Cozying up to Chaos.

I used to thrive under pressure. I worked a ten-hour day, ran errands on my lunch hour, picked up dinner before catching the bus home and did some freelance writing on the side. My house was clean and tidy, my pets were well taken care of and I threw dinner parties that involved recipes from Gourmet Magazine. When I left my job for a six-month sabbatical, three people took over my various responsibilities. Even when I started freelancing from home as a software developer, I became so engrossed in my projects that I would forget to eat or even get up to pee until I was in dire pain. And I was never more productive than when I was under a deadline, particularly if I'd put off something until the last minute. Case in point: I took on a fairly large programming job when I was seven months pregnant. It would have been impossible for me to finish it in two months, so I just figured I'd keep cranking it out after Grace was born. Hahahahahah!

I started working on Soft Landing (you know, my NOVEL?) before I had Grace, and tinkered around with it for years. Only when Grace was around two did I find the inspiration to quit messing around and get to work. (Until Grace was two, I was a full-time stay-at-home mom. Grace had a part-time nanny (hi, Sandi!), ostensibly because I was still finishing the aforementioned project, along with tweaking programs for some past clients. When Sandi was there, however, I usually napped or went grocery shopping.) So I was the mother of a toddler, still working, and I managed to write a book in my free time.

These days, it can take me a whole day (while Grace is at pre-school, mind you) to do the things I used to do on my lunch hour or after work. Even then, it's never done. Chaos reigns here in The Cave, and in my oddly dysfunctional brain, I can't convince myself to spend any significant time writing unless everything is in order. Which is absurd, because everything will never be in order. It's a problem. I know it's not a terribly original problem, that even writers who love to write will find countless reasons to not write. But I have a limited window to finish my current novel, and it's getting smaller and smaller.

We live in the midst of unpacked boxes, dirty dishes, unfolded laundry, toys strewn everywhere and tumbleweeds of dog hair floating about. My own personal nemeses are stacks of unopened mail and unpaid bills; missed appointments and unanswered emails; half-finished paperwork and neglected correspondence that taunt me every time I glance at my desk. I know women who manage to keep up with life's chores while working full-time and raising kids. I am no longer one of those women. I try to blame part of it on being a single mom, but that's just weak. I have plenty of time to take care of business; I simply choose to spend (waste?) my time on other things. I've become that flaky woman who always seems to be spinning her wheels, complaining about all there is to do.

A few weeks ago, I had dinner with an old friend and he asked me what I do all day. I was completely stumped. I could have lied and said I write, but it's been so long since I've done any serious writing, I've lost track of the characters in my novel. This is not a good sign. I have days of spectacular productivity, days where I am so disgusted by the state of the apartment that I do everything at once: laundry, dishes, paperwork, grocery shopping, etc. I feel good about it afterwards, but then, rather than taking advantage of my freedom from household tedium to write, I reward myself by hanging out with friends, spending too much time online and, of course, blogging.

I'm realizing that waiting until my life is in order to get serious about writing doesn't encourage me to keep chaos at bay. Because I'm not one of those women anymore. I need to get comfortable with that fact, to learn that I can do what's necessary and let the rest wait. I need to make writing a bigger priority than worrying about unpacked boxes and unfolded laundry. In fact, writing should be at the top of the list, along with keeping Grace alive and nurturing relationships that nourish me and keep me sane. (Okay, almost sane.)

I've joined a writing group. We meet once a week to share our projects and provide/receive feedback. My objective was purely selfish: to light a fire under my ass that will help me finish my novel. But it turns out I've stumbled into a group of writers who are not only smart, fun and funny, they are also intimidatingly good at what they do. I've been inspired by what I've heard of their work, and I've received feedback on my novel that surprised me by its insight and, well, total awesomeness. I got lucky, and I'm going to take advantage of this chance, and challenge, to stay focused on writing and, I hope, make some great friends in the process.

The dishes are washed. The laundry is (mostly) done. Grace is happy and healthy and with her father for the next few days. I'm going to pretend to not notice the boxes stacked around the apartment, and the mess on my desk. (Except for Grace's kindergarten enrollment, which I need to complete and deliver to the school — which starts NEXT WEEK. Last-minute Laurel prevails!) Other than that, I'm going to plant my ass on the couch (which smells faintly of pee due to an ill-timed nap by Gigi), and get to know my characters again. I'm pretty excited about this.

My new mantra: I love to write. I love to write. I love to write.

Peace Out.

I know, she's a little blurry. Aren't we all?

Girlfriends!

Grace and I joined a few families last week at Kruger's Farm for their weekly concert. Once we pumped enough food (sugar) into the kids, they had a blast. (Until then, they clung to our legs and whined about everything, and nothing.) Most of this happiness occurred in the half hour before the concert ended. Thanks to Rebecca for the pictures.


Grace expounds on the economic crisis, while Ava and Annika wonder if she'll ever stop talking.


The pile up was great fun, and they took turns being on the bottom. They look like sisters, don't they?


Gigi pretending to be a sweet, innocent little angel.

Nightmare in The Cave

Grace was in a truly VILE mood at bedtime last night. When she gets this way, she doesn't whine, cry or even speak actual words. She growls. After I finally got her settled, I was a bit unsettled myself, and I went to bed in a similarly crappy place. Then I had a series of nightmares. The first one had something to do with me being held captive somewhere and trying to scream loud enough so that I would be rescued. Of course, in dreams like this, you can never really scream, right? I somehow managed to, and woke up in mid-shriek. Not fun. I got up, my little ticker racing, checked on Grace and thought about sleeping with her, but she would have none of that sharing her bed nonsense. So I went back to bed and immediately fell back into more nightmares, the really fun kind where I kept dreaming I was getting up and turning on the light, but the light wouldn't come on, then I'd realize I was still dreaming. So I'd try to get up and turn on the light again, to no avail, and on and on until I was so pissed in my dream that I threw the lamp and went for the wall switch. Still no light. Still dreaming.

When I finally managed to wake up, I realized I was in a house alone with Grace, and I, the responsible adult, was scared shitless. Even Brady, The Canine Security Detail, wasn't there. I got up and tried to stay awake as long as I could, but eventually gave up and laid in bed, wide awake. I can honestly say I can't remember a single time in my life when I felt so utterly alone.

I did get back to sleep, and wasn't bothered by any more nightmares. But I woke up this morning with that same feeling of being alone, and haven't been able to shake it all day. Why? Because the bottom line is that when Grace is here and I'm in charge of taking care of her and making sure she feels safe and loved, there's no one here to do the same for me. All of a sudden, that's kind of blowing my mind.

Communication? What?

I read my last post, and decided that if they exist, The New Rules of dating can bite me. Sure, there is that brief window of optimism when you meet someone new and really enjoy spending time with him. Due to my finely-tuned radar, however, I am now able to see red flags the minute they appear. No matter how charming Mr. Wonderful is on the first few dates, I pay attention to those red flags as they pile up. Because of that, I'm more likely to pull my head out of my ass and realize, "Huh. This guy's kind of a tool." This is a good thing; in the past, I've ignored all the signs pointing me in that direction until I was in way too deep, and one or both of us ended up getting hurt. Waste. Of. Time.

The words that really jumped out at me from that last post were, "I'm not up for a real relationship." What? Really? Yes, really, and not because of any wounds from past relationships. The time and emotional energy involved in maintaining a serious relationship are not luxuries I can afford right now. I've set up this sort of... unusual life that I'm leading so that I can focus on Grace and writing without constantly having to worry about money. These living arrangements are temporary. So why complicate things with a distraction I can deliberately choose to avoid? I didn't anticipate, however, that even casual dating would bring out the same jealousy, insecurity and uncertainty of a longer-term relationship, minus the shared history, friendship and real connection that almost make the unpleasantness worth it.

