Thursday Drive

Welcome to this episode of…

Where Should the H Household Set Up a Homestead?

Ask anyone in my family or my circle of close friends (or, just look back through my archives here), and they’ll tell you that our decision about where to move has been a bit, uh, circuitous.

I’m embarrassed to say that we’ve taken our sweet, meandering time making up our sweet, meandering minds about the whole thing, and I suspect there are people we know who are even more tired of it than we are. That’s saying a lot, in case you were wondering.

To explain…

We’re lucky to have a few choices about where, at our respective ages of 59 and ,zxfllfjl, we would like to settle down and live out our silver-ish years. Our prospective suitors locations have included Cleveland, Ohio; broad swaths of Connecticut; the DC metro area; Atlanta and its burbs; the Phoenix metro area (our current homesweethome), and a lakeside home in Indiana–which we own and are taking our own sweet, meandering time (notice a theme?) to finish out…little details like flooring and appliances and such…but we’re making progress.

Now, finally, we seem to have that mixed bag narrowed down to hither (here) and yon (Cleveland). The real estate market in both places seems to have come down with a case of malaise…so, goodie for us, no?

Behind Door #1

The advantage of here is that we have great friends, and the winters don’t suck. There are things like heated pools and palm trees and bougainvillea and casinos. And beautiful mountains, and cowboys (she suddenly questions whether she has thought this through well enough).

Behind Door #2

The advantages of Cleveland are that Mr. H could be home more (that’s a biggie); beautiful, old houses with prices that are less than the value of the smallish house we rent now; great schools (in the area where we’re looking); we would be just a few hours’ drive from family; and the school where I would like to enroll (for a degree in historic preservation) is right there. Oh, and I haven’t even listed the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (try not to say Cleveland Rocks! in your head.), and Lake Erie and the beaches. And hardly any scorpions, tarantulas, rattlesnakes, or mountain lions.

So, anyway.

Turns out, the house we almost bought a year ago is still on the market, but with an asking price that’s about 25% less than it was (see malaise, above). I shouldn’t even talk about this, because I’ve been disappointed before, but I’m just throwing this out into the universe in case that sort of thing actually works. Plus, I’m crossing my fingers, toes, knees, and elbows (okay, that last one is harder than it looks).

But if we stay here, we don’t have that whole moving halfway across the country hassle. The idea of it makes me tired, but then again, it would just be the one time. And then I’m never moving again.

So there you have it, folks.

Which door will they choose? Come back next year month week? to find out!

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It was a perfect moment, one that I would have missed five minutes later. A lake in the mountains. An empty beach. The water still but for where it simmered with fish far from shore. The mountains reflected on the surface.

I drove up and parked just in time to see a blue heron stepping through the water near shore. His steps were slow and careful, and he seemed to take no notice of me. In fact, I was really the only thing that seemed out of place. Me, and a bright yellow Jeep. No wonder the crows screamed at me. Almost overhead, turkey vultures spun through the air, circling above something that I couldn’t see, on top of a hill. By counting the shadows they cast against the face of the cliff, I could have counted the vultures without ever looking right at them.

I watched until the heron disappeared into the reeds at the edge of the water.

There was nothing to mar the moment, not another person in sight. A moment just for me, and every bit of peace I needed.

Over the weekend, I was writing some very old stories–things I would rather not think about–in the hopes that in stirring up the water I can describe what has been lying on the bottom all this time. It is said that “pain is good for art,” and that’s true. But first, pain is just pain. It’s necessary work, and will come to something when I’m done, but for a day or so, I felt like I had an emotional hangover, like I had imbibed too much on the past. I managed a hasty retreat, though, because I need my life to look better than it did from there. I’m lucky to have a choice about that, to look for the nearest exit.

Suffering chases down all of us, sooner or later–none of us makes it safely over the wall. Maybe I got more than my share back then, but now I feel pretty lucky that my sister and I are as healthy as we are, that even though we drew the short stick in one lottery, we won something substantial in the next one: the strength to pull it together and live decent lives. That’s not bad, as luck goes.

Tonight, as I was looking through some old posts, the ones that focus on my family, I came across a quote that my sister Ducky left in a comment:

Sometimes what appears to be a catastrophe over time becomes a strong foundation from which to live a good life. It’s possible to live a good life even though it isn’t an easy life.  -Rachel Naomi Remen

And then I looked at my notes for this post, where I had written: “All of our history is tamped down and firm, one day upon the last, the ground as solid as it gets.”

That sounds an awful lot like a foundation.

