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.)

Sorry about the underwear. Really.

This might be the most spectacular collection of bruises I have ever had. It looks as if someone took a length of rebar to me, but they are actually the result of switching file drawers from one cabinet to another and resting the drawers on my thigh in between. Clever girl. And this picture doesn't do them justice. They're so bad, they actually itch. Really, there's nothing quite as sexy as deep purple and green bruises on winter white thighs, right?

Happy Father's Day!

I seem unable to get a card to my father on time for anything lately. He's just too forgiving -- I know he'll love me no matter how scattered or self absorbed I am. Of course, that's why he's the perfect dad. Here are a few pictures I love from back in the day.


On patrol on the Nathan Hale in 1965, with facial hair no less. I thought that was illegal or something.


I love how my brother Ed is looking at me like he's pretty sure I have completely ruined his life.


If I were my dad here, I'd be hoping my angel had an empty bladder.

I see the future and I'm very afraid.

Grace climbed into bed with me the other morning, which is preferable to me having to get up, so I let her watch a little Sesame Street. She kicked back like she'd been doing this every morning for years, and of course she looked so cute I jumped up to get the camera (which sort of blew the luxury of being able to stay in bed). So one minute I'm thinking she looks so adorable, and in the blink of an eye my brain projects forward to teenage Grace, lounging in bed watching TV with a soda (diet) in one hand and a bag of chips in the other. But I can't imagine her teenage vocabulary, so I picture her tossing aside the empty bag of chips and demanding, "More chips." I'd stare at her until she gave me a surly, "PLEASE."

A lot of alliteration for anxious anchors placed in powerful positions.

(Name the movie.)

I had dinner with friends tonight at Lolo, a tapas place on Alberta. We spent most of our time breathlessly anticipating the return of Ella, of course, but we also talked about our kids and concluded that because of them our four food groups have been reduced to the following: caffeine, salty carbs, sweet carbs and cocktails.




Sort of like the four C's of diamond quality: carat, cut, clarity and color. Or the six P's of preparation: prior proper planning prevents poor performance. But you know all of these. Who doesn't?

It's going to happen.

These are the exactly sixty rejections I have received from agents regarding my novel. I was going to spread them out on the floor or a wall for impact, but that seemed defeatist and doesn't reflect my state of mind. I'm proud of how hard I've worked to get rejected so many times. I wrote a book. That was the easy part. Then I figured out how to seek representation, which, it turns out, is much more difficult. But I haven't taken any shortcuts. I haven't let myself succumb to the humiliation of being so roundly and consistently turned down (much). I keep querying, and more important, I keep hoping.

I sputtered back to life yesterday after more than a week of being sick, and while I cleaned the kitchen, did laundry, scoured the bathroom and hung some blinds, I couldn't shake the feeling that something good is going to happen soon with my novel. I'm putting it out there, and I hope you'll join me in my (uncharacteristic) optimism. If you're willing, perform whatever personal ritual you do to help a friend: say a prayer, light a candle, talk to the spirit, raise a toast or just send positive thoughts my way (and toward New York). Or go to your local bookstore and ask if they have Soft Landing by Laurel... SOMEONE... in stock, and have all your friends do the same. (I learned in business school they call this "pull through" vs. "push through" marketing. WHY DO I REMEMBER THAT?) Even a supportive comment here will get you an autographed copy. That's what a good mood I'm in.

Salmonella. Not nearly as fun as Salman Rushdie.

And I hear he can be a real stitch after one too many vodka gimlets. Honestly? I wouldn't recommend it.

Too much information, clearly.

File yesterday's contribution under "Laurel sharing a bit more than necessary while whacked out on Vicodin," unless you are a fan of other people's tedious medical experiences. And Happy Birthday, Dad!

Morphine, Dilaudid and Zofran, oh my!

That was the drug cocktail I got in the ER this morning to stop the barfing and the cramping, which I swear was worse than labor. And a saline chaser for dehydration. It was delightful. Even though I got stuck with a paramedic trainee who took about twenty minutes to start my IV, the people who made me feel better were, once the drugs kicked in, my very favorite people in the world, which I told them repeatedly. This friggin' virus kicked my sorry ass. It's because of all the ants I've been killing, isn't it?

My tummy, she is sick.

This is pretty much how I looked all day today, except I was in more of a fetal position, and either in bed or on the bathroom floor. I don't know if it was the sushi platter a couple days ago or this stomach virus going around, but DEAR GOD I felt like crap (pun intended). I love my mother and Leslie for listening to me complain about my condition ALL DAY LONG and never letting on that they were bored. Grace didn't seem too concerned, but she did cover me with a blanket while I laid on the floor and watched her unload the contents of the bathroom cabinets. And I don't think she hit me once today.

Our great outdoors

Today I did something I haven't done in years. I donned a bikini and laid in the sun. It was that beautiful out, and I am that stupid. Having a back yard again seems to be inducing all sorts of crazy behavior.


Here is Grace after I pointed out that she was possibly as smart as Brady, chewing on bark mulch. It wasn't my sarcasm that made her look this way; she laughed at me. It was just that once she took a bite, there it was in her mouth and what was she to do now?


