Home improved.

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

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

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

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

Gittin' down and dirty.

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


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


Monkey see, monkey do.


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


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


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

Conflicted.

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

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

Still, with the bad dreams.

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

Not quite making the grade.

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

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

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

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

Sick kiddo.

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

Learning the lingo.

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

Happy Mother's Day, I think.

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


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

Happy Mother's Day

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

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
















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

Believe it or not, this is progress.

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


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

Big ol' bucket of dysfunction.

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

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

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

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

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

Women of substance.

When I sent my first email about publishing Soft Landing, a friend wrote back, "There is nothing more tangy, more sweet, more salty or more bitter than a woman of substance. I have my next read! Burn clean girlfriend." I both laughed and cried, at the wording and the sentiment. (I also realized there are few people who can string together a sentence like that and get away with it. I am not one of them.) More than anything, I soaked up the friendship and encouragement.

One of my favorite people in the world, a fellow creative mama and blogger, just began selling her work on Etsy.com. It takes so much courage to put yourself out there and be judged by the world, I want to offer her the same kind of support, because without it, I suspect creative types tend to go a little crazy. I bought this piece and can't wait to get it and add it to my collection of friends' creations. Her work is lovely and provocative, representative of her commitment to animal medicine and all things natural and sustainable. And the online shop is not all that's new in her life; she has a little bundle of springtime joy, Ivy, six weeks old today. Now THAT'S a woman of substance — plus talent, determination and an abundance of energy! (When Grace was a newborn I was lucky to take a shower, much less embark on a creative journey.) So good luck to you, my friend. I admire your dedication to all that you do, and wish you luck in finding an audience for those wonderful creative juices of yours.

I got hate mail!

Well, a nasty comment, anyway. If I'm not mistaken, this is an important milestone in the blogosphere. It rates right up there with recent invitations I've received to contribute to allvoices.com, considering the fact that ANYONE CAN JOIN. I'm confused, and honored.

Hate mail is confusing because 1) most comments don't make sense and 2) why do people subject themselves to media they don't enjoy? I mean, what does "I take and I take..." mean and why is it so strange that my blog is about me? Also, I don't sit on my ass watching Bill O'Reilly on Fox News, ranting, "You're such an asshole!" And I'm honored that someone else actually has more time on their hands than I do to fart around online, probably from their desk at work, and has chosen to spend it judging my rantings. I actually ran that last post past a couple of people to make sure it was clear that I was joking. All I can suggest, not-so-gentle-reader, is don't read my blog, WHICH IS ALWAYS ALL ABOUT ME! (And a reminder that nothing is truly "anonymous" on the internet.)

Back in the real world, I had a great day yesterday visiting independent bookstores in Portland, talking to people who truly appreciate the written word. They took my misprints and press kits and asked if I might be interested in doing a reading, which blew me away because they were so friendly and open-minded and very, very Portland. I won't make any money, but it's nice to shoot the shit with geeky bookworms like myself.

Also, the family went to the park after dinner and Grace finally went down the winding, tubular slide that has so vexed her for over a year. The look on her face was priceless. Pride, radiating from a three-year-old who has conquered a fear, is indescribable.

No one to blame but myself. And everyone else.

Bright and early this morning I received 25 copies of the final version of my novel, the version I approved for expanded distribution worldwide. I had received a proof a week or so ago and made a few minor corrections, including adding a necessary blank page to the title pages. Unfortunately, that threw the entire book out of whack, causing every chapter to begin on the left-hand page instead of on the right. (This is not good.) I was in a hurry to get on with the book promotion so I could sell lots of books and, you know, abandon this pesky business of looking for a real job. A costly mistake, it turns out, unless someone would like to host a "discounted misprint signing party" so I can recoup my losses and maintain a sense of humor about what happens when the meds start gaining on the OCD streak in me.