I wonder if I make it harder than it has to be, the way I excavate the past. The only thing I can say to that is that I know there are some valuable artifacts to be found, some things to bring to the surface, to polish and study. Or to bury again.

It’s hard, messy work.

But when I need a moment, when I need to see something beautiful, when I need to feel at peace, I know a place.

And I hear it’s not that crowded on Thursday mornings.

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Last week, JCK at Motherscribe asked if I would write a guest post for her, since she’s going on vacation this week. I tried to be cool, and all “Yeah, sure, why not?” But really, I pretty much squealed, but in type, and maybe a little bit out loud. Because her blog is one of my favorites, I’m thrilled that she asked. Plus, she’s one of the coolest chicks I’ve met through blogging.

So that’s where you’ll find me today.

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Dear Williams-Sonoma,

I appreciate your enduring optimism, I really do. Season after changing season, you make sure that your glorious catalog appears in my mailbox, despite the fact that I haven’t ordered anything from you in years. Yes, years. In fact, if you were to check your records, you would see that my registration on your site is no longer valid. It’s been that long.

Starting a couple of years back, I lusted after the copper risotto pan you advertised. No, lusted isn’t too strong a word. I imagined running my hands over the glistening smoothness of it, and pictured how it would look, hot and simmering on my stove, holding the food of the gods (the gods I worship, anyway). But you want $190 for it, damn you. And I’m just not there yet, at the point in my life when I could justify spending that much on one pan (I may never get there), though it breaks my heart that it is suited so perfectly to cook my very favorite food.

Plus, have you seen the cookware I own right now? That pan would stick out like a stripper in a monastery (forgive me). You have no idea.

(You should also know that I won’t be ordering these, either–though they’re freaking gorgeous. I want them, I do, and I loathe, with a hot burning jealousy, every single person who has ordered them and is using them this very day. So there.)

Don’t give up on me just yet, please. There’s a good chance I will order something eventually. I’m human, and you’re a seductive force. In fact, I’ve got my eye on this. Or maybe a potato peeler. Better to keep you guessing.

Yours (oh yes, I’m yours),

Jennifer

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Dear Victoria’s Secret,

We had a good run, didn’t we? All those years when I could look through your catalog and easily spot a dozen things I just had to have. You inspired me, really. Sometimes, even, so much that I would go to the mall (which I hate to do) and linger among the racks of lacy, pretty things and even walk out the door with one of your big, pretty, be-tissued bags, full of new underpinnings. Those were the days, weren’t they?

So maybe it’s out of nostalgia that you still send me coupons for free pairs of panties. Don’t think I’m not grateful, because I am. It’s just that, well, I’ve moved on. It’s not you, it’s me. And these days, there’s more of me than I like to admit, and now you and I just don’t look as good together as we used to. Maybe one day we will again, and I’ll get back to that sweet size I used to be (Or close. I’ll take close), when I would visit you every 3 or 4 months for a whole new supply of pretties. But, for now at least, I buy my lovelies here. Because they also sell underpinnings, but of the 9-pack variety for the under-12 set who now live in my house. And for me, they sell these, which are ridiculously comfortable. And affordable (No offense. None taken, I’m sure), which is oh so important these days when all our money is going toward gas and air conditioning (hello, $320 this month).

You should know that Target, your competition, also sells useful things like paper towels and laundry detergent and batteries and even frozen waffles–so, until you can do all of that for this busy mom, I think you should see other people. I suspect you already are, and it doesn’t hurt my feelings. Not even a little. I get it, and I want you to be happy.

Until we meet again one day (good lord, may it be soon), I shall think of you fondly.

Yours, in nostalgia (my, I have good memories!),

The Mom Jennifer

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Dear Lane Bryant,

Carry on.

Whatever,

Jennifer

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I keep two books for writing things down. The first is a leather-bound journal into which I copy quotes or poetry that I love. I am careful with it, and have never lost it. If the house was on fire, and I had time (assuming everyone was safe, of course), it would be one of the things I would grab on my way out. My scripture. Sacred.

The other is a Moleskine notebook. This one is less sacred (though no less loved), and collects all sorts of notes. If I’m in my car and see a house I like and want to look up online when I get home, I’ll scribble the realtor’s information onto a page. If I think of a seed for a post or something I want to remember, that goes in, too. Music I’ve heard and want to download. A website I want to check out. A word, a line, a paragraph, the kitchen sink–it all goes in.

I jot notes down all over the place, though. I’m fairly indiscriminate about using any available scrap of paper. The result is a hodgepodge of scraps in need of a permanent home (often, the most fitting place would be the trash can), and those get stuck into the very handy pocket in the back of this notebook until I get a chance to copy them into it.

