How I Lost One of My Best Friends and Got In Touch With My Jerky Side

Pin It One of my best friends is (was?) a gal named Terri.

We met when we were about nineteen and hung out together for the next few years - sharing an apartment, a circle of friends, and a crush on the same guy. As we got older we drifted into different social circles and circumstances and gradually drifted apart, but we would still talk on the phone now and then and keep in touch. She was a bridesmaid in my wedding and drove all the way from another state to attend my baby shower.

We were the kind of friends who didn’t have to talk every month, but when we DID get around to talking, it was as if no time had passed at all, and we would laugh and giggle and feel nineteen again.

A while back she called and left me a message. It was a bad week for me. I was in the middle of two hundred things at once so I didn't call her back. It wasn’t a big deal. Sometimes we would play phone tag for weeks before actually getting in touch with each other, and it was almost never urgent.

The next week, she called me again. I was in a non-social kind of mood that day, so I didn’t call her back, but made a mental note to call her the next day. I didn’t get around to calling though, because mental notes are pretty much useless when your brain is a sieve.

The next week, she called me again. I didn’t call her back, but thought, MAN, I really need to call her back.
The next week she called me AGAIN, sounding understandably peeved. This time I thought, MAN, I really need to call her back, with a side order of wait, before I call I have to think of a good excuse for why I didn’t call her back the first three times. So I made a note to call her RIGHT AFTER I thought of a good reason.

Pllllllbbbbt.

The next week she called me again and left a message saying, “I guess you’re never gonna call me back. I don’t understand what’s going on. Are you mad at me or something?”

Ashamed of myself, I finally called her back and apologized.

Oh, except I DIDN’T. I felt dumb, because I’d created this big dramatic thing out of thin air, simply by not calling back. I was too embarrassed to call and tell her the truth - HEY, I’m sorry, I’m a lazy and THOUGHTLESS JERK. I thought she would just be mad if I called her, and I hate drama, and because I’m a cowardly coward who cowards I thought, ah, well, we never talked all that often anyway. So basically I threw our friendship away. Swish-swish-swish, into the trash. Over NOTHING.

Because I’m a self-involved idiot with the emotional maturity of a gnat.

I ask you, who DOES that??!

When I told my sisters about this on Saturday they sat and stared at me for a minute, speechless, shaking their heads at my complete and total social idiocy and dorkitude. I know they were wondering what was missing in my SOUL that I would do that to somebody. So yes, I know. I KNOW. I KNOW!!! (Don’t tell me in the comments – I KNOW! I KNOW!!!)

Why didn’t I call her? Why did I put my own feelings of embarrassment ahead of our friendship? ACK!

I know what the answer to the question is of course. I didn’t call her because I’m a JERK.

I kept thinking, you know, if I had her email address, I could just post about it and send her the link to my blog instead of calling her to apologize (like an actual grown-up). Because heaven forbid I should have to feel awkward for two-and-a-half minutes or actually ask for forgiveness for something I did to hurt someone. But that would kind of be a jerk move. Also, I don't have her email address.

So today? TWO YEARS LATER? (I KNOW - SHUT UP.) I'm going to call her.

Wish me luck. On the phone call, and on perhaps someday achieving emotional maturity.

And Then I Bought A Five Gallon Drum of Purell

Pin It Earlier this week, I helped to chaperone a preschool field trip to the Las Vegas "Zoo."

Guys? I'm using the word zoo, very, very, very loosely, here. It has animals, but it is not affiliated with the city, and not accredited, and it is also just – NOT RIGHT.

I would describe the condition of the place, but when I googled “Las Vegas Zoo -SAD” it zipped me right over to a very funny post on this blog, which describes it perfectly:

Two words come to mind when trying to describe the Las Vegas Zoo
accurately:

1. Ghetto
2. Sad (so very, very sad.)

Yeah. What she said.

What I'm really concerned about though, is the little sanitation issue they seem to be having. If bird flu ever gets off the ground, this is where it will start, because the place is COVERED with pigeon poop.

Now I’m not a germophobe. If my kid drops a piece of his sandwich on the ground, I’ll sometimes pick it up, blow it off and hand it back to him. Good for the immune system and all that.

But when we walked toward the entrance and I saw hundreds of pigeons milling about, I started to get a bit nervous. We paid our admission and once we were inside the gates, I could see that 90% of the structures were made entirely out of pigeon crap.

I was a bit disconcerted.

“Oh look,” I cried, “There’s poo EVERYWHERE.” I laughed nervously, aware that my voice was just a little too loud. I looked at one of the other moms. “Look! Poo! All this poo! It’s on everything! Oh. Wow!”

I spent the next hour trying to make sure that my children didn’t touch anything and obsessive compulsively wiping Abby and Carter's hands off. "Did you get poo on yourself?" "How about now?" "How about now?"

At one point in time the pre-school teacher tried to get the kids to sit at one of the picnic tables to have a snack and I loudly objected.

“But look! There’s poo on it.”

“They can just not touch the top of the table,” she said calmly.

I laughed loudly. “Ha ha ha ha. Um.”

“They’ll be fine.”

I laughed again. “Ha ha ha ha. It’s on the benches." I pointed at one of the kids. "Look – he’s sitting on poo! That’s – that’s – really bothering me a lot.”

After snacktime, we walked around the zoo, all three acres of it, checking out the lion, the alligator, and the chimpanzee (who delighted my children my picking his nose and eating his boogers – they GOT that, it was their kind of comedy).

Did I mention that there was a lot of poo? Everywhere?

So basically? I do not think we will be coming back.

Here are some other fun comments about the zoo, also brought to you courtesy of Mr. Google:

• This is by far the worst "zoo" I've ever been to. I have no idea why they have so many chickens running around, except maybe to eat all the mice I saw.
• This zoo is a city haven...for the pigeons.
• This zoo is a real DUMP, and the folks that run it are to blame along with the city of Las Vegas. The poor, poor animals. May God forgive you all for this sick place!!!!
• I strongly suggest just not going.

Yeah, me too, buddy. ME TOO.

And now I must be going. So little time, so many things to bleach.

Sometimes I Wear Floaties

Pin It (Alternate Title: Wow, This Got Long and Boring Very Fast - Don't Say I Didn't Warn You.)

I find it highly inconvenient that the people who pay me to write things want me to actually finish stuff. They keep giving me deadlines and expecting me to meet them. How am I supposed to blog under these conditions?

Oh. Wait.

(Sigh.)

Right now I'm supposed to be exploring the intricacies of database analysis (while resisting the urge to stab myself in the eye with a fork), but I wanted to pause for just a second to answer the burning question that is apparently on the minds of readers everywhere, judging by my email - namely, variations on the theme of "have you no shame?"

“How can you write about your financial problems? Aren’t you embarrassed?”
“People you KNOW read your blog.”
“Have a little pride.”

There are certain topics that are off-limits for the blog. (My husband: "There ARE?" Me: "Should we talk about last night, with the untimely falling asleep?" My husband: "Point taken. As you were.") Our financial struggle isn't one of them.

I'll admit it. Sometimes it can be awkward. There are a few people in my new church congregation who barely know me but who've read a little bit of my blog, thanks to my avid advance guard blog-stalking. It’s a little like going up to someone you’ve never met before and saying, “Hi! I’m bankrupt! And a hypochondriac! Let’s be friends!” And though they've been universally welcoming and friendly, I know some of them are probably not quite sure what to think.

I have old friends who read the blog, old non-friends who read the blog, and friends of my mother who read the blog. I would imagine that some of those people empathize and wish me well, but I'm sure there are also people who read with a less sympathetic eye. There are a few who I can imagine cackling and rubbing their hands together with glee. "Well, that brought her down a peg or two." (Yes. It sort of did. Congratulations.)

I write about our financial problems because it's part of our life. I write about it because writing helps me to sort through what I feel about it. I write about it because this is the one place where I try to be as honest as possible. In a way, being honest about it is almost selfish. When you stop trying to keep up a facade and open the door, people have a chance to come through it, offering support and friendship and cookies. The support I get from writing about it? It's like my very own personal floatation device.

When I was a kid, my mom would sometimes take us to a different community pool, one that had a high dive and a low dive. I loved to jump off the high dive, reveling in the frightening feeling of freefall, followed by the giant splash into the water. I’d plunge down, down, down, touch the bottom and push off toward the surface, kicking as hard as I could. Once I broke through, I'd tread water for a minute while I got my bearings, then swim for the safety of the side of the pool, delighted that I'd done it, once again.

Losing your business is kind of like that. When you first realize you are going down, and that the crash at the bottom is coming, you might wave your arms and kick and shriek, but you are already in transit. You can’t deny the pull of gravity. It’s inevitable, and all that is left for you to do is to make the best of it, to try to minimize the damage and kick for the financial surface as quickly as you can.

When you are back above water, you have to get your bearings, to reframe not only how you will make a living and where you will land financially, but who you are. Some of your identity gets stripped away because the things you always thought about yourself turn out to be not quite true.

The fairy tale you always told yourself (poor girl makes good, achieves success, keeps up with the Joneses) may not have the ending you pictured, but you learn other things about the main character - that you are more resourceful than you thought, stronger than you thought, more resilient than you thought.

