Mile 17

Blogging again

2011-06-30T18:58:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time! I'll be blogging here for the next month as our family heads out on a month-long road trip. Maybe I'll blog at good ol' Mile 17 again when we get back. Maybe I will have committed myself to a mental institution. We'll see.

Exciting Stuff

2010-08-25T05:59:00.000-07:00

To the three lovely ladies and my sister and niece (also lovely ladies) who read my blog:

Things are looking up at Mile 17! In the past month I have landed some good paying, ongoing freelance gigs. Then this week out of the blue I was hired to teach sixth grade language arts at a private school 10 minutes from our house. I only teach two classes in the mornings, but it is the perfect way to ease back into teaching while still getting to freelance.

I'm also taking classes this year to get my teaching certification for public school. Although, the private school has indicated that next year could be full-time, I still want to get my certification. The long term plan is to teach full-time, write educational and web content and get back to fiction writing.

Sadly, my ten different lines of income still don't cover all the bills for my family of five. Hubs is still working out his future, after making such a huge stand. What he did is like Alex P. Keaton deciding to loosen the tie, put down the briefcase and go hang out with Nick for awhile--huge! (Did anybody get that reference?) He has stood by me through so many difficult things, times when people wouldn't have blamed him for walking away. Now it's my turn.

I'm very hopeful about the future!

24 years and sixteen candles later

2010-08-22T08:51:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I met four friends from high school in Chicago. We went to high school in Hawaii, but one of my friends offered to host the little reunion at her house outside of Chicago.

We watched John Hughes movies, read old yearbooks and went through boxes of pictures and letters. We had a blast! Although all of our lives have gone in very different directions, we were all so much the same.

What was amazing to me is the profound effect each of us had on each other's lives. We introduced each other to (and even madeout with) future husbands, influenced college and career choices and have mutual friends spanning college and professional lives. The web connecting us is intricate and even after all the years and distance, unbreakable.

This was my first trip away from husband and the girls and I highly recommend it!! I left feeling so loved and whole--a complete person all by myself. It sounds silly, but it felt good to go and even better to come home.

Albert, TX

2010-07-30T09:18:00.000-07:00

We went to Albert, Texas this past weekend, a Hill Country town that isn't really a town. A town that was bought on Ebay. The town has no post office or school or mayor. In fact, the old school building is this bar. The biggest building in Albert, Texas is this dance hall next to the bar.

The best part of Albert, Texas is this 550 year old Live Oak tree. It shaded the whole place as this group of friends gathered to celebrate a twelfth wedding anniversary.

The parents sat around drinking beer and eating barbecue and catching up.

The kids played endlessly, dancing in the empty dance hall and running around the shady tree and putting cups of ice and soda on their parents' bar tabs.

Someone even captured a picture of all five of us (few of those in existence). Too soon the sun began to set and we all headed home. Real town or not, it was a perfect Texas afternoon.

Embracing the Process

2010-07-27T10:31:00.000-07:00

I'm not really a process kind of person, some might call me impatient. But this summer, I started making bread and bagels from scratch. I guess I started this to save money. We love freshly baked bread with pasta and bagels with cream cheese for breakfast, but they were both crossed off the list in order to lower the grocery bill.

My first attempts at bagels the girls called "blobels." They tasted like bagels, but didn't actually resemble bagels. Making bagels is a 2 hour process, but I find a peacefulness and thoughtfulness in the steps. The process is important and worthwhile.

My oldest sister makes phenomenal fresh bread. My loaves of french bread don't come close to hers, but the girls gobble them up anyway. This process is not as intense as bagels, but there is one that must be followed. It's floury and sticky and steamy and lovely.

Meditative is perhaps the right word. I don't really think about anything other than making bread when I do it, and I'm someone whose mind is always on anxiety overdrive.

This has helped me (though I didn't realize it at the time) embrace the process of figuring out how to support my family and not lose my mind while doing so. I always want instant answers and unfortunately wisdom takes time. I'm taking it one step at a time, because good, nourishing things only happen when you put the ingredients together with time and care.

Please come read me here and leave a comment (and tell your friends if you like it).

Outuition

2010-07-14T09:45:00.000-07:00

Intuition is defined in my little handy left-click Mircrosoft Word Encarta dictionary as: "something known or believed instinctively, without actual evidence for it."

What if you have the opposite of intuition? Would you call it outuition?

What if everytime you think a team will win, they lose? Or someone is going to call, they don't? I always get into the longest line, anywhere, even if it starts as the shortest. I can't predict the weather, my husband's moods or what my children might like for dinner. I spend a lot of time feeling perplexed.

I am always genuinely surprised when things don't turn out the way I thought they would. So instead of standing on the firm ground of my instincts, I stumble through the spongy mess of my doubts. Should I? Shouldn't I?

I used to wish I had some wise, wonderful woman in my life that would know what to do when I didn't (you know, like a mother). Someone Katherine Hepburnish. There was even a point in one of my post-baby hormonal hazes that I considered joining the gardening club in our little Connecticut town to find the wise old lady of my dreams.

Maybe I over-think it all. Maybe I don't lack that intuitive little voice, just the ability to hear it over all my insecurity and doubt. I wish she would speak up!! (Then she could call me an "Old poop" and give me some good advice.)

Career Express Train

2010-07-08T16:34:00.000-07:00

I know I've been wallowing around a bit too much lately. I am a spoiled rotten brat (without the cool toys or cute clothes). Over half the women I know are head of her household or equal wage earners, including all three of my sisters and my niece. I realize even the phrase "Over half the women I know" makes me totally lame.

I didn't realize when I got off the career express train to ride the mommy bus after the birth of baby number two that I would end up...well, here. I apparently have no real marketable skills anymore. Degrees? Yes. Real world experience? No. I think experience counts for more. I used to joke that if it wasn't on Noggin or didn't happen in my living room then I didn't know anything about it. Sadly, that was true.

So I rode the mommy bus and learned how to fill sippy cups while nursing a baby, cooking dinner and reading a storybook at the same time. It's hard to believe there isn't a bigger market for that skill. The mommy bus was a great, grueling ride.

Now I'm standing on the platform waiting for the next career express train, but the trains don't seem to be running on schedule.

I know, I'm still wallowing.

The numbers aren't really the numbers

2010-06-17T10:20:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite blogs is The New York Times Economix blog. (Calling both what I do here and what is written at Econmix blogs is like calling both a Christmas newsletter that gets sent to friends and family all over the country and The New York Times national publications.)

I like to think that life, in all its subjective mess, can be quantified. Reading things like the Economix and another blog I like about neuroscience leads one to believe that there is a method to the madness. There is, right??

But a recent article in Time magazine made an excellent point: numbers are misleading. The unemployment rate isn't really the unemployment rate, as it will be reevaluated and given more nuance in the months and years to come, as will just about every other economic indicator. Quantifying only captures, or explains so much. One can't truly capture time in a bottle.

Wealth and security are just illusions. Something magical could happen tomorrow, like a great job offer. But something devastating could happen, too, causing a shaky financial foundation to completely crumble. Or tomorrow could just be another day.

It's good to have a plan, but it's better to enjoy the solid moment you are in. This moment right now.

Hands of Destiny

2010-06-12T14:38:00.000-07:00

I create lesson plans for one of my clients. I go to the queue on their website and choose among the many titles of books, and then I create quizzes, daily lessons, student activities and essay tests all around one book.

This month I chose I Never Told Anyone: Writings by Women Survivors of Child Sexual Abuse. Yep. I chose it because the book has been sitting on the bookshelf in the various homes I have occupied for the last ten years, it's spine uncreased, pages untouched.

It has been difficult to read this book, often physically uncomfortable. Yet, I'm glad I did.

I had many unfortunate events in my childhood, some at the hands of family members, others involved trusted family friends, others were mere acquaintances. Some I remember vividly. Others remain mostly locked away, only remembered in glimpses before the door shuts again on the ugliness, the shame, the confusion.

Our home was large and always open to those who needed to be part of my parents' ministry. My parents were always busy being ministers, somehow thinking that good works equated good parenting. Most of the unfortunate events happened in my own home. All of them happened with people who cared about me nearby. Not seeing.

I struggled from the first time I was too little to speak up until I was outrageously, dangerously promiscuous, seeking the abusers myself. I learned early on that my body was not really mine. Not really. This was part lesson learned, part protective mechanism. They must have the right to touch me. They can't hurt me if it what they are touching is not valuable to me.

I didn't start to own myself again, so to speak, until my early thirties. I had been in counseling many times, but no one--not one single professional or adult in charge of me--recognized that I had been abused. I had the good luck of finding a good counselor. I saved myself, tiny pieces at a time. I found a good man. I became a mother.

I am now the adult looking out for three little girls. I want the hands that guide their destinies to never abuse them. I know that I can't protect them from everything. I want to give them tools to protect themselves, if not from the actual hurt, then at least from the devastation that can follow. I want to talk to them, but I don't want to scare them. I want to do right by them. They deserve that. Everyone deserves that.

Unplan

2010-06-04T10:16:00.000-07:00

This is how I want to feel. This picture from last summer is how I wish I could feel. Unadorned, pure joy. She is effervescent, loud, unwieldy, living for the moment. She is an unpredictable four year old who skips everywhere and chews her toenails, in public.

I need to enjoy her. Enjoy the summer. Sing to myself, torture my sisters, demand that life be fun.

I might need to leave my stress here, on the pages of my blog. So I apologize in advance. Because I plan not to have to think about the plan and just enjoy.

Fate is fickle

2010-06-03T05:16:00.000-07:00

Summer vacation starts here today and the weeks stretch out in front of us, lovely and unfilled. I usually love when the girls get out of school and we fill our days with swimming and friends. It was husband's busiest time and we would go weeks with only seeing glimpses of him. This summer is special because we get to spend it together.
This also means one of us has to find a full time job, soon. I’m volunteering.

This is the fate rundown:
Husband quits job out of the blue on a Friday.

On the following Wednesday, a special ed teacher at the girls’ school calls out of the blue to ask me to sub. I am in the sub system, but hadn’t really been doing it much in months. I start subbing, mostly special education classes and love being back in the teaching atmosphere.

I start thinking about teaching. I look into alternative certification programs (I taught at private schools and how I even got into that is a story for another day). There are a number of programs out there, but the most direct (and intense) route is to get a school to hire me first. I apply to English teaching positions because that is my background. I also apply to be a special ed asst teacher.

I get called for an interview at a middle school teaching reading and a high school for a TA position. This is fate, I think to myself. The day of the interviews, the middle school calls to cancel because the leaving teacher reconsidered. I go to the interview for the TA. I realize that I have far too much ego and ambition to be a TA. Not to mention, the pay is lousy. Fate is fickle.

I have 54 days to get a school to hire me so I can pursue the most direct and better paying route to certification. I want to teach, my family needs the income and benefits. That’s plan A.

Plan B is to get hired as a TA (only at the girls’ school) and take a slightly longer and lower paying route to certification.

Plan C is to continue writing gigs and subbing, thus getting my name out there for future teaching jobs while still pursuing longer route to certification.

Plan D is applying to special ed certification program that pays a stipend and starts next summer.

We have lots of plans floating around in the ether. I want to go back to work because I love teaching and Littlest starts kindergarten next year. Husband has plans, but would be the point parent to meet the bus and attend the field trips and sick kids, drive to soccer and arrange playdates, do the laundry, clean the house, buy the food, etc. I don’t know if he will love this fate, but he deserves a chance to check it out and spend more time with the girls.

Fate is fickle and so is my mother

2010-06-02T12:16:00.000-07:00

Okay, so my mother is more delusional than fickle. After flying under the crazy lady radar for several weeks Loco Lynnie struck this past weekend. This past weekend my family of five and my parents were driving (in separate cars) to Watonga, OK for my father’s 64th high school reunion.

Every two years Watonga holds a big reunion bash on Memorial Day weekend (bash is probably putting a sheen on it that doesn’t actually exist). Two years ago, my dad was dealing with some hefty health issues and couldn’t go. He was determined to go this year, saying repeatedly that he was so excited and it would be his last time to go.

Watonga is not my mother’s kind of town, despite the fact that she spent her high school years there and met my father there. I fully expected her to find a way to derail the trip, but she had on her game face all the way until my parents actually started the drive north. And then she got sick and they had to turn around.

My disappointed dad called us in the midst of packing up the car to say the trip was off. My confused children took it pretty well, my husband was elated and promptly popped open a beer, my sensitive six year old cried. I was angry. Again.

I was sad for my dad. But this morning that little voice of wisdom that sometimes whispers in my ears provoked a thought: My dad has been married to Loco Lynnie for 58 years, he has stood by her side, enabling her crazy behavior rain or shine. Maybe, just maybe Dad doesn’t mind when the trip gets cancelled, as it almost always does. When he gets to be the victim of her craziness he is off the hook, dreams deferred, all staying shiny in the mind’s eye.

I’m still sad, but now for a different reason.

More on the rest of fate’s fickleness tomorrow…

No Interview for You

2010-05-07T03:37:00.000-07:00

I didn't make the cut last week. The whole experience was surreal. Twenty adults sitting in a circle telling their life stories. I was the only one who did what they asked, which was to say a little about yourself based on what you brought in under a minute. The whole thing was weird and a reminder of why I don't want to go back to teaching in private schools.

It was also a reminder that I am old, or at least old when it comes to the job applicant pool. I'm 42 and for all intents and purposes I've been out of the job market for 7 years. I've applied for a few other jobs, and I'm still writing and I'm subbing almost every day. But the future is quite unclear at the moment.

Group what?

2010-04-27T08:08:00.000-07:00

I've applied for a teaching position at a private school that is quintessentially Austin. This city's credo is "Keep Austin Weird" and I think this place does its part. I've been invited to a meet-and-greet for potential teaching candidates this evening. That would be torturous enough, but it gets worse. They want each person to bring something that is representative of the person and her passion.

My husband rolled his eyes at my first idea of what to bring and I rolled my eyes at his suggestion to bring a picture of the girls. My daughters are my greatest passion, but bringing a picture of my kids to a job interview seems lame.

I keep all my literary rejection letters in this old picture album. Writing is my passion and I think in the pursuit of our passions we need to honor the failures along with the successes. I usually learn more from what didn't work and failure is an important part of the creative process. I want my students to know that trying can be just as important as succeeding.

That's what I plan to say. I'll let you know how it goes.

Don't Sell the Kids

2010-04-18T10:49:00.000-07:00

We made it through week one and we're not living in a refrigerator box, yet. Still no solid plan and I lost half a night's sleep worrying about health insurance.

My husband is putting everything in our house that will sit still long enough for a picture on Craig's List. I think he might have made more money this week selling our stuff than I did writing. This fact makes him happier than it should.