Which brings me to my current downward mood swing, which I attribute largely to lackluster sales. Despite all the positive feedback I've gotten from readers and my tireless efforts at self-promotion, I would be embarrassed to admit how few books have actually sold. I knew this would be a slow, frustrating process, but OH MY GOD. So in order for me to sleep tonight and be able to get up and look myself in the mirror tomorrow morning, I feel the need to place blame where blame is due. I don't mean to be indelicate and I certainly don't want anyone to take this the wrong way, but you people disappoint me. I give and I give, right? I entertain, free of charge, by sharing the gory details of my soap opera of a life. And so I beg you, for the love of God, quit reading my blog and go convince someone to buy my book. Consider it your good deed for the day.

We put the house on the market — again!

Today I went to the unsold house (unsold, as in undead) to do a quick clean and make sure there was nothing rotting in the refrigerator (there was). It was about a year ago that my life took some unexpected forks in the road, and moving into that house seems to represent a lot of those little twists and turns that culminated in one huge detour. Nothing happened suddenly; it feels more as if a series of crises and decisions left me in a place where there was no turning back. But when I step into that house, there is a definite before and after; a time of happiness, expectation and optimism, and then a time of uncertainty, grief and resignation. That's a lot to lay on a house; I had such high hopes. But for most of the time I lived there, I was miserable and behaved badly.

I think that's what makes me feel like crying every time I walk in. Nothing turned out the way I had planned and waited for so impatiently. I can count on one hand the number of good memories forged during the year we were there. Grace's third birthday party tops the list; I reconnected with some old friends (although that's bittersweet because some of those connections have already been lost); idyllic summer afternoons in the backyard with Grace; the few times we had friends or family visit; meeting Michael. Maybe I knew, on some level, that our time there would be short, because I never took the time to make the house ours. I didn't paint a single wall or plant anything in the yard. I left so many possessions unpacked, and opened up so little of myself to the community I longed to be a part of. So it's not the house I miss, or the neighborhood, because it never felt like home. I miss the idea of the home it might have been.

This last bit of legal unpleasantness has left me bitter, which is neither healthy nor productive, but seems somehow... symmetrical. Our buyers bailed, taking a toll financially. And, of far more significance, our marriage failed, which cost us so much emotionally. Will we end up in a better place? I haven’t a clue. I’m trying not to plan and predict and look forward to a different life. The one I’ve got right now, when I stop and pay attention, is pretty friggin’ good.

Feeling a little used.

Powell's is a Portland institution, occupying an entire city block and hailing themselves "the largest independent used and new bookstore in the world..." who carries "an extensive collection of out of print rare, and technical titles..." blah blah blah. Every time I mention I've written a novel, I am asked some variation of, "So is it for sale at Powell's?" And everyone assumes I will eventually be doing a book signing at Powell's, since they are so beloved locally and one assumes the feeling is mutual. They have a section devoted to debut authors; another category comprises local authors.

I have Powell's to thank for one book sale: the copy I dropped off with my press kit wound up on Amazon.com for sale by Powell's as "used" — and below retail price. I had visited the store twice hoping to be granted an audience with their purchaser, and left several messages regarding my novel. Nothing. This hurts. As a local, debut author, I guess I expected at least the courtesy of a return phone call or a, "You're wasting your time" heads up from the person who took my information. Instead, they discarded my blood, sweat and tears (oh, the drama), making almost entirely profit. I get nothing but the satisfaction of knowing that at least someone bought it.

I knew this kind of crap happens with booksellers, reviewers and other media, but POWELL'S? Yuck. I guess I have one thing in my favor: when Soft Landing is finally available through wholesalers, I'll be able to revisit the great and powerful Oz at Powell's and let him know they've already sold out of my novel once.

A happy visit.

Sandi, Grace's part-time nanny from way back when, came for a visit last weekend.


I kept my yap shut until I knew for sure it would happen THAT DAY, because as soon as I told Grace the news, every conversation went something like this:

"Do you want an apple or a pear with lunch?"
"Is Sandi coming now?"
"After your nap, bug."

"Do you need to use the potty?"
"Is Sandi coming now?"
"Not yet. After your nap."

"Stop kicking Brady, Gigi."
"Is Sandi coming now?"
"After your nap."

Pause.