Grace was so upset by how long it took to grill the burgers (eight minutes?) that she threw herself to the ground and feigned unconsciousness. John made the best burgers I've tasted in a while, but Gigi was spoiled by a Burgerville experience with a friend a while ago, and thought the best part of this meal was the mustard. Ugh.

Still, what a perfect Friday night.

I should sleep so soundly.

Yes, I crept into Grace's room and took a picture of her while she slept. WITH A FLASH. She didn't stir. I'll probably be doing this well into her teens.

Memorial Day

This is one of my favorite pictures of my father, receiving the Good Conduct Medal, which he makes light of but which I believe is remarkable. He is so young, yet he has such a world-weary look about him. My father was in the Navy during the Vietnam war, an electrical engineer on a nuclear submarine. He was nineteen when he enlisted, and during the next seven years he met and married my mother, my brother was born, and my father's service was involuntarily extended for a year. He was on patrol three months at a time, and my mom took care of my newborn brother in South Carolina, where they were stationed, and where she had neither family nor friends. They never complain about this time in their lives; in fact, they both speak of it fondly. I cannot overstate my admiration for their stoicism. (I inherited none of that. I think it skips a generation, like twins or baldness.)

My father sometimes calls me a pinko, commie, tree-hugging liberal, and I'm okay with that. We spar politically, but I always know he sacrificed far more than I ever will for our country's ideals. Still, I ache for those families who have lost loved ones, temporarily or permanently, to wars waged in the name of oil or vengeance. I may be naive, but I find it incomprehensible that we still address our differences by killing one another. Nonetheless, I admire and am grateful to those who risk their lives for principles with which they may not agree. Yes, I know, this topic is a bit complicated for my little blog, but let me share one fantasy: any acting President who decides war is necessary must select one member of their immediate family to report to active duty; two if it's a "preemptive strike." Can you imagine if Dubya had to send the twins to the Green Zone in Baghdad?

Brave little bugger

Most dogs are probably rattled by thunder, fireworks, gunfire and, of course, low-flying military jets. I was so happy when Dutchie was finally deaf enough to be oblivious on the Fourth of July, because she endured WAY more than her share of thunderstorms living in Chicago for eight years. Brady, however, is truly terrified of loud noises. I never knew a dog's tongue could hang so far out of their mouth or that their eyes could become so red. Last night we had a pretty bad thunderstorm, unusual for Portland, and Brady was a mess. But what breaks my heart and makes me love her so much, even though she eats cat poo and dead birds, is that she doesn't hide -- she becomes protective. One Fourth of July when I was about fourteen months pregnant, I stormed downstairs and out of the house to glare at some kids lighting firecrackers on our street, and Brady stuck to me like glue and tried to squeeze out the front door with me. Even though I was heading toward the noise, she would have gone with me. Last night, she positioned herself in front of Grace's bedroom door. How can I not just want to squeeze her until she pops?

Can we go to school today?

This is how upset Grace is NOT when I drop her at preschool. In this shot, I'm telling her I love her and trying to get her to acknowledge the fact that I'm leaving by saying, "Bye bye, Mommy" or at least looking at me. But she's clearly moved on, deeply engrossed in which spectacularly cool toy to play with first. I can't compete with this place. We don't have chickens; we don't have a collection of costumes from which to choose; we don't have an endless supply of baby dolls that she can undress and ask, "Are you poopy?" When I pick her up, she must be among the last to leave, and I try to enlist the help of another mom or dad with a child equally reluctant to abandon this paradise. We say something like, "Hey, Grace and Jack, why don't you hold hands and walk out together?" It's worked so far, but it's only a matter of time before she catches on. This morning, Saturday, the first thing she asked was, "Are we going to school today?"

I'm having a time out.

This morning Grace woke up around 6:00, babbled happily to her crib full of animals for about half an hour and then started calling for Mommy. I went into her room and said, "Hey, buttercup!" and leaned on the front of her crib. She looked at me and demanded, "I want macaroni!" I laughed and said, "For breakfast?" and she smacked me in the face with her ducky. I turned around, closed the door behind me and now I'm sitting here listening to her cry. If you have any suggestions on how to get my sweet little angel to stop hitting me in the face, please share. Because I DON'T LIKE IT.

Looks like we got a pooper!

Yup, Brady's snout is right up Grace's skirt, and for good reason. Nuff said.

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.

Are we what we eat?

