Gregarious Greg

After living here a week or so, it became clear that my neighbors were the townhome complex drug dealers.

Really nice guys though, Victor and D'Angelo. They're quiet and they keep their yard clean and always say hi to me. Yesterday D'Angelo was walking out of his front door at the same time I was headed out with a bag of smelly kitchen garbage.

"Oh, you want me to take that to the dumpster for you?" he asked, hoisting the bag out of my hands before I could even answer. He wasn't even going that way.

Yes, even the drug dealers are better in Colorado.

On our other side, we have the heavily pregnant girl who sits outside chain-smoking, waiting for her due date to arrive. At the end of the building is the family with the 4-year-old who runs around outside in diapers with no parents in sight.

In the next building over we have another chain-smoking mom with a baby on her hip plus a little boy and a young teenager who might be hers also (but I can't figure out how to make that math work) and an older lady who must be the grandma. Next to them are the 20-something construction worker potheads with the awesome big dog named Charlie Brown.

Sometime around July, I came home to a previously empty unit now all tidy with snappy porch furniture and a huge American flag hanging off the corner of the building.

Oh boy. They are not going to do well back in this corner of the complex, I thought.

Later that night I'm headed back out again and the new neighbors-- a nice couple in their youngish 30s, just as lovely as you'd expect from their porch furniture-- are sipping local craft beers out front.

We exchange greetings as I pass.

The next night, they're out there again, only with mix drinks and this time one of the 20-something construction worker pothead neighbors has joined them. The night after that, Victor the drug dealer is hanging out there too, along with both construction workers and Charlie Brown the dog.

After a couple weeks or so, Dan & I are the ones hanging out on the porch with all our neighbors and (all our dogs).

Greg and Brittany have a baby and a toddler. She stays at home and he commutes up to Boulder. Greg is a tax attorney, and Brittany is one of those women who always looks perfect and who apologizes for her messy kitchen when there's a single dirty plate and no crumbs. In her spare time she's starting her own home decorating business.

Despite these things, they're actually quite likable.

Dan and Greg carpool up to Boulder every morning now; Dan's new job is within a mile of Greg's office. Dan is teaching Greg how to climb. Greg loves it.

I'm positive if I had little kids, Brittany and I would be besties. As it is, I still stop to chit chat for a minute after dropping Miss G at school in the mornings, and our own girls are frothing at the mouth to babysit.

"I'm pretty sure Greg is short for Gregarious," Dan tells me.

In just a few months, Gregarious Greg has transformed our little corner of misfit toys into someplace that's practically neighborly. His wife has taken to feeding the malnourished construction workers dinner every night. We stop by their porch most evenings to spend some time catching up; we've switched to hot tea now though. The seasons are changing.

Dilemma of the Practical Hippie

I took my youngest niece to baby yoga the other day. I've never been to baby yoga before, and wasn't sure what to expect. Well, other than a pile of concentrated cuteness in a single area.

I felt reassured when the gal next to me deposited a cute baby with a little bead necklace on. Baby accessories are a good sign no one's too serious about this, I thought. Whew. Because some people do take this kind of thing very, very seriously and those people make me uncomfortable.

Some other moms show up with cute babies of their own. We all make polite chit chat. Another mom says to the gal next to me, "Oh, look at your daughter's cute necklace! Is it amber? Is she teething?"

As my brain struggled to connect those seeming non sequiturs, the other mom answered.

"Yeah, the amber is supposed to absorb all the pain from the teething. I don't think it's even working," she adds in a tone that implies it is the fault of those particular beads, and not the total bullshit idea of amber absorbing pain that is responsible for her baby's ongoing teething pain.

My niece and I look at each other; she grins and makes a fast crawl for the door. I appreciate her instincts.

My problem with yoga, as with most of the rest of life, is that I'm not quite part of the tribe. I am somewhere still on the fence, a fence I've dubbed "The Practical Hippie."

I am hippie enough to practice yoga, but I think chanting om before class is weird and I don't want to talk about my chakras. Also, you don't sweat out toxins. Please stop saying that.

I am hippie enough to be pretty anal about recycling and buy mostly organic fruits and veggies. I am practical enough to realize that the organic equivalents of fruit roll-ups and potato chips are a huge, stupid waste of money and that organics in general are a racket of a different kind. So the practical me keeps my organic buying pretty much to the dirty dozen, and gets sloppy about the rest.

I am hippie enough to support buying local meat, but not hippie enough to give up meat entirely. And I prefer buying local in general... unless I can buy it on Amazon for half the price.

I wear hippie deodorant because I am not hippie enough to not wear deodorant. Also I use actual shampoo and toothpaste. Although they are hippie brands, at least they're a step up from baking soda. And I use real tampons instead of the Diva Cup, making me a very bad hippie indeed. But I compromise by buying all cotton tampons. (From Amazon instead of the local hippie store.)

Also, I don't smoke pot, which is the hallmark of every good hippie; I can't stand the smell of the stuff. I don't like tie-dye. And I've never had dreadlocks, although sometimes I think about getting them. I like the conceptual idea behind those 'coexist' bumper stickers, but I'd never put one on my car.

damned hippies.

On the other hand, I married a hippie counterpart rather than a practical one. Turned out the practical fellows were... well, boring.

I like the baseless optimism my husband brings to our marriage, much as I like the baseless optimism that hippies in general bring to the world.

Why can't we all just get along? Why can't we give peace a chance? Why can't we make love not war?

Sure, she's baked to the gills. The sentiment is nice though.

I am just enough practical to realize the world doesn't work that way.

I'm just enough hippie to wish it did.

