The organization has decided to make a change.

I lost my Perfect Job after less than a month, before the end of my probationary period. I was assured it WAS performance related, that I wasn't demonstrating the necessary skill level or ability to learn quickly. Problem is, I thought I was doing good work and learning an arseload, particularly considering the fact that I was receiving no training. Then two days before Thanksgiving — SURPRISE! It was utterly demoralizing; I was furious, and barely made it to my car before I burst into tears.

I was so proud to have landed that job, and I loved everything about it: the people, the work, the old building, the free coffee, even my little cubicle. I have never been fired before; every employer I've left has made it clear I was welcome back any time. (Wait, in college I was fired from a job as a cocktail waitress; I truly sucked at it and was so relieved that I laughed and asked if I had to finish my shift.) The only thorn in my side was my balloon head of a boss, who made inappropriate remarks about my weight ("Go eat something. That anorexic look isn't working for you."), stood too close, smelled gross and was universally loathed by his colleagues. I clearly did not show him the level of submissive respect he needed to maintain his arrogant belief that he was the smartest person in the office, that we were all morons because we were Democrats. Yes, on a few occasions I told him to go away when he was annoying me, and once I told him to fuck off when he said something especially snarky, but I did so in the nicest possible way. I'm not sure what his real reasons were for cutting me loose so abruptly, but they haven't yet replaced me. This means I was such dead weight that he would rather have NOBODY than pay me to work. Did I mention how demoralizing this is?

So I'm back to freelancing and looking for a job, which is a real hoot during a holiday recession. And now that I've gotten that off my chest, I'll resume blogging about my usual litany of complaints and unexpected triumphs. I've missed you all.

Hiatus

I haven't posted lately because my home computer is in intensive care, and I don't feel comfortable blogging at work. The culprit is the hard drive, which will undergo a transplant. All of my files, however, are permanenty lost to amnesia. Photos. Videos. My address book. My novel. And even though I'm a computer geek, I do not back up regularly, and it's been a while. I've got a rental so I can still access the internet, but it's just not the same, you know? First my camera and now my computer; I think it's a sign I should take a break for a while.

Enough with politics, let's get back to MY world.

My mom sent these pictures when they returned home from the coast. (They don't have an internet connection there — can you imagine the hardship I endure not being able to check email?) This particular pair struck me as a great metaphor for the last six months. There we are in the first one, chilling and enjoying the moment, dimly aware that the ocean (life) can be a capricious bitch, not particularly feeling in the crosshairs, but flirting with danger (big change) with no plan to handle potential crises. Then we're scrambling to outrun the predicament I put us in, still unaware of how much worse things would get before they got better. A picture of my mother hugging me while I cried would be too literal. And I don't know what image might represent Grace and me now. I know we would look less complacent than in the first picture and less terrified than in the second. I hope I'm not naive, assuming the worst is over, and that our work now is to be thankful, optimistic and, of course, more regular, gastro-intestinally speaking. A friend told me I need to "get used to a new normal," which is apparently a longer process than I would like. I still sometimes wake up and think John is next to me, or I look at my watch and think he'll be home from work any minute. But those moments are fading, being replace by experiences that comprise our new normal. And it's not so bad.

Splish splash

My friend Justine used to frequently encourage me to take baths with Grace. Every time, I told her I was a shower girl, not a bath person, and she insisted I was missing out on a wonderful bonding opportunity. Grace has such thick hair I have to dunk her back into the water to get it wet, then repeat the same maneuver to rinse out the shampoo. After our involuntary swim at the coast, however, Grace was becoming increasingly freaked out at bath time, and The Dunk will probably never again be possible. Last night I thought she might relax a little if I climbed in with her, and I will say this, Justine: I was wrong. We had a grand bubble bath together, and I even managed to shave my legs for a change. Gigi still went completely rigid when I tried to tip her head back into the water, so I used her princess cup to pour water over her hair instead. She didn't care for that either, so I let her do the same to me, then I made an enormous display of sputtering and coughing, which she found hilarious and wanted to do over and over. (She's an easy audience.) When we were done soaking in our own filth (I still don't get baths, other than as an excuse to get naked with someone, you know, closer to my own age and preferably male), I turned on the shower while the water drained, and Grace squealed like she was running through a sprinkler on a hot day. We had fun, we bonded and while we were toweling off, Grace made the astute observation, "Mommy, I don't have boobies." Not yet, noodle, but you've got good genes.

Here's one from the archives, when every bath was an adventure. Watching it made me cry.

Where did I leave off?

Right, the opportunity to witness and be part of a huge milestone in American history, yada yada yada. Whenever I travel to other countries, I'm always acutely aware and self-conscious of the "ugly American" stereotype. When I was on sabbatical in Guatemala and Costa Rica, like, a hundred years ago, I remember having a brutally frank conversation with a group of European (German, Danish, British) friends we hung out with about the world's perception of Americans, and it was humbling. They were right on several fronts: we were, for the most part, monolingual, geographically ignorant, somewhat politically uninformed, blissfully carefree consumers. No, we're not all loud, rude, overfed, materialistic boors who wear dark socks with shorts and tennis shoes, but there is a certain sense of entitlement that comes with being born American, not pride but something darker, an inherent arrogance that is difficult to shed or to hide (and was certainly a turnoff to that cute British dude). I was in Italy several weeks after 9/11, and was completely caught off guard by the sympathy and graciousness offered by almost everyone we met, because it was so out of the ordinary. So the idea that the world is watching and celebrating how we've opened ourselves up to change gives me hope that someday we won't be the bully on the global playground, or even the most popular (too exclusive), but that we'll be the smart, friendly country that happens to have more than its fair share, but does its best to get along with and to help others, and maybe every now and then helps break up a fight when it gets out of hand. Yes, a HUGE oversimplification, but try for just a moment to channel John Lennon and Imagine. Goose bumps.

On the home front, however, it turns out getting along is easier said than done. The Perfect Roommate and I had an argument, and despite our six-month rental agreement, she immediately decided she couldn't live in a home where "the energy is so negative." Initially I was bummed, but I realized her presence, while a novel distraction, brought a level of chaos that made it hard for me to relax or get anything done. Also, Boo bit Grace in the face — twice — which was totally uncool. Nothing serious, but picture Gigi bending over to pet Boo and tell him she loves him only to have him nip her. It was heartbreaking. (I wanted to beat the shit out of that stupid fucking dog — is that wrong?) So they have moved on to what will be their fourth rental in two months, and the last three days have been so peaceful with just Grace and me here, I suspect I was avoiding being alone when what I really need is to be alone, for a while anyway. Grace and I get into a groove when it's just the two of us (and Brady), and I need to give her as much of me as I can now that she's at school five days a week.

Which brings me to Grace's super cool new school and my ridiculously awesome new job. (I won't use the word "perfect" for fear on jinxing either situation.) But those will have to wait, because it's late and I am a working mom, after all.

The last pictures my camera will ever take.

My poor camera coughed up enough of the Pacific that I was able to download the pictures I took before The Disaster.


We're on our way to the beach, a beautiful walk through the dunes that puts a spring in even Max's step. My dad takes him for long walks every day to help loosen up Max's joints, and to sneak a smoke.