"Will Sandi come into my room after — "
"AFTER YOUR NAP, GRACE."

She was so excited she stayed up later than usual, then slept forever. When Sandi got here, we waited as long as we could before going into sleepyhead's room, then I watched as they had one of their love fests where Grace clings to Sandi like a monkey until we peel her off physically. Afterwards we went to the park and watched Grace screech, "There's a bug! A bug! THERE'S A BUG, MOMMY!"

John told me his mom once took him to visit a woman who took care of him when he was little, and how awkward it was because he didn't remember her at all. I won't let that happen with Grace; Sandi was part of the family and basically taught me how to do everything, including how to not die from worrying too much. So I'll make sure Grace knows that Sandi is largely responsible for both of us being alive.

My brush with media greatness.

I appeared on this morning's KATU AM Northwest, our local ABC affiliate's morning show. This six-minute segment took WEEKS of phone calls, emails, planning and preparation. The woman talking about child abuse agreed to appear on the show with me to provide some credibility so that I could shamelessly promote Soft Landing. Fortunately, she got a bit more air time than I did, because her message was more important than mine, and I may have pissed myself if they had asked me one more question. I'm sure there are countless reasons people choose to become writers; I'm fairly certain that those reasons DO NOT include a fondness for public speaking. But doesn't my hair look great?

Can I sue someone for being an asshole?

It turns out that one might have the law on their side and retain an excellent lawyer, and still get completely screwed. I don't know why this surprises me. The house remains unsold, even though the neighbor has conceded in writing that our home does not, in fact, constitute an encroachment on the easement. Our buyers have been incredibly patient; rather than backing out completely at the beginning of this fiasco, they extended the closing date and waited for us to straighten things out. Coolio, right? Problem is, the easement, while not necessarily enforceable, is still there. In theory, the neighbor can run a driveway right under our living room window, and our buyers aren't down with that scenario. And now they've gotten their own lawyer, so the only money changing hands is going directly to three lawyers.

What kills me is that EVERYTHING IS ARGUABLE. Our lawyer believes we can challenge the validity of the easement, but it's possible we might lose. We could talk the neighbor into applying for an off-street parking variance with the city, but there's no guarantee they will grant it. If the variance is granted, the neighbor will argue that the value of his property has been affected. (This is their latest attempt to extort money from us; we're waiting for a dollar figure before we tell them to fuck off.) We could be hard asses and try to keep our poor buyers' earnest money if they back out, but because I didn't check the little box on our disclosure statement that asks if the property had any easements, the whole contract is called into question. The buyers got the same title report that we did, which briefly and vaguely mentions the easement, but apparently I/we should have been more clever than they are when we bought the home.

The bottom line is this: we may be victims of our neighbor's questionable legal actions, but to establish that fact in a court of law could take up to eight months and cost $20,000 — and if we lost we would be liable for the neighbor's legal fees. We can't put the house back on the market until we hear back from our buyers regarding our latest offer, and they're taking their time. So we pay two rents and a mortgage, while the entire decision to sell the house was based on the fact that we couldn't afford it. And we wait.

I need a hobby.

It is 8:15 on a Sunday morning, and Grace is still sleeping. I made sure she's breathing. Even Brady hasn't gotten up yet. I have absolutely no idea what to do with myself. So I blog.

I don't like Thursdays.

Each Thursday I drop Grace off at school knowing I will not see her until Saturday night. She reads my mood and insists on hugging and kissing more than usual before I leave her. And on Saturday night, she will regard me with some disgruntlement and tell me, "I missed you, Mommy." She also misses Daddy when she's here, which makes me wish she didn't have to miss anyone at all.


There was a protracted discussion about today's outfit, but I believe we both came away feeling satisfied with the results.

THINGS.

When you move from one home to another, do you ever seize the opportunity to get rid of all the stuff you no longer need, items that clutter your closets and drawers and gather dust in the basement or garage? Are you overcome with the urge to lighten your load and possibly clear a bit of space in your brain as well?

Yeah, me either.

