Cozying up to Chaos.

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.

Gotta teach that kid how to scrub toilets...

"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.

Grace's spaces.

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.

Discovery.

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.

The stuff that Brady's dreams are made of.

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.

Gittin' down and dirty.

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.

Home sweet home.

The house we're renting is the first I've lived in with any curb appeal. It may be tiny on the inside, but we have a huge front porch, a big brick patio in the back, and a fully fenced yard (front and back) so that Brady can reach top speed running all the way around the house. I suspect we'll be spending most of the summer outside.


Grace loves it out here until she sees a bug; then she runs screaming into the house.


Michael decided to give the beard a shot until he realized how gray it is. It's gone now.


This one's for you, Stinsons. Remember door shopping? I finally got one of these do-hickeys.

Out with the old.

I grew so tired of this faux-wood stapler pilfered from a Chicago ad agency almost twenty years ago. It depressed me. Guess where I got the sleek new one? Uh huh, STAPLES. What, like you've never been overcome by a bout of shallow consumeritis? I'm not embarrassed to admit, it brings a twinge of joy every time I use it. Is that so wrong?

Fashion over function, baby.

Here I am standing barefoot in front of one of the sinks in the master bath. Note how the top of the sink hits me precisely at boob level. I am five feet nuthin', and don't expect to tower over anything, but I have to stand on my tiptoes to wash my hands. I'll admit the bathroom is stylin', but it's not the most user-friendly place in the house for me. (It's a dream come true for John.) I'd need a step stool to wash my face. And Grace's bathroom sink? She'll need a ladder to brush her teeth, once she's ready to do that without one of us pinning her down and forcing her mouth open.

(For the record, I was wearing pants when I took this picture.)

Home improvement revisited.

Last time we moved, Grace was nine months old and I was still nursing her in the wee hours. I was TIRED, and it seemed to take forever to get the house in order, much less make it look pretty. This time one of the first things I tackled was hanging some art, because it's so sad to look at a bunch of naked walls. Speaking of naked, the next order of business is to cover the windows upstairs, because I do not want to subject my new neighbors to my pale, post-winter immodesty. (In our last home, the man across from us was gay, so I didn't much care, but I'll bet he installed those expensive shutters, not just out of good taste, but also so he wouldn't have to see my junk every time I went running from the shower to check on Grace.) So tonight I hung drapes in the bedroom and it was so much easier because of a couple of things:


The single most important tool my father insisted I must have, and for which I silently thank him every time I use them. Needle-nose pliers are perfect for everything from extracting a booger from Grace's nose to extracting a Phillips screw with a stripped head to extracting jewelry out of drains. If a girlfriend called and said, "I'm seeing this guy and he's a stallion in the sack, but he snores like a chainsaw," I would reply, "Do you have any needle-nose pliers?"


A gadget I mentioned in passing that Dad remembered on my last birthday: the LASER LEVER/STUD FINDER. This thing is so frickin' cool. Gone are the days when I say, "Gigi, give Mommy the level" and she stops chewing on the ancient plastic thingie I've been using for years to make sure everything is at right angles. (Yes, she knows what a level is; she is my daughter.)

So today happened. Feeling chatty.

The point of buying a "green" house, as I understand it, is to spend as much money as possible on a relatively small home, and to protect the environment in several ways: construction materials are renewable or recycled; alternative energy sources are used in the building process; the home is sealed up tight as a drum to conserve energy; and the place is virtually free of the dreaded VOCs (volatile organic compounds). I met the builder -- the man who actually built the house, as opposed to the developer, a job I'm pretty sure guarantees one an especially steamy place in hell -- and he assured me this was one of the tightest houses he had ever built. I could tell he took pride in his work; when I showed up unannounced he was sweeping the bamboo floors and cursing realtors for not taking their shoes off when they showed houses. He told me this was the first time he had met someone who would live in one of his homes, and he spent a while showing me the features that made this one exceptional. I loved him and wanted to give him a big hug of gratitude. So I ask you, HOW IS THIS TRAVESTY POSSIBLE? If I haven't mentioned it before, I hate ants in a way that makes me worry about my karma, causes me to ponder how many little ant lives I've taken and how I will pay for it in my next life. Maybe I'll come back as a developer during a real estate slump.