My food fantasy: Grace and I walk hand in hand each day to New Seasons to see what's fresh that I might transform into a healthy, tasty dinner. (Yes, I know I should go to the farmers' market, but that involves getting up early on a Saturday morning and jostling through a crush of neo-hippies with babies in slings and dogs in tow. That is so not my scene, man.) I used to plan dinner parties that required hours, even days, of preparation and were intended to impress more than anything. I think I achieved near perfection once, with a truly delicious meal that went off without a hitch. It was an empty victory. I think the women (whom I didn't know well) regarded me as a bit of a nut job, and had they not been so cool, they probably would have figured I was just showing off. (I'm glad they didn't hold it against me, because we became good friends.) Anyway, one night we had a couple of neighbors over, spur of the moment. I pan seared some nice steaks, and someone made mashed potatoes and someone else sauteed some spinach and we opened a bottle of yummy wine and sat down to eat. It was so casual and easy, and after a few minutes, J. Po grinned and said, "I'm so happy right now." Now THAT was perfect. I still like to cook occasionally, and I love going out, but sometimes it feels like such an effort to get enough food into my body each day. (I blame Grace, because when I was nursing it really was almost impossible to keep myself fed adequately, and now I have to make sure SHE doesn't starve, or end up with scurvy.)


My food reality: this is as close as I've come to a "food pill." And you know what? Grace loves these.

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.

Did I ever tell you about my purple heart?

Grace made this at pre-school for Mother's Day. Again, I may be biased, but I think she's showing some real artistic inclinations. It made me cry.


Here is the castle-like abode where such budding genius is nurtured. Today Grace got to pet baby chicks that hatched just yesterday. I cannot exaggerate how much she DID NOT want to come home with me. I don't blame her.

Should we go to the park, Mommy?

She asks this in all earnestness, even though it's rainy and cold. The "should we" cracks me up. Actually, we probably should just bundle up and go. We're both a little stir crazy.

Happy Mother's Day!

These are some of my favorite pictures of my mom, then and now. Thanks for putting up with me (then and now). I love you, Mom.


My brother Ed's first steps at my grandparents' house in Connecticut.


Always a beach lover.


Looking like quite the movie star.


Looking like quite the happy grandma.


Another generation of beachcombers!

Yard yard yard yard YARD!

For a few years after we adopted Brady, she had the run of the house, a big backyard, and almost daily trips to the dog park, usually with canine friends. Then along came Grace, and as if that weren't insult enough, we moved to a house with no yard. She was a good sport about it, but I'm sure she wondered why things had gone so horribly awry. Today Mick and Brian finished fencing in our new little backyard, and Brady finally got to run free in her very own space. She gets cruising pretty fast, and it was obvious she wasn't familiar with the perimeter, because she ran into the fence a few times. But boy, oh boy, was she a happy camper.

What goes through her head with life's various ups and downs? Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and can't go back to sleep, so I snuggle and pet her until she's a furry puddle of contentment. These moments must seem so random, I imagine her wondering, "What did I do to deserve this? What did I do?"

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.

Life is good.

"Gigi?"
A brief glance in my direction.
"I love you."
"Yuvs you too, Mommy."

It's all worth it.

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.)

What mid-life crisis?

This is my late dog, Dutchie. I adopted her when I was a junior in college and loved her like crazy for fifteen years. The day we put her to sleep was, to date, the worst day of my life. I miss her.

I've been swimming in nostalgia lately, dreaming a lot about high school and college and the indignities of those awkward years. I've been thinking about the person I was and the person I expected to become, and trying to reconcile both with who I am now. I've been making some clumsy efforts to reconnect with people from my past, I suppose hoping to find some objectivity, a lens without any filters of cynicism or disappointment. I think the changes going on in my life right now are forcing me to look back in order to move forward. I'd like to think I'm on the right track, that I'm continuing my journey to be a better person. Maybe I'll know once I'm not stuck in neutral, spinning my wheels and waiting for my real life to start.

Not too great at picking my battles.

If you're anything like me (and I hope for your sake you're not), you'll see this picture and wonder, "Who put together that train wreck of an outfit?" I really expected Grace to be three, maybe four before she cared about what she wore, but we've been... negotiating about clothing for quite some time now. Today she was still in her jammies at nap time (NOT my call), but she'd gotten jam all over them at lunch and I had to change her, you know, so the ants wouldn't get her while she slept. I let her pick out her shorts, figuring she'd go next for her favorite orange t-shirt that's too big for her because she knows I think it's too big for her. But she wanted this one. I pretended to misunderstand her and pulled out a solid pink shirt, but she started wailing as if I were trying to pull a shirt of thorns over her head. So I said, "Grace, what difference does it make? You're going to be napping!" I wish I could say she looked me square in the eye and replied, "EXACTLY." But that little voice was in my own head. So I put this shirt on her, and I felt like we both understood what just happened as I put her in her crib.

If you're normal, you're perhaps wondering why she's climbing from couch to couch like a dog. And the obvious answer there is that this is how Brady does it. At least she's not barking.

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.

And then there were two.

The two literary agents who requested partials of my novel have bowed out, which leaves two who are considering the full manuscript. I'm becoming less sensitive to rejection, but what kills me is when an agent chooses to forego the form letter in favor of a personalized note extolling all that is good about my writing, characters, story, etc. -- then informs me my project is "not right for them at this time". This "It's not you, it's me" explanation is frustrating, because what I really need is feedback on what might make the novel more appealing to them. I suspect it's the genre, which means I'm screwed unless I want to transport the story to 18th century Poland, or the planet Erusserp a hundred years in the future, because that's what sells. Stupid readers.