Our world is turned upside down. He cooks and I'm the sole provider. Somewhere in the world something is being affected by this strange turn of events, this tiny tilt in the balance of the universe. A wave in the Pacific hits the beach and strands a fish. Or a boy smiles at a girl he never noticed before and sends her heart aflutter. Perhaps insignificant in the scheme of things, or perhaps not. Who knows what disaster or what wonder is wrought from this?

Doubts

2010-04-14T04:07:00.000-07:00

Monday night Littlest and Middlest both woke up in the middle of the night. I got them to go back to sleep, but I stared up at the ceiling in the 4 a.m. glow from the clock. Thinking.

I was feeling frustrated with my husband for quitting his job without a solid game plan. I was feeling sorry for myself about having to worry about money. Again. The last couple of months were so nice, because for the first time in a very long, long time I didn't agonize over every penny I spent.

Eventually I fell back asleep and had a dream. I remember answering the door and some large strange man told me my husband ran into some trouble at work and would be home soon. My daughters and perhaps one of my sisters was waiting by the front door for him to come home.

Then a large, new, tan SUV full of young pretty women pulled into the driveway with my husband sitting in the backseat among them. He was wearing makeup and a dress. He looked completely humiliated. He climbed out of the car while the girls giggled and came inside. Without saying a word, he walked past all of us and went and sat in the corner of the closet with is head in his hands.

I woke from that dream knowing my husband did what he had to do. I woke knowing that he is not the kind of man who quits his job for no reason. I woke with no more doubts.

It's not me. It's you.

2010-04-10T13:26:00.000-07:00

My husband quit his job Friday. And not in the here's-my-two-week-notice kind of quit. He went right to his boss and told her that he can't stand to work for her one more day. Wow. I think he is my hero.

So, I think I have a solid blog topic for awhile.

Day 1: He came home at noon, jubilant. We drank a bottle of wine last night and talked about starting a business.

Day 2: Holy crap! I'm the bread winner. Unfortunately, we can't afford bread.

Procrastina...I'll finish this later

2010-04-03T12:45:00.000-07:00

I have a serious procrastination problem. Supposedly around 20 percent of the nation does, so I'm hardly alone. Sadly, it doesn't make me feel any better knowing that at least 80 percent of the population doesn't have the productivity problems I have.

Research by Dr. Piers Steel at the University of Calgary has shown that many of the long held theories about procrastination are just not true. For example, procrastination is not a product of perfectionism. I could have told him that! If there is one thing procrastinators are really good at it's rationalization: "I want it to be perfect, so I won't start it until I'm sure it can be perfect." Yeah, right. Trust me, it's not about making whatever the task is "perfect."

I think procrastination is about fear and insecurity, not about being perfect or lacking talent. Rather, procrastination is about not appreciating personal imperfections and valuing innate talents. It's also not about laziness--I work really hard to do five things so I can avoid the one thing I'm dreading.

I'm sure my mental imagery of standing at the base of a mountain of work doesn't help. Maybe I should picture it as wading into a lovely cool stream...

Any procrastinators out there? Any suggestions??

Occupational Hazards

2010-03-26T08:44:00.000-07:00

Writing is like standing at the base of a mountain and wondering how you will ever make it to the top...

Pie

2010-03-17T08:54:00.000-07:00

I like to make pie from scratch. There is something about taking simple things like flour, water, eggs and fruit and making them into something warm and comforting and lovely in its own way.

Writing is like that, too. Taking the blank page and filling it with words that are funny or sad and lovely in their own way.

My granny made pies from scratch in her simple farm kitchen in Oklahoma. That is how I picture her, in her apron standing at the Formica counter top. She cooked with ingredients from her garden and lard from the morning bacon. I wonder if she ever thought of herself as the beautiful artist she was, her masterpieces set on the oil cloth covered table before my cigar chomping grandpa.

My writing business is like making pie. I took almost nothing--a passion for writing, a couple of meaningless degrees and a computer--and made it into something. And like my pies it's not always pretty to look at, but I hope it sustains and comforts. I hope that even more these days as my husband wants to quit his job and I wonder if I can ever fill that financial void...

Can't think of a catchy title

2010-03-03T07:27:00.000-08:00

I've tried. I thought about "Falling Again" or "Damn Rabbits" or "Rascally Rabbits" or "The Irony." They all seemed either lame or insulting to rabbits, especially Bugs Bunny who I am a big fan of. This is why I didn't blog for seven months, because when these things happen I don't know what to say.

I ended my last blog post with wondering what I would do next time I got the call from the emergency room, and then I started my Saturday with that call.

I was out the door, the girls already in the car to go to go to a birthday party when my husband stuck his head out the door. "It's your sister Teresa."

I sigh. I take the phone and she tells me that mom is headed to the hospital in an ambulance. They think it's her heart. Dad is in tears. My other sister is sobbing as she drives to the hospital. Teresa wants to know if she should cancel her birthday party later that afternoon.

I say no. Let's find out what's going on. What I'm thinking is It's not her heart. She has the heart of a race horse, or no heart. Take your pick. But the woman is fine. She just didn't want today to be about her oldest daughter. She wanted today to be about her.

And she is fine. They take blood. They do a CAT scan. They put her on a heart monitor. They do other tests. They waste time and money. They keep her over night.

We still had the party and I didn't go to the hospital. But once again my stomach hurt. I drove my daughters to their friend's party at the bowling alley and locked my keys in the car. I stood at the edge of that hole and stared down into the darkness, teetering a bit. But I didn't fall in.

Falling Down the Rabbit Hole

2010-02-25T07:24:00.000-08:00

I guess I feel like I need to explain my absence from June until February, although seven months isn’t as long as it used to be. Remember when dating a guy for seven months was a BIG deal? Or when your baby is finally seven months old and sleeping through the night and you thought you would never get there?

Now days I blink my eyes and seven months is gone.

This past seven months was like falling down the rabbit hole.

First the good stuff: We gave up searching for a house and rented one in a great neighborhood. The girls have a yard and sidewalks for riding bikes and friends around the corner. The freelance biz is picking up. More on all of that later.

Now the not good stuff: In August my mother went insane. I’ve always known she was, well, not like all the other moms. She is selfish and manipulative and insecure. Over the years she has caused a lot of people a lot of pain. And although I’ve always said she was crazy, I don’t know if I really thought she was textbook crazy until recently. I’ve had to come to terms with some unpleasant realities after my surreal trip down the rabbit hole.

The weekend before my girls started back to school, my mother decided she couldn’t walk anymore. After what my father describes as a harrowing night, she ended up in the emergency room. Then she was admitted to the hospital, she was referred to a neurologist specializing in the spine. They found nothing wrong with her. Although perplexed, they release her to the care of her 80 year old husband.

We spent the next several weeks going to doctors, back in the emergency room, back in the hospital, into a very nice rehabilitation center to see if they could help her get her mobility back, there she complained so much and drove the staff so crazy she was released against medical advice into the care of her 80 year old husband. More doctors, no cause found for her not being able to walk. She demands to have totally unnecessary back surgery, still can’t walk, put into another rehab center, again released against medical advice. Not better. Dad is mere weepy shadow of the man he was just two months ago. Back in the hospital, has emergency gall bladder surgery, released again against medical advice.

The subtext: In early August my parents’ physician of the last twenty years declined to see her anymore. After years of “pain” and doctors, he was the doctor who diagnosed her with fibro myalgia and started her on a treatment of Prozac and pain medications. But I think he came to realize that she was addicted to the pain meds and he was no longer able to be her best advocate. He referred her to a pain specialist, but unfortunately they took her off Prozac and put her on a potent pain med that has since been taken off the market.

The day before her legs mysteriously quit working, my dad and I had told her that despite the fibro myalgia she was in great health and really strong. She just needed to exercise more…

The resolution: Their doctor agreed to see her. He put her back on the Prozac and my dad monitors her pain medications. The day they saw Dr. Nacol my mother made a “miraculous recovery.”

I now doubt that she has fibro myalgia since her “pain” has always seemed to come and go at her convenience. Using her health to manipulate people is the only way she knows how to interact. I think her ability to exist in a reasonable reality is a tenuous, fragile thread that can break at any time. I’m not sure I’ll go next time I get the call from the emergency room. But I probably will fall down that rabbit hole again.

Lice Not So Nice

2010-02-19T12:57:00.000-08:00

10 Ways that having lice is just like having anxieties/insecurities/neurotic habits:

1. They are incredibly tenacious and difficult to get rid of.

2. They make you doubt your abilities as a mother.

3. They give people good reason to judge your abilities as a mother.

4. Lots and lots and lots of people knows what it's like to deal with them.

5. Nobody puts having them in the past or present on their resume or social networking website.

6. Getting rid of them takes meticulous diligence and patient perseverance.

7. It sucks if you are not a person known for her meticulous diligence and patient perseverance.

8. Their beginnings are so tiny it is easy to overlook their eventual significance and subsequent proliferation.

9. Everybody has a theory about how to overcome them.

10. You hope that all three of your daughters don't get them.

10,000 Hours

2010-02-12T13:28:00.000-08:00

I recently read Malcolm Galdwell's Outliers. In the first part of the book he discusses the reasons behind people's success, what truly helps them reach the outer limits of accomplishment. One contention he makes is that it takes 10,000 hours to become truly remarkable at something.

For example, Bill Gates had unprecedented access to computers at his posh Seattle school in 1968. This led to access to computers at the University of Washington, which led to access to more advanced computers, which led to Harvard. You know the rest. By the time Gates reached Harvard he had already been sitting at a computer somewhere everyday for 6+ hours a day for several years. 10,000 hours worth.

My daughter says she wants to play soccer in the Olympics before she goes to college. She is nine now and she has been playing since she was 4, but at her current trajectory she will not be anywhere near 10,000 hours by the time she is 18. A sobering thought. Just loving the sport is not enough.

This got me to thinking about other things, not just the Bill Gates and Mia Hamms of the world. Does it take 10,000 hours of working at it (sleeping doesn't count) to have a truly remarkable marriage? How about 10,000 hours of really trying to be a remarkable friend, neighbor, sister, person?

What about being a good writer. I've known I wanted to be a writer since I was 12, at least that is how old I was when I said it aloud. Have I reached my 10,000 hours thirty years later?

How about insanity? Has my mother reached new levels of craziness just because she has been working really hard at it for years? Has she reached her 10,000 hours?

Maybe I'm trying to apply this rule to accomplishments that don't reside beyond the boundaries of plain-Jane-everyday-life. But it makes you think.

what is the universe trying to tell me??? part 2

2009-06-26T15:15:00.000-07:00

My husband's religious/spiritual experiences all have to do with the Red Sox and/or beer. So you can imagine my shock when he said to me last night, "I think the universe is testing us."

I say this kind of thing all the time. I, however, have pretty much decided the universe is not some cosmic cool guy who has it all under control. As you might have noticed from my last post, as far as I'm concerned the universe can go...anyway, back to hub's proclamation. The stress is obviously getting to him.

He goes onto say that although we really want to buy a house, he has figured out that the right thing to do is rent and save. The universe is testing us with all these house trials and tribulations and if we are just patient and vigilant and find a rental house and save for a couple of years "the universe will reward us." His very words.

Yeah, well, we'll see.

what is the universe trying to tell me???

2009-06-25T07:13:00.000-07:00

We sold our house in March. The universe is throwing a little love my way.

We start house hunting in April. I give that little chore to my husband because in the last year and half I have seen the inside of hundreds of houses in Austin. No need to see anymore. Just pick one already. I'm sure the universe is applauding my letting go of control.

Husband picks four houses. I'm not crazy about any of them. The universe might be chuckling.

Really not crazy about hub's favorite. Introduced to the term "short sale" (don't ask). Put offer in on hub's number one choice, but the house is tied up in bank paperwork and our offer expires. Universe is having a martini and then taking a nap.

It's now May. We all go house hunting. Every weekend. Find house we like. Become fond of the word "greenbelt." Put offer in on second house. Again, house is tied up in short sale bank paperwork and offer expires. Renew offer. Renew offer again. Renew offer again. Universe is playing golf. Suspect that universe is really immature and is actually playing Frisbee golf. And drinking cheap beer.

It's now June. We continue house hunting. Now looking on weekdays. And Weekends. Put offer on house in foreclosure. Get outbid. Put low offer on another house. Offer declined. Decide that universe may be trying to tell us something. Universe is clipping toenails. And watching Jerry Springer.

Don't want to look at anymore houses. Look at one more house. Everyone really likes it. The girls call it "The Fairytale House." Put in offer. Offer is accepted. Go to inspection. Water is coming out of ceiling from AC unit in attic. Owner declines to make full repair or give credit. We walk away from the deal. Universe is having shots of tequila and surfing porn.

Husband can't sleep last Saturday night. Looks up rentals. Finds one house for rent in neighborhood we really like at decent price. We look at the house on Sunday. Everyone likes it. Renting and saving money for year is a good plan. We get in applications and deposits on Monday. Rental house has been on the market to sell for two months without an offer. Gets offer on Monday. Universe is laughing his ass off. Still surfing porn. Also chasing tequila shots with cheap beer.

This One is for Allie

2009-06-08T11:35:00.000-07:00

My niece and avid (perhaps only) fan of my blog sent this email message to me this week:

I can't take one more day of disappointment!!! If you've turned your back on the blog world...just announce it already!!!
I love you, even if you don't update your blog.

So I'm taking this opportunity to save at least one person from disappointment (a truly noble endeavor, I think. After all, life is full of disappointments).

I was at a technological disadvantage for awhile in that my laptop only worked at 15 minute intervals before it would die and have to cool off before it could be used for another 15 minute span. I used all my limited computer time to work for the last few weeks. But as fate would have it, I received Allie's plea the SAME day that I got my new laptop.

I have not turned my back on the blog world, in fact I've wondered about all my blog friends:

I've hoped Pseudo is planning to have a relaxing summer working on her memoir/novel. I've worried about her migraines and the stress of the end of the year.

Ditto on the-end-of-year stress for Movie. I've hoped the drama has been a minimum for her lately.

I've wondered if Hollywood has come knocking at Vodka Mom's door offering to turn her hilarious blog into a blockbuster movie (staring Angelina as VM).

I've wondered about my principal friend, Beth, and what is happening in the publishing world with Kerfluffle. I've missed the humorous Austin observations over at The Bean. And I'm sure RockZee is far too busy starting her own advertising co to update her blog. I've wondered what the Idiot has stirred up as late and have missed the poignant observations of Slouching. (notice I'm too lame and lazy to link all these wonderings). There are many others that I have missed, too. I look forward to catching up with everyone this summer.

As for me, I'm a bit stuck at Mile 17. We still haven't found a house...long story. I guess I know what I'll be writing about in my next post!

It's good to be back. (though I hesitate to use the word "back" lest I disappoint certain people, again)

Groundhog Day Theory

2009-04-07T06:47:00.000-07:00

I really like this movie, partly because I'm a huge Bill Murray fan. But the real reason this movie resonates with me is the idea that only when you offer the world your best do you get to move on to better things. It's not a great movie as far a acting goes and the plot is not that impressive, but I still love to watch it over and over.