Faking Hanukkah

Every other year of Peep's life, she's been traveling somewhere exotic around Hanukkah time and while there may have been presents, it was not a big deal. This year, though, she and her baby sister are kicking it with me over the weekend while her folks move into their new house-- and this weekend happens to be the first couple nights of Hanukkah.

"Hanukkah oh Hanukkah -- uh-- something something some-thing"

When I was a kid, Christmas was a huge deal. Candlelight, singing, gobs of people and presents piled higher than my head. (And horrible, horrible lutefisk... but that's another post.)

My grandmother was super into Christmas; my parents continued her traditions and passed them on to us. I've always loved Christmas-- oh sure, the presents... but the music, the way people are nicer, the twinkly sparlky-ness of it all. And above it all, the sense of magic.

My sister wrote more eloquently than I could about not feeling marginalized at Christmas when you're Jewish. It's heartbreaking for me to imagine, as a kid, seeing all that amazing-ness that the stores haul out for Christmas and knowing that none of it is for you.

Also, as an auntie, I consider it my god-given right to spoil my nieces like crazy at the holidays and lavish them with presents. The name of the holiday we're celebrating is secondary-- tertiary, even-- to the actual celebration and watching kids' faces light up as they open presents.

My sister was all "Oh, if you don't want to deal with it this weekend, it's fine; Hanukkah isn't a big deal" and I was all "WHAT?!" Because, no glitter? No presents? No awesome magical-ness??

As my sister often does, she looked sort of bemused at my high level of emotion. And then gave her blessing to do whatever I want this weekend.

So, Miss G and I are reading up on Hanukkah.

Elements I have going for me:

• Peep has no real basis of celebration for the holiday yet, so almost anything I do will probably fly.
• The dollar store had plenty of silver garland
• I'm not religious enough for any of this to feel blasphemous

What I have going against me?

The punchline is, Hanukkah itself is a pretty minor holiday in the Jewish repertoire. The vibe I get from most online (Jewish) sites toward Hanukkah is one of surly reluctance. And I guess, stretching one night of oil to last eight nights is a pretty lame miracle compared to oh, say, Rosh Hashanah, which celebrates that one time G-d created the entire world.

Plus considering how often the Christians have killed off large numbers of Jews, it's not hard to see why just maybe Christmasizing Hanukkah could make Jewish families a little bit cranky, especially when you have to start hearing about it back in October (something that, for the record, makes me cranky as well).

The highly controversial "Hanukkah Bush"

I mean, why should Hanukkah have to compete with Christmas? And when did Christmas get so competitive anyway? Why can't Hanukkah be its own thing?

So, this year we'll carve out a little spot for Hanukkah at our house.

I don't have a menorah, but I have some lovely silver candelabras that were my great-aunt's; I think she'd appreciate the sentiment. And I've never made latkes, but I'm going to make regular pancakes for dinner and that's always a treat when you're four (or if you're my husband). And Peep has asked to make gingerbread men cookies-- "Except can they be girls?"-- er, okay, gingergirl cookies.

And we can absolutely celebrate miracles. Even little ones.

One of the things I carry

Kids point out the magic in the everyday mundane, state the obvious truths our eyes have become too grown-up to see properly.

My elder niece, Peep, keeps talking about "Uncle Dan and Mamie's house in the desert." She loves it there, and is having some trouble wrapping her brain around the idea that I am not in the desert anymore.

The other day, we walked out to my car and she stopped dead in her tracks, pointing at the Arizona license plate, a silhouetted saguaro.

"Mamie! You brought a little bit of the desert with you!"

In Colorado, you don't have to surrender your old plates, so I tucked my saguaro into the pocket behind the passenger seat, carrying a bit of desert with me as I drive around my new mountain life.

Reinventing yourself

One of my favorite people and best friends was born today. In honor of her birthday, I'd like to tell a story about her. However, since I haven't asked her permission to do this, we'll just make up a name for her. Let's call her Lola.

My friend Lola is awesome. Sometimes I wish I could write stories about her, because everyone should experience her in some way or other. I've tried, but she can't be captured. She's hilarious, but that kind of hilarious where it isn't what she says that's funny, but the delivery; you can never really bottle it and share it with other people to explain how fantastic she is.

In spite of Lola being a total blast, she is unbelievably unlucky in love. I don't know if she was born under the wrong sign or what, but her love life is and has always been a complete disaster. One time, she moved across the country with this guy who, shortly after their arrival, just left her there. I can't imagine that, left in a strange place, knowing no one.

It's happened to her two or three times.

Lola's a fighter though, and she always comes back swinging.

She got married at 18, and they split up four months after the wedding. They stayed married for years though, while living utterly separate lives, convinced they were soul mates and would eventually end up together. No matter how crazy it sounded, we all knew they would too.

She was devastated when he died in a tragic accident. We all were.

Lola always swore she'd never marry again. She wears a huge butterfly ring on her wedding finger to ward marriage off. I bought her the first version of that ring, though it eventually disintegrated and has been replaced several times by new butterflies.

Then she met this guy. He was fantastic. She said, "You know how I always say I'd never get married again?  Well, I think maybe I could. Maybe with this guy. Maybe." She was hesitant; he was persistent. They dated for years, and he finally proposed. We were all staggered when she said yes. The butterfly was replaced by a diamond. Their wedding was gorgeous.

A few months later, he left one night and never came back. Turned out he was a bipolar alcoholic who went off his meds and onto a bender. After three weeks with no word, she changed the locks. When she heard from him next, he was crazy and threatening. He refused meds, refused counseling, and refused to come home. After several months, she filed for a divorce. The hearing was conducted in his absence.

Included with the paperwork, she added a petition to change her name.

The judge said, "I see here you'd like to change your name back to your maiden name."
Lola said, "Umm... Not exactly, Your Honor."
The judge asked her to clarify.

