A 1/2 ounce of their Dragon's Blood, and a 1/2 ounce of a custom blend (two parts cucumber, two parts grapefruit, one part fig).

4. A better coffee maker. Not a lot of timing, self-grinding crap. Not a french press, either (or Scaldy McScalds-a-Lot as I call them). I dunno.

5. A date (or a night away!) with Ralph. Very much.

6. A trip to the hairdressers. Perhaps put in the "Much Needed" category?

7. A date to see Ghost Rider with Sophie.

By the way: since I'm thirty now, and a big girl? I might just get some of these FOR myself.

Labels: birthday

My life, in boxes. Here my entire love of sewing is represented, compartmentalized. Two of my sewing machines await Moving Day, on the top of my other (main love) machine (tucked away in cabinet).

We moved into this house five-plus years ago. One of the first things we did - I massively pregnant - was to repaint the room for our baby on the way. A couple months ago for the first time we changed the purpose of the room - from my children's bedroom (Nels had arrived in 2004) - to my sewing room. Today I swept cobwebs out for the last time; took down my homesewn curtains. Tried to feel a "fuck yes!" instead of sadness. Our first home as a family.


Ralph, gleefully removing the expensive, low-energy compact bulbs to take with us, while replacing them with cheap ones. My husband is very sweet. He moves about two-hundred percent of my speed. He accepts that for me, packing one box is emotionally draining. He says things like, "That's a very good idea!" at any suggestion I have. He gets on chairs to change bulbs and I take a picture of his ass, which I think you'll agree is most excellent.

After today's work, the good news: 1 out of 3 of our bedrooms is entirely clean, entirely packed, ready to go. The bad news: I will be having minor panic attacks as I drift in that purgatory for nesters - unable yet to make a new home, dismantling the old.


Nels, on the kitchen counter as Ralph cooks breakfast (photograph by Sophie). He likes robots. He likes bacon and eggs even more. He waits patiently for them.

Labels: gratitude, homesteading, Nels, newness, Ralph

My house is a farkin' mess. I can't clean it. It's full of boxes and packed and soon-to-be-packed items. We're leaving in eight days.

My husband is downstairs playing "Yellow Ledbetter" by Pearl Jam. What he can't know is that this song will always and inexorably take me back to the summer after my senior year in high school.

This morning after a more-than-usual hectic routine - where I was hounding my children for not getting dressed fast enough, not eating their breakfasts properly - Sophie looked up at me as I distractedly buttoned her coat and tearfully said, "Mama, you're giving me and Nels the balls."

Labels: chaos, Sophie

Today I am distracted, frenetic, lazy, and sad.

I am distracted and frenetic because I don't know how to tackle my many, many to-do list items for our move. People ask the harmless and sweet question, "Are you packing up yet?" to which I think, Holy shit, am I supposed to? I mean, how I do I pack a couch I sit on every day, or clothes I wear? Yet the inevitable fact looms: in just a few days this stuff has to go in one truck and I can't even imagine it.

I am lazy because in some way, my confused activity has resulted in a decidedly non-efficient use of my time. Here's the problem: I know that if I tick off my "to do" list, methodically, stuff will get done. But how can I focus on one "to do" item at a time? No, so much easier to run about my house, hands flopping uselessly in front of me and making "pfft! pfft!" sounds with my mouth.

I am sad because I really miss Fancy our cat and would like to have her home.

I have to hand it to single parents and dual-working parents. Today I got just a taste of the kind of shuffle that must be part of their life. This afternoon my lovely friend Sara babysat my two children for a couple hours and this evening my friends the Creccas babysat my boy for dinner (so Ralph and Sophie could do their swimming lesson). The amount of shuffle-shuffle, do-you-have-a-carseat?, remembering details of who went pee and who's been fed, do-you-have-Sophie's swimsuit? - Holy shit. I think I'll keep my quaint and relatively measured SAHM gig. For now.

Labels: chaos, family life, worries

I don't want to jinx anything, but I believe we may have found a house to land in Hoquiam. A very sweet old place almost directly across the street from my parents' (babysitting score!). I knew the elderly man who owned it (he's passed on, now) and I delivered him papers when a preteen. Not to mention the house - a downgrade in size and bedrooms but an upgrade in kitchen, mine now being the size of a large-ish crate - comes with gas heat and a clawfoot tub. A clawfoot tub. I've been coveting one for years.