My husband and I never really struggled. Things were relatively smooth sailing once we got married. We were never really sick, we got along like gangbusters right from the start, and we were never really poor. We used to talk about it sometimes, how things had been so relatively easy, and it was almost scary, like waiting for the other shoe to drop. I never really knew – was I, were we - strong enough to handle something Very Bad?

Last month we had the public creditors meeting for our bankruptcy. At that meeting, your creditors have the opportunity to question you under oath to ensure that you aren’t hiding any assets. I was – so looking forward to it. Really. I was barely able to sleep the night before because I was JUST. THAT. EXCITED.

It was anticlimactic though. No creditors attended. It was just us and the bankruptcy trustee, who asked a few questions before dismissing us.

On the way out, my husband gave my hand a comforting squeeze. “You know what this means, right?”

I sniffled. “We’re huge losers, doomed to a life of bad credit and worse teeth?”

“No. Duh.” He rolled his eyes and gave me a big cheesy smile. “It means we’re DEBT FREE.”

I gave him a dirty look.

He grinned at me. “Come on! DEBT FREE! People work their whole lives for that! And we’ve done it! We’re living the dream!”

I half smiled. “Yeah, and all we had to do was lose our business, house, cars, boat, and all of our savings! Paying bills is for SUCKERS.”

We gave each other a big hug and did the laughter through tears thing, and I thought, we're gonna be o.k.

Somewhere out there in blog land, maybe someone else is going through the same kind of stuff. Maybe she's thinking, how are we gonna get through this? If I lose my house, how will I face people? Where will we live? How can things ever be o.k. again?

If that person is reading, here's what I'd want them to know:

1. It doesn't matter what people think. It really doesn't.
2. People will always talk. About anything. About anyone. Even if I only ever blogged about potato salad, there would be people who resented my stance on mustard vs. mayo. (Pro-mustard all the way.) Try not to worry about it.
3. You can go through something like this and come out of it o.k.
4. You really can.

So get out there and swim, baby, because the water's fine.

And if you need to borrow my floaties?

They're all yours.

P.S. That weird ripply thing in the water? Not an alligator.

Yum, LARD

Pin It IMing the other evening, my friend Azucar and I somehow got to talking about the horrible, no good, very bad culinary pranks our parents liked to play on us. AZ reminded me about powdered milk and wheat gum (VOMIT). I cannot talk about that particular bit of wretchedness without having horrifying flashbacks, but luckily AZ just posted about it here.

(Ooooh, also, my sister wrote about powdered milk a few months ago on her food blog, here. I love how in the comments my brother's wife says he is still traumatized, and my mom tries to disavow her role in it. NICE TRY, MOM.)

My mom had other cooking quirks. For a while there she had this thing about gluten, or as I like to call it, wheat dregs. Once she made us gluten and oatmeal cookies. Let me repeat that. GLUTEN AND OATMEAL COOKIES. And she told us they were treats. That is NOT. RIGHT.

We were not allowed to have chips or any kind of sugary cereal. No Fruit Loops or Fruity Pebbles for us. No sireee, we ate Wheaties. Except, and I've never been able to quite figure this out - they let us put brown sugar on TOP of the Wheaties. And they would just - hand us the bag. Here kids, eat this nasty brown tasting cereal because it's good for you, except, also, HERE'S a SHOVEL and a bag of sugar - knock yourselves out. TELL ME HOW THAT MAKES SENSE.

My mom used to lock the fridge. To be fair, she did not really have a choice. There were NINE of us. Defensive measures had to be taken. She had this bungee cord and she would hook one end to the fridge handle and one end to a hook on the wall, and if you tried to open it and actually managed to get it unhooked, it would basically snap you so hard you went unconscious.

Sometimes, if the fridge was unlocked and mom was in another room, we would just rush it and take anything we could find and run away to another room where we would eat it, crouched in corners, stuffing the food into our gullets while keeping a watchful eye on the doorway. I once ate seven raw hot dogs, just because I could. Because they were there. (This explains so much about my eating philosophy. Oh, look, there it is! Hurry, hurry, hurry EAT IT NOW! EAT IT NOW! BEFORE IT'S GONE!)

I remember very clearly that my mom came after us for that one. She said, "Who ate those hot dogs? WHICH ONE OF YOU ATE THOSE HOT DOGS?! They were raw. RAW! You ate RAW MEAT. What are you?! ANIMALS?!"

I pretended to know nothing. "It wasn't me," I said. And then I threw up on her. (So I think she figured it out.)

If we were very good, my mom liked to serve a little dish she called Chocolate Treat. Chocolate Treat consisted of four ingredients. Peanut butter, unsweetened cocoa powder, powdered sugar, and a dash of milk. She mixed the ingredients together until it was the consistency of thick frosting, and gave it to us to eat with a spoon. So basically her philosophy was, "Here my children, eat Wheaties for breakfast and then you may have a nice bowl of lard."

This is me and my older sister. (I'm on the right.) See the nice healthy sheen on our hair? TOTALLY FROM THE LARD.


Ah, memories. So, what foods did your parents inflict on you?

And the Walls Come Tumbling Down

Pin It When I moved to Utah four years ago, it took me about a year to really let my guard down. People I didn't know would wave to me as we drove through the neighborhood and I had no idea what to do in response. After all, I didn't KNOW them. How could I just wave? INSANITY.

In Vegas, you don't wave to strangers on the street. In Vegas, you don't make eye contact with store clerks. In Vegas, you go about your business, are polite but distant with strangers and neighbors, and interact primarily with your family and friends.

I'm not sure if you notice it if you've lived here your whole life. You can't really understand that it isn't like that everywhere, that it isn't normal not to acknowledge a neighbor in the front yard a few houses down, or to pretend like you can't hear your neighbors out in their yard on the other side of the six foot cinder block wall. When someone points it out to you, you may not even really understand what they mean, because it's something you've always taken for granted. It's a normal distance - an unfriendliness borne not of meanness but of culture.

There are people of course, who are friendly everywhere they go, no matter where they live, no matter how other people react. They are the people who surprise you by engaging you at the grocery store, at the post office, at the park. And you may enjoy the interaction, but a part of you is saying, "That was odd. She just jumped right in and started talking to me. Wasn't that odd?"

I had to go to the bank yesterday to talk to them about a Very Important check they'd slapped a two-day hold on. It was destined for Important Things, and I desperately needed them to release the funds.

At the bank, I talked to the teller, who looked bored as she told me that actually, it was a NINE day hold.

It took me a second to process that. "What? Nine - nine days, but that's - I can't - NINE?!"

She nodded, a tired expression on her face. I'm sure she dealt with this kind of thing all the time. I'm sure she was used to people freaking out about money, taking their financial stress out on her when there was nothing she could really do about it.

"Can I talk to your manager?" I asked her quietly.

She waved her manager over and I explained as politely as I could that I could wait two days, but not nine, that in nine days, Very Bad Things would happen, and please, was there anything she could do?

The manager didn't look at me as I spoke. She kept her eyes focused on the screen, tapping the keys as she reviewed our account status. I could tell I wasn't an actual person to her, just a transaction, an interruption in her workflow. She wasn't rude or impolite, but she was detached and curt. After a minute, she shook her head. "There's nothing we can do. Your account is too new, and its an out-of-state check. It'll be released on the 22nd." She tapped another key.

The 22nd. I couldn't help it, tears welled up in my eyes.

Even though we are mostly back on our feet, with good jobs and good income, we've had to pay for so many things lately - security deposits and attorney's fees and licenses, not to mention the occasional bag of groceries, and the money seems to fly out the door faster than we can earn it. But this check - THIS was supposed to be the one that gave us breathing room.

I felt overwhelmed, pushed past my capacity to deal with everything that had happened in the last year. I could handle the bankruptcy, I could handle losing our business, but this one little check was going to push me right over the edge and into a nervous breakdown, I could feel it.

She finally looked over at me, and was obviously startled at my expression and the tears in my eyes.

"Please, isn't there anything you can do?" I said with as much dignity as I could muster, given the way my nose was running.

She stared back at me for a second and her eyes softened. "Let me see." She walked over to another computer and started typing.

I waited nervously, watching as Abby and Carter charmed the loan officer into giving them suckers. The teller really looked at me now, and made sympathetic small talk.

A few minutes later, the manager returned. "I was able to release the funds - all of them." She smiled at me, a real, honest to goodness up-to-the-eyes warm smile, as though I was a friend and not just some random stranger, and I suddenly wanted to bake her cookies.

I tried to smile at her through my tears. "Thank you so much. Thank you. You have no idea - this really - I really appreciate this..." I showered grateful thanks on her, on the teller, on the loan officer.

"No problem," she said, and she shook my hand. She looked genuinely happy to have been able to help.

I took Abby's hand, took Carter's hand, and we walked out of the bank. I was smiling from ear to ear (groceries! gas! wheeeee!), and not just because of the money.

I know it wasn't a big thing. It wouldn't even qualify as a Hallmark moment. A bank manager helped me out, overrode policy - big whoop-de-doo. But the thing is - for a minute she really SAW me.

It meant something to me.