Lola said, "Your Honor, I don't want my current husband's last name because we're not married anymore. But my maiden name, the last name I had prior to this, was my late husband's name; I don't want it back. That name has too many sad memories for me. The name I was born with was my father's name, and I don't want anything to do with him either. I just want a fresh start, Your Honor. With a new name that's just my own."

The judge granted her request.

I love you, Lola. A million, million. You think you just roll with the punches, but really you're a badass.

Happy birthday.

Farewell, Turtle.

We took the first step toward moving this week. We relocated Turtle.

We had to do, before he hibernated for the winter. We're straddling two houses at the moment, which really complicates Turtle's life. Only one house, our current house, has an acceptable turtle burrow. The Other House isn't ready for us to move into yet, but we can't leave Turtle hibernating at this house and move into the other house without knowing Current House's fate. New owners moving in while Turtle is asleep? That seems unfair for all humans and reptiles involved.

Alternatively, we could build a preemptive burrow at The Other House and move Turtle in before hibernation season. But this is troublesome, because we're not there full-time to keep an eye on him and make sure he eats enough before the long sleep and he's a kind of picky eater, which you wouldn't probably expect from a turtle but there it is.

And either way, he needs a new home before we move to Colorado, because there's no hibernation deep enough for him to make it up there.

Turns out Miss G's friend's grandma has a desert tortoise habitat in her back yard. We waited till Turtle came out for his morning walk, scooped him up, took him on an exciting car ride, and deposited him at his new home across town.

You wouldn't think a tortoise added so much presence around this place, but his absence is glaring. I didn't realize how often I checked the burrow when I walked through the backyard to see if Turtle's head was poking out, sniffing for greens. Every single day when I'm greeted instead by cold granite blocking what used to be his burrow entrance, I feel-- well, a little choked up.

Honestly, I'm not Turtle's biggest fan. I find him a little creepy, with his unsettling little human tongue. And I don't like how he zeros in on me when he hears my voice, aims right for me like a tank. And I don't like how much work it is to feed him, how he'll only eat if you sit there and talk to him during his meal, and how kale has to be smeared with tomato or cucumber pulp before he'll touch it and how you can't give him lettuce because it's got too much sugar and it's bad for him and then he won't eat anything else. 

But I guess, I kind of liked rubbing his scaly foot while he ate. He liked it, I could tell. And I liked that he'd come say hi; it was friendly, I guess, even if I did feel uncomfortable about it. It's not really fair to pin those emotions on Turtle; those are clearly my issues, not his. 

Oh, Turtle. I miss you. Sort of.

It's a heavy thing, the first real step. 

A typical day

--Get up.
--Make breakfast.
--Eat while checking email and making small talk with kid.
--Kid leaves for school.
--Start article.
--Get distracted and wander off.
--Notice unfinished walls look uglier today than ever before in the entire history of the house
--Haul out bucket of drywall mud, realize it needs thinning.
--Call husband (off on his own adventures) to determine whereabouts of mud-mixing drill attachment
--Find drill (NOT where husband said it was) and attachment.
--Mix mud.
--Remember article.
--Return to computer.
--Continue article.
--Sister calls with ridiculous cute stories about niece.
--Mop kitchen while on phone.
--Finish call.
--Realize mud is drying out.
--Start applying mud.
--Daughter calls from school.
--Cover mud pan with damp rag and wash hands.
--Find daughter's math book.
--Drive to school.
--Deliver math book.
--Come home.
--Realize dogs must be walked before it gets any hotter.
--Walk dogs.
--Come home.
--Need to eat immediately.
--Finish article while eating second breakfast.
--Finish mudding rest of first wall.
--Start second wall.
--Realize I forgot to call dentist.
--Cover mud pan with damp rag and wash hands.
--Call dentist.
--Remember thousands of other vital calls that need to be made.
--Start making other calls.
--Husband asks me to look up prices online for on new diamond mumblety grinder something blades.
--Research mysterious items.
--Get distracted by shiny Internet.
--Remember half-pan of mud.
--Finish mudding.
--Clean up pan and trowel.
--Walk to other house to get paint for fancy new wall.
--Walk back.
--Realize I forgot tint.
--Walk back to other house.
--Notice plants down there look thirsty.
--Water plants.
--Get tint.
--Walk back to regular house.
--Realize I'm starving again.
--Eat lunch.
--Check email.
--Read new assignment.
--Research way too much.
--Start new article.
--Wander off.
--Mix new paint color.
--Return to article.
--Realize dinner needs to get started.
--Start dinner.
--Shower while things are simmering.
--Finish dinner.
--Eat dinner together.
--Ditch husband with dirty dishes
--Have chill movie-watching time with kid while also working on art projects.
--Notice kid has not washed hair in god only knows how long.
--Commence mild lecture about personal hygiene.
--Send kid to shower and bed.
--Continue art project while reducing titles in Netflix instant queue.
--Remember article isn't done yet.
--Find computer.
--Work on article in bedroom till husband arrives.
--Close computer.
--Shovel art crap off bed while he showers.
--Get jammies on.
--Get book out.
--Read approximately three and a half sentences.
--Notice utter exhaustion.
--Turn light off.
--Turn light on.
--Finish article.
--Turn light off.

If not now then when

Okay.