There seems to be a pervasive belief that, like a shark, if a relationship stops moving forward, it will die. I know I've fallen prey to this misconception in the past. As I said in a previous post, I believe more women than men focus on where a relationship is going, and maybe even tend to rush things. Most men seem to prefer not to think about it; maybe they want to simply enjoy what they have without worrying about the future, or maybe men believe that ALL CHANGE IS BAD. Could there be a middle ground?

My last relationship ended (prior to my foray into casual dating) because of what appeared to be a widening chasm in our expectations for The Future. He assumed I wanted a more serious relationship, whereas he did not. My knee-jerk reaction to this resistance was predictable: I felt rejected, hurt and a little (!) angry. We talked about it, but that's where the communication breakdown began. Neither one of us actually heard what the other was saying. BIG part of communication: listening. My weak protests of not wanting anything more may have seemed disingenuous, because I never thought about our future; it was too difficult to imagine incorporating him into my life, and Grace's. I hadn't yet decided what I wanted or didn't want.

Now I have. So, long story long, we're giving it another try, albeit in a very different way. We're enjoying the parts of our relationship that were fun (most of them), and not obsessing over where it's headed. I'll focus on my issues instead of worrying about him freaking out, and he won't assume I want more from him than I do. My issues have a lot to do with insecurity and jealousy, and I can't really work on those without first feeling them. I'd just as soon work on them with someone I know and trust. (What? Trust? Then why the insecurity and jealousy? I know, I know. I guess that's why they're called issues.) His issues are his problem. This is new territory. Far from choosing the path of least resistance, I've chosen to do something rather difficult: make my own feelings my first priority. I'd like to sit with those feelings of insecurity and jealousy and try to figure out where they come from.

So far, so good. We're having fun again, and there's no cloud hanging over us about what's going on in the other's head. No reading between the lines or making assumptions based on fear. I can appreciate the good between us, without expending so much emotional energy that my time and focus are taken away from Grace and writing.

What could possibly go wrong?

Dating, Part III: Rules?

WARNING: Skip this one, Mom and Dad. Really.

I've taken to blogging about dating faster than I expected. Part of it is out of sheer necessity, because after being with John for eighteen years, then experiencing two sort of doomed relationships, I'm dating again. Casually, because I'm not up for a real relationship; I'm still licking my wounds from the last one. But when opportunity knocks, who am I to say no? The problem is, I don't know the new dating rules. I'm lost in a sea of confusion over how to best navigate these murky waters. Full of questions, and short on answers. So, you singles out there, I ask you: what are The New Rules?

I've had a few good experiences, but admittedly, I'm interacting with the male of the species with my guard up. I'm wearing my wounded heart on my sleeve, whether I realize it or not. Maybe it's because I tend to put the whole divorced-and-recently-out-of-a-relationship bit out there so everyone knows what's what. Decent, perceptive men sense my skittishness surprisingly quickly, and don't seem too crazy about the odds. I can't force myself to be vulnerable again, though. Should I fake it?

Communicating with men these days is like trying to learn a foreign language on the fly. No one seems to use the phone anymore. Email is rife with the possibility of misunderstanding. And texting? Please. It can take me forever to send one simple sentence. And what is the etiquette surrounding texting? If I have not asked a direct question, should I expect a reply? (And vice versa.) Should we take turns? If I want to share a random thought, but have yet to hear back from him after my last couple of random thoughts, am I text-stalking?

Not to put too fine a point on it, but when do we have sex these days? I'm forty-three. My basic philosophy is that I can have sex whenever I feel ready, as long as I'm safe. But are we still playing the waiting game? Am I supposed to ignore my own instincts so he doesn't think I'm some sort of slut, even when he's giving me the full-court-press? (That ship has already sailed, to keep the water metaphor going, but I'm still curious.) I can't help but feel that old fear: once we've had sex, is he going to disappear? I'm not talking about casual sex, mind you; that's not how I roll (ha ha). But let's face it: even casual dating can lead pretty quickly to physical attraction if there's any sort of chemistry involved. And making out on the couch seems so... high school. What's a girl to do?

Finally — and you can file this under TMI if need be — what's the protocol around farting? One boyfriend handled this beautifully. We were hanging out not too long after we met, and he looked up and asked, "Are you ready for a real relationship?" Every muscle in my body clenched in fear as I stared at him. Then he just let one rip. It was hilarious, and perfect. But not too many men have that particular sense of humor, and I can't walk around with a stomach ache simply because I'm afraid to rock the boat (ha!) with a little wind. If there are going to be overnights, is farting allowed?

I have many more questions, of course. But some advice on these burning issues would help steer me in the right direction, for the time being.

Dating, Part II

My last post was a bit of a downer. I was in a mood. (No way. A mood?) In my haste to revile all things dating-related, I forgot to mention the fun parts, which is what keeps us all going back for more, right? I'm in a list-making kind of place at the moment, so I offer the following, in no particular order.

Cool things about dating:
- Talking on a first date (with no drinking involved) and feeling perfectly comfortable
- Getting to know someone you feel as if you already know (see also: connection)
- First physical contact? Holding hands.
- Having him say he'll call, then getting that call before you expect it
- "When can I see you again?"
- Anticipating the next date, and the next
- Realizing you have way more in common with him than you ever suspected
- That first kiss. Wait, let me repeat that: THAT FIRST KISS
- Being able to sit quietly together, without the need to fill dead air with mindless babbling
- Missing him when he's out of town
- New Guy Smell
- Not worrying about introducing him to Grace, because IT'S NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN. Unless it does.
- Being in a place in my life where I'm not overly concerned with what it all means and where it's going
- Feeling good about myself, not because of him, but for all the right reasons

That's it for now. Like I said, I'll never kiss and tell. Not the juicy details, anyway.

Dating, schmating.

A while back, an anonymous commenter on my blog asked why I don't write about dating. Apparently, the dating trials of a divorced mom are of some interest to those who love a train wreck—namely, my entire readership. I've always told myself that I don't blog about dating because I want to respect the privacy of certain people in my life. But since my divorce, none of my romantic partners have appreciated this courtesy. One wondered why I never blogged about him. Another (jokingly) suggested I write a blog post consisting entirely of his name, repeated over and over again. (I thought that was pretty funny, actually.)

My rationalization for omitting such a large part of my life turns out to be complete bullshit, fueled by fear. I confess: I don't blog about it because I find dating to be really, really difficult. It is rife with uncertainty, conflict, disappointment and, ultimately, failure. Failed relationships hurt. And in my little pea-sized brain, a failed relationship translates into a failure on my part. What was I thinking? What could I have done differently? And, worst of all, what's wrong with me?

I don't actually believe there's anything wrong with me. I haven't had any serious self-esteem issues for a while, at least where men are concerned. (Okay, maybe a little recently.) Were this not the case, I would be a whimpering, quivering, helpless puddle of despair at this point. But I'm not, because I know who I am, what I want and what I deserve. I lose track of that sometimes. I cling to relationships that have clearly played themselves out, because I have thrown my whole reckless, idiotic, hopelessly hopeful heart into them, and I am loathe to admit defeat. My heart doesn't always agree with my brain. My brain might see red flags all over the place, but my heart is color blind.

My other weakness is that I tend to focus on whether or not the object of my affection finds me worthy, rather than letting myself decide, over time, if he's really someone I want to be with. I think women do this more than men. I also suspect that most men spend a lot less time worrying about where a relationship is headed, unless it seems to be moving too fast. I actually envy this about men; it makes really good sense. Living in the moment and letting things unfold naturally is healthy, and doesn't involve keeping track of who called who last, or waiting to see if he'll call if you don't, or trying to read between the lines of completely innocuous remarks. All of that is exhausting, and fruitless. I'm not going to do it anymore. Really.