We forget to really LOOK at the people around us. We get so cynical. We learn too many hard lessons about people, and we shut out everyone but those who are closest to us. We save our mental and emotional energy for the people we love, and pretend that the other people we deal with (the checker we fail to acknowledge at the grocery store, the lady we cut off in traffic, the crossing guard we ignore) aren't really REAL people, they're just obstacles in our day.

I'm not saying we should talk to every stranger who crosses our path; but we can acknowledge them, can't we? Acknowledge that we see them, and acknowledge our shared humanity? Smile at someone? Nod politely as we pass each other?

Simple things. Baby steps. That's how it starts, right?

Because as it turns out - that whole Love Thy Neighbor thing? Has its merits.

Hilarious Blogs You May Not Know About Written By People Who Should Totally Be My New Best Friends (Call Me!)

Pin It

Need a good laugh? Visit these people:

Kacy, because she feels about her hamster like I feel about my dog

Nicki, because we both have serial killers after us

Heidi, because everything she writes makes me laugh

COMMENTS OFF (Twice in one week? Yes my friends, the Apocalypse is clearly at hand.)

A List for my Mother

Pin It Thanks for making me practice the piano, even when I had an absolute fit about it, screaming like a banshee as you grimly dragged me back to the keyboard.

Thanks for insisting that we, "for heavens sake, turn off the TV and go play outside." I don't remember much about the shows we protested over, but I remember playing with my brothers and sisters and friends - cops and robbers on bikes, don't-touch-the-ground tag in the backyard, rollerskating up and down the street with packs of neighborhood children.

Thank you for dragging the whole brood of us to the library, over and over and over again, and for unlocking my imagination by introducing me to the Boxcar Children, Mrs. Pigglewiggle and The Little Princess, to Roald Dahl and Anne of Green Gables.

Thanks for making me take swimming lessons - for chasing my six year old self around the pool as I screamed "I DON'T WANT TO DIE!" Later, when we spent summer after summer at the rec center pool, I was grateful that you'd been so VERY MEAN.

Thank you for getting me the pink, poofy, STORE-BOUGHT dress I so desperately wanted for my seventh birthday. I will never forget the feeling of a wish truly, sweetly fulfilled.

Thanks for singing with us, for filling the house with music, for letting us do crazy Broadway style dancing in the living room (not even visibly wincing as we leaped on and off the furniture), and for being the attentive audience for an infinite number of impromptu talent shows in the family room.

Thanks for helping me clear off that branch on the mulberry tree because I was in love with the quirkiness of the idea of sitting there to read, and for letting me read there for hours every day when I probably should have been doing chores.

Thanks for sometimes pretending not to notice when I would read in bed at night, flashlight under the covers. Now when I catch my own daughter reading chapter books in the hallway long after she should be sleeping, I smile. (Well, o.k., sometimes I yell GET IN BED, but - you know, lots of other times I smile.)

Thanks for teaching me what it means to look on the bright side. (I think I'm finally FINALLY getting it.)

You know all those times I screamed and lied and had tantrums and was ungrateful and mean and just generally a little snot? Thanks for letting me survive into adulthood. I can't imagine raising nine children and not going stark, raving mad. The fact that we are all alive and in one piece today is kind of miraculous.

There have been times when I judged you harshly. Kids are good at keeping score, at weighing and measuring their slights and hurts. All too often I kept track of all of the things that seemed unfair, storing them up so that I could throw them back at you during our many arguments, all the while swearing I will never do that to my children.

And now each time my children are angry with me, when they shout, "That's not fair," and tell me how I've hurt their feelings, I learn a little more about what a tough job it can be, and how well you managed to do it, and I pray that my own children will be more forgiving than I sometimes was.

Thank you for the countless things you've done for me - and for all of us.

I love you Mom. Happy Mother's Day.

COMMENTS OFF

My Ears Are Broken

Pin It
Mom, can I play 'puter? Why not? Why not? I wanna. I wanna play it. I wanna play da guy who takes da word and shocks it POW and goes up high and makes a beep and you get a star and it goes bigger and da guy turns into a monkey. Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on. Let me do it. Mom, COME ON.

(Five minutes later, climbing on me) Oh, mom, I love you. Why you so sweet? Huh? Yous a sweet mommy. Let me hold yours face. Let me kiss yours nose. You so cute. Look at me. Look at me. I love you. I love you. I love you. Mom, I love you. I love you. I love you. Hey, mom, I’m gonna play 'puter. Why? Why? WHY? BUT I LOVE YOU! LET ME PLAY DA 'PUTER!

(Later) Oh Mom, I love you. Gimme me a hug. Gimme me a kiss. Gimme me anudder hug. Hold me. Hold me up. No, not sittin' down. Standin' up. Hold me standin' up. Standin' up. HEY, I SAID STANDIN' UP. Aaaaaaa! AAAAAAGH! STAND UP! NOW!

I don’t wanna go in my room. I won’t! No! Never! NEVAH! NEVAAAAAH! Hey, put me down. Put me down. HEY, I SAID PUT ME DOWN. I won’t stay in here. I won’t. I won't! NEVAH! LET ME OUT!

Hey, mom, I want lunch. Turkey sandwich wit crusts OFF. I didn't want it cut like that. NOT LIKE THAT. AAAAAAAH! Hey! Where you takin' me? Hey! Put me down!

(creeping out of room) Hey mom, look at this. Look at this picture. You like it? It’s for you. Hey mom, look at this. Look at this picture. You like that? Hey mom, look, another picture. Do you love it? Do you love it? Do you love it?

Hey mom, look at this. Look at my finger. Look at my car. Look at my army guy. Look at my shirt. Look at my eye booger. Look. Look. Look. Look. Hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom.

HEY MOM.

Accidents Happen, Part II (This Time Not Fictional)

Pin It I'm ALIVE and feeling much better. Thank you for the well wishes and the comments (and the sometimes a little bit scary intensity). I have been watching the comments on my last post with excitement, gratitude and fascinated interest, but I have not had time to post because I was in an accident yesterday.

DUN. DUN. DUN.

I was backing out of my garage when I was completely blindsided by a large truck.

Luckily, I'm fine. There is a hole in our bumper, but there were no injuries. I keep reminding my husband that he should be grateful I'm alive, but he keeps rolling his eyes at me.

O.k., so technically, it was our truck that I hit, and technically, it was just sitting there behind me in the driveway. So I guess it wasn't really that I was blindsided as much as that I - sort of forgot the truck was there.

(Hey, I had IMPORTANT THOUGHTS in my brain. You try writing the great American novel in your head and also not hitting stuff with your car. It's HARD.)

Besides, it was kind of sneaky of my husband to just park it there in the driveway. Usually he parks on the street. He was kind of asking for it. I did NOT point this out to him when I told him what had happened:

Me: "Honey, I hit the truck."
Husband, staring at me blankly: "With what?"
Me: "With the car."
Husband, spluttering: "How did - how - it was parked - did you even --"
Me: "Um."
Husband, now examining hole in the car: "How did you not see it?"
Me: "I'm not sure."
Husband: "Did you look?"
Me: "I'm sorry?"

This is the hole I made in the bumper:



To my husband's credit, he didn't get angry, he just sighed a lot. He had to know it was coming. It's been almost ten years since I've been in an actual accident. Granted, I tend to run into stuff, but it's usually it's more like - a house or a building or something.

NOTE: Things I've run into: the house, the boat, the car, the garage door, a pole, the door of a loading dock, a shopping cart holder thingie, my bicycle, and my husband (I TOTALLY didn't see him.)

Oh, I just remembered something. When I was 19, I stopped at a 7-11 to get a Big Gulp. When I was done, I pulled out of the parking lot, looked to my left, saw that it was clear and proceeded to make a right turn - directly into into a parked public transit bus.

The bus driver came out of the bus and had pretty much the same reaction that my husband had.

Him: "How did you not see it? It's a BUS."

Me: "Um."

I did not want to tell him the real reason - that 95% of my functioning brain cells were currently devoted to thinking about boys, and it had not occured to me to look to my right. (In my defense, I DID look left. So if you want to look on the bright side, I was actually half-right.)

---------------------

In other news, my weight loss efforts are off to a fine start.

The other day I somehow found myself at Golden Spoon (as you do), a nearby frozen yogurt place. Basically it's ice cream, but they try to make you feel all virtuous and healthy for eating it, which would be fine if I wasn't eating enough for four people and topping it with cookies and chocolate sauce.

Once inside, I stood in front of the counter for a WHILE, trying to figure out what would be more virtuous, calorie-wise: a Mini vanilla with yogurt chips or a Small vanilla with strawberries. Standing there, I started thinking about how many miles I would have to walk to burn off the calories in that yogurt. It dawned on me that I could NOT eat the yogurt and that would save me a LOT more calories. I could walk out. I could put the spoon down. I could do it.

And so you know what I did?

I ate the MEDIUM yogurt, and then also, I put snickers on it.

So really, this isn't so much a weight loss victory story. It's more like - a cautionary tale. Because once I start thinking like that, denying myself stuff that is more or less healthy (shut up) and fits within my calorie budget/plan for the day, I'm headed for a downward spiral of disordered thinking ("even fewer calories if you throw it up" "even fewer calories if you don't eat anything at all, all day," "hey, I've heard people on meth lose a lot of weight,") and I give up.

I'm a regular font of inspiration, I know. You're welcome.