So, you know how sometimes you see a job listing for an article writer on craigslist and you think "I'm totally unqualified" but something about it catches at you, nags you, maybe the way the ad was written or something, and you leave it open in its own browser tab while you do your daily trifecta of email-facebook-reddit and then you go back and read it again; they want a grammar nut and you're definitely that plus they're asking for three writing samples so maybe those could get you hired even without experience if you're actually any good and if there's not much competition and it's kinda funny how lately you've been thinking about updating your resume anyway so, what the heck, why not today, what else are you really doing with your time and so you get everything out and spend the next six hours tweaking your accomplishments and polishing your degrees and adjusting fonts until it's all just so and the entire time you're thinking "Why am I doing this, I really need to mud that living room wall" but some whisper makes you keep going anyway, some insistent if not now then when and all day you keep re-reading that damned ad and you find yourself polishing up three writing samples instead of making dinner and you really wish your sister weren't sailing in stupid Puerto Rico this week so she could proofread everything for you and you think "Well it's not like I'm applying for anything right now anyway, just getting my resume in order, it can wait" and then you're spending another hour composing the perfect intro letter that's the just-right balance of funny yet professional yet casual yet definitely interested and hoping it's not too funny or too casual or too interested and then you're hitting send in spite of yourself and thinking "My god, what just happened here" and all of it without you ever consciously deciding to actually apply?

Yeah. That totally happened to me last week, too.

An hour after the guy got my email, he called me to schedule a phone interview. He offered me the job, pending a one-week trial period "Which in your case," he said, "will probably be just be a formality. I have a good feeling this will work out really well."

It pays almost nothing. Nearly enough to support us, if we lived in a third-world country. And it completely doesn't matter, because I can officially add 'writer' to that hard-won resume now.

I love my new life.

One True Thing

Dan & I went hiking with friends and dragged Miss G along. She ditched us on the return trek, ranging way ahead in her typical impatient way.

After a bit I thought I heard faint yelling over the high winds. I stopped walking, listened hard, checked my intuition-- yep, that was my kid. There was no pain in her voice, so I didn’t think she was hurt. But fear was there. Fear edging toward panic.

I wasn’t worried about not finding her; it wasn’t too hot and you can see for miles out there. She had water and common sense, plus Dan can rescue anyone from anywhere if needed. (God, I love that guy.) But hearing your kid in anguish and not knowing how to get to her is--- well, pretty awful. I should have a more eloquent phrase but it’s too yuck to dwell on long enough to find better words.

She popped up a few hilltops over. Seeing her body limned in desperation instead of relief, I realized she hadn’t heard us yelling back. We shouted louder, waved and screamed and jumped around, but the wind took our voices the wrong way and her panicked eyes skittered right past without catching.

We waited; she was facing us. Surely she’d see us any second. Annnny second now. We were so close. And she did start walking after a bit, but in a wandering way. In a lost and heartbroken, heartbreaking way. And in the wrong direction.

I caught up to her in just a few minutes. She didn’t see me until I was almost on top of her. She almost took me down with a tackling hug; she hasn’t cried that hard since the her first weeks in daycare. I held her tight and told her the same thing I told her then: “It’ll be okay, I’d never leave you, I will always come back for you.”

And it’s one of those moments where life folds over onto itself, and instead of twelve she’s not even two and we’re at daycare and she won’t let me leave because her dad left one day and still hadn’t come back and that was weeks ago so who knew what the world’s rules were now. Other kids cry with anger or loss when their moms dropped them off; mine screamed with terror. I’d say, “It’s okay, it’s okay” but she could hear that I didn’t believe it myself and just cry harder. I clenched my jaw and her shaking little body close, all anguish and hot tears tucked under my chin, both of us exhausted from our new lives and her new nightmares, next to tears myself because you can’t see your child in pain and not feel it yourself and knowing nothing would make this better, really, nothing would bring her dad back and everything was wrong so I just started chanting the only true thing I knew: “I will never leave you, I will always come back for you, every time, always, always” until her sobs slowed into regular-kid-at-daycare sobs, then I’d give her a last hug and a big false smile and say goodbye as if everything were fine and she’d finally let me go and sometimes I could make it all the way back to the car before I was in tears myself.  

And now, a decade and many lifetimes later, surrounded by sky and cholla, the wind whipping our voices out of our mouths and replacing them with hair, Miss G covered in tears and snot, I hold her the same way, taller than me in her hiking boots, tell her the same true thing.

And she cried a lot and threw up a little and we cleaned her up and took deep breaths together and she said she’s never going ahead of us again. But I know she will and I love that about her, love that she blazes ahead, eyes bright, machete in hand to slash new paths. And, as always, am amazed/flattered/mystified that this tough-as-nails child needs me at all when she is ten times more fearless and capable than I was at her age. Maybe at any age.

Everything in the world has changed, every bit of our lives, except that one true thing that remains within and above all else: that we two are always, always, always. And for always.

On Mothers’ Day, I celebrate my strong, amazing daughter. I thank her for making me a mama. We do whatever she wants to do, because it’s her day more than mine. She gave it to me, this best gift of all gifts.

Spring Shift

Spring scrambles my circadian rhythms.

I’m a Minnesotan at heart. Spring should be a time of opening, relaxing, slowing down. It’s relief after months of still, interminable cold. The light is lovely and gentle; warmth quickens the dead landscape, brings color to the white page. Spring is Summer’s herald, promising glorious months thick with lazy lake days and loon calls.

The spring sun promises nothing here; it’s this apologetic diplomat ushering in Summer the Tyrant. It foreshadows months of cruel, glaring sky uncompromised by clouds; even they can’t withstand Summer’s ferocity.

Desert spring is a speeding-up time. A race to beat brutality. It’s hard to feel positive too long in the spring with summer looming just behind. And dammit, feeling not-positive in the springtime goes against the natural order of things.

Spring used to be my waking-up time, time for pent-up creativity to explode out from under deep snowdrifts. Now it's my battening-down time. A bracing-against time. Summer is my time for hiding inside and waiting for the worst to pass, when I used to cram those days full to the hilt. I now dread sunshine and clear skies the way I used to dread dark months without one day above zero degrees.