Each time I move, I vow to not bring with me anything I haven't used in the last year, anything I can't identify, or anything broken that I will never get fixed. Sometimes my intentions are lofty enough that I imagine a pile for garbage, a pile for recyclables, a pile to bring to Goodwill and a pile of items I might be able to sell. Sounds easy enough, but I'm tormented by the notion that one day I will realize I'm missing a part to something and remember, "AH HA! I KNEW I SHOULD HAVE KEPT THAT." So each time I unpack, I find myself wondering what possessed me to keep the extra paper tray to a printer I no longer own. Or an ancient cordless phone that doesn't work. (I blame my father for this; he's never gotten rid of a cordless phone. I swear they have dozens of them.) Or a pair of shoes that hasn't fit since my feet grew wider during my pregnancy.

Ah, shoes. I have seventeen pairs of black shoes, including boots. Ten pairs of black pants, if you count leather and denim. Eight black sweaters. Seventeen black T-shirts/tops. And black coats? I don't know, because some are still at the other house. Then there's all the charcoal grey and light grey and khaki... I do have some lovely clothes, many that were ridiculously expensive. But on any given day, I will be in uniform: jeans and a T-shirt, a sweater if it's cold, and a pair of comfy shoes — rarely black. I do laundry infrequently, because I tend to wear the same few things until I run out of clean underwear. I used to dress for parties, wanting to look fashionable. (Unfortunately, photos where I may have looked fabulous are marred somewhat by the presence of a cigarette in my drunken fingers. The good old days.) Now I'm happy to reconnect with friends at a party, and I know they don't give a shit what I'm wearing.

I bring this up because of our recent move from a 1700-square-foot house (small) to a 900-square-foot-house (micro). The clothes are just the tip of the iceberg. I also have a box of barware (pilsners, water goblets, champagne flutes, wine glasses, etc.) that I never bothered to unpack after the last two moves, reminders of times when I loved to entertain. Books (non-fiction) that never made it out of their boxes at the last house, because I never got around to building bookshelves. And projects, endless projects, involving old and new family photos and scrapbooks and Gracie's artwork. The most telling uncompleted project? Wedding photos. I've printed and framed ONE PHOTO from my wedding day, and never managed to create an album or send photos to family and friends.

I love the art that I've collected because most of the artists are friends or family, so paintings and photos and sculptures are usually the first to make an appearance in a new home. Grace's room has been meticulously replicated for the fourth time, because I feel so guilty about uprooting her repeatedly. And I never feel settled until the bathrooms are in order, which was brilliant this time because we have only ONE BATHROOM. The rest? It's in the garage, and I don't miss it. I couldn't even tell you what's out there, except the saddle I used as a child and some of Grace's outdoor toys. And my beloved dining room table and chairs, which will be fostered by a good friend until we have room for them again.

Over time, I've developed strict criteria for making new purchases. It's a complicated equation involving affordability, necessity, and disposability. In other words: Do we have the money? Do we really need this? When I realize we don't need it, how will I get rid of it? I consider this part of my transition from yuppie to financially challenged; consumer to human being. I will always have a weakness for shoes and handbags (thanks, Ella), and clothes for Grace. But these are manageable vices and, most important, don't take up much room.

Home sweet home.

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


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


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


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

On personal hygiene.

"Mommy. Your hair is icky."
"My hair is fine. You're the one with jelly in your hair."
"Here, I'll cut out the icky parts." (Pretends to cut off all of my hair.)
"Great. How about a bath to clean up your hair?"
"NO NO NO! I DON'T WANT TO TAKE A BATH!"
"Okay, okay, your hair is fine. How's mine look?"
"Mommy, your hair is SO PRETTY."

It's all relative.

Today I talked to my dad for a while, and realized what a truly ridiculous predicament he's in, with the broken neck and all. From everywhere, he gets conflicting advice. His neurosurgeon tells him to remain immobile and wait for surgery; a friend who is an orthopedic surgeon tells him he'll never heal wearing the brace, and to avoid surgery at all costs. One person tells him it's important to exercise, while another warns him to take it easy. Everyone has an opinion on diet, naturally.

