CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE

Are Wives Really Nagging Shrews Or Do Husbands Just Think They Are?

2011-09-21T16:52:00.000-07:00

This post was inspired by Lisa Hickey's recent piece, "Are Husbands Really Assholes? Or Do Wives Just Think They Are?" on the website The Good Men Project. There has also been a great deal of chatter on the interwebs about gender stereotypes in romantic, hetero relationships, most of which would make me tear out my hair by the fistful if I didn't spend so much money making it pretty .

When I see articles about the dynamics of male/female relationships, I initially find them provocative and insightful. When I delve deeper, however, I sometimes cringe at generalizations presented by authors as facts, rather than what they really are: opinions based on limited anecdotal evidence. They may be informed opinions by smart professionals who do some research, but what I've seen recently reveals that many "sample groups" are too small to be taken seriously. Ultimately, I object to the black and white approach inevitably taken by many of these arguments.

I understand why stereotypes take root; historically, the behavior of some in a group (a particular race, gender, or sexual orientation) has been mistakenly accepted as representative of all members of that group. I believe this is a function of ignorance and/or fear, but whether or not we admit it, we all have biases. Perhaps we were raised in an environment of bigotry and, as much as we would like to believe otherwise, those hateful words and images linger in our subconscious minds. Maybe life experiences lead some to form their own brand spanking new prejudices, and they are fine with that. Those are two extremes on a continuum—a large gray area of bias that we aren't generally comfortable talking about.

So how do we discuss gender stereotypes in romantic relationships in a way that is honest and helpful? First, I think we need to admit they exist. No matter how emotionally evolved we are we perpetuate certain narratives that make navigating relationships less scary. If we depend too frequently on these emotional crutches, however, we end up stuck in a place that may feel safe but actually leads us to believe that yes, all husbands are assholes and all wives are nagging shrews. Does this seem like a good strategy for making a relationship work?

Let's hear from the experts. From Lisa Hickey's piece:

The refrain heard over and over is some variation of "I want to have a good marriage. I love my wife. But sometimes, all I feel is resentment—from my wife, toward my wife, toward the marriage. I believe my wife thinks I am an asshole, and she treats me as such."

In Ms. Hickey's defense, she does her best to give a balanced portrayal of both men's and women's thoughts on the subject, but she doesn't have enough to work with. The above quote refers to a conversation that took place—in person, by phone, and via email—between a handful of contributers to The Good Men Project. Later in the article, Ms. Hickey presents a list of comments described as "a quick, non-scientific survey of self-appointed experts in the perception of husbands as assholes".

Most of the article follows a similar "he said, she said" vein, with Ms. Hickey trying to make sense of it all by drawing a few tentative conclusions. But then there's this:

It still bothers me that there’s no real dialogue around this issue. Men feel resentment, women appear oblivious, and conversation around the topic seems nil.

This is exactly the kind of sweeping generalization that causes a stabbing pain behind my left eye. Women are oblivious? I take exception to this, mostly because it's bullshit, but also because it makes all women sound like witless dolts who don't care about their husbands' feelings. Furthermore, my opinion (based on my own limited anecdotal evidence) is that most couples have plenty of conversations around this topic. They probably don't do it out in the open for everyone to see (I hope), but anyone seriously interested in making a relationship succeed realizes they occasionally need to talk about the relationship. These little chats may not be fun and they may not always be as productive as we'd like, but they do happen.

My biggest problem with this piece is that while dissecting and debunking the "Husbands Are Assholes" myth, Ms. Hickey implicitly perpetuates another stereotype, and this one's a doozy: husbands are hen-pecked into a life of quiet desperation by their nagging, shrewish wives. This sort of thinking makes me want to pick up the nearest object and hurl it at the wall. I'm sure many marriages do fit into this hellish category, and I'm sorry for both the husbands and wives who choose to live this way. But it is a choice, and I sure as hell wouldn't choose to be in a relationship where I'm some doormat's ball and chain.

If all stereotypes are a result of ignorance and/or fear, as I opine above, those involving gender are no exception. Maybe a good place to start a real conversation would be to ask: of what are men and women ignorant concerning real intimacy? What do men and women fear in relationships?

NOTE: See Hugo Schwyzer's follow-up article, "Poor, Poor, Pitiful Men: The Martyr Complex of the American Husband" for a radically different perspective.

An excerpt:

The Guy Code teaches men how to pursue women, how to court, and how to charm; it teaches us nothing about how to be in an actual relationship with a woman once we’ve succeeded in catching her. (If you’re getting an image of a dog who looks bewildered and helpless when he’s finally managed to catch the cat he’s been chasing, you’re not far off the mark.)

There's that stabbing pain again, although I have to admit I enjoyed most of this piece. While Hugo is also prone to generalizations, he never claims his contributions to The Good Men Project are anything but his own informed opinions, and he has academic credentials to back them up. Still, maybe I'll tackle this another day...

Why Remarry?

2011-09-11T12:02:00.001-07:00

I am divorced, and I live with my boyfriend, also divorced. I have quite a few divorced friends, women and men. Some are happily remarried; a couple are planning to wed new partners; several are looking for love and, I assume, another shot at marriage; at least one is recently divorced and probably not ready to even think about dating; a handful are ambivalent about remarrying; and some insist they will never again take the matrimonial plunge.

According to a study published in the American Law and Economics Review, women initiate more than two-thirds of divorces. There is variation among states, and the numbers have changed over time, with over 70% of filings by women in some states just after no-fault divorce was introduced. Also, a new report from the U.S. census bureau shows that, for those 25 and older, 52% of men and 44% of women were remarried. Statistics indicate that 50% of all first marriages fail; the divorce rates of second marriages are estimated to be over 70%.

These numbers are surprising considering the conventional wisdom that men are generally coerced into first marriages by women hell-bent on snagging a husband. Don't take my word for it; check out the number of books and websites devoted to coaching women on how to trick their man into committing. (I challenge you to find similar advice for men.) And much of the information out there is absurd. For example:

From Your Tango’s Top 10 Surprising Ways To Get A Guy To Commit: “2. Don't be exclusive until you're engaged. Once you've become exclusive and have your eye on marriage, a man can sense that you're thinking about the relationship, wondering where things are going, hoping he loves you as much as you love him—all of which are totally normal feelings, but they make men withdraw emotionally.”

Is this 1950? Keep that man on his toes until he puts a ring on your finger! And while you're at it, date a bunch of other guys who don't realize you "have your eye" on marrying someone else! Sorry, Your Tango, but engagement is not the carrot women should be chasing, and marriage is not a prize that guarantees commitment. Marriage is the result of commitment.

From Love is No Guarantee author Peter Hector: “It is men’s nature to delay anything that can cause drastic changes to their lives. And although men have always been aware of the changes that marriage brings, they accepted them as part of the territory; ‘when a man marries his troubles begin.’ But whether or not today’s men are aware of this old saying, one thing is certain. They are not ready to be plucked from their comfort zones and thrown into a life of responsibility, compromise and sacrifice. And by their own admissions this is the life they believe awaits them whenever they decide to take what they consider the final plunge.”

Barf. Thanks for this sweeping generalization that makes all men sound like pathetic assholes, Mr. Hector. I can't imagine who comprised your sample group, but perhaps you could publish a list of like-minded men so single women everywhere won't waste their time trying to pluck them from their comfort zones and plunge them into a lifetime of trouble.

I came across another revolting factoid around marital disharmony: rather than acknowledge they are unhappy and leave the marriage or, better yet, work on the underlying causes of their and/or their spouse’s unhappiness, many men cheat. (I believe this is referred to as Passive Aggressive Dick Behavior, or PADB.) So who knows if women are ending their marriages because they are unhappy or because hubby needed a little variety to make it through the “long haul” of married life?

My summary, based on the above: men resist marriage the first time around; women are more likely to leave their marriages; men are more likely to remarry (possibly their mistresses!); and second marriages are more likely to fail. In other words, divorced women, more often than men, get what they want and then decide they don’t want it anymore. Men, more often than women, get what they thought they didn’t want, lose it, then realize they want it again. And both men and women are unrealistically optimistic about the chances of a second—or third, or fourth—marriage lasting.

Statistics are numbers crunched to reflect trends. Just that—trends. While some people may have a genetic predisposition for violence, not all of them act on it. Similarly, not all single, married, divorced, or remarried men and women act in accordance with statistical probabilities. While I see some of these trends playing out in my friends’ relationships, the behavior of the majority of people I know does not fit so neatly into these molds. Good for them, I say, because these statistics are freakin’ depressing.

I believe marriages most often succeed or fail due to the reasons people decide to marry, and how committed they are to working their asses off for the rest of their lives to make the marriage work for both of them. So, I offer my unsolicited thoughts on good and bad reasons to remarry:

Top Five Reasons Not To Remarry:

1. It’s the logical next step. There are no logical next steps in any relationship.

2. Marriage will strengthen the relationship. I don’t think so. Being married makes it more logistically difficult to split up, but if your relationship is weak now, toughen it up before heading to the altar.

3. Marriage will decrease the chance of infidelity. Um, no. (See above.) If you and your partner are already committed, fidelity should not be an issue—yet. And if infidelity is a deal-breaker for you, make sure you address it before getting married, because there's a damn good chance you'll be addressing it later on.

4. My parents expect me to be married. Good for them. They probably also want you to give them grandkids (if you haven’t already), floss regularly, and take care of them in their old age. But you’re a grown up now, and it’s time to make major life decisions all on your own.

5. Marriage will provide financial stability. Hahahah! Remember that divorce? How stable were your finances, then? On the other hand, if you’ve made a conscious decision to marry for money rather than love, go get ‘em! But prepare for a life of insecurity once you sacrifice your independence.

Top Five Reasons To Remarry:

1. You and your partner are truly committed and equally enthusiastic about tying the knot. Enough said. Preface each reason below with this one.

2. You want to start a family (or add to the one you have). Fair enough. It’s fun to be married when you have kids. You get to argue over whose last name they’ll take.

3. Your religious beliefs encourage marriage over living in sin. While I obviously don’t subscribe to this, many people do. Go with God (or whoever).

4. You’ve recently come out of the closet, ended that icky hetero marriage, and now you’ve found someone special with whom you want to share your life. Congratulations! If you live in a state that recognizes same-sex marriage, hurry up and get hitched, because religious-fanatic-right-wingnut lunatics all over the country are fighting like rabid, feral cats to take away that hard-won right.

5. You simply can’t imagine growing old without your partner. Smart cookie, because when you're really, really old, you want her/him to have legal standing to make end-of-life medical decisions for you. Also, it just sounds so friggin’ sweet.

The other night, a friend remarked that she and her husband considered my boyfriend and me the "perfect couple". I burst out laughing, then explained I don't believe perfect couples exist. (She joked that they do on Facebook. True, that.) Every couple has their share of struggles, depending on their history, emotional maturity, and—most important—their commitment to each other. This left me wondering, however, what commitment really means. If two people claim to be committed to each other but their definitions of commitment differ significantly, does that commitment benefit the relationship? I don't have an answer, but I imagine that conversation would be an excellent place to start for any couple considering marriage.

What do you think?

Writing about writing.

2011-06-11T13:41:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, while tinkering with Mommune, I came to the frightening realization that the "introduction" part of the story I've been motoring through to get to the real guts of the story will need to be about half the book. Since I'm delving into science fiction, which is new territory for me, I need to create a believable new "world" so the rest of the story will make sense. My writing group has gently pointed out that I must establish the setting with more than vague references from each new character I introduce. So I've gone back, several times, and made the references less vague. But that's lazy writing, and it's not working. I need to research, outline, and add several chapters to bring the reader into my world, a world that is clear in my head but has yet to make it onto the page.

That, for me, is the difficult part about writing. Once I have a story in my head, I often forget to write the words that will bring the entire story out of my head and make it accessible to readers. People who remark on Soft Landing almost always say the same thing: great characters, great story, fast pace — but they wanted more. I usually ask, "More what?" and they tell me: more description, more back story, more of a certain character. They don't necessarily want a longer story; they want a more fully-realized story.

Mommune is a much more ambitious project than Soft Landing was. I'm including a much larger cast of characters. The premise of the story draws on social, political, medical, economic and environmental issues. And I'm taking all of that and distilling it to a very personal level for the main characters. So... not only do I need to write a larger story, I need to write each aspect of the larger story more completely, from future world events down to the most personal level.

Unlike a lot of writers, I do not write for the sheer joy it brings, uncaring of whether or not I get published. While I love it, writing is hard work. Perhaps because I have a business degree rather than a graduate degree in creative writing, I tend to be goal-oriented. I savor the rare uninterrupted stretch of time — and by stretch I mean days, not a few hours — I can focus on writing, but I still want to finish the damn book. I claim to strive for a "spare" style in my novels, but that may be my excuse for rushing through a story without doing the hard work that makes so many authors much better writers.

For me, writing is a perfect metaphor for life. I need to summon the patience to do it as thoughtfully as possible. I should focus more on creating and less on finishing. I want to build a world that is as fully-realized as possible. And most important, although writing will always be hard work, I don't ever want to consider it a hardship. It's a privilege, not a chore.

Here's the working cover for Mommune. (Yes, I see the irony of designing the cover before finishing the book, but I needed it for my new author website, which is under construction.)

Oops! I forgot to blog for eight months.

2011-05-07T17:54:00.000-07:00

Where to begin? Last we chatted, I was embracing the chaos of living in The Cave. I had resolved to get back to writing. I was experimenting with a "no expectations" relationship. That seems like ages ago, as almost everything in my life has changed. To whit: I failed, on all three fronts.

The live-in-the-moment relationship seemed like a good idea at the time, and it was fun while it lasted. Then the unthinkable happened: love. I won't say we "fell in love," because that makes it sound so easy, or even romantic. No, we fought it, fingers clawing as we were dragged into what we both claimed we didn't want — a serious relationship. It wasn't pretty and it sure as hell wasn't the stuff romantic comedies are made of. (Or was it?) But once we realized there was nothing to be done about it, there we were. I let him into Grace's world, finally, and they began to create their own relationship. Grace adored him immediately. And his patience, kindness, and willingness to work with us through what was a particularly challenging phase in Gigi's life sealed the deal.

My stint in The Cave came to an abrupt end when we experienced the fifth flood in less than a year. My resolve, and quite a few of my beloved books, were unsalvageable. The timing seemed right, so boyfriend and I found a lovely house together and took another giant, scary leap. We crammed all our stuff — belongings, humans, the dog, emotions, fears — into what has become not just a home, but a sanctuary. Grace loves living here with both of us, and is thriving under this new blanket of security and ordinary... family-ness. She can finally have friends over without feeling self-conscious about living in a basement. WE can have friends over and sit comfortably around the dining room table, or hang out in the huge kitchen. Oh — how can I forget this? — we have a dishwasher!

The third failure doesn't have a happy ending. I haven't made as much progress on my novel as I hoped. Despite the encouragement of my writing group, and the luxury of several writing retreats, I remain stuck somewhere between chapters six and seven. I expected to be finished with Mommune by the end of 2010, but I now realize I will be lucky to complete it by the end of this year. Happiness in life, love and family has brought a certain complacency which allows me to neglect what I always counted on to make me happy, regardless of what was going on around me: writing. Since boyfriend is also a writer, we both struggle with the self-discipline needed to get shit done. So we have made a pact: structure our days to accommodate three (maybe four?) hours dedicated to writing.

If that piece of the puzzle falls into place, I will have little left to complain about. Plenty of other things have happened during the last eight months, however. If I choose to continue blogging, what should I talk about? Suggestions welcome!

At the beach during our latest writing retreat.

Cozying up to Chaos.

2010-09-01T12:30:00.000-07:00

I used to thrive under pressure. I worked a ten-hour day, ran errands on my lunch hour, picked up dinner before catching the bus home and did some freelance writing on the side. My house was clean and tidy, my pets were well taken care of and I threw dinner parties that involved recipes from Gourmet Magazine. When I left my job for a six-month sabbatical, three people took over my various responsibilities. Even when I started freelancing from home as a software developer, I became so engrossed in my projects that I would forget to eat or even get up to pee until I was in dire pain. And I was never more productive than when I was under a deadline, particularly if I'd put off something until the last minute. Case in point: I took on a fairly large programming job when I was seven months pregnant. It would have been impossible for me to finish it in two months, so I just figured I'd keep cranking it out after Grace was born. Hahahahahah!

I started working on Soft Landing (you know, my NOVEL?) before I had Grace, and tinkered around with it for years. Only when Grace was around two did I find the inspiration to quit messing around and get to work. (Until Grace was two, I was a full-time stay-at-home mom. Grace had a part-time nanny (hi, Sandi!), ostensibly because I was still finishing the aforementioned project, along with tweaking programs for some past clients. When Sandi was there, however, I usually napped or went grocery shopping.) So I was the mother of a toddler, still working, and I managed to write a book in my free time.

These days, it can take me a whole day (while Grace is at pre-school, mind you) to do the things I used to do on my lunch hour or after work. Even then, it's never done. Chaos reigns here in The Cave, and in my oddly dysfunctional brain, I can't convince myself to spend any significant time writing unless everything is in order. Which is absurd, because everything will never be in order. It's a problem. I know it's not a terribly original problem, that even writers who love to write will find countless reasons to not write. But I have a limited window to finish my current novel, and it's getting smaller and smaller.

We live in the midst of unpacked boxes, dirty dishes, unfolded laundry, toys strewn everywhere and tumbleweeds of dog hair floating about. My own personal nemeses are stacks of unopened mail and unpaid bills; missed appointments and unanswered emails; half-finished paperwork and neglected correspondence that taunt me every time I glance at my desk. I know women who manage to keep up with life's chores while working full-time and raising kids. I am no longer one of those women. I try to blame part of it on being a single mom, but that's just weak. I have plenty of time to take care of business; I simply choose to spend (waste?) my time on other things. I've become that flaky woman who always seems to be spinning her wheels, complaining about all there is to do.