Then there's Grace. She seems to believe that a family must comprise at least three people. It's what she remembers up until February when we moved into The Cave, and she knows that most of her friends have a man and a woman in one house. So I wait until I'm overcome with optimism to introduce her to anyone I'm dating, and then it's on a very casual level. But it doesn't matter. She can meet someone once, someone I've told her is just a friend, yet she reads more into it than I ever imagine she will. Soon, she'll start peppering me with questions. "Is so-and-so coming over again?" I don't know, baby. "Will I ever see so-and-so again?" I'm sure you will, honey. It's heartbreaking, and I can't help but wonder if she asks her father the same thing, or if she senses in me some need to have a man in the house. I don't consciously feel that need, but she's an old soul, and often surprises, no shocks, me by talking about things she just shouldn't know about.

So a few new rules as I move forward: listen to my head at least as much as my heart; focus more on how I feel about someone and less on how they feel about me; don't worry so much about where a relationship is headed; and most important, NEVER INTRODUCE A MAN TO GRACE unless he and I are both goddamn sure we're in it for the long haul.

Oh, and I will never blog about the specifics of my dating life. I'll try to throw in vague generalities from time to time, but when it comes right down to it, it's my own privacy and sanity I'm trying to protect.

Good Drama vs. Bad Drama

Also file under "Surprises: Good and Bad."

Bad Drama:
- having a family member become seriously ill
- finding a lump
- meaningless sex, no matter how fantastic
- being a single mom and getting sick, with no backup
- legal disputes of any kind
- having someone you care about disappoint you
- writer's block when you least expect it
- watching your child struggle with choices you have made, or anything else, for that matter
- saying goodbye to someone you thought would always be there
- depression

Good Drama:
- girlfriends who will drop everything to listen to your troubles
- that special someone calling a week in advance to say, "Keep Friday night open. We're gonna have fun."
- reconnecting with old friends as if not a day has passed
- realizing that you've just made a really good, intuitive parenting move
- being able to offer help to a friend or family member who really needs it
- getting a dose of perspective when you really need it
- knowing your child will be okay, despite all the dumbass decisions you've made
- someone making a crazy promise, and following through with it
- following your heart and having it work out for a change
- facing your greatest fears and being a better person for it.

Off the top of my head, anyway.

Stressed? Who, me?

Note: I've incorporate posts from the original "Grace Under Pressure" blog into this one. I began mommy blogging so that I could post pictures of Grace for friends and family, but it morphed into a series of mostly cheerful, witty posts that were fun to write but not necessarily representative of my whole life. I started this blog when my husband and I split up, as a way to vent honestly about my struggles. Not surprisingly, it's been a bit of a downer. Perhaps the two will balance each other out. Regardless, Grace is the most important part of my life, which is not always upbeat and cheerful, and it seems silly to exclude her from the big picture.

So, stress. This is a week I haven't been looking forward to. Tomorrow morning, John and I will go through what I hope will be the last round of mediation before our divorce is finalized. BIG! FUN! Then Grace and I will tour the school where she will start kindergarten in the fall. I'm ambivalent about this and have put it off until the last possible day. Yes, it's an exciting milestone, but it's another transition for her, and I worry it will upset the equilibrium (or semblance thereof) we've worked so hard to achieve since moving.

Later this week, I will be visiting my parents in Sequim for the first time since my accident almost a year ago. This will be my longest road trip since then, and I will be driving the same stretch of road for the first time. This will be the first time I'll walk into that house without being greeted by Max, which I can't imagine. Most important, I haven't seen my father in almost a year, and this will be our first visit since his surgery. I can't wait, but I don't know what to expect.

I have been living very much in the present lately, with a vengeance. Grace continues to be the grounding force in my life—when she's here. Since John and I have switched to a more equal parenting schedule, however, I find myself with almost four days a week of freedom to not worry about anyone but me. This is new territory for me, and while being in the moment is supposed to be a good thing, I've managed to do so at the expense of taking care of business: paying bills, writing, unpacking the last few boxes, being thoughtful and deliberate, and deciding what I want my (and Grace's) future to look like. Future? Yes, I know that's a dirty word regarding living now, but a minimum of planning is required in every adult's life, particularly when you're a parent.

I like to think I've made some good moves, rekindling friendships I had neglected for too long, making new friends and generally trying to stay out of my own head when it starts to feel unhealthy. I'm also struggling to feel physically healthy again, but my little bout with food poisoning hasn't finished messing with me yet. I've been told that stress can cause this. Duh. (Apparently, stress can cause anything, most of it bad.)

I know the best way for me to deal with life's uncertainties is to focus on what needs to be done now. When I spin it that way, I can almost imagine a life where I can keep living in the moment, while striving to find that balance between too much freedom (indulgence) and too much worrying (overthinking).

I will wave my magic wand and make it so.

Forty-three? Really?

I had a friggin' awesome birthday. In case either of you were wondering.

Cave dweller.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that not too many people get what I'm doing right now. Most family and friends are, after all, under the impression that I had everything I wanted, and lost it all through a series of mishaps and bad decisions. I went through that self-pity party myself. I now, however, feel the need to clear up something important to me: I am doing exactly what I want. Yes, I live in a basement; no, I don't have a job; yes, it's a challenge being a divorced, downwardly mobile single mother. But I've arranged my life very deliberately so that I can focus on endeavors other than dinner parties and buying shit I don't need. I have created this window of time in my life where I can be a mom and a writer, in that order. I'm also a friend, a sister, a daughter, a lover and, most of the time, a card-carrying whack job.

I've spent too much of my life trying to fit in. To blend, to not draw attention to myself, to be appropriate. Problem with that is that I was so good at it, I ended up feeling invisible, and wondering why nobody really knew me. Growing up in rural Washington as an east coast transplant gave me a very tangible goal: DON'T BE WEIRD. Learn the country lingo, dress the part and don't let on that my family was at all different than everyone else's. (In that we hadn't lived there for generations, among other things.)

This was fantastic practice for when I went off to college in St. Louis, and found myself surrounded by kids from the east coast. Rather than feeling reunited with my people, I was so thoroughly countrified that, once again, I was a fish out of water. College, for me, was a giant game to which everyone else knew the rules. I was lost, and terrified of being considered weird. So I switched gears and did the best I could to emulate my peers, but I'm not sure I ever really fooled anyone. I certainly didn't enjoy those four years of putting up walls and then waiting for at least one person to tear them down. (One did make the effort; all I can say to him is, "I'm sorry.")

When I moved to Chicago, I felt at home. Something about the anonymity of a large city made it easier for me to move about undetected. Perfect. But then I made a bunch of friends, and had to go through the process of trying to be close without anyone figuring out how weird I really was. I got really good at this; some of my neuroses I was able to pass off as quirky, which provided a release valve. A few toxic friendships torpedoed my self esteem, though, and I still carry around parts of that scared, twenty-something girl who was never pretty enough, successful enough or cool enough. At least I was funny; funny was my thing. But the rest of it eluded me, until...

...I moved to Portland. Here, I finally got comfortable with myself. Not so comfortable that I didn't hate visits to Chicago, but I found my niche pursuing the American Dream with a vengeance. (This blog is about how that didn't work out so well for me, however, as both of my readers will attest.)