Can you imagine having a broken vertabra, one of the important ones up at the top, one that if you move your head the wrong way might shift and damage your spinal column? Every time I think about this I get sick to my stomach and try to go to my happy place, but my father doesn't have that luxury. So he compromises, wearing some version of a neck brace all the time, continuing to take Max (the main dog) for daily walks to help slow his canine arthritis, all the while quietly freaking out because the Hood Canal Bridge is scheduled to close right around his next visit to Seattle — which means a long, windy drive all the way down to Olympia and back up the other side of Puget Sound. I wish I could pay to airlift him from one place to another, or at least guarantee a safe car ride. But there's not much I can do and it's really not about me. Except that I would gladly trade places with him, because I live in a city with lots of hospitals. Why do people choose to retire to places without adequate medical care? Maybe I'll broach that subject with my parents once my dad can eat without loosening his brace.

I don't drink as much as I used to (mostly because of last summer's unprovoked attack on my digestive system), but tonight I made an exception because I like red wine with my spaghetti and I felt like relaxing. Tomorrow I will pay. But I'll be able to twist my aching head in whatever direction I choose, and make my way to the bathroom without worrying about falling. So right now I'm feeling pretty lucky.

I just want to be a mom, write and have people read my books. Is that so wrong?

There has been so much stress engulfing me and my family lately, part of me quite frequently wonders, "What the fuck?" The hassle of moving again. The legal bullshit that is delaying the sale of the house (although I will say this: that prick next door got in way over his head — we've got a kickass lawyer). My ongoing unemployment and resulting financial panic. Watching as Grace tries to adapt to yet another huge change in her life, without quite so much resiliency this time (heartbreaking). And the real sucker punch, my father's back pain turning out to be a broken vertebra that will require risky surgery. I confess to more than a few afternoons finding me curled up in bed, sleeping in order to tune out my world.

Normally, I would search for perspective in the problems facing the rest of the world: the more serious economic crises of other families; the earthquake in Italy; the shootings in New York; Michelle Obama hugging Queen Elizabeth (the horror). But it's not working for me anymore. To the contrary, it adds credence to the question that gnaws at me more and more lately: what's the point?

I used to find excitement in drama. I worried that if I ever found happiness or, more precisely, contentment, that I would be bored. But right now I would give anything in the world to be bored. I long for a predictable daily routine, one that doesn't have me constantly bouncing from one crisis to the next, never able to completely extinguish any one fire, always feeling as though I should be doing something else. It's draining, and I'm not much fun to be around. (Also, I tend to skip showers when I'm stressed, so I neither look nor smell very appealing.)

I know what I want to be doing. I want to have the luxury of time to promote Soft Landing without feeling guilty, to continue working on my second novel, and to curl up on the couch every night to watch a movie we've seen so many times we can recite the dialogue (The Secret Garden; The Neverending Story; The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe; The Little Princess, Over the Hedge). Weekends at the playground and the dog park. Friends over for a barbecue in our adorable little backyard. Driving to my parents' without worrying about paying for gas. Just your basic, boring old American dream.

I love to write. It's the only time I truly feel that I'm doing my work, making my contribution. I want Soft Landing to succeed because I love the feeling I get when someone tells me how much they enjoyed reading it. It's not money or even validation I crave; it's the knowledge that something I've created has made an impact on another human being. To everyone who has taken the time to tell me how much they loved the book, THANK YOU! Please keep your fingers crossed that one of my upcoming publicity efforts will hit, or that word of mouth alone will help Soft Landing find a larger audience.

Then I'll be able to obsess over the fact that among four-year-olds, one in five is obese.

Still my baby.

Last night after her bath, Grace decided she would be sleeping in her "mosey basket." I love that she still climbs in there, particularly since she claims she remembers when she was a baby and she "slept here with Mommy next to me." Lately I've been climbing into bed with her in the morning, which I love and she tolerates. (I'm looking forward to nights when she has nightmares so I'll have an excuse to wrap myself around her little body.)