I don't have nearly enough pictures of Grace with my father, which is too bad because aren't they sweet together? Also, she looked exactly like him when she was born, and still has his blue eyes.


Happy, and oblivious.


Take a good, long look, Gigi, because you won't be back there FOR A LONG, LONG TIME.

Where did I leave off?

Right, the opportunity to witness and be part of a huge milestone in American history, yada yada yada. Whenever I travel to other countries, I'm always acutely aware and self-conscious of the "ugly American" stereotype. When I was on sabbatical in Guatemala and Costa Rica, like, a hundred years ago, I remember having a brutally frank conversation with a group of European (German, Danish, British) friends we hung out with about the world's perception of Americans, and it was humbling. They were right on several fronts: we were, for the most part, monolingual, geographically ignorant, somewhat politically uninformed, blissfully carefree consumers. No, we're not all loud, rude, overfed, materialistic boors who wear dark socks with shorts and tennis shoes, but there is a certain sense of entitlement that comes with being born American, not pride but something darker, an inherent arrogance that is difficult to shed or to hide (and was certainly a turnoff to that cute British dude). I was in Italy several weeks after 9/11, and was completely caught off guard by the sympathy and graciousness offered by almost everyone we met, because it was so out of the ordinary. So the idea that the world is watching and celebrating how we've opened ourselves up to change gives me hope that someday we won't be the bully on the global playground, or even the most popular (too exclusive), but that we'll be the smart, friendly country that happens to have more than its fair share, but does its best to get along with and to help others, and maybe every now and then helps break up a fight when it gets out of hand. Yes, a HUGE oversimplification, but try for just a moment to channel John Lennon and Imagine. Goose bumps.

From chaos, order.

This last week has brought so many changes, personally, locally, nationally and globally. It's no big secret that the election results please me, to put it mildly. Over a year ago, I remarked to a friend that if the Democratic party had its shit together, they would find a moderate liberal, someone inoffensive with whom those crazy swing voters couldn't possibly find fault, someone who simply offered an alternative to the eight-year nightmare we'd been through. I was positive America wasn't ready for a woman or a black man as President. I'm so happy to have been wrong. And while I couldn't be more cynical about politicians, listening to Barack Obama inspires hope, respect, awe and never fails to give me goose bumps. He is a great man, and I hope his potential isn't derailed by partisan bullshit, because he could be a great President.

The vibe in Portland is palpable. Strangely, yesterday reminded me of the day after 9/11; there was a sense of unity and patriotism, yet fear was replaced by hope; grief and anger by joy and excitement. While the country remains deeply divided (my boss is a Republican, and I think he believes all Democrats are stupid), the suspicions, accusations and furor that lingered after the last two elections are conspicuous in their absence, which makes me hope that McCain supporters are disappointed but not outraged, and that there is a chance for real change in the dynamic between parties. Also, I can't help but note one possible interpretation of this campaign: ageism trumped sexism and racism. That seems fair; we all get old.

More later. Gotta go to work!

Mama lion.

I took some great pictures of our time at the beach, but my camera drowned when Grace and I were caught off guard by a wave. We were running from it, and I was thinking, "Shit, we're gonna get wet." Then the water hit us and it was all I could do to hold onto Grace by one hand. I kept hoping her shoulder wouldn't dislocate, and then the sand under my feet disappeared and I fell. I stopped worrying about her shoulder then and tried to keep her head above water, but we went under a couple times before my SIXTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD MOTHER came to our rescue. She charged without a second thought into that goddamn ocean and hauled us both upright, carried Grace to my brother and father, and then came back to where I was paralyzed and hugged me while I had a complete emotional breakdown.

Grace's version of events? "Um, the water came and Mommy held me and water got in my mouth but I didn't breathe because I'm not a fish." All that time in the bathtub, trying to breathe underwater, I thought she was trying to drive me crazy. But she was just learning how to stay alive.

My lifelong dream of working in a cubicle has been realized.

If you happen to know a single mom who gets up in the dark; cleans, dresses and feeds herself and her kid(s); drops them at school; races to put in a nine hour work day; races to pick up her kid(s) from school; runs a couple of errands on the way home; makes dinner; and tries to make it to bedtime without inadvertently teaching a new swear word, do me a favor. Next time you see her, give her a big bear hug, then hold her by the shoulders (so she can't get away — she's in a hurry) and tell her, "You are a superhero." If she acts like it's no big deal, please give her my email address so she can tell me her secret.

My first day at work was unremarkable, a little boring actually, the way jobs are when you have to fill out paperwork, meet coworkers whose names you forget immediately, and begin training for work you hope you will eventually do well and enjoy. I'm beginning to realize how much I have to learn, both about the underlying software and the application the company develops. Also, I had to set up my own computer and install software, which I thought was a little rude. Yes, I know how, but that's not much of a "welcome aboard!" The highlight of my day came when I was installing something and the computer kept rejecting my password. My boss said, "You already messed up your computer's main password? Great impression." A few minutes later he realized he hadn't yet set up a password for me to change — his bad — so I said, "Huh. Great impression." He hadn't hurt my feelings; it's just that I love being right and completely ungracious about it.

It wasn't the job that was so crazy; it was the racing around that bookended a day of sitting on my ass missing Grace and dealing with tedium. Being bored is WAY worse than being busy, particularly when you know that in five, four, three, two minutes you'll have to go from zero to sixty in ten seconds and shift gears from staring at a computer monitor (a quiet computer monitor) to dealing with a toddler who recharges with activity, like a car battery running, and who, by the end of the night, is literally spinning out of control.

I know, bitch, bitch, bitch. I have a wonderful daughter and a job.

I seem to have lost my pluck.

Yesterday was our 14th wedding anniversary, and I chose to write about what I hope to find, rather than dwell on what I'm losing. I made that decision because the two aren't very similar, not because John isn't a great guy, but because I pushed too hard for something that just wasn't in the cards, I think. Also, I'm trying hard to look forward, stay positive and focus on what's important. Tonight my brother Ed, Grace and I will drive to visit my parents at the coast, and Monday I will start my job. This will be my last chance to be with family (the people who HAVE TO love me), and lick my wounds before my new life starts. So I'm sort of bugging out and I feel like crying. Should be an interesting car ride for Ed.

Still growing.

About a month ago, I realized Grace had outgrown all of her clothes, including shoes, in what seemed like a few days. I hit the mall and did the best I could, and she seems okay with what I picked out. We still tussle over actual outfits, however, mostly due to the change in weather. She wants to pair a flowered tank with plaid shorts and Crocs when it's fifty degrees and raining, insisting she'll be fine with her rain coat and orange fishing hat. And sunglasses. I've tried asking her to pick out a pair of pants — no, not SHORTS, not a SKORT, PANTS — and then I give her a choice of tops that I think match. It almost never works. She will dig to the bottom of her shirt drawer and pull out the most ridiculously wrong thing, then fight like crazy to put it on, "...ALL BY MYSELF!" This is going to be so much fun when I start my job.

Someone to watch over me.