The truth is real life is mundane and it's easy to get stuck in the safety of the routine. The routine is inescapable--I can't NOT feed the kids, clothe them, bathe them, send them off to school. I can't NOT feed myself, shower, get dressed, and take part in the world (though there are days when all this is done at a bare minimum).

My husband calls this last eighteen months of limbo "The Lost Year" (s0 he's a little off in the math). But I think of it as The Found Year. I spend far too much time in my head. Even as a child, I was over-thinking things. This time in Texas has allowed me to find a way out of my head. It has been an extremely healing, healthy time for me mentally and emotionally. I found forgiveness and found a way to forgive. I found a way to be joyful with my family in the midst of the mundane routines of life. I'm finding my writing voice again. However, I've come to realize that all that time in my head, healthy or not, makes for a very self-focused person.

Here comes the Groundhog Day part. Bill Murray's character starts off as a self-centered jerk, but ends up helping everyone in the little town of Puxatony, Pa. It's far-fetched and corny, but they might be onto something. Maybe the only way to move forward in this world is to help others.

I'm not sure exactly what I need to do or who I need to help, but I plan to enjoy finding out. I've been inspired by so many bloggers (one of the best parts of blogging has been all the amazing things people out there do to help one another through this crazy world). I'll let you know how it's going!

Cleanslate City, Texas

2009-03-30T13:21:00.000-07:00

I am no longer a resident of Limbo. Please forward all my mail to Cleanslate City, and you can start sending those mail order catalogs again. And the real estate ads--especially the real estate ads.

The view is nice here and the air is clean, but I'm sure Cleanslate City will soon be polluted with neurotic angst, doubts and uncertainty. Until then, pull up a chair, pour a glass of wine and enjoy all the possibilities.

Is Happiness a State or a State of Mind?

2009-03-27T04:51:00.000-07:00

I don't live in Texas, not really. Yeah, sure my mailing address is Austin, Texas. And I haven't actually left the state of Texas in almost 18 months. Yes, my children go to school here and my husband works here. But really I live in Limbo (and quite happily, I might add).

For the last eighteen months it's been all about questions: When is the house in Connecticut going to sell? What were we thinking moving to Texas? How could we know that we put our house on the market at the beginning of #@$% recession? Should we rent out the house? Should we move back? What's more valuable: a mortgage in Connecticut or a job in Texas?

In the meantime, I've been thriving here in Limbo Land--grew my hair out, love wearing flip-flops year round, on much more stable land brain chemically speaking. Despite the financial burdens, life is simple and relatively stress free. I know, I'm weird.

Except this week has been a whole new limbo, what I like to call Yucky Limbo Land. We have accepted an offer on our house--which I realize should be super good news (remember how weird I am). And it is GOOD NEWS, except that we have to jump through 50 hoops of decreasing size before we get to the finish line. This is the kind of limbo I am very, very bad at. This is the kind of limbo where someone else gets to make all the decision. In my my Limbo, there were no decisions, only possibilities.

Do you see what I am getting at? Have I only been happy here because really it required very little of me? I don't really live here, I just MIGHT live here. And I know that the questions would have eventually worn me out (there have certainly been days like that in the past 18 months), but never having to make a decision was fun. I hate making decisions. I am lousy at making decisions (just ask my husband).

Right now the status in Yucky Limbo Land is that our CT house is undergoing the various inspections and then they will proceed. They will probably ask for us to pay for some repairs. My husband will probably get surly and refuse. The whole deal could fall through. Then I would be back in Limbo. But it wouldn't be the same.

80 Years

2009-03-23T04:54:00.000-07:00

My dad celebrated his 80th Birthday this past weekend. That's him sitting in front of the cake as "Happy Birthday" is being sung. That's my oldest sister and me standing in the background, ready to swoop in and cut pieces of cake to pass out to the fifty or so members of the family that showed up for this tw0-day bash.

It was exactly the way my dad wanted it to be. On Friday night he sat around with his children and siblings making jokes and telling old stories. The weather was perfect, the barbecue was delicious and abundant, the jokes were as lame as ever and the stories had been told many times. A better evening could not have been scripted. Even my mother was on her very best behavior.

The party took place in my parents' front yard and most of the action was here under the carport. That's my dad holding court with his brother (standing) and his sisters and one of his brothers-in-law. People drove from California, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Kansas, and all parts of Texas. Others flew in from Colorado, Washington and San Francisco. As Dad said, "I'm tickled and humbled to have so many people come from so far to celebrate with me."

On Saturday all my mom's sisters and their families joined the party. It was something to see my girls running around the yard and playing games with their second cousins, just like me and my cousins did at my grandparents farm in Oklahoma. And it was the farm stories that I liked to hear best. The continuity and stability of that life is most striking. It's been almost sixty years since my dad left the farm and headed to the northwest to become a logger. Despite somehow ending up in college and then seminary and becoming a minister in Idaho, Washington, Oklahoma, Colorado, Hawaii and eventually Texas, it is the years on the farm that still loom large in his memory.

Dad gave us quite a health scare last spring, but as you can see in the pictures he is doing very well now. In the last year both my parents have started to show the years and suffer the inevitable consequences of aging. There was a poignancy to this gathering, an unspoken need to celebrate before...before the next gathering is for a far different reason. Happy Birthday, Dad, and please know that I am far from being done with listening to the lame jokes and the old stories.

Mile 17

2009-03-10T16:53:00.000-07:00

Forty days after my wedding I ran a marathon, my first and my new husband's sixth. It was the Vermont City Marathon in Burlington, Vermont on an unseasonably warm Memorial Day Weekend in 1999. I have been a runner for a long time, but this was by far the longest race I had ever done. We had trained for it together, our race preparation nearly as important as the wedding plans.

The day was beautiful and sunny and Burlington is a fun, funky little town. My husband's entire family came to watch and celebrate after, as they did the year before when my husband and his sister ran it.

The race started well and I breezed through the first eleven miles, literally I felt light and lighthearted. I was quite impressed with myself, waving like a movie star at my new family members who popped up along the course to cheer us on.

The next five miles didn't feel so great. It felt like someone had poured concrete into my shoes as the late morning sun bared down on us. I trudged along, finally stopping to walk around Mile 16. I don't remember specifically any conversation we had, at least not on my part. My husband may have said something along the lines of "You just ran sixteen miles, you should be really proud of yourself." But that may just be an exhaustion-induced hallucination I was having or maybe he was cutting me some slack because we were newlyweds. We had established pretty early on in our relationship, he's more coach than cheerleader.

I do remember him walking over to a group of his family and saying "Find everybody, we are leaving the course." Maybe that's what did it or maybe it was the goo and Gatorade I had. As I continued to walk into Mile 17, I decided I was not going to walk off the course.

There was no flash of lightening or angels-singing-in-the-background epiphany. The moment of decision was rather fleeting in the face of the two hours of grit and determination that followed. Somewhere along Mile 17 I started running again. I ran, walked, limped and fought the urge to throw up until I finished the race in five hours and eight minutes.

I hold that fleeting moment of determination like a smooth stone in my pocket. It is there to quietly remind me that I can finish what I start. I've been reaching in to worry that stone quite a bit lately. It's not so much that I want to walk off the course, as I'm not sure what course I am following. I have been easily sidetracked by the grocery list and the bank statement and have forgotten that this race of being a mother and a writer is the only one that counts. I started this blog as the journey of a writer and I'm not going to walk off the course.

Stepping away from the blog for awhile reminded me of a time I left a boogie board along the edge of the beach in Hawaii. When I sat up from my suntanning spot to survey the shoreline later, the board had drifted out into the water. I went jumping through the little waves trying to retrieve it, but the farther I went out, the farther away it got until it was a pink dot on the horizon. Things can too easily drift away.

So, I'm back.

blogcation

2009-02-22T19:23:00.000-08:00

Cue the Muzak while I put the blog world on hold for a little while...

Ode to Darcie and Duran Duran

2009-02-18T05:00:00.000-08:00

Two things happened recently to put in an 1980's frame of mind. This week The Bean had this great blast from the past post about a Duran Duran concert. The other thing is a phone conversation I recently had with one of my best friends from high school, Darcie, a.k.a. Mrs. Simon Le Bon. Darcie is very lucky that all my pictures from high school are still packed away in Connecticut, or I would be able to show the blog world how she had the exact same haircut as the one Simon is sporting here on the cover of Popcorn.

It was great to catch up with Darcie, something we only manage to do about once a year. But despite the lack of actual contact, I always feel a very close connection with Darcie. Maybe because I met my husband at her wedding, but I think it's more because she was one of the few people who really got me in high school. That's not to say I didn't have friends who loved me, friends I still hold dear. But Darcie understood me and loved me anyway. I could always be myself when I was with her--no small feat in high school.

Darcie started her own branding business (don't think cattle) a few years back. Now she works exclusively with one famous chef, hobnobbing with Hollywood types and hanging out in Green Rooms. And while she has been a single mom for a long time, wiping her fair share of noses and butts, I don't think our current lives remotely resemble each other. I will not be skiing in Aspen this year with any famous chef's families.

It was so great to catch up with Darcie and I am so, so proud of all her hard work. But I also giggle everytime I think of her and her Simon Le Bon haircut. Seriously, it was the exact same haircut.

What I Want To Be When I Grow Up

2009-02-16T04:37:00.000-08:00

I don't devote whole posts specifically to my girls often for many reasons. I haven't written much about my Biggest in particular because in some ways she is sacred ground to me. She is such a funny combination of character traits and gene compilation, mere words don't seem to do her justice.

At age 8, she loves math and science, yet she asked for an art set for Christmas because she wants to be an animator when she grows up. She laughs at all my lame jokes. She laughs often and with heart. She plays with her little sisters, calling Middlest her best friend. She can amuse herself for hours. She doesn't given up, although she can be easily frustrated. But eventually she tries again and again, until she succeeds.

When she was nine months old she stopped growing. Failure to thrive, the doctors called it, as it stretched into 12 months and 18 months. Every test was performed, every specialist was seen. She was tiny, weighing less than 18 pounds on her second birthday. But she was thriving, answering doctors questions in complete sentences. And slowly she made her way back onto the growth charts and we made our way out of that dark and confusing time that lacked answers, but was full of miracles.

We call her the Diplomat because she always tries to be fair to both sides. Which one is your favorite? her dad always wants to know. Both, she always answers. Both friends, both toys, both characters, both moments.

She has played and loved soccer since she was three. She has a plan. She plans to play soccer all through school, maybe even in college, maybe even professionally. Maybe the Olympics. Then she will be an animator. Or a teacher. Or an art teacher and soccer coach.

I know she is only eight and the long road ahead only get harder. But I think this one is going to be okay. She may not always laugh at all my lame jokes, but I will always be her biggest fan.

Was it only a dream?

2009-02-11T08:00:00.000-08:00

I have vivid dreams populated by family members, Hollywood stars and random strangers. They are often long and involved and closely tied to some event in my day or something causing me anxiety. When I'm angry at my husband I dream about him having affairs. Or last week, when I was angry at my husband and worried about money, I dreamed he left me for a very rich woman that he called Mrs. Stanton. Even in their wedding vows (told you they were long and involved) he called her Mrs. Stanton.

Last night I dreamed I was walking on a beach in Hawaii when I convinced a hungry talking alligator to eat a giant iguana instead of me. Feeling shaken and relieved, I returned to my tiny, dirty apartment I shared with three other waitresses to get ready for work--Only I find my mother has come for a visit. It was vivid right down to the dirty floors and the bareness of the frost covered freezer and the dread at seeing my mother.

I have never been a waitress and there are few reptiles in Hawaii (or are alligators amphibians?), by the way.

I think my daughters are vivid dreamers, too. This week all three of them have been up during the nights with bad dreams, crawling into bed with us to drift off to happier destinations. Last night as I got ready for bed Biggest suddenly appeared rumpled from sleep and agitated about something. I think she was sleep walking because she kept mumbling about needing to tell me something, but she wasn't really coherent. I directed her back to bed and she closed her eyes and was instantly back to sleep. She had no recollection of any of that this morning.

Part 2
I started this post last week and then I wasn't sure where I was going with it. Other than I must have a lot on my unconscious mind. Then this week my mother fainted at a store and was rushed to the hospital. She stayed the night, but she is fine. The doctors think it was likely a complication from some medication she is on ( she is on far too many medications which she takes at will, totally disregarding warnings and doctors' instructions).

A similar thing happened with my dad last spring and I rushed to the hospital after my mother's 5 a.m. phone call, worried, very, very worried. When my sister called Tuesday to tell me about mom on her way to the hospital I felt...annoyed. My first thought was not to rush to the hospital to be at her side. My first thought was my mom was creating drama because my dad's 80th birthday is coming up and we have been talking about it and planning it. That was my first thought, and my second thought and my third thought.

So here is my thought now: How do I reconcile the kind, honest person I want to be with the unfeeling-for-my-mother person I am?

some Thoughts on books

2009-02-10T11:55:00.000-08:00

I am currently reading The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy for work. Roy likes to capitalize certain words for Emphasis and now I strangely find myself thinking Random Thoughts with capital letters. (I do this when I read, take on the author's writing style for all thoughts in My Brain). I'm not sure what I would think of this book if I was Just Reading it for pleasure. The story is strange, somehow simultaneously Vulgar and Beautiful.

The last few books I have read for work have all had Bengali origins, though I didn't do this necessarily On Purpose. Before the Roy novel I read Banker to the Poor, which is the autobiography of micro-credit guru Muhammad Yunus. His lending to the poor had a profound effect on poverty in Bangladesh, as well as other places where his bank model has been replicated. With the mess of our stalwart American banking system I have to believe he has a point: Capitalism for Greed's Sake serves no one, not even the greedy capitalist. Capitalism for the promotion of Better Lives can be a positive, transforming tool.

I also did a lesson plan for The Interpreter of Maladies, the Pulitzer winning collection of short stories by Jhumpa Lahiri. I have to say I liked her second story collection better, Unacustomed Earth. Her stories were so beautifully, Profoundly Simple.

Some things--like poverty, aspirations, tragedy, motherhood--Transcend Culture.

Mrs. Robinson's neighborhood, part 2

2009-02-09T11:26:00.000-08:00

Okay, I can't get The Graduate out of my head. Pseudonymous mentioned the water imagery in her comment and now I am curious about that. The pool scenes are great. Did you know that The Bee Movie (animated Jerry Seinfeld) does a take on a pool scene from The Graduate? Very clever.

But what is all Mrs. Robinson's anger about? She is really, really angry. Does she love Ben? What was he to her? Why is Elaine interested in him after she knows he slept with her mother? That might be a deal breaker for me.

And the last scene on the bus: Are they sorry they ran away with each other?

Any and all thoughts are welcome!