When I was little my mom used to tickle my back when I was sick or upset, or just because she was my mom, something I still find so enjoyable I've been tempted to hire someone to do it by the hour. (Because it's never enough.) I couldn't wait to perform this service for Grace, but she didn't like it until one weekend spent with Gabba (my mom), who obviously has the magic touch. Now when I put her to bed she asks, "Tickle my back?" And when I stop she begs, "Tickle my back again?" Last night she looked up at me and whispered, "I love having my back tickled SO MUCH — it feels like being in the water with fish swimming all around me." That gave me even bigger goosebumps than a good back tickling does, because how in the world would she know what that feels like? Spooky.

I am now going to swear a lot. And use lots of ALL CAPS.

(An aside: a little old lady once scolded Michael for a mild expletive by telling him that swearing is how a weak mind expresses itself forcefully. He politely told her to fuck off. This is one of the many reasons I have decided to keep him.)

Remember how we found a sweet little bungalow that we intended to rent with a portion of the proceeds from the sale of the house until we became more... um, employed? Yesterday we were notified that the owner of the house next door was taking legal action to correct what is allegedly an encroachment on an easement between our two homes. HUH? We bought this house from a developer (i.e., one of Satan's minions) A YEAR AGO, after it had been finished and on the market for MONTHS, sold it THREE WEEKS AGO, were FIVE DAYS from closing, and this opportunistic, calculating little motherfucker waited until NOW — and here's my favorite part — to CALL OUR REALTOR to let her know this might cause a problem with the sale. Gosh, do you think? I reacted the way any normal person would, by having a hissy fit and treating our realtor, a good friend, as if the entire thing were her fault.

My first thought was that we had to keep our buyers from backing out of the sale, because I owe our landlord a shitload of money at the beginning of next month. All I could focus on was that this lowlife prick deliberately waited until the house sold so that he could screw up the sale and have a little leverage. And thank God, because I NEEDED A LITTLE MORE FUCKING STRESS IN MY LIFE.

Then I realized I should figure out if there was any merit to his claims. So I dug up the paperwork from the sale and realized very quickly that I had absolutely no idea what any of the fucking words on the paper actually meant. All those documents you sign when you buy a house, while the escrow officer rattles off what each means faster than the list of possible side effects on a prescription medication commercial? No big deal that you scribble your signature without even pretending to read anything — until something goes wrong. I went to bed last night fuming that there are so many people involved in the sale of a house who make an obscene amount of money doing little more than pushing papers around, yet when there is a problem they all have their heads up there asses and their fingers pointing at someone else. The truth is, for a number of reasons, I am completely alone in this.

This morning I made an appointment to meet with a lawyer I can't afford, went and picked up the keys to a home we may not be able to rent, met with a mover we might not need, and finished up a punchlist of repairs on a house we probably can't sell. I'm tired, broke and wondering what the hell I did in a previous life that my karma is so fucked up. (All the swearing?) The rest of the day I spent being quietly furious and rude to people, on the phone and in person: the developer, the title company, the douchebag's lawyer, the people that rent the house, their dog, etc. Grace was all, "Mommy, you're not using your nice voice."

The neighbor's lawyer faxed a letter to my realtor, and she emailed it to me because I had yet to see anything in writing regarding the issue that is threatening to push me over the edge. Here's my favorite part:

"In order to preserve the value of my client's property, he must insist the property be put back in its previous condition which could include moving a portion of your house."

Moving the house was definitely not on the repairs addendum.

We're moving — again!

We put the house on the market Mar. 3rd, sold it Mar. 5th and agreed to close Mar. 30th. I was NOT prepared for this, and would have remained in denial until the new owners showed up with a moving truck, had Michael not suggested, "Um, you think this weekend might be a good time to look for rentals?" Lo and behold, the perfect little house was waiting for us, and the landlord was kind enough to rent to someone with no income but lots of cash (from the house sale). It's tiny, adorable and two blocks from my very favorite playground and dogpark. I never thought I would be so excited to lose my status as landowner (!), but there is so much to look forward to in our new home, I'll have to write more later...

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.