This shot of Brady pretty much captures my mood today: kinda forlorn but hopeful, in need of a hug, tail at half mast, down but definitely not out. I've noticed that when Brady and Boo lie together, they always position themselves butt-to-butt. That's a pretty trusting behavior for dogs, I think; it's as if they're looking out for each other. I'll always believe that it's better to be alone than to be with someone and be lonely, but I don't really want to be alone, either. Maybe that's what all my recent blogginess has been about — when something happens to me, I don't feel I've fully experienced it until I've shared it with someone. But it has to be with someone who cares. I crave that feeling right now. I'm not yet alone and not particularly lonely, but I imagine how beautiful it must be to have one person in your life whom you can trust to care about you and watch out for you. I don't need a man to put me on a pedestal or put my needs before his own, but I long for the security that comes with knowing that someone's got my back. One person, always. How could I ask for more? I suppose integrity is crucial. Intelligence and a sense of humor would be nice. And if he happened to look like George Clooney...

Of course, let's not forget that crazy something two people do when they're feeling especially fond of each other. Maybe I'm reading too much into the dogs' body language. Maybe Brady just likes to rub her butt against Boo's balls. And who can blame him for not resisting? She's a hottie, even at four times his age.

P-L-U-C-K.

I received this card today from Vicky, one of my very favorite people in the world. I made the mistake of opening it while waiting for my follow-up ultrasound, and everyone in that waiting room must have been wondering what was wrong with the poor, scrawny woman weeping in the corner. THIS is the kind of energy I need to tap into. No more curling up in bed feeling sorry for myself. I'm a forty-one-year-old woman with a fantastic daughter, wonderful family and friends, a roof over my head, a new job and countless new people and adventures awaiting me out there. All this time I've been complaining, when in reality, I believe I may be one of the luckiest people I know. There's nothing wrong with being apprehensive, but I need to keep reminding myself that courage is not the absence of fear; rather, it's the ability to face and overcome fear. I'm determined to teach that to Grace, although I have a feeling she is more likely to set that example for me. Thank you so much, Vic, for the beautiful sentiments.

Speaking of Gigi, we were lucky enough to find a fantastic daycare that happened to have space available the two days we need. They usually don't offer just two days a week, but made an exception. This is an item I can check off my list with enthusiasm rather than resignation, and one more reason to feel fortunate that the pieces of this crazy puzzle are falling into place. Note to self: allow optimism to kick fear's ass.

Boo's balls.

I wasn't the slightest bit surprised when Brady welcomed Boo into our home without a hint of territorial behavior (she's usually a marker, very tomboyish of her). I'll give you a hint: check out the bottom left corner, above. Yup, he's intact, and Brady has always been partial to a real man. I don't remember if I've mentioned it, but when an unneutered male makes an appearance at the dog park, Brady becomes a completely different dog, prancing, wagging and doing flirty little body slams. It is embarrassing, really, and hard to watch if her affections aren't reciprocated. But now she has this stud muffin to share sunny spots on the bed with. I wonder what they do when we're not home.

A little misplaced frustration.

Brady is enormously pissed off that she has not yet made an appearance on this website, but that seems to be her sole complaint. There is the confusion of having another person and another dog in the house, having THREE beds to choose from at night (and all day) and not quite having figured out who is most likely to give her food. Like most kids, she's fairly adaptable, however, and her bottom line seems to be the more, the merrier. Plus, Andrea takes her on grand adventures and lets her outside way more often than I do.

John will be moving out next week, which promotes Boo to man of the house. I believe he's up to the challenge. For one thing, he is an outstanding communicator. Andrea has entire conversations with him that seem to make sense. And he lets me kiss him on the lips without pulling away whenever I need some lovin'. He's still alarmed by Grace's speed and volume, a prey-ish sort of behavior I swear she does intentionally to test him. So far she hasn't tortured him in any of the ways she bothers Brady; it's as if she sized him up and knew instinctively what buttons to push.

My life has been reduced to a series of piles that need addressing: piles of laundry, piles of mail, piles of receipts, piles of bills, piles of garbage. Wash clothes, fold clothes, open mail, record receipts, pay bills, sort recycling — REPEAT. I loathe all of it except the laundry; since before Grace was born, folding her clothes has always made me giggle.

I realized there is no reason to pay anyone to fix our new house. Yesterday I called the developer and told him I needed some things repaired, mentioning the new construction warrantee. Unaware of what a bitch I am and what a gnat he is in the grand scheme of my life, he tried to tell me (I swear I'm not making this up) that the warrantee was something offered by the realtor. He didn't specify which realtor, his or ours, but it became moot when I told him, no, state ordinance requires that new construction carry a one-year warrantee, and when could I expect him to stop by? He came by that afternoon, and at first I was surprised by his SNAG (sensitive new-age guy) appearance and demeanor — ponytail, sideburns, grunge clothes, totally chill attitude. (He was probably thrown by my black turtleneck and black knee-high boots over skinny Levi's.) I confused the shit out of him by going on about how much we love the house, praising the cabinetry, light fixtures, countertops, etc., then asking if he'd had an actual plumber do the plumbing, since I had to fix leaks in almost all of the sink drains when we moved in. I'd say, "Man, I love that bamboo ceiling fan." Then I'd show him how the master bedroom door hinges had pulled out of the door frame and remark, "I fixed it once, but I'm tired of fixing shit in a new house." He kept scribbling on his pad, and when I showed him how the skimcoat had separated from the foundation by the front porch, he said, "The house isn't gonna fall over or anything." He was probably trying to be funny, but not once had he expressed surprise or remorse, which totally tweaked me. I just stared at him and asked when I would be able to use my kitchen sink again. So the plumber was here promptly at nine this morning, and I've been promised the rest of the repairs will be taken care of ASAP. We'll see. I almost feel sorry for him having to deal with me right now. Almost.

A few steps forward, a few steps back.

Progress has been made. I got a great job that I start in two weeks; The Perfect Roommates (Andrea and Boo, left) finally succumbed to my charms and moved in, so Grace and I can stay put, temporarily; I found childcare for the days Grace isn't in school; and the Obama/Biden team remains focused and ahead in the polls (knock on wood). These are all good things for which I am grateful, BIG THINGS to check off my list (except for the presidential campaign, for which I can take no credit, although we have taught Grace to chant, "Gobama, Gobama"). But the little things threaten to derail me. My colon is apparently "unremarkable", but my ovarian ultrasound, not so much; the kitchen sink faucet sprung a leak that I cannot fix (I pride myself on being able to fix everything that doesn't involve electricity); there is mutiny afoot with the washer and dryer — the spin cycle on the washer shakes the house, and the dryer smells like burning rubber; and I got a fucking ticket for my car's expired tags, something for which Oregon does not send out a reminder. So RotoRooter will be here in the morning, I'll have another ultrasound, I'll exercise my warrantee on the washer and dryer and I'll grudgingly pay that stupid ticket. Annoyances, really.