Mrs. Robinson's Neighborhood

2009-02-08T05:42:00.000-08:00

We watched The Graduate last night, which I don't think I'd ever seen in it's entirety before. I liked it--all that what-to-do-with-my-life-especially-now-that-I've-slept-with-someone's-mother angst ...until it dawned on me that I am roughly the same age as Mrs. Robinson. Yikes!!!

Old Woman Winter

2009-02-03T11:44:00.000-08:00

January kicked my butt. It was a long month. I limped to the end with aches and pains everywhere, feeling old and feeble. There were many reasons for this--husband working 80 hour weeks, family obligations, increased work load, etc--but I felt it more than usual this time. I felt OLD.

Monday night I dragged my tired, 40 year old butt to book group, grumbling to myself about my exhausting-never-feel-caught-up lot in life. I got a glass of wine and joined a group of women chatting before the book discussion got underway. One of the women had just returned to book group after being out of it for several months, so we had not met before. This particular group has been going for over six years, but I joined about six months ago.

Robin was catching the other members up on the status of her paraplegic husband who had undergone extensive surgery to put rods in his back a month ago. Except both rods had broken. She matter-of-factly explained that they were devastated by this turn of events because the rods were supposed to allow him greater stability. He had even lined up a series of interviews and the family was looking foward to a "normal" life. Now they were back to square one and the broken rods had damaged tissue and caused a massive infection. This woman was kind and warm and quietly noble.

I turned off the little violens and whimpering voices in my head. I am tired. My body is aging. I do feel overwhelmed. And I am so, so grateful.

Six more weeks? If only!

2009-02-02T03:59:00.001-08:00

I'm a big fan of Groundhog Day. I like to think that someone out there has some kind of answers, and it stands to reason that a creature who spends so much time underground would be tapped into some kind of earthy wisdom.

But this year, I don't really care if there are six more weeks of winter--winters here in Texas are not so bad. What I really need to know the groundhog can't tell me. I need reassurance and facts far beyond the weather. So, unless he is coming over to do a few loads of laundry or cook dinner or put a bunch of bankers in jail, I don't find him particularly helpful this year.

Happy Groundhog Day.

Superior Moments

2009-01-28T10:57:00.000-08:00

I'm a great aunt (no hyperbole, really)! Introducing my great nephew Levi, pictured here with his bevy of beautiful cousins. I remember the day Levi's mom, my niece Allison, was brought home from the hospital and she was so tiny my sister dressed her in a pink doll dress. I can clearly remember the first time she was put into my nine year old arms. Now she is a serene and amazing mom of this little guy. Kinda blows my mind!!

This is Littlest on her way to her first day in school!! We both survived.

My dear, dear blog friend Pseudonymous High School Teacher honored me with an award this week. The blog that originated this award, Scholastic Scribe, started on my 40th birthday (a random yet interesting fact).
I pass this on to a couple of Austin bloggers Rockzee and The Bean. (Not quite five, but two well deserving) They will find the rules here.

Career (Mis)Management Monday

2009-01-26T17:14:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is a big day for me, both professionally and as a mom. Professionally, I have reached the point where I feel competent enough in my freelance income generating ability to warrant sending littlest to school two days a week. This may not sound like a big deal, but trust me--it's HUGE. I have the income coming in to pay for her schooling and still help keep the family from teetering over the edge of financial ruin (barely). It feels pretty damn good.

As a mom, in eight years I have been away from my children rarely. There have been a few date nights, one school overnight trip when I was teaching and an afternoon of traded babysitting with a neighbor here and there. I don't say this to get my card punched in the Mommy Martyr Hall of Fame. It was quite deliberate on my part. I grew up with a mom who wasn't there for me, even when she was in the same room. I want to be there for my daughters and have probably gone a little too far in the other direction.

Tomorrow I will drop Littlest off and be child-free for seven hours. Ack! I will get tons of work done (after I cry my eyes out and throw-up). Wish me luck!

Fourth photo

2009-01-25T17:55:00.000-08:00

I saw this over at only a movie and thought it would be fun.

The rules of the game:

1. Go to the the 4th folder where you keep your pictures on your computer.

2. Post the 4th picture in the folder.

3. Explain the photo.

4. Tag 4 fellow bloggers to join in the fun!

So here is the fourth photo from my fourth photo folder and...it's not too exciting. This is Biggest's second Christmas. This is our first Christmas in our CT house (yes, that is the arm of a plastic chair that was an integral part of my living room furniture at the time). I think we cut that tree down ourselves. Wait, now I remember we got that tree at the locally owned nursery just down the road from us. We bought our first flowers for our gardens there in the summer. Biggest loved it because she could ride around in a little red wagon while we perused the rows and rows of plants outside. We came back and bought our tree from them and the owner had three teenage daughters who worked in the shop. I remember thinking maybe I would have three daughter and raise them in these Connecticut woods...

So now I tag pseudo, beth, kerfuffle and VM (she so loves to be tagged).

Friday Fiction

2009-01-23T09:32:00.000-08:00

Today's story is true, mostly. I was inspired by this how-I-met-my-husband story this week, so this is mine. I love how-we-met stories and would love to read some in the comments.

Have a great weekend!

It was October of 1994 and I was living in Austin, Texas. I was nearly done putting myself through college (took me almost eight years) and working as an assistant manager at an apartment complex in a somewhat undesirable neighborhood in East Austin. Gunshots were a regular Saturday night background noise.

One of my best friends from high school in Hawaii was living in Arlington, Texas and she tracked me down at work one Friday afternoon. After not seeing each other, or even talking, in years, I agreed to fly to Dallas the next weekend and then fly to New York for another high school friend's wedding. I had completely fallen off the radar in 1989 (we graduated in 1986) and it was only due to the diligence of Shannon and Darcie that I attended Darcie's wedding on October 29, 1994.

The wedding reception was actually in New Jersey and was my first experience with a big East Coast wedding. Nothing like the punch and cake in the church basement affairs that Baptists in Texas like to do. This was a grand affair with 300 guests, a live band, open bar, gigantic cake and huge dance floor. There was--no kidding--ice sculptures. Darcie looked like she walked right out of a bridal magazine.

There were several other high school friends there that night and one of them, Erinn, got it into her head that she needed to set me up. I was a serial dater, one overlapping the next, overlapping the next in a dizzying array of endless boyfriends. I needed a therapist not a matchmaker.

But Erinn was determined that Darcie's college buddy, Rob, was perfect for me. I can't say it was love at first sight (he says it was), but I knew my life would never be the same after that night. He says it was because I loved baseball, but I suspect his initial attraction had to do with the tight green dress and long blond hair. For me, it was his quiet humor, impossibly long eyelashes and nearly poetic talk about baseball. He was a solid rock and I was a meandering, raging river.

We danced (torture for him) we chatted about baseball, and had a very chaste kiss at the end of the night. The next day I boarded a plane back to Texas and he went back to his NYC apartment and bank job.

Nine months later, I packed up my green pick up truck with all my worldly possession and moved across the country to live with Rob and attend graduate school. We are almost 15 years down stream and the water now meanders calmly past this still solid rock. (trust me, there has been plenty churning, choppy, white-water rafting worthy currents through the years)

This Day

2009-01-20T04:54:00.000-08:00

Dear Grumpy, supposedly-apolitical, never-voted-til-you-met-me, Husband:

Yes, I will be watching the Inauguration ALL DAY today. Every last second. Every minute of the no-detail-too-trivial coverage will be devoured by me today. Bring on the inane conversations of Meredith, Matt and Chuck.

Yes, there is a huge amount of tax-payer money being spent today. The security costs alone are staggering. Unlike all the other pomp and ceremonies that I usually decry (does Hollywood really need five million award shows? Isn't being adored and overpaid award enough?) I don't think today is a "huge waste of money." I don't think in these terrible economic times it is "irresponsible to have a huge celebration." Not today.

Today is all about celebrating. This day is worth every extravagant penny. This day, for this man and his smart wife and his amazing brain, is a day worth noting with a ginormous ceremony. These are tough times and the problems facing this man tomorrow are so, so huge. He deserves a party today.

The t.v. did come on at 7 a.m. this morning and it will stay on all day. I will endure Littlest's whining to watch something else. I thought about keeping Biggest and Middlest home today to experience this day together. But I decided sitting in a public school classroom and sharing this day with their classmates and terrific public school teachers is the perfect way to honor the historical significance of this day.

I saw you, you know. I saw you sitting on the couch after I came back from walking the dog. I saw you watching the coverage. And though you were complaining about all the "social talk and what Michelle is wearing bullshit" I saw the discreet wipe of a tear.

Don't worry, your secret is safe with me. I won't tell anyone that there is a little bit of Meathead lurking under that Archie Bunker exterior.

Love,
Your adoring wife

One word says it all

2009-01-19T05:09:00.001-08:00

Tomorrow!

Friday Fiction

2009-01-14T12:30:00.000-08:00

This is an excerpt from a short story that is based on a novel chapter (did you get that?). I started writing a novel two years ago with another woman. Since moving to Texas our project has been on hold, but I did write this short story based on the main character from the untitled novel (did you get that?).

The whole story can be read here (though I will in no way be offended if your reading time doesn't allow for such extravagance). I started another blog called Writing from Mile 17 where I will post completed work for marketing and archive purposes.

Uninvited

The cello sat a seat apart from me in the waiting room, like a stranger. I avoided looking at it, but I couldn’t risk not taking it everywhere I went. Mostly I tried ignoring its mocking existence. It wasn’t the cello’s fault. Too many hours of playing to an empty room had frayed the edges of our long relationship. I didn’t exactly blame myself, either. There was the pregnancy to consider, but that was more an afterthought, my swollen belly now filling the quiet, empty space in front of me. No, I blamed Texas.

“Amelia? It really is you.” Ellen smiled at me warmly from the door of her office and I felt myself unhinge a little at the sight of her familiar curly red hair and big gypsy earrings.

“More of me than you might have expected,” I said with a laugh as I hoisted my bulk up to hug her. I wanted to fall sobbing into her capable arms. I wanted to apologize for not coming back after I got married.

Ellen picked up the black leather cello case and gingerly carried it into her office as she asked, “When are you due?”

“Six weeks,” I answered as I settled into the familiar softness of the pumpkin-colored chair. I looked around her office, relieved to find nothing had changed in my absence. The immense oak shelves that rose up one wall were still packed with a jumble of books, framed black and white photos, and goddess sculptures.

The thought of coming here had been a life-line, a little thread of sanity to hold onto in my quickly unraveling existence. The minute my plane from DFW came to a stop on the tarmac at Bradley International Airport, I had called my former therapist from my cell phone.

“So, you’re only here for a week to visit your sister?” Ellen shuffled through some papers on her desk. “And then you’re going to stay with your parents in San Francisco?” Even the consummate professional Ellen couldn’t hide the disbelief in her voice.

I let out a little sigh as I smiled and nodded my head. “Yep. I’m going to have the baby there.”

“Do you know if you’re having a boy or a girl?” Ellen asked as she made a copy of my new insurance card.

“A girl, but please don’t ask about the name. That could be a whole other therapy session.” I waved the thought away with a swollen hand.

“Okay.” Ellen settled into the chair across from me, curling her legs under her. “Moving back in with your parents can be a big deal.”

“I’m completely freaked out.”

“Why don’t you tell me the essentials so we can get the most done here today. So you can feel a little bit better about what’s ahead of you.”

“Okay. Where to start?” I shook my head and laughed. “Four months after the wedding we moved to Texas. It was a good career move for Jeremy, a promotion.”

It seemed clear-cut and logical at the time. I was willing to leave behind my carefully crafted life in Connecticut for my new husband. Moving was unremarkable to me. I had traveled all over the world with my parents and lived in five different cities growing up. Jeremy, on the other hand, had never been west of the Mississippi before meeting me. His parents still lived in the West Hartford house they bought in 1963. This move was supposed to be tough on Jeremy, so I packed my boxes with a smile. For Jeremy, who was expected to find Plano, Texas an unfamiliar and unlikable land, I played my last performance as third cellist in the Hartford Symphony Orchestra with serenity about the road that lay ahead.

But I was the one who landed on the surface of the moon. I found the blond-streaked, born-again, never-leave-the-house-without-makeup creatures I landed amidst completely alien to me. It was Jeremy who loved the weather, bought cowboy boots and joined a softball team the second week there.

“I didn’t like Texas,” I said. “And then my house burned down. Completely to the ground, burned down.”

“Oh my God.” Ellen sat straight up.

“Let me correct that. Someone burned my house down,” I said.

“Okay, that sounds like a good place start,” she said. “What happened?”

Elizabeth and the guy next door, Part 2

2009-01-14T11:38:00.000-08:00

I first talked about the happy couple next door awhile back. Last week I noticed guy-next-door standing outside while Elizabeth's car was being towed away and I had two thoughts at the same time: 1. I thought (logically) that he had killed her and was getting rid of the evidence. 2. He had figured out how to get her back for locking him out all the time.

It has been pretty quiet lately next door, which had given me hope for them. This was until I realized that they had only moved their fights into the bedroom. I discovered this when my husband pointed out the muffled noises I thought was the television downstairs was actually the couple next door fighting. "Don't you hear them? They do this every night. Your sense of sound is way off," my husband said with annoyance in his voice. I didn't know people had a "sense of sound" and was so pleased to be able to add something else to the list of things that seems to be going on my aging body.

Then yesterday I nearly drove up on the sidewalk in the parking lot. No, my "sense of parking" is not going, too. Guy-next-door's car was covered in "just married" graffiti. Can you believe it???!!!

Trails of Thought

2009-01-12T04:13:00.000-08:00

Career (Mis)Management Monday

To me running and writing have so much in common. They are both solitary, meditative pursuits that are never truly finished. I could always write more, or better, or write more and better more often. I could always run farther or faster or more often. The piece or the race are never truly finished, even after the piece is published and the race is done. I'm fine with this. These are still worthy--actually essential--pursuits to me despite their obvious flaws.

I became a runner on the trails around Town Lake in Austin. It is the kind of place that inspires many runners. Truth be told, I became a runner in third grade when I beat the fastest girl in class, Megan Straun, on Field Day. I'm not sure which one of us was more shocked that day. Third grade was an awful year for me. I had a mean teacher and a crazy mother and older sisters that got married and left for college. I was a mess that year, but the day of the race I was triumphant. That day running became something that could save me. Later writing would also become a saving grace.

After I moved east, I ran on the aqueduct trails along the Hudson in Tarrytown, NY. That is where my husband proposed to me. After we moved to the cute little town in Connecticut, there were no running trails. I think my unhappiness there had a little to do with that fact.

Although I am back in Austin, running around the trails of Town Lake is not convenient to where we live or the fact that I travel with a large posse of little girls. But there is a whole odd little network of rocky trails behind our apartment complex. Almost everyday I head out with the dog and run through cactus groves and dry creek beds.