This one woke up at five this morning, which allowed me to see a spectacular sunrise from my bedroom window. But that friggin' sun just kept rising until it was mid-90s and, while not quite Chicago hot, it was still pretty miserable. You see, when you buy a green house and commit to "reducing your carbon footprint" (I have no idea what that means), you eschew air conditioning and feel superior to all those weaklings who value their own comfort more than the health of Mother Earth. I'm on the fence about this one. I can handle the heat, but Grace's and Brady's discomfort today made me wonder -- could a little AC do more damage than all the giant trucks crisscrossing the country so we can enjoy kiwi year-round? I'll do my bit, but it is SO TIME for the real threats to the environment to be acknowledged and addressed. Even if that means we can't have fresh pineapple in November.

Why wait?

My mom was telling me the other day that if they ever finished weeding, pruning, edging and basically detailing their huge yard, she could finally plant some flowers. Because I'm such a contrary little pisher, I said, "Why not just plant flowers now? Why does everything have to be perfect first?" That bit me in the ass, though, because I realized I do exactly the same thing. I almost never buy fresh-cut flowers unless my house is clean and in order. I like to think I run a pretty tight ship (a contractor once asked me if I'd been in the military), but it's rare for the ENTIRE house to be clean at once. So the other day I decided to live dangerously and indulge in some daisies, even though the house seems to have an endless supply of construction dust flying from every pore. Crazy, right? As far as I can tell, the world hasn't stopped spinning, and my windowsill looks pretty. Dusty, but pretty.

Grace is a big fan of fans.

And this one is worthy of her admiration, if you ask me. Hip, curvaceous and made of bamboo, of course.


It would be even better if we could figure out how to turn it on.

Is this normal?

Friday afternoon I picked up Grace from her first day at her new preschool. For starters, it's a miracle she got in. There was an unexpected opening, and they needed girls. (They don't anticipate any more openings until Summer '09.) And the school? Kid utopia. More on that later, but let me just say that Grace petted chickens.

We drove the four minutes home through our pretty new neighborhood to find our next door neighbor sitting on a blanket on her front lawn with her almost-nine-month-old daughter. We chatted for quite a while and hit if off. Not once did she ask me if I planned to pull some weeds or cut the grass. All night I kept reminding myself, This is how normal people behave.

Last night they had us over for cocktails and a barbecue. It was a beautiful night, and Grace made herself right at home, splashing in their fountain and then running around the backyard squealing. Splash, run, squeal; splash, run, squeal, until the front of her little summer dress was soaked. (She also saw one of the dogs rolling in the grass, and incorporated that into her routine.) I fed the baby while S. and D. prepared dinner, and then we all ate and drank until the sun went down and it was too cold to stay outside. Again, it had been so long since we enjoyed something as simple as a backyard barbecue with friends that I came home and lay in bed reminding myself that we had a life like this before we moved into the NEIGHBORHOOD FROM HELL. The only difference is that Grace is now part of it, and she adds a new dimension of wonder and joy to the simple pleasure of spending time with fun people.


I've been lazy with the camera, but here's the view from my office window. I had honestly forgotten the beauty of Portland's trees. I'm having a love affair, and it's with this totally cool city and its warm (yet equally cool) inhabitants.

Lovin' the new digs.

Here's the view from one of the windows in our master bedroom, facing east. Note the snow-capped mountains in the distance (way back there on the left, under the giant power lines). You know, I bet if they'd cut down those friggin' trees, we'd be able to see Mt. Hood.