The emotional rollercoaster is far more intractable. One moment Andrea and I are giddily deciding what to plant in the front yard to make it pretty and drought-tolerant, or what fruits and vegetables to plant in raised beds in the backyard so we don't starve when the country spirals into an apocalyptic depression, and the next minute I'm curled up in bed crying, wondering what the hell happened to my perfect little life. Grace goes from giggling, happy toddler to pissed off, screeching howler monkey in the blink of an eye, and my mood naturally follows. And I either desperately miss the partners-in-crime kind of relationship I used to share with John, or I can't wait for this to be over. I wonder what I could have done differently, how I could have made a success of the single most important thing I will do in my life, and if I'll have a second chance. For Grace's sake as much as my own, I hope the good will outweigh the bad, that I will stay positive instead of giving in to feelings of failure, that years from now I will look back on this and know that we did the right thing, and that Brady will stop eating all of Boo's food and stealing his bones.

To sleep, perchance to poop.

I still creep into Grace's bedroom at night to make sure she's breathing and to snap the occasional picture. Lately, however, the smell of poo greets me when I open the door, because Grace is so fully committed to NOT pooping, the only time she lets it go is when she's sleeping. (You can't help but admire that kind of willpower.) So I stand there trying to decide whether to let her marinate overnight, which is sure to cause a rash that can only worsen the situation, or to roust her from a sound sleep for a quick clean up. Thus far, I've chosen the latter, and OH MY GOD CAN THAT CHILD SCREAM. And kick — hard. I'm not too worried about her being bullied in school; I have a feeling my little girl will be able to take care of herself.

Not lovin' this rollercoaster I'm on.

I like to read all the horoscopes to Grace when we eat breakfast together. She requests certain people, and if I don't know their birthday, I pick a sign at random until we've hit upon all of them. Today mine (Gemini) read: Reflect upon your loyalties. Your interest shifts to home, family, career -- and making dynamic alterations that spell improvement. Yeah, that sounds about right.

I think the hardest part of divorce, if there aren't large fortunes or custody battles involved, is actually making the decision. But my emotions are still all over the place, and an insightful friend of mine pointed out that what I was experiencing was grief. And I was all, "Ohhhhhhh, right!" The loss of an eighteen-year relationship is a bitch. We'll still be in each other's lives because of Grace, but the intimacy and commitment that make a marriage are d-e-a-d. Somehow having a label for what I'm going through makes it easier for me. When we had Dutchie put to sleep, it took me weeks to figure out that all my intense emotions were wrapped up in guilt, and I couldn't work through the sadness and missing her until I let go of the guilt. Why did I feel guilty? Because being responsible for having her put her to sleep was the hardest part, even though it was the right decision. And that brings me full circle, I suppose.

Today I went downtown and had my engagement ring appraised and got a few quotes from jewelers. I had been perfectly pragmatic about selling it until I had to repeatedly hand it over to some stranger, knowing they probably see this situation all the time, BUT IT'S A FUCKING FIRST FOR ME. There was a time in my life when I loved this ring and all that it signified. I probably loved the ring a little too much.

Barking for Barack!

This is how Brady waits patiently while I prepare her dinner every evening (unlike Grace, who wants to see, smell and touch everything). Now imagine her in an "Obama/Biden" T-shirt. She agrees with Jeffrey Toobin (is he the one who said this?) that the format and moderating of tonight's presidential debate kind of sucked, but believes that Senator Obama was taller, better-looking and has a much more pleasing voice. She'd need to sniff his crotch to be sure he has the cajones to handle THE THREE A.M. CALL, but I'm pretty sure if he sat down on our couch, she would make herself comfortable on his lap. I know I would. Oh, and all that stuff he said about health care and the economy — she's totally down with his vision. I asked Grace how she thought the debate was going, and she said, "I don't LIKE ham!" and peeled it off her sandwich.

Something good.

All those people that interviewed me on Friday? Today they offered me the job. It's a little less $$$ than I'd like, but I keep reminding myself that the global economy is collapsing to the point that the Pope felt compelled to comment, BUT I GOT A JOB. I will no longer be a maverick, freelance database programmer; I'll be a legitimate software developer in an office so laid back, I was overdressed in khakis. So I apologize to the universe for my scatalogical remarks, and I'll go to bed tonight, and many nights to come, thankful that someone was crazy enough to hire me. And, of course, grateful to Ella for making me present my resume in person.

And the job goes to...

Ella! She was already the unofficial Boss of Me, but I hadn't called upon her to make any decisions until this week. To each question I posed, her response was exactly the opposite of what I would have done. But she was always right. I went ahead and delivered my resume in person to that software company, and while I haven't been offered the job, they admired my initiative and I've had two interviews and spoken with four people, including the president. What can I do for L. now that all the hoopla surrounding the funeral is over and her kids and husband are back at school and work? Bring her food. I'd already done that, and got the impression they had more than they could use, but apparently three kids eat a LOT. When I asked L. what I could do? "Bring food. I have to feed my kids." Brilliant. And although Ella has always been my go-to girl for fashion decisions, it's becoming clear I need her now more than ever.

In other news...

























I no longer feel the universe is taking a dump on me (although it still seems to be farting in my general direction). My state of limbo is nothing compared to that of The Perfect Roommate (left), who visited last night and charmed the entire family. This week she almost died in a rip tide while kayaking on the Oregon coast. After more than an hour of struggling to stay afloat, it took three men to bring her to safety. A near-death experience totally trumps my shit, so once again I've been slapped upside the head with a healthy dose of perspective. People come into your life for a reason, I believe, and The Perfect Roommate and Boo will likely make a positive impact on many lives. She and Grace made some sort of cosmic connection, culminating in a good-night hug of the magnitude usually reserved for Gabba, Sandi and Justine. It was too sweet for words.

Every day is a new fashion opportunity.

Here's Grace sporting a look that delighted her so much, she kept running to the mirror to admire herself.


Brady presents an as yet unexplored world of canine fashion. Now that Grace insists on dressing herself, I have little choice but to redirect my creativity to doggie clothing and accessories. Brady will never say, "No, I don't LIKE that!" And she could use a little more attention, anyway. I think she feels neglected with all the chaos going on around her.

Tell me about the beach, Mom.

My mom recently returned to my parents' main house after five weeks at the coast, and sent these pictures from our visit. (I know, the chronological discrepancy is killing me, too.) What struck me was how different Grace looked just a month earlier, and how pale and, uh, less thin I was before I stopped eating much (why add fuel to the fire?) and started laying in the sun because I've been sick and really, really lazy.



Grace is happy here because she knows we're on our way to the beach after waiting five whole days for decent weather. Can you imagine the suffering she endured? Grace and her grandma are kindred souls in that they need to bury their feet in the sand in order to fully enjoy the ocean. Me, I'd just as soon sip a cocktail from a balcony and watch the waves. It's a big picture versus tactile experience difference, I suppose. Our old dog, Dutchie, could stare out at the ocean forever, as if she'd been deposited at the Humane Society by a sailor who sold his boat and move into an apartment that didn't allow dogs, whereas Brady lurches around with her nose buried in the sand searching for something revolting to eat, oblivious to the sea and the seagulls and the sea air. My mother has been known to beach comb for SIX HOURS at a stretch. Needless to say, she has a spectacular collection of agates, sea glass, shells, etc.


