Beautiful mind

Grace has been blowing me away lately with her intellectual, conceptual and potty progress, and I imagine it's just a matter of time before she'll start using words I'll have to look up.


I should wake up this chipper.


Installation with Multimedia by Grace. Note the use of maracas, a harmonica and a Nutcracker cartridge from a musical toy. Before I was able to capture the row of dinosaurs guarding this tower, I slipped and knocked it over. Like daughter, like mother?

A man handed me money for my book.

I've been blogged out lately, mostly because if I had written anything it would have gone something like, "Still no job, waiting for the book to start selling, gotta unload the house, poor me, blah blah blah." In my defense, this is my bitching blog, but at a certain point even I get tired of my whining. (Tangent: a friend told me that a relative of hers, who doesn't know me but reads my blog, was surprised at how angry I seemed in some of my posts, which cracked me up. If I sound pissed off, it's because LIFE IS DIFFICULT FOR ME RIGHT NOW. I apologize if I'm bringing you down, but Kelly Ripa I am not.)

Anyway, the house sold after two days on the market, full price, closing March 31st. Yay! I don't even have to make another mortgage payment, assuming all goes according to plan (knock on wood). Now my most pressing challenge is to find an apartment to rent even though I have no income. Baby steps.

But just now, something truly blog-worthy happened. I've been schlepping all over Portland convincing bookstores to take a few copies of Soft Landing on consignment, which has been surprisingly easy. I've also been chasing individual sales, actually reminding people that they promised to buy my book, and hey, did you get it yet? I feel like a dirty whore, frankly — until someone calls or emails saying they couldn't put the book down and how could I make them miss American Idol last night? Then it's all worth it and I have a glimmer of hope that things might happen on a larger scale. BUT, and this is a big but, I was just on my way out of a store after doing my spiel, when a man called out, "How much does it cost?" I had to think about that for a minute, because it's $17.95 (expensive for a paperback) and I didn't want him to laugh at me, but I also wondered where he was going with it. So I told him, and he pulled out his wallet, handed me a twenty and took a book DIRECTLY FROM ME. While I fumbled making change (20 - 17.95 = 2.05, right?), he explained that he liked supporting people who write. How fucking cool is that? I thanked him about six times, and walked out of there grinning like an idiot. I believe that no matter what happens in the next months (or years), that will always remain my favorite sale.

Paradise, part III

Until my mom sends the photos she shot, this concludes the Sequim vacation series. I promise.


My mom has been collecting old ladders, and I love how they look scattered about the orchard.


These trunks captivated me for some reason. They look like bones that have been picked clean. Very wintry.


It won't be long before all the buds start blooming and my parents' property is awash in color.


I'm afraid I've seen Max for the last time. He probably wondered why I kept lying on the floor next to him, crying.


Big bunny. GIGANTIC TV. 'Nuff said.

Sleepwalking dog

I stole this from dooce.com, as usual. Don't watch it with a full bladder.

Paradise, part II

More pics in what is sure to become an increasingly boring series for everyone but me and my mom!


Rocks are very serious business in a child's world. I believe Michael was quizzing Grace on which was the largest, the smallest, the darkest, etc.


Clearly pleased with herself for many, many reasons.


Flying in the orchard. I can no longer lift her this way, which renders me somewhat inferior in her eyes.


Three generations of dirty blonds.


The male bonding going on here will forever remain a mystery to me. It has something to do with being in the Navy, knowing how to fix things with tools, and a profound appreciation for things that blow up.

Mirror, mirror.

Smart. Funny. Sarcastic. Kind. Generous. Moody. Strong. Needy. Bitchy. Loving. Argumentative. Independent. Short-tempered. Capable. Lazy. Always right. I could go on, but you get the point. Who am I describing? Me, of course, or at least a combination of who I believe I am and what I've been told I am — not always consistent, clearly. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I'm also describing Michael (who I will continue to ambiguously refer to as my "roommate" because I like to keep things interesting). I always subscribed to the notion that opposites attract, but that hasn't worked out so well for me in the past. But put two people together in the same house who share so many strengths AND weaknesses, and stand back. When we're on the same page? Bliss. When we're not? Let's just say we both fight to win, like pit bulls, and it can get ugly.