No wonder I can't get on top of things here; even the seasons flip me upside down.

Total Loss Department

I called the insurance company about my car. They said, “Oh, that claim has been transferred to the Total Loss Department.”

That answers that, I thought.

The name ‘Total Loss Department’ hits me right in my sense for the ridiculous. I love it. I put a jokey status on facebook, something about the other things that might also reside in the Total Loss Department... certain ex-boyfriends... some college majors...

Lately this house has felt like it lives in the Total Loss Department too. It’s disheartening. We’ve put so much work into it, had such great plans-- and now we’re just selling it and walking away.

But being married to Dan keeps my pessimism in check. I started thinking, is anything ever really a total loss? I mean, the worst relationships at least taught me-- well, don’t do that again. The car’s demise gets me a check, after all. So, not total losses.

Leaving this house behind-- maybe that’s not such a bad thing. It has a lot of unhappy memories. It held all our awkward adjustments and growing pains. These walls are plastered with frustration; the yard is watered with tears.

Now I look at the new house with real relief. We're walking away from bad mojo and moving on to our unburdened, fresh start house. And better, we’re leaving as a family. We sure weren’t one of those when we moved in here three years ago. Clean slate. Blank check.

Reconnection Relativity

This past week brought two friend re-connections: Friend A and Friend B.

The last time I saw Friend A was a year ago or more. I ran into her at the grocery store last week and was happy to catch up for a bit. There’s no excuse for us falling out of touch; we just did. Still, it was nice to see her. She said she’d call me, but I don’t think she will. We don’t call each other. We don’t spend time together. Although we’re fond of each other, neither of us makes any effort to maintain the relationship. Nor does either of us seem to mind the other’s respective apathy about it.

Friend B is an old college friend I last saw about 12 years ago. The day she found me on facebook, I was too hopped up to sleep. (So, of course, Dan was not allowed to sleep either.) This is a girl I have googled countless times, tried to find any scrap of info that could lead me back to her. She now lives a mere two states away (conveniently en route to Minnesota!) and we’ve already made plans to get together this summer.

Friend B was part of my life for less than 2 years, and that was almost 20 years ago now. What on earth connected us so strongly in those few months that the 700 miles between us feels like next door?

And Friend A-- what is it that makes the 12 miles to her place feel like 700?

Connections are a funny thing, the people we choose to maintain relationships with versus the ones who drift away. Or the people you rediscover only to find that friendship was the product of a different time and place and has since dissolved into cobwebs.

Until this week, I didn’t realize that ‘relationship’ and ‘relativity’ share the same root, but I guess it makes sense. They’re both just a matter of perspective.

Gang aft agley

"Ooh, what doing now?" asks Peep from the back seat, the first positive chirp we've heard from her in about an hour. She does not like being contained in cars, has been very patient during our long drive.

"Now we're on the Milkshake road!" I say as we hit the exit ramp, because we're only a few minutes from her long-promised milkshake at Diablo Burger. And I'm stoked, cause after burgers we'll hit Sedona, meet up with Peep's dad and our parents and Dan and the girls and have a few fun family days hiking and climbing and eating really good food.

"Ooh, the Milkshake road!" my sister repeats from the passenger seat, as you do when there's a toddler in your midst.

And Peep answers something from the back as we enter the short underpass tunnel and I say something about the tunnel or maybe I only think about saying something but don't quite get it out because then I glimpse the sly sheen of ice in the dark just too late to avoid hitting it and the car loses all purchase and there is a solid thunk and maybe a second solid thunk and something wallops my face and there is full-tilt screaming from the carseat.

Then the car is suddenly, horribly still, headlights nestled slightly into a massive rock wall and I open my door cause I'm pretty sure there's going to be vomit and Peep is screaming and my sister is asking if I'm okay and blood is streaming down her face. Then she's handing me her phone, has already dialed 911, and I'm arguing with the operator who keeps asking me what road I'm on and I keep saying "Exit 195" and she keeps saying "But what road?" and I keep saying "We're not on a road we're on an exit ramp, we just exited I-40, Exit 195" and she tells me there's no mile marker 195 and I repeat that it's not a mile marker, it's an exit ramp and wondering what the hell is this lady's problem. Exasperated, she transfers me to highway patrol; they of course say "Sure, Exit 195, be there in a few minutes."

And then I remember to breathe. I thank God for airbags and carseats and for my blessedly calm and logical sister. Peep is okay, possibly bit her tongue (interviewing hysterical toddlers is an inexact science). My sister explains that she's not hurt; the lacerations on her face are chemical burns from the airbags. I've never heard of such a thing but she swears she's okay. My chin and jaw ache from their smash into the steering wheel, but no one is seriously injured (except my poor car) and there were no cars in front of us or behind us so we are, given the circumstances, blessed. The car is drivable enough, and the road empty enough, that I can move us safely onto the shoulder to wait for the kind, lovely policemen.

The hotel I booked (at the last minute because the weather turned too cold to camp) is literally less than a mile from the accident site; the tow truck dude puts us-- car and all-- up on his flatbed and drops us off. This is Peep's lowest point; she really wanted to ride in the tow truck and the disappointment combined with the car's incline while being hoisted onto the truck sends her over the edge. Once we were level again though, she sniffles and rallies, declaring "Dere's ghosts in dere" in an accusatory tone while glaring at the truck's cab.

We unload our things from the car and bid it farewell; Peep is extremely concerned that such a ghost-ridden and clearly untrustworthy vehicle is taking Mamie's car away. She has a real soft spot for my car. My sister reassures her that the car is going to the car hospital, but it's still very suspicious stuff.