Leave it to my mom to find the most hilariously entertaining person in town. Ric, the über-realtor that helped my parents upgrade from their ocean-view-until-someone-builds-a-GIANT-house-in-your-back-yard beach cabin to a bona fide ocean front retreat, invited us for drinks twice, and both times Grace came along and behaved as if she'd been going to cocktail parties all her life. Ric is about seven feet tall and here he is stooping waaaay over, I think so he could reach my boobs. (Why do gay men always go straight for the boobs?) Anyway, his house is also gay, and the first night we visited, Grace's eyes lit up when she saw all of the fabulous goodies she could explore. She exercised admirable look-but-don't-touch restraint. I, on the other hand, gave myself the tour uninvited, climbing the stairs to what I can describe only as the most inviting sanctuary I have ever seen. The other guests (Ric's actual friends) had apparently never seen the upstairs, but seized the opportunity to follow the crazy stranger while my poor mother trailed behind muttering something about my social skills.

The second night, there was an older boy there, maybe ten or eleven, and Grace spent the entire time staring at him with that special look in her eyes. He was a pretty cute kid and was clearly used to this reaction from the ladies, fortunately. Then my parents took Grace home and Ric took me out on the town for a little karaoke. I wish I could say I had fun, but I think I was a little too determined to HAVE! FUN!, and therefore just behaved like an ass while Ric looked on indulgently. Still, I think I belted out a respectable version of "Son of a Preacher Man." I'm fairly certain Ric has witnessed worse, although my mom wasn't too amused (or was she too amused?) when I got home, laid on the living room floor and babbled about how old and pathetic I was.


It's a nice friggin' house, and those dunes are the only thing that will ever separate all those windows from the ocean.

Here come the disaster dreams again!

This week was such an unrelenting bummer, or rather a series of bummers, that when my mom mentioned in passing on the phone last night that Paul Newman died, which I had somehow managed to miss, there was this long silence as I came completely unhinged, and then my mom going, "Laurie? Laurie, are you there? Uh, are you CRYING?" She hadn't known I was such a big fan of his. I was actually talking to my dad a couple weeks ago about how Paul Newman was the perfect man, how he had such talent and integrity, how I loved his plans for retirement ("...we're just gonna horse around..."), how he didn't take himself too seriously even though he did so much good, and how he aged with such dignity. But that wasn't why I cried. It was the cumulative effect of all the sadness going on EVERYWHERE I TURN. Just one good thing needs to happen soon, or I will continue to dream of plane crashes and bug infestations and Brady running into traffic and Grace falling out a tenth-floor window and my teeth crumbling in my mouth. If Grace poops on the potty (or I can stop), if I find a job or get an agent, if my friend's family somehow makes it through the funeral tomorrow without someone becoming ill or collapsing, even if Sarah Palin is attacked by a pit bull wearing lipstick, then I'll keep on striving for that brighter future. Right now, I'm just going through the motions, and John is picking up the slack.

So THAT'S what it feels like to get kicked in the balls.

There's nothing quite like two hours of divorce mediation to suck the life force right out of you. I wasn't expecting Round Two to be fun; I never imagined any part of divorce would be fun. But I keep getting blindsided by details I manage to ignore until it is no longer possible. Today started out okay, with a little tension around the division of assets, but that's to be expected. Really, John gets the short end of this stick, so I feel guilty, and I don't like feeling guilty or worrying about whether he's feeling cheated. I got over that pretty quickly, though, because the law is the law and I'm not going to be some sort of divorced mom martyr. But at one point we were hammering out the specifics of the custody schedule, on a yearly basis, and that's when I realized that I will spend every other Christmas without Grace. And we will most likely be in different cities. Whoomph! Between now and the time she graduates from college, I will celebrate just ten Christmases with her, including the year she's twenty-one, assuming she still wants to come home and see Mommy. There was this awkward silence while all of this was going through my head, and when I glanced up, the mediator was staring at me as if I'd just inadvertently farted and was horrified, which must be how I look when I'm trying really hard not to cry.

It's not as if I hadn't given this any thought. It's just that I never let myself consider the worst case scenario. Instead I focused on those divorced couples who each remarry and spend the holidays together with all their kids and stepkids as one big, happy family. It happens, really — I read it in Newsweek. But both our families are out of town, and I can't imagine either one of us will choose to stay here rather than be with them. So that particular fantasy has been shot to shit.

I won't get started on the prospect of Grace having a stepmother. Every time I try to wrap my mind around that possibility/probability, I feel as though I'm going to vomit.

Job opening: Boss of Me

Buy or rent? East side or west side? North or south? Style or sustainability? Work part-time or full-time? Stick with programming or go back to accounting? Keep writing or give up the dream? What to have for dinner? Half full or half empty?

That last one's easy, having spent the better part of yesterday with my friend whose mom died, shopping with her girls for funeral dresses. No matter how big a dump the universe seems to have taken on me, my parents are alive, healthy (knock on wood) and still speaking to me. But decision making is NOT something at which I excel, unless it's someone else's life I'm dealing with. So I'm looking for someone to tell me where the hell to go with my future, and Grace's. (I've tried getting her opinion on a number of issues, but she usually looks at me and asks, "Are you a boy?") This is a part-time, temporary position, and the ideal candidate should have working knowledge of real estate, Portland school districts, child development, the job market and personal finance. Experience in divorce, nutrition and the publishing industry a huge plus. The ability to think on your feet and maintain a sense of humor under stressful circumstances are essential, and it would help to be acquainted with me well enough to know I'm stubborn, argumentative and don't like to be told what to do. Telecommuting okay. Compensation package: the satisfaction that comes from helping your fellow human being, a big karmic boost and a 100% guarantee that I would do the same for you some day.

Girlie got a haircut.

Every time Grace has gotten her hair cut, she has made some sort of progress developmentally. The first cut, she started walking. Next cut, she was all over the jungle gym at the park like a little monkey. And last time, her language skills improved dramatically (okay, that may have had something to do with her switching schools and being around five year olds). Need I say what I'm hoping for this time? SHE WILL POOP ON THE POTTY.

Again with the perspective.

One of my best friend's mother will likely die today, after a sudden and unexpected illness. I want to go and hug L., or bring her coffee or a cookie or ANYTHING that will give her the slightest comfort, but she's surrounded by family and I don't think the intrusion would be appropriate. But I ache for her, and cry, and feel helpless, and cry some more. What do you do to lighten a friend's burden when the unthinkable happens, other than call and listen and tell them you love them? Tell me, please, and I'll do it.

What's wrong with this picture?

In this idyllic moment, unbeknownst to me, my sweet little angel (who sat on the potty less than ten minutes ago after staying dry through a four-hour nap) is shitting her brains out. I am not exaggerating when I say this was a forty minute clean up. She remained cheerful throughout the entire process, bless her heart, or my head would have exploded. Perhaps the grimace should have alerted me, but I've got other stuff on my mind. Still, how cute is she?

Happy birthday, John.

Today I am sad. It's John's birthday, and I don't know the protocol for celebrating my soon-to-be-ex spouse's birthday. I imagine he's sadder, even though his expectations must be pretty low. He'll get a card and probably a cupcake from Grace, who perked up immediately when she heard "Blah blah blah BIRTHDAY blah blah" and started talking excitedly about cake and candles. I made a card with a photo of John and Grace, and looking at all those fucking pictures in iPhoto made me cry and think what a wretched, heartless bitch I am, that I could be ruining not one, not two, but three lives just because I have this crazy notion that happiness feels a lot different than what all of us have been feeling for a while now. But I can't ignore it, even when the reality of all that's changed makes me curl up in bed and cry. Which is what I'm going to do right now.