Trails are good for the soul and good for my writing. Yesterday I went out by myself--no dog, no posse--for an hour. In that time I was able to come up with my next three article ideas, yet "clear my mind" at the same time. It is hard to explain what it feels like, but I have a feeling readers here will know exactly what I mean.

Middlest and Biggest on the trail.

The amazing view of downtown Austin from one point on the trail.

Friday fiction

2009-01-09T04:31:00.000-08:00

This is hopefully going to be a regular gig on Fridays. I started this blog as a creative outlet (but of course it has gone in many different surprising directions). I have a slew of old and new short stories, plus a completed novel and a novel in progress. I hope to work out some of the kinks here on Fridays and mainly just keep myself writing fiction. At some point I will create a place where whole works can be accessed, but for now it's just bits and pieces here. I am going to hook up with a fellow Austinite that I met in the blog world to keep each other writing. Someday maybe I will actually send these things somewhere...

This is part of a piece that is not finished and I have no idea yet where this passage fits into the scheme of things. It is called "Slow Leak" and is based on an experience I had with my dad six months after moving back to Texas. My father's strange, sudden illness was the impetus for the story, but it is no longer his story. It is I think what many people go through with their parents. By the way, one of the best short stories I ever read to speak to the personal that is so universal is "People like that are the only people here" by Lorrie Moore.

An excerpt from "Slow Leak":
She was condescending. The disheveled, bewildered man in the hospital bed was a pale version of a man she knew. She was an unrecognizable, annoying version of a person she knew, too. She was watching from a tiny corner of the hospital room, watching this other version of herself. This other person was confident and concise and repeated herself often. "Dad, you understand that the doctor said you can't drive until you see your regular physician?" Everything took the form of a question.

Later, "Dad, you understand that the doctor knows what it wasn't--it wasn't a seizure and it wasn't a heart attack--but she doesn't know what it was." Dad would wearily nod his head. Was she making him more tired?

What she really wanted to say was, "Dad, I don't understand what is happening. Do you?" She had waited with a logical anticipation tucked into a far corner of her brain for something like this to happen, but she was utterly undone now that it had. He was 79 years old, She was 40. How did any of this happen? She could almost hear the hiss as he was completely deflated by this unexpected and unexplainable illness.

But is was a seizure, probably, said the second and third doctors with opinions. He will need a full neurological work-up. As she looked back on it all, all five days leading to this one, she felt like life had been moving in slow motion. The air felt heavy, her actions and words too surreal to carry the weight of this reality. Why didn't we ask for an MRI the first morning in the hospital? Why did we greedily eat up the less serious diagnosis?

Not today

2009-01-06T04:31:00.000-08:00

Things I will NOT do today:

Cry when when Biggest and Middlest go back to school, leaving me alone with Littlest
Dance for joy when Biggest and Middlest go back to school, leaving me alone with Littlest
Let Littlest win every Battle of the Wills
Make everything with Littlest into a Battle of the Wills
Feel like a loser for losing every Battle of the Wills
Procrastinate on my lesson plan writing
Procrastinate on my article due Thursday (come on, it's due Thursday, today is only Tuesday)
Consider writing this list as a form of procrastination
Wonder aimlessly around this small apartment
Have a bad day

Career (Mis)Management Monday

2009-01-05T10:39:00.000-08:00

Today was back to work for most people. My husband left this morning saying, "See you in February." He's hilarious.

The problem of working from home is that you are always at work. I did, however, take Christmas Eve and Christmas Day off. I am ready to be back into the routine of school days, etc. I like routines.

I think my blog needs a routine, so I will be having some regular features. My professional goal this year continues to be getting some more freelance clients. But I'm fiction writer, too. Getting fiction published for me is akin to winning the lottery, especially if you never buy a ticket.

Any other fiction writers out there? Any who dream of writing fiction? Should we start a fiction challenge? Let me know if anyone is up to the task and I will dream up a little not-really-a-contest for us.

To blog or not to blog?

2009-01-03T13:08:00.001-08:00

That's not really the question--I think I'm hooked now. I guess the question really is WHEN to blog. How does one find time to write posts and visit other blogs? Really, I'm asking.

Michael Kinsley had this great quote about blogs in his Time magazine column a while back: "The great thing about blogs, in my view, ...It's a totally new literary form, which, at its best, combines the immediacy of talking with the reflectiveness of writing. But many readers may be reaching the point with blogs that I reached long ago with the Sunday New York Times Magazine--actively hoping there isn't anything interesting in there because then I'll have to take the time to read it."

I know exactly what he means.

I've come up with a little plan of some regular themes. But at least once a week I feel like I'm neglecting the blog world (okay, once a day). So all the bloggers that I admire who combine full-time jobs and more than full-time families--how do you balance the blog world??!!

What did you say?

2009-01-02T05:06:00.001-08:00

Me: What is your new (stuffed) doggie's name?

Littlest: Shitty.

Me: Speechless.

Me: What's his name?

Littlest (in voice used for the mentally lacking): HER name is SHOULD-Y.

Me (relieved) Oh, Shouldy. Nice name.

Littlest (walking away): Come on, Shitty! Come on, girl!

Next Day

Littlest: My puppy's name is actually Shitty Swampa, but I just call her Swampa. Come on, Swampa!

Me: Speechless, again.

By the way, the kind and encouraging words about my last post were deeply appreciated.

Bad Things Happen: A story of hope

2008-12-31T09:55:00.000-08:00

I was thinking about a blog post to close out the year while I was vacuuming just now and these thoughts came to me. ( I have lots of deep thoughts while vacuuming, showering and running):

Bad things happen all the time, from the minor to the unimaginable. It is what we do with the bad things that happen to us and to the people we love that truly defines us. For a long, long time I thought I was a bad person because of something that happened to me when I was 12. I did bad things in return. I was reckless and thoughtless and wrecked havoc on nice people. This went on for a very long time. Some of it was just normal teenage angst, some of it was the uncertainty we all experience in our youth.

Most of it was something I kept so hidden down inside that I didn't even know it was destroying me from the inside out. I did good things, too. I became a teacher. I married (after much drama) an amazing man. I became a mother.

I sought balance, but the darkness always seemed to win. I thought when I finally recognized the source of the darkness in my early 30's it would go away. It did diminish, but the magic transformation I had hoped for never came.

Then I lost hope for awhile. Two years ago I reached a crisis point. I thought I kept it hidden. I believed my secret sorrow could be contained, but I paid the price in lost friendships, sleepless nights and an unhappy home. I told no one what I was feeling inside as I helplessly watched my life crumble around me. I knew all too well the profound effect a mentally ill mother can have on her daughters, but I felt powerless to do anything about it.

I knew I was sick inside and I finally went to my doctor in September of 2005. In a tearful appointment I shared everything with her, my darkest thoughts and darkest moments. After hugging me and reassuring me, she put me on the path to healing. I was diagnosed, and I received medication and counseling.

I told my husband everything. I picked up the unraveled threads of my life one by one and began to weave them back together, striving to make a fabric stronger and more beautiful than before. Perhaps one of the most profound things to have back was the feeling of hope. I am able to feel hope and happiness in ways I never could before.

This is not to say that little colorful birds land on my fingers as I go through life singing a happy little song. Life is labor intensive and a good deal of that work is unpleasant. I try to keep the complaining down to a minimum.

I think I am the mother of three girls for a reason. Bad things do happen, but I can strive to protect them. I can stand by their side when sad things happen and help them pick up the pieces. I can teach them how to be a good friend and a good sister. I can show them how to be a good person, self-reliant, kind, curious, empathetic. I can't hand them happiness, but I can give them hope.

I know that as this year ends I am looking forward to the next presidency with the kind of hope that gives me butterflies in my stomach. Bad things have happened to our country and to us as individuals, but I am very hopeful about the future.

Flat Stanley must die

2008-12-27T12:57:00.000-08:00

I suspect many of you are familiar with Flat Stanley. For those of you who are not, check out the Flat Stanley book series. He seems like a sweet boy, after all how difficult can a one dimensional child be? Last February my niece sent us Flat Stanley from her school in Marblehead, MA. And he spent a weekend with us. My husband took having Flat Stanley as a guest VERY SERIOUSLY.

We all headed out for a fun time in Austin that fateful February day. We did it all: The Nature Center, the Children's Muesum, Zilker Park, Rudy's Barbeque, downtown, a walk around Town Lake and the Capital. Rather I should say, the girls and I did all of these things while my husband posed Stanley and took endless pictures (these are just a FEW).
As the day went on and on and on and Hubby and Stanley dragged us from one place to another, there were tears and tantrums (and my daughters were upset, too).

I don't usually mind one dimensional children. I usually find them much easier to handle than the real children that I have. But my husband works 60 hours a week and a day spent with us is a special thing. I resented the hell out of all the attention Flat Stanely got that weekend. While I took the girls by myself to the Children's Muesem (which on a Saturday is akin to visiting one of the lower levels of hell) Hubby took Stanley on a photo shoot. I hated that Stanley.

Stanley's day with us was made into a Powerpoint presentation that earned our niece big points with her teacher. I happily shoved Stanley's flat ass into an envelope and hoped that was the end of it.

Then December 22 we received a large envelope from our nephew and lo and behold it was Flat Stanley. Guess who spent Christmas Eve with us!
Yes, Stanley went with us on our family hike and to see Madagascar 2. It was a very special day. These are just a FEW of the pictures.

So today, Saturday, while my husband was at work. I had a little Flat Stanley photo shoot of my own. Enjoy!!

Pretty packages

2008-12-23T12:46:00.000-08:00

Pseudonymous High School Teacher has a bitter sweet post about Christmases past, which got me thinking (oh, boy). She also references this memory from her childhood, which is one of my all time favorite post of anyone anywhere.

I have good Christmas memories. I grew up in an incredible old house that was both our home and my parents' ministry (I'll have to explain all that some other time). It was a mansion built during the Colorado Gold Rush and it had a grand living room with fireplaces at each end and a chandelier (a small ballroom in its heyday). My parents would set the tree near the center of the room and hang the stockings from the one of fireplaces.

Hanging on my tree now in our modest living room are many of the decorations my mother made by hand. She made our stocking, too. She had six kids, a full-time ministry out of her home and yet our house was decked out from top to bottom with homemade candle holders and greenery on every windowsill (twenty-six rooms adds up to a lot of windows).

Christmas morning we would wake up to a million presents beautifully wrapped under the tree. Each present had color coordinated fabric ribbons for each child that my mom used year after year. I still have some of the ribbon that was expertly tied around my gifts each year. It was stunning really.

There wasn't always much inside the packages, after all my parents were ministers with six kids. In fact, there are only two Christmases in which I can actually remember a gift. One was the Christmas of 1976 that we spent away from home and I got a Jody doll with her country kitchen--very extravagant gift. The other was the Christmas my older brother worked for a toy store and I got a huge doll house and a big stuffed dog. Both of which had to be returned because it turned out that he stole them from the toy store and my parents couldn't (or wouldn't) pay for them.

Pretty packages without much inside is very much my mother. For a long time I was bitter about the substance lacking in the beauty. But I guess now I just enjoy the beautiful memories. Perhaps that was her gift.

By the numbers

2008-12-21T07:02:00.000-08:00

The raw data is not good.

445 days our house was on the market (we have now let the contract expire while we search for a new realtor.
$xxx,xxx spent in mortgage payments, upkeep, renovations on the house in CT plus the amount paid in rent in TX (yes, that is six figures)
429 days since I slept in my own bed, cooked with my own pots and pans, used my Kitchenaid mixer (my one extravagant kitchen appliance, a gift from my in-laws, that I miss now that it is cookie baking time), my daughters played with their toys, rode their bikes, called somewhere "my house", knew where I would be living a year from now--all these things are exactly where I left them 429 days ago.
every day I have the job-here-house-there debate in my head and sometimes out loud with my husband. A job-here is no small feat these days.
3 sisters I have living within 40 miles of me, along with their spouses, children I've known since birth, pets, annoying habits, and perfect understanding of who I am
2 parents who I vowed to never live near again who are now 30 minutes away, who I often can't stand to be in the same room with, but am so glad I have the luxury to be annoyed by them on a regular basis.
2 nieces, one who is expecting her first child, who is brave and beautiful and wise (and reads my blog:) and the other who is eleven and plays with her little cousins despite the fact that they know nothing about MySpace or textmessaging or fashion trends.
3 daughters who have their mother back after she nearly lost her way in the woods of postpartum depression and regret and sorrow, but has found her way back to them through this strange, wonderful time of limbo and uncertainty. The numbers aren't good, but it is what can't be quantified that is the most valuable.
1 husband who, despite his gruff exterior, loved his wife enough to know she needed to be saved at any cost.
0 regrets about moving.

The Power of the Kindergarten Teacher

2008-12-16T17:30:00.000-08:00

My middlest, who is in kindergarten, was very excited to tell me that she could spell our last name.

"Let's hear it!" I said.

"G-r-e-i-s-m-e-r" she recited.

"Wait, honey. It's i-e, not e-i," I corrected her.

"That's not how Ms. Reed spells it."

"Well, Ms. Reed is spelling it incorrectly and you should let her know that."

Great look of doubt furrowing her little brow. "I don't think so."

"You can't tell her? Do you want me to mention it to her?"

"No, it's not that. She's the teacher, Mom. I don't think she could be wrong."

Ah, the power of the kindergarten teacher.

Movie Star 40

2008-12-16T04:05:00.000-08:00

The weather has turned colder here. It was near 80 degrees Sunday (I had on shorts), but the car thermometer read 37 degrees yesterday at noon. I don't mind the cold weather, but my skin and hair get a little freaked out by the crazy ups and downs.

Seeing my confused skin and hair in the mirror yesterday made me think about age. Maybe it's not the weather, maybe I look like this because I'm getting older.

I don't feel any age. I am 40 years old, but I don't know what 40 is supposed to look like. There is movie star 40, and then there is real people 40.

My mother, who turns 75 this month, still looks to me like the mother of my childhood. This is of course not possible, but yet it is. Her hair is essentially the same; she dresses essentially the same way. In my mind there is little difference from mom in her 40's and mom in her 70's, which is either a huge compliment or a huge insult. Or both.

I wonder how I look to my own children? They are young, so to them I just look like mom. But soon, sadly, looks will start to matter to them. They are girls and being critical of their mother and themselves will soon be their job. I want them to have a better job.

I may not look movie star 40, but that just doesn't matter in the scheme of things.

Elizabeth and the guy next door, a love story (sort of )

2008-12-14T12:47:00.000-08:00

As I've mentioned before, we live in an apartment while we wait for our house to sell (or the end of the world, whichever comes first). Apartment life has its perks:

A swimming pool just steps away, as it is summer here 8 months of the year
No yard upkeep
Less space to clean

Of course it has its downsides, like very close proximity to neighbors. A few months ago, a couple of non-descript guys with lots of computer equipment moved in next door. I couldn't pick them out of line up if my life depended on it. The odd thing about apartment life is you rarely see or talk to the people who live just a mere wall away from you.