Why My Children Will Need Therapy - Reason #462

Pin It (Thanks to the foot post, I now know more about poop and fish eyes than I ever, EVER wanted to know. You're all DISGUSTING. Or rather, your children and animals are disgusting, but in a kind of awesome way. So there's that.)

I must preface this post by saying - I love my daughter and I am NOT AFRAID OF HER.

Still.

The other night I was sitting at my computer in the middle of the night, typing clickety-clack, clickety-clack and chortling to myself, when I felt this PRESENCE.

I looked to my left and the girl from The Ring was standing RIGHT THERE, two inches from my face and I screamed in terror. Except, OOPSIE, it was actually my six year old.

(See, she’s really pale, with long dark hair, and when she’s had a nightmare, she has crazy eyes. So you see how it could happen... Right? Um... Right? Hello? Is this thing on?)

For years I’ve worried about what kinds of things my children will say about me in therapy as adults, and I think for Sarah, it will probably stem from that moment, when I scared the living daylights out of her.

She cried, and I felt like a monster, and slapped myself several times because GET IT TOGETHER WOMAN, she’s your darling, tender hearted, sweet, kind, brilliant daughter. And then I took her back to bed and stayed with her until she fell asleep.

But then. BUT THEN.

Last night, there I was in my bed, innocently sleeping and minding my own business, when again, I felt this PRESENCE. I woke up and looked to my left, and sweet mother of a badger, there she was again, staring at me with the crazy eyes.

“I had a bad dream,” she whispered, in a creepy zombie voice. (Or possibly it was just a scared six year old voice. My imagination - now and then it tends to run up and down the hall, waving its arms and screaming in terror.)

I bit back my screams, held out my arms and she crawled into bed with me. I spooned her and patted her back while she told me about her dream about a poisonous snake in the house.

“How long were you standing there?” I whispered.

“A long, long, long time, mommy,” she whispered back.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

She turned around and looked at me serenely and yet still with the crazy eyes, then said, “I was trying to wake you up with my MIND.”

Um. Ahem. Well. I see.

You know, I love my child, but from 1AM until approximately 3AM (the premium creepy hours), I think I might be just a leeettle bit afraid of her.

In Which I Attempt To Get A Piece of the Blogging Pie

Pin It DUDES. (I love saying that. It's so stupid, but so awesome. DUDES.)

I think my vacuum just died. It's sort of a relic - a Hoover Wind Tunnel circa 1996. Oh man, I'll bet some of you were (give me strength) eight years old when I bought that vacuum. (That is just - not right. Don't tell me if you were eight years old, o.k.? Because then I'll have to start with the moaning and the "woe is me, I'm so old, death is soon upon me" garbage.)

So. Recently it started making a really nasty burning smell when I run it, and it doesn't seem to realize that the mission of a vacuum is to suck up stuff off of the carpet. I've checked out all of the obvious things, and nothing seems to help. I don't think it's really doing ANYTHING at this point, other than gathering up the courage to explode.

Now see, here is where I wish my blog was bigger. As I pointed out to Amy yesterday in the comments of her Valspar post, there is no use in having a (sort-of, kind of, maybe-at-some-point-in-the-future) popular blog if companies don't feel compelled to send you free crap. That is actually my whole goal in life right now - to eventually become Shannon from Rocks in My Dryer.

(If I ever were to reach that particular pinnacle, I would regularly hold contests where I "gave stuff away" that companies sent to me, except I think I would actually KEEP all the stuff and just pretend to give it away. Or demand that the companies send me two of everything. And then keep both of them and give the extras away for Christmas.) (Possibly this is why companies don't send me anything.)

So, back to the vacuum. This is the part where the fine folks at Dyson, or Hoover, or - I don't know, even what I've read is the vacuum company of the devil, Kirby, (good gravy, I never knew there was so much inter-brand vacuum drama - it's like Coke vs. Pepsi all over again), should really just dive in and send me a free vacuum. It just makes good business sense.

So here is what I propose: Whichever company offers to send me a vacuum first, then - THEY ARE THE WINNER. So it's like - if you send me a vacuum, you get bragging rights. Because you won. Something. Kind of.

I mean, I can see how it could get out of hand. Give one blogger a vacuum, and soon, all the mommy bloggers are lining up for their free vacuum too. But I have a solution to that problem. Just give ME the free vacuum, and not anyone else. (See how easy that is?)

So Dyson (or Hoover) (or the company which shall not again be named) I am sure you CANNOT WAIT to participate in this fine opportunity. I will just sit here and wait to be contacted.

I'm sure it will be anyday now.

Hopefully soon.

(There's a lot of crap on my carpet.)

P.S. Um, also - Lexus? I once read about how some car company let some blogger borrow a car for a year. If you would like to get in on some of that action, I am totally here for you. And I would promise to write happy little Lexus oriented posts every day for, oh, at least a week. After that, no guarantees because I would probably get distracted by something shiny. So hey, Lexus - CALL ME. XOXO

P.P. S. Oh, lovely readers - I am sure many of you are sitting there thinking - oh, man, I wish I could do something to help Sue in her quest for free stuff. Because it's not like any of you have LIVES or anything. In fact, I'm guessing that what you each really want to do with your precious free time right now is help me get a free vacuum.

Well, TODAY IS YOUR LUCKY DAY because there is something you can do to help. What you can do is just link to my post from your blog, and there will be such a tidal wave of linkage to my blog that it will rise up above all of the other blogs, and the other pleas for free stuff, and Dyson (or Hoover) will be overwhelmed by the mightyness of my blog and they will have to SUBMIT TO MY WILL. Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.

Anyone up for it? Anyone? Oh.

No? Not really?

FINE. BE THAT WAY.

P.P.P.S. Is there anyone you would shill for in exchange for free stuff?

It's My Blog and I'll Cry If I Want To

Pin It Tonight after putting the kids in bed I sat down to make a list of the things I'm grateful for, hoping it would help me to put things in perspective.

(Sigh.)

Pretty much the only thing I came up with for today, specifically, was that nobody was attacked by rabid flying monkeys.

(It wasn't really a very inspiring list.)

After that, I made a list of things I could do to improve our situation:

- Find friends for my children
- Finish getting things organized
- Get them involved in activities to keep them busy and happy
- Binge a lot

Oh, I know it may not sound like it, but I really am trying so hard to hold it together. I'm trying to stay positive and trying to encourage them to "bloom where they're planted" as the cliche goes. I know this is a nice neighborhood, with perfectly nice people. I know we can be happy here. I'm not sure how or when, but I know it's possible.

In Relief Society (a church class for women) all of the women were friendly and kind - in the way that you're friendly and kind to new people before you go sit with your real friends. To be fair, I sat down by myself in the middle of the back row and didn't make an effort to talk to anyone around me. I'm not particularly shy, and normally I would have tried to reach out a little, but I was feeling beaten down by life and self-indulgently sorry for myself, so I sat there and pouted instead.

A playgroup sign-up list went around the room and I signed it, my hands clammy with anxiety. A PLAYGROUP. This might solve at least twelve of my problems. I had a million questions for the woman sitting in front of me (WHERE? WHEN? HOW SOON? TOMORROW? TONIGHT? WHEN?!!), but she didn't have any answers. (And possibly I scared her a little with my inappropriate intensity about the topic.)

If the playgroup doesn't pan out, I do have an emergency back-up plan. At church they handed out a list of women in the neighborhood complete with pictures and email addresses and I think I'm just going to make a complete freak of myself by emailing everyone in the ward. (Sometimes having no shame or sense of social decorum is a net positive.)

I even resorted to blog-stalking (after my sister-in-law spilled the blog addresses for a few of the women), leaving messages like, "Um, Hi, I live in your neighborhood, and I'm not weird or anything, but I just wanted to say Hi! P.S. I see from your blog that you have children. Would they like to come over this afternoon?" Oddly, they haven't responded. Apparently, contacting complete strangers on their blogs and inviting their children over to play is frowned upon in some circles.

The truth is, I'm not in the mood to start over - to gradually meet people, to eventually become friends with them, to even more eventually become very good friends with some of them. The thought of it (of having to wade through the small talk and artifice before we can get to know each other; of the whole back and forth and trial and error of developing new friendships) exhausts me. My heart is not in it. I know there are lots of wonderful, interesting people in our new neighborhood, and that in a year or so, I won't be able to imagine not knowing them. I know that.

Right now though? I just want my OLD friends back - people who know me and like me anyway. I miss my neighbors - who don't sprint for the garage as soon as they emerge from their cars. I miss being able to look out the back door and see a crowd of kids for my children to play with. I want my old neighborhood back - with trees and grass and open spaces. I want a fairy to descend from the sky, hand me a million dollars and make everything better. That's what I want.

(Closes eyes, makes wish:) Make it so.

(Opens eyes, looks around)

Drat.

Oh, GROSS.

Pin It Oh. Hi there! GLAD YOU STOPPED BY. (I don't know why I typed that in all caps. Just because I'm REALLY GLAD.)

Recently, I have had some people* accuse me of never talking about anything important. Why use your blog to discuss so many shallow things, when you could be using it as a FORUM, they ask me. A FORUM for discussing Important Issues. (To which I respond - um, have you read my blog? Ever?)