I'll live. The Cute Doctor's chances are iffy.

Everyone I talked to who has had a colonoscopy promised I'd get great drugs, would be out like a light and wouldn't be able to remember the ride home, much less the procedure itself. And I believed them. I am, however, a drug-resistant freak, and while I was a teeny bit drowsy for a while, I felt and remember everything from the moment The Cute Doctor arrived at the office in bike shorts and helmet until, well, now. He looked damn good in those shorts, and gave me a disarming grin, a thumbs up and said, "I'm all ready!" All I could come up with was, "Don't change clothes on my account." But that was before I realized he was a Sadistic Prick.

It hurt like a motherfucker. Every time that damn camera slammed into the wall of my colon, I felt it. I tried to be stoic, but I squeaked a few times and they told me to breathe. As if the pain were my fault because I'm a bad breather. Finally I gasped, "You said I wouldn't feel anything." And The Sadistic Prick joked to the nurse, "I think she's calling me a liar." They had a little chuckle, then upped my pain meds, which did nothing. Apparently he was having trouble maneuvering the scope, so they had me roll this way, and that way, then on my stomach. I knew exactly how much progress he was making because I could feel that friggin' thing banging around until it was all the way up under my right rib. I figured we were just about done, but the retreat wasn't much easier. He wanted to be thorough, so he took a couple of biopsies, and even though they kept giving me more drugs, I felt it all. I made sure to breathe audibly while I plotted my revenge. Once he was done, he told me everything looked normal and the biopsy results would be back in a week or so. Then he half-heartedly apologized for my "discomfort" and explained that because I am so thin, my colon is particularly angular, which made it more difficult for him. Then the nurse brought me to the recovery room.

Ah, the recovery room. Never before have I been in a room full of people being encouraged to fart. I imagine Katie Couric had a private room for her recovery (I don't watch whatever morning show on which Her Perkiness shared her own experience), but mine was just a bunch of gurneys with curtains around them. Here's what I know: all the other patients were in a much better mood than I was, had loved ones come in to sit with them, and had no problem farting up a storm. When my nurse promised me juice as a reward for passing gas, I was all, "Juice? Make it coffee and I'll blow a hole in the wall. With half and half, please." At some point the Sadistic Prick came in and asked me if I remembered the conversation we had when he'd finished torturing me, and I was like, "Uh, yeah. Why wouldn't I?" He repeated it anyway, then suggested another procedure if my biopsy came back negative. He seemed concerned that my ride wasn't there yet, but it was probably best that Ella showed up after he was gone. Otherwise he might have overheard me ranting to her about The pain! My God, the pain! Ella was definitely the best person for this job, because she knows me and expected nothing other than me complaining nonstop all the way home. And she brought me a Snickers bar. Angel.

Getting tired of washing my hands.

Grace will poop anywhere but in the potty. Literally. We've tailored her diet so she won't have painful poops, so it's nice and mushy — and impossible to hold in. A little bit is always sneaking out, and when she sleeps, whoosh! But the gnarliest part (forgive me, Grace, for sharing this; I promise I'll pay for your therapy when the time comes) is that she can't eat without pooping. It's hard to watch: she squirms and makes all kinds of faces and I can hear her bowels rumbling. Cleaning up after meals has become quite a bit more time consuming, and I'm thinking about feeding her on the potty. (I'm sure there would be myriad psychological repercussions to that.) This week, I took her to a "Child & Adolescent Mental Health" professional at her pediatrician's office (I guess she's already in therapy) to nip this in the bud before it turns into every parent's worst potty training nightmare — the anal retentive child. But I forgot to mention that for the last three months, she has witnessed my own potty issues, and really, can you blame her for not wanting to have any part of THAT?

Shit happens.

It seems to have taken over my life, however, and while I know this too shall pass (ha ha), I'M READY FOR IT TO PASS. Yesterday I saw my gastroenterologist, who happens to be young, handsome and hilarious — not exactly the kind of person I want to talk to about poop. He's also married with kids around Grace's age, so at least he uses words like "poop" and "turd" instead of "bowel movement" and "stool," which would be too much for me to deal with. Anyway, tomorrow I will have a colonoscopy, which means I cannot eat ANYTHING today, and a bunch of other gross stuff I won't go into. And while we're approaching this with a "better safe than sorry" attitude, a little part of my brain keeps remembering that my father had colon cancer three years ago. I hate that little part of my brain.

I also got a call from the Perfect Roommate, who has fallen in love with NW Portland and is trying to rent an apartment there. I can't blame her; in fact, I keep thinking, "Why didn't WE live there?" Then I remember it's hip, crowded, noisy, expensive and you can't park anywhere, and we were looking for a family neighborhood, something a bit more chill. I'm glad she's found a place that suits her, and we'll likely end up being friends, so it's wasn't a complete waste of time, but I haven't yet told Brady that she won't be seeing Boo again. Since I'm having second thoughts about the cohousing Ecovillage, I was kind of relieved that she wasn't rarin' to sign a lease and move in, but this puts the kibosh on two list items I thought I had settled: where I'll be living for the next six months and where I'll be living after that. What's best for Grace that I can afford? And that gets me thinking about the rest of the list — ring, job, book, etc. — and I want to curl up in bed.

I'm hungry.

Old business, new business

Here's what's on my plate right now (I hate that expression):

- scheduling our second round of divorce mediation
- finding some poor soul willing to counsel a divorcing couple and their troubled child
- finding a job
- finding a roommate or a cheaper place to live
- selling my ring without divulging my address and phone number (web scammers are CRAZY)
- getting Grace to poop in the potty, as opposed to in her pants, in the backyard, on the couch or on the rug
- figuring out why I can't stop shitting my own brains out (gosh, do you think it could be STRESS???)
- waiting to hear back from literary agent(s)
- working on my second novel during my free time, rather than curling up in bed in the fetal position
- taking advantage of that "new house warrantee" to figure out why our tap water is brown, our foundation is cracking and our electricity on the south side of the house keeps going all wonky.
- some family shit, too, but that's off limits, I suppose.

On a positive note, I'm lucky to have people in my life who surprise me with their ability to listen to me bitch and moan, seemingly without end. I hope it's because I've done the same for them, or they know I would. Some notable examples: my parents, who must have taken "Empathy 101" recently, because they know exactly what to say; J. Po, for his consistency and insight; Ella, for keeping me company me when she's got plenty to deal with in her own life; my sister-in-law, Annette, who reaches out when she must be in an awkward position; Leslie and Peter, with whom I would entrust my and Grace's lives; and anyone else who has taken the time to acknowledge the fact that my life is in some serious transition. Those who find it a bit much to deal with, I understand. My, my, that came out melodramatic. But I mean it sincerely.

Of course it's not that easy.

Exhibit A: Friday I met the prospective roommate (and her dog, Boo), loved her (and Brady loved Boo), and we planned for her to come back the following day to meet Grace and John. Then something happened that I never even considered: she called and bailed and said she was keeping her options open and she'd get back to me. So I guess I'll wait.