About a month ago, while my husband was out of town I heard a loud banging in the hall. This is how it went:

Bang! Bang! Elizabeth let me in!
Silence
Bang! Bang! Bang! Elizabeth this is my apartment. (this time said in a normal, very rational voice) You have your own apartment. Please leave mine.
Silence
Silence
Door opens and then slams shut. The rest is heard through the wall.
Loud rational voice: Elizabeth, get out. Go home, Elizabeth.
Muffled weeping, then: Get off me!!! Get off me!!! You are hurting me!
Loud rational voice: I'm not touching you, Elizabeth. I am walking to the kitchen. I have no desire to touch you.
Loud, heartbreaking weeping, then: You don't love me!! You don't love me!!
More heart rendering weeping. Then the rest of the conversation is muffled. Even with my ears pressed to the wall I couldn't make out what they were saying.
Consider calling police, but it is quiet for the rest of the night. I make it my mission to see this Elizabeth person in the flesh, which I do the next day. No visible bruises.

A week later.

Heard around 9 p.m. in the hallway: Elizabeth, please open the door or give me my cell phone. (normal rational voice)
Silence
Loud, rational voice: Give me my cell phone!!!!!
Silence
Normal, rational voice: Elizabeth, I need my cell phone.
Door opens and quickly slams shut.
Loud, sarcastic voice: Thanks alot!

Then this week:

Loud voices next door, including Elizabeth shouting: I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!!
Silence
A few minutes later as husband takes dog out, I get a fleeting look of Elizabeth and guy next door walking past arm-in-arm, their laughter carrying down the hall on a warm, crazy breeze.

Stay tuned...

Life with a three year old

2008-12-09T17:26:00.000-08:00

1) This is my littlest as I often see her. She is stubborn and has no problem simply saying no to absolutly everything I ask her to do.

2) It takes great concentration to do stuff when you are three. She is one for deep funny thoughts, like during potty training she was convinced that she had to push her belly button to make the poop come out. Interesting concept that she was very surprised to have proved wrong. Like her dad, she is rarely wrong.

3) She is super great at putting on make-up. Does it every day.

4) She looks nothing like me. She has a little swimmers body like her dad. I marvel at the unfamiliarity of her face as there is no glimmer of myself in her features. I marvel at the strange wonder of spending my day with a tiny female version of my husband. Motherhood is weird in so many ways.

5) Like her dad, she parties 'til she drops.

Helping Hands Project

2008-12-08T19:29:00.000-08:00

I've been inspired this season to do something in the department of giving/helping.

The source of my inspiration was Pseudonymous High School Teacher, who actually inspires me in many ways beyond this project.

My sister runs the chaplaincy program at a hospital here in Austin and part of her duties this time of year is coordinating the Angel Tree. Families connected with the hospital in some way are nominated for the tree, usually resulting in 60-70 angels on the tree. This year there are 150 angels in need.

My daughters and I are helping my sister make purchases for two of the families. But I wanted my daughters to know that helping is more than spending money. I wanted them to literally help with their hands. So on December 17 when all the Angel gifts are due, my daughters and I are going to help my sister sort through everything and get it packaged for each family.

But this didn't feel like enough. This past year my own family has had trouble making ends meet with still owning (and paying for) a house in Connecticut while we live in Texas. Truth be told, if it was just up to us, scraping together a festive turkey dinner on Christmas day would be tough. Fortunately I am so blessed to have family, lots of family in the area. That is why we moved to Texas. With all of us chipping in we will have an abundant Christmas.

So I've come up with this crazy idea that involves buying lots of turkeys the day after Thanksgiving. But I'll explain that one another time.

And now for the Helping Hands Project, where my inspiration got her inspiration:

In the spirit of the season, Thistle at Of Thistles and Maple Leaves has started a project on her blog that challenges readers in the blogosphere to “help out your own community in some small way. It can be your personal community, or it can be the global community. It can be either a big gesture, or a small one. Just do something. Anything. And encourage others to do the same. “

The Rules:

1. Choose some way to give back.

2. Tell us all about it; post it on your blog. Then come back and pick up your award. Choose one badge or the other, or both if you’re really in the spirit. And don’t forget to link back to thistles helping hands page so we can follow what everyone is doing. And if you’re doing something already, pick up your badge right this minute!

3. Challenge all visitors to your site to do the same. Link back to the blog where you received the idea. And let’s see where this can go; let’s create a tsunami of good will and good deeds.

(whew, I worked a list into the post)

Pearl Harbor Day

2008-12-07T06:26:00.000-08:00

A list about Hawaii

I lived in Hawaii from 1983-1989 and went to high school there.
The last time I was on the island of Oahu was 1996.
Hawaii is a part of me like a faint scar that brings back a happy memory.
From our house in Manoa Valley we could see Diamond Head in the distance.

I moved to Hawaii after living the first nearly 15 years of my life in Colorado. Culture shock is an understatement.

This was the view from my locker in an outside hallway at my high school. Yep, all halls and lockers were outside.

It might sound strange, but moving to Hawaii was something I absolutely did not want to do. I was excited about high school in Colorado; had the same friends since kindergarten. It was tough sometimes, but ended up impacting my life in amazing ways. In Hawaii I met a girl named Darcie, who went to college in Boston. My good friend Darcie made a friend in college named Rob, who I met at her wedding in New Jersey. I married Rob ten years ago. So, for that reason alone the move to Hawaii was worth it.

Of course, there are many other reasons it is a special place to me, and surprisingly few of them have to do with the beach. But that is another list...

A List About Lists

2008-12-04T21:45:00.000-08:00

I have decided to make every post in December a list. I was partly inspired by a very funny list about blog post ideas over at Idiot's Stew this week. I was once a chronic lister, until one of my writing professors suggested that perhaps I used lists as a way to procrastinate and not do any real writing. I had no idea what she was talking about, but I did stop making lists. Until this month. And what better month to celebrate lists than December? This month is all about lists! Gift lists--Who-is-naughty-or-nice list--shopping list--resolutions--the list goes on!

So here is my list about why I used to like to write lists:

Lists are a good way to get the day started and focused.
Lists are a good way to pretend you are getting the day started and focused.
Lists make you feel productive when you cross the first two things off your list, such as write list (check) and eat breakfast (check).
Lists are a good way to confess that I still write lists.
I have a grocery list that I keep on the computer, updated with prices.
Lists are good way of not wandering aimlessly around the grocery store.
Computerized grocery lists with updated prices are a good way to show the world the terrifying depths of your neurosis.

So, let me know if there are any particular kind of lists you want to see this month!

Topping the charts

2008-12-04T10:36:00.000-08:00

If my daughters should ever choose to form a girl band, they already have written songs for a chart topping album release:
You betcha, no boys allowed (written by Biggest long before the 2008 Republican presidential ticket)

The Princess in the Sea (written by Middlest in the form of an opera)

Doggy, doggy, woo! (written by Littlest)

Welcome to the show, have fun. (written by Littlest)

Slow down, freak out, Boogernose (written by Littlest)

Boogers taste good (written by Littlest, boogers are a big part of her life)

(okay, when I say "written" I really mean made up. Usually while sitting in the car, usually causing me either to crack up or yell at them to be quiet depending on their noise level and my hormone level)

Someday you will stand where I am standing

2008-12-03T04:10:00.000-08:00

My list of thoughts for the checkout girl at HEB (Texas grocery store chain) yesterday:

I see the way you are looking at me with that combination of doubt, scorn and boredom neatly arranged on the taunt skin of your face; conveyed succinctly through the tireless popping of your bright blue chewing gum.

Someday you will love a man (maybe you even know him now). You will build a life together. You will discover that love and hate are not opposites, but are intricately intertwined like the brush strokes of an impressionist painting. From a distance it looks seamless, but up close you see all the hard work that goes into love.

Someday you will wonder what happened to the person you thought you would become. You will remember that you had dreams and ambitions. You used to do things.

It may take some time, but you will discover that this person—this tired, faded person with nubbly legs and a style-less ponytail—is more than you could imagine. You will discover that there are no words, no youthful context for the wondrous unseen parts of your life.

There will be moments in your future that you will carry in your spine: the birth of your first child; the easier birth of your second and third child; the miscarriages. These moments will make you stronger, stand a little taller.

Your mother-in-law will despise you for reasons that are unclear and perhaps complicated. She will always be nice to your face, thus making her contempt both bearable and insidious.

You will come to love and forgive your own mother in new and unexpected ways.

Your children will be the very best and absolute worst moments of the rest of your life.

Someday you too will accept defeat in the battle against age. You will surrender to the absolute inevitability of sagging, wrinkled skin. You won't wear make-up to the grocery store.

In your mind’s eye, you will still be the young woman that you liked the best. And no one, no amount of doubt, scorn or boredom can ever take that away from you.

Green thoughts

2008-12-02T04:50:00.001-08:00

I think I'm going with lists this week. Today's list is from an article I did yesterday. Think green, people!

A quick tour through the internet to websites like Earth911.com, about.com and Yahoo Green can garner plenty of information about the consumer impact on the environment. Here are some less than festive facts:

Americans use over 380 billion plastic (polyethylene) bags per year.
Americans throw away approximately 100 billion polyethylene bags per year.
It takes 1000 years for polyethylene bags to break down.
Plastic bags do not biodegrade, they photodegrade, which means they slowly break down into smaller and smaller bits that can contaminate soil and waterways.
In 2007, the amount of paper recovered for recycling averaged 360 pounds for every person in the United States.
Each American sends about 300 pounds of packaging to the landfill every year.
Each year, Americans throw out almost 180,000 tons of batteries.
Batteries are comprised of heavy metals, which include nickel cadmium, alkaline, mercury, nickel metal hydride and lead acid. These can threaten our environment if not properly discarded or handled.
Many toys are made with Polyvinyl Chloride, or PVC #3 plastic, which is often difficult to recycle.

So here are my green tips that with a little less fuss this season you can be good to the environment and your bottom line:

Make a list of everyone you plan to give gifts to this season.
Set a budget and a time frame for holiday spending. Knowing exactly how much you can spend and that you will have it all done by a certain date can cut down on the stress of the season.
Look at the sales fliers in the paper and search websites for the best prices. Make a plan of what you can buy online and what can be purchased in one-stop shopping trips to the mall or shopping centers.
Make a budget for special holiday cooking and make lists of what you’ll need. The key to making this work is sticking to the budget and following your list.
Take reusable cloth shopping bags wherever you go.
Recycling doesn’t just have to mean your plastic, glass and paper. Try shopping children’s resale shops for toys and games. Often you can find barely used or even brand new items. It can also be a good way to make a little extra money, too, by recycling gently used toys, games and clothes.
Consider that perhaps a special outing can be more meaningful than a present and is certainly something that comes with less packaging.
Be creative with gift wrapping by using cloth bags, hand decorated paper bags for wrapping paper, or even make part of the gift the wrapping.
Batteries can be a safety hazard as well as an environmental hazard. It might be a good idea for the well being of your little one to skip the loud electronic toy (It may be good for your well being, too).
When it comes to the must-have electronics for older kids, try to use rechargeable batteries.
Turn decorative lights off during the day and at bedtime to save energy.
After the holidays, recycle your Christmas tree. Usually they use the trees for mulch, so your holiday spirit is recycled into the New Year.

Brain full of turkey

2008-11-30T19:54:00.000-08:00

I stole this from my newest blog find only a movie. The ones in bold are the ones you've done (the comments in parenthesis are my own doing). It was interesting. I obviously have never traveled outside of this country! Gotta fix that someday.

Happy December!

1. Started your own blog
2. Slept under the stars
3. Played in a band
4. Visited Hawaii (went to HS there)
5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more than you can afford to charity
7. Been to Disneyland
8. Climbed a mountain(Pike's Peak!)
9. Held a praying mantis
10. Sang a solo
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea
14. Taught yourself an art from scratch
15. Adopted a child
16. Had food poisoning
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty
18. Grown your own vegetables(more fun than it sounds)
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. Slept on an overnight train
21. Had a pillow fight
22. Hitch hiked(with my mom while my dad stayed with the broken down vehicle--what were they thinking?!!)
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb
26. Gone skinny dipping
27. Run a Marathon
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice
29. Seen a total eclipse
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset(every chance I get)
31. Hit a home run
32. Been on a cruise(w/ my parents when I was 19--talk about trapped at sea...)
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors
35. Seen an Amish community
36. Taught yourself a new language
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person
39. Gone rock climbing
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David
41. Sung karaoke
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt.
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant
44. Visited Africa
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight
46. Been transported in an ambulance
47. Had your portrait painted
48. Gone deep sea fishing
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. Kissed in the rain
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in theater
55. Been in a movie(it was a documentary about my family for the Southern Baptist Convention--don't ask)
56. Visited the Great Wall of China
57. Started a business
58. Taken a martial arts class
59. Visited Russia
60. Served at a soup kitchen
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies
62. Gone whale watching
63. Got flowers for no reason
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma(and then passed out)
65. Gone sky diving
66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp
67. Bounced a check
68. Flown in a helicopter
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy
70. Seen the Lincoln Memorial in person
71. Eaten Caviar
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in Times Square
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Been fired from a job
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London
77. Broken a bone
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person
80. Published a book
81. Visited the Vatican
82. Bought a brand new car
83. Walked in Jerusalem
84. Had your picture in the newspaper
85. Read the entire Bible(in one swoop,no--in my previous lifetime of sunday school, yes)
86. visited the White House
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
88. Had chickenpox
89. Saved someone’s life
90. Sat on a jury
91. Met someone famous
92. Joined a book club
93. Lost a loved one
94. Had a baby
95. Seen the Alamo in person
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake
97. Been involved in a law suit
98. Owned a cell phone
99. Been stung by a bee
100. Totally copied a post from someone else's blog to your own

Career (Mis)Management Monday

2008-11-24T04:36:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking about time a lot lately. The irony is that now that I am paid to write, I never have time to write. I don't have time to write my blog, or short stories, essays or get back to work on those novels. Don't get me wrong, I am GRATEFUL that someone is paying me to sit in my dining room while my littlest runs to the potty every five minutes (before I couldn't get her on the thing, now I can't get her off it).

All this gets me thinking about balance. How do you balance it all? This past Friday littlest fell asleep on the couch while I pecked away at the laptop. She stirred a little after 45 minutes and I went to sit on the couch and hug her as she woke up. Except she wasn't waking up, just snuggling up for more of a nap in mom's lap. As she fell back to sleep, my mind ran through all the millions of things I could be doing while she sleeps: working, updating my blog, loading the dishwasher, folding the laundry.

Her head laid in my lap and her fingers were curled around my wrist and for the first time in a long time I just looked. I looked at those still tiny little fingers and I didn't think about whether her nails needed to be trimmed. Her feet flexed in her sleep and I watched those little jellybean toes as they curled and uncurled. I pondered those impossibly long eyelashes.