But I do not want to be accused of never tackling the hard issues, so today, I will attempt to answer an age-old question - one that children and teenagers and certain very immature adults have tried to answer for many tens of years: "What's grosser than gross?"

(I mean - sure - we could talk about world peace, but I think that's sort of been done to death, don't you?)

So please keep in mind - when I tell you this story, I'm doing it FOR THE WORLD.

The other day I gave myself a pedicure. I always have to give myself a pre-pedicure pedicure, to sort of - take the initial winter crust off, so to speak. No way am I going to just - show up at the nail salon with my feet in their natural condition. (The horror.) They give me enough crap as it is, what with the clucking and the whispering and the aggrieved expressions.

On the bright side, the house we are renting has soft water and it's done wonders for my skin and my feet, making them no longer impervious to the effects of the foot razor callous thingie. (I think that's it's official name.) (I LOVE those things. There is something hypnotic about watching the skin peel off. It's like pulling off rubber cement you've let dry on your hand, or peeling off sunburned skin.) (Hmmmm. That last one - that's actually kind of gross. Gross, but nevertheless fascinating and addictive.)

So anyway, I was sitting there using the foot razor callous thingie to unveil the new skin underneath (like opening a present that's been wrapped in REALLY disgusting paper) and flicking the dead skin off onto a towel. My son chose that precise moment to fall or walk into a wall or something (I can't remember what happened exactly), and when I heard him crying I had to very quickly abandon my repulsive little project. As I got up, I accidentally dislodged the towel and dead skin went flying all over the bathroom floor. I groaned, but went to check on Carter.

After ensuring all of his limbs were still firmly attached, I came back into the bathroom.

Gah.

You guys.

My dog was there.

And he was LICKING the dead skin off of the floor and eating it.

Enthusiastically.

I think I dry heaved for ten minutes.

(My floor is really clean though.)

(Top that.) (Er, but only top it if it's rated PG.) (Think of the CHILDREN.)


* Fictional people

The Evolution of Packing

Pin It I wrote this post back when we were in the middle of packing, but I couldn't upload my pictures, so I'm inflicting it on you now. (Because one thing I know people can never quite get enough of is bloggers who whine about packing.) (Yes, that was sarcasm.) You're welcome.

-----------------------------
(DISCLAIMER: It is possible that back when these conversations took place, they involved more swearing. And possibly they involved throwing newspaper at each other. And then again with the swearing.)

(BONUS DISCLAIMER: That is, unless you are reading this and you are a) my mother, b) my next door neighbor, or c) someone I know from church. Because if you are one of those groups of people, you know that I NEVER SWEAR.)

-----------------------------
Packing, Day One:

"Hon, come take a look at this."

"What?"

I show him my box. "My system. I think it's gonna help us stay organized when we move into the new house."

He looks at me skeptically. "I don't think we need a system."

"But this is a good one. Let me explain it to you. See, first I write the name of the room it goes in, and then I write what's in the box."


He snorts. "That's not a system. That's just - writing down what's in the box."

I stare at him. "Well, I write it on every side of the box. And I write the name of the room it goes in."

"Still not a system."

"It's sort of a system."

"It's not a system."

"It is."

"O.k. But it's a dumb system."

I throw something at him.

---------------------
Packing, Day Three:

My husband points to a box. "What's this? There's nothing written on it."

I grab my marker and label it. "Happy now?"

---------------------
Packing, Day Five:

"We forgot to pack the underwear that was sitting in the dryer."

"We're out of boxes. Toss it."

"The kids kind of need underwear."

"FINE." I grab a garbage bag and hand it to him, mumbling under my breath. "Do we have to take EVERYTHING?"

"That's sort of the idea behind moving." He looks at the bag. "How are we gonna know which bag is which?"

I shoot him an incredulous look. "We AREN'T. Does it MATTER? What are you - the labeling police?"

He backs out of the room slowly.

-----------------------------
Packing, Day Seven:

My husband wanders into the room. "Where's the tape?

"We're out of tape."

"Where are the markers?"

"Awww... It's so cute that you think I might know."

"So I'm gathering the system is --"

"It wasn't really a system."

"THANK YOU."

Through the Looking Glass

Pin It A couple of days ago my daughter discovered the medicine cabinets in her new bathroom. Our old house didn’t have medicine cabinets and she thought they were fantastic. She deemed them secret doors and opened and shut them over and over again, hiding something new inside each time. After a minute, I showed her how she could see herself from a whole bunch of different angles by tilting the mirrored door toward the mirror on the wall. She stared at herself in fascination and I remembered something I hadn’t thought of in years.

When I was little I would lock myself in the bathroom, climb up on the sink and sit there staring at my reflection for a long time. Part of the time I was trying to decide whether or not I was cute enough to be on TV. I thought (with all of the self centered vanity of a six year old) that overall I was pretty darn cute, with big eyes and blonde hair, but I was not quite sure about my nose, which was not buttonish, perky, or upturned. Was it a TV quality nose? I wasn’t sure.

It was important for me to figure it out, because more than anything, I wanted to take over Holly Marshall’s role on Land of the Lost. I thought she was awful and stilted, and I just knew that if the people in charge got a look at me in action, I would be in, and she would be out. No question. After all, I was an excellent actress. I knew this because I was able to tell adults absolute whoppers without ever getting caught. Still, I would practice making faces in the mirror, trying out different emotions and examining my face for believability.

I would start looking in those mirrors and I would become transfixed. Not by my face, but by the reflection of the reflection. The reflections would double in on themselves until they almost didn’t look like me. The girl I saw off in the distance looked different, prettier, richer – luckier. But when I closed the mirror she disappeared.

I was sure the mirror girl really existed. I was sure that when I closed the medicine cabinet she was off in her parallel universe, one with a pink canopy bed, voice lessons and a starring role on Broadway in Annie. Sometimes I would press my head to the mirror and I would think, if I hold my head here long enough, I will get through the mirror and I will be in her world.

It became a game – inventing little tests for myself. If I completed the test and wished as hard as I could, I would get through. If I stay submerged in the tub for twenty seconds without hearing any noise… If I can make my way around the house without touching the ground... If I can walk through the whole house while looking down into a mirror so that it looks as though I’m walking on the ceiling… But inevitably in the middle of one of my tests someone would call my name, or make noise, or ask me what I was doing and it would be ruined, all ruined. It was like that old movie, Somewhere in Time, where Christopher Reeve travels back into the past through sheer force of will, but gets called back to the present and torn away from his true love when he catches a glimpse of a present day penny. For me every stray voice was a penny, bringing me back to the reality of what I felt was a very ordinary, non-shiny life.

After a while, the mirrors lost their allure. As a teenager I felt awkward and ugly and had no desire to look at myself from multiple angles. When I did catch a glimpse of the girl in the mirror, she seemed to be going through just as awkward a time of it as I was. Still, sometimes, on very bad days, I would lean against the mirror and wish for something different, something shinier.

Even now, when I’m stressed, I will go into the bathroom, close my eyes and rest my head on the coolness of the mirror, and until recently, I’d completely forgotten why. (Isn’t it funny how certain actions can be comforting long after we’ve forgotten why they were comforting in the first place?)

I guess sometimes we all want to climb inside. We want our lives, our families, our friends - but we want things to be smoother, less complicated, less bumpy - gleaming like the surface of a polished mirror. Yeah - the bumps teach us, they shape us, they mold us - I KNOW. But they also just kind of suck, and we all get tired of them, sunday school lessons notwithstanding.

This week I'll be at the old house in Utah, wrapping things up and giving it a final scrubbing. If you happen to see me out in the backyard, trying to do three cartwheels and then a somersault, all in a perfect line, or trying to make it all the way around the yard without touching the ground, rest assured that I haven't lost my mind completely, I'm just - wishing a little.

Movement

Pin It I keep trying to write about leaving Utah, about leaving our neighborhood, about leaving our friends, about saying goodbye, about all of the wonderful gestures and genuinely sweet moments of friendship - and each time I try it makes me feel weepy. I'll write about it another day, when it doesn't make my throat ache and my eyes well up with tears.

We packed up our moving truck on Thursday night, drove to Las Vegas on Friday, and moved in on Saturday morning. I was relieved to see that the house (which I'd never seen in person) is really very nice. The dining room is carpeted, which perplexes me more than a little, but the kitchen is pretty amazing - full of appliances I have no earthly idea how to use. I'm not sure what to do with a convection microwave or a trivection oven. I don't even know what trivection means. I only know that I'm fairly certain that at some point, something will explode in there.

The kids are a little painfully tender right now. They keep crying over little things - little things that are really all about the same thing when you get right down to it. Carter cried tonight because he was nervous in his new room, and when I sat down next to him he told me he just wanted his old room back, and his old house, and his old toilet. Abby cried because we didn't have time today to go see her new baby cousin, who has the same name as her pre-school friend, a friend she "will never see again, never never never."

But then tonight after dinner my husband puttered around with a screwdriver, I organized stuff, Abby drew, Carter stripped down to his underwear and Sarah practiced the piano.

It was normal. It was good. It was almost boring.

I'm feeling hopeful. Cross your fingers for us.

Change of Heart

Pin It Guys, I'm sorry. I'm afraid I had to delete my last post. I suddenly realized - if any of my friends/neighbors saw my whining about packing, they might decide to drop by and help me pack. And that would be incredibly embarrassing.