A few weeks ago, I had dinner with an old friend and he asked me what I do all day. I was completely stumped. I could have lied and said I write, but it's been so long since I've done any serious writing, I've lost track of the characters in my novel. This is not a good sign. I have days of spectacular productivity, days where I am so disgusted by the state of the apartment that I do everything at once: laundry, dishes, paperwork, grocery shopping, etc. I feel good about it afterwards, but then, rather than taking advantage of my freedom from household tedium to write, I reward myself by hanging out with friends, spending too much time online and, of course, blogging.

I'm realizing that waiting until my life is in order to get serious about writing doesn't encourage me to keep chaos at bay. Because I'm not one of those women anymore. I need to get comfortable with that fact, to learn that I can do what's necessary and let the rest wait. I need to make writing a bigger priority than worrying about unpacked boxes and unfolded laundry. In fact, writing should be at the top of the list, along with keeping Grace alive and nurturing relationships that nourish me and keep me sane. (Okay, almost sane.)

I've joined a writing group. We meet once a week to share our projects and provide/receive feedback. My objective was purely selfish: to light a fire under my ass that will help me finish my novel. But it turns out I've stumbled into a group of writers who are not only smart, fun and funny, they are also intimidatingly good at what they do. I've been inspired by what I've heard of their work, and I've received feedback on my novel that surprised me by its insight and, well, total awesomeness. I got lucky, and I'm going to take advantage of this chance, and challenge, to stay focused on writing and, I hope, make some great friends in the process.

The dishes are washed. The laundry is (mostly) done. Grace is happy and healthy and with her father for the next few days. I'm going to pretend to not notice the boxes stacked around the apartment, and the mess on my desk. (Except for Grace's kindergarten enrollment, which I need to complete and deliver to the school — which starts NEXT WEEK. Last-minute Laurel prevails!) Other than that, I'm going to plant my ass on the couch (which smells faintly of pee due to an ill-timed nap by Gigi), and get to know my characters again. I'm pretty excited about this.

My new mantra: I love to write. I love to write. I love to write.

Peace Out.

2010-08-30T00:03:00.000-07:00

I know, she's a little blurry. Aren't we all?

Girlfriends!

2010-08-10T09:22:00.000-07:00

Grace and I joined a few families last week at Kruger's Farm for their weekly concert. Once we pumped enough food (sugar) into the kids, they had a blast. (Until then, they clung to our legs and whined about everything, and nothing.) Most of this happiness occurred in the half hour before the concert ended. Thanks to Rebecca for the pictures.

Grace expounds on the economic crisis, while Ava and Annika wonder if she'll ever stop talking.

The pile up was great fun, and they took turns being on the bottom. They look like sisters, don't they?

Gigi pretending to be a sweet, innocent little angel.

Nightmare in The Cave

2010-08-09T13:40:00.001-07:00

Grace was in a truly VILE mood at bedtime last night. When she gets this way, she doesn't whine, cry or even speak actual words. She growls. After I finally got her settled, I was a bit unsettled myself, and I went to bed in a similarly crappy place. Then I had a series of nightmares. The first one had something to do with me being held captive somewhere and trying to scream loud enough so that I would be rescued. Of course, in dreams like this, you can never really scream, right? I somehow managed to, and woke up in mid-shriek. Not fun. I got up, my little ticker racing, checked on Grace and thought about sleeping with her, but she would have done of that sharing her bed nonsense. So I went back to bed and immediately fell back into more nightmares, the really fun kind where I kept dreaming I was getting up and turning on the light, but the light wouldn't come on, then I'd realize I was still dreaming. So I'd try to get up and turn on the light again, to no avail, and on and on until I was so pissed in my dream that I threw the lamp and went for the wall switch. Still no light. Still dreaming.

When I finally managed to wake up, I realized I was in a house alone with Grace, and I, the responsible adult, was scared shitless. Even Brady, The Canine Security Detail, wasn't here. I got up and tried to stay awake as long as I could, but eventually gave up and laid in bed, wide awake. I can honestly say I can't remember a single time in my life when I felt so utterly alone.

I did get back to sleep, and wasn't bothered by any more nightmares. But I woke up this morning with that same feeling of being alone, and haven't been able to shake it all day. Why? Because the bottom line is that when Grace is here and I'm in charge of taking care of her and making sure she feels safe and loved, there's no one here to do the same for me. All of a sudden, that's kind of blowing my mind.

Communication? What?

2010-07-19T16:28:00.000-07:00

I read my last post, and decided that if they exist, The New Rules of dating can bite me. Sure, there is that brief window of optimism when you meet someone new and really enjoy spending time with him. Due to my finely-tuned radar, however, I am now able to see red flags the minute they appear. No matter how charming Mr. Wonderful is on the first few dates, I pay attention to those red flags as they pile up. Because of that, I'm more likely to pull my head out of my ass and realize, "Huh. This guy's kind of a tool." This is a good thing; in the past, I've ignored all the signs pointing me in that direction until I was in way too deep, and one or both of us ended up getting hurt. Waste. Of. Time.

The words that really jumped out at me from that last post were, "I'm not up for a real relationship." What? Really? Yes, really, and not because of any wounds from past relationships. The time and emotional energy involved in maintaining a serious relationship are not luxuries I can afford right now. I've set up this sort of... unusual life that I'm leading so that I can focus on Grace and writing without constantly having to worry about money. These living arrangements are temporary. So why complicate things with a distraction I can deliberately choose to avoid? I didn't anticipate, however, that even casual dating would bring out the same jealousy, insecurity and uncertainty of a longer-term relationship, minus the shared history, friendship and real connection that almost make the unpleasantness worth it.

There seems to be a pervasive belief that, like a shark, if a relationship stops moving forward, it will die. I know I've fallen prey to this misconception in the past. As I said in a previous post, I believe more women than men focus on where a relationship is going, and maybe even tend to rush things. Most men seem to prefer not to think about it; maybe they want to simply enjoy what they have without worrying about the future, or maybe men believe that ALL CHANGE IS BAD. Could there be a middle ground?

My last relationship ended (prior to my foray into casual dating) because of what appeared to be a widening chasm in our expectations for The Future. He assumed I wanted a more serious relationship, whereas he did not. My knee-jerk reaction to this resistance was predictable: I felt rejected, hurt and a little (!) angry. We talked about it, but that's where the communication breakdown began. Neither one of us actually heard what the other was saying. BIG part of communication: listening. My weak protests of not wanting anything more may have seemed disingenuous, because I never thought about our future; it was too difficult to imagine incorporating him into my life, and Grace's. I hadn't yet decided what I wanted or didn't want.

Now I have. So, long story long, we're giving it another try, albeit in a very different way. We're enjoying the parts of our relationship that were fun (most of them), and not obsessing over where it's headed. I'll focus on my issues instead of worrying about him freaking out, and he won't assume I want more from him than I do. My issues have a lot to do with insecurity and jealousy, and I can't really work on those without first feeling them. I'd just as soon work on them with someone I know and trust. (What? Trust? Then why the insecurity and jealousy? I know, I know. I guess that's why they're called issues.) His issues are his problem. This is new territory. Far from choosing the path of least resistance, I've chosen to do something rather difficult: make my own feelings my first priority. I'd like to sit with those feelings of insecurity and jealousy and try to figure out where they come from.

So far, so good. We're having fun again, and there's no cloud hanging over us about what's going on in the other's head. No reading between the lines or making assumptions based on fear. I can appreciate the good between us, without expending so much emotional energy that my time and focus are taken away from Grace and writing.

What could possibly go wrong?

Dating, Part III: Rules?

2010-07-14T15:21:00.000-07:00

WARNING: Skip this one, Mom and Dad. Really.

I've taken to blogging about dating faster than I expected. Part of it is out of sheer necessity, because after being with John for eighteen years, then experiencing two sort of doomed relationships, I'm dating again. Casually, because I'm not up for a real relationship; I'm still licking my wounds from the last one. But when opportunity knocks, who am I to say no? The problem is, I don't know the new dating rules. I'm lost in a sea of confusion over how to best navigate these murky waters. Full of questions, and short on answers. So, you singles out there, I ask you: what are The New Rules?

I've had a few good experiences, but admittedly, I'm interacting with the male of the species with my guard up. I'm wearing my wounded heart on my sleeve, whether I realize it or not. Maybe it's because I tend to put the whole divorced-and-recently-out-of-a-relationship bit out there so everyone knows what's what. Decent, perceptive men sense my skittishness surprisingly quickly, and don't seem too crazy about the odds. I can't force myself to be vulnerable again, though. Should I fake it?

Communicating with men these days is like trying to learn a foreign language on the fly. No one seems to use the phone anymore. Email is rife with the possibility of misunderstanding. And texting? Please. It can take me forever to send one simple sentence. And what is the etiquette surrounding texting? If I have not asked a direct question, should I expect a reply? (And vice versa.) Should we take turns? If I want to share a random thought, but have yet to hear back from him after my last couple of random thoughts, am I text-stalking?

Not to put too fine a point on it, but when do we have sex these days? I'm forty-three. My basic philosophy is that I can have sex whenever I feel ready, as long as I'm safe. But are we still playing the waiting game? Am I supposed to ignore my own instincts so he doesn't think I'm some sort of slut, even when he's giving me the full-court-press? (That ship has already sailed, to keep the water metaphor going, but I'm still curious.) I can't help but feel that old fear: once we've had sex, is he going to disappear? I'm not talking about casual sex, mind you; that's not how I roll (ha ha). But let's face it: even casual dating can lead pretty quickly to physical attraction if there's any sort of chemistry involved. And making out on the couch seems so... high school. What's a girl to do?

Finally — and you can file this under TMI if need be — what's the protocol around farting? One boyfriend handled this beautifully. We were hanging out not too long after we met, and he looked up and asked, "Are you ready for a real relationship?" Every muscle in my body clenched in fear as I stared at him. Then he just let one rip. It was hilarious, and perfect. But not too many men have that particular sense of humor, and I can't walk around with a stomach ache simply because I'm afraid to rock the boat (ha!) with a little wind. If there are going to be overnights, is farting allowed?

I have many more questions, of course. But some advice on these burning issues would help steer me in the right direction, for the time being.

Dating, Part II

2010-07-09T21:34:00.000-07:00

My last post was a bit of a downer. I was in a mood. (No way. A mood?) In my haste to revile all things dating-related, I forgot to mention the fun parts, which is what keeps us all going back for more, right? I'm in a list-making kind of place at the moment, so I offer the following, in no particular order.

Cool things about dating:
- Talking on a first date (with no drinking involved) and feeling perfectly comfortable
- Getting to know someone you feel as if you already know (see also: connection)
- First physical contact? Holding hands.
- Having him say he'll call, then getting that call before you expect it
- "When can I see you again?"
- Anticipating the next date, and the next
- Realizing you have way more in common with him than you ever suspected
- That first kiss. Wait, let me repeat that: THAT FIRST KISS
- Being able to sit quietly together, without the need to fill dead air with mindless babbling
- Missing him when he's out of town
- New Guy Smell
- Not worrying about introducing him to Grace, because IT'S NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN. Unless it does.
- Being in a place in my life where I'm not overly concerned with what it all means and where it's going
- Feeling good about myself, not because of him, but for all the right reasons

That's it for now. Like I said, I'll never kiss and tell. Not the juicy details, anyway.

Dating, schmating.

2010-07-01T18:07:00.001-07:00

A while back, an anonymous commenter on my blog asked why I don't write about dating. Apparently, the dating trials of a divorced mom are of some interest to those who love a train wreck—namely, my entire readership. I've always told myself that I don't blog about dating because I want to respect the privacy of certain people in my life. But since my divorce, none of my romantic partners have appreciated this courtesy. One wondered why I never blogged about him. Another (jokingly) suggested I write a blog post consisting entirely of his name, repeated over and over again. (I thought that was pretty funny, actually.)

My rationalization for omitting such a large part of my life turns out to be complete bullshit, fueled by fear. I confess: I don't blog about it because I find dating to be really, really difficult. It is rife with uncertainty, conflict, disappointment and, ultimately, failure. Failed relationships hurt. And in my little pea-sized brain, a failed relationship translates into a failure on my part. What was I thinking? What could I have done differently? And, worst of all, what's wrong with me?

I don't actually believe there's anything wrong with me. I haven't had any serious self-esteem issues for a while, at least where men are concerned. (Okay, maybe a little recently.) Were this not the case, I would be a whimpering, quivering, helpless puddle of despair at this point. But I'm not, because I know who I am, what I want and what I deserve. I lose track of that sometimes. I cling to relationships that have clearly played themselves out, because I have thrown my whole reckless, idiotic, hopelessly hopeful heart into them, and I am loathe to admit defeat. My heart doesn't always agree with my brain. My brain might see red flags all over the place, but my heart is color blind.

My other weakness is that I tend to focus on whether or not the object of my affection finds me worthy, rather than letting myself decide, over time, if he's really someone I want to be with. I think women do this more than men. I also suspect that most men spend a lot less time worrying about where a relationship is headed, unless it seems to be moving too fast. I actually envy this about men; it makes really good sense. Living in the moment and letting things unfold naturally is healthy, and doesn't involve keeping track of who called who last, or waiting to see if he'll call if you don't, or trying to read between the lines of completely innocuous remarks. All of that is exhausting, and fruitless. I'm not going to do it anymore. Really.

Then there's Grace. She seems to believe that a family must comprise at least three people. It's what she remembers up until February when we moved into The Cave, and she knows that most of her friends have a man and a woman in one house. So I wait until I'm overcome with optimism to introduce her to anyone I'm dating, and then it's on a very casual level. But it doesn't matter. She can meet someone once, someone I've told her is just a friend, yet she reads more into it than I ever imagine she will. Soon, she'll start peppering me with questions. "Is so-and-so coming over again?" I don't know, baby. "Will I ever see so-and-so again?" I'm sure you will, honey. It's heartbreaking, and I can't help but wonder if she asks her father the same thing, or if she senses in me some need to have a man in the house. I don't consciously feel that need, but she's an old soul, and often surprises, no shocks, me by talking about things she just shouldn't know about.

So a few new rules as I move forward: listen to my head at least as much as my heart; focus more on how I feel about someone and less on how they feel about me; don't worry so much about where a relationship is headed; and most important, NEVER INTRODUCE A MAN TO GRACE unless he and I are both goddamn sure we're in it for the long haul.

Oh, and I will never blog about the specifics of my dating life. I'll try to throw in vague generalities from time to time, but when it comes right down to it, it's my own privacy and sanity I'm trying to protect.

Good Drama vs. Bad Drama

2010-06-23T22:34:00.000-07:00

Also file under "Surprises: Good and Bad."

Bad Drama:
- having a family member become seriously ill
- finding a lump
- meaningless sex, no matter how fantastic
- being a single mom and getting sick, with no backup
- legal disputes of any kind
- having someone you care about disappoint you
- writer's block when you least expect it
- watching your child struggle with choices you have made, or anything else, for that matter
- saying goodbye to someone you thought would always be there
- depression

Good Drama:
- girlfriends who will drop everything to listen to your troubles
- that special someone calling a week in advance to say, "Keep Friday night open. We're gonna have fun."
- reconnecting with old friends as if not a day has passed
- realizing that you've just made a really good, intuitive parenting move
- being able to offer help to a friend or family member who really needs it
- getting a dose of perspective when you really need it
- knowing your child will be okay, despite all the dumbass decisions you've made
- someone making a crazy promise, and following through with it
- following your heart and having it work out for a change
- facing your greatest fears and being a better person for it.

Off the top of my head, anyway.

Stressed? Who, me?

2010-06-14T09:30:00.000-07:00

Note: I've incorporate posts from the original "Grace Under Pressure" blog into this one. I began mommy blogging so that I could post pictures of Grace for friends and family, but it morphed into a series of mostly cheerful, witty posts that were fun to write but not necessarily representative of my whole life. I started this blog when my husband and I split up, as a way to vent honestly about my struggles. Not surprisingly, it's been a bit of a downer. Perhaps the two will balance each other out. Regardless, Grace is the most important part of my life, which is not always upbeat and cheerful, and it seems silly to exclude her from the big picture.

So, stress. This is a week I haven't been looking forward to. Tomorrow morning, John and I will go through what I hope will be the last round of mediation before our divorce is finalized. BIG! FUN! Then Grace and I will tour the school where she will start kindergarten in the fall. I'm ambivalent about this and have put it off until the last possible day. Yes, it's an exciting milestone, but it's another transition for her, and I worry it will upset the equilibrium (or semblance thereof) we've worked so hard to achieve since moving.

Later this week, I will be visiting my parents in Sequim for the first time since my accident almost a year ago. This will be my longest road trip since then, and I will be driving the same stretch of road for the first time. This will be the first time I'll walk into that house without being greeted by Max, which I can't imagine. Most important, I haven't seen my father in almost a year, and this will be our first visit since his surgery. I can't wait, but I don't know what to expect.

I have been living very much in the present lately, with a vengeance. Grace continues to be the grounding force in my life—when she's here. Since John and I have switched to a more equal parenting schedule, however, I find myself with almost four days a week of freedom to not worry about anyone but me. This is new territory for me, and while being in the moment is supposed to be a good thing, I've managed to do so at the expense of taking care of business: paying bills, writing, unpacking the last few boxes, being thoughtful and deliberate, and deciding what I want my (and Grace's) future to look like. Future? Yes, I know that's a dirty word regarding living now, but a minimum of planning is required in every adult's life, particularly when you're a parent.

I like to think I've made some good moves, rekindling friendships I had neglected for too long, making new friends and generally trying to stay out of my own head when it starts to feel unhealthy. I'm also struggling to feel physically healthy again, but my little bout with food poisoning hasn't finished messing with me yet. I've been told that stress can cause this. Duh. (Apparently, stress can cause anything, most of it bad.)

I know the best way for me to deal with life's uncertainties is to focus on what needs to be done now. When I spin it that way, I can almost imagine a life where I can keep living in the moment, while striving to find that balance between too much freedom (indulgence) and too much worrying (overthinking).

I will wave my magic wand and make it so.

Forty-three? Really?