I listened to her breathing and once I got to hear a contented little sigh. I just sat still and I didn't blink. I don't know how to balance it all and there never is enough time. But for a few minutes on a Friday afternoon I stopped the clock.

I wonder what she is thinking...

2008-11-21T08:09:00.000-08:00

This is actually an inside joke with my sister A. from a long ago road trip to Oklahoma (you see A LOT of cows driving through the flatlands of Texas and Oklahoma).

So this is my existential question for week: What do cows think about?

Once upon a time, no more gollies. The End.

2008-11-18T08:02:00.000-08:00

That is one of the first stories My Middle Girl ever told (sometime in her early two's). Her big sister had just told an elaborate bedtime story involving lots of imaginary friends. When it was Middle's turn she said, Once upon a time, no more gollies. The end. Then she reached up and turned out the light.
She has this amazing mind and is curious about everything. Last night she drew pictures of colorful swirls and explained to me that these swirls are how she is feelings inside. Trapped in her little restless body is a mind full of swirling emotions. I know this feeling.

Ah, to be a princess...

2008-11-14T10:24:00.001-08:00

I wish everyone this kind of rest and relaxation this weekend!

A whole other side to anal retentiveness

2008-11-13T06:20:00.001-08:00

I married into a family of control freaks. My mother is one, too. I have discovered that I am a bit control freakish myself. Over the years, as I have precariously straddled two these two families while creating my own (no wonder so many marriages fail), I have learned a few things about the need to control.

There are those that need to control the actions of others, like my father-in-law. There are those that need to control the emotions of others, like my mother. And there those that just need to control their little corner of the world, like me.

The other thing I have discovered is that most of these compulsions to control are completely futile. Successfully controlling others actions or emotions does not bring happiness, as is so clearly demonstrated by both my father-in-law and my mother (two woefully unhappy people).

I am slowly learning to relinquish that need to control. Except, yesterday I was in a heated battle to control my daughter's bowel movements (or at least control exactly where they ended up).

My three-year old is mighty. She is funny and smart and strong and stubborn. She is honest to a fault, grumpy until she has her morning cup of milk and always in the mood for a party with loud music and beverages. She is a tiny carbon copy of her dad (just with different beverage choices and less facial hair). I am totally powerless in the face of either of them when they are determined.

So my littlest one comes very naturally by her need to control. However, when I say my daughter is anal retentive, I really mean it. We'll see who "wins" today.

Wednesday Wisdom

2008-11-12T04:06:00.000-08:00

I am trying something new today, maybe I'll make it a regular thing: something to ponder, words far wiser and lovelier than my own. No matter what our original intentions, I suspect we blog and visits blogs for more than just entertainment. I think sometimes we are seeking our own true voices.

The Journey
by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice--

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do--

determined to save

the only life you could save.

Career (Mis)Management Monday

2008-11-11T03:48:00.000-08:00

This is again being written on Tuesday, which shows you how well I am managing things. Yesterday was not a good day. It was one of those days where I banged my head on the handle of the grocery cart as I put milk cartons in the lower section. Not just a little knock either. We're talking little drunk birds flying around in circles above my head ala Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck.

It was one of those days where I burned two fingers taking dinner out of the oven and then stubbed my toe. I returned the book I just renewed to the library and kept the overdue one. I yelled at the girls. I felt sorry for myself.

There is no hormonally-induced reasons for this behavior. Instead it all had to do with needing to keep a writing deadline. One little deadline and I am completely undone.

Yesterday I had one of my Mile Seventeen Moments. One of those moments when I had put so much work in already, too much to just walk off the course, but that is all I wanted to do. As I stared bleary and teary-eyed at the umpteenth request for revisions, I wanted to quit.

But I didn't. It took being an accident-prone, distracted meany to my girls, but I finished the job. I then submitted my work, only to find their system had gone down. In the words of Yosemite Sam, "*&^^%$#$%^%$#$%%&!!!!!"

Is it just me?

2008-11-09T08:16:00.000-08:00

Friday afternoon I found myself sitting on the floor just a foot or so from the television. My mouth was slightly opened as I gazed adoringly at a press conference. A press conference! I didn't even know it was on as I flipped through our seven stations looking for a PBS show for my daughter. Then there he was.

I didn't even hear the "Mom. Mom. Mom. MOOOOOOOOMMMMM" growing increasingly louder just a few inches from my right ear.

My daughter quieted down, finding a spot in my lap as she said, "Hey! That's Barack Obama." I watched every last minute of that very presidential press conference. He didn't say anything earth-shattering, but it was mind-blowing all the same. And very reassuring.

I hope it's more than just infatuation.

A rose by any other name

2008-11-07T07:16:00.001-08:00

Since the girls and I were on our own last weekend, we headed an hour northeast to spend a couple of days at my sister's house. My girls call it the CatCowDog Farm, because it is a cute old farmhouse with a lot of cats living on the front porch, surrounded by pastures of cows, and when we come we bring the dog. My other sister lives a few miles down the road and came with her eleven year old daughter, who my girls absolutely adore. She has infinite sweetness and patience with her little cousins as they play hours of hide-and-seek and "babies" and "school."

This particular weekend my oldest niece, who is pregnant with her first child, came to spend the evening on the farm with her husband. She was radiant and sporting quite a belly. It was funny to see this beautiful 30 year old woman who in my mind's eye is still a little girl, like my girls. As she pulled up her shirt to show off her big belly, my memory flashed back to the two-year-old who used to walk around with her shirt pulled up to show a chubby baby belly. She would call it wearing her "doot."

My parents were at the farm that day, too. My dad puttered around, a restless younger soul trapped in his aging body. My mother rested on the couch, inserting the occasional comment into the conversations going on around her. As my niece showed off her belly and talked about feeling better after months of "morning sickness," my mother pipped in with a warning not to gain too much weight. "My pregnancies were my undoing. I never got my figure back."

I know she meant well. My level-headed niece knew she meant well, as my mother went on to admonish her not to gain another ounce. My nephew-in-law immediately came to his wife's defense, but my wise niece just smiled and let her grandmother's thinly veiled criticism roll off her pregnant belly.

I was raised by a mother who expected her six children to take better care of her than she did of them. My childhood tasted of salty potato chips, hand-cranked ice cream, the sweetness of candy from the corner store and resentment. As I grew up, my resentment was hardened by hormones and heartbreak until it became a pit of anger in my stomach.

I now see my mother through the eyes of my own motherhood. It's not an easy job. For someone who is mentally ill, mothering is nearly impossible. There was a time when hearing my mother pick on her granddaughter would have had me seeing red. But this year spent back in the bosom of my family after a long absence has mellowed me. Motherhood has mellowed me, too.

As my anger has dissipated this year, I've wondered what I should call the feelings I have for my mother now. Is it love? But as the sun slanted across the warm kitchen at the CatCowDog Farm, as my niece and I smiled knowingly at each other above my mother's oblivious head, I realized something. Perhaps the absence of my anger, my companionable silence instead of my scorn, perhaps that is love.

Absent Observations

2008-11-05T20:43:00.000-08:00

I have reached the halfway point of my husband being gone on a trip for 10 days. These are my observations thus far:
a) Our little dog really misses the big guy and has become a little shit.
b) Unlike big dogs, little dogs have no problem peeing and pooping where they sleep (see a).
c) Sadly, being 2000 miles away is not a whole lot different than when my workaholic husband is here.
d) Sadder still is the fact that my daughter is the one who pointed this out.
e) Last night I really wanted to have a beer with my husband to toast the next president.
f) I am not sure if we voted for the same guy.
g) My daughters are being really great.
h) My three-year-old has a new burping trick to show dad when he gets home.
i) My husband appreciates burping tricks more than I do (although I think I'm secretly impressed).
j) I have five days left.

Sophie for Servant

2008-11-04T05:18:00.001-08:00

My seven year old got up this morning and announced, "Today is the day Barack Obama becomes the next president!" (perhaps I've mentioned his name to them once or twice)

Then my middle child pipped up with, "Hannah for president!" Then she proceeded to march around chanting it.

My littlest one joined in with "Sophie for servant!" She and Hannah stood on the couch for their acceptance speech for co-presidents, while Olivia pretended to be the cameraman.

It was a great way to start this election day.

Brain Fried Monday

2008-11-03T11:54:00.001-08:00

I've been threatened with death lately for not updating my blog. Brain not working. Must use interesting picture. Must update blog. Can't think of witty description for picture.

You like me. You really, really like me.

2008-10-31T11:35:00.000-07:00

Okay, it's not an Academy Award. But it is nice that my dear blog friend Pseudonymous High School Teacher thought of me. So I'm gonna pass the love along.

The rules are:

The award may be displayed on the recipient's blog.
Add a link to the person from whom you received the award.
Nominate up to seven other blogs.
Add their links to your blog.
Send a message to each of those you awarded to tell them about the award.

I nominate the following blogs that always give me a smile or a laugh and without fail something to ponder. Two of the blogs don't even know I exist, so I guess you could say I have been stalking a couple of these blogs. Let's call it Stogging, (unless that means something awful that I am not aware of):

RockZee
The Bean
Slouching Past 40
I Need A Martini Mom

What I really want to be when I grow up

2008-10-29T08:17:00.000-07:00

I had to smile when one of my favorite bloggers, RockZee, commented on my last post: "That seemed to take off rather quickly." Thank you all for the positive feedback, but truth be told I should have gotten off my ass and done this long ago.

This recent little freelance success has been eighteen years in the making. Or perhaps even twenty-two years! I headed off to college in 1986, with absolutely no ambition other than to punish my parents for making me go to college in West Texas rather than follow my boyfriend to school in California. (Sadly, that boyfriend dumped me ONE WEEK before graduation, but that is another story.)

I decided sometime during my freshman year that I would major in marketing and open a wedding consulting business someday. I find this rather hilarious now. I enjoyed planning my own wedding about as much as I enjoyed childbirth.

I spent three years meandering through marketing classes and struggling through statistics 101. I eventually married someone on a whim, mostly out of boredom, and dropped out of college. Through a circuitous route that involved divorce, moving in with my parents and the desperate need to move out, I came to work for a small weekly newspaper as a receptionist. One day the only reporter quit, and the newspaper owner knew cheap labor when he saw it and made me the new reporter.

I loved it. I went back to school and got a BA in journalism. Then I decided sticking to the facts wasn't for me, so I went to graduate school and got an expensive MA in writing. To help pay for all these pricey dreams I went to work for three crazy professors of education at Fordham University. Next thing I knew, I was teaching at an all boys high school in the Bronx. I loved that, too. I then taught at an exclusive girls school in Greenwich, CT. I didn't love that.

So after years of meandering, mothering and finally growing up a little bit, I have stopped dreaming and decided to just do it (Nike may be onto something). I have been pretty passive with my career path up to this point. I did some research over the last couple of months about freelancing, made a business plan and then got to work sending out my resume/clips. It feels like I have been holding my breath for the last two weeks as I embarked on my first truly intentional career path. I'm exhaling this week and taking it all in.

Now I want to hear YOUR stories. How did you end up doing what you are doing?

The difference a week can make

2008-10-26T19:28:00.000-07:00

I think I might, maybe, actually be able to say I am sort of a freelance writer now. I have accepted one writing job and I am talking to two others. They are not in any way, shape or form glamorous writing jobs. They are mundane writing tasks that someone wants to pay me to do from my home (between filling sippy cups and cajoling someone to sit on the potty).

It feels a little bit like when I first got married and saying I was someone's wife seemed so strange. Being Mrs. Newlastname didn't seem very real, afterall the day before I was just regular me.

It looks like I won't have to resort to sending half my hard-earned substitute teaching paycheck to daycare yet. We'll see what this week brings!

Fragmented

2008-10-23T08:58:00.000-07:00

Recently a study by the University of Michigan revealed that the brain is not truly capable of performing many tasks at once. While it may seem like you can talk on your cell phone and drive at the same time, the authors of the study discovered the brain is actually switching from task to task. The brain puts one task down, so to speak, and takes a moment to pick up another one.

This job switching takes time. The study noted that the several tenths of a second it can take your brain to switch from one thing to another can add up to dangerous time. Take the aforementioned driving with the cell phone. During the time your brain is focused on the call, the car is still moving without it actually being under your control. That half second is enough time for an accident to occur. Scary thought, huh?

Any parent could have told them that multitasking is an illusion. While I may be simultaneously making dinner, unloading the dishwasher, helping with homework and thinking about the topic for my next blog post, I have a headache to prove that the synapses in my prefrontal cortex are sizzling under the demands. My life is lived in ten minute snippets of time. The path of unfinished tasks around my home tell the story of my fragmented life: a pile of half-folded laundry there; the computer opened to a half-written email here; the lonely grocery list sitting on the counter while I drive to the store.

The busy lives we weave together are not seamless. There are days the threads of our many tasks get tangled and snarled. But more often than not, we are putting down one and picking up the next thread with great skill. I have the deepest respect for the endless demands of all us multitasking parents. Just don't drive while talking on the cell phone!

Germans Don't Do Compliments

2008-10-23T08:50:00.000-07:00

Did you ever see the Becks beer commercials featuring uncomfortable, emotionless Germans on dates or trying to perform Romeo and Juliet? The tag line was, "Germans don't do romance. Germans do beer."

That has been my life for the past 14 years with my husband of German descent. I've learned to see his affection and regard for me in other, less obvious ways. His getting the car detailed the morning we brought home our first daughter was his way of saying, "You are amazing and deserve the best." He figured out by daughter #2 that jewelry says it better.

You can imagine my complete, well, awe this morning when My German Husband gave me an outright compliment. Our daughters received their report cards yesterday and they were pretty darn great. Okay, they are only in kindergarten and second grade, but we are very proud of them just the same.

So, as I announced my first official paying freelance gig, my husband said, "You know, I've been thinking. The girls' reports cards were so great and that is all because of you, everything you do. Don't kill yourself with this substituting thing."

There were tears glistening in his eyes, no less. My mouth dropped right open. This is turning out to be quite a day!

Running into Her

2008-10-22T12:56:00.000-07:00

She meant her words to be kind. As I stood there at age eleven in my baggy leotard in the empty dance studio, her words seem to reverberate off every mirrored wall."You have a great heart and a deep soul, my Bess," she said in her thick German accent. "But, a dancer you are not."

It was true that it took me longer to get the steps down than the other girls. "I need to practice harder?" My eyes searched her lovely, wrinkled face, trying to discern her words.

Miss Gray sat down gracefully on the piano bench and took my hands in hers, they were soft and covered with age spots. "Your mind understands the music, but your body does not follow."

I looked down at the worn wooden floor, the tears stinging my eyes as I finally understood what she was saying. All the practice in the world would not make me a better dancer. A world renowned ballerina had just told me so.

I walked home from the Fine Arts Center that day a changed child. It was not that I had great aspirations to dance--at the time I thought I wanted to be a lawyer someday. Yet, I had never had a door so firmly closed in my face or a mirror held up to starkly show my true abilities before.