I don't want to jinx anything else, but our kitty Fancy is missing. I am really heartsick about this. For one thing, I have a fear of "something going wrong" with a new pet (hence my superstition about naming, my nightly wakeups since she's gone AWOL) - and it now seems something has. She got out of the house last Saturday mid-morning and as of today (Tuesday) we have not heard from her. Those of you who have commiserated and told me it is "normal" for cats to go off for days at a time, thank you. I am earnestly hoping and praying for her return and safety. Today we filled out a detailed report at JCAS; tomorrow is the leaflet campaign coupled with woeful children in a wagon.

I hope I am being a huge asinine freak and she shows up on our doorstep soon, belly full of neighbor's warm milk and entirely sassy that we have been worrying ourselves.

My recent funk where I was tired of cooking? was too boring to blog about, but it seems to have passed - at quite a cost since we ate out a bit the last couple weeks. Tomorrow I'm making The Anticraft's Pie Pie to prove that yes, I'm back, I'm kicking ass, and taking names.

Listening to: this, this and this.
Reading: this.
Contemplating: sleep, de-hiving.

Labels: GH, music, worries

Finding a place here in Grays Harbor would be tragic if it weren't so comical. My father accompanies my children and me as we tour a few listings through the morning and afternoon. Sight unseen, you follow addresses and yo-yo through "slummy" vs. "out of our league" vs. "stunningly charmless, yet clean" vs. "holy shit, we'll be living out of our van if we don't find something." Since I grew up here I have some idea of the neighborhoods, but we still tour an area directly across the "street" from a sawmill and it's all I can do not to floor the gas when I see the plywood-and-ass shack that's expected to fetch $695 / month. My dad and I laugh and laugh: "What's your problem with tweakers, anyway?" he asks pseudo-aggressively, as if my attitude was too princess.

I don't even bother looking at the rent that would just tap our already diminished new state-sponsored income. We don't have a benefactor to supplement our monthly income nor a credit card to live outside our means. But is it too much to ask that I don't have to live in a house with a busted-up walkway AND rebar cheerfully nosing out of said steps? Floors that I can feel with my feet are actually slanting and rippled? A random "dirt shed" in the backyard of a house listed as "Adorable!" coupled with a view of a small engine repair shop directly adjacent?

My children love everything and take opportunities at each listing; climbing trees, playing in an empty pool, pissing in the yard (yay, Nels! My first success in helping him through a standing venture). They are completely aware of what we are doing and why and my constant source of strength and hilarity.

As of this evening I have nothing except a quarter tank less of gas. My father tells me, "Don't panic."

Easy for him to say.

Labels: GH

What kind of jerk goes to bed on time, nicely, no fuss, only to wake at 1:15 AM with insomnia? It isn't as if I got a few good HOURS in before I was up. I am currently typing as "quietly" as I can (on my parents' laptop, mere inches from their open bedroom door) while waiting for the combination effect of a glass of wine, an OTC sleep aid, and some sort of generic vicodin to kick in. My children are slumbering quietly together in the guest bedroom upstairs - a full-size bed I try to accommodate myself to after being spoiled with my king at home. It seems the older I get the more picky I am about where I sleep. It doesn't help that tomorrow I am house-hunting and full of fears, worries, and mental refuse.

I could have it worse; I thank Sweet Baby Jesus for the ways I have it good. My children were cheerfully good company on our 3-hour drive here. They took off their shoes and advocated for the right to pee and asked, many times, when we'd get to Hoquiam (and grandma and dinner). They were polite at the meal (custom-pizzas designed by my mom, a cook whose competence and joy in cooking I myself have grown into), they took baths without complaint, they went to bed easily and happily. Sophie has been not sucking her thumb for the past few days (since her last dentist's visit) and she just lay next to me and DID it - fell asleep with her hands by her side.

The last few days my children have made my life as easy as they can; Nels has stopped having accidents in his pants, he is listening to Mama, he holds my hand and tells me great stories. Sophie is so intelligent and entertaining to be around I constantly look forward to seeing more of her. Life has changed from the days where I longed for their nap so I could have "me time". I still want "me time" - I always will - but I no longer feel desperate for personal space, for sleep, for escape.

My parents are helping us out, most importantly (to me) by being there to discuss every little thing. They are also providing us with home-cooked dinner, with a backup plan of staying with them (please Lord no), with support and understanding for what we are trying to do. I think they'll even provide us with a loan for moving expenses as our cash flow bunches up oddly in these last few weeks. Note to self: kiss ass more.

Life would be perfect if I was just moved into our new place already. God-dammit.

Labels: burnout, FOO, Nels, Sophie, worries