2010-05-28T15:20:00.001-07:00

I had a friggin' awesome birthday. In case either of you were wondering.

Cave dweller.

2010-05-23T13:51:00.000-07:00

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that not too many people get what I'm doing right now. Most family and friends are, after all, under the impression that I had everything I wanted, and lost it all through a series of mishaps and bad decisions. I went through that self-pity party myself. I now, however, feel the need to clear up something important to me: I am doing exactly what I want. Yes, I live in a basement; no, I don't have a job; yes, it's a challenge being a divorced, downwardly mobile single mother. But I've arranged my life very deliberately so that I can focus on endeavors other than dinner parties and buying shit I don't need. I have created this window of time in my life where I can be a mom and a writer, in that order. I'm also a friend, a sister, a daughter, a lover and, most of the time, a card-carrying whack job.

I've spent too much of my life trying to fit in. To blend, to not draw attention to myself, to be appropriate. Problem with that is that I was so good at it, I ended up feeling invisible, and wondering why nobody really knew me. Growing up in rural Washington as an east coast transplant gave me a very tangible goal: DON'T BE WEIRD. Learn the country lingo, dress the part and don't let on that my family was at all different than everyone else's. (In that we hadn't lived there for generations, among other things.)

This was fantastic practice for when I went off to college in St. Louis, and found myself surrounded by kids from the east coast. Rather than feeling reunited with my people, I was so thoroughly countrified that, once again, I was a fish out of water. College, for me, was a giant game to which everyone else knew the rules. I was lost, and terrified of being considered weird. So I switched gears and did the best I could to emulate my peers, but I'm not sure I ever really fooled anyone. I certainly didn't enjoy those four years of putting up walls and then waiting for at least one person to tear them down. (One did make the effort; all I can say to him is, "I'm sorry.")

When I moved to Chicago, I felt at home. Something about the anonymity of a large city made it easier for me to move about undetected. Perfect. But then I made a bunch of friends, and had to go through the process of trying to be close without anyone figuring out how weird I really was. I got really good at this; some of my neuroses I was able to pass off as quirky, which provided a release valve. A few toxic friendships torpedoed my self esteem, though, and I still carry around parts of that scared, twenty-something girl who was never pretty enough, successful enough or cool enough. At least I was funny; funny was my thing. But the rest of it eluded me, until...

...I moved to Portland. Here, I finally got comfortable with myself. Not so comfortable that I didn't hate visits to Chicago, but I found my niche pursuing the American Dream with a vengeance. (This blog is about how that didn't work out so well for me, however, as both of my readers will attest.)

I'm more comfortable with myself than I ever have been. Getting in touch with my inner weirdo has proved much more enjoyable than I expected. Much the way I've always imagined a schizophrenic feels when they go off their meds and just listen to the voices in their heads for a change, it's a huge relief. For me, it's been a healthy relief. It's allowed me to write without worrying about what people/readers will think. (Let's face it, most writers are anything but normal.) It's brought friendships that are real and messy and intimate and all that other stuff I avoided for so long, because I've surrounded myself with people I find interesting, and who don't think I'm all that weird. I now find that for me, normal = B-O-R-I-N-G.

I live in a cave. I'm a little weird. And it's okay.

My little baby.

2010-05-18T17:37:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted for a while, largely because the batteries in my camera have been dead and I'm too lazy to do anything about it. I consider this a place to post photos with witty commentary, so friends and family can see Grace as she grows. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but today words will have to suffice.

It's been over a week since I've seen Grace because of the speed bump I mentioned below. Today she came over for the afternoon, and HOLY CRAP. For one thing, she looked so lanky and grown up; that growth spurt I was predicting happened with a vengeance. At this rate, she will be taller than I am by the time she's flirting with tweendom (John's 6'2"). Also, she has a cold (natch), and her husky voice made her sound older. It was weird. Like, who's this strange kid in my house? weird.

By the time she left she no longer seemed like a stranger, fortunately. And while I used to believe Grace would drive me to therapy (if I weren't already there), I now realize she is the best therapy around. We crammed so much fun into a few hours, because that's who she is. If I was lost the last couple of weeks, color me found. (I know it's a lot to lay on a kid, keeping her mother grounded, but what harm can it do if she doesn't know?) I am someone's mother, as a few wise friends keep reminding me when they see me flailing. And I realized today that I love every wonderful, crazy, frustrating, hilarious, terrifying minute of it.

Speed bump.

2010-05-18T11:31:00.000-07:00

Most of the time I am brutally honest when I blog, because I find such release in writing, regardless of who reads my thoughts, or doesn't read them. I can't do this now, however, because I have a certain sense of crossing a line when it comes to very personal experiences. So, the short version.

I was in the hospital for eight days. I was sick, and then they almost killed me by giving me a drug to which I had a severe allergic reaction. For days, they did not listen when I complained I felt worse. Fortunately, my admitting doctor went on vacation and the doctor covering for him did listen to me. She did some blood work and a couple minutes of research and figured out what the problem was. Once I felt better, I wanted nothing more than to go home, but this was not in the cards, since I needed to be monitored. I almost checked out AMA (against medical advice), but this meant my insurance wouldn't cover my stay, and that seemed like a very bad thing.

The worst part about being in the hospital, other than almost dying? No Diet Coke. The best part? Waking up every morning to the adorable, 22-year-old face of the med student who came to draw my blood. Thank you, Cute Blood Guy, for all the painless pricks and for taking the time to talk to me about books; you will be a fantastic doctor one day.

So that happened. On with life, such as it is.

Not my favorite virtue.

2010-04-29T09:25:00.001-07:00

I'm not a particularly patient person. I believe I mentioned here, here, here and here how I feel about waiting. Let me summarize: waiting sucks. This deeply-held belief is what made it so frustrating to go through six years of infertility issues. It's why I had trouble with what seemed like an interminable recovery process after my car accident. It's why I wanted to scream at someone every day while the lawyers worked out our real estate debacle. And potty training Grace? Let's just say I did the best I could and leave it at that.

Grace. I realize the most important lesson I can learn from her, other than how to say, "I love you" with abandon to anyone and anything (including trees), is to be a more patient person. There is no rushing a four-year-old. When we walk to school in the morning, Grace really doesn't give a rip when we get there. Why should she? My impatience has everything to do with the fear that the teachers silently curse me for consistently being late and absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Grace might miss a few minutes of circle time.

I'm actually fine with Grace when we have no destination or goal. If I'm with her at the park, or tagging along while she rides her tricycle, or hanging out at OMSI or just farting around (literally—she farts like an old man), I don't have the same awareness of time that I have when I'm getting her ready for bed or watching her eat (torture).

The trouble I see on the horizon, however, is that she may learn—or inherit—impatience from me. She hits the ground running every morning and doesn't stop until bedtime, and I've noticed lately that if I don't hear something the first time she says it, she is enormously burdened by the need to repeat herself. Maybe this is just typical four-year-old behavior; I hope so. But she also has little patience with herself (very familiar territory), which makes me wish she could enjoy a few more years of carefree experimentation before she starts worrying about doing everything perfectly the first time. But I'm afraid that ship sailed a while ago. Grace is one of those kids who started walking late, but nailed it in a day. Ditto with talking—there wasn't much trial and error with Grace; she just started speaking in complete sentences when she was ready.

I'm working on cultivating patience where I feel it will serve me well, mostly with family and friends and, to a certain extent, myself. But I will never feel comfortable engaging in idle chit chat or waiting to hear from someone I miss talking to. I'm much more into making things happen than waiting for things to happen to me. I know that this may come across as pushy or controlling to some people, or even a little crazy. I just don't really care.

This morning I ran into a man whose wife recently died unexpectedly, leaving him with two young daughters. Although I had coffee with her a couple of times, I'd never met him and had no idea what to say. So I said nothing, but cried all the way home, wondering how many experiences that family missed out on because they were waiting for the right time. I'm projecting like crazy here; for all I know, they lived every day as if it were their last. But I've been living my life in limbo for more than two years now, and I'm tired of wondering what will come next. Life is happening every second of every day, and waiting seems a waste of time. I get it: I made some tough decisions and big changes, and I need to wait for the dust to settle before I can feel settled. I've no one to blame but myself for my restlessness, so I'll try to be patient a while longer. Really, I will. But I don't have to like it.

Misc. drivel...

2010-04-21T10:02:00.000-07:00

Things I like to do alone:
- go to a movie in the theatre
- write
- eat breakfast or lunch at a greasy spoon
- clean
- do laundry
- look at art
- nap
- go to the dog park with Brady
- take road trips
- shop for necessities
- sleep

Things I like to do with someone else:
- jog
- read in bed
- travel
- talk about miscellaneous drivel
- garden
- cook
- make big decisions
- shop for recreation (almost never happens)
- go out for drinks/dinner
- take Grace somewhere fun
- sleep

Facebook funk.

2010-04-12T09:07:00.000-07:00

I went to bed in a great mood and woke up at 5am. I couldn't go back to sleep, so I slumped in front of my computer and spent a ridiculous amount of time looking at the walls of Facebook friends. (If you're not familiar with Facebook, skip this post and never, ever join.) Over the course of the next hour or so, I managed to work myself into a really, really bad mood. I learned a few things about my "friends," which was nice, but I also began to feel like — dare I say it? — a loser. This is a trap into which I fall too easily and often, but I'm fairly certain that almost everyone leads a more interesting life than I do.

Facebook is fine, as long as it's taken at face value: a convenient way to keep in touch with many people at once, on a fairly superficial lever. Most people on Facebook, including me, try to be witty and clever and show how cool they are. Share photos, share news, share random thoughts, share political views — all free, with no risk attached. Then wait for validation that what you've shared, no matter how banal, was read and appreciated by a handful of "friends." It's good, clean fun.

But Facebook is a poor substitute for maintaining or creating real connections with friends, old or new. We present our best selves (most of the time), and it feels a bit like a high-school party. Will anyone "friend" me? If I "friend" someone, will they accept? Will I say something stupid and be met with silence and subsequently ignored by the cool crowd? Even worse, will someone UNFRIEND me? Do I look fat in these jeans?

Facebook, or any social networking site, gives the illusion of connection without having to look someone in the eye. Much like blogging, it's inherently narcissistic, shallow and — one hopes — no more than a fun hobby. When it becomes the primary means of reaching out to the world, however, it disappoints. I spend too much time on Facebook (clearly), and no matter how much I truly appreciate the friendships I've found there (I do!), it's not the same as real social interaction. Most of the friends I've met online are people I would love to meet and hang out with. But I don't. They live far away, they're busy with their families, their jobs are demanding — or I'm too lazy to take a shower and meet for coffee. I don't know why this is, but there you have it. I have yet to sit face-to-face with someone I've met online. They remain my "bonus" friends, somewhere to turn when I don't feel like making a phone call but need to vent a little or share a thought. It's just so easy, and keeps me from talking to myself.

I'm not finished retooling my life, but in the meantime, I am someone's mother, daughter, sister, friend. (And Food Lady to the dog — shit, I forgot to feed her.) All of that is very real, and it should be enough. But it's not. Not when I compare it to the picture perfect lives of friends more settled, successful, smart or happy than I am. Holding myself up for public scrutiny on Facebook doesn't phase me; it's the personal scrutiny that gets me into trouble. Stop doing that, Laurel.

Dishpan hands.

2010-04-09T09:16:00.000-07:00

Back to the Year of Living with Less. You know what? I have very little to report. What we have given up: space, a dishwasher, a microwave, control of the thermostat, cable TV, a land line, a fenced yard and the ability to properly check the weather without walking up a flight of stairs. Boo hoo. It's simply not that dramatic. The two (three?) flooding incidents that first week were the worst of it so far. Knock on wood.

It's a pain to deal with the dog when Grace is here, but when Grace is at school, Brady gets long walks, rain or shine. We both needed that. It's become more difficult to have friends over, particularly Grace's friends, because there isn't much room to run around. But Grace has the biggest room in the place, and soon I will convince her that it's much more fun to play in her room with her toys than to pepper the adults with questions like, "What are you drinking? What's your favorite color? Do you toot a lot?"

More than anything else, I'm struggling with unpacking. There is space here for most of the belongings I chose to keep. (The thirteen boxes of books have me stymied, since in the past I've hung bookshelves, which I've decided not to do here because I'm tired of doing it over and over. There's no room for a massive bookcase, so for now they are in my closet, where my clothes should be.) My ambivalence has more to do with the notion of actually settling in here, and what it means in the grand scheme of my life. We've moved six times in the last five years; we will probably move again when this lease is up. I'm tired of packing and unpacking, and we seem to be getting along fine with the basics. Why bother finding a place for things we don't need? But that leaves me feeling unsettled, as if this is not a home as much as a pit stop on the way to my real life. That feeling is getting old, fast.

When I open a box full of vases, all I can think is, "Why the hell do I have so many vases?" It will be a long time before I buy another candle or a box of fancy soap. I have a ridiculous collection of kitchen utensils from my previous life of cooking (as a hobby!) and entertaining frequently. Since I've gotten into the habit of eating practically the same thing every day so that I don't have to put much thought into my meals (it's enough trying to get Grace to eat a healthy diet), I really don't need that giant roasting pan, or a kitchen scale, or separate little scrubby brushes for corn, potatoes and mushrooms. I have a huge box of barware that hasn't been opened since John and I moved out of our first house. Wine glasses, champagne flutes, pilsners, water goblets and who knows what else. I know I won't bother to unpack this. I just need to hide the box.

Today I'm going to take the plunge and haul everything out of the laundry room into the apartment and decide what to unpack; the rest I will probably get rid of. Just like a closet full of clothes that don't get worn, I have a surfeit of things that don't get used or appreciated. They are weighing me down, and I doubt they will be missed. Wish me luck.

(As far as dishpan hands are concerned, I'm lucky to be washing my dishes in a sink rather than in a filthy river in which someone upstream is peeing. And it's a little slice of me time that I'm beginning to enjoy.)

Lightening up.

2010-04-07T15:03:00.000-07:00

Last week I spent a few days moving the rest of my stuff from the rental house where we lived for a year. I decided to finally get rid of things I don't need rather than continuing to move them from house to house. (Actually the decision was made for me by the fact that I don't have enough room.) The whole experience was a pain in the ass, physically and emotionally. It was a lot of work that symbolized another false start, failed.

I've been itching to purge, however, and I'm determined to keep weeding out what I don't need or love. Clutter drives me crazy; even confined to a basement or garage, I still know it's there. Now I'm trying to identify what I want to keep and what I've held onto out of habit.

I'm hoping this exercise will inspire me to make similar changes in another cluttered place: my brain. Just as I didn't have to think twice about keeping my favorite pieces of art — and I will never apologize for schlepping my books from place to place — my top priorities are clear: Grace, family, friends, writing and striving (fighting?) to be a better person before I die. For some reason, however, I'm easily distracted from these things. In fact, I seek out distractions. Maybe I'm afraid that my best efforts won't be good enough, but without focus, I'm completely rudderless and tend to spiral into my own little self-pity party. It's pathetic.

The other day, I told a friend that I like being alone, that it was something I needed. Then I read my last couple of posts (because, you know, what better reading is there, really?) and thought to myself, "Laurel, you are full of shit." Or am I? I suspect the word "alone" means something different to different people; I also believe the experience of being alone isn't always the same for one person. I can enjoy long stretches of solitude and never consider myself alone. I take off for the coast for three days of uninterrupted writing, barely talking to another soul, and couldn't be happier. On the other hand, if I have nothing to do on a Friday night, and I feel like doing something for a change, all I can think is, "Holy crap, I'm so alone!"

Why am I sometimes so afraid of being alone? I covered it pretty thoroughly in this post , but apparently I have trouble remembering my own little epiphanies. Today I realized it's even simpler than that. What I miss is having one person I know I can talk to every day (someone over four). There is a sense of continuity when you have that person, whether it's a best friend, a parent or a lover. I've had that for my entire life and now, suddenly, I don't.

It blows.

Shout out.

2010-03-25T19:01:00.000-07:00

I always love comments on my blog — even the nasty ones! Yesterday's batch truly made my day, however, and I wanted to say a heartfelt thank you, to friends and strangers. At times I can't imagine my ruminations could be of interest to anyone but my parents (actually, I'm pretty sure they stopped reading this a long time ago because of all the swearing). So why blog? I blog out of a need to write; I blog because it brings some order to the chaos in my brain; and yes, I blog to promote my book. The unexpected side effect has been the connection I feel when someone gets what I'm saying. So again, thank you!

Clearly a little girl's room.

2010-03-20T00:48:00.000-07:00

Grace was demoted to a twin bed when we moved, but she didn't complain. In fact, she tends to stay put more now, possibly because of the electric force field I installed around the perimeter.

She will tell anyone who will listen that she has a "girly" bedroom, and she can name all of the princesses (I don't know how). Then she'll brandish her pirate flag at the dog, as if it's a sword. Is it wrong to encourage the pirate behavior?

So, what do you do all day?

2010-03-20T00:11:00.000-07:00

It's difficult to be moody and introspective on such a spectacular spring day in Portland, especially after a peppy forty-five minute walk with Brady: sunshine, colorful blooms everywhere, sweet smells and a bag of warm poo in my hand. (And getting whistled at — twice; I wanted to stop them and ask, "Really? Still? Because I've been feeling a bit frumpy lately.) But I started this post a few days ago and would like to be done with it, so I will sit at my desk and grind it out so I can move on to more interesting things, like dishpan hands.

I've never defined myself by my job, but lately I've been defining myself by my lack of one. (Sure, I'm Grace's mom, but she goes to pre-school four days a week so that she won't lose her spot if I ever find work.) Also, when pressed, I can always trot out the "I'm a writer" bit. But there's something about a protracted period of unemployment that messes with your psyche; I'm starting to feel unemployable. I've never really had to look for work before; jobs have sort of found me. And now I'm looking like crazy, and nothing is happening. Yes, I know a lot of other people are in the same boat, but I'd like to be among the first rescued.