Tonight I was flipping through my Moleskine, looking for anything that might spark an idea for a guest post I’m supposed to have finished by tomorrow (shh, don’t tell JCK I haven’t started yet).

On one page, there was one word: Lost, underlined three times. I know it’s not a reference to the TV show, since I don’t watch it. But I have no idea why I wrote it down. Do you ever do that? It’s in your own handwriting, so you know it came from you, but you have no memory of writing it? Happens to me a lot. Whole paragraphs, sometimes, that I’ll find scribbled on the back of a utility bill envelope or a Starbucks napkin, that amount to little more than a blur in my memory.

On another page, there’s the name of a place near here that piques my interest every time I drive past, as I did a few days ago. Along Highway 188, a sign announces Mad As Hell Ranch. I just know there’s a good story there, and I think I might try to find out what it is sometime. But turning down that driveway doesn’t seem like the best idea, you know?

There’s this, that I wrote many years ago, thinking that I would write a story around it (I copied it into the notebook so that I would think to work on it sometime). So far, it’s all I’ve got:

“How much do you love me?” he asked her. He needed things from her.
Into the dark, she answered, “With all my heart.” He pulled her closer.
She did not tell him, and never would, how small her heart had become, how heavy. A stone.

Turn another page, and there’s a lame pickup line that I wrote down one evening when I was with the kids at Cracker Barrel. Behind us, at the next table I could hear a man going on about the country music career he was trying to create for himself, and in the window reflection I could see that he was bedecked in more turquoise and silver jewelry than I’ve ever seen on one person, let alone on a man. And then I heard him tell his friend, in reference to the waitress as she walked away, “I’d be all over her like snow on a mountainside.” That’s one I’ve never heard. Give the man points for originality, and then run like hell. I expect that line will come out of the mouth of an odd character in a book someday.

Maybe all of these notes will amount to something in time. Of course, the chances of that improve if I can remember why I wrote any of it down.

How about you? When you turn to pen and paper (you know, like in the olden days), where do you like to make notes? Legal pads? Post-it notes? Bound journals? Your hand? (Not paper, but useful. I do it, too.)

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A hairpin turn, or a switchback. Both, names for a point in the road where you’d better pay attention, slow down, and ease into the turn. Foot on the brake, eyes on the road. Breathing through the moment when you’re sure your heart has stopped. And then, when you come out of the curve, there’s a whole new view and you’re going in another direction entirely.

This time I took for myself in the last week felt something like that. It hasn’t changed anything fundamental about my life, but I do feel like things look different now, and familiar in a way that I’ve missed.

I did most of the things I planned. A movie with a friend. (Lunch with a friend is on deck, still.) A drive. Reading. A few movies at home. Taking time to go outside and watch the moon rise.

Nothing else about my life changed–I still had to manage the usual responsibilities and the flurry of the first two weeks of school and the car that needs brakes and keeps stalling for some damn reason. The difference was that I added back into my life some things I’ve let go. I took myself outside the walls of my office, where I’ve been spending too much time. And those moments in each day that I stole back helped to change how I felt. I began to relax.

Admonitions like “being present in the moment” or “finding balance” or “simplifying your life” have never felt comfortable on my tongue, though I get the point. It’s the language that I find unnecessary, especially now that those phrases are sprinkled so often through the pages of women’s magazines.

Make things simple sounds better to me. Maybe it’s all spin and soundbite, but if we can’t make up our own words when we sing along, it’s not nearly as much fun, is it?

Simple sounds better and better lately. The idea of spending a few days in a camper next to a lake in the mountains (someplace cooler than here, maybe) is more appealing than just about anything right now. Those of you who know me best, and know my dependence on a beauty routine, can stop laughing now. It’s called natural wave, and I can adapt. Really, stop laughing.

Maybe it all looks more peaceful in my head than it might go down, but I imagine spending days just hanging out, cooking simple meals. Watching the kids try to fish. Swimming, drying off. Wind, warm as a kiss, on skin. Swimming again, maybe at night. Making a fire (if it’s safe). And then, well-doused in bug spray, lying back on a blanket or a lounge chair, looking for shooting stars and watching the arc of the moon as it rises above the mountain and across the sky. Falling asleep with the sounds of the night close and scary. Earth. Wind. Fire. Water. The elements.

Eating. Laughing. Loving. Sleeping. The elements.