Exhibit B: Lots of nibbles on the ring, but no buyers. I can't part with it so quickly for under a certain amount. So I'll wait.

Exhibit C: I applied for a dream job for which I am perfectly qualified, maybe overqualified, and have heard nothing. Also the programming gig with Imbibe Magazine hasn't yet materialized. So I'll wait.

Exhibit D: Grace and I visited the site of the Columbia Ecovillage today for a tour of the condos (under construction), the farmhouse and the grounds. I anticipated lush, tidy gardens and eco-friendly homes. It was messy everywhere, and the condos will have ELECTRIC HEAT AND STOVES. The two bedroom unit I had my eye on was tiny, and will be carpeted. Thirty-seven households will share THREE washers and dryers in a communal laundry area. But Grace ran around under canopies of towering sunflowers, squealing with delight, picking sweet strawberries, huge blackberries and juicy grapes. Oh, the grapes. I had to drag her away from them, and the entire way home she cried, "I want more grapes! I want more grapes! I WANT MORE GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPES!" I'm torn. I'll think about it, and I'll wait.

Exhibit E: I go back to the doctor Wednesday to figure out why I haven't yet fully recovered from my tussle with food poisoning. I imagine there will be tests involved. And I'll fucking wait.

Talking shit. Really.

I dropped Grace off at school yesterday, looking as if she was eight months pregnant, with the warning, "She REALLY needs to poop." They thanked me for the heads up, and I pretty much forgot about it, having had one of the crappiest days in recent memory. When I picked her up, I fully expected to be handed a plastic bag full of poopy underpants and to see Grace in pull-ups, which they put on her when she soils all the extra undies I've stuffed in her cubby. Care to guess what greeted me? My cute little girl with a noticeably smaller tummy, and one of her teachers exclaiming, "Grace pooped on the potty!" After I'd finished whooping and high-fiving and making an enormous scene that is sure to linger embarrassingly in Grace's memory for years to come, the teacher added, "For, like, an hour." When I laughed, she said, "No, really. I sat with her for an hour. It just kept coming out." Ah, that's my girl. Grace was hugely proud, and if you called right now and I asked, "Gracie, what did you do at school yesterday?" she would yell, "I pooped on the potty!"

Can it be this easy?

John and I have been trying to come up with a scenario where Grace and I can stay in this house for a while, since we just moved in April and it's her third house in three years. Plus, she's always running around exclaiming, "I LIKE this house!" So I've been looking for a roommate and a part-time job to cover the mortgage. I got the requisite Nigerian scammer, which I had fun with for a little while. Here is an actual excerpt from his/her last email, even after I made it clear I wasn't a complete moron and would not deposit a check under any circumstances:

Hi,
How are you today? Am glad everything works fine..I really look forward to meet you. everything has regards the payment is all set so, you will be getting the fund soon and as a matter of fact my boss has decided to send payment for 2months at once so that i wont have to bother him to cut check for rent every month and i wouldn't want a situation where there will be delay from my part in paying the rent and pls note that the payment will beinform cashiers check or money orders so that it might be easier for you to cashat your bank.But pls before the payment comes,there is an issue i willlike to clarify with you........the truth is that the amount my boss will send iswill be in excess for the amount due for the 2 months rent reason been that my boss assumed i will live in a hotel for 2 months when i arrive US andas> such the amount he budgeted for my rent is more than what you are willing to rent to me.I really want to seize this opportunity to save money,in this sense i hope you will be helpful enough suchthat when you get the money my boss send you will deduct the 2 months rent from the total money and refund the rest to me by western union money transfer so that i can use it to take care of my traveling/miscellaneous expenses beforei leave for US,can i trust you to do this for me?this will definitely be the beginning of good relationship with you,i wish to let you know that my bosswill takecare of another payment before the end of the first months.I will waitto read from you real soon.
Best Regards,
Drummer

After I pissed myself laughing, I added "LOCALS ONLY" to my craigslist post, and out pops this woman who has just moved here from Minnesota, and the first thing she does when she gets here is start looking for a naturopath for her and her dog. How can I not love her immediately? When I mentioned my hopes to become a member of the Columbia Ecovillage in six months or so, we ended up talking for over half an hour about how cool Portland is and how she'd be really into that kind of living, too. She's coming over tomorrow to see the place, and she'll probably rob me blind at gunpoint (Grace won't be here), but what if she's legit? Also, I got a couple nibbles on the ring, and a database project with, of all things, Imbibe Magazine. Once again, I've found my people. I hope.

Communication is key.

In the car the other afternoon, on our way to a friend's house:

"Gigi? I love you, bug."
"I love you too, Mommy."
"I'm sorry I was grumpy this morning."
Pause. "I'm sorry I hit you, Mom."

I almost swerved off the road. I almost cried. I almost said, "Excuse me, what did you just say?" But I smiled instead.

All ready for winter.

It was sunny and hot today, however, and by the time I got her to take off this raincoat, she was soaked with sweat.

Till death do us part, or something like that.

There's no getting around the fact that divorce sucks, especially when kids are involved. I hope I can use this space to blow off a little steam now and then, or even report some positive experiences. I'm too tired (and sick) right now to wax philosophic, but all the thoughts banging around my brain have to come out sooner or later or my head will explode, and I don't believe my expertly highlighted hair would look as pretty with bits of brain stuck to it.

Well, this is awkward.

It turns out the family will be going through a more significant change than anticipated this spring. I've been wrestling with how to address this here, or whether to address it at all, but every time I sit down to post, there is this elephant in the room. So I'll just put it out there and hope nobody gets hurt: John and I will continue to muddle through parenting Grace (and Brady) with what we hope is the appropriate balance of love, discipline and fiber, but we will be doing so from different homes. I am not making light of this; to the contrary, I worry about the impact on Grace, John and myself every day. I'll be updating the blog in the near future to reflect the changes in our lives, but I don't plan on sharing any details of the split.

If I feel the need for a little cathartic venting, I might do so here, but out of respect for John's privacy, I will try to limit my comments to my own experience of the process. I imagine there will be a lot more profanity.

There, that wasn't so bad. And I didn't even have to use the "D" word.

Coupla things...

First, I want to share this dooce.com post, because it perfectly articulates how I feel about this election year. And I have intentionally kept my head as far up my ass as possible to avoid hearing anything that will cause me even more despair than I already feel about politics in this country, but a girl can ignore only so much.

Also, I've been thinking a lot lately about finding joy in the little moments when life takes a U-turn and becomes more stressful than enjoyable. And it's so much easier to do than I imagined. Recently: Grace in bed next to me, reaching out in her sleep to make sure I'm still there; a good friend's little girl recovering from a serious illness; going by myself to a meeting and being embraced by a group of perfect strangers as if I'd known them for years; knowing exactly where I want to be in six months; family and friends who care enough to call every day because they know I'm going through a difficult time; watching Grace run up and down the sidewalk squealing with delight; Brady letting me fall asleep with my head on her butt before making herself more comfortable. And the thing is, I could go on and on. (I'll spare you.)


