April 20, 2007

Sometimes

Sometimes things don’t go, at all,
From bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives, the crops don’t fail,
sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war;
elect an honest man; decide they care
enough, that they can’t leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best efforts do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen; may it happen for you.

-Sheenagh Pugh

April 19, 2007

things that go bump

I’ve had too many things crashing around in my head this week, the good and the bad and the horrific all bumping into each other in the wee little space that is my frontal lobe (or where ever it is that stuff you can’t stop thinking about goes to torment you). Today I have been Getting Things Done, which has involved a lot of phone calls and two trips to the grocery, and I’m finally feeling like I have the chaos in my brain contained.

Mostly.

This is in our front yard right now:

We had our inspection yesterday, and aside from needing a new hot water heater, we’re pretty much good to go. The very nice home inspector also solved the seven-year-old mystery of what the hell is going on with the damper on our chimney (the lever works but the damper doesn’t, which means that the flue is ALWAYS closed, which explains how we nearly burned the house down the first winter we lived here. Which was the last time anyone used the fireplace, come to think of it). We came in well under the contracted limit for repairs, and none of what we need to do is major, so barring any sort of Act of God, we should be free and clear and ready to close on June 4.

God help us if we’re not.

The inspection took over two hours and involved a whole house full of people either tromping around in their workboots (three home inspectors and a termite guy) or sitting at my kitchen table (both of my realtors and the buyer’s realtor) or wandering through my house with tape measures (the buyer and her sister and two friends). Everyone was very genial and pleasant but it was a long morning of PEOPLE EVERYWHERE, which was nerve-wracking in itself, but especially so on top of all the stuff in my head.

I’ve spend the past few days awash in the story of the Virginia Tech shootings, which has worn me down in a completely different way. Last night I listened to NPR’s interview with VA Tech student Clay Violand, who was in a French class where eleven students and a professor died. Violand talks about hiding under a desk with another student, a young woman who had been shot; he says “I was looking at her in the eyes most of the time when we were under those desks, just, kind of, staying human.”

Of the thousands and thousands of words that I have read and heard this week about what happened in Blacksburg on Monday, that particular sentence, that small reference to maintaining eye contact, to “staying human,” is the most powerful and sad and redeeming thing of all.

Tomorrow, Friday, is an official day of mourning, in Virginia and across the nation, for the 32 students and faculty who died Monday. Of course, what we’re mourning is more than just the loss of those lives; we’re mourning the loss of a way of life. The Virginia Tech Alumni Association is asking people everywhere to wear maroon and orange, in a show of solidarity with the students and faculty and families of Virginia Tech. But I think that what they’re really hoping for is a return to that ability to be human, to maintain contact with the people around us.

This afternoon the boys and I were getting ourselves organized after school; Henry had homework because, he told me, he had been distracted today and hadn’t finished his centers. After his snack, he got ready to do the homework, but first he wanted a piece of paper, “So I can write out my plan for the afternoon, you know, do homework, play, bath, computer time. Or maybe computer time and THEN homework? Or homework and then bath . . . “

“Why don’t we start with the homework and not worry about writing out a plan?” I asked him.

“But I NEED a plan!” he insisted.

I can see how he got distracted at school.

I convinced him to start the damn homework already and was helping him identify what holiday fell in what month and to underline the proper month on the worksheet when Charlie called from the bathroom. “I’ll be right there!” I said, not getting up from the table.

“Okay,” he answered, “but you might want to hurry because I had an accident.” We cleaned up the mess and tossed his underpants in the trash and washed our hands, and then I started a shower because that seemed like the best idea. And by now Henry was calling me because he was stuck on the homework again.

I left Charlie washing his hands (again, because you can never be TOO careful) and went to finish the homework and told Henry he could play on the computer for TWENTY MINUTES and not a SECOND MORE and went back to put Charlie in the shower and scrub him up. And when I put the nozzle down on the bottom of the tub, I sprayed myself from head to toe because I forgot to turn it away from me.

I got Charlie rinsed and started to fill the tub so he could soak and play, but now Henry was calling me again. He hadn’t waited long enough for the computer to finish it’s elaborate booting up process and had tried ten times to open IE and now the computer was locked up and all I could think to do was swear and shut it down and start over. And Charlie is calling from the tub and Henry is trying to grab the mouse out of my hand and I’m wondering if it’s too early for a stiff drink.

And then Henry put his arms around me and said, “Thank you for fixing the computer. I’m sorry I was impatient.” And Charlie starts yelling from the bathroom, “MAMA! COME BACK IN HERE! BECAUSE I LOVE YOU!”

All these things, crashing around in my brain. Or maybe in my heart; it’s hard to tell sometimes.