As for what I’m doing here, on this page, I’m going to let myself off the hook and ease up on the pressure to post almost every day (though that might still happen if I have something up my sleeve.). Not much else will change. You’ll still hear about cowboys (because, c’mon) and the never-ending house hunt, and whatever else. Because it’s all real, right? (I listened, and heard you all, and thank you.)

So I hope you’ll hang around. There might be a bonfire, even. Who’s in charge of gathering firewood? Did anyone bring wine? And I think I saw marshmallows around here somewhere…

A turn, a new view. Things look better already.

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Someone asked me yesterday, “When was the last time you wrote a real post?”

I couldn’t even be offended, because I knew exactly what she meant. For a couple of weeks, at least, I feel like I haven’t improved anyone’s day with what I’ve posted here. I sit and stare at the blinking cursor, with diminishing hope that a string of good, lovely words will flow from brain to fingertips–and when they don’t, I improvise (and not so well).

I know what it is, why it’s like this. My days are small and tight, when they should stretch with conversation and purpose and something pretty or interesting to see. It’s up to me to change that–it’s not a job for anyone else.

So it’s time for a break. A few days, maybe a few more after that. We’ll see. There’s some stuff I need to do. A movie. Lunch with a friend. A couple of books. A good look at the damn fine scenery we have here. Maybe a new road. Some hard work.

And when I have something to bring back here in a basket for show and tell, I hope we can get together for a nice long chat.

Until then, as my friend Milena taught me to say…

Beso.

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Disclaimer: I have no idea where this post is headed, but I’ll try to get there fast. Call it a quickie. I do know that it’ll get funny at the end, but only because I’ve invited a couple of people to help. (Don’t act all shocked. It’s not that kind of blog. Geez.)

Maybe this mood has something to do with the moon, though my moon phase calendar tells me it’s only 96% full. I have all the usual symptoms on the full moon checklist. A little crazy. Check. Listless. Check. Bloated. Check. (Wait, that has nothing to do with the moon, does it?)

But if I can’t blame this mood on a full moon, can I give the mostly-full moon some credit? Please?

I’m not one to wallow around in a mess of feelings, and certainly not one to talk much about how I’m feeling (though I may write about it later). There are men who are as capable of those conversations as women, so I won’t assign a gender to that particular quality. But I will go ahead and say I’m not that girl. I’d rather get over something and move on, without deep analysis, or even half-assed analysis. So maybe I’m that guy.

I prefer things to blow over. Say the apologies, say the sweet things and make the jokes that bridge the abyss and let everyone meet in the middle. I’m willing to ride out a thunderstorm, but if I have to put up with days or weeks or years of emotional rain, you’ll find me on the edge of my seat, jumping out of my skin. I’m a tear-off-the-Band-aid kinda girl.

Everything is getting to me this week. Yes, it might be PMS, in case you’re thinking that. Maybe it’s the moon, after all. Or maybe it’s that I ran out of these. I’m addicted. (Plus, their name cracks me up. I have a hard time asking for them at Cracker Barrel with a straight face. I’m what, twelve?)

But I’m an easy mark for a laugh, though, so instead of setting up a lawn chair in the middle of this moodswamp, I’ve been looking for a way out of it. (Sidenote: I was impressed with myself for making up the word moodswamp, until I googled it to be sure and found out–as I should have expected–that I’m not the first to use it. I only got six hits off of it, though. It’s a good word, right?)

Anyway, wading out of the swamp…You’ll thank me for pointing out these Exit signs:

From Trooper Thorn at Dogs and Jeans, this is brilliant, and funny. And so is this. (Go. Read. There’s a quiz later.)

And if you don’t already read Is There Any Mommy Out There?, you’re missing out. Stacey is funny as hell, and smart and insightful. She makes me laugh my ass off one day, and breaks my heart the next. And it’s all so worth it. Start with this post, and make sure to read the ones she links to in it. I might have woken up some neighbors, laughing. You might want to run to the bathroom first. (Oh, you’ll thank me.)

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Edited: Last week, Mrs. Schmitty from It’s a Schmitty Life asked me if I would write a guest post for the blog of one of her readers who was going to be away on vacation with his family. His name is Jake, and he writes at Tales of a Dysfunctional Family. I decided that if Mrs. Schmitty was game to write a guest post, then I could pretend to be a cool, hip grown-up and write for the blog of a teenager. (Intimidating. Though he made it very easy.)

So I sent him something and he didn’t didn’t laugh in my face. Does this mean I’m a cool, hip grown-up? Yeah, probably not. Still, I hope you’ll stop over to check out my post and say hi to Jake while you’re there.