My mom recently sent me an email to the effect that God doesn't send you the people you want in your life; he sends you the people you need. I'm not sure God had much to do with plunking Michael and me in each other's lives, but the last few months have been illuminating. The things about him that drive me the most crazy are things that I easily see in myself, but wish weren't there. So our arguments usually end up going something like this:

"God, I hate it when you do that."
"You do the same thing ALL THE TIME!"
"I don't do anything ALL THE TIME. Why do you always generalize? And we were talking about you, not me."
"Of course we were. Again."
"Oh, so I'm the one who's always complaining? Please."
"I didn't say that."
"But that's what you meant."
"Now you can read my mind?"

And so on. It's not much fun (or very original, I know) when it's happening, but afterwards I'm struck by the humor in it, and the fact that it presents a very real opportunity for personal growth. Already, I feel myself tempering those nasty tendencies I have, because now I know how they make people feel. My tone is a bit softer; I'm less defensive; I stop and ask myself if something is worth getting angry about. I don't know that Michael will notice, but I hope Grace does, because she's such a sponge right now and HOLY CRAP I don't want her growing up like me! We're all working on using our friendly voices even when we're upset, which sounds totally goofy but is more difficult than I expected. Name calling is verboten. Saying "I love you" is mandatory. Going to bed angry? We're still working on that one.

A weekend in paradise.

We took a long weekend to visit my parents, and I have a ridiculous number of pictures I must share so that my proud mommy head doesn't explode. Here are just a few for now. My parents' place in Sequim is magical for Grace, and she was adamant about not leaving. And then she was asleep once we'd been on the road for five minutes.

Oh, and check out the top right corner over there. BUY MY BOOK!


She did this on her own. On Valentine's Day. Seriously.


Curious little bugger...


All she found was a spider web.


I cannot begin to count my mom's windchimes, and Grace must touch and listen to all within reach.

Regarding that last post...

After fielding several phone calls from friends making sure I wasn't referring to them, let me say this: if you read my blog and care enough to call, YOU ARE NOT A FRINGE FRIEND! In fact, I love you all. So there.

Our final round of mediation was yesterday, and this morning I slammed my forehead on the edge of the dining room table while cleaning up after Grace's breakfast. When I removed the ice pack and asked "It's not bleeding, is it?", I saw a look on Michael's face that I can't quite describe. What does this have to do with the divorce? For starters, the head wound was more pleasant than yesterday's meeting. More disturbing is the fact that I probably could have used a stitch or two but didn't even consider going to the ER because I can't afford it. Divorcing a man on whom I was financially dependent, during a recession and a longer-than-expected period of unemployment, and watching my savings dwindle away while I make mortgage payments on a house I will clearly need to sell as soon as possible JUST ISN'T FUN ANYMORE. But for some reason I ended up laughing more than usual today (possibly the blow to the head), and I can't wait to get through this transition and see what's waiting for me on the other side. I'm done with limbo; it's been almost a year. I want to settle down and have a nice, normal, boring life.

To that end, I plan to become a bestselling author, since no one appears to need a finance manager or software developer, or even an overqualified administrative assistant. So let me direct your attention to the upper left corner and make a suggestion: buy my book, love it, and tell everyone you know about it. I'll be launching a full-on publicity blitz in the next couple of weeks, so keep your fingers crossed for me — and in the meantime, give me your money! I promise you won't be disappointed.

It's not contagious.

Unlike every other affliction this season, divorce cannot, by any form of contact, be spread from one couple to another. While my good friends understand this, I've noticed a strange phenomenon among those I consider fringe friends. They seem to avoid me, as if my change in marital status has caused them to wonder if they ever really knew me. Maybe they feel awkward inviting a single to socialize with a bunch of couples. Or there's always the possibility that my married girlfriends who don't know me well are afraid I'm suddenly ON THE PROWL and will go after their men. (This could not be further from the truth, but I've gotten the evil eye at parties from more than one woman whose husband is talking to me.) Since they were never close friends, I'm not losing sleep over it, but I suppose my wittle feelings are hurt. Poor me.

Cute kids...