I may have mentioned that Grace and I now live right around the corner from the first house John and I lived in when we moved to Portland. (We lived there when Grace was born.) There are so many things I love about being back in this neighborhood, I couldn't possibly list them. I have always loved to explore the streets of Northeast Portland and look at houses; I used to jog for miles indulging in serious house envy. I have one walking path that takes me north on 39th (sorry, I mean César E. Chávez Blvd.) up to Wistaria right before you get to Alameda Ridge. My reward for the hill? Gawking at my dream house at the top: a three-story remodeled Mediterranean stucco deal with a gorgeous copper balcony. Then we hang a couple of lefts and head back home on 37th. Portland has some beautiful homes, and I never get tired of looking at them. I'm not talking about big, showy mansions with professionally tended gardens; the houses that captivate me most are tidy little bungalows or cottages that are obviously well-loved by the people that live there.

When I walk Brady now, I'm acutely aware of how things have changed for all of us. I used to covet the houses and gardens, but now I envy the families that live in them. I've had nice homes; they come and go. But that sense of hope and optimism we had when we started a family feels like it's gone for good. That sounds more depressing than I want it to, but it's just a fact: we are no longer a traditional, nuclear family. Grace will likely bear the brunt of this reality; her future looks quite a bit different than it did when she was born. John and I planned to have a baby, adopt another child and at some point live in a foreign country so that our kids could be bilingual. We were going to be different parents, always open to new adventures. That's not going to happen now, unless John and I achieve some sort of unprecedented ex-spousal state of harmony and selflessness.

Grace and I have everything we need for now. By global standards, we're rich in so many ways. Still, I hope our situation is temporary, not because of our standard of living, but because being a single mom is lonely and that trickles down to Gigi. It's just more fun to have someone with whom to share, every day, Grace's milestones, her setbacks, my own frustrations and joys. It's difficult, and scary, to be that adventurous parent when you're by yourself. Then I remind myself that my worst nightmares have always centered around finding myself alone. So — clichéd as it may be — I'm doing the thing that frightens me the most. (That's good, right?) And it's not so bad, because I'm never really alone, and I am so grateful for the people who reach out to let me know that, from my sister-in-law, to internet friends I've never met, to old high school and college buddies, to my local posse of girlfriends. And family, of course. Tonight, my brother came over with pizza, beer and a movie, and rescued us from a Friday night of cranky, headachy mom meets tired, disgruntled howler monkey.

It's not the same as raising a child with two parents, but I hope Grace will some day appreciate the huge, diverse crowd that took part in her upbringing. One of the things we sometimes do at night when she seems adrift is to list all of the people who love her, and that she loves. Lately, it takes longer and longer. That gives me hope that, job or no job right now, we're going to be okay in the long run.

Today

2010-02-24T22:15:00.001-08:00

This was not a fun day. That is all.

Waking up from the American Dream.

2010-02-18T09:09:00.000-08:00

Grace and I are still trying to find our groove in the new home; it hasn't been easy, with the apartment's predisposition to flooding and the fact that I have way too much stuff — furniture, books, rugs, art, more books. I'm feeling overwhelmed by things lately, material things, and the decision to keep them or get rid of them. We're still in limbo. I didn't grow up dreaming of raising a daughter in a basement; someday I might have more space again, right? What if I miss my things? I know, I know, there are people with nothing. Give them my number.

I remember moving into the Dream House almost two years ago (holy crap!) and loving how everything flowed effortlessly into the space and made it feel like home. Even Grace ran around yelling, "I love this house! I love this house!" The Dream House was supposed to complete the Dream Life. Instead, it made it clear (to me) that although all the actors and props were in place, the play wasn't going so smoothly. Grace and the dog were happy, but at the time it didn't take much more than a fenced yard, lots of bark mulch and a couple of blueberry bushes to satisfy them.

I thought I had it all, and I guess I sort of did. For years we had great friends and family, a series of beautiful homes, fabulous parties, adventurous vacations and, finally, a BABY. I had finished my first novel and was optimistically sending it out to literary agents. (Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if I'd sold the book and found success on a purely personal level.) Then the summer after we moved into the house, I got sick. Really sick. Remember the tomato-salmonella thing? That. Except that it didn't go away and I lost way too much weight and I couldn't really function normally. I had a lot of time on my hands and spent it in my head or blogging, and it was an empty existence (literally and figuratively). I kept asking myself, "Really? Is this IT?" Because something was missing for me.

I know a lot of married couples who present a facade of domestic bliss, but then I talk to one of them and it turns out they can hardly stand each other, or are little more than roommates and co-parents. (People tend to open up to me; they may not after this.) I understand that a lot of marriages are sustained for the sake of the children, and I respect that. Even though we may have started out with many common interests, tastes, hobbies and friends, I think John and I parted ways over core values and life goals. It's tough to maintain a connection once you've realized that. I didn't want to live that way, and I didn't want Grace to see us live that way. I remember feeling really connected to Grace then, and losing that connection was unthinkable. I didn't want her to grow up and realize her parents had been faking it.

I had been happy at times during the last eighteen years, and would undoubtedly have been happy again. But the rollercoaster was getting old, and I craved a sense of contentment. Happiness is fleeting, but how could I be content during the times I was faking it? I don't mean difficult times; all couples have those, and many end up closer for having struggled together. I'm talking about the valleys where that broken connection left me feeling completely alone, and scared. There's no contentment to be found there.

Funny thing is, I'm still alone, scared and haven't found contentment. And dating? Please. But I'm not faking anything anymore, for my sake and Grace's, and it feels good to know that she will learn from me how important it is to be true to yourself. My goal is to find abundance with less; we don't need all the material trappings of success to feel successful. What I need, more than anything, is authenticity; that's the only kind of role model I can be to her and live with myself. I hope that's not selfish. I hope it works. I hope Grace never gets to the place I was and asks herself, "Is this it?"

Please excuse the mess.

2010-02-09T22:42:00.001-08:00

Life under construction — check back soon. I've decided to take the blog in a different direction: how a newly single, unemployed, forty-something mom can raise a child (and a dog) in a basement apartment, spending (consuming) as little as possible. So far? Pretty tedious: no dishwasher, no microwave, no back up when one of us is sick. It's lonely, but I need to remember that my network of friends is just a phone call away. (A cell phone call; no land line, no cable TV.)

Day one: leaking upstairs tub creates rain in Grace's bedroom. More to come.

The important things.

2010-01-25T14:47:00.001-08:00

Sometimes Grace is especially cranky, or she won't stop pestering the dog, or maybe she just refuses to get dressed. I get frustrated, and if I'm tired enough I worry that I'm doing it all wrong. But I need to remember it's not about me. Gigi's such a great little girl, and I'm so proud of her sometimes I feel like my heart might pop out of my chest and burst all over my keyboard. I keep this letter to Santa on the bulletin board by my desk to remind me that it's all going to be okay. (She got the hat.)

Lady B.

2010-01-25T14:23:00.000-08:00

Brady has been performing her security duties exceptionally well lately, so we got her a brand new bed, a tiffany-blue collar/leash combo and a sassy little haircut. She seems pleased, although she'd probably prefer more food and treats.

That fabulous tail, pre-grooming.

I think they did an especially nice job on her posterior.

Now her paws are nice and tidy, although she still has a tendency to step in her own poo.

Open house.

2010-01-22T12:32:00.000-08:00

When we were trying to decide whether or not to have another child, a friend shared some advice she got when she was at the same point in her life. When asked why she wanted another baby, she admitted that she didn't want her son to be an only child. Her advisor suggested that, if that was the only reason, it wasn't a very good one. She told my friend that if she didn't want her son to feel lonely, she should open her house to other kids. Her son would have playmates, and his friends — some who may not be getting everything they need at home — could find a refuge.

I forgot about that until recently, when I realized Grace is at that age where she gets pretty bored at home. I can't play with her all the time, so why not have other kids over? My motives may not have been as altruistic and pure as my friend's were, and I'm fairly certain Grace's playmates all have perfectly happy home lives. But you know what? It's been brilliant. Whether the mom stays for a visit or leaves their child for a sleep over, Grace has fun — and I don't feel guilty for not constantly entertaining her. But most of her friends are boys, so things can get a little rowdy.

Grace and Seamus had never met, but that didn't stop him from taking his pants off. Check out the blurry monkey in the top left corner.

Jack and Grace are old friends, and he was so polite when he was here I was afraid he might be ill. Grace made up for it with some serious sass.

Julian is so chill, Grace couldn't convince him to misbehave no matter how she tried. Note Brady, just waiting for a crumb to hit the floor.

Nourishment.

2010-01-22T09:33:00.000-08:00

Lately I've been thinking, reading and writing a lot about eating. A couple of my last posts refer, directly or indirectly, to feeding. I've stopped eating meat (okay, except for eggs) and I consume very little dairy (okay, except for cheese). I've read "My Year of Meats" and "All Over Creation" by Ruth Ozeki, and I've done quite a bit of research about various practices of raising, feeding and slaughtering animals for human consumption. I've also delved into the truly frightening reality of genetically engineered crops (too many to list), and now I find myself wondering, "What exactly am I supposed to eat?" And, more important, what should I feed Grace? Of course I know the answer to this, but it's takes more effort and money to eat truly healthfully, and I've been lazy.

Why so preoccupied with food? Good question, which I asked myself the other day. I believed I was being pragmatic, both as a consumer and a mother, in trying to create parameters that would make buying, preparing and eating food an ethical, healthy and happy experience for my family. Now I suspect my focus on diet is symbolic of a greater need; what I'm really longing for is a better way to nourish not just my body, but also my mind and soul. I'm at a point where I need to make conscious decisions about what I choose to digest — physically, emotionally and intellectually — because so much is being thrown at me.

From my own struggles, to the fiasco that has become U.S. politics (ugh), to the tragedy in Haiti, it's easy to become so overwhelmed that the most appealing option is to just keep it all at bay. (Even food; when overly stressed, I forget to eat.) But I know that's not the answer, because ignorance is not bliss. It's not even living; it's hiding. For the last few months, I've been alternating between hiding or taking in way too much. I have yet to find the balance that allows me to tune out the overabundance of bad news and negativity, and to replace it instead with what is good and healthy for me and Grace.

The wolf post touched on this, but I didn't realize how perfect the timing was for me to receive that message. I think I've been feeding both wolves, and not equally. (The evil wolf is clearly the one who has made himself comfortable wrapped around my midsection.) I indulge that wicked wolf with anger, sorrow, regret, self-pity and guilt. I've been making a halfhearted attempt to bring joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, and faith to that poor, hungry good wolf, but this may prove more difficult than I expected. (Note the masthead of this blog!)

In a week Grace and I will be moving into a new apartment — the downstairs of a house owned by a woman who was looking for a housemate, and who meticulously transformed her basement into a beautiful, airy, comfortable space which I will heretofore refer to as my "garden apartment." Everything is brand spankin' new, and there is a beautiful back yard just starting to bloom; how can this not represent a fresh start? To say my future housemate and I have a lot in common would be a hilarious understatement; one of the first things we talked about was planting an edible garden. She's delightful, and I look forward to a new friendship.

So for the next week I'm going to focus on starving that evil wolf by taking in as little negative energy as possible, whether self-generated or thrust upon me. And it's definitely time to start feeding the good wolf, to summon all of the joy and hope that Grace and I both need right now.

How do I do that, exactly?

Happy New Year!

2010-01-02T22:55:00.000-08:00

One of my very favorite people, Lisa Tomlin, emailed this to me recently. It resonated, and seems like a dog-diggity great way to start the new year.

The Two Wolves
One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, "My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all."

"One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego."

"The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence,empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith."

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, "Which wolf wins?"

The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one you feed."

Thank you, Lisa. You continue to astound me.

Happy holidays, 2009.

2009-12-23T21:43:00.000-08:00

For those of you whose address I couldn't track down...

Very last-minute cards, because a friend once told me only a HORRIBLE MOTHER would neglect to send out cards with pictures of the kids...

What to eat?

2009-12-17T15:48:00.000-08:00

I don't eat much meat. When I indulge, I try to do it properly. Organic, free-range, grass-fed, antibiotic-free cows have provided memorable steaks and burgers. Ditto for pigs, particularly when I went through a phase of striving to cook The Perfect Pork Chop. Poached salmon has always been on my go-to list for dinner parties, and a juicy, perfectly roasted chicken usually replaces a turkey on Thanksgiving, or whenever I'm in a fowl mood.

I was vegetarian for two or three years back in the early 90's, and even went vegan for a while. I don't recall why; maybe because it was trendy. I remember I finally gave up because it seemed inconvenient for others, and wasn't something about which I was particularly passionate. I spent several months in Costa Rica and Guatemala, part of the time with host families; avoiding meat was almost as impossible as avoiding dysentery. Once I got home, I kind of forgot about the whole thing (sort of the way I "forgot" about my plans for a gluten-free diet a few months ago).

Lately I've been talking to friends who are vegetarian and vegan, grilling them (hah!) about how they chose their path. The variety of explanations has been surprising, but there is an undeniable common thread: the killing of the animals. At first, I thought claims of cruelty in slaughterhouses must be greatly exaggerated, and to a degree, I believe they are. But I've been doing my homework, and even the gold standard of livestock slaughtering, Dr. Temple Grandin's "humane facilities design," is more than I can take without my stomach turning and my heart breaking. A friend told me her husband wouldn't eat anything that he himself wouldn't kill, and I haven't been able to get that idea out of my head. The simplicity, pragmatism and honesty of that philosophy appeal to me because I see a road map for real compassion in deciding what I, personally, am willing to eat. Could I slaughter a cow? Nope. Kill a pig? No way. Catch a fish and gut it? Perhaps, if I were starving. Chop the head off a chicken? Probably, if I really, really had a taste for chicken. The bottom line is that it's up to me; there is no right or wrong, one-fits-all answer.

Chicken and eggs it is for now — organic and cage-free, of course. Next up: dairy. This could take some time, because it is difficult for me to put into words my love of cheese.

Two for the price of... two.

2009-12-17T15:33:00.000-08:00

Grace had a date over last Friday night. I know what you're thinking — she's too young to start dating and I'm a monster for permitting this, but I figure she might as well get it out of her system now. By the time those hormones start raging, she'll be totally disillusioned by the dating scene and I won't have to worry about icky boys and their intentions. Although she may still be with Logan then; he's her longest running and most intense crush so far.

Imagine the cute kids they'd have...

They built this together, in perfect agreement of what should go where. I love how Grace is all criss-cross apple sauce, while Logan is clearly thinking, "Look what I have created!"

Dirty laundry.

2009-12-13T22:00:00.000-08:00

When I picked up Grace from pre-school on Friday, she looked at me with surprise and yelled, "Mommy, you showered!" I wanted to say, "Pipe down, you little pisher, I'll have you know I've showered three days in a row!" Instead I just feigned confusion, the way I do when she announces, "My mommy toots all the time!"

Big girl bed.

2009-12-04T10:44:00.000-08:00

Grace slept longer than usual in a crib because I was waiting to settle somewhere before getting her a real bed. She was a good sport about it, but I'm pretty sure she couldn't completely stretch out, and we all know how important stretching is. Anyway, now she's in a queen, and I finally bought her some girly bedding. She's already decided the top sheet is pointless (I agree); we're going with warm jammies and lots of quilts.

She does NOT want to sleep alone in this giant bed. Fortunately, she has many friends to snuggle.

This is a friggin' miracle, because it's not staged. Grace called Brady up on the bed, and Brady obliged. Grace actually likes Brady now, and would love to spend the night with her, but Brady works the night shift as the asylum's security detail, and must position herself between the front door and the bedrooms. I honestly never thought these two would get along, but putting Gigi in charge of feeding Brady, and doling out treats, has created a sort of food-based bond that only dog people can understand, yet still know in their hearts, "My dog really, really loves me." Damn straight.

Done deal.

2009-12-03T20:53:00.000-08:00

Monday marked the last chapter — the epilogue, reallly — in our seven-month real estate drama. We closed November 10th. The idiot neighbors didn't even realize we'd sold the house, and could therefore do nothing to make trouble. But there was the nagging issue of four finials, drapery rod finials, that I was obligated to deliver to the new owners, but put off because I HAVE A LIFE THAT DOESN'T INCLUDE SHOPPING FOR FRIGGIN' FINIALS. The finials having landed, I feel as if I can talk about the outcome without jinxing the deal. (I loved this room, left.)

We paid for half of the neighbors' driveway, relandscaped our own front yard and forked over thousands of dollars to a lawyer who didn't display nearly the tenacity I expected. I thought we were paying him to save us money; instead, it took seven months for us to agree to extortion, which we could have done quickly and easily without counsel. The whole delay, including mortgage payments we weren't anticipating, cost about $24,000. I could use that right now, or at least my half. (Gigi loved her private yard, left, especially the blueberry bushes.)

Grace is now in her fourth house in as many years, and this lease is up at the end of this month. I'm not sure what will happen after that, which doesn't bode well for our quest for stability and security. This house is cozy and sweet, with great outdoor space, but it costs more than I can afford now that we're living off what's left of the equity from that other place. So the job search continues, but a huge weight has been lifted, for the moment, anyway. Every time I think of being rid of what was supposed to be The Dream Home, and finally having all of my belongings in one place, I giggle a little inside.

One down, three to go.

Good clean fun.

2009-11-14T22:38:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, there's just nothing left to do but torture the dog. She's usually game, and happy enough with the attention to show me her good side.

This may be the last photo of Brady in the old (new) house. Her fur, however, will remain forever.

Perspective, with a side of humility.

2009-11-14T20:54:00.001-08:00

You know those emails that beg you to appreciate life by depicting starving children and war-torn countries? Usually, I find them patronizing and heavy-handed, and delete them without much thought. (Which is out of character for me, because I have made an art form of finding people worse off than I.) But I received one the other day that crawled under my skin, the images making their way to my heart and refusing to go away. Perhaps because my last post was so poor-me, or maybe because Grace has been crankier than usual, or possibly because I was still feeling sick and tired. For whatever reason, the message hit its target and resonated with me, and forced me to realized that my glass is WAY more than half full. (I know — who am I and what have I done with Laurel's body?)