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I don’t have a true Before picture, but believe me when I tell you the room didn’t look so different from this, which is somewhere in the middle of the project (click to enlarge, if you don’t scare easily):

You’re looking at Girl’s room at the mercy of Mommy’s Massive Re-Organization (MMRO).

In the bottom of toy bins, I’m finding crap that Girl hasn’t seen for at least a year. Don’t tell her how much stuff I’m throwing out in the course of this MMRO phase. If it’s broken, it’s gone. If it came from McDonald’s, arrivederci. If I’m reasonably certain that we’ll never find the other half of a pair, buh bye (though, SCORE for finding both shoes of a pair of teensy tiny turquoise Barbie shoes).

Speaking of Barbies, once I round them all up, I think it’s time for a little talk with those crazy girls. All the evidence tells me that things are getting a little out of hand in Barbie World. (I will find you, Island Princess, you little tart. Yeah, don’t pretend you don’t know where you left your dress. And your knickers. In this house, we don’t lie around without our ball gowns, ya know.) And as for you, all you My Little Ponies? You know what you did. It’s all fun and games until someone gets knocked up. Yeah, I’m lookin’ at you, Bashful Bonnet. Bashful, my ass.

Girl comes in every now and then to try to help, but it’s better if she stays out of it, really. I’m trying to purge as much as I can from what’s there, so if Girl starts digging through the trash, it’s all over for me.

“Why are you throwing this away?!” she’d wail. “It’s my favorite toy!” This Burger King toy from 2004, baby? Your favorite? Really? I do try to be respectful of their things, and only throw out things I know they won’t miss. Honest. I swear.

Tomorrow, I’m clearing out the space under her bed, and I won’t be even a little bit surprised if I find Jimmy Hoffa buried under there.

So if you don’t hear from me for a few hours, send a rescue team in after me. Oh, and some really hot firemen. I’ll leave the front door unlocked.

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Both girls squealed.

“!!!” one said, in the language that little girls understand, a language that isn’t forgotten even after almost three months of summer.

“!!!!!” the other answered, and they both ran toward each other and into a hug that was sweeter than a great big banana split.

“Are you in this class?” Girl asked her friend.

“Yes! Wanna sit next to me?”

With their new teacher’s help, they arranged it all, sorting out who would sit where. Neither girl stopped smiling the whole time we were in the classroom. We were there for Meet the Teacher, though Girl did more See Old Friends than meeting her second grade teacher. When she discovered that her very best friend G from first grade, would also be in her class, that was the cherry on the banana split.

It was a day of good news for my girl, and she’s mentioned all of it no less than a dozen times over the weekend. Sometimes, good news gets sweeter the more we share it.

Today I got to call a few people in my life with some good news. The reaction from them was just what I hoped for and–honestly–it wasn’t so different from the big dish of happy that I saw between my girl and her friend a couple of days ago, though the words were a little more grown up and the squealing took the form of equivalent grown-up exclamations.

Here’s the news: Today I got an email from Laura Mayes, one of the co-founders of kirtsy. I don’t know if you all have heard (I’m guessing a lot of you have) that the editors of kirtsy are creating a book?

This is what the kirsty blog says about it:

That’s right! A very lovely kirtsy book is in the process of being created…The hardcover trade book will be a celebration of women’s voices, writings, art, design, ideas, discoveries and discussions online. It will feature some of the greatest things we’ve seen on kirtsy over the last year and be distributed across North America, and available for purchase any place fine books are sold. It will be beautiful.

And here’s my big guess what: The editors selected one of my posts from June to appear in the book! I wish I could sound all cool and savvy and sophisticated about this, or that I could stop using exclamation marks, but I can’t! (See?)

I can hardly wait to find out who else will appear in the book. I think the kirtsy editors are creating something wonderful, a project that is on the pulse of what bloggers and writers and photographers and designers are putting out there right now. I send them my enthusiastic congratulations, also, for making the book happen. It has to be thrilling for everyone involved.

Also, I have to thank Kyran Pittman for her part in all of this. Back in June, she selected the post to appear as an Editor’s Pick on the Mind, Body, Sprit page of kirtsy (She’s their Mind, Body & Spirit editor. She also writes at Notes to Self, among other places–including her recent feature in Good Housekeeping). I didn’t mention it here back then, as thrilled as I was, but I can’t resist letting you in on it now.

I might be past those first moments of giddy ohmygods, but the high lingers. And the gratitude. The news is all yummy and sticky and sweet right now, and for today–at least–I don’t feel much older than seven.

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