And this is my favorite part of the entire house. The floor to ceiling mosaic tiles, combined with the simple shelf (which was left curved when cut from the log) -- I could curl up on the couch and stare at it for hours. Or minutes, anyway, if Grace is awake.

I can't believe I've lived without this.

I may have mentioned that one of the things that attracted us to the new house was its green status -- it was built using environmentally friendly materials, renewable energy, it's Energy Star Certified, etc. More on that later. But check THIS out.



I have no idea what this feature has to do with being green, but as if that weren't impressive enough, here is the decal instructing us on how to flush. I'm going to peel it off and label the buttons "#1" and "#2".

The Move: Days Three and Four

Sunday: We spent a good chunk of the day arranging furniture, rugs, lamps, etc., all the while pleading, "Move, Grady -- I mean Brace." (If that little voice in your head ever tells you something is probably too heavy for you to pick up, listen to it.) We didn't have a refrigerator yet, since that little detail got lost in the flurry of paperwork, packing and procrastination, so we were subsisting entirely on food from a HUGE gift basket from our friend and realtor, Deborah. Who knew Jelly Bellies could give you such energy? They should be their own food group.

At some point our doorbell rang, and a neighbor from down the street was waiting on our front porch with his adorable little girl and A PLATE OF CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES. John and I must have looked like idiots, standing there with our mouths hanging open, so I explained that our first encounter with our old neighbors had to do with the weeds in our garden. That is why this is one of the happiest pictures I have ever taken:



Monday: Very first thing in the morning, I dashed out to my car to look for something and locked myself out of the house. With Grace inside. At this point I had met the neighbors on either side of us, and they had yet to see me in anything other than pajamas or a combination of pajamas and street clothes. The guy to the south let me use his phone to call a locksmith, and the guy to the north suggested that if I was going to make a habit of this, I might consider giving one of them a spare. I hadn't had any coffee and hadn't showered since Saturday morning, and Grace was inside wailing (a little melodramatically, I think), unable to get off the couch and OPEN THE DOOR FOR MOMMY, but I kept my cool. The locksmith was there in ten minutes, and I so wish I had taken his picture. He looked like a combination of Dennis Leary and Keith Richards, dressed all in black, with a silver chain on his pants and lots of silver rings. His tools looked nothing like those of other locksmiths who have come to my rescue, and I got the distinct impression he had decided burglary was just too risky these days and he might as well go straight and get paid for breaking into people's homes.

Later I went to buy a refrigerator, which I was dreading because the opening left by the builders would require a smaller than average fridge. But here I learned an important lesson: the fewer options you have, the easier it is to make a decision. I settled on one in less time than I've taken to pick out wine. Seconds after I got home, the truck pulled up and voilà! Isn't she pretty? Now we can have our Jelly Bellies chilled.

The Move: Days One and Two

Friday: We were lucky enough to get into our new house a day before we had to vacate the old one. I spent the ENTIRE DAY cleaning every nook and cranny (construction dust -- ick), fixing leaky plumbing (freakin' plumbers) and generally loving every minute of being alone in our brand new, empty, totally awesome soon-to-be home.

Saturday: The movers arrived right on time (it's Portland, after all) and did a fantastic job loading everything we had packed. Emphasis on everything we had packed. For some reason I will never understand, I decided to save the kitchen for last so we wouldn't have to worry about packing everything carefully enough to withstand professionals handling it. We thought it made more sense to bring dishes, glasses, pots and pans, etc. in our cars and try not to hit any bumps. It's the "etc." that did me in, though. Long story short, I had finished packing leftover odds and ends upstairs and was just about done vacuuming when our buyer's realtor showed up. I had not even started on the kitchen, so imagine my reaction when he told me the new owner would be there in five minutes and they were having a party half an hour later. He helped me move everything from the kitchen to the garage and told me it would be cool if I just worked out there. As far as I'm concerned, he earned his commission then and there. But OH. MY. GOD. We have a LOT of stuff in our kitchen, some things I couldn't even put a name to. And all I had to work with were two big plastic bins and packing paper. I looked at the mountain of crap in the garage, called John (who was supervising the unloading at the new house) and said some things I'm not proud of. He showed up as the new owner was arriving and smoothed things over with her, then we spent HOURS haphazardly packing a ridiculous assortment of kitchen gadgets that we have no business even owning.