My next post was going to be a rant about those who complain: about having to spend hundreds of dollars on unnecessary crap for their kids because Grandma and Grandpa won't pony up the cash, about having a fender bender in their gas-guzzling SUV and having to shell out $$$ for a deductible AND a rental, about being strapped by the mortgage on their vacation home, about not being able to find exactly the right pair of shoes for a party. (I have done several of the above.) But my heart isn't in it, because I realize it's all a matter of perspective. We all struggle; who decides what is a legitimate gripe and what is not?

One of the things I love about Portland is its lack of snobbery. When I lived in Chicago, almost all of my friends were college graduates who worked in advertising (yawn). When I moved to Portland, I realized that people here do what they need to do to make a living and spend the rest of their time pursuing passions: wind-surfing, mountain climbing, horseback riding, bicycling, animals and yes, writing. What a relief it was to just be myself and have a diverse group of friends who didn't judge one another based on their income. (Don't get me wrong, there is a faction in Portland that lives to go out at night and be fabulous; they are easy to avoid by not going to the Pearl District at night, particularly on weekends or the first Thursday of every month.)

The friend tree has had a few prunings over the years, most recently those who are social climbers and are unable to empathize with someone downwardly mobile (that would be me). And by social climber, I don't mean someone with money. One of my favorite people in the world has more money than all of my friends put together, but keeps it real. In fact, she says, "I love you" more than anyone I know, and means it. But friends who are more interested in the right neighborhoods and schools and social circles disappoint me, and bore me. I was a rung on the ladder, and am therefore no longer needed. (I'm not losing sleep over this.)

I have a home. I have a strange and wonderful nuclear family. I have friends who know what it means to struggle, and who have been so supportive over the last year, I don't know how I will ever repay them. I have enough savings to pay rent and fill my fridge with food (organic or not). And I have a passion, one so strong it makes me sorry for those who don't. It's time to get back to writing, to leave behind the inconsequential speed bumps that have slowed my progress, and keep my eye on the final destination.

Ultimately, it's time to focus on helping others again, something I used to do without a second thought but have failed to do even as others were helping me. If you have a moment, please visit this website, and if you are fortunate enough that you can help, please do so. Lisa has been my inspiration for months now (which would surely make her barf if the chemo hasn't already), and I can't imagine remaining so positively... positive in her situation. Also, when she's healthy, I plan to impose on her with a visit and a horseback ride, so the sooner, the better.

Oh — and for the record, I love you. All of you.

Intelligent design?

2009-11-07T13:09:00.000-08:00

Human design is seriously flawed when a four-year-old is able to throw up in bed and hit the WALL six feet away. Poor Gigi can't seem to stay healthy. First the flu, then pneumonia, now the barfs. She's always a trooper, but we're running out of movies. And I'm rethinking preschool. It seems to be the place kids go to get sick so that they have to stay home, thereby causing their parents to become sick. It's a vicious, expensive cycle.

Frame of mind.

2009-11-04T18:14:00.001-08:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about stress vs. anxiety, unhappiness vs. depression, goals vs. dreams, abundance vs. wealth and, of course, Tylenol vs. Motrin. I've also been shuffling around the house in my underwear quite a bit, so I don't claim to be thinking clearly, but I can't help but wonder what determines my state of mind — whether it has to do with how I'm hardwired or with what's actually going on in my life.

When a friend gave me a pep talk the other day about my attitude, I took it to heart and tried to look past my chronic anxiety and assess what's going on around me and in my head. Being analytical, I decided the best way to illustrate how I spend my time and emotional energy (lately) was with a pie chart. My conclusion is that it's not pretty, but it could be worse. I do have real stressors in my life demanding attention and draining my body and mind. I've tried to be proactive rather than reactive, but it's not really my nature to take things in stride and keep emotions in check. For example, I could label one slice "finances" and allow that to include my eleven-month stretch of unemployment and the seven-month delay in the house sale, realizing that when one or both of the aforementioned are resolved, the financial strain will lighten a bit. But my brain doesn't work that way. I compartmentalize, possibly so that I can direct my frustration towards specifics: the idiot neighbor, the person who didn't hire me , even the H1N1 virus that has made daily life so difficult for two weeks now.

Fortunately, this allows me to see that, while I may have been down lately, it's because I'm overwhelmed by life's complications, not because I'm depressed or weak. And while I'm wound tightly on my best days, there are valid reasons that stress has been taking its toll on me, physically and emotionally. On the other hand, I look at that tiny little slice of things that bring me joy, and I realize that I have been waiting for the problems to disappear before I get back to living my life. That's not a great recipe for happiness, particularly if I want to make progress toward realistic goals and strive to enjoy a sense of abundance rather than deprivation.

The joblessness sucks; it's been almost a year. I've never before had to stand in the grocery store and decide whether or not I can afford healthy food instead of cheap crap. This is one sacrifice I'm not willing to make, at least when it comes to Grace, so I make concessions elsewhere. I've learned to live with less, and I'm grateful for that. Slowly, it's becoming easier to focus on what we have rather than what we don't; to realize it's possible to have more fun doing things that don't cost money; to enjoy visiting friends in their homes or ours instead of going out to dinner. Why is it so complicated to learn to live simply?

Sometime soon, I hope to have a pie chart that looks more like this. This seems like a nice, normal life. I should probably leave a little "misc." slice for the unexpected, since I suspect raising a daughter will provide plenty of of unforeseen ~~challenges~~ opportunities. Also, I could get ambitious and include travel, volunteer work, book tours and that Pulitzer Prize, of course. But for now, four slices of pie is more than enough, as long as I have the right people with whom to share it.

Laying low.

2009-10-24T09:41:00.000-07:00

Dr.: "Looks like you have the flu."
Me: "But I got a flu shot."
Dr.: "Have you been exposed to H1N1?"
Me: "I have a four-year-old daughter in preschool who has pneumonia."
Dr.: "Okay then. I'll write you a prescription for Tamiflu."
Me: "Is it generic?"
Dr.: "No."
Me: "Is it expensive?"
Dr.: "Oh yeah."
Me: "Is it effective?"
Dr.: "It might shorten your symptoms."
Me.: "No thanks."
Dr.: "Okay. Lots of fluids and call if your fever is over 102° or you start to feel worse."

(An hour later, at home, fever is 102.1°.)

Me: "Hi. My doctor said to call if my fever was over 102°. It is."
Nurse: "Call back or go to the ER if it stays there."

The downside of this bug is that my lungs are on fire and my body hurts from head to toe. On a positive note, I may fit into my skinny jeans again.

Changes.

2009-10-19T13:18:00.001-07:00

I went through my emails the other day, filing those that seemed worth keeping and trashing the rest. Most of the keepers went into one of four folders: accident, divorce, house sale and job search. It occurred to me that most people probably don't have those categories, or at least not all four at once. (On a positive note, I do not have one labeled "brain tumor," so I've got that going for me.) My point is that there is an unusual amount of conflict in my life right now.

I've been encouraged to keep my blog(s) as impersonal and, well, boring, as possible, lest they be used against me to prove that I AM NOT A PERFECT PERSON. For the record, the whole point of this particular blog is that I'm not a perfect person, and it's been a relief to be able to write about my struggles. So I think this sucks.

If you happen to wonder what's happened to all the interesting stuff I used to explore here, now you know. I'll miss the sense of community and catharsis that came with sharing the bad times with the good, but I'll try to keep things entertaining and light without being too terribly boring. No more posts labeled "insanity" I suppose.

The canine contingent weighs in.

2009-09-28T10:15:00.000-07:00

Brady has a few things she'd like to get off her, uh, chest.

The Food Lady isn't as much fun as she was before. She used to take me to the dog park every day and let me check out the new smells, and pee on anything that needed my own mark. We went even when she got fat and had to waddle after me, and we'd usually pick up a friend on the way there. (Sammy, are you out there?) I used to sit on her lap every night while she read or watched TV, and she always sang me to sleep at bed time. (I let her sleep on the bed.) She could have been more chill about me eating poo and dead animals, but I did my best to act guilty so she wouldn't totally freak.

When they brought the Small Human home, I knew things would change, but OH MY DOG! I got shoved in the back of the car with BARS to keep me there, and no way to stick my nose out the window. And park visits? Well, let's just say I was lucky to go once a month.

Then we moved and I lost my backyard! I got some great walks, and the Treat Lady started taking me to the park once a week (Jodi, are you out there?), but the Food Lady spent all day playing with the Small Human, and usually by bedtime she was too tired to sing to me.

Then we moved again. The new house was awesome, with a fenced backyard, carpeting on the stairs and top floor, and all the mulch I could eat. (Food Lady wasn't too crazy about that.) The Small Human started disappearing some days, and I STILL got to go to the park with the Treat Lady. I could totally have gotten used to that, but then all kinds of crazy things happened, I lost track of the moves, and Food Lady got super cranky. Thank Dog for the Bone Guy. He snuggles with me, walks me, talks to me, lets me outside all the time and best of all GIVES ME FOOD FOR NO REASON. So now I stay with him most of the time and it's okay, but I miss Food Lady when she's not around, and sometimes I even miss the Small Human. Except when she barfs and Food Lady is all, "Oh Gigi, are you okay? Poor thing, let's get you cleaned up." When I barf, she glares at me when she cleans it up and mutters something about, "...staying out of the goddamn garbage."

I like it when Food Lady and Bone Guy are in the same room and the Small Human is sleeping. If only I could figure out what I do that makes that happen.

Progress, not perfection.

2009-09-28T09:19:00.000-07:00

I came across a list I made while on a road trip early this year (January, maybe?). Once I stopped laughing, I realized it was a pretty ambitious list. While my success rate is hovering around 40%, I haven't given up just yet.

- finalize divorce
- sell house
- find new home
- publish novel
- find job
- finish second novel
- find ~~Mr. Right~~ Mr. Maybe
- plant edible garden
- say "I love you" more often
- become THE PERFECT MOM

I look back on this and can't help but notice how goal-oriented I was. Yes, list making is about setting goals, but this particular collection is a doozy, and sort of, well, punishing in it's focus on BIG CHANGES. Now, I would add a few items related to physical health and well-being (thank you, car accident). I would include more truly important, life-affirming changes: spending more time with the people I care about; making time for fun; recognizing the support and generosity from friends and family; and appreciating the good in my life rather than dwelling on the challenges. Things may get worse before they get better, but the point is that THEY WILL GET BETTER. Right?

For you fashionistas out there...

2009-09-18T14:18:00.000-07:00

Last week I read "The Gospel According to Coco Chanel" by Karen Karbo (in one sitting), and realized the sad state of affairs to which I have sunk, wardrobe-wise. My basic uniform is jeans and a T-shirt; if it's cold, jeans and a sweater. (The selection criteria are simple: Does it smell bad? Is it stained? Does it fit?) I have a closet full of ridiculously girly clothes that seemed like a good idea at the time, but even when I want to look especially presentable, I just trade out the jeans for black pants. Needless to say, Coco Chanel's style appeals to me, for the simple fact that it's simple.

Last summer I went to The Mercantile with a girlfriend who can afford to buy clothes there, and is on a first-name basis with the staff. The saleswoman helping us (okay, her) was older, maybe sixty, with lovely silver hair and what I judged to be the perfect outfit: an exquisitely tailored, crisp, white oxford, untucked, over slim black pants and fabulous loafers. I told her that if I had her build (tall and lean) I would wear a variation of that outfit every day. (My body does NOT resemble that of Mademoiselle Chanel's ideal model, herself: flat-chested and boyishly lean.) The saleswoman laughed off my compliment, or more likely laughed at the fact that her "simple" ensemble cost more than my monthly mortgage payment. She left an impression, however, one that was brought to mind the other night as I read Karen Karbo's wonderfully enjoyable account of the life and sensibilities of Coco Chanel.

A few days later I was to meet with a woman charged with the daunting task of treating the anxiety that has frequently paralyzed me since my car accident in July. I dressed that day with my renewed appreciation for simplicity: crisp white oxford, untucked, over jeans and loafers. (The stupid black pants didn't fit.) Since the woman's business card included the words "life coach" and "hypnotherapist," I assumed she would be a hooey-wooey type, complete with flowing skirt, beads and, possibly, incense. Imagine my surprise when I was greeted by the (almost) spitting image of the saleswoman from The Mercantile: crisp, white tuxedo shirt, untucked, over slim black pants and fabulous loafers. I thought to myself, "Huh, I think I'm gonna dig this lady." And I did. Not only was her outfit no-nonsense, but so was her approach to healing. No digging around in the past or looking deep within; rather, she encouraged me to look forward and start behaving like the person I want to be. Pretty cool, and I believe quite consistent with Coco Chanel's own philosophy. Strangely synchronistic, and very reassuring for my mental health, not to mention the future of my personal style.

School? Fall? What?

2009-09-11T15:23:00.000-07:00

Fall is my favorite season, but this year it snuck up on me and screamed, "BOOGABOOGABOOGA!" in my ear. What happened to summer? I feel a bit cheated, not having spent the last several months having HAPPY! SUMMER! FUN! Instead I was focused on finding a job, recuperating from my accident, legal disputes, blah blah blah. The initial pleasures I found in yard work, trips to the park with Grace, writing, barbecuing and eating outdoors were derailed suddenly by a body and mind that simply couldn't do any of those things. So I'm pissed, both on my behalf, and because Grace got the short end of the summer stick, along with a cranky mommy.

On a positive note, fall is the season that feels (to me) most loaded with the potential for change — positive change. And if there's one thing we could use around here at the asylum, it's positive change. My accident took a big toll on my health, physically and mentally, and until now I've been content to let my medical team deal with the whole mess (while following doctors' orders, natch). But I'm realizing that I need to take a more proactive approach to regaining my health, if only because I can't go on wondering if I'll be able to function tomorrow, or the day after that. Grace deserves more than that, and so do my friends and family. (I do, too, of course.)

Today I spoke with my lovely chiropractor (see "Asula" ad in sidebar), and we agreed that a more aggressive approach is my only hope of feeling like my old self again. I've watched friends go through this for years, and I've toyed with it myself, but always resisted fully committing to such a drastic change. But I've been inspired by friends and, more recently, by my favorite fellow blogger, Girlbert, who has a much larger mountain to climb and an amazingly positive attitude about conquering it (or, more accurately, working in harmony with it). It just feels like it's time.

A gluten-free diet isn't that much of a stretch for me, since I really do love all of the foods I am allowed to eat, and don't ordinarily indulge much in sugary snacks or processed foods. I will desperately miss a few things: yummy bread and crackers, cheese, wine, pasta, seasonal fruits, and did I mention CHEESE? Also, I'm not going to be militant to the point of making myself so crazy that if I have a glass of wine at dinner, I will then fall off the wagon altogether. In my fantasy world, I'll just remind myself that, yes, this is a bad choice I'm making and I will suffer the consequences. Over time, I hope that the results will be motivation enough to do the best I can without feeling too deprived.

This little bit of nasty is Candida. (I searched for an image that would look pretty on my blog.) It is, however, the enemy, and I will not hesitate to kick its ass. I've heard so many testimonials from friends who I trust, I believe it's worth the effort for me to give it a chance. Can you imagine how tickled I will be if eliminating a surplus of yeast makes me feel better? At the very least, it will force me to stop scarfing down what's convenient, and take a more thoughtful approach to eating. I'd like to be a positive role model for Grace when it comes to nutrition, and eating her leftovers is clearly not the way to go about it. Wish me luck; I'll keep you posted, whether you like it or not.

Gotta teach that kid how to scrub toilets...

2009-09-06T18:27:00.000-07:00

"Mommy, what's that stuff in your potty?"
"Uh, nothing Gigi, it's just dirty."
"Do you suppose we should clean it?"
"Well, yes, I suppose WE should clean it."
(Pause while I consider my options.)
"Or we could watch a movie and cuddle on the couch."
"Ooooh, can we watch the pig movie?"
(We've watched "Babe" about a hundred and forty times now.)
"Sure, bug. What a great idea!"

Priorities, Gigi, priorities.

I blog, therefore I am?

2009-09-05T10:42:00.000-07:00

I started my first blog out of laziness. I was tired of emailing photos of Grace to everyone who was interested in watching her grow, so I figured it made more sense to post pictures in one central location that anyone could access. Then, because I'm a writer and parenting was so ~~challenging~~ fascinating to me, I added commentary and began addressing other amusing aspects of family life. It was a funny blog and, validation junkie that I am, all the positive feedback was like a drug to me.

I'm not sure why I started this blog when John and I split up. There's nothing particularly funny about divorce, and I knew I was walking a fine line between venting and oversharing. Surprisingly, however, traffic to this site outnumbered the original "Grace Under Pressure" two to one, leading me to conclude that everyone loves a train wreck. So I've tried to keep it honest and somewhat entertaining, without being too maudlin or stepping on anyone's privacy. It never occurred to me that complete strangers would find my ruminations interesting, but I've made friends through blogging that I wouldn't have otherwise, and I cherish them as much as my friends that I see and talk to. Unexpectedly, both blogging and facebook have helped me feel connected during what I hope will be one of the most challenging years of my life.

This week I spent a few days in bed with Grace, both of us miserably sick and grumpy. Every now and then we'd wake up, stare at each other and groan, then go back to sleep. When I needed to, though, I got up and sat in front of my computer, reaching out to friends without having to leave the house or even pick up the phone. (Or shower, or brush my teeth.) I found comfort in knowing I could do that, that if I needed support it would be there, regardless of whether it was my brother and Michael dropping by with supplies, or a virtual, long-distance hug from someone I've never met in person.

I have lots of loose ends to tie up in my life, but now that I see a light at the end of the tunnel, I'm hoping the scales will soon tilt, and that my posts will become more entertaining and less depressing. (But not too cheerful; I know my audience.) Also, I've given the site a little makeover, and I'm adding free ads as a way of saying thanks to friends who have been particularly there, or things I think are nifty.

All of this is my long-winded way of saying, "Thanks, internet. You've been a good sport."

Moody bitch, in flight.