Grace loves shoes, and while we don't always agree on which pair will best complete an outfit, I'M JUST SO HAPPY SHE LOVES SHOES!


Obviously, that megawatt smile will always be one of my life's greatest joys.

Sunshine!

Day six, the weather was perfect and we had lunch on the beach. I swear she would head straight into the water and not stop if we let her.


There's a serious riptide, and this was making me a little nervous.


Yummy.


Uh-oh. Lost her feet.


Crazy little bug.


I don't know why I bother trying to keep the car clean. It's just a car, Laurel.

Tired old buddy.

Max was just a puppy when my parents found him under their deck fourteen years ago. He lucked out, big time. It's possible my mom's nest was feeling a bit empty, because she faithfully took him to obedience training and agility classes, and he was such a smart, gentle dude that eventually he worked as a Certified Therapy Dog. He's retired now, but he's not resting on his laurels. As head of the canine security detail, he dutifully checks the perimeter of the compound morning and night. He walks with my father each morning to the mailbox at the end of the driveway to get the paper and carries it to my mom in the house. (They don't get a paper every day, so on off days my dad brings out an old paper so Max has something to deliver.) But he can no longer jump on the bed or climb stairs or get into my dad's truck. It seems as if he aged so suddenly in the last year, but that's probably because I don't see him often. Which is my loss, because there's something so special about him that when we're canoodling, I'm almost always reminded what it's all about: love.

Should we go to the beach TODAY, Mommy?

Of course we should. We should bundle up and go get cold and wet and we would probably have a swell time, but Mommy is a lazy ass and has not taken a shower in days and would rather shuffle around the house in her pajamas complaining about the weather.


Imagine the whining that accompanied this expression.


Indoor activities included feeding chips to Max. We could have read books or colored or practiced counting, but this was WAY more fun for me, and didn't require any effort on my part.

Who's the biggest loser?

Actual conversation:

"I think I was rejected today by someone I hadn't even decided I wanted. Yesterday he confessed his feelings for me, so I spent a night weighing the possibilities, then today he said he couldn't just walk away from all of his obligations. He seemed angry. I actually cried when we hung up."

"Wow. Poor honey. So I think the wedding planner broke up with me on the phone the other night. I was kind of drunk and he woke me up, so I don't exactly remember what we said, but I don't think it was good. You think I should call and ask what happened, or wait and see if he ever calls again?"

Dating must suck.

I haven't yet found the meaning of life.

I have found a few pounds I'd lost, though, and learned how truly cranky a toddler can become after five straight days of being cooped up inside due to cold, wind and rain. Promises of the beach with Gabba ("Grace's Favorite Things," below right) were what persuaded her to miss school and tolerate an interminable car ride, so I couldn't blame her.


This is the first time she didn't look through these binoculars backwards.


Poor noodle. But stylin', no?

Gittin' outta Dodge.

It's about 140° in the house right now, and we're all a bit cranky. Grace and I are leaving tonight for a road trip; Ducky will be joining us, Brady's not so lucky. We're off to visit my parents at the beach for starters, so I'm going to stuff my gas tank with hundred dollar bills and drive, crank the music and ponder the meaning of life. I will try to post if I can find a computer and an internet connection. Otherwise, I'll be back when the temp drops below 90°.

While the memory is still as fresh as the smell.

(Warning: I'm going to talk about poop now. Lots and lots of poop in all its glorious detail.)

I shouldn't have bragged about Grace's potty training. She's got the peeing down, but she's one of those kids who doesn't like to poop because she doesn't like to be wiped and as a result she sometimes holds it in until letting it go hurts like a mother giving birth to a GIANT-HEADED baby. I know when she's having a normal poo, because she stands quietly in a corner and yells, "No, don't come OVER HERE!" if I so much as glance in her direction. She needs her space, and I can respect that. But when it's a big bad poo, which doesn't happen often because we're pretty careful about her diet, she screams and cries and all I can do is hug her and rub her back and breathe through my mouth. She had one of those on Monday, and then her poor little bum was fire-engine red and I figured she was planning on never pooping again.

Yesterday morning Ella was here with Nathalie and Kitty and we were in the backyard, soaking up the beautiful weather and laughing at the girls playing. Grace was bare-bottomed, because I had a feeling she might need to have a little movement and she's more likely to do it on the potty if she isn't wearing underpants. The potty was on the patio and she'd already demonstrated her peeing prowess several times, although she really needs to work on her aim. Suddenly I realized she was off by herself, really quiet, so I asked, "Gigi, are you pooping?" and she shouted, "NOOOOOO!" and then Ella said, "Ohmigod, it's halfway out! Get her quick!" I ran and picked her up under the arms and on the way to the potty the turd fell and landed on my bare foot and bounced into the grass. So I set Grace on the potty to finish and went in to wipe my foot and get a plastic bag. (I've had twenty years of picking up dog poop, but I never thought I'd pick up my child's poop the same way.) Grace insisted she was finished, then screamed bloody murder when I wiped her sore bum, and I knew we weren't out of the woods yet because every time I wiped a tiny bit more would appear.

After a long nap, she whined and cried and acted like a complete asshole (Ella says I can't call my child an asshole on the internet) brat from the minute she woke up until the end of dinner, which was cut short when she expressed her sudden disdain for guacamole by pouring a glass of water on the table. I figured she was grumpy because she had more business to take care of and didn't want to, so I decided to get it over with by giving her a suppository laxative. (I'm not sure who enjoys this procedure less.) Later, I was folding a mountain of laundry on our bed, and one minute Grace was downstairs with John (wearing pull-ups), and the next she was upstairs calling, "I pooped, Mommy!" Because I'm such a sunny, optimistic person, I assumed she'd pooped on the potty in her bathroom, so I came out to do the high-fiving and dancing and congratulating, but instead was confronted by a trail of poop all the way from her room, down the hallway to our bedroom door. A truly mind-blowing combination of runny poop and chunks of solid poop and poop running down her legs. All on her bedroom rug, a rug in the hallway and all the carpeting along the way -- pale beige berber carpeting.

Accidents happen, as we've learned from hundreds of viewings of "Elmo's Potty Time," and one must remain upbeat about potty training. But come on. While I washed Grace in the tub and John did the best he could with the floor, I honestly thought my head might explode. I hummed the "Accidents Happen" song so Grace would know we weren't mad, but all I could think about was putting her to bed and having a beer. Lots and lots of beer.

I don't think I'm qualified for this job.

Grace spends her days trying to snap her neck, I believe. She throws her body around with total abandon, and when I'm certain she's finally done it and I'm trying to decide whether to take her to the ER at Legacy Emanuel, which is closer, or Legacy Good Samaritan, which is usually less crowded, or just call an ambulance, she jumps to her feet giggling and says something like, "That was CRAZY!" This afternoon our neighbor came over with her one-year-old, who is just starting to walk, and we winced repeatedly at Grace, who is just starting to fly, apparently. After one horrifying maneuver made us both gasp, Grace stood tall and announced, "I'm not weird, I'm just crazy!"

I can't complain on the potty training front, however. She has taken to it with such glee and pride; she sits on the potty and screams, "I'm peeing!" and it's all I can do to not piss myself.