When I began this blog, I emailed friends and family to let them know I'd be posting pictures of Grace from time to time. (I did this because I am lazy, and I was tired of emailing photos to each person individually.) I also promised to keep the rambling to a minimum, but because I am a writer I broke that promise almost immediately. I love to write, and blogging helped me feel connected and gave me a medium in which to vent my frustrations and share my joys of parenting (in that order, it turns out). Now I feel as though I've reached a plateau, where my frustration and joy remain at fairly constant, unremarkable levels. I suspect that's because Grace is older and more predictable, or maybe I've finally hit upon the correct combination of mood stabilizers. Either way, Grace is old enough that I feel she deserves some privacy, especially while she's making the transition from toddler to little girl, and from a two-parent household to a two-household parenting situation.


All dressed up for a birthday party. Yup, those are tights, and we wrestled for about fifteen minutes before I prevailed.


A corner of one's own. (That photo above her is my first dog, Dutchie.)

The house that Grace built.

Grace, my little three-and-a-half-year-old kamikaze, designed and built this today, which resulted in a conversation between me and my roommate that went something like this: (I tweaked it a bit for the photo.)

"Did you do that?"
"No. Did you?"
"Seriously, did you do it?"
"No. I think Grace did."
"Come on. DID YOU DO IT?"
"Laurel, I swear I didn't do it."
"Did you help her?"
"Nope."
Silence.
"Huh."
"Huh."

New and improved

Thanks to an old high school friend, Jeff Strauss, and a buddy of his at work, my book cover has been vastly improved. (Go ahead, judge the whole book by it!)

That's the nifty thing about asking for help — sometimes people surprise me by going out of their way to do something nice just because. I'm not crazy about asking for help; in fact, it makes me so uncomfortable I usually just don't. My experience with this book project hasn't done much to change that, mostly because I've gotten responses that run the gamut from people completely ignoring my requests, to those who are downright rude, or barely civil, or kind but too busy, or grudgingly helpful — to that wonderful species who are genuinely pleased to do a favor for someone they don't know or haven't seen in years. It's possible the latter outnumber the former, and I hope I've let them know how much I appreciate their help, support and encouragement, and that I'll have the presence of mind to do the same for others if given the opportunity. (Although, in all honesty, if I ever find great success as an author, I'm pretty sure it won't take long for me to forget the little people. What? I kid.)

I'm pushing for an early February release. I'll keep you posted.

Old blue eyes, young blue eyes.

"Do you like Frank Sinatra?"
"Not as much as you might expect."
"Really."
"Really."
"Gracie, do you like this music?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"It makes me want to go to sleep."

Atta girl!

This is pretty cool...

It's not what you think.

This is the subtle approach Brady takes to begging when we're having an especially tasty (meaty) meal. I don't notice it so much anymore, but it can be awkward at dinner parties when guests aren't quite sure whose hot breath they feel on their thigh. When I was growing up, my father could cause the dogs to flee the dinner table with a quiet, "We're eating." I don't have that kind of steely control over Brady, but at least she matches my pants.

Right now she has a couple of projects going on in the backyard that have me mystified. She digs holes. This makes perfect sense in the summer when she needs someplace to cool off after she's laid in the sun so long her core temperature has reached dangerous levels. But now it's so cold the ground is hard, so she must be after something. My hunch is that when I tossed that steak bone into the back yard after dinner a few weeks ago, she didn't see its path from my hand to the ground, so now her walnut-sized brain is certain that steak bones magically appear out there and she must find them.

Mmmm, pupcakes!

Until a few days ago, it seemed Grace had pooped on every potty except the ones IN OUR HOUSE. For Mommy, she saved it all for naptime, bedtime or just any old time she felt like it. So the other night I sat her on the potty and sang to her, told her stories, made faces at her and said mean things about Elmo until she just couldn't take it anymore. I tortured that poo out of her, and I'm not ashamed to say it. Our deal? She gets a cupcake whenever she poops in the potty, and this baby cost $3.50 at New Seasons. Please do not bring to my attention the possible long-term psychological ramifications of such blatant food bribery. I'm tired of washing underpants, and she's so proud of herself, she will tell anyone who will listen that she poops on the potty like a big girl.