I'm more comfortable with myself than I ever have been. Getting in touch with my inner weirdo has proved much more enjoyable than I expected. Much the way I've always imagined a schizophrenic feels when they go off their meds and just listen to the voices in their heads for a change, it's a huge relief. For me, it's been a healthy relief. It's allowed me to write without worrying about what people/readers will think. (Let's face it, most writers are anything but normal.) It's brought friendships that are real and messy and intimate and all that other stuff I avoided for so long, because I've surrounded myself with people I find interesting, and who don't think I'm all that weird. I now find that for me, normal = B-O-R-I-N-G.

I live in a cave. I'm a little weird. And it's okay.

My little baby.

I haven't posted for a while, largely because the batteries in my camera have been dead and I'm too lazy to do anything about it. I consider this a place to post photos with witty commentary, so friends and family can see Grace as she grows. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but today words will have to suffice.

It's been over a week since I've seen Grace because of the speed bump I mentioned below. Today she came over for the afternoon, and HOLY CRAP. For one thing, she looked so lanky and grown up; that growth spurt I was predicting happened with a vengeance. At this rate, she will be taller than I am by the time she's flirting with tweendom (John's 6'2"). Also, she has a cold (natch), and her husky voice made her sound older. It was weird. Like, who's this strange kid in my house? weird.

By the time she left she no longer seemed like a stranger, fortunately. And while I used to believe Grace would drive me to therapy (if I weren't already there), I now realize she is the best therapy around. We crammed so much fun into a few hours, because that's who she is. If I was lost the last couple of weeks, color me found. (I know it's a lot to lay on a kid, keeping her mother grounded, but what harm can it do if she doesn't know?) I am someone's mother, as a few wise friends keep reminding me when they see me flailing. And I realized today that I love every wonderful, crazy, frustrating, hilarious, terrifying minute of it.

Speed bump.

Most of the time I am brutally honest when I blog, because I find such release in writing, regardless of who reads my thoughts, or doesn't read them. I can't do this now, however, because I have a certain sense of crossing a line when it comes to very personal experiences. So, the short version.

I was in the hospital for eight days. I was sick, and then they almost killed me by giving me a drug to which I had a severe allergic reaction. For days, they did not listen when I complained I felt worse. Fortunately, my admitting doctor went on vacation and the doctor covering for him did listen to me. She did some blood work and a couple minutes of research and figured out what the problem was. Once I felt better, I wanted nothing more than to go home, but this was not in the cards, since I needed to be monitored. I almost checked out AMA (against medical advice), but this meant my insurance wouldn't cover my stay, and that seemed like a very bad thing.

The worst part about being in the hospital, other than almost dying? No Diet Coke. The best part? Waking up every morning to the adorable, 22-year-old face of the med student who came to draw my blood. Thank you, Cute Blood Guy, for all the painless pricks and for taking the time to talk to me about books; you will be a fantastic doctor one day.

So that happened. On with life, such as it is.

Not my favorite virtue.

I'm not a particularly patient person. I believe I mentioned here, here, here and here how I feel about waiting. Let me summarize: waiting sucks. This deeply-held belief is what made it so frustrating to go through six years of infertility issues. It's why I had trouble with what seemed like an interminable recovery process after my car accident. It's why I wanted to scream at someone every day while the lawyers worked out our real estate debacle. And potty training Grace? Let's just say I did the best I could and leave it at that.

Grace. I realize the most important lesson I can learn from her, other than how to say, "I love you" with abandon to anyone and anything (including trees), is to be a more patient person. There is no rushing a four-year-old. When we walk to school in the morning, Grace really doesn't give a rip when we get there. Why should she? My impatience has everything to do with the fear that the teachers silently curse me for consistently being late and absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Grace might miss a few minutes of circle time.

I'm actually fine with Grace when we have no destination or goal. If I'm with her at the park, or tagging along while she rides her tricycle, or hanging out at OMSI or just farting around (literally—she farts like an old man), I don't have the same awareness of time that I have when I'm getting her ready for bed or watching her eat (torture).

The trouble I see on the horizon, however, is that she may learn—or inherit—impatience from me. She hits the ground running every morning and doesn't stop until bedtime, and I've noticed lately that if I don't hear something the first time she says it, she is enormously burdened by the need to repeat herself. Maybe this is just typical four-year-old behavior; I hope so. But she also has little patience with herself (very familiar territory), which makes me wish she could enjoy a few more years of carefree experimentation before she starts worrying about doing everything perfectly the first time. But I'm afraid that ship sailed a while ago. Grace is one of those kids who started walking late, but nailed it in a day. Ditto with talking—there wasn't much trial and error with Grace; she just started speaking in complete sentences when she was ready.

I'm working on cultivating patience where I feel it will serve me well, mostly with family and friends and, to a certain extent, myself. But I will never feel comfortable engaging in idle chit chat or waiting to hear from someone I miss talking to. I'm much more into making things happen than waiting for things to happen to me. I know that this may come across as pushy or controlling to some people, or even a little crazy. I just don't really care.

This morning I ran into a man whose wife recently died unexpectedly, leaving him with two young daughters. Although I had coffee with her a couple of times, I'd never met him and had no idea what to say. So I said nothing, but cried all the way home, wondering how many experiences that family missed out on because they were waiting for the right time. I'm projecting like crazy here; for all I know, they lived every day as if it were their last. But I've been living my life in limbo for more than two years now, and I'm tired of wondering what will come next. Life is happening every second of every day, and waiting seems a waste of time. I get it: I made some tough decisions and big changes, and I need to wait for the dust to settle before I can feel settled. I've no one to blame but myself for my restlessness, so I'll try to be patient a while longer. Really, I will. But I don't have to like it.

Misc. drivel...

Things I like to do alone:
- go to a movie in the theatre
- write
- eat breakfast or lunch at a greasy spoon
- clean
- do laundry
- look at art
- nap
- go to the dog park with Brady
- take road trips
- shop for necessities
- sleep

Things I like to do with someone else:
- jog
- read in bed
- travel
- talk about miscellaneous drivel
- garden
- cook
- make big decisions
- shop for recreation (almost never happens)
- go out for drinks/dinner
- take Grace somewhere fun
- sleep

Facebook funk.

I went to bed in a great mood and woke up at 5am. I couldn't go back to sleep, so I slumped in front of my computer and spent a ridiculous amount of time looking at the walls of Facebook friends. (If you're not familiar with Facebook, skip this post and never, ever join.) Over the course of the next hour or so, I managed to work myself into a really, really bad mood. I learned a few things about my "friends," which was nice, but I also began to feel like — dare I say it? — a loser. This is a trap into which I fall too easily and often, but I'm fairly certain that almost everyone leads a more interesting life than I do.

Facebook is fine, as long as it's taken at face value: a convenient way to keep in touch with many people at once, on a fairly superficial lever. Most people on Facebook, including me, try to be witty and clever and show how cool they are. Share photos, share news, share random thoughts, share political views — all free, with no risk attached. Then wait for validation that what you've shared, no matter how banal, was read and appreciated by a handful of "friends." It's good, clean fun.

But Facebook is a poor substitute for maintaining or creating real connections with friends, old or new. We present our best selves (most of the time), and it feels a bit like a high-school party. Will anyone "friend" me? If I "friend" someone, will they accept? Will I say something stupid and be met with silence and subsequently ignored by the cool crowd? Even worse, will someone UNFRIEND me? Do I look fat in these jeans?

Facebook, or any social networking site, gives the illusion of connection without having to look someone in the eye. Much like blogging, it's inherently narcissistic, shallow and — one hopes — no more than a fun hobby. When it becomes the primary means of reaching out to the world, however, it disappoints. I spend too much time on Facebook (clearly), and no matter how much I truly appreciate the friendships I've found there (I do!), it's not the same as real social interaction. Most of the friends I've met online are people I would love to meet and hang out with. But I don't. They live far away, they're busy with their families, their jobs are demanding — or I'm too lazy to take a shower and meet for coffee. I don't know why this is, but there you have it. I have yet to sit face-to-face with someone I've met online. They remain my "bonus" friends, somewhere to turn when I don't feel like making a phone call but need to vent a little or share a thought. It's just so easy, and keeps me from talking to myself.