That event skewed how I perceived myself for a long time. I was told that I wasn't good at ballet, but I'm afraid what I heard was that I wasn't good. My already fragile self esteem (whose isn't in sixth grade?) took a blow that day.

The years between the dejected ballerina and the woman I have become were ones spent searching for the strong, confident woman I wanted to be. I looked for her through an endless supply of beauty products from the grocery store or expensive department store cosmetic counters. I looked for glimmers of her in childhood pictures and stories of my younger antics.

My teenage years were difficult ones, though I would not contribute that solely to Miss Gray’s honesty. What she said was true and the blow she struck was made upon an ego already in jeopardy. It was perhaps a defining moment, but just one of many moments in a time full of a dizzying array of emotions.

My early twenties weren’t much better. I think I did a better job of seeming confident. The low self-esteem hovered just below the shiny veneer. I wore the mask of a flirtatious drinker, hiding my doubts in cute outfits. There were glimpses from time to time of the smart, considerate, caring person I hoped to be. But it’s funny how those lousy feelings eat away at all that is true and good in a person.

I never imagined that my first real look at the confident woman-in-waiting would be on the running trail. I started tentatively with mostly a need to dispel my nervous energy. I avoided the popular running trails, choosing instead the rag-tag streets around my apartment. Back then I was working full-time and putting myself through college. I lived in Austin, Tx, a veritable running mecca, and I thought everyone running around the crowded trails of Town Lake was training for a marathon. Then one day I just did it. I headed for one of the scenic trails and before I knew it I had covered four miles. My lungs wanted to explode and my legs were shaking, but I felt great. Better than great. Better than drunk.

It wasn’t about the distance; it was more the extraordinary thing that happened to me while I ran: I didn’t care what anyone else thought. Each step took me further from the self doubt, each run made me stronger. One day I just ran into her, the confident woman who was fast on her feet, dancing in her running shoes.

The Pay is Lousy

2008-10-20T04:24:00.001-07:00

It's career (Mis)management Monday and the verdict is I have to get a real job. Which begs the question: What is being a mother worth?

We, my husband who loves the Excel spreadsheets and I, had our monthly budget meeting this weekend and the outlook is grim. No one has even peeked at our house in Connecticut in the last month. We have just finished having it repainted, etc. The outlook is very grim.

But on the writing career bright side, I submitted an essay last week. I figured out where I'm sending my next short story and I applied for a part-time editor job.

I've also applied to be a substitute with AISD and found daycare for my daughter. It's a funny position to be in, after all I'm completely capable of working outside of the home. However, at least half of any income I make will go to daycare and after school care. It's crazy!

The Motherload

2008-10-16T10:58:00.001-07:00

Thanks for the kind words on the essay. I can relate to the anger all too well, Jannie! In fact, we can all relate to the mother/daughter/son relationship in all its many hues. I think I've got a theme for the next week so...

In the mean time, what can I say? The kid loves frogs!

Getting Lost

2008-10-15T09:31:00.000-07:00

Like all of life's elusive lovelies, my writing returned to me unexpecedly this morning on a short walk. I'm including a version of the essay I've been working on:

Shortly after I had my third daughter, my parents drove from Texas to my home in Connecticut. I was not dreading the visit for a change. They had sounded so relaxed and somewhat normal during the phone conversations leading up to the trip, that I believed this visit would be different. The second night of their stay my mother got sick, threw up on the bathroom rug, broke a glass on the tile floor and then passed out. By the next morning, she wanted to go home or, if that wasn’t possible, she needed a recliner for her aching joints. Having safely navigated their way across 2000 miles of the country, my father was not about to turn around and go home.

Dad has an excellent sense of direction, able to find his way easily through unfamiliar landscapes. I, on the other hand, have been taking wrong exits and missing turns most of my life. In fact, when I do get to where I am supposed to be, it is because I have done something totally counterintuitive. I know that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. I know my right from my left. But I can’t turn west at the second left. Thus, it can take me a long time to get where I am going.

I get this lousy sense of direction from my mother. Getting in the car with her was always an adventure. There was the time she drove her week-old Mercedes into a snow bank during a blizzard. We shouldn’t have been driving in the storm, but my mother wanted to go shopping. Truth be told, she shouldn’t have owned a Mercedes on my father’s minister salary. We were unhurt in that accident, but the car was totaled. There have been many wrecks--automobile and otherwise--my mother has managed to walk away from over the years. She has the uncanny ability to get what she wants.

It was on the third day of my parents’ visit that I had an epiphany as we shopped for recliners at Bob’s Discount Furniture. I realized that what mom and I wanted from each other was impossible to achieve. I wanted her to love me enough to be her best for a week. I wanted her to suck it up and not be a chemically imbalanced narcissist for one week. She wanted me to love her enough to coddle her for a week, to accept her and her irrational behavior. I couldn’t do that.

I had the epiphany, but I was still lost. My mother and I had been wandering around the unfamiliar landscape of each other’s true selves for years, unwilling to admit we might need to ask for directions. I had given up on finding my way long ago, heading east for graduate school and for love. I mapped my new course out perfectly, giving it much thought and planning. I was sure that this time I wouldn’t take any wrong turns. I married a New Englander, whose family could not be more dissimilar from mine. I started my own family, striving to be a different kind of mother.

After my parents headed back west at the end of that ill-fated visit, I decided not to go see my family in Texas for a long while. Nothing was ever going to change, so I thought I could choose not to take part in it. That summer, my husband, daughters and I took our vacation time and funds and went to Maine with friends for a week. It was an awful trip. In fact, this seemingly simple decision to avoid my family had momentous effect on my life. The two years I spent denying my own irrational behavior cost me friendships and took a toll on my husband and daughters.

Then, in one of those quirky twists of fate, my husband took a job in Texas near my parents. It has been an unusual year since we moved. My sense of direction has not improved, but at least I know where I am. My mother and I have not changed course exactly, but I like to think we stop every once in awhile to get our bearings. I can’t escape being a part of my family anymore than I can escape the parts of myself that are just like them. I am my mother’s daughter, but I am also my own person.

Career (Mis)Managment Monday

2008-10-12T18:31:00.000-07:00

Submitted a short story? Check.
Looked into relocation funds for writing expenses? Check.
Researched more markets for fiction and articles? Check.
Began research for article for local paper? Check.
Ran into insurmountable writer's block on essay for online publication? Check.

On a happier note, I saw one of my sisters this weekend and she handed me a DVD player. I said,"What is this for?"

"You need one, don't you?" she asked.

"We do actually, but how did you know?" I may have even been scratching my head, certain this was not something we had discussed.

"I read your blog."

Ah, the power of the blog.

Smug, Humble, Grateful

2008-10-08T20:02:00.000-07:00

Smug
My first born was easy. This does not mean I was calm and serene. I excel at making simple things complicated. I went through those first couple of years certain it was my hard work that was producing this sweet, smart, funny little person.

Humble
My second daughter cried every night between midnight and 3 a.m. Non-stop. My husband and I took shifts for those endless nights during those endless months. She would smile all day and cry all night. Later, she would smile all day right up to, and then again after, her tantrums. They were the kind of tantrums that made her throw up. They were the kind of tantrums that made people stop, cell phone in hand, to call for help.

Grateful
I called my third daughter the “mail order baby.” She nursed often, but easily. She slept 9-11 hours at night. She sat serenely in the midst of chaos as I plopped her down at her sisters’ various activities. She eventually turned two.

Not so much the dog

2008-10-07T18:41:00.000-07:00

These are my girls (and the dog). They are the reason I get up every morning. They are the best thing I have done/will do with my life. They are funny and fabulous.

Funny Delusions

2008-10-07T04:31:00.000-07:00

I’m starting a new feature called Career Management Monday.
Ha ha—I have no old features, being that so far my posts have had no general theme, no cohesion, no long-term plan and perhaps no coherence.
Ha ha ha—I have no actual career.
Ha ha ha ha—it’s Tuesday.

Anyway.

The whole reason for starting this blog was to get me writing and charting my path as a writer. So last week I sat down and made an intricate chart of my writing projects for the next 11 weeks. Side note: Just so you know, I do have a degree in journalism and masters in writing. I am not a complete dumbass who says she wants to be a writer (just a partial dumbass). Somewhere along the fledgling part of my career path I became a high school English teacher and then I veered into motherhood. The English teacher stint was an elaborate, seven-year avoidance device and motherhood was unavoidable.

But I’m back on track now. I have six projects (let’s use that term loosely here) on the docket this week. Trying to be realistic, I have estimated 10 hours of work for these various “projects.” So far I have managed to squeeze in 15 minutes of work revising a short story. In my defense, I do have a sick three-year-old, who is lots of work on a good day.

Check in next week for my stunning progress on another exciting episode of Career Management Monday.

A life suspended

2008-10-05T20:08:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was struck by an unexpected and unbidden yearning for Connecticut. On October 18, 2007, I locked the door of our house for the last time. Through the window I could see the couches and the wall with the framed photos. I could see the newly polished floor in the fireplace room that we never quite managed to furnish. I could see the stairs leading up to the bedrooms, with our closets full of sweaters and turtlenecks, snow pants and thermal underwear.

I walked down the slate walk my husband put in himself, and my daughters and I climbed into the Lincoln town car waiting to take us to JKF airport. We flew to Austin on that unseasonably warm day last October, full of excitement and plans for our future. We couldn’t wait to see my husband, who had started his new job in Austin three weeks earlier.

I figured that day was it. The house would soon be sold and while I was nostalgic, I was not sad about leaving Connecticut. In the year that has passed, I have felt many emotions concerning Connecticut: frustration, freedom, happiness, calm, stress, confusion. But not one little bit of yearning.

Except last night my three year old was sick and running a fever for the fourth day in a row. I was sleep deprived and worried and wanting all the things that were still in Connecticut: the medicine syringe, the pediatrician I can call at home, the humidifier, the rocking chair.

Here I am in Austin while I have a whole life in suspended animation in Connecticut. I am just waiting for the director of this strange little film to yell, “Action!”

Preppy on the beach

2008-10-02T06:59:00.000-07:00

Here is a real high school memory: It is my first day at Hawaii Baptist Academy. We just moved to Honolulu from Colorado Springs and I am 15. I am wearing a green Izod, a bright striped skirt and penny loafers.

Really I don’t need to say anymore. I think you can imagine how well I fit in. I was soooo haole.

I went home that day and packed away the Levis and the clogs, the Izods and the penny loafers, the boat shoes, and the cute hiking boots. I actually picked up a few muumuus, some tank tops and a few pairs of “slippahs.” Then I tried my best to live down my first day for the remainder of high school.

Blog High School

2008-09-30T14:45:00.000-07:00

I am the new girl at school. It has been over a week, and despite a couple of popular girls saying hello to me the first day or so, I am sitting by myself in the cafeteria. I am hunched over my lunch trying not to make eye contact. I am suddenly self conscious about things that never bothered me before. Does my breath smell? Are my clothes okay? Did I say something stupid? Am I really boring?

That is what this has started to feel like: Blog High School. It’s pathetic. Or rather I am feeling pathetic. Before I started this blog a week or so ago I didn’t care. I went through my life blissfully unaware of the blogosphere. I was so clueless that I even followed some blogs completely oblivious to the fact that it was a blog. Ask Allison—a blog. After the MFA—a blog. Literary Mamas—a blog (that one even clearly states that it’s a blog).

Of course I’d heard of blogging, I haven’t been living under a rock after all. But it didn’t matter. I was not personally involved and therefore not consumed with wondering how to get people to read my blog. I didn’t even start a blog with the expectation of having people read it. I just thought it would be a good way to get me in the habit of a regular writing gig. No expectations at all. None.

Now I am a Bad Mom who is manically writing a blog post while my children go hungry and meltdown into highly objectionable objects writhing around on my floor. I have just realized that it is 4:30 and the dinner I had planned for tonight will need to bake for over and hour and that doesn’t include actually making it. My oldest daughter is looking at me warily, wondering who is this crazy woman sitting at mommy’s computer? (I am wondering the same thing).

And I am sure that my blog angst has nothing to do with my PMS, my general confusion and deep worry about the present financial situation (mine and the country’s), my fear that this country will continue to be hijacked by the right-wing, ideologically idiotic hawks that are currently running the place into the cold hard ground. There are much BIGGER things to worry about than my blog!!!

So why do I care so much?

Living off the grid

2008-09-29T05:36:00.000-07:00

Okay, we aren’t exactly roughing it without electricity. Although, there has been a long held fantasy of just me and the husband living off the land. But our fantasies quickly diverge. His: A log cabin in the woods involving lots of flannel and facial hair and snowshoes, where he will spend endless hours chopping firewood with an axe.
Mine: A cute hut on a deserted beach involving makeshift swimsuits, sunshine and bare feet, where I will frolic in the pristine sand with an endless supply of fresh fruit.

Anyway, our current reality does involve electricity, running water, and as of last week, local television stations (thanks to HD rabbit ears given to us by a friend). However, in an all-out effort to save money we have given up cable, cell phone, internet, subscriptions, eating out, alcohol, and driving seven days a week. As far as most of America is concerned we are roughing it.

And we are living off the land by using the intermittent WiFi signal from the leasing office. We get the vast majority of news from the free newspaper I pick up each morning from the office. Most of my daughters’ entertainment comes from books and videos checked out from the plethora local libraries. My husband walks to work and we make an effort to plan ahead on driving trips so that we only use the car five days a week.

It’s been different. I miss the DVR and wine. My husband misses ESPN. The girls occasionally find the whole thing a little baffling. The DVD player stopped working this weekend, so we will miss that, too. The life expectancy of this laptop is questionable. If it goes, then I will really be roughing it.

Simple Magic

2008-09-24T06:29:00.000-07:00

It could only be magic that has transported my family back to Texas after being on the East coast for twelve years. Actually I am the only one that has returned; for my Boston-bred husband and three daughters Austin is all new. It was overwhelmingly surreal at first. I would think: Only days ago I was in our house in the woods of Connecticut, the dogs roaming the countryside, the girls sleeping in their bunk beds.

At first we roamed an empty apartment with no furniture. It was almost like we were fugitives, fleeing in the dead of night, leaving a fully furnished house, a fully furnished life behind. This life was simpler. It was distilled into the basics of human bodies with a roof over our heads. All too soon we muddied the waters with toys and trips to IKEA.

It is this still new existence that I ponder each morning as I take the dogs out on the Austin streets beginning to be touched by dawn. I have returned to the scene of my twenties, the scene of so much self-absorption and depraved drinking and all out sluttery (not a word, I know). It is bizarre to be back here as a grounded—mostly—mother of three driving the familiar streets in my minivan.

It is those feelings of wonder at the magic of simplicity that I cling to as I begin to weave together a writing business. Keep it simple. Pick up one thread at a time. Anything is possible.