2009-08-28T15:44:00.000-07:00

I used to love a good fight. I could present a fantastic argument; even when I was young, my parents used to say I should be a lawyer. (Yes, I know, it's never too late.) After college when I was in my twenties in Chicago, I would strike up a conversation with a complete stranger at a bar just to debate, oh, the atrocity of the Exxon Valdez oil spill. (Seriously, once a guy told me he worked for Exxon, and I spent an hour enumerating the reasons he would rot in hell for working for the man.) Back in those days, O.J. Simpson provided a lot of fodder for heated discussion, as well. And, of course, protecting the environment, which wasn't nearly as popular then as it is now. When I think about it, I didn't love to argue as much as I loved to be right. (In your twenties, you know everything, am I right?) I just couldn't fathom that people had different opinions, and I felt I was doing them a favor by setting them straight. Yes, I was great fun to be around then, particularly since quite a bit of drinking was usually involved.

I bring this up today because I don't feel like I have any fight left in me. Being an unemployed, divorced, forty-two year old mother of my own moody b—, er brat, what the hell do I know? I realized in my thirties that I didn't know shit, and I struggled mightily in my quest for knowledge. I hoped my forties would bring acceptance around this issue, and to some extent it has. But rather than get my dander up when challenged, I now sigh with resignation. We've all heard about the "fight or flight" instinct; I've swung to the other end of the spectrum. I hunker down, run away, avoid conflict and, if possible, take a nap. I hate arguing.

To say that I'm moody is putting it mildly, however, and I happen to be in a relationship with someone who is equally moody but hasn't yet had his spirit broken. When we disagree, my natural response is to think, "Well, this clearly isn't going to work out." And then I fantasize about a future with just me and Grace ("You and me against the world, sometimes I think it's you and me against the world..."), which is hilarious because she's the one who caused all this in the first place, with all that perspective crap. Is Grace happy, healthy and safe? Okay then. Is Grace behaving like Drew Barrymore in "The Firestarter?" THAT'S where I need to focus my energy, not on whether there is a discrepancy in the odometer reading of my new (old) car. Combine that with almost constant physical pain, and I'm having trouble picking my battles, and waging them with a modicum of maturity.

There has to be a happy medium, and I keep turning to the serenity poem. (I'm agnostic.) But it turns out that this tidbit of wisdom has very little to offer when it comes to relationships. It does not address, for example, what one should do when confronted with a close friend who is driving you crazy with criticism, judgement, abandonment or just a bad attitude. So I withdraw. It seems the safest option, when there are battles being fought on so many fronts right now. (Oh, and I blog, which is a thinly veiled cry for validation and support from complete strangers. Hmmmm.) But too much withdrawal will most certainly leave me in a worse place: alone.

I'm seeing a woman next Friday who is a "Personal Development Coach, Clinical/Medical Hynotherapist & Trauma Specialist." I was referred to her by my awesome chiropractor (see ad at left), and can I tell you how much I would not want to be this poor woman? The visual I have is me sitting across from her and explaining the last year of my life, and having her furrow her brow, shake her head and write down the name and number of someone who may be more able to handle my situation.

Disclaimer: I know there are millions of people worse off than I am. I cry for them almost every day and try to remain grateful that I have food, housing, friends, family and, of course, beer.

Coastal fauna

2009-08-25T10:11:00.000-07:00

Here's the kind of thing Grace gets to see when we visit my parents' beach house. It makes it worth the now somewhat terrifying three-hour drive.

This buck was just kickin' it by the side of the road.

There were two fledgling seagulls on the deck.

One of the parents was usually close by.

To everyone else, this is just a seagull. To Grace, it's so cool.

Starting over again. And again. And again.

2009-08-24T11:40:00.000-07:00

I have been itching to blog for weeks, but have allowed a few things to get in the way: the heat in my office, the pain that sitting at my desk causes my poor back, the guilt about blogging instead of doing something productive and the overwhelming nature of the feelings and thoughts bouncing around inside of me. No more excuses: it's cooled off; I've just come, freshly adjusted, from the chiropractor; I've been quite productive and am waiting for others to do their part; and my head will likely explode if I don't vent a bit. Where to begin?

I suppose the best place to begin is with all the new beginnings. For a decent part of the last few weeks I've been chasing my tail, searching for the title to my old car before discovering I never had it because the lender didn't notify us, or the DMV, once the loan was paid. Since the lender was Capital One (yes, that esteemed financial institution), I gave up talking to a human being, without being disconnected, after half a dozen calls and turned to my insurance adjuster for help. She made some magic happen and within half an hour I was assured the necessary paperwork was being sent out pronto, so that I could finally be reimbursed for my car. (I have yet to receive it, but don't get me started.) The point of all of this is that the frantic search for the title forced me to go through practically every piece of paper in my possession, which took me down a very well-documented and organized memory lane. I have a hard time admitting it, but a few times I ended up sitting on the floor of my office, crying and wailing, "I want my old life back."

That's not true, of course. My old life wasn't working, but there were so many fresh starts, so many optimistic new beginnings that didn't turn out as we'd hoped. I think one of the ways John and I dealt with unhappiness was with change, and that change usually came about with a move. Not long after we got married in Chicago we moved into a new condo. To get out of a rut, we took a six-month sabbatical in Central America. When life back in the states got old, we moved to Portland. After Grace was born we moved to a townhouse by the Columbia, and when that neighborhood turned into a nightmare we moved to the new house in Concordia. Even after we split up, the changes kept coming, and we remain in limbo almost a year later. I got a roommate who didn't work out. Michael entered the picture. John and I sold the house and Michael, Grace and I moved into a cute rental and set about making it a home, but the sale fell through, leaving us paying two rents and a mortgage. Finally, Grace and I moved back into the old (new) house for a number of reasons, and here we are, still trying to resolve the legal issues with our dumbass neighbor and wondering where we'll end up next. Honestly? I have no idea, and I've almost stopped trying to figure it out.

In each city and in each house, there were happy times, times when I felt that we'd made good decisions and our lives were on the right path. Life has been more of a rollercoaster since Grace was born; the highs that mark certain milestones are etched in my memory. The stakes had been raised, though, so the lows seemed that much scarier; I tend to put away those memories unless I'm forced to confront them. So all this "I want my old life back" nonsense had to do with the easily recalled happy times when I felt safe and secure, and I knew Grace felt the same way.

I'd like to be settled, for Grace's sake and my own. I want a normal family life that doesn't involve regular contact with lawyers and insurance adjusters and people who ask if I've applied for a job at WalMart. I don't want fleeting moments of happiness; I want genuine contentment. I don't need to be rich or take lavish vacations or live life free of worries, but I'd like to be financially comfortable, and travel from time to time, and know that the difficult times will pass without the specter of financial ruin.

What's up with the fridge? Funny you should ask. I took this picture the other day because I hadn't been grocery shopping since I moved (again), and I had forgotten how disruptive a move can be in little ways. Afterwards, I remembered this post, which was right after John and I made our final new beginning together in this house. I was excited then, certain that we'd finally found the right formula for true happiness. Same fridge, shiny and new, and I was clearly pleased with myself. What the old picture doesn't show is that the fridge was empty.

Letting go.

2009-08-09T09:26:00.000-07:00

My last post reflects perfectly my state of mind at the time: muddled. In an attempt to gain some clarity, I took my first road trip since my accident; Grace and I drove to the coast to visit my parents. I was white-knuckled and tense the entire three-hour drive, and when we finally got there my muscles creaked when I climbed out of the car. (Grace was totally chill.)

I was hoping the fog might lift enough for me to connect with my mom and dad, but both my brain fog and the coastal fog were uncooperative, leaving us cooped up in the house most of the week, and a bit cranky. I was also supposed to do a book signing that didn't transpire, and my frustration about that didn't help my mood. I decided to come home earlier than planned, and that afternoon the clouds finally lifted and we saw the sun as we hit the road at dusk.

Something inside me lifted during the drive home, as well. I've been thinking about the illusion of control that generally gets me through the day, the idea that if I do things properly, I will be rewarded with success and happiness. That illusion was pretty well shattered last month, and I've been sort of unnerved ever since. I can drive safely and still get into an accident; I can parent to the best of my ability and still let Grace down; I can find a fantastic job and work hard but still get fired; I can take care of myself and still get sick; I can write a book and promote it like crazy but not sell it; I can try to reason with my psychotic neighbor regarding the land dispute and still wind up in a legal quagmire; I can love my friends and family but hurt them unintentionally. I could go on, but you get the point.

My personal injury lawyer, of all people, mentioned the serenity prayer during our first meeting. I'm not into organized religion, but I believe I'm a spiritual person. Regardless, the idea of accepting things I cannot change is somewhat foreign to me, and lately I've been too wiped to summon much courage for the things I need to change. I have two things working against me: I have some itty bitty control issues, and I struggle with chronic depression. So I tend to spin my wheels when crises arise. Rather than distinguish between what I should work on and what I should let go, I do exactly the opposite. I stew over things beyond my control and neglect my responsibilities. Pretty clever, right?

On my drive home, this tendency suddenly became clear to me, again, and left me feeling unusually peaceful. I'm not sure why I have so much trouble remembering to focus my energy on what is truly important; I suppose that whole pesky wisdom part still eludes me. But I'll be glancing at this prayer (originally a poem, by the way) often from now on, hoping to break old habits and find order in chaos, or just let go and enjoy.

Woman on the verge.

2009-08-01T00:15:00.000-07:00

I've been crying a lot lately. People who know me well will probably think, "What the...?" I don't cry often; it gives me a headache and makes me feel weak. But lately, every time I drive by a car accident, or see a puddle of broken glass in the street, or hear the wail of a siren, I well up and wonder what the hell is going on. Today, as part of my post-accident rehab, I had a chiropractic adjustment and a massage, and the release of both physical and emotional tension had me blubbering all the way home, where I took some Advil and sank into a two-hour coma. My hands hurt; they feel as though I've been clinging to something all day, when all I've been grasping, white-knuckled, is the steering wheel of my car.

I want to write about how great and lucky I feel to be alive, but my heart and body just aren't up to speed with my mind, so I continue to chip away at unpacking. Oh yeah, I moved, again. Grace and I are back in the old (new) house, for myriad reasons, not the least of which to make the neighbors' lives hell. So far, so good. (I think I need a sub-woofer.)

It's a strange time in our lives; not just me but countless families, and so in that way I feel sad but connected. It's as though I landed in the gutter, literally and figuratively, and I'm trying to find my way back to where I was headed. I know I'm lucky to be alive, that a combination of timing, reflexes, good luck and my sturdy Subaru are what gave me this chance to be thankful for what I have and reevaluate what's important. That's not something that happens every day, and I intend to take full advantage of this opportunity. Starting tomorrow. Wish me luck.

Miserable day.

2009-07-26T21:51:00.000-07:00

When I moved to Portland from Chicago, I swore I would never complain about two things: the weather or the traffic. I lied. But I'm doing what I can to entertain the little nipper, despite her obvious discomfort. Poor noodle; limp as can be and CRANKY today when she wasn't eating leftover birthday cake or in the pool.

Thanks for reminding me to capture this moment digitally, Ella. Every time I see it I'll have the urge to hose down both child and house.

Gigi takes after her father; she loves the water.

Yup, she's doing push-ups.

Hard to tell if she's having fun.

Huh? Time to GET OUT?

Comic relief.

2009-07-26T16:01:00.001-07:00

My parents sent this to me when I was in college, and I've kept it this long because it always makes me laugh. (Click to enlarge.)

Good bread, good meat.

2009-07-24T23:53:00.001-07:00

Since Grace was with her father on her birthday, Michael made an extra special dinner to cheer me up. (Apologies to my vegetarian and vegan friends.) I will say this: that man knows how to grill meat to perfection.

Also, the yummy sourdough bread and mushrooms, along with a bottle of wine (so gone!), were a last minute gift from a woman in the neighborhood who Michael helped get back into her house earlier this week in the wee hours. That night, while he tinkered with the lock, I commiserated about the whole locking out bit, with which I am painfully familiar. (And tonight, I took the opportunity to plug my book and hand her a business card, since Annie Bloom's has chosen to remove my one remaining book from their shelves.)

I digress. Happy birthday, Gigi; I miss you. And thanks to Michael and Ivy for a delicious meal! I'm full, and my faith in the goodness of (most) neighbors has been reinforced.

Happy birthday, Gracie!

2009-07-24T23:38:00.000-07:00

You're four. How did that happen so quickly when the first weeks seemed like months?

Yay, water!

Does this seem like a good choice? Or maybe a really bad choice?

Zen masters.

2009-07-17T23:01:00.000-07:00

I'd give anything to be in the moment like these two.

Makeshift doghouse.

2009-07-17T12:52:00.000-07:00

Michael dashed into my office one afternoon, grabbed the camera and said, "Promise you won't be mad," before disappearing back outside. Yup, this is my pinhead of a dog, perfectly content to make her bed and lie in it.

She blends. My dog is the color of dirt.

We've decided to let her keep it. Think how handy it will be if we decide to plant something.

Third one's a charm.

2009-07-17T12:42:00.000-07:00

My personal injury lawyer is only 34. But he went to Harvard, is very cool, and I suspect he kicks butt. Also, he works on contingency, which most do, but I worried about having to pay another person to fight my battles for me, when I'm such a scrappy little fighter myself. ...Back to your regularly scheduled programming.

Grace's spaces.

2009-07-15T21:37:00.000-07:00

Grace would prefer to be outside almost all of the time now, and I can't say I blame her. I've actually had to chase her around the yard to get her to come inside, usually with one or both of us in various stages of undress. Brady's the same way, even if it means putting up with the shrieking human child stroking her back with a stick.

Gigi totally digs the fountain.

Yes, she got quite wet right after I snapped this shot.

Tending to her flower bed. It's starting to bloom now.

Brady skulking around the perimeter of the compound making sure every square inch has her scent.

This looks like some sort of apology, if I recall correctly. Brady doesn't look too impressed.

And then there were three.

2009-07-15T20:52:00.001-07:00

Three lawyers, that is. A divorce lawyer, a real estate lawyer and a personal injury lawyer, should he agree to take my case tomorrow. This picture of me is quite a few days after the accident, and I think my face is healing like a superhero's. The rest of my body, and spirit, continue to struggle in a way I never expected. I'm waiting to bounce back, but I hurt, I'm exhausted and my brain is mush.

In the midst of all this, I've noticed that I'm frequently feeling an emotion that used to be quite foreign to me: envy. When I see pictures of people enjoying their summers, unencumbered by financial and physical distress, living normal lives and even thriving, the green feeling I have is acute — and extremely unpleasant. I hear about someone who's gotten a six-figure book deal or has a NYT bestseller, and I have to suppress the urge to scream, "What about me?" I see couples building new houses, adding another child to their already happy family, making plans for the future without fear, and I try to remember what that carefree life felt like. In many cases, they are people who have gone through hell and back before they found their way, and I don't at all begrudge them their happiness. But I want it for myself. I want the hard decisions I've made in the last year to end up being the right decisions. I want things to turn around for me and my family, and for all the other families I know who are going through difficult times. It's not just money; I could win the lottery tomorrow and still be just as lost as I am today (albeit lost while looking at real estate on Alameda Ridge).

What I really miss are those old feelings of success and self-sufficiency, perhaps more so because I haven't often experienced failure. There is a down side to having things come easily to you early in life, and I'm getting cozy with that uncomfortable suspicion that maybe I didn't really earn all the things I used to value; even worse, what if they weren't all that valuable? Now I have to figure out what I really want; what would make me truly happy; what I honestly value and want to share with Grace. Then I have to work my ass off, risking failure on each new front. Hello, real world. My name is Laurel.

Quick update

2009-07-11T00:34:00.000-07:00

Before I left my parents' house, I left a message for the off-duty paramedic, David Gurnee, who made my accident so much less frightening than it might have been. I wanted to see him, and give him a giant hug for everything he did for me that day, but he wasn't available. Then, this afternoon, my phone rang and it was him; he'd been on vacation and just gotten my message. I couldn't help but burst out, "Ohmigod thank you for calling me!" We talked for a while, and I hope I adequately expressed my gratitude. He seemed like a genuinely cool dude with an appreciation for Subarus and some good advice for dealing with all that follows when one totals a car and has to deal with insurance companies. He also confirmed my recollection of the accident, that the airbags deployed while my car was airborne, rather than when it hit the ditch. I don't know why this was important to me, but it explains why my face was such a mess; airbags are designed to inflate and then deflate quickly, which means that when my car landed, my airbag had already done its thing. The state trooper was adamant that the airbags couldn't have inflated right away; sometimes I just like to be right.

Anyway, there's nothing quite like talking to someone who was there with you during a horrible experience. And like I said before, HE WAS THERE. I actually laughed about the whole thing for the first time since it happened, which I wouldn't have noticed but Michael did. David seemed like someone I could hang out with and have a beer, and talking with him gave me some closure. Also, his wife is an English teacher, which made me want to drive (!) up the peninsula and talk about books.

There are wonderful people out there. How lucky am I to be able to thank one of them who helped me?

Before and after.

2009-07-10T15:43:00.001-07:00

I'm not really springing back into action post-accident. In fact, I am not at all myself, and my normal self isn't exactly an energetic little ray of sunshine to begin with. According to the Portland ER doc who saw me when I woke up disoriented, dizzy and unable to string a sentence together, this is common with head injuries, but as far as I'm concerned, it just sucks. On days when I take care of Grace, I struggle to find the energy to keep up with her, physically and mentally. She knows something's wrong. Brady knows something's wrong. Even the guy who gave me the rental car must have figured something was wrong, because it took him a full ten minutes to convince me that I wouldn't have to pay anything. I just couldn't comprehend the words coming out of his mouth, because I knew as soon as we stopped talking, I would have to climb behind the wheel of a car (an ivory PT Cruiser!) and drive home. I was actually shaking, and not with gleeful anticipation.