To make matters worse, there was still food in the fridge and a load of laundry in the dryer, so I had to join the party a few times to bag the food, clean beet juice from a produce bin (which looked like blood and totally freaked out a few guests, I think), and check on my clothes. Here's the beauty part, though: everyone was so nice. One man heard me mutter something about how I could use a snort of Jameson, and the next thing I knew I had a whiskey in my hand that tasted like Jameson but is apparently made in Pendleton. When I ventured inside, the new owner and her friends chatted with me about the house and what a great job we'd done with it, among other things. And one woman alerted me that I'd missed a drawer of stuff in the bathroom -- my glasses, contacts, toothbrush and toothpaste -- stuff I'd actually miss really soon. We ended the night hugging Barbara, the new owner, and having our picture taken together.

Grace spent the day with Julian and his parents, Justine and Steve. They went to the park, napped together (Grace and Julian) and when I called Justine to let her know we were finished, Grace was sound asleep for the night. Her first sleep over -- with a boy.


How cute are they?

I did NOT see this coming.

When we left our old house on Schuyler, I knew it would be awful. It was our first house, and we forged lifelong friendships and created countless fun, sad, hilarious, beautiful memories during the eight years we lived there. Dutchie died there. A few months later, Brady made herself at home there. We lived there when Grace was born. That's what did it, actually. I got tired of picking ants out of her hair when I was nursing her (gross), and the mouse poo in her bedroom closet was the final straw. But that last day, when I was cleaning the empty rooms, I cried -- no, sobbed -- the entire time I was there. I drove by today, and the garden I planted in front was in full bloom and beautiful. I thought, That's MY garden.

I never expected a twinge of anything other than pure joy leaving this place. But last night I was going through mountains of Grace's baby clothes to bring to a clothing exchange, trying to limit myself to one box of really, you know, meaningful pieces to keep. And suddenly I was having a panic attack and feeling weepy. We never connected with this community, and we've made more enemies than friends. Still, this is where I last nursed Grace. This is where she finally began walking at fourteen months, as if she'd been doing it forever (below). I remember thinking, when we took our first walk outside, her little hand in mine, I could die happy right now. She started talking here (and may never stop). Lots happens in two years when your baby becomes a toddler and then a little girl. Grace won't remember this place, but there are some things I will try to remember for her. I'll tell her about the ducks, geese, blue heron and egrets that make the Columbia Slough their home. I'll remind her of our summer walks, stopping to pick dandelions, collect pine cones and smell every flower. I'll leave out how the police shot and killed a neighbor last year just because he was waving a rifle at them. And we will NEVER AGAIN SPEAK OF THE HOMEOWNERS' ASSOCIATION.

(No, I don't know why I sound like I'm from Minnesota.)

You want me to what?

Grace's expression here captures perfectly how I feel about packing. Every time we move I swear it will be the last time, but I get bored quickly. Also, I knew when we moved into this house that I needn't unpack the barware, so at least that box is ready to go. It's not that we didn't like the neighborhood, it's just that we hated the neighborhood. Unfriendly, isolated and unique in its close proximity to both a correctional facility and a school for emotionally disturbed, violent adolescents. Oh, and the Air National Guard. I dig military pilots as much as the next middle-aged hausfrau, but their daily maneuvers rattle the house, and I'm not sure Brady can take much more stress. And then there's the homeowner's association and their rabid pursuit of perfection and homogeneity among the houses and yards. Basically it's everything Portland is NOT, which we probably should have figured out before we moved here. So although I don't like packing, and Grace will be no help whatsoever, I'll be whistling while I work.