"Hey Sue, where's the trash?"

"Right here - Oh. Um. That's my strainer."

"But it's all smashed and broken and --"

"Yeah. Well it still works pretty well."

"Oh. I see."

"Right."

"Uh.... What about this - melted old spoon?"

"Oh. Well. We still like to use that sometimes."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Awesome friend smiles awkwardly as she tries to figure out what is trash and what is actual stuff.

So, friends - NO NEED TO STOP BY TO HELP. EVERYTHING IS UNDER CONTROL.

SORT OF.

JUST IGNORE ANY HOWLING NOISES.

IT'S PROBABLY JUST THE DOG.


P.S. When I find my camera I will have to post a whole series of mushiness about leaving, and my wonderful friends, and the kids, and the whole - moving THING. (I know, you are biting your fingernails in anticipation, aren't you? I can tell.)

Pillow Talk

Pin It

“Honey, I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Do you really?”

“Yes.”

“REALLY?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

He turns over. “Do we have to do this right now?”

“HONEY. I’m just saying - I really, REALLY love you. I really do.”

“You mean, as opposed to my fake love.”

“I know you love me, but I love you so much that sometimes I think my head might explode. I love you so much that if we weren’t already married I might stalk you. That’s the kind of love I’m talking about. Do you love me like that?”

(Long silence) “Hon, I’m really tired.”

“Clearly, our love is dead.”

“Go to sleep.”

“How can I sleep knowing you’re all cold and dead inside?”

“Try.”

“If I had a stroke, would you put me in a home?”

He fake snores.

I steal back some covers. “Fine. I'll leave you alone. But I can't believe you won’t even say those three little words before we go to sleep.”

“I ALREADY DID.”

“But you didn't really MEAN them."

“Here’s three words for you, and I really, really mean them: YOU’RE A DORK.”

“So romantic.”

“And yet, so true.”

I'm Still Alive...

Pin It I keep meaning to blog. Funny little things happen and I think about writing about them, but when I sit down to write, I just want to spill sadness all over my blog.

We're busy packing and organizing. I'm spending a lot of time doing what I've done ever since I was little to cope with stress (um, besides eating) - making list upon list upon list of things to do. I keep thinking that if I can get all of the things on the list done, everything will be o.k. The lists don't just contain the obvious things like turning utilities off and forwarding the mail, they contain things like "take pictures of the kids with their friends," "play outside as much as possible on Friday," and "make the last few days special" (something I'm just not sure how to do, in the middle of packing and organizing and cleaning).

Carter is extremely confused about the boxes and the whole concept of the move. I know he's going to be very upset once he realizes this is permanent. I packed a few of his teddy bears, ones that sit up on a high shelf in his room, and he became nearly hysterical, so I've decided to wait until the day before we move to pack up his things. The girls are apprehensive but also a little bit excited. We've promised to visit (a promise I'm taking extremely seriously) and I think that's helping them to feel better about the move.

I've been working very hard to keep a stiff upper lip, to look forward to the good stuff, to try to keep the kids excited and positive. I've tried to be glass half full about it. But last night after my husband and I crawled into bed after packing a few boxes, I just fell apart and cried and cried and cried.

I don't want to make them leave. The weather has been beautiful and they've been playing outside with their friends for hours and hours every afternoon and evening. My daughter and her friends made a "scrapbook" - really just a few blank pieces of paper stapled together. Inside they had written letters to each other about how much they love each other and swearing they will always be "best best best always friends." It breaks my heart a little more each time they get a little sad and write something new inside.

And my heart is selfishly breaking a little for myself as well. I love my friends here. The women I've met here are amazing. Smart, talented, accomplished, kind, friendly, compassionate. Women who are great examples. Women who have children who are great examples. I love this place. I love these people.

I know we'll be fine, once this last week is behind us and we are settled into the very nice new home we've leased, in a nice neighborhood around the corner from a park and a library and the school. When I see that the kids are settling in with friends and family I'll feel better, I know. My husband will start his dream job, and I'll be working entirely from home again - all good stuff. I'll get to be around family and old friends. We'll make new friends in our new neighborhood, and I'm sure in no time at all, we'll love it.

But right now, every night as I cross things off my list, my heart whispers over and over again, "I don't want to leave."

I don't want to leave.

My Husband is a Patient, Patient Man

Pin It

“Hon, I think I have narcolepsy.”

“You don’t have narcolepsy.”

“But it says right here on Wikipedia ---“

(muttering) “Oh freakin’ A. Here we go...”

“It says a person with narcolepsy is likely to become drowsy or to fall asleep, often at inappropriate times and places.“

“(silence due to excessive eye rolling)”

“Oh my gosh. That’s SO ME.”

“That’s so everybody. That’s called – being an adult with small children.”

“And it says daytime naps may occur without warning and may be physically irresistible... Holy crap. I TOTALLY HAVE NARCOLEPSY.”

“You don’t have narcolepsy.”

“But what do you call it when I fall asleep instantaneously after I lie down?”

“Really, really annoying.”

Chagrin

Pin It My husband and I have been talking about money a lot lately - what to pay, who to put off, whether or not power and water are really all that necessary - you know, all of the fun stuff you have to weigh when money gets really tight. It all got kind of overwhelming for a while and we forgot to watch what we were saying in front of the children.

The other night when we were driving home from the grocery store, Sarah asked if we could go to McDonalds. I said something dismissive about not having enough money. I meant that I didn’t have the cash on me, but didn’t think about how it would sound to her.

When we got home, Sarah came and sat down next to me. Her six year old eyes solemn, she said, “Here mom, now you don’t have to worry about money anymore,” and she handed me a plastic bag. Inside were crumpled dollar bills, the ten dollar bill she got from her grandparents for her birthday and assorted quarters and nickels and dimes and pennies.

I gave her a huge hug while I pulled myself together, and then we had a long, reassuring (I hope) talk. Afterward, I went into the hallway and smacked my head against the wall a few times, just to make sure the lesson was well and truly knocked into my head.

And it is. They teach me stuff every single day, ya know?

For Sale

Pin It We put our house back on the market. We figure we might as well give it one last ditch effort, now that it's spring and the Utah market is starting to actually do something.

Hey! Maybe one of you would like to buy it, do ya think? Yes? Yes?

No?

Oh. Well, I'll show it to you anyway, since any internet stalkers lurking out there won't be able to track us down anyway - what with the whole MOVING thing. (DANG it.)

It's a lovely 4700 square foot home on a quarter acre with five bedrooms, four bathrooms, and a lovely hickory and alder kitchen with a travertine backsplash, granite countertops and stainless steel appliances... (Don't I sound JUST like a real estate flyer? It would make sense, since I've been trying to sell this flippin' house for the last YEAR.) (Um, sorry, did that sound bitter? I didn't really mean it to sound bitter. I'm not bitter at all. No siree. Not me.) (Stop looking at me like that.)

The house comes with a really fun backyard with a playset and lots of built-in friends for your children. (See the last few posts if you have any questions about my feelings on that topic.)


The home has beautiful finish work and custom paint (paint the homeowner picked out herself, because she was under the impression she would be LIVING there for the rest of her life and - - - - OOPS, sorry, having a moment there).
So anyway... Nice room.

The family room adjoins the kitchen and has a lovely stacked stone fireplace and alder mantle. I love the fireplace SO MUCH. (ACK, excuse me while I choke on the bile in my throat. Ahem. Sorry, I'm better now.)


There's other cool stuff, like a big playroom with a built-in window seat and a spacious basement for all of your random stuff, but I'll spare you the pictures.

Sigh.

Honestly, it's just a house. A house is a house is a house. And as much as I don't really want to leave,

I'm praying REALLY HARD that it sells. Quickly. Super quickly. Miraculously quickly even. Like, before the bank comes calling. Selling it won't solve our problems, but it would be nice to not completely destroy the property values for the folks who are still gonna live here after we leave.

But if we DO have to give it to the bank instead of selling it, would I be completely out of line to dismantle the fireplace rock by rock and take it with me to Las Vegas, do ya think?

Yeah, I thought so.

Comment Requested

Pin It I want to make a comment box to hang around my neck and take to parties. And after I meet someone new, after we’ve talked and laughed and parted ways, I will request a comment.

If you think about it, a comment box would clear up so many things - Did they like me? Do they want to be friends? Did they think I was boring or dorky or dumb?

After they leave a comment for me, I could send one back to them, getting right to the point (not just dancing around it) - “Oh, me too,” “Yes, I’d love to be friends, I’m so glad you asked,” “I thought you were hilarious, it was so nice to meet you,” “What you said really touched me - I think you are wonderful.”

Then armed with the evidence of mutual good feelings, we'd skip the waiting period, move past the small talk and the pretend reason to call, and dive right into friendship.

I Call This Game Fun-In-A-Box

Pin It There are those days – days you play in the stream and build sandcastles and swing from trees – and then there are those other days. You know, those days where you sit in a box for three hours.

On Sunday morning my husband didn’t feel like going to church. This may or may not have had something to do with the fact that I sort of impulsively sent the link to my blog to my friends in book club, (who are also in my church congregation) on the same day I posted about bankruptcy and foreclosure, and he is now convinced that everyone in the neighborhood KNOWS OUR SHAME). I didn’t feel like wrangling them by myself, so we had a lazy day at home.