April 17, 2007

imagine the Flickr photo set

I remember exactly what I was wearing on my first date with Wade (oh, Internet, I really must like you because this? this is totally embarrassing): over-sized 50/50 mock turtleneck, white with yellow and orange pineapple print and elbow length sleeves; khaki mens shorts from the Gap, bought extra big to make me look extra small; ankle socks, not the low-cut ones, the kind that covered my ankle bones; running shoes, the ones I really RAN in.

Dear god.

The worst part is that I actually PLANNED that outfit, it wasn’t like I was cleaning the bathroom and Wade showed up at my door and said, “Hey, let’s get a burger!” No no, we were going to a party at my friend Kim’s house and I spent at LEAST an hour picking that ensemble out.

Dear GOD.

Fortunately, Wade is was fashion blind, and was overwhelmed by my fantastic personality and/or the free beer. But that OUTFIT.

DEAR! GOD!

Last week, I read Gigi Anders’ new memoir, Men May come and Men May Go but I’ve Still Got My Little Pink Raincoat, which appeared, at first blush, to be the Perfect Book. Anders opens with the story of the elusive pink raincoat of the title, spotted in the “Sunday Styles” section of the New York Times and shopped for with a kind of mind-numbing intensity (despite the fact that it was sold out in stores and on line, Anders finally tracks it down in Bellingham, Washington, ordering it in both medium and large, just in case). She meticulously plans out what she will wear it with: white tee, black capris, “black leather ballet flats with quilted black patent leather tips across the toe box.” Ah, yes.

A vaguely Gallically gamine ensemble that I’d still be proud to wear twenty years from now. That’s the secret. Always ask yourself: “How mortified would I be if I saw myself in this outfit, say, post-menopause?”

I can understand that kind of devotion, frankly. And it didn’t hurt that one of my favorite pieces of clothing is a pink Gap raincoat. I was ready to love this book, particularly since, in the early pages, Anders does a very smart reading of why, precisely, the pink raincoat was such a hit at that fashion moment. She talks with fashion editors and stylists, and sets up the relationship between a single piece and the culture at large.

And then she drops that completely to focus on her conviction that the key to a successful relationship is the Perfect Outfit, that clothes can change who you are, that love is just a little pink raincoat away.

Little Pink Raincoat is puffed as “a little Coco Channel, a lot Carrie Bradshaw,” and yes, it does bear a passing resemblance to Sex and the City. Except that for Carrie, the clothes were about the CLOTHES, and women’s relationships with one another were the bedrock of every day life. For Anders, the clothes are about transforming herself into someone she isn’t, into whomever she thinks her current love wants her to be, and her life revolves entirely around the men she is romancing. In the pursuit of true love, Anders shops for clothes she doesn’t need and can’t afford; more than once she talks about getting out her Emergency Visa to pay for shoes or a dress. The structure of the narrative is such that you know every relationship is doomed, and THEN you’re left worrying about how she’s going to pay for the clothes.

Or maybe that was just me.

I remember what I was wearing at a huge range of important moments in my life, but not because I thought that what I was wearing made those moments important. The really important moments in my life happened on days when I was doing other things, not planning what I would wear. The day Wade proposed I was wearing stirrup pants and a cardigan sweater with flowers embroidered on it.

Dear god.

Skip Little Pink Raincoat; pick up a copy of Sex and the City instead (the book, sure, but keep in mind that the video has the clothes AND Chris Noth). And now, redeem the hours that I spent reading yet another book I don’t like and tell me about YOUR fashion faux pas. Pick a transformative moment and confess–stirrup pants? men’s shorts? EMBROIDERED CARDIGAN?

It can’t just be me. CAN it?

April 16, 2007

keep the change

Yesterday (god was it only YESTERDAY?) I said that shopping for furniture makes me crabby. That seems weird even to me, because I love to shop. And who doesn’t like shopping for FURNITURE? NEW furniture, even, that no one has ever wiped their hands or their nose on! I should be in heaven, and instead I am crabby.

All yesterday afternoon, Wade kept dragging out the Ethan Allan catalog ($18.95 retail, but once you’re in the store they GIVE it to you for FREE, which makes me wonder who on earth actually BUYS it) and asking me to look at dining room tables and sideboards and club chairs and sofas. I wanted to smack him in the head with the gigantic 900 page catalog. Then he picked up a Pottery Barn catalog and started flipping through that, and I thought I might cry.

Because NO MORE FURNITURE! Furniture is stressful! Aaaaagh!

And then, last night, as I was lying awake at three am (yes! really!) I had a revelation.

I don’t like change.