My life seems like a series of befores and afters. Before and after John and I split up; before and after last summer's health issues; before and after losing my job; before and after meeting Michael; before and after the ongoing legal issues with the house; before and after Grace was potty trained (yay, Grace!); before and after Max died; before and after the accident.

Could be the concussion, could be the chemical imbalance in my brain prevailing over my meds, could be that this last year has just been unusually stressful, but I'm having a really difficult time regaining my sense of who I am and what I should be doing. Taking care of Grace is draining, but I know what's expected of me; when she's not here, I'm adrift. Normally, I would write. In fact, I'm dying to get back to my novel. The hurdle? My laptop died, and when I sit down at my desktop computer to write, I feel like I'm working, and I don't want to feel that way about the one thing I love to do. I have nothing against working (my lack of employment notwithstanding); I just want to continue to experience writing as something that brings me joy and fulfillment and keeps me in the moment, endlessly. That may sound spoiled, but I'm funny that way. So tomorrow I will focus on one step at a time: get up, shower, bring desktop computer to The Mac Store, trade in for a laptop. The most challenging leg of this adventure will be the part where I have to shower. It still hurts, and I have to confront my cuts and bruises in the mirror.

On a positive note, think of all the water I'm saving by showering every other day. Also, I'm stationary quite a bit more since I've lost my mojo, which Brady loves. This dog wants nothing more than a warm body to lie on, and the occasional decomposing animal to eat. What would I do without my little family?

Max: 1994 - 2009

2009-07-05T08:49:00.000-07:00

I made an unplanned visit to my parents' last weekend to say a final goodbye to their dog, Max. (Read his story here.) He was a magnificent dog, but fifteen years is a long life for a shepherd/husky mix. His mind and soul were still there, but his body was tired and every time he fell, a little bit of his dignity chipped away. He still walked every day to the end of the driveway with my dad to get the mail, but it could take a while and he could no longer carry anything back, which must have been awful for him.

A trip to the beach in Ocean Shores last March.

The day before he died, we lifted him into the car and drove to the beach, where he meandered forever and resisted going back to the car. He ate an ice cream cone on the drive home (an old treat from his agility training days), and enjoyed a cheeseburger back at the house (an old treat from his therapy dog days). Later, my mom fried a steak for a bedtime snack, and we all had a few bites. It was a good day.

Tuckered out.

He happily finished that steak the next day while we waited for the vet. The weather was perfect and we put him in the shade so he could be outside, which he loved. He went peacefully, with the hands of the three people who loved him most stroking his body. After they took him, we cried and sat around trying to convince ourselves it was the right thing for Max. It was.

His credentials.

My dad and I used to joke about starting a Church of Max, because he was all about love — pure, unconditional, joyful love. There wasn't a malicious bone in his body (except for that one unfortunate squirrel incident), and I swear he had a better sense of humor than most people I know. He was so smart, he learned what "walk on the beach" sounded like when spelled out. And he smelled yummy, behind his ears where his fur was all velvety.

Last week, in the garden.

We're heartbroken now, but so grateful he came into our lives. I don't at all like the idea of a world without his unique energy, especially for my parents. But I like to think some of his love for life rubbed off on all of us and will stay forever. Stay, Max.

Really, REALLY bad timing.

2009-07-04T08:49:00.001-07:00

Here's my car after I was cut out of it July 1st. (News story here.) I like little old ladies as much as the next person, but I don't necessarily think they should be driving unless they can stay in their own lane. She didn't drift into my lane; she turned so quickly, it was like she was aiming for me. I was able to swerve just enough to avoid a head-on collision — which means she nailed me right in the driver's side door. I remember that awful crunching noise, glass, smoke, spinning as if the car was airborne, and airbags. I actually tried to get out of the car when it stopped, because I watch enough movies to know that cars explode when they crash. But I couldn't really manage anything other than dialing 911 on my cell, then handing it to the guy who appeared in my window. Turns out he was an off-duty paramedic, David Gurnee, and while I couldn't pick him out of a lineup, I will be grateful to him for the rest of my life. He started an IV, gave me gauze to hold on my face, had another guy climb in back to hold my head still, called my parents and talked to everyone else who called after that. Most important, HE WAS THERE. I was completely in shock, shaking uncontrollably and not at all comfortable with the amount of blood soaking my clothes. It took the emergency crew what seemed like FOREVER to arrive, and I simply cannot imagine being alone that whole time, or even being with just regular good samaritans (who also stopped). He was my guardian angel that day.

I thought I could blog about this with some sense of perspective, that it might even be cathartic. I was glib about the accident on facebook, probably because of the painkillers. But now that I'm home with Grace and I realize how close I came to never being home with Grace, I don't think I have enough distance from the experience just yet. So I will say this: thank God I was alone in the car and that the old couple wasn't hurt. My face is a mess and my body is sore, but I'll heal; I'm lucky to be alive. I'm not sure when I'll get behind the wheel again. I suppose when I get a car and need to go somewhere.

Not surprising, but extremely disturbing.

2009-06-27T13:50:00.000-07:00

A facebook friend shared this, and I thought I'd pass it along so you could feel as furious about it as I do. I'm a giver.

Time flies.

2009-06-27T12:48:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I look at Grace and I can't believe how grown up she is. Makes me want to stop time, or at least slow it down so I can catch my breath.

How did she go from this...

...to this?

Unreal.

2009-06-23T15:07:00.000-07:00

You may have already seen this. If not, it will either inspire you or make you want to curl up in the fetal position. I'm on the fence.

A love story.

2009-06-22T16:38:00.000-07:00

When Michael first met Brady, I believe he said something to the effect of, "I can't stand it when people spoil their dogs. I don't feed them scraps and I won't put up with any crap." Guess who now pours chicken broth over her dry kibble, feeds her leftovers, lets her outside twenty times a day and buys fancy dog biscuits? She L-O-V-E-S him (duh), but she also obeys his every command — in German.

When Michael sits, so does Brady. On him.

She's a shameless tart.

They just want to be alone.

It's just embarrassing, isn't it?

Yup, sure enough — divorce sucks.

2009-06-22T11:50:00.000-07:00

In my last post (depressing!), I believe I promised a rant about divorce. I haven't delivered, because my heart isn't in it. In my experience, there just hasn't been enough drama to perpetuate my self-pity party. There have been logistical hurdles in our lives, sure, but most of those have been a product of the economy. Trying to sell a house and find a job in a recession isn't supposed to be easy, and it's not terribly imaginative to complain about what so many others are experiencing. I could have lived without the legal complications surrounding the sale of our house (ongoing, by the way), but the anger and frustration I felt earlier on sort of sucked the joy out of settling into a new home, and discovering what positive changes this different path might bring.

Divorce, at its worst, is a failure, a broken promise that hurts everyone involved. At its best, it's two people who have worked like crazy to live peacefully together but have decided it's best to move on. At no point have I experienced some huge wave of relief, or thought, "Woo hoo, I'm FREE!" At the other end of the spectrum, I haven't regretted our decision or felt the stigma I anticipated at being divorced. Yes, it's a painful process, and I'm aware that I made a lot of mistakes over the last eighteen years, but I'm doing what I can now to stop the pain, and to right some of the wrongs.

Then there's Grace. Would she be better off living with both of us in a happy marriage? Of course she would. She was always happiest when all three of us were together; she doesn't have that anymore and she clearly struggles with it. But people told us, "If you're going to do it, do it now," because even very young children pick up on tension between their parents, but they will likely adjust more easily to new living arrangements than older kids will. And while older kids may not give a rip whether Mommy and Daddy are happy, they can't help but react to a stressful home environment, and that reaction is generally one of fear. I think we chose the lesser of two evils, because that first idyllic scenario wasn't going to happen. I hope I haven't made a mess of my life's most important undertaking, parenting. Unhappy couples who choose to stay together for the sake of their children have a difficult time ahead of them, and I wish them luck. Me? I think we're going to be okay. I'm going to try to stop second-guessing the decision we made. At least for the next hour or so.

Wild ride.

2009-06-12T21:52:00.000-07:00

I'm back on that wackadoo emotional rollercoaster, where one minute I'm feeling connected and in the moment, and the next thing I know I've fallen into a funk and can't get up. I thought I had become fairly adept at rolling with the punches, focusing on the positive and trying to believe that everything is happening for a reason. Perhaps I was premature with my smug self-congratulations.

Grace still keeps me on my toes, but she seems to have turned a corner where expressing her frustrations is concerned. This is great, because now I know what's bothering her, and if it's that Brady is in her spot on the sofa, I can deal. But if it's that she's sad because she misses Daddy when she's here and misses Mommy when she's there, well, that's heartbreaking. And another post entirely. (Next up: my thoughts on divorce. In a word? Shitty.)

Back to good things. I got a sweet review on mamalit.com, which gave me a much needed boost (but has done diddly for sales). I also got a lovely email from a woman who read Soft Landing and took the time to sit down and tell me why. THAT made my day, mostly because of the act of kindness, but also because she came to read Soft Landing in exactly the way I imagined. She read a comment I left on another blog, which prompted her to check out my blog, which resulted in her ordering my book. If that happened a hundred times a day, I'd be set!

I've also finished the first three chapters of my next book, and I can't express the feeling I get when I'm writing and I'm in a groove and I know the words are coming together beautifully. It's a high, and sometimes I get going and before I know it the day is gone. Other times, I can't even open my laptop, because I'm afraid I won't find any words at all. I don't like to write when I feel uninspired; but, just as momentum can keep me going for hours when I'm loving it, inertia can paralyze me for days if I don't force myself to sit down and WRITE ANYTHING FOR THE LOVE OF GOD JUST WRITE.

Back and forth, back and forth. I'll spend time with a friend and feel so lucky to have such wonderful people in my life, and the next day I'll pick up the phone to call someone but I can't imagine a single person will want to talk to me. I spent all day today working in the yard, happy as a clam and full of optimism about the time we'll spend here. Then I came in, showered, ate dinner and totally hit a wall. (Blood sugar could have been the culprit there.) So here I am, babbling away and not really feeling anything but sore at the moment. Bedtime, and, I hope, happy dreams.

Discovery.

2009-06-12T21:14:00.000-07:00

We've spent a lot of time outside lately, enjoying the weather and exploring our new yard. We've tried to be patient, rather than tearing out anything that looks like a weed or that we can't identify, and we've been rewarded with surprises that just keep coming. (We've added touches of our own.) It's such fun to see the beauty unfold through Grace's eyes.

I'm not a big rhody fan, but these were pretty spectacular (made more so by Michael deadheading them, which is a pain).

We have two bushes, one on either side of the front gate, and we had no idea they would bloom so beautifully!

Potential. You should see them now.

It's hard to resist blossoms like these; I wish they lasted longer.

Our hummingbird magnet, right outside the kitchen window.

This is one of my favorite plants, golden euonymous, and I will plant it wherever I live, for it's burst of color and indestructibility.

We thought the violas were goners, but they're thriving.

We waited too long to get the alyssum in the ground, and it's still touch and go. They, and the lobelia, would stand a much better chance if Brady would quit stomping all over them.

Shake 'n bake toddler.

2009-06-03T16:51:00.000-07:00

I'm not a fan of sandboxes, for many reasons that I will not go into. Grace loves them, of course, and when I went to pick her up at school yesterday, I could not believe my eyes. Head to toe, covered in sand. No joke.

Slather a kid with sunscreen, give them some time in the "sensory tub" filled with water and then cut 'em loose in a big 'ol sandbox and you know what you get? A child who is literally breaded with sand. As if the sand stuck to her body wasn't bad enough, I watched as a little boy scooped a shovelful and poured it over her head. (She didn't notice.) I don't care so much about my car, but on the way home all I could think about was how to get her from the front door directly into the tub. To make matters worse, I had made the mistake of uttering the "b" word at school, whereupon she began wailing, "I don't WANT to take a BATH!" and didn't stop until she was in the bath. Then there was the drama of washing her hair (she has A LOT of hair), which must have the neighbors wondering what that blonde lady does to cause that sweet little girl to scream as though she were being professionally tortured. I wish I had taken a picture of Grace before and after, or at least gotten a shot of the sand at the bottom of the tub, but I was pretty goal-oriented. So instead, here are the toys required to keep her distracted enough that I could actually wash her, which was apparently excruciatingly painful.

I'm off to pick up the little kiddo right now. I'm afraid.

Doggie down.

2009-06-02T22:04:00.001-07:00

Brady broke a nail. I noticed her incessantly licking a paw, so I kept yelling at her to knock it off, until it finally occurred to me that something might be stuck in there that needed to be addressed. (I maintain this state of denial as long as possible, because if I do find something amiss on the little angel's body, there is no way in hell she will let me examine it properly or do anything to remedy the situation. Michael doubted me on this the other night when I mentioned she could use a grooming; he suggested we trim her ourselves and I burst out laughing. To prove my point, I got up and retrieved a pair of scissors from the kitchen, and as soon as I entered Brady's line of sight, she poured herself off the couch and slunk into the farthest recesses of the house.)

Anyway, the nail was at a right angle to the toe and had been bleeding, so I called the vet thinking they could do a quick nail trim for twenty, thirty, maybe fifty dollars, tops. And then the adventure began. Unlike my previous dog, Dutchie, Brady LOVES going to the vet. She jumps on the scale and sits patiently; she makes herself comfortable on the couch that wraps around the room (for which I'm pretty sure Dutchie's ongoing care paid); she wags ecstatically at everyone who pays her the slightest attention; she trots happily to the exam room and greets the vet with enthusiasm; she politely accepts a treat and enjoys a quick scratch behind the ears. The trouble starts when her canine intuition tells her that she is no longer being petted, but examined. Then all bets are off, and they whisk her to the back room where she must be muzzled and restrained by numerous vet techs. It's a real hoot.

Apparently a broken nail that exposes a good deal of quick is rife for infection, so they treated it as though she'd had some sort of organ transplant. The bandage seemed excessive; the antibiotics made sense; the painkillers — well, who am I to pass judgement when it comes to painkillers? I do love that pinhead of a dog, as evidenced by previous veterinary emergencies. But if she's going to continue straining the budget, she's going to need to start bringing something to the table, financially speaking. The total bill: $224. The look of outrage on Grace's face when she saw Brady's fancy bandaid? Priceless.

Quick, someone call the mom police!

2009-05-28T12:16:00.000-07:00

After some quality snuggling yesterday morning, I took Grace to school as if it were any other day, and had John pick her up afterwards, a day earlier than our usual custody schedule. I love that little bug more than anything in the world, but it was my birthday. And honestly? I wanted to write, relax, have wine and cheese for dinner and sleep late this morning. I wanted to watch any movie that didn't involve Narnia or animation. (We chose "The Reader" — awesome.) I wanted to blog and fart around on facebook and do all the things I feel guilty about when Grace is home, because I'm not giving her my undivided attention. I did NOT want to deal with whining, tantrums, timeouts and a runny nose. But I missed her, of course. I enjoyed my day but something was missing — and I ended up feeling guilty anyway.

I read a blog post recently (which I should have bookmarked because I can't find it anywhere) about how harshly mothers judge other mothers, and it really hit home. I have both judged and been judged. Neither is much fun, or at all productive. It certainly doesn't contribute to the sense of community that mothers should feel, particularly when most of us are struggling to find what works best for us and our families, when we are trying to balance motherhood with work, life and being true to ourselves. For some moms, this isn't a struggle at all. They love being at home with their kids and do a fantastic job of it. Or they love going to work and don't think twice about putting their kids in daycare. The rest of us bumble along, trying to find the right path and constantly second-guessing our choices. I learned quickly that I wasn't cut out to be a full-time stay-at-home mom. This came as a surprise, because it was what I thought I wanted. It never occurred to me that I would still want, still need, to tend to the non-mom parts of my life that made me who I was before I became a mom.

Grace is loved, and she knows it. I may not sacrifice everything for her, but I certainly have tightened the criteria for what I choose to spend time on. I won't be wasting anymore of it judging other moms.

Oops.

2009-05-28T11:56:00.000-07:00

Enough said.

A birthday haiku

2009-05-27T06:00:00.000-07:00

May twenty-seventh
I am forty-two years old.
How did this happen?

The stuff that Brady's dreams are made of.

2009-05-26T22:19:00.000-07:00

The squirrels relentlessly pilfer seeds from the bird feeder inches from our kitchen window. I've seen ONE bird, but at least three squirrel heists. (The underbelly of a squirrel is not nearly as cute as you might think when it is dangling outside the window while you eat your granola.) Grace goes into some sort of spastic overload when this happens; if Brady ever sees what's going on IN HER OWN YARD, she will likely launch herself onto the kitchen table and through the window.

Boldly eyeballing us through the window. Cheeky bugger.

Even Grace's hysterics didn't deter him.

Pretty nimble.

Seriously, how is this possible?

Greedy little dude just kept eating. I can relate.

How do you choose what to read?

2009-05-25T15:30:00.000-07:00

I infrequently read nonfiction, but I picked up A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle to inspire me this Memorial Day weekend. It felt appropriate, since we needn't reach any further back than yesterday to find three U.S. soldiers killed in combat. I honor those soldiers as much as veterans from WWI or Vietnam, but I can't help feeling we haven't learned nearly enough, as a nation or globally, to make the shift away from violence as a means of settling disputes. Yes, I know this is naive. But I'll be naive rather than cynical; hopeful rather than resigned; peaceful rather than combative for as long as I can remain so.

The fact that I own A New Earth started me thinking about how I decide what to read. I realized that I rely on a handful of friends who read voraciously and recommend books passionately. Book reviews don't move me to action and I don't pay attention to bestseller lists, although I generally know what "everyone is reading" the way some people know what everyone is wearing or where everyone is dining. But I will buy and read a book if Leslie, Justine, Jodi or Vicky clutch a hand to their heart and say, "You have to read this!" I have half a dozen or so beloved authors I follow, and I will sometimes make an impulsive purchase if I'm in a bookstore and something catches my eye. For the most part, however, my reading list is informed by my girls.

Word of mouth works for me as a reader. But as an author? Creating "buzz" is something that may forever elude me. And I wonder how the rest of you choose which books to cozy up with at night?

Back to work.