My sister's husband (bless him) arrives at the hotel shortly thereafter and whisks his family off to procure protein for all of us & the milkshake for Peep. I have a much-needed good cry, and then call Dan. He's a couple hours behind us with the girls and the dogs. Driving separately was a last-minute change to save Sister & Peep flying back to Denver then turning around and flying out to Arizona two days later. I called him from the scene of course, in between police cars and tow trucks and things, but now I can tell him it's over, we're at the hotel and all is well. Considering.

"Honey, I know this isn't ideal, but at least you're all okay," he says. "And just think, if they declare the car totaled you'll can get a new one with a working radio!"

I do really miss my radio. "Well, there is that. Thanks, honey. I really love you lots."

"I love you too. Plus, I've been meaning to thank you for saving me hours and hours of work repairing your clutch."

Sister & family return, burgers & milkshakes are consumed, they depart for their Sedona lodgings and I call Dan again to tell him I'm exhausted and can't wait up. He says that's fine, he's only an hour away.

I wake up much later in the middle of the night and there's no Dan. No messages on my phone from him either. I call him, refusing to panic, reminding myself it's really stretching statistical probability that he, too, might have been in a car accident today. And I’m right; turns out he's a half-hour away, but the road's been shut down in both directions due to a car accident. He can’t get to Flagstaff or turn around and head back the other way to bypass the wreckage. They've been sitting there since right after we talked, about five hours. He and the girls are cuddled up in sleeping bags because it's winter here, and the dogs are tucked under blankets in the back. They have a well-stocked cooler and portable DVD player, so it could be worse, but it still feels like too much for one day.

Dan and the girls roll up in the wee hours. He carries them slung potato-sack-style over his shoulder, still wrapped up in their sleeping bags, tosses them on the bed giggles become delighted shrieks when he yells "STEAMROLLLLLL!" and proceeds to thoroughly roll them into the bed.

We look at photos of my poor demolished car and my sister’s poor demolished face. Our long day catches up with us. We settle dogs, turn lights off, exchange goodnights. We’re together and all is quiet. Then Dan says into the dark "Look at the stars, kids!" and we all crack up again. And then we sleep.

Thanks, God. All of that could have been so much worse.
Thanks, Miss G, for riding with Dan instead. I’d much rather have her stuck in the cold watching movies for 7 hours in the car than turned sideways talking to Peep at point of impact in mine.
Thanks, level-headed sister and resilient niece for their level-headedness and resilience.
Thanks, brother-in-law and his rescuing, protein-procuring ways.
Thanks, husband, for the perfect mix of support and humor at all the right times.

Okay. Back to our vacation.

Toddler Country

Peep's staying with us while her mom's off on business and her dad's off sailing in the Bahamas. Everything remotely resembling responsibility has taken a far back seat. It's Wednesday, and I'm just now getting around to my Sunday blog; that pretty well sums up the week so far.

Life with a toddler spins you into a different time flow-- you finish breakfast, get the kitchen tidied, get her changed and dressed, get yourself changed and dressed (if you're lucky)... and it's lunch time. But the day leading up to that point is so full of wonder and giggles it hardly matters that you can't figure out what happened to the last 4 hours of your life. 

Actually-- scratch that. Because it's not just the busyness of the day; it's the foreignness of visiting their world. Learning their customs... attempting to speak their language... understanding their ways and introducing them to ours. It's an anthropological expedition.

"Oh! Mamie! Oh no. What-- happint-- Mamie's pants?-- big mess dere..." was Sunday's concerned greeting. I explained I was wearing my painting pants; they were supposed to have paint on them. She seemed to accept that, but at infrequent intervals throughout the day I'd hear her mutter quiet reassurances to herself ("Dat-- mess-- okay... Mamie's painteen pants...that-- s'pose be... paint dere.") so I suspect she's still unsettled by them. She did, however, rally enough to point at one blop of paint and declare it a moose. "A moose.... in a bubble baff."

Everything mundane and drab turns magic and sparkly in the eyes of a toddler.

We have our hair-pulling-out moments too-- like when she refuses to eat her cottage cheese, sulkily declaring it 'too spicy!' Or yesterday, when our blood sugar crashed at the same time and we ate our tuna fish together in tears, both of us missing her mom fiercely.

But meltdowns are rare; overall she's a happy little thing, as long as we spend lot and lots of time outside. She's way easier than Miss G was at that age-- far less bossy and headstrong only intermittently.

And every minute is just so--- ohh, holy crap, I just realized I've been sitting here typing when I could have taken a shower.

Hidden Wings

Things are a little nuts. Again. Or-- still.

Dan's laid off, Miss G needs minor surgery, one of our snakes died. We roadtripped to Phoenix, Miss G wants combat boots, Dan needs 3 crowns, health insurance runs out at the end of the month, and I just filed my last week of unemployment. Two of our good friends started dating each other (to our delight), Dan's back is jacked up so all house construction is on hold, and I started my own business. Sort of.

Yet with all of that, and more I'm sure if I sat down and really thought about it (but let's not, okay?), I feel cheerful instead of stressed. Excited, even. Challenged in good ways.

Times like this growing up, we dubbed "Mr Toad's Wild Ride" after the now-defunct Disneyland ride. Ever been on it? It's insane. There's never time to get used to one direction; the entire ride is an amalgam of blindsided jolts to somewhere opposite and unexpected. All while spinning. And various illuminated creatures popping out of the murk-- cheerful creatures, I think, but still. It's unsettling and breathtaking and easily the most memorable ride we went on.

The ice is thin all right. The winding road gets twistier pretty much daily. But underneath, I keep hearing my sister's voice in my head. Whenever I do something  that leaves little Peep round-eyed and awestruck (like, make stuffed animals sing 'Should I Stay or Should I Go'), my sister bends down and whispers to her:

"Auntie keeps her wings hidden."

