July 2008 Archives

Five years ago:

Thursday, July 31, 2003          

Don't read if you are squeamish.

At 4:30 this morning Lexy sat up in bed, said, "I'm hungry," then leaned over and puked a good gallon or two onto the floor. The carpeted floor. I got things somewhat cleaned up with a bottle of Febreeze because I couldn't find the carpet cleaner. The sprayer on the Febreeze was broken, so I just dumped a bunch on the carpet and now it doesn't even smell at all in the bedroom. Yay!

There was more barf, of course. While Lexy was heaving he was crying about how much he'd loved that burrito. Nathan, who I thought was done with this on Monday, started screaming from the bathroom that he didn't make it in time and that he had diarrhea. Cleaning the mess on him and the floor took lots of strategic planning and many paper towels and there was bleach involved. Willow woke up during this time and played on the bed long enough for me to get the boys in the bath.

I've been taking care of little ones for almost seven years, and this was the worst of the worst. Looks like a movie marathon/laundry party at our house today. At least it seems cooler. I hope Sophie doesn't start throwing up. Hope I don't.

Two and a half years ago:

Sophie

One year ago:

BlogHer Chicago

Six months ago:

Love

Two weeks ago:

I am walking down the street in the early morning cold of San Francisco, catching a last calm breath before the chaos of the conference begins.  The sky is the same grey as the sidewalks, the buildings.  I am headed back to the hotel with two cups of coffee, one for me and one for Jenny.  For the first time in a long time I think about how much I wanted to live in San Francisco after going to college here for a couple of years.  For a minute I try it on for size, pretending that I'm walking to work, which I actually sort of am.  I don't know if it's the ocean, the way the buildings are, or some invisible energy, but the light is always different here than it is anywhere else.  The sunrises and sunsets have a warmer orange, thicker.  Even the shadows seem made of felt.  I don't want to regret anything because that would mean keeping one foot behind me when I really need to be moving forward.  I do, though, just a little bit, regret never steering my path so that I could land here.  It then occurs to me that in about thirteen years my kids will all be grown.  Really I will be able to live anywhere.

Today:

I am so goddamned uncomfortable.  The antibiotic I'm taking for this stupid ear infection, one I have taken since I was a little kid?  I've developed an allergy to it.  I have hives all over my back, on my left shoulder, my upper arm.  They.itch.so.badly.

I also feel a little sick to my stomach and lightheaded.  Mostly, though, I just want to rub sandpaper all over my back, or take my shirt off and scootch around the carpet and take care of this itch.

I am going to go home and take some benedryl, snuggle with my kids, and eat some chips.

One of my favorite yoga instructors (T) taught class last night.  He brought an iPod full of (mostly) eighties music to commemorate his birthday, and it was damn near impossible for me to not sing along with The Alarm and Simple Minds.  Would have wrecked the whole breathing thing, though.  Anyway, there was a fair amount of Name That Tune going on during class, and near the end he went over to the stereo thing to change the music, saying, Okay -- if ANYONE gets this next one, I will buy them a case of beer.  You have about three and a half minutes, but I know that nobody will know this.

To which I said (in my head, because I was doing the breathing thing) Game on, dude.  Bring it!

So, the music starts and about three notes in I was all, DOOT DOOT BY FREUR!  AND I LIKE EXPENSIVE BEER! Jen, FTW!  Har.   

The look on his face was priceless, cliche as that is to say.  Really, though, we ended up going three minutes over our class time because we had to shoot the shit about Freur for a moment in class.  It was funny and I don't know that I have ever impressed anyone quite so much except for maybe that one time when I gave birth in my living room.   

After class, T and his gorgeous ladyfriend who was rocking the 1940's starlet look in all the right ways, and the studio founders and a few other students all went out to dinner.  I got to know a couple of women that I had seen around the studio before much better and totally stayed out chatting with them way past the time I was supposed to go.   It was nothing big, but it was really, really fun. 