I’ve been trying to remember the last time I felt this stressed out, and honestly I think it probably was when we moved here, seven years ago. And before that it was probably when we moved to Tacoma from Columbus, in 1997. I like the idea of moving, I like that we’re going to be in a bigger house in a nicer neighborhood, I like that we will get nicer, new furniture that is not designed for children to jump on (that’s what playroom furniture is for) but I hate that so many things are changing.

How stupid is that?

I look at all this beautiful furniture, in the store and in the catalog, and I look at the furniture we have here, and I can’t imagine where everything will go or what it will look like or where I will SIT for god’s sake and I get all worried.

The realtor just put a CONTRACT PENDING sign in my yard, which oddly makes me feel a little less stressed and a little more peaceful. As long as Wade stays far from me with those catalogs.

April 15, 2007

what I did this weekend

Yesterday, I laid down to rest while Wade took the boys to get a movie. You know, just for a minute or so.

I woke up three and a half hours later. I spent the entire time I was sleeping having the same dream over and over: I was various places (the beach, the mountains, behind the wheel of my car) and could NOT keep my eyes open because I was so tired, despite the fact that falling asleep would mean IMMEDIATE DEATH (by drowning, falling, or crashing) for me and my kids.

Apparently, I was tired. And stressed out. Go figure.

After I woke up, in the inevitable bad mood (napping makes me crabby–remember that if you ever think DUDE IT WOULD BE SO FUN TO GO ON VACATION WITH SUSAN!) I agreed to go look at furniture, for the new house. Which also makes me crabby, although I don’t know why.

And we took the kids. To Ethan Allan! CRABBY! SO VERY CRABBY!

Wade has been insisting that we need to get a SOLD sign in the yard; he is threatening to make one himself if I don’t call the realtor and ask for a proper one. In return, I am threatening to tape a FOR SALE sign on the back of his suit when he leaves for work tomorrow. Every time a car slows down in front of the house he yells, “SOMEONE ELSE IS LOOKING AT THE HOUSE! Should I run outside and tell them it’s SOLD?”

And I say, “Yes, but tell them they can take YOU home with them.”

I think I need to go back to bed.

April 12, 2007

not a matter of life or death

When I was growing up, my dad would point out that something I was in a tizzy about was “not a matter of life or death.” And I would think, whatever, old man, you just don’t get it.

Of course, he did.

I’ve been on the phone all day today with my realtor, trying to work out some acceptable terms with the people who want to buy this house. They have made us a really good offer, but there were a few things that we were still hashing out, and when I had to say yay or nay to it, all on my own, I panicked a little bit, because it seemed so HUGE deciding about selling the house ALL BY MYSELF. Which I wasn’t really because Wade and I have talked and talked and talked about this, over the past couple of years and couple of weeks and all of last night and . . .

But still, I panicked. Because that’s what I do.

Wade was in a lunch meeting today, and had left his phone in the car. I find this insistence on NOT carrying his phone everywhere both endearing and irritating; I love that he’s not that guy who wears his Bluetooth to the library with the kids, as though at ANY MOMENT he might get The Call and will need to cut short an afternoon outing to go save the world, but I also find it incredibly frustrating that sometimes, when I need to ask a Really Important Question (like, will you stop at the beer store?) I get his voice mail.

Today, after my third (fourth?) conversation with our realtor, I called him twelve times in twenty minutes a couple of times and cursed him for going to a MEETING and leaving me to be in charge of the wheeling and dealing. When he got to his car and saw that he had missed my twenty calls, he called me right back and said, “What’s up?”

“Do you have five minutes?” I asked. “Because I need to tell you all of this at once before I totally freak out.”

“Sure,” he said, “go for it.”

So I started babbling about the offer and the counter offer and the counter COUNTER offer and the house and the money and the housing market and keeping the damn bathrooms clean and the stress and . . .

And when I was done, Wade said, “Take it. It’s a good offer.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he said, “I’m sure. Take it. I feel good about it.”

Wade and I have been together for a long time; long enough that when I throw one of my hair brained ideas at him, he is able to tell me why he thinks I’m wrong in a way that is honest and kind and constructive. He is also able to give me confidence when he thinks I am right, to point out the pieces of any decision that are on target. All of this makes him a good balance to my crazy.

I felt better after I talked to him, but I was still waiting to hear from the realtor, and I was still waiting to feel the calm setting in. On the way to get Henry, there was a train stalled across the road; we came back a different way, only to find THAT way blocked as well. And across the train tracks, stuck in the stand-still traffic, was an ambulance, with the lights on, also stuck in traffic. And I wondered if someone in the ambulance was waiting to get to the hospital, or if there was someone down the road waiting for the ambulance to show up.

And I thought, it is a good offer. And it’s not a matter of life and death.