And I think of this poem by Victor Hugo a friend gave me last year, which has become my lighthouse:

"Be as a bird
perched
on a frail branch
that she feels
bending beneath her,
still she sings,

sings,

knowing
she has wings."

And I think-- I can go any direction I want. Deep chasms hold no fear, if you have wings. Even hidden ones.

Buried Treasure

My favorites stores are the ones where I have to dig for treasure. I love thrift stores and sales racks. I love the feeling of The Find-- you know, that perfect whatever that's 93% off.

But books, now.... it's hard to find a fun bookstore any more. I don't like the big chains; they're dull and soulless. I want the tiny, scrungy local-owned places with hardcover editions of my favorite out-of-print something or other. Preferably with all shelf space used up and the excess stacked up in wobbly piles. But of all the things Las Vegas has to offer, the just-right second hand bookstore is one that's missing. Or I just haven't found it yet.

So, most of my book shopping happens at thrift stores. Or sometimes ebay, if I hate the current editions' cover art (His Dark Materials) or the current (sacrilegious) order of a particular series. (*coughcough*Narnia*cough*). Mostly, I save my book shopping for when I visit my folks in Tucosn.

A block or two from their house, there's the perfect hunt-n-peck bookstore. I love it. My dad and I have a standing date to comb the sci-fi section whenever I'm in town. The whole place is about the size of my living room and kitchen combined and absolutely crammed with books. If they run out of room in one section, they stack overflow onto the nearest shelf. This leads to curious juxtapositions like Anne Frank ending up in True Crime.

I like to rearrange the books while I'm there. Not a lot, just-- you know, moving Tao of Pooh out of the children's section. Jonathan Livingston Seagull frequently turns up there too; sometimes I leave him, depending on my mood. Once I found him in animal books. Also: The Five People You Meet in Heaven is not a biography. The Historian does not belong in historical novels. And The Time Traveler's Wife is not sci-fi.

But the funny just adds to the whole experience. And finding a particular treasure-- a hardcopy edition of Illusions, for example-- is all the more sacred for the effort I put in. Just like everything else.

Cranky Joe (or, Save the Arts Program)

When Miss G is all fidgety, I call her Squirrely Joe. When she's bossy, she's Micro-Managey Joe. When she's off or withdrawn, she's my Sad Joe.

Today, I am Cranky Joe.

I was cranky on Sunday, so I didn't post. Figured I’d wait till I was less cranky, but here we are at Tuesday and Cranky Joe still stands in full force. Grouchy and surly with his arms crossed.

Among the contributing factors is discovering that my alma mater is axing their lone art history professor (one of the best teachers I've ever had, as well as one of the most continuously fierce student and art program advocates) and two other full-time visual arts teachers.

This possibly means no more art program at all at the university.

No more BFA is semi-understandable; it’s a springboard degree into graduate school and not much else. Not sure how useful it is in the grand scheme of things, even though I have my very own framed up on my wall. So if it were just that, I'd be grumbly but at least it would make some kind of sense to me.

But these cuts won't just amputate the BFA. They could very well sever the whole program. No more BA in Visual Arts for artists who want more variety and less concentration than a BFA. No more Arts Education degree training new art teachers to pass beauty and inspiration down to the next generation.

The Ed-Arts building will be oddly named just "Ed."

I understand budget cuts. I really do. I understand times are tough everywhere. But the arts program is not just a budget cut to me.

When Miss G's dad moved out, I lost the future we'd planned out together. I needed a new one, needed it frantically and as soon as possible. I found it at the college across the street. I uncovered solid ground when I thought none remained. The skills I learned there brought me to where I am now, having spent the last slew of years painting murals and wood grains and applying gold leaf in high-end Las Vegas casinos. Because of my degree and that program, I know how to market my husband's sculptures and helped craft his resume; he has works in office buildings now, and even had one of his sculptures accepted into our citywide sculpture walk.

I've had a bunch of different majors through my college career but not one of them was a home like the arts program at BSU.  And it's not just me. Those classes were a lifeline for every person taking them, pulling us out of whatever mire we'd landed in, lifting us out of dry days of academic lectures. Something to follow to a new life.

There's always someone fun in one of the studios, someone who brings a coffee maker to their work station and offers you a cup. Someone who takes a break from soldering or slapping clay around to give you a shoulder to cry on or bum you a smoke. Someone willing to help you stretch a canvas or help you light your show or hang posters. The professors there don’t just give you grades, they give you life advice and career direction. I have no idea if BSU has student counselors; I didn’t need one. I had art professors.

It’s not a program. It’s a community. It's a family. One I miss every single day.

My classmates went on to open their own pottery studios and galleries or continued to grad schools. They've won awards and been featured in books. They've enriched small towns, contributed to the diversity of larger ones. They've become teachers in grade schools and art therapists healing broken spirits. And that's just the ones I know about.

The arts program doesn't bring in the kind of revenue a hockey game does? Okay, I get that. Then brainstorm ways to make it more viable. Charge for gallery shows. Hold silent auctions. Bring in visiting artists. Scrounge up grants, shuffle priorities. Instead of keeping the arts program at bay like a red-headed stepchild, embrace it. Learn its strengths. Make it work for the University instead of ignoring it and hoping it’ll go away. Because it will eventually go away, and the school and surrounding community will be poorer for it.

In high school, we did this project where we had to invent a civilization. Each civilization, we were told, has universal elements. Things like a system of government. Currency. And one of the elements was art. I remember, because it struck me as funny. Currency, government-- sure. But art? Art as necessary to civilization?

Yes. God, yes.

Thanksgiving Curry

I almost had such a great post for today.

