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.

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.