Lazy Sundays are nice and relaxing, except when they are long and unending and boring because you are trapped in the house with three restless children and a husband who keeps understandably shooting you dirty looks and rolling his eyes and sighing audibly. I did not feel like entertaining the children, other than pulling out the playdough and occasional tickling, and they were as stir crazy and irritable as I was. We would normally go for a walk or something but we didn’t, because it was cold and snowy – “Too wet to go out, And too cold to play ball. So we sat in the house. We did nothing at all.”

The children eventually decided that if there was NOTHING ELSE TO DO, (groan, sigh, whine) then they might as well use their imaginations, so they descended upon the boxes, which they used to make a secret hideout and then torture the dog. They put him inside, closed the lid, and pushed it around the room for a while, occasionally turning it on its side. The dog would run out confused, like, “HEY, who put me in that box? Abby, did you know someone put me in a box? Huh? Huh? Didya? Didya? Here, let me lick your face for a minute.” And then she’d pick him up and put him right back in again, giggling madly. (You know, my hatred for the dog is well established, but really, I’ll give him this – he puts up with a lot of crap.)

After a bit they hit upon the idea of getting inside themselves, armed with markers. They sat in those boxes for a good three hours, coloring the insides, savoring having permission to actually USE MARKERS without any consequences or time out. Possibly they were a little bit high on marker fumes, but it was a risk I was willing to take, in exchange for the quiet. (Hey, I checked their pupils! They looked fine!)

My three year old wanted me to close the lid, and so I did. His sisters wanted me to close THEIR boxes. And so I did. They sat in those closed boxes for a while. It was great – very quiet and conducive to large amounts of parental internet surfing. I highly recommend packing your children.

This morning, again, they are in their boxes, coloring and behaving rather like civilized schoolchildren in some alternate box oriented universe, so I’m rethinking this whole – we need a three bedroom house thing. Right now I’m leaning toward one bedroom and three very large boxes.

What I Will Miss

Pin It In the winter, on sunny days, mothers look out the window with determination, and say, "Yes, definitely, go outside," and after a solid half an hour of prep time, finding snowboots and putting on mittens and zipping up jackets, their children head out to play. They build igloos and snow forts and run to the park to sled down the high slope by the baseball diamond. They make snowmen and snow angels until they are too cold to bear it any longer and then they rush into the house with red fingers and noses, to sit by the fire until they are cozy.


In the early spring, they come out, dressed in layers and mittens and gradually casting off clothing throughout the day as they slosh through the waterlogged grass. They dig in the muddy sandbox and poke through the melting piles of slush, discovering toys long hidden under the snow, mixing up magic potions of leaves and early flower buds, and hours later, coming inside with sunburned cheeks, sad because it's starting to snow.

A month later, the flowers start to appear, tulips and crocus and daffodils, and they can’t resist picking them, the first flowers they’ve seen in the yard in months, picking them and bringing them to their mothers. “For you, mom,” they say benevolently, and they wait for a hug and a kiss from a mother who is delighted by the gift (despite her chagrin over the rapidly dwindling supply of unpicked flowers). They play all day long on Saturday, packs of children, pretending to be the Boxcar children or magical fairies, or pirates ("Mom, tell her I don't have to walk the plank!"). They help in the yard, where we plant lavender and penstemon and daisies, and they look at me skeptically as we plant vegetables, not quite sure if they should believe me when I tell them this little pebble of a seed will one day be a cornstalk.

On Saturday, there is soccer, every field and park in town full to the brim with children and their families, children who aren't quite sure if they are running toward the right goal, who lose concentration when they get the ball as they glance up to make sure their parents are watching. On Sunday after church, families are out together, on walks and bike rides around the neighborhood, parents stopping every few feet to talk to people they’ve barely seen all winter as the children urge them forward ("Come ON Dad").

In summer, mothers send their children into the backyard ("Go on, go out and play") and the kids find each other, congregating and planning the morning's mischief as mothers sneak off to check their email, to make a phone call, to read a newspaper, to do the dishes. They play all morning, running through sprinklers and wading pools, discovering neighborhood pets, building dams in the stream at the park, fading over to the shade of porch swings by noon, and disappearing into the house during the hottest part of the day.


They creep back out again in the late afternoon, riding bikes and scooters and trying out skates, knocking on doors to remind their friends that it's time to come outside again. They find a zucchini in the garden and then an onion or maybe a green bean, and vegetables have never been so exciting before. In the evening it’s beautiful out, and we turn on the flood lights, not yet ready for the kids to come in, not quite ready to go in ourselves. The adults congregate in little clumps, talking and gossiping and laughing while the kids race around, squeezing in a few more minutes, a few more minutes ("Hurry before we have to go inside"). I look around at my friends, at my family and stand there thinking, I will always remember this.

In late autumn we pick pumpkins and put the garden to bed and get things ready for winter. We savor the last few warm days before winter comes and spend more time than usual outside, soaking it up, letting them play, letting them enjoy each other’s company. Little arrangements appear on front porches, hay bales and pumpkins and autumn flowers and baskets of apples. We visit pumpkin patches and go on hay rides and run through corn mazes. We plan costumes and on Halloween night, we go around the block and down the street, collecting candy at every door, (except the scary ones with haunted houses, because my kids aren’t quite that brave, at least not quite yet). We hand out eight bags of candy and have to shut off the lights at eight-thirty, because my husband is NOT going back to the store.

The first snow falls, and we are happy, because we made it to November with no snow, and maybe it will be a mild winter, after all (high hopes, quickly dashed). Cabin fever has not yet struck, so we enjoy looking out the window at the huge snowflakes as they come falling softly down, and we drink hot chocolate and put on Christmas music, even though it’s really far too early. We drag out snow boots and mittens and snow pants and a few minutes later, the thin layer of snow in the yard has been obliterated by overly enthusiastic children, who are ready, once again, to make snow angels.

And in Las Vegas, there won't be this, not all of this, but there will be shorts in February and swimming in October and eggs to fry on a piece of tinfoil on the sidewalk in August and it will be different, but it will still be fine - it will be just fine (at least this is what I remind myself when I'm feeling maudlin). Because as it turns out, forts work just as well when you make them with cardboard boxes, popsicles taste even better when it's 114 out, and you can still make perfectly good snow angels in a sandbox.

Life will still be sweet, because there is always sweetness to be found when you look for it, but I will always remember this part of our lives, when we lived for a time in a Norman Rockwell painting.

In Which We Discuss Things That REALLY SUCK because that other stuff? NOT. EVEN. CLOSE.

Pin It (Alternate Title: Tell Me To Look On The Bright Side And I Will Hunt You Down and Kill You, So Help Me...)

Um... Hello! Greetings! Contrary to popular belief, I have not actually succumbed to the runs. I'm alive, but have been resisting the urge to post any of my drafts, which have very melodramatic and self pitying titles, such as:

• WOE IS ME


• A DETAILED LITANY OF EXACTLY HOW MUCH OUR LIFE SUCKS RIGHT NOW


• SERIOUSLY, WOE IS ME


• HEY, MAN UPSTAIRS - ARE YOU KIDDING ME WITH THIS?


• WHAT A WORLD, WHAT A WORLD (I'M MELTING, I'M MELTING)

I thought I would spare you until I was able to get some perspective.
What's that? You want to know what's been going on with us? It's so nice that you asked, because I'm feeling in the mood for a rather large vent. (WARNING: EXCESSIVE AMOUNTS OF PERSONAL INFORMATION AHEAD, AVERT EYES IF SQUEAMISH.)

If you've been reading for a while, you might know that we had a business. A business we were pretty sure was going to do well. Oh. Hold on. Excuse me for a moment.

(bitter laughter) ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha (/bitter laughter)

Sorry, where was I? Oh - right, the business. It didn't work out (UNDERSTATEMENT) and we've been scrambling a bit (MASSIVE UNDERSTATEMENT) to get things back on track, with very little success (SPECTACULAR UNDERSTATEMENT) in spite of our best efforts.

The weekend before last, we went to Las Vegas to look for a house to rent. We're moving back there - leaving the little town we love and going back to the horrifying hell hole (UNDERSTATEMENT) we grew up in. My husband has a good job waiting for him there, I can keep my job and work from home in Vegas, and it just made sense in a whole bunch of very boring ways. We made the decision together and agree it's the best thing to do, but it still feels like a failure - leaving a place we love, a neighborhood we love, and returning to a place we both despise. Ugh.

Anyway, we spent the weekend looking at rental houses and eventually found one that did not make us want to impale ourselves on sharp sticks. The kids all got sick, making the trip home very suspenseful and interesting: Who would barf next? Would they barf into a bag, or share with their siblings? And how many times do you think you can you barf in a car before EVERYBODY gets sick? (Answer: Approximately four) Those were super fun car games. The trip home just flew by.

But the best part of the whole trip? Happened right after we got home.

We pulled into our driveway. My husband parked the car in the garage and went out front. I started helping the children out.

He came back and looked at me grimly. "The car's gone."

I looked at him blankly. "Gone? Somebody stole it?"

He gave me a wry smile. "No."

I didn't understand. "Then where is it?"