Much more fun than right now.  Right now I am sitting here with a very itchy bumpy rash on my back, a little bit nervous that I have suddenly developed an allergy to the amoxicillin I'm taking for my ear infection.   The other antibiotic I'm allergic to gives me hives on my chest, but maybe I'm so screwed up lately that this rash just *thinks* it's on my frontside.  I think I'm going to go chug from the bottle of liquid Benedryll and get some freaky-dreams sleep.  Here's a little Freur for you.  If you didn't spend a chunk of your time as a teenager driving around with your sunroof open and a menthol cigarette in your hand while blasting this song then you'll most likely not be anything close to captivated by this incredibly 1983 video.  Enjoy!

I'm sitting at my desk eating lunch and working on several things at the same time.  You know Kamajii from Spirited Away?

I wish I had his arms.  (You can't see, but he's got a few extra.)

I was rushing when I wrote out my to-do list today, and I think the thing on the bottom might say "headrub for wednesday."  Awesome.

On Saturday at 6 (evening) I loaded up my van with pillows, sleeping bags, food, booze, clothes, toothbrushes, and five kids and went over the hill to Gwendomama's for the very most rawkin kid birthday party ever in the history of ever. 

It's so beyond great to be in a place where I can let my kids go. There were lots of kids there, and I could see mine huddled in different groups, by the swingset, on the trampoline, at the jump off for the zip line, talking to other kids with no adults hovering and moderating and influencing.  My kids don't get much unsupervised time and I think that that part of their upbringing sucks.  We just don't live in a place where I can let them get far enough away from me safely. 

They stayed up past midnight, racing around in the dark with glowsticks, dancing, clapping when the band played songs they knew.  At one point when the sun was just about to go down, Willow asked me to go up the hill with her to sit on the swing up top.  The bass player came up and we talked for a minute or two before he went back down the hill.  As he walked down, he said, Any second now the bats will come out.  Not three seconds later, they appeared, fluttery and quicker than birds.  Willow and I watched them in the sky until it got dark, until the stars got thicker and the bats disappeared. 

We slept in a VW van, Nathan, the girls and me on the queen sized bed on the bottom, Lex and his buddy C on the bed in the popup top.  We woke up to a gorgeous blue day and buttery sunshine.  I cuddled with the kids and listened to them say over and over how cool this was and how fun and I realized I couldn't remember the last time they fought.  And even though I am swamped with work and should be digging my way out of it, I just needed to write the littlest tiny piece about that moment because I need those shiny toe holds to climb up out of this place I've fallen into.

Huh.  Maybe someone will start a Worst Metaphor in a Blog Post Award and send me a button for my sidebar. 

Ghost @the museum
Originally uploaded by jenijen

Last Sunday I finally got to see the Frida exhibit in San Francisco. It was crowded, especially considering it was only ten on a kind of cold Sunday morning. I loved that so many people were there, pressing right up to the ropes, whispering (or not) to each other, pointing, marveling, reading the square little stories by some of the paintings. I feel like she lived and died with such wanting and longing. I have to believe that the love and wonder of all the people who adore her touches her in some unfathomable way. Or, you know, maybe I'm projecting just the smallest bit.

My favorite part was the walls of framed (and sometimes scribbled on) black and white photos. And the maybe thirty second video looping on a television against one wall.

I'm writing from my phone, waiting in an emergency room.  I've been here an hour, not been checked in, and now my phone battery is about to give it up. I'm okay. Just have another fucking ear infection and don't want to wait to deal with it. I brought the new issue of The Sun, but looking around I think I should have brought a fat novel instead. I am tired of realizing that hindsight is 20/20.

Look! It's an update!  From my computer and not my phone.

I finally got called in to get registered and, I like to think, because I was such a straight-shooter with the nurse: here's my history in less than a minute, here's what's wrong now, all I need is two minutes with a doctor and I'm gone, the nurse said she'd ask one of the doctors to quickly see me so I could go.   And, I scored and was out of there WITH my medicine three hours after walking in the front door.  I'd be asleep now if I wasn't such a dumbass that I gave away the vicodin from my last ear infection.  I'm hurtin and so I am having a gin&tonic before I get in bed to help me not care.  I should have been more stingy with my narcotics: sharing is overrated.