So, last time Miss L was here-- almost a full month ago, on Dan’s surgery weekend-- she asked me what the plans were for Thanksgiving.

“Well, I think you & your dad are going camping,” I said.
“Oh. So are you and Miss G going to Tucson?” she asked.
“Nope, she’s going to Florida with her dad, and my folks are going to Denver for Thanksgiving.”
“Oh! Well... what will you do?”
Be blissfully, blessedly alone for four whole days.
“I'm writing a novel,” I said.

After Dan drops her at the airport, he comes home and says, “Miss L doesn’t think it’s right for you to be alone at Thanksgiving. She wants to stay here and cook.”

“I-- what?”  No. No, no, no, no.

“Yeah, she asked me what my favorite dish is and said she wants to make it for Thanksgiving. So she’s making curry.”

Oh god. And I can’t say no. You can’t say no to your stepdaughter wanting to spend Thanksgiving with you. Crap. And I hate curry. He knows I hate curry. It is the only food I will not eat, other than “meat” from McDonald’s. I’ll have to somehow choke it down; I can't hurt her feelings. There is just... no way out of this. Or-- wait.

“Well-- if you guys are staying, I’d rather make traditional dinner. What about leftover turkey curry the next night?” While I go to a write-in somewhere.

“Oh, great idea! I’ll run it by her.”

The next week, he says, “Oh, I talked to Miss L about Thanksgiving. She’s really looking forward to cooking with you.” He’s all lit up.

“Cooking... wait, what?”

“Yeah, I suggested making turkey curry the next night, but she really wants to have curry as one of the side dishes on actual Thanksgiving.”

“Honey, that’s kind of a hassle. Curry is really involved, and our kitchen is ridiculous. There’s just not room for both of us to be cooking such different meals in there. If she wants to help with regular Thanksgiving dinner, that would be great. And then she can take over the kitchen the next night for curry. It would be so much easier for both of us.”

“Oh, well. I guess that would be easier. Okay, I’ll talk to her.”

[Disclaimer: Okay. Lest you think I am a total, total bitch for not wanting to cook Thanksgiving dinner curry with my stepdaughter, let’s discuss my kitchen. And, to a lesser extent, curry. My kitchen is galley-style, flanking two parallel walls. There is literally 26” between counters; I have to stand off to one side to open the oven all the way. In addition to the tight quarters, our crappy stove has three working burners, of which I will need four: gravy, potatoes, cranberries, and stuffing. Plus the oven. It’s already a challenge to cook Thanksgiving dinner in there without adding a whole extra person needing at least one entire counter and a fifth burner. And the curry? Miss L’s mom’s family is from Sri Lanka. When she says curry, she’s not messing around. This is hours of chopping, mashing, peeling, prepping, simmering-all-day traditional curry.]

The Tuesday before Thanksgiving, which is the day before her flight arrives, Dan says, “Well, Miss L couldn’t decide which curry recipe to make, so she’s doing two.” Ha ha! Two! What a delight. Dan is pleased as a full tick.

His cheerful oblivion is the last straw. I flip. Dan flips back.

He’s pissed that I’m not excited to have them here for the holiday. I’m pissed that he can’t understand it was important to me to write over the weekend.

He doesn’t understand why the curry is a problem. I remind him about the three burners, the 26 inches. I remind him that I don’t let anyone help with making dinner because two people in this kitchen is way too many.

He throws up his hands and says “You two have just built a wall! A WALL!” and I say “Oh my god, you think this is personal?” I tell him it has nothing to do with my relationship with Miss L, that I would feel the same way about Miss G wanting to make one (let alone two) really complicated dishes on that day. Let there be no mistake, I tell him, I am genuinely touched that Miss L thinks I shouldn’t be alone at Thanksgiving, and I am willing to figure out a way to make this work. But it’s still a pain in the ass.

Let's skip ahead to the grudging compromise portion of the argument in which we decide to take over his parents’ kitchen a few houses down; they’ll be out of town. Will Miss L feel exiled if we send her to cook down there? Possibly. To avoid this, Dan and I decide that I will cook regular dinner down there, and she can take over our kitchen here. Bonus: with no one home at the other house, I can bring my laptop and get the alone time after all. Win, win.

Except. Oh, right. His folks are installing new flooring, so all the kitchen cabinets are sitting in the backyard, along with the kitchen sink (and not in the metaphorical sense). So... maybe I can... wash the turkey in the... er, bathtub?

And wait-- okay, where do we eat? Load up plates at the other house and cart them back to our house and eat? We can’t eat at his parents’ because the dining room table is now holding up the microwave and pretending it’s a kitchen counter.

And is Miss L familiar enough with her dishes that she can gauge what time they’ll be done, so we can eat everything at one time?

I ask Dan all these questions. He suggests finishing the flooring real quick and getting the sink hooked back up. I say, “Installing kitchen flooring and a sink while I’m trying to make Thanksgiving dinner is the only thing that will make this day more ridiculous.” He says I’m a Negative Nelly. I say he skips right to the magical unicorn dust happy ending without any practical sense of how we get there.

Put us together and we break pretty close to even. This is why we’re good together.

I figure... okay. We'll figure it out. Whatever. Plus rinsing the turkey out in the bathtub and the whole curry thing will make a good blog entry. The only thing I’ve done this month is write, think about writing, or avoid writing. And once, dressed up like a fairy. God knows I could use some material.

So, I put my grouchies to bed and got ready to take discreet anecdotal notes.

And then. Miss L had the temerity to show up with a giant ziplock bag of frozen curry she already prepared at her mom’s house, thus neatly preventing any drama or interesting stories arising out of Thanksgiving day dinner.

Damn.

Maybe next year.