2009-05-23T13:37:00.000-07:00

No, I haven't gotten a job, but author Cheryl Strayed quoted an L.A. Times essay on facebook, which made me realize it's time to dust off the laptop and get back to writing. The quote? "Failure is commonplace in the career of a writer, and a second novel is the beginning of a writer's career." That sounds about right. I love Soft Landing, but that second novel isn't going to write itself while I sit around wringing my hands about disappointing sales. I can keep loving my first baby while nurturing my second. I need to get back to that creative place where I find myself totally absorbed turning ideas into beautiful words. That's when I'm happiest.

If Soft Landing finds an audience, fantastic. But I've pushed so hard, for so much longer than it took me to write the book. I want to remember the writing, which was such a joy, instead of the selling, which has left me feeling empty. The positive feedback I've gotten has meant so much to me, but it doesn't bring the same satisfaction as finishing a sentence, a paragraph, a chapter. So on to child number two, and that crazy balancing act that comes with writing, parenting, working (one hopes) and just living.

Real estate hangover.

2009-05-22T11:21:00.000-07:00

We had another set of buyers back out this week, which forced us to come to terms with the simple fact that we are never going to sell this house. Why? Because the neighbor might put in a driveway that would cozy up to the front yard and side of the house. We all know he won't do it — he split the cost with us of building a fence that sits smack dab in the middle of the easement; he built a lovely retaining wall in front; the current renters have planted a garden and decorated a backyard patio that would both disappear if a drive were put in. Problem is, not only can we not get him to express his intentions (or lack thereof), we can't even find him or get his lawyer to return phone calls.

There is nothing we can do. The initial letter that torpedoed our first sale was blatantly false, which the neighbor's lawyer conceded in writing. (The legal equivalent of saying, "I take it back.") No, the house will not have to be moved. And they are not actually doing anything wrong now, but they managed to open a can of worms. There's the easement; maybe they'll build a drive, maybe they won't.

Apparently buyers are wary about the unknown, so when they see that disclosure and read the explanation of the easement, they get all twitchy and imagine, I don't know, a driveway with an RV and a boat parked outside their living room window. Drive around Portland and you'll see similar scenarios everywhere (minus the RV and boat). Drive around Chicago and you'll see L tracks that run past someone's bedroom window. Ditto for any other crowded urban space. But I suppose nobody wants to deal with the uncertainty.

I've been trying to track down the owner, with no success. So I went back to the house the other day, hoping to catch the neighbors and beg them for his phone number so I could talk to him in person and make him take pity on me (my realtor asked me if I wore a low-cut shirt; I did not). But nobody was home next door, so I walked around inside our house, thinking how beautiful it is; it even still has new-house smell. The single reason I left was that I couldn't swing the mortgage. (I feel guilty typing that, as if I'm cheating on this house.) But here we are, STILL PAYING THE MORTGAGE. So my next hairbrained scheme involves finding a renter who will keep the place spotless, be willing to vacate for showings at a moment's notice and not object to the possibility of having to move out quite suddenly. Any Portlanders out there like the sound of that?

Pretty dog. If only she ate weeds instead of poo.

2009-05-20T21:59:00.001-07:00

Fashion misfire.

2009-05-20T21:53:00.000-07:00

If the front door is open, Grace will dash through it. Rarely, however, will she do so without first putting on shoes. I was a barefoot country girl, so I'm a little disappointed by this, but what can you do?

Note the loafers. Combined with the jammies, I couldn't help but laugh. I know she was thinking, "You take Brady out in your underwear, Mom."

L O S T

2009-05-18T21:37:00.000-07:00

I have achieved a whole new level of dream insanity. The basic premise is the same: senior year of high school, I realize I've forgotten to go to math class the entire year. I know I won't graduate, and I can't believe how stupid I've been. Now here's the twist (and Justine, the LOST connection is undeniable): I'm aware that I'm dreaming, that not only have I graduated from high school but college as well, but I'm worried that if I flunk out of high school in my dream, it will change my future in my waking life. So there's no comfort in knowing it's just a dream! (There's not much relief in waking up, either, considering I went through all that frickin' education and I'm still unemployed.)

I'm a big fan of a couple of things: knowledge and closure. Today I was all set to read Soft Landing's first official review on an online book review site. I thought I was prepared for anything, good, bad or just so-so. What I wasn't prepared for was... nothing. They reviewed a diet book instead. I emailed the woman who coordinates the whole enterprise, who invited me to submit my book, but I have yet to hear back from her. And I suppose there is a possibility that I never will, which will drive a little part of me slowly insane.

Which brings me to the whole dysfunction topic I mentioned a while back. I realize I'm not just afraid of losing people in my life I care about; I'm just as afraid of not knowing why. I understand that friendships ebb and flow, that, particularly at this age in our lives, people are focused on family and community, developing new interests and sometimes just lose touch. But sudden silence is different; it's a sign that a connection has been broken and needs to be fixed — in my mind, anyway. Not knowing what's gone wrong is frustrating, because I can't do anything about it. And if there ends up being an absence of closure, both present and future will change in ways I never expected. Is it worth all the worry? I think so, because the people in my life with whom I've made a connection, near and far, are important to me. But I tend to greatly exaggerate my own importance in the lives of others, so I come back to that voice from the past saying, "Nobody's thinking about you, honey." And it's not the comforting version.

Home improved.

2009-05-17T22:46:00.001-07:00

We've come full circle, in the front yard, anyway. We weeded, eliminated sickly plants, spruced up healthy ones, bought pretty new stuff and stuck it in the ground. Lavender, golden euonymous, barberry, and violas for now. I'm not sure what's in the hanging baskets, and we still have two flats of ground cover (deep blue Lobelia and delicate white Alyssum) to plant. Not to mention future projects: vegetables, herbs and Grace's giant raised flower bed in the back yard. But WOW this made a difference, in both appearance and morale. Turns out it's more fun than work spending the weekend outside with the family (Brady included) getting dirty, sunburned and scratched up. It was NOT fun unearthing a giant blob of gray slime in the front flower bed, which will forever remain a mystery. On a positive note, we found it before Brady did; it was one of the grossest things I've ever seen and therefore would have been an irresistible delicacy for our nitwit dog.

Speaking of crazy Brady, I was cleaning up outside yesterday and one minute she was standing in front of a raised bed looking perfectly innocent, and the next I looked over to find her curled up in a hole she must have dug in about twenty seconds. I may have mentioned this before, but Brady likes to bake herself in the sun until she is near death, then find a nice, shady patch of earth and bury herself. She must have been so pleased at how easy it was to scoop nice, loose soil from an empty bed. Me? Not so much.

Next up is Grace's flower garden. There is a huge raised bed in the back yard that's all ready to go — weed-free, lots of yummy compost (mmmm, bat guano) and peat added, just waiting for some roots to suck up all those nutrients. We even bought compost tea to make sure Grace's first foray into planting her own space is a success. Now we need to decide whether to plant the seeds properly or attempt to reenact the scene in The Secret Garden where Mary Lennox stands on the tree stump tossing seeds about with abandon. Maybe a bit of both.

Then we'll plant our edible garden, and I can't wait to see Grace eating beans and tomatoes off the vine, or pulling carrots and radishes out of the ground. This is how she first accepted vegetables as food — planting them, watching them grow and finally harvesting them at the farm her old daycare used to bring them to. Maybe we'll even try some sweet corn and salad greens. And chickens! Really, it might be worth it just to see the look on Brady's face, and to see how long it would take her to get into the coop.

Gittin' down and dirty.

2009-05-17T22:07:00.000-07:00

We spent lots of quality time with Mother Earth this weekend. Grace was not nearly as helpful as I thought she'd be, given her experience planting vegetables and fruits on day trips with her old school. Mostly she wanted to pick up dirt, rocks, watering cans or garden tools, then either throw them or put them in her mouth. Also, no matter how many times I insist plants are living things and that I can hear their screams when she rips off their leaves, she remains unconvinced. (I'm kind of glad she's not that gullible.) But it was good exercise running after Grace to keep her from inflicting serious harm on herself, us or the plants, and meanwhile Michael got the entire front bed planted. I suspect we irritated a few neighbors with Gigi's shrieking, Brady's barking at everything that moves and my yelling at both of them to BE QUIET FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!

I got Grace some of her own gardening tools so she would feel like a valuable member of the team (okay, I got them because they were cute). When I told her to go get her blue bucket, she disappeared, then came 'round the corner of the house like this. Swear to God.

Monkey see, monkey do.

Grace kept picking up dirt and sprinkling it on the plants. I asked her to stop but she informed me that the plants were hungry and she was feeding them.

I was not allowed to wear my hat. It looks way cuter on her, anyway.

Both were tuckered out after lunch, Grace from "planting weeds" and Brady from carrying out her duties as the compound's security detail.

Conflicted.

2009-05-14T23:26:00.000-07:00

"Mommy, I have to poop."
"Great! Let's go sit on the potty."
Into the bathroom, on the potty, I start to sing the potty song (Pink Martini's "Hold On Little Tomato").
"DON'T SING!" (Swings ducky at me.)
"Do you need to poop?"
"NO! I DON'T WANT TO POOP!"
(Brief silence while I rub my eyes until they almost bleed.) "Okay. Let's just sit here for a little — "
"SING!"
"The sun has left and forgotten me. It's dark, I cannot see..."
"The poop won't come out." Look of distress.
"But you didn't even push — "
"NO POOP TONIGHT!" Heavy sigh.
"Okay then. Let's brush your teeth."
"I DON'T WANT TO BRUSH MY TEETH!!!"

Believe it or not, after all the drama of preparing for bed, we have the sweetest routine that leaves me in tears almost every night. She puts on her pajamas, then sits with me in her rocking chair with her arms and legs wrapped around me while I rub her back and we whisper about the day. Then into her bed with a quick story, song, back tickle and kiss good night. As I leave the room she calls out, "Good night Mommy. I love you." And no matter what kind of day we've had, my heart practically pops out of my chest like a cartoon character.

Still, with the bad dreams.

2009-05-14T23:18:00.000-07:00

I thought maybe if I shared my kooky nightmares, they would go away, or at least calm down a bit. Instead, last night's dreams incorporated plane crashes and insects into the general confusion of high school. I'm hoping a day spent working in the garden will clear my nocturnal head, but Mr. B., if you're still out there and feeling wise, TELL ME WHAT I'M DOING WRONG. Don't worry — no one else seems to hesitate with their opinions.

Not quite making the grade.

2009-05-13T21:45:00.000-07:00

A while ago I blogged about a dream I had where a favorite high school teacher gave me some excellent advice about deciding what was important to me, which played out nicely in my real life. Lately I've been having recurring dreams that I'm trying out for something — choir, the hockey team (?), a play, gymnastics — and that same teacher is standing on the sidelines, shaking his head in disappointment. I keep telling myself, "Focus, Laurie, focus" (I was Laurie in high school), but I'm devastated by the look on his face and I know I won't be making the cut. (This scenario is, of course, sandwiched between not knowing which locker is mine, not being able to find my car in the parking lot and not remembering where my dorm room is, which doesn't make any sense because it's high school, not college, so why can't I just go home? But where is home?)

Generally speaking, my dreams are not terribly subtle, and this one doesn't exactly have me scratching my head. While I no longer struggle to identify what's important, I'm not sure I'm doing such a great job of maintaining focus. When so many things go wrong at once, I can't help but stop and wonder if it's me, if I'm letting myself be distracted by things that seem important now but are really just easier to pay attention to. Grace, family, friends, my writing — these are my priorities. But Grace is the only one getting the best part of me, to the detriment of everything else. I haven't seen my family in ages; ditto for most friends. I continue half-heartedly plugging my novel, when the reality is that I've done what I can for now. It's time to set aside Soft Landing and start actually writing again. Not blogging, not farting around on facebook or sharing my questionable journalistic talents on Allvoices, but continuing the second novel I started over a year ago and am truly passionate about.

I also have a renewed interest in gardening. At first blush this feels like another easy distraction, but it's something I can share with family and friends. (Grace is all about getting her hands dirty and planting things, thanks to her time at her old daycare; she's even learning to enjoy bugs as long as they are OUTSIDE and she understands the roles they play, according to Laurel's Insect Philosophy.) And there is something calming about weeding, pruning, watering and deciding what to plant that allows me to be present, but also to look forward in a good way. The nurturing part of me could definitely use some repair; I spent much of the last year protecting myself, but to what end? I'm feeling alienated (not part of the team) and somewhat lost (where's my math class?), so it might be time to get back to basics and FOCUS. Isn't there a pill for that?

I'm going to bed now. Sweet dreams to you (both of you), and to me.

Sick kiddo.

2009-05-11T22:49:00.000-07:00

The worst part about Grace being sick (like, barfing sick) is knowing how awful she feels and not being able to do anything about it. That, and the fact that she is heartbreakingly stoic. Also, since I can't bring myself to force her into the bath, I clean her up as best I can and then later, while she's watching "The Secret Garden" for the four hundredth time, she says, "I smell barf." We all smell barf, honey — IMAGINE POOR BRADY. (Who, while we're on the subject of vomit, recently got into the compost, came into the house and promptly threw up coffee grounds and egg shells. Good thing it's a rental.) Anyway, send healthy, stomach-settling vibes Gigi's way.

Learning the lingo.

2009-05-11T22:36:00.000-07:00

"I'm really tired, Mommy." With just the right whine and sigh combination, this translates into, "I'm going to throw up EVERYWHERE in a few minutes. But keep asking me if I'm gonna be sick and I'll keep saying no. And don't even think about bringing me anywhere near the bathroom." Poor noodle. It's so complicated being three.

Happy Mother's Day, I think.

2009-05-10T21:45:00.000-07:00

I'm fairly certain that nobody explained Mother's Day to Grace, or I can't imagine there would have been nearly as much shrieking and carrying on today. She's sick, so sick in fact that she let me put her hair in pigtails, so I'll cut her some slack. This year. (Brady was extra-special nice to me all day.)

This is Gigi, pretending to be me. Her exact words? "I'm working. Go away." Ouch.

Happy Mother's Day

2009-05-10T21:12:00.000-07:00

A couple of years ago my dad scanned a bunch of family photos for me, which must have taken forever. I love them, though, in part because I can trot them out on holidays like this to make a point. Today's point is that I remember my mom having two very distinct looks when I was growing up, and corresponding personality traits. Rather than transitioning over time from one to the other, however, she switched back and forth — effortlessly, it seemed — and to me this was terribly sophisticated. I loved them both, and still do.

This is the Joan Baez-singing, guitar-playing hippie mom, who later morphed into a hardy, horse-breaking country mom when we moved to rural Washington.

And this is the coiffed, red lipstick-wearing glamour mom that went to parties smelling oh-so-tastefully of Chanel N°5.

Believe it or not, this is progress.

2009-05-07T15:07:00.000-07:00

I can't believe Brady stayed put while I got the camera.

I wish I could say that Brady and Grace have a love/hate relationship, but there's precious little love going on. Usually, when Brady dares venture into Grace's room or near any of Grace's things, Grace gestures wildly and yells, "Go away Brady! Don't touch that! Mommy, SHE'S STEPPING ON MY BLANKET!" For some reason (possibly because I've begun comparing her to Colin in "The Secret Garden"), last night Grace relented and had a little fun with the canine creature. Brady may look miserable, but believe me, she's so happy to be getting attention, she allowed this to go on for quite a while, tolerating Grace feeling her forehead and pretending to give her medicine. (Grace has been sick, I've been sick, we've all been sick, so the taking and/or giving of medicine will be a part of Grace's playacting for weeks.)

Big ol' bucket of dysfunction.

2009-05-07T13:41:00.000-07:00

Lately I've been feeling out of sorts and out of sync with the world and just generally out of it. I was finally able to put a name to it thanks to J. Po, with whom I spoke into the wee hours last night. A big old bucket of dysfunction is what I am, and while a few of my friends are actively avoiding me, Jon Potter understood completely because we happen to be victims of the same kind of crazy. When stressed, we hunker down like cats hiding under the couch until a scary stranger leaves, and wonder what in the world we did to deserve this invasion.

When I had the financial luxury, I saw a shrink from time to time. (I figure if everyone could pay someone to listen to them bitch, there would be far fewer blogs.) He told me I viewed friendship as some sort of bank account, where I built up my balance by doing nice things for people. Then when I needed it, I felt less uncomfortable asking for help, because hey, look at all I've done for you. But friendship doesn't work that way, nor should it. For one thing, healthy people tend to live in the moment, and make decisions based on what's going on in their head now. Also, apparently the vast majority of people feel perfectly comfortable saying "no." The end result is that even though I've given a friend rides to the airport or babysat their child/cat/dog or thrown them a party or let them crash at my house or run errands when they were sick or offered to donate a kidney, I shouldn't ask a favor as though I'm asking for something in return, because it's just not fair. Friendship is a two-way street, but not something to be nurtured by keeping score. Duly noted.

I remember at the time what a glorious revelation this was. I let myself say no when I felt overwhelmed, and when someone said no to me, I didn't take it personally. I lost a couple of friends who didn't like this new arrangement; it didn't come as a surprise. Now, however, I realize I've been saying no to everything and pointing to the stress in my family's life as an excuse. I got away with it for a while, but I'm at a point where I need to pull my head out of my ass and take notice of something painfully clear: everyone is under stress. Suck it up and deal with it, Laurel.

A friend once told me that she had made a mistake at work and was lamenting to her boss that everyone would blame her. Her boss turned to her and said, "Honey, no one is thinking about you." I will never forget that. At times, when I'm feeling guilty for not calling someone in a while or worrying about a stupid remark I made, I hear those words and they are comforting. At other times, when I've stretched a relationship to the limit by pulling my little turtle head and tail under my shell and refusing to come out, I think of those words and they are terrifying. Most of my friends will cut me slack indefinitely; this is the favor I am asking and they are saying yes. But I'm afraid some will just stop trying, and it will be my loss.

So I am going to try to climb out of my bucket of dysfunction and get back out into the world. It's friggin' boring in here, anyway.