It was odd driving home with this ear infection really starting to kick my ass.  I've dealt with this type of pain all my life but it never gets easier.  It's not like you can elevate your eardrum or not walk on it or something; it just really and truly hurts and it's impossible to not be 99% to 100% focused on that fact when it's at its worst.  I was remembering times when I was a kid and had to get shots of penicillin in my butt.  There was a time not too long ago that I had to wait overnight to go to the doctor and I remember that the girls were in the bath, and I stood there in the bathroom with my eardrum ruptured and disgusting, crying and rocking back and forth and going to the kitchen to sneak shots of the Jack Daniels that I'd bought to make whiskey-spiked biscotti, which were totally awesome, btw.  Tonight I drove home the long way, because I spaced and missed the freeway.  The long way took me past the hospital where both the boys were born.  So long ago, but not really.  Along the way a good old fashioned migraine got hold of the line of muscles between my ears going over the top of my head, and I saw stars in my peripheral vision.  I stopped singing along with my iPod and said, Oh, HAI, migraine!  U kin go now kthxbye! And then I laughed because my head hurt so bad that it was just funny.  Only not. 

And now I'm home and dosed up on antibiotics and drinking booze on an empty stomach in hopes of a night with at least a little bit of sleep.  Maybe this time my eardrum won't actually rupture, but I'm not too hopeful because it's doing those crackly staticy sounds that always come before things go south on me. 

I'm honestly not thrilled about starting the week this way.  Life's been a little bit uphill in the snow both ways lately and frankly I'm not interested in adding painful illness to the List of Shit, you know?  I know better than to complain, though: complaining about shit is just a roundabout invite for more and I'm seriously good with what I've got going at the moment. 

I miss laughing and cracking jokes.  I need to take back the funny.

I'm sitting in the red oversized chair in my living room with a strong cup of coffee.  The pot of coffee is still brewing, making those wet grumbly noises and almost drowning out the sound of my neighbor's violin.  (Hallelujah Chorus)  The windows behind me face east, and it's pretty early; clear sunlight is coming in and settling on the sleeping bags and flip flops and back packs still sitting out from the kids' return from their camp sleepover. 

It was a really long week.  For all of us here.  For varying reasons.  Friday afternoon I was at my desk at work and my cell phone started buzzing.  It was Nathan, wanting to know if we could go out to eat at our favorite place. 

I stayed at work until almost 6, alone in the office listening to the construction guys in the space next door and their incessant hammering.  When I got home, the kids were strewn about the living room, tangled hair, barefooted, in dirty clothes.  Getting ready to go was a nightmare.  I was in raging bitch mode and I was mean with the hairbrushing and I was impatient and I said over and over how this was a bad idea and we should just stay home.  I made three of my kids cry because I was being mean.  At one point Sophie and Nathan were in the bathroom with me so I could do something with their matted, ratty hair.  I looked in the mirror at their disappointed faces and even though I knew I was being horrible, I just kept right on, threatening to cut their hair really short if they couldn't be bothered to brush it.  It was Friday night and I hadn't seen them since Thursday morning and I stood there not understanding why I couldn't just be nice.  I don't even know now.

Nathan didn't want me to come to dinner with them.  He wouldn't talk to me for awhile.  When he got near me I pulled him close and whispered in his ear that I was sorry.  He stood there stiffly, not answering, still angry with me.  I'm sorry I brushed your hair too hard, I said.  It wasn't fair of me to do that.

Getting out turned out to be a good idea.  We found a table outside and squeezed two extra chairs around it.  We were cramped but happy.  I listened to the kids tell me about their week at camp.  About tie dying shirts and climbing rock walls, sleeping outside, hiking, campfires and singing.  They were silly and happy, the crappy twenty minutes we'd just had at home totally forgotten. 