Coming soon...

Back to bitching and moaning

I never quite know how to process remarks people make about how unfortunate it is that, now that I must go back to work, Grace and I are missing precious time together. For one thing, they are absolutely right (although some of our time together wasn't all that precious). Also, I don't imagine anyone is being intentionally judgmental or superior, even if the majority of comments come from people without kids or by fathers whose wives have had the luxury (!) of being stay at home moms. But it's happening more often, and I'd be more comfortable if I had a mental procedure in place to keep me from wasting too much energy on it. So I ask you, do I file it under:

a) meaningless conversation filler;
b) well-intentioned sympathy;
c) a whiff of criticism I could live without; or
d) SOMEONE DANCING ON EVERY FUCKING BUTTON I HAVE ABOUT BEING A HORRIBLE MOTHER?

My defensiveness around the issue is unoriginal and not terribly flattering, I know. I could go on about how committed I was to spending as much time with her as possible, how the divorce was unavoidable, how I have to help provide food and shelter first and foremost, but you know what? Just now, as I was typing this and realizing what a universal struggle this is for working moms everywhere, I decided it's not worth the time. So I think I'll just let it go. Yup, it's gone, for now anyway.

My girls.

They can be challenging, particularly in crappy weather and when they team up on me, but they're both so frickin' cute and give such good cuddles. I love the stuffing out of them.


Gigi, looking as if she's just smelled a fart, or perhaps the aroma of wet dog.


This rug was just cleaned. Damn dirty dog.

Bite me, 2008. I win.

According to a list I found online, the top ten stressors are:
- death of spouse
√ divorce
√ marital separation
- jail term
- death of a close family member
√ personal injury or illness
- marriage
√ being fired at work
√ marital reconciliation
- retirement

I experienced half of these (checked), spread nicely over the last six months. (I was surprised to not find moving on the list, because we all know how exciting it was to sell and/or buy a home last year.) Also, I watched one of my best friends suffer the loss of a parent; I went through the delightful process of kicking a Vicodin habit, courtesy of my gastroenterologist's (the Sadistic Prick) decision to treat my symptoms rather than figure out what was going on with my body (cold turkey, three days of hell); I faced some financial setbacks; I watched the Perfect Roommate become the Perfect Nut Job; I raised parenting anxiety to an art form; and I spent the holidays away from my parents for the first time since moving to Portland. It sucked.

So why am I so happy? I've never dealt well with chaos and uncertainty, but all the recent drama seems to have perfectly illuminated the good in my life. I'm making positive changes; I finally feel healthier now than I have in years; Grace seems to be adjusting remarkably well to her new living arrangements and is gradually transforming from a giant energy drain into a little person who makes me howl with laughter; and, of course, the people in my life continue to amaze me with their support, generosity, patience and compassion. Family, friends (old and new), and even cheerful strangers make me smile every day and appreciate what a fantastic little community I am part of.

I am optimistic about the new administration and the direction our country could take; I look forward to discovering the nuances of Grace's emerging personality; and I remain absurdly hopeful about publishing my novel and making a living as a writer. And as far as this is concerned? Time will tell.

Ho frickin' ho

Christmas this year was the culmination of a week-long siege of ice and snow that trapped us in the house and tested our very humanity. I, Grace, Brady and our friend Mike made the best of it. We didn't turn on each other (much), didn't eat each other when supplies ran low (although we speculated Brady would be nicely marbled) and we enjoyed some very creative meals and a lot of bad TV. Grace was such a good sport, primarily concerned with when we would be "going to Christmas." Try explaining that to a three-year-old. I went with, "Christmas is everywhere!"


The real reason for the season.


Grace ate just enough dinner to be allowed dessert. Dainty, isn't she?


We didn't make it to my parents' for the first time in years, but at least Ed was able to join us. Rather, Ed brought all the food for the yummy meal Mike prepared, rented movies for Grace and, most important, GAVE ME A NEW CAMERA FOR CHRISTMAS! He's, like, the best brother in the world.


Grace patiently explains to Mike how a doll works. (This is the same doll she got for her birthday, but the cute jammies were a gift from Aunt Kerry and Uncle Art.)


She really loves this doll.

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.