"I'm guessing probably at a repo yard somewhere."

They repossessed it.

On Sunday.

Which also happened to be my birthday.

BEST.

BIRTHDAY.

EVER.

So, uh, we've been adjusting to life with one car while we negotiate with the bank to get it back. (Magic 8 Ball Says: Outlook Hazy, Ask Again Later)

We filled out some credit counseling stuff the other day in preparation for (HOLD ON, IT GETS BETTER....... WAIT FOR IT...........) our bankruptcy, and part of it involved entering your debts and expenses and income into an online calculator. After you enter all of the information, a little automated person tells you how much money you have left over after paying your bills each month.

My husband and I sat there and cracked up for, oh, gosh, probably an hour, making the little robot voice repeat over and over again, "MRS. SMITH, AFTER PAYING YOUR BILLS YOU WILL HAVE NEGATIVE $9,050.00 THIS MONTH." He was just so chipper and happy to let us know about our negative cash flow. There was nothing to do but sit on the floor and laugh.

We're doing pretty well, in spite of it all. Husband and I are in this together, deeply, and we've managed to (mostly) avoid sniping at each other and fighting. And we have our sense of humor. And we have our kids. And nobody has cancer. Yet. (PLEASE DO NOT TAKE THAT AS AN INVITATION, LORD.) Things will be better in a few months when we're back on our feet.

The hardest part of all of this is dealing with the blow to my pride. I'm not worried about what my family thinks. I barely know most of my extended family (with a few notable bloggy exceptions) and don't really care about their opinions of me. And in my immediate family - well, bankruptcy and foreclosure - pretty small flashes in the pan quite frankly. To get a bad rep in my family you practically have to rob a bank or marry a cousin or something. Anything else is just another day at the office.

It's letting other people know that makes my stomach churn a little. Neighbors and friends. I'm going to be incredibly embarrassed about the Bank Owned sign swinging in front of our house after we leave. I don't want them thinking we're those people - people who I (JUDGMENTAL) picture relaxing on the couch and eating twinkies while watching the home shopping network and buying Marie Osmond dolls at 2:00 in the morning, until they max out their credit cards and declare their third bankruptcy.

We aren't people who get cars repossessed, or behind on their mortgage or late on their bills. We're resourceful and hard working and smart. We're responsible. We're successfullish. We're from hard working pioneer stock, gosh dang it.

But I guess most people who go through this kind of stuff aren't those people either. They're just - human. And so are we. Human and having a very crappy time of it. (This has been another episode of Very Obvious Life Lessons brought to you by Sue Smith, thank you so much for joining us.)

We'll be okay. We really will be fine, so don't feel sorry for us.

(Unless your particular form of feeling sorry for me involves bringing me baked goods or sending me chocolate. Or money. Yes, feel quite free to send me lots and lots and lots of money.)

(I'll just wait over here by the mailbox.)

I know it will all be o.k. I just never wanted to be a flippin' cautionary tale.
Losing our house to foreclosure, saving our house from foreclosure

Things That Suck, Part II

Pin It Having the runs.

Having the runs at work.

Having the runs on the way to work.

Having the runs on the way to work and having to stop at three gas stations before you get to work.

Having the runs on the way to work and having to stop at three gas stations before you get to work, and then not being able to find another bathroom when you really, really need one.

Having the runs on the way to work and and having to stop at three gas stations before you get to work, and then not being able to find another bathroom when you really, really need one, and then finding one, and almost but not quite making it to the bathroom.

You know how I said yesterday sucked?

I was wrong. As it turns out, any day that you do not lightly poop yourself on the way to work? Really not that bad of a day.

This is gonna be a long morning, I'm thinking.

Things That Suck

Pin It Having a co-worker who feels the need to one-up. About EVERYTHING. (You had 16 inches of snow yesterday? She had 16 and a half. You once had a kidney stone? She had twelve.)

Sitting in a cubicle. Seriously. Kill me. KILL ME. Give me a window or kill me.

Listening to people you barely know talk at length about intestinal blockage.

Waiting in line to use a microwave.

Sitting through what was supposed to be a two hour meeting (the whole reason you came into the office in the first place) as it is continually sidetracked, sidetracked, sidetracked.

Trying not to roll your eyes when people stir up drama over totally inconsequential things. I don't care who got a new chair. My chair is fine. Your chair is fine. SHUT UP so that we can end this freaking meeting.

Trying not to scream as the planning meeting degenerates into a fairly intense discussion about strategies for developing good support teams in order to improve your World of Warcraft score.

Having a 20 minute drive take 45 minutes because you apparently are passing through four separate weather zones on the way home - foggy, sunny, blizzarding, sunny.

Back at home, walking in and finding out your little son is not feeling well, and is sleeping on the couch and warm to the touch.

Having your daughter cry because she missed you. Having that same daughter make a card for her little brother because he isn't feeling well. When he finally wakes up from his nap, he tells her he doesn't want it (because he's irritable and sick). Her feelings are hurt and she cries big heartbroken tears.

Letting your other daughter go out to play in the snow in the backyard, hearing screaming a few minutes later, finding that her boot is stuck in a deep drift. She has been crying for five minutes, and you didn't hear her because you were trying to wake up your son. She's sobbing and hysterical and asking why you didn't come to help her sooner.

Some days, all you can do is hold them, while you all sit and cry together.

Here's hoping tomorrow sucks just a little less.

Quirky? Who, Me?

Pin It Veronica has tagged me for Six Quirky Things About Myself.  Veronica's husband actually came up with the list of things that were quirky about her, which sounded like a terrific idea. Not only would I get a blog post out of it - I wouldn't even have to WRITE the thing. So I asked my husband what was quirky about me.

"I don't know," he said.

"You can't think of anything odd about me?" I asked him incredulously. "Seriously? You don't think I'm a little weird?"

"Oh, no, you're plenty weird," he said. "I just can't think of anything specific."

Oh.

Ok then. I'm so glad we cleared that up.

ANYWAY. Here is my list of six quirky things, NO THANKS TO MY HUSBAND:

1. I am quite sure I'm going to die before I'm 60, probably of cancer, or in an incredibly tragic traffic accident or a horrifying plane crash or something. Everytime I fly, I am sure it's going down. I start obsessing over it several days in advance, and by the time I board the plane I've usually convinced myself that my fears are actually the Holy Spirit warning me that the plane is going to go down with me in it, so I write a letter to my kids before I get on the plane and leave it somewhere easy to find, because I want them to have something to remember me by. The plane is always perfectly safe, and even though my husband teases me and says dramatically, "You're ALIVE, you're ALIVE," I know, deep inside, that it was a close call, and that NEXT time, it's for sure going to crash. Probably. (Did you know I was in a plane that was struck by lightning once? We landed safely, but it FREAKED. ME. OUT.)

2. I think that if I don't die in an incredibly scary, dramatic fashion, I am probably going to die in a very embarrassing, mortifying way - like having a stroke when I'm naked in the tub. Or even worse, maybe I'll have a stroke when I'm pooping or something, and then they'll come in to find me dead but naked, and they'll have to try to move me off the toilet, and it will be gross, and my husband's last memory of me will be all - nasty.

3. I drive like a grandma. I'm the one in the right hand lane on the freeway going 59. I am no longer fazed by people who flip me off. I used to be a bad-ass in the car, and then we moved to a little town where the speed limit on every road is 25 and I rarely went more than 5 miles from home. Traveling on an actual freeway, in actual big girl traffic, is insanely terrifying. The cars are all going so fast, and all that's keeping us from slamming into each other is the tiny little white dotted lines, which, strangely, don't really make me feel all that safe. And of course, I usually don't think to write my children a goodbye letter before I get on the freeway, so I have to drive extra slowly so that I don't die on this particular trip, because if I do they will NEVER KNOW their mother loved them. Tragical.

4. If I lie down, I am asleep within seconds, literally. It drives my husband nuts. It doesn't matter if I'm tired or not, if you put me in a horizontal position I'm out of it within seconds. (Er, except when we're being romantic. Mostly.) I'll be in the middle of a conversation with my husband and a minute later I'm snoring. He always knows when I'm falling asleep because I do that little jumpy thing. (Do you know what I mean? You know how babies startle and jump when they are falling asleep? I still do that.)

5. If my husband looks at me a certain way, with a certain loving look in his eye, I cannot sustain eye contact and I usually giggle, and then he laughs at me. We've been married for 12 years, I should be over it by now, shouldn't I?

6. When I'm at home by myself, I like to tell myself stories I've made up and will actually sort of act them out. I'll walk around the house talking to myself dramatically as I'm cleaning, playing the different parts. I'll get so wrapped up in what I'm telling myself that I'll be disappointed when people come home because they are interrupting my story. I do the same thing in the car by myself. It's endlessly entertaining. Sometimes I drive around the block an extra time, so that I can finish the "chapter." Sometimes I make myself cry. Sometimes I'll get mad at my husband in my imaginary story, and it will carry over into real life. I can't help being irritated with him, and he'll say, "What?!" and I just say nothing, because I can't very well tell him the truth. He'd think I was crazy or something.

I'm tagging Karen, Heidi, Blackbird, Amy, and Hollywood. Unless they don't want to be tagged. Then I take it back. (How embarrassing.)