We walked down the street to a gelato place, and sat outside again, this time near a guy hanging out playing his guitar.  He started off with one of my most favorite songs ever, Folsom Prison Blues.  (Bet you wouldn't have guessed that, huh?)  Then he played Don't Fear the Reaper and Crazy Little Thing Called Love.  We sat at our table, the kids getting ice cream all over themselves, all of us dancing in our seats, the kids loudly singing along.  When they realized that the guitar guy had a cup out for money they swarmed me for cash.  I only had a dollar or so in change, and John had maybe a dollar, but they were so happy to be able to go up to the guy and say hello and drop coins into the cup.  As we were leaving I ducked back into the cafe for napkins and the guitarist was there in line.  I hope your kids liked the songs, he said.   Oh, we all did, I told him.  Especially the Johnny Cash.

I am so damn sad.  Sad like as in I have that feeling like I'm about to cry all the time and if I breathe wrong suddenly, tears come.  So sad that it feels like my heart is outside my chest.  Or just missing.  Like I have glass bones and no skin and my whole body is about to be as broken as my head. 

At least I haven't lost my flair for the dramatic!

Cause, you know, that would be so sad!

The girls like to watch Free to be You and Me and you should see me sprint out of the room whenever Rosey Grier starts in with his song about it being alright to cry.  That said, it is fascinating to see Michael Jackson sing about being happy with himself no matter what he ends up like as a grown up.  Just sayin.

There are some not-bloggable things happening in my life at the moment.  I just spent an hour wringing out a post, a long one, word by word by word, and then I lost it somehow.  Funny, because it was just a bunch of stuff that I CAN say, but was so hard to put into words.  Right when I got it and went to publish, it was lost.  I'm thinking of the time when I was a kid and I was shaking a mercury thermometer down below normal so I could take my temperature again.  I had a pretty good fever, and I was fascinated with seeing how hot my blood was.  I hit the thermometer on the couch cushion and it broke, spilling the mercury onto the floor.   It's like now that I wrote that stuff all out, things are shifted enough for it not to apply anymore and I can't even begin to rewrite it.   And that analogy doesn't even make sense except for it does to me and one of the things I wrote about before was how I write this blog for me (so I can remember the small moments of these blurry days) and for my kids, f-bombs and all, so they can see their childhood from another angle.  Also?  I said they can go to therapy when they're grown and be all, My childhood?  Here you go! and hand over a laptop.  Heh.

One thing I did write about is one of my yoga instructors who always starts her classes by saying a version of this: Breathe, and settle into your own good company.  I'm just over here trying to do that.  It's good.  I am a kick-ass listener.  I tell funny jokes and I have an open heart, even if it letting it be that way can sometimes hurt enough for it to feel barely worth it.

You will love righteously and stupidly and with all the poetry of your body.

God, do I ever love women who can write like this. 

I have two options freeway-wise when I go to and from work.  101 is this gritty, intense, skinny-laned path of concrete that I call the Grown Up Freeway because, to drive it during busy times takes some balls.  Steel ones, even.  280 is lush, wide, relaxing -- honestly one of the most gorgeous drives around.  It unspools through hills of live oaks, cows, wildflowers, and water.  The mountains toward the coast are close by, and you can usually count on at least a little bit of fog to be hugging the peaks, looking for all the world like it's trying to decide if it wants to come over the hill or stay near the ocean. 

The office building I work in is so close to 101 that I can see the cars and trucks from the window.  It's probably as far as a baseball sails from home plate to home run.  To get from my office to 280 is a 20 minute drive over surface streets with speed traps and stoplights. 

I know it's not sensible, but I'm a 280 girl.