I'm not finished retooling my life, but in the meantime, I am someone's mother, daughter, sister, friend. (And Food Lady to the dog — shit, I forgot to feed her.) All of that is very real, and it should be enough. But it's not. Not when I compare it to the picture perfect lives of friends more settled, successful, smart or happy than I am. Holding myself up for public scrutiny on Facebook doesn't phase me; it's the personal scrutiny that gets me into trouble. Stop doing that, Laurel.

Dishpan hands.

Back to the Year of Living with Less. You know what? I have very little to report. What we have given up: space, a dishwasher, a microwave, control of the thermostat, cable TV, a land line, a fenced yard and the ability to properly check the weather without walking up a flight of stairs. Boo hoo. It's simply not that dramatic. The two (three?) flooding incidents that first week were the worst of it so far. Knock on wood.

It's a pain to deal with the dog when Grace is here, but when Grace is at school, Brady gets long walks, rain or shine. We both needed that. It's become more difficult to have friends over, particularly Grace's friends, because there isn't much room to run around. But Grace has the biggest room in the place, and soon I will convince her that it's much more fun to play in her room with her toys than to pepper the adults with questions like, "What are you drinking? What's your favorite color? Do you toot a lot?"

More than anything else, I'm struggling with unpacking. There is space here for most of the belongings I chose to keep. (The thirteen boxes of books have me stymied, since in the past I've hung bookshelves, which I've decided not to do here because I'm tired of doing it over and over. There's no room for a massive bookcase, so for now they are in my closet, where my clothes should be.) My ambivalence has more to do with the notion of actually settling in here, and what it means in the grand scheme of my life. We've moved six times in the last five years; we will probably move again when this lease is up. I'm tired of packing and unpacking, and we seem to be getting along fine with the basics. Why bother finding a place for things we don't need? But that leaves me feeling unsettled, as if this is not a home as much as a pit stop on the way to my real life. That feeling is getting old, fast.

When I open a box full of vases, all I can think is, "Why the hell do I have so many vases?" It will be a long time before I buy another candle or a box of fancy soap. I have a ridiculous collection of kitchen utensils from my previous life of cooking (as a hobby!) and entertaining frequently. Since I've gotten into the habit of eating practically the same thing every day so that I don't have to put much thought into my meals (it's enough trying to get Grace to eat a healthy diet), I really don't need that giant roasting pan, or a kitchen scale, or separate little scrubby brushes for corn, potatoes and mushrooms. I have a huge box of barware that hasn't been opened since John and I moved out of our first house. Wine glasses, champagne flutes, pilsners, water goblets and who knows what else. I know I won't bother to unpack this. I just need to hide the box.

Today I'm going to take the plunge and haul everything out of the laundry room into the apartment and decide what to unpack; the rest I will probably get rid of. Just like a closet full of clothes that don't get worn, I have a surfeit of things that don't get used or appreciated. They are weighing me down, and I doubt they will be missed. Wish me luck.

(As far as dishpan hands are concerned, I'm lucky to be washing my dishes in a sink rather than in a filthy river in which someone upstream is peeing. And it's a little slice of me time that I'm beginning to enjoy.)

Lightening up.

Last week I spent a few days moving the rest of my stuff from the rental house where we lived for a year. I decided to finally get rid of things I don't need rather than continuing to move them from house to house. (Actually the decision was made for me by the fact that I don't have enough room.) The whole experience was a pain in the ass, physically and emotionally. It was a lot of work that symbolized another false start, failed.

I've been itching to purge, however, and I'm determined to keep weeding out what I don't need or love. Clutter drives me crazy; even confined to a basement or garage, I still know it's there. Now I'm trying to identify what I want to keep and what I've held onto out of habit.

I'm hoping this exercise will inspire me to make similar changes in another cluttered place: my brain. Just as I didn't have to think twice about keeping my favorite pieces of art — and I will never apologize for schlepping my books from place to place — my top priorities are clear: Grace, family, friends, writing and striving (fighting?) to be a better person before I die. For some reason, however, I'm easily distracted from these things. In fact, I seek out distractions. Maybe I'm afraid that my best efforts won't be good enough, but without focus, I'm completely rudderless and tend to spiral into my own little self-pity party. It's pathetic.

The other day, I told a friend that I like being alone, that it was something I needed. Then I read my last couple of posts (because, you know, what better reading is there, really?) and thought to myself, "Laurel, you are full of shit." Or am I? I suspect the word "alone" means something different to different people; I also believe the experience of being alone isn't always the same for one person. I can enjoy long stretches of solitude and never consider myself alone. I take off for the coast for three days of uninterrupted writing, barely talking to another soul, and couldn't be happier. On the other hand, if I have nothing to do on a Friday night, and I feel like doing something for a change, all I can think is, "Holy crap, I'm so alone!"

Why am I sometimes so afraid of being alone? I covered it pretty thoroughly in this post , but apparently I have trouble remembering my own little epiphanies. Today I realized it's even simpler than that. What I miss is having one person I know I can talk to every day (someone over four). There is a sense of continuity when you have that person, whether it's a best friend, a parent or a lover. I've had that for my entire life and now, suddenly, I don't.

It blows.

Shout out.

I always love comments on my blog — even the nasty ones! Yesterday's batch truly made my day, however, and I wanted to say a heartfelt thank you, to friends and strangers. At times I can't imagine my ruminations could be of interest to anyone but my parents (actually, I'm pretty sure they stopped reading this a long time ago because of all the swearing). So why blog? I blog out of a need to write; I blog because it brings some order to the chaos in my brain; and yes, I blog to promote my book. The unexpected side effect has been the connection I feel when someone gets what I'm saying. So again, thank you!

Clearly a little girl's room.

Grace was demoted to a twin bed when we moved, but she didn't complain. In fact, she tends to stay put more now, possibly because of the electric force field I installed around the perimeter.


She will tell anyone who will listen that she has a "girly" bedroom, and she can name all of the princesses (I don't know how). Then she'll brandish her pirate flag at the dog, as if it's a sword. Is it wrong to encourage the pirate behavior?

So, what do you do all day?

It's difficult to be moody and introspective on such a spectacular spring day in Portland, especially after a peppy forty-five minute walk with Brady: sunshine, colorful blooms everywhere, sweet smells and a bag of warm poo in my hand. (And getting whistled at — twice; I wanted to stop them and ask, "Really? Still? Because I've been feeling a bit frumpy lately.) But I started this post a few days ago and would like to be done with it, so I will sit at my desk and grind it out so I can move on to more interesting things, like dishpan hands.

I've never defined myself by my job, but lately I've been defining myself by my lack of one. (Sure, I'm Grace's mom, but she goes to pre-school four days a week so that she won't lose her spot if I ever find work.) Also, when pressed, I can always trot out the "I'm a writer" bit. But there's something about a protracted period of unemployment that messes with your psyche; I'm starting to feel unemployable. I've never really had to look for work before; jobs have sort of found me. And now I'm looking like crazy, and nothing is happening. Yes, I know a lot of other people are in the same boat, but I'd like to be among the first rescued.