Driving on 280 reminds me of being ten years old and coming to California for the first time, sitting in the cab of a Ryder truck between my mom and my brother, my brand-new step dad driving.  It was April, and the hills were bright green.  It was long ago enough that there were orchards and cleanblue sky.  There was some of that thick fog over the hills, different hills than 280, hills that gave me goosebumps and made me elbow my brother to tell him that it looked like we were driving right through pages of The Hobbit, and that it looked like where Smaug lived.  It looked like what I thought Scotland would look like. 

I'm not a great driver.  It's too much for me to have to process all that crap coming at me all at once.  When I was seventeen I crashed my Audi because my friend in the passenger's seat told me to check out the cute guys in front of the stereo store.  That said, in college I drove a little gold sports car with a sunroof and I took it down to southern California a few times.  Driving over 100 miles an hour on an arrow straight road appeals to me still, even though it seems like such a counterintutive way to enjoy being alive. 

Right now I am in my living room in my PJs.  The windows are open and it's a little cold, which is nice.  Lex is on the computer, John is having breakfast and reading the paper.  Coffee is brewing.  Willow is asleep in my bed.  Nathan is standing by Lex, talking about candy, and Sophie is right near me, wrapped up in a striped blanket and trying to make a ring that is too big stay on her fingers. 

I love my job, but I still hate driving away in the mornings.  Especially in the summertime.  I miss my kids.  This sounds weak, but part of the reason I take the long and relaxing road to work is that my energy is drained from so much wanting.  I can't tackle the grown up freeway unless I'm really motivated and want very badly to get where I'm going.  280 is a soothing drive.  The cows cheer me up for some reason.

Sometimes you have to disregard the map and find your way by listening to yourself.  The hard part for me is figuring out if what I'm telling myself is solid advice.  I'm about to go totally off the map.  I'm holding my breath a little and waiting to see where I land.

I love my emoodicon ring.   I have the kitteh AND the robot, which is really fortunate since my moods tend to run all over the place faster than I can figure them out.  My friend from London once said (after flying to San Francisco, performing at the Great American Music Hall two nights in a row and then going out to dinner with a big group of us) that she was absolutely shattered.  I didn't fly anywhere, but damn I feel the very same way. 

I want to write (online and off) about so many things from the weekend, but just thinking about the task of moving my fingers over the keyboard makes me sleepy.  I found out at the last minute this morning (because I don't check my email enough!) that all us BlogHer workerbees get a work from home free pass today, so I'm camped out in my living room with two computers, a latte from Peet's, open windows and the sound of my neighbor practicing the violin.  I hope that one doesn't move away before I do.

At the BlogHer conference in 2006 I met Karen Walrond and she gave me my first ever (and really only ever) paid writing job over at Blogging Baby (now Parent Dish).   She opened up so many opportunities to me, but she also did something else for me; she told me that I am beautiful.  For whatever reason I have struggled (understatement) with my self confidence all my life.  Partly I am terrified of coming across as conceited.  I'm constantly looking at myself and seeing failure, ugliness, ineptitude, and awkwardness.  I still beat myself up over something I accidentally said to someone else TWENTY years ago.  I set such impossibly high standards for myself that there was no chance of me ever feeling comfortable about how I am in the world.  It's been an excruciatingly slow process, but I'm finally getting over it and embracing the parts of me that I used to hate.  It's exhausting to be mean to yourself all the time.  Seriously.  Over the past couple of years, Karen has made a huge difference in my ability to be kind to myself, just by being kind to me.  This weekend I saw her in the hotel near the elevators with her camera around her neck.  I want to shoot you! she said.  I said, Will you do it right now?  Because I'm totally overwhelmed and done. She laughed and said, Not SHOOT you, shoot you -- I want to photograph you.  I'm doing a project on beauty and I have to include you. 

I don't remember the rest of the exchange because I was too busy trying to not cry. 

The next day we caught up with each other and dashed off between panels to a room with a good window where she took my photo.  I was hung over and tired and hadn't eaten in too long and had zits all over my face, but for once I totally didn't care. 

She asked me what makes me happy, and after a moment I said what had immediately come to mind: Finally having a little self-confidence.  Because, while it's true that there are a lot of happy things around me that I can point to and say: that, that makes me happy, finally starting to love myself and be my own friend is making all those "thats" magnified.  Feeling good about myself is brightening the overall picture.   I totally recommend it for anyone considering. 

All that said, a couple of things happened this weekend that made me feel like a complete and total dumbass.  It's a lot less terrible, though, to find myself thinking that I've done something stupid as opposed to thinking that I am stupid.   It's a small difference.  And an immeasurable one.

The BlogHer conference was amazing this year.  It felt like 2005 again to me in lots of ways, only much bigger.  It was also overwhelming, and more than once I had to go up to my room and just get into bed, covers over my head and all.  And, for an extroverted extrovert, that is sayin something. 

I went on the Shutter Sisters photowalk, following Karen Walrond and our awesome SF (totally was too dense to get her name) native through the streets and alleyways of Chinatown. 

She was amazing, pointing out buildings that used to be brothels before the earthquake and keying us in to the fact that the fortune cookie company would let you in to take photos for fifty cents or a dollar.  I'd have gone in, but I don't have a good flash and it was dark in there.

One of my favorite things, my favorite non-conference things, was getting dressed in the hotel room in the mornings with Jenny.  We put on music and made coffee and took all the time we wanted to shower and sit on the floor by the mirror putting on makeup and talking.   I've always been made happiest by the little things in life, which comes in handy when the big things get rough. 

It's going to be one hell of a long week getting back into the usual routine of my life.

I've been out of conditioner for the past few days and so I've been using some of the kids' stuff.  I might switch to theirs because it's pretty great to be sitting there doing whatever and get a whiff of grape bubblegum and think, Hmmmm, what smells like HubbaBubba?  OH!  It's my head!

The kids started their third week of summer camp yesterday.  They are spending their days outside in a redwood forest on a mountain.  They swim and hike, paint their faces, make bracelets, sing songs, climb trees.  They come home covered in dirt and sweat.  The first week and a half or so they'd also be a little sunburned despite the constant sunblock applications, but now they're just getting more and more brown.  I hug them at the end of the day and they smell like summertime.  They are so worn in the evenings that they are almost mellow and will just stretch out on the floor watching videos or reading a book.

If I am honest, this is really hard for me.  It's the first summer that I haven't been a part of.  They've made dozens of new friends, learned how to climb up ropes and ride a zipline between redwood trees.  Willow's learning how to swim.  Sophie will put her face underwater now.  At the end of the day she wants me to wiggle her lose teeth and tell her when they'll fall out.  I grab onto her teeny little tooth and move it back and forth and remember that those top teeth came in when she was six months old.  Wasn't I just running my finger along her gums feeling for them to come in?

I keep typing and deleting because I can't get what I want to say to not be clumsy.  The thing is, I know that they are having a really lovely summer.  The sort of summer I want them to have.  If I were home with them we'd have fun in our own way, but it wouldn't be this magical, kid-centered, electronics-free existence of creeks and dirt and lizards and campfires.  Summers at home tended to feature me trying to find something to keep the kids occupied so I could do stuff around the house and keep the kids out of the kitchen long enough to clean it.  Outings were a pain in the ass because one kid was still pretty little, another would get upset and bolt across parking lots, somebody always had to pee when there wasn't a bathroom, and on and on.   So, okay, me not being here with them has allowed them to go off and have a proper kid summer.  What kid wouldn't pick a zip line over making homemade popsicles as the highlight of the day? 

And then there's me.  For as much as I desperately miss my kids, I love having myself to myself again.  Love it.  Lex will be twelve this fall, and since I was twenty-six my focus has been on my babies.  That's not a complaint; the very best days of my life were the first few weeks after each of the kids were born.  Except Willow, because that was too scary, but still.  I am happiest with a brand new baby curled up on my chest and sleeping: it's just how I am wired.  I chose to focus on them all this time.  But now that I also have a life that they are not a part of, I am not completely focused on them.  And it is as nice as it is painful to be away from them this summer.  How, I don't know, but I miss them and am relieved in equal parts.  It isn't that I don't want to be with them.  It's that it's nice to just worry about myself again.  Another way that I seem to be wired is that I feel no end of guilt over enjoying the breaks I have.  (Are they really breaks if I am mostly at work during them?) 