I may have mentioned that Grace and I now live right around the corner from the first house John and I lived in when we moved to Portland. (We lived there when Grace was born.) There are so many things I love about being back in this neighborhood, I couldn't possibly list them. I have always loved to explore the streets of Northeast Portland and look at houses; I used to jog for miles indulging in serious house envy. I have one walking path that takes me north on 39th (sorry, I mean César E. Chávez Blvd.) up to Wistaria right before you get to Alameda Ridge. My reward for the hill? Gawking at my dream house at the top: a three-story remodeled Mediterranean stucco deal with a gorgeous copper balcony. Then we hang a couple of lefts and head back home on 37th. Portland has some beautiful homes, and I never get tired of looking at them. I'm not talking about big, showy mansions with professionally tended gardens; the houses that captivate me most are tidy little bungalows or cottages that are obviously well-loved by the people that live there.

When I walk Brady now, I'm acutely aware of how things have changed for all of us. I used to covet the houses and gardens, but now I envy the families that live in them. I've had nice homes; they come and go. But that sense of hope and optimism we had when we started a family feels like it's gone for good. That sounds more depressing than I want it to, but it's just a fact: we are no longer a traditional, nuclear family. Grace will likely bear the brunt of this reality; her future looks quite a bit different than it did when she was born. John and I planned to have a baby, adopt another child and at some point live in a foreign country so that our kids could be bilingual. We were going to be different parents, always open to new adventures. That's not going to happen now, unless John and I achieve some sort of unprecedented ex-spousal state of harmony and selflessness.

Grace and I have everything we need for now. By global standards, we're rich in so many ways. Still, I hope our situation is temporary, not because of our standard of living, but because being a single mom is lonely and that trickles down to Gigi. It's just more fun to have someone with whom to share, every day, Grace's milestones, her setbacks, my own frustrations and joys. It's difficult, and scary, to be that adventurous parent when you're by yourself. Then I remind myself that my worst nightmares have always centered around finding myself alone. So — clichéd as it may be — I'm doing the thing that frightens me the most. (That's good, right?) And it's not so bad, because I'm never really alone, and I am so grateful for the people who reach out to let me know that, from my sister-in-law, to internet friends I've never met, to old high school and college buddies, to my local posse of girlfriends. And family, of course. Tonight, my brother came over with pizza, beer and a movie, and rescued us from a Friday night of cranky, headachy mom meets tired, disgruntled howler monkey.

It's not the same as raising a child with two parents, but I hope Grace will some day appreciate the huge, diverse crowd that took part in her upbringing. One of the things we sometimes do at night when she seems adrift is to list all of the people who love her, and that she loves. Lately, it takes longer and longer. That gives me hope that, job or no job right now, we're going to be okay in the long run.

Today

This was not a fun day. That is all.

Waking up from the American Dream.

Grace and I are still trying to find our groove in the new home; it hasn't been easy, with the apartment's predisposition to flooding and the fact that I have way too much stuff — furniture, books, rugs, art, more books. I'm feeling overwhelmed by things lately, material things, and the decision to keep them or get rid of them. We're still in limbo. I didn't grow up dreaming of raising a daughter in a basement; someday I might have more space again, right? What if I miss my things? I know, I know, there are people with nothing. Give them my number.

I remember moving into the Dream House almost two years ago (holy crap!) and loving how everything flowed effortlessly into the space and made it feel like home. Even Grace ran around yelling, "I love this house! I love this house!" The Dream House was supposed to complete the Dream Life. Instead, it made it clear (to me) that although all the actors and props were in place, the play wasn't going so smoothly. Grace and the dog were happy, but at the time it didn't take much more than a fenced yard, lots of bark mulch and a couple of blueberry bushes to satisfy them.

I thought I had it all, and I guess I sort of did. For years we had great friends and family, a series of beautiful homes, fabulous parties, adventurous vacations and, finally, a BABY. I had finished my first novel and was optimistically sending it out to literary agents. (Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if I'd sold the book and found success on a purely personal level.) Then the summer after we moved into the house, I got sick. Really sick. Remember the tomato-salmonella thing? That. Except that it didn't go away and I lost way too much weight and I couldn't really function normally. I had a lot of time on my hands and spent it in my head or blogging, and it was an empty existence (literally and figuratively). I kept asking myself, "Really? Is this IT?" Because something was missing for me.

I know a lot of married couples who present a facade of domestic bliss, but then I talk to one of them and it turns out they can hardly stand each other, or are little more than roommates and co-parents. (People tend to open up to me; they may not after this.) I understand that a lot of marriages are sustained for the sake of the children, and I respect that. Even though we may have started out with many common interests, tastes, hobbies and friends, I think John and I parted ways over core values and life goals. It's tough to maintain a connection once you've realized that. I didn't want to live that way, and I didn't want Grace to see us live that way. I remember feeling really connected to Grace then, and losing that connection was unthinkable. I didn't want her to grow up and realize her parents had been faking it.

I had been happy at times during the last eighteen years, and would undoubtedly have been happy again. But the rollercoaster was getting old, and I craved a sense of contentment. Happiness is fleeting, but how could I be content during the times I was faking it? I don't mean difficult times; all couples have those, and many end up closer for having struggled together. I'm talking about the valleys where that broken connection left me feeling completely alone, and scared. There's no contentment to be found there.

Funny thing is, I'm still alone, scared and haven't found contentment. And dating? Please. But I'm not faking anything anymore, for my sake and Grace's, and it feels good to know that she will learn from me how important it is to be true to yourself. My goal is to find abundance with less; we don't need all the material trappings of success to feel successful. What I need, more than anything, is authenticity; that's the only kind of role model I can be to her and live with myself. I hope that's not selfish. I hope it works. I hope Grace never gets to the place I was and asks herself, "Is this it?"

Please excuse the mess.

Life under construction — check back soon. I've decided to take the blog in a different direction: how a newly single, unemployed, forty-something mom can raise a child (and a dog) in a basement apartment, spending (consuming) as little as possible. So far? Pretty tedious: no dishwasher, no microwave, no back up when one of us is sick. It's lonely, but I need to remember that my network of friends is just a phone call away. (A cell phone call; no land line, no cable TV.)

Day one: leaking upstairs tub creates rain in Grace's bedroom. More to come.

The important things.

Sometimes Grace is especially cranky, or she won't stop pestering the dog, or maybe she just refuses to get dressed. I get frustrated, and if I'm tired enough I worry that I'm doing it all wrong. But I need to remember it's not about me. Gigi's such a great little girl, and I'm so proud of her sometimes I feel like my heart might pop out of my chest and burst all over my keyboard. I keep this letter to Santa on the bulletin board by my desk to remind me that it's all going to be okay. (She got the hat.)

Lady B.

Brady has been performing her security duties exceptionally well lately, so we got her a brand new bed, a tiffany-blue collar/leash combo and a sassy little haircut. She seems pleased, although she'd probably prefer more food and treats.


That fabulous tail, pre-grooming.


I think they did an especially nice job on her posterior.


Now her paws are nice and tidy, although she still has a tendency to step in her own poo.

Open house.

When we were trying to decide whether or not to have another child, a friend shared some advice she got when she was at the same point in her life. When asked why she wanted another baby, she admitted that she didn't want her son to be an only child. Her advisor suggested that, if that was the only reason, it wasn't a very good one. She told my friend that if she didn't want her son to feel lonely, she should open her house to other kids. Her son would have playmates, and his friends — some who may not be getting everything they need at home — could find a refuge.

I forgot about that until recently, when I realized Grace is at that age where she gets pretty bored at home. I can't play with her all the time, so why not have other kids over? My motives may not have been as altruistic and pure as my friend's were, and I'm fairly certain Grace's playmates all have perfectly happy home lives. But you know what? It's been brilliant. Whether the mom stays for a visit or leaves their child for a sleep over, Grace has fun — and I don't feel guilty for not constantly entertaining her. But most of her friends are boys, so things can get a little rowdy.


Grace and Seamus had never met, but that didn't stop him from taking his pants off. Check out the blurry monkey in the top left corner.


Jack and Grace are old friends, and he was so polite when he was here I was afraid he might be ill. Grace made up for it with some serious sass.


Julian is so chill, Grace couldn't convince him to misbehave no matter how she tried. Note Brady, just waiting for a crumb to hit the floor.

Nourishment.

Lately I've been thinking, reading and writing a lot about eating. A couple of my last posts refer, directly or indirectly, to feeding. I've stopped eating meat (okay, except for eggs) and I consume very little dairy (okay, except for cheese). I've read "My Year of Meats" and "All Over Creation" by Ruth Ozeki, and I've done quite a bit of research about various practices of raising, feeding and slaughtering animals for human consumption. I've also delved into the truly frightening reality of genetically engineered crops (too many to list), and now I find myself wondering, "What exactly am I supposed to eat?" And, more important, what should I feed Grace? Of course I know the answer to this, but it's takes more effort and money to eat truly healthfully, and I've been lazy.

Why so preoccupied with food? Good question, which I asked myself the other day. I believed I was being pragmatic, both as a consumer and a mother, in trying to create parameters that would make buying, preparing and eating food an ethical, healthy and happy experience for my family. Now I suspect my focus on diet is symbolic of a greater need; what I'm really longing for is a better way to nourish not just my body, but also my mind and soul. I'm at a point where I need to make conscious decisions about what I choose to digest — physically, emotionally and intellectually — because so much is being thrown at me.

From my own struggles, to the fiasco that has become U.S. politics (ugh), to the tragedy in Haiti, it's easy to become so overwhelmed that the most appealing option is to just keep it all at bay. (Even food; when overly stressed, I forget to eat.) But I know that's not the answer, because ignorance is not bliss. It's not even living; it's hiding. For the last few months, I've been alternating between hiding or taking in way too much. I have yet to find the balance that allows me to tune out the overabundance of bad news and negativity, and to replace it instead with what is good and healthy for me and Grace.

The wolf post touched on this, but I didn't realize how perfect the timing was for me to receive that message. I think I've been feeding both wolves, and not equally. (The evil wolf is clearly the one who has made himself comfortable wrapped around my midsection.) I indulge that wicked wolf with anger, sorrow, regret, self-pity and guilt. I've been making a halfhearted attempt to bring joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, and faith to that poor, hungry good wolf, but this may prove more difficult than I expected. (Note the masthead of this blog!)

In a week Grace and I will be moving into a new apartment — the downstairs of a house owned by a woman who was looking for a housemate, and who meticulously transformed her basement into a beautiful, airy, comfortable space which I will heretofore refer to as my "garden apartment." Everything is brand spankin' new, and there is a beautiful back yard just starting to bloom; how can this not represent a fresh start? To say my future housemate and I have a lot in common would be a hilarious understatement; one of the first things we talked about was planting an edible garden. She's delightful, and I look forward to a new friendship.

So for the next week I'm going to focus on starving that evil wolf by taking in as little negative energy as possible, whether self-generated or thrust upon me. And it's definitely time to start feeding the good wolf, to summon all of the joy and hope that Grace and I both need right now.

How do I do that, exactly?

Happy New Year!

One of my very favorite people, Lisa Tomlin, emailed this to me recently. It resonated, and seems like a dog-diggity great way to start the new year.

The Two Wolves
One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, "My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all."

"One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego."

"The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence,empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith."

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, "Which wolf wins?"

The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one you feed."

Thank you, Lisa. You continue to astound me.

Happy holidays, 2009.

For those of you whose address I couldn't track down...




Very last-minute cards, because a friend once told me only a HORRIBLE MOTHER would neglect to send out cards with pictures of the kids...

What to eat?

I don't eat much meat. When I indulge, I try to do it properly. Organic, free-range, grass-fed, antibiotic-free cows have provided memorable steaks and burgers. Ditto for pigs, particularly when I went through a phase of striving to cook The Perfect Pork Chop. Poached salmon has always been on my go-to list for dinner parties, and a juicy, perfectly roasted chicken usually replaces a turkey on Thanksgiving, or whenever I'm in a fowl mood.

I was vegetarian for two or three years back in the early 90s, and even went vegan for a while. I don't recall why; maybe because it was trendy. I remember I finally gave up because it seemed inconvenient for others, and wasn't something about which I was particularly passionate. I spent several months in Costa Rica and Guatemala, part of the time with host families; avoiding meat was almost as impossible as avoiding dysentery. Once I got home, I kind of forgot about the whole thing (sort of the way I "forgot" about my plans for a gluten-free diet a few months ago).

Lately I've been talking to friends who are vegetarian and vegan, grilling them (hah!) about how they chose their path. The variety of explanations has been surprising, but there is an undeniable common thread: the killing of the animals. At first, I thought claims of cruelty in slaughterhouses must be greatly exaggerated, and to a degree, I believe they are. But I've been doing my homework, and even the gold standard of livestock slaughtering, Dr. Temple Grandin's "humane facilities design," is more than I can take without my stomach turning and my heart breaking. A friend told me her husband wouldn't eat anything that he himself wouldn't kill, and I haven't been able to get that idea out of my head. The simplicity, pragmatism and honesty of that philosophy appeal to me because I see a road map for real compassion in deciding what I, personally, am willing to eat. Could I slaughter a cow? Nope. Kill a pig? No way. Catch a fish and gut it? Perhaps, if I were starving. Chop the head off a chicken? Probably, if I really, really had a taste for chicken. The bottom line is that it's up to me; there is no right or wrong, one-fits-all answer.

Chicken and eggs it is for now — organic and cage-free, of course. Next up: dairy. This could take some time, because it is difficult for me to put into words my love of cheese.

Two for the price of... two.

Grace had a date over last Friday night. I know what you're thinking — she's too young to start dating and I'm a monster for permitting this, but I figure she might as well get it out of her system now. By the time those hormones start raging, she'll be totally disillusioned by the dating scene and I won't have to worry about icky boys and their intentions. Although she may still be with Logan then; he's her longest running and most intense crush so far.


Imagine the cute kids they'd have...


They built this together, in perfect agreement of what should go where. I love how Grace is all criss-cross apple sauce, while Logan is clearly thinking, "Look what I have created!"

Dirty laundry.

When I picked up Grace from pre-school on Friday, she looked at me with surprise and yelled, "Mommy, you showered!" I wanted to say, "Pipe down, you little pisher, I'll have you know I've showered three days in a row!" Instead I just feigned confusion, the way I do when she announces, "My mommy toots all the time!"

Big girl bed.

Grace slept longer than usual in a crib because I was waiting to settle somewhere before getting her a real bed. She was a good sport about it, but I'm pretty sure she couldn't completely stretch out, and we all know how important stretching is. Anyway, now she's in a queen, and I finally bought her some girly bedding. She's already decided the top sheet is pointless (I agree); we're going with warm jammies and lots of quilts.


She does NOT want to sleep alone in this giant bed. Fortunately, she has many friends to snuggle.


This is a friggin' miracle, because it's not staged. Grace called Brady up on the bed, and Brady obliged. Grace actually likes Brady now, and would love to spend the night with her, but Brady works the night shift as the asylum's security detail, and must position herself between the front door and the bedrooms. I honestly never thought these two would get along, but putting Gigi in charge of feeding Brady, and doling out treats, has created a sort of food-based bond that only dog people can understand, yet still know in their hearts, "My dog really, really loves me." Damn straight.

Done deal.