Like I said; clumsy.  What I am trying to wrap my brain around is how this summer that is breaking my heart in two is actually good.  The kids are thriving; I am soaking in the stillness and calmness of not being in charge of them all the time.   Still, I can't help but feel sad and like a bit of a failure that it takes me being removed from the equation for them to have this summer that they'll always remember so happily.  I just wish that the summers when I did have them that I'd have been more present and done better by them.  I wish I knew it wasn't going to last.

Wow.  I am wound up so tight if I were to trip on my shoelace I'd probably go sailing up over the treeline.  (Does that even make sense?  Who cares, really?)  A long time ago I used to have two jobs (barrista in the morning, waitress/restaurant manager by evening) and go to school in San Francisco, which was 57.5 miles from where I lived in the Santa Cruz mountains.  Back then gas was about a dollar a gallon and I drove a Mazda RX7 (with a sunroof, natch) so the commute was just a scenic drive with good music. 

And, you know, I thought that I was SO busy, and that from then on out, my life would be more manageable and less hectic.

Let me take a moment to laugh at that silly young girl who had no idea she was simply honing her busy skills for a lifetime of bouncing around from task to task like a panicked pinball on speed. 

I've got a list of ShitToDo that is, literally, longer than my arm.  The BlogHer conference is this week, and I'm admittedly one of the shallow and vain ones who feels the need for new shoes and sparkly toenails and all that.  I'm not going up to the hotel until Thursday, but I'm going to begin packing tonight because the week ahead of me is so jam packed with ShitToDo that it's now or never.  I shouldn't complain, because lots of my list is fun stuff.  Shoe shopping?  Bring it!  Pedicure?  I know!  You are calling the wahmbulance for me this very minute.  I guess this busy is of the mostly exhilarating kind.  Honestly, I prefer life this way.  I've always been a candle at both ends kinda person.

It's all fine, so long as I don't burn out.

Right now, if I were willing to shell out the 93 bux and show up with a chin covered in huge and gory zits, I could be at my 20th high school reunion.  Instead I am sitting in bed in my PJs with an adult beverage and my hair in pigtails.  Kinda like high school, actually.  Except I think I was afraid of the pigtails back then.  Actually, looking at my tank top, I realize that I was in high school when I bought it at the army surplus store in something like 1987. 

Um.  Maybe if my tank top is old enough to legally drink I need to shop for clothes more often? 

And, maybe I skipped out on this reunion (that I totally thought I'd go to) because I just don't want to accept that it's been twenty years since I was in high school.  It scares me that the next twenty years will slip by even faster.  Then, another twenty and I'm just about done.  If I'm even that lucky.

We spent the day with one of my all-time most favorite families.   The kids got so tired that they were mostly asleep by the time we pulled into the driveway.  I'm that tired, too, but I needed some kid-free time and so here I am, staying up too late.

Gwendolyn did a pre-BlogHer meme thing, and I am totally going to copy her.  Here goes:

1. When you looked at yourself in the mirror today, what was the first thing you thought? wah
2. How much cash do you have on you? $17
3. What’s a word that rhymes with DOOR? nevermore
4.Favorite planet? mars
5. Who is the 4th person on your missed call list on your cell phone? my brother
6. What is your favorite ring tone on your phone? Going to Queens (by the Mountain Goats)
7. What shirt are you wearing? German Army tank (blue)
8. Do you label yourself ? nope
9. Name the brand of the shoes you’re currently wearing? barefoot. was in rocket dog flipflops all day.
10. Bright or Dark Room? dark
11. What do you think about the person who took this survey before you? I think she's incredible, and I'm lucky to be her friend.
12. What does your watch look like? it looks like an iPhone
13. What were you doing at midnight last night? sleeping.  hard. 
14. What did your last text message you received on your cell say? Hey there!
15. Where is your nearest 7-11? I have no idea. 
16. What's a word that you say a lot? dude
17. Who told you he/she loved you last? my kiddos
18. Last furry thing you touched? cat
19. How many drugs have you done in the last three days? beer, gin, & vitamins
20. How many rolls of film do you need developed? Six or so, belonging to the kids
21. Favorite age you have been so far? six
22. Your worst enemy? my poor self esteem
23. What is your current desktop picture? a dandelion puffball. i took the photo at the park
24. What was the last thing you said to someone? i left the sliding door open cause it's stuffy in here.
25. If you had to choose between a million bucks or to be able to fly what would it be? $_$
26. Do you like someone? yep
27. The last song you listened to? Guster -- Empire State
28. What time of day were you born? Four thirteen am. (or so)
29. What’s your favorite number? four. or maybe eight.
30. Where did you live in 1987? San Jose, CA
31. Are you jealous of anyone? duh. yes.
32. Is anyone jealous of you? Nope
33. Where were you when 9/11 happened? at home.  seriously thought the world was ending based on the phone message I got. 
34. What do you do when vending machines steal your money? kick them and curse
35. Do you consider yourself kind? mostly
36. If you had to get a tattoo, where would it be? i have one on my hip and another on my back.  next would be my upper arm or shoulder
37. If you could be fluent in any other language, what would it be? spanish
38. Would you move for the person you loved? i cannot even think about moving at the moment
39. Are you touchy feely? probably
40. What’s your life motto? make it happen
41. Name three things that you have on you at all times? Dr. Pepper lip gloss, iPhone, jewelry
42. What’s your favorite town/city? barcelona (san francsico, too)
43. What was the last thing you paid for with cash? a taco
44. When was the last time you wrote a letter to someone on paper and mailed it? last Thursday, to my grandmother
45. Can you change the oil on a car? yep.  but i don't
46. Your first love: what is the last thing you heard about him/her? he accidentally texted me and said, "dinner tonight?" (was meant for his current date)  he's doing well, i think
47. How far back do you know about your ancestry? 1600s or earlier
48. The last time you dressed fancy, what did you wear and where did you go?  i wore a red velvet dress to a book reading a few weeks ago.  it was at a restaurant in redwood city that is also an antique store.
49. Does anything hurt on your body right now? the back of my head
50. Have you been burned by love? oh, probably. whatever.

So for Mother's Day this year I helped my mom set up a blog.  As so often is the case, coming up with the title was the hardest part.  Her first choices were taken, so we kept reframing things until we came up with Vielle Femme.  Now, in theory, that is the French equivalent of crone. 

So far, so good. 

Except.  I made a teeny mistake.  It's not v-i-e-l-l-e femme that means crone.  It's actually (I think) v-i-e-i-l-l-e femme.  Lose that second i and you become Hurdy-Gurdy Woman rather than Crone.

Uh.  Whoops?  But, all things considered, not a terrible thing.  The hurdy-gurdy is undeniably cool.

Then, I made a banner for her out of one of her photos.  It's installed, but it still has the stock Wordpress text in there and I haven't figured out how to get that out.  (Halp is welcome, even though I have a lead I haven't done it yet.)

Anyhow, despite all that, her blog kicks ass.  Click on over and say hello.  You KNOW how good it feels to get comments.   

You know that story about the starfish washed up on the beach?  It goes like this:

A woman is walking on the beach early one morning, like she does every day, and she sees that during the night, thousands and thousands of starfish have washed up on the shore.   Maybe even a million of them.  The beach is covered, for as far as she can see as she looks down the coast into the fog.

Alarmed, she begins to pick the starfish up, one by one, and throw them back into the ocean.  The sun rises in the sky and gets hotter.  She tries to work faster, because while