Monday marked the last chapter — the epilogue, reallly — in our seven-month real estate drama. We closed November 10. The idiot neighbors didn't even realize we'd sold the house, and could therefore do nothing to make trouble. But there was the nagging issue of four finials, drapery rod finials, that I was obligated to deliver to the new owners, but put off because I HAVE A LIFE THAT DOESN'T INCLUDE SHOPPING FOR FRIGGIN' FINIALS. The finials having landed, I feel as if I can talk about the outcome without jinxing the deal. (I loved this room, left.)

We paid for half of the neighbors' driveway, relandscaped our own front yard and forked over thousands of dollars to a lawyer who didn't display nearly the tenacity I expected. I thought we were paying him to save us money; instead, it took seven months for us to agree to extortion, which we could have done quickly and easily without counsel. The whole delay, including mortgage payments we weren't anticipating, cost about $24,000. I could use that right now, or at least my half. (Gigi loved her private yard, left, especially the blueberry bushes.)

Grace is now in her fourth house in as many years, and this lease is up at the end of this month. I'm not sure what will happen after that, which doesn't bode well for our quest for stability and security. This house is cozy and sweet, with great outdoor space, but it costs more than I can afford now that we're living off what's left of the equity from that other place. So the job search continues, but a huge weight has been lifted, for the moment, anyway. Every time I think of being rid of what was supposed to be The Dream Home, and finally having all of my belongings in one place, I giggle a little inside.

One down, three to go.

Good clean fun.

Sometimes, there's just nothing left to do but torture the dog. She's usually game, and happy enough with the attention to show me her good side.


This may be the last photo of Brady in the old (new) house. Her fur, however, will remain forever.

Perspective, with a side of humility.

You know those emails that beg you to appreciate life by depicting starving children and war-torn countries? Usually, I find them patronizing and heavy-handed, and delete them without much thought. (Which is out of character for me, because I have made an art form of finding people worse off than I.) But I received one the other day that crawled under my skin, the images making their way to my heart and refusing to go away. Perhaps because my last post was so poor-me, or maybe because Grace has been crankier than usual, or possibly because I was still feeling sick and tired. For whatever reason, the message hit its target and resonated with me, and forced me to realized that my glass is WAY more than half full. (I know — who am I and what have I done with Laurel's body?)

My next post was going to be a rant about those who complain: about having to spend hundreds of dollars on unnecessary crap for their kids because Grandma and Grandpa won't pony up the cash, about having a fender bender in their gas-guzzling SUV and having to shell out $$$ for a deductible AND a rental, about being strapped by the mortgage on their vacation home, about not being able to find exactly the right pair of shoes for a party. (I have done several of the above.) But my heart isn't in it, because I realize it's all a matter of perspective. We all struggle; who decides what is a legitimate gripe and what is not?

One of the things I love about Portland is its lack of snobbery. When I lived in Chicago, almost all of my friends were college graduates who worked in advertising (yawn). When I moved to Portland, I realized that people here do what they need to do to make a living and spend the rest of their time pursuing passions: wind-surfing, mountain climbing, horseback riding, bicycling, animals and yes, writing. What a relief it was to just be myself and have a diverse group of friends who didn't judge one another based on their income. (Don't get me wrong, there is a faction in Portland that lives to go out at night and be fabulous; they are easy to avoid by not going to the Pearl District at night, particularly on weekends or the first Thursday of every month.)

The friend tree has had a few prunings over the years, most recently those who are social climbers and are unable to empathize with someone downwardly mobile (that would be me). And by social climber, I don't mean someone with money. One of my favorite people in the world has more money than all of my friends put together, but keeps it real. In fact, she says, "I love you" more than anyone I know, and means it. But friends who are more interested in the right neighborhoods and schools and social circles disappoint me, and bore me. I was a rung on the ladder, and am therefore no longer needed. (I'm not losing sleep over this.)

I have a home. I have a strange and wonderful nuclear family. I have friends who know what it means to struggle, and who have been so supportive over the last year, I don't know how I will ever repay them. I have enough savings to pay rent and fill my fridge with food (organic or not). And I have a passion, one so strong it makes me sorry for those who don't. It's time to get back to writing, to leave behind the inconsequential speed bumps that have slowed my progress, and keep my eye on the final destination.

Ultimately, it's time to focus on helping others again, something I used to do without a second thought but have failed to do even as others were helping me. If you have a moment, please visit this website, and if you are fortunate enough that you can help, please do so. Lisa has been my inspiration for months now (which would surely make her barf if the chemo hasn't already), and I can't imagine remaining so positively... positive in her situation. Also, when she's healthy, I plan to impose on her with a visit and a horseback ride, so the sooner, the better.

Oh — and for the record, I love you. All of you.

Intelligent design?

Human design is seriously flawed when a four-year-old is able to throw up in bed and hit the WALL six feet away. Poor Gigi can't seem to stay healthy. First the flu, then pneumonia, now the barfs. She's always a trooper, but we're running out of movies. And I'm rethinking preschool. It seems to be the place kids go to get sick so that they have to stay home, thereby causing their parents to become sick. It's a vicious, expensive cycle.

Frame of mind.

I've been thinking a lot lately about stress vs. anxiety, unhappiness vs. depression, goals vs. dreams, abundance vs. wealth and, of course, Tylenol vs. Motrin. I've also been shuffling around the house in my underwear quite a bit, so I don't claim to be thinking clearly, but I can't help but wonder what determines my state of mind — whether it has to do with how I'm hardwired or with what's actually going on in my life.

When a friend gave me a pep talk the other day about my attitude, I took it to heart and tried to look past my chronic anxiety and assess what's going on around me and in my head. Being analytical, I decided the best way to illustrate how I spend my time and emotional energy (lately) was with a pie chart. My conclusion is that it's not pretty, but it could be worse. I do have real stressors in my life demanding attention and draining my body and mind. I've tried to be proactive rather than reactive, but it's not really my nature to take things in stride and keep emotions in check. For example, I could label one slice "finances" and allow that to include my eleven-month stretch of unemployment and the seven-month delay in the house sale, realizing that when one or both of the aforementioned are resolved, the financial strain will lighten a bit. But my brain doesn't work that way. I compartmentalize, possibly so that I can direct my frustration towards specifics: the idiot neighbor, the person who didn't hire me , even the H1N1 virus that has made daily life so difficult for two weeks now.

Fortunately, this allows me to see that, while I may have been down lately, it's because I'm overwhelmed by life's complications, not because I'm depressed or weak. And while I'm wound tightly on my best days, there are valid reasons that stress has been taking its toll on me, physically and emotionally. On the other hand, I look at that tiny little slice of things that bring me joy, and I realize that I have been waiting for the problems to disappear before I get back to living my life. That's not a great recipe for happiness, particularly if I want to make progress toward realistic goals and strive to enjoy a sense of abundance rather than deprivation.

The joblessness sucks; it's been almost a year. I've never before had to stand in the grocery store and decide whether or not I can afford healthy food instead of cheap crap. This is one sacrifice I'm not willing to make, at least when it comes to Grace, so I make concessions elsewhere. I've learned to live with less, and I'm grateful for that. Slowly, it's becoming easier to focus on what we have rather than what we don't; to realize it's possible to have more fun doing things that don't cost money; to enjoy visiting friends in their homes or ours instead of going out to dinner. Why is it so complicated to learn to live simply?

Sometime soon, I hope to have a pie chart that looks more like this. This seems like a nice, normal life. I should probably leave a little "misc." slice for the unexpected, since I suspect raising a daughter will provide plenty of of unforeseen challenges opportunities. Also, I could get ambitious and include travel, volunteer work, book tours and that Pulitzer Prize, of course. But for now, four slices of pie is more than enough, as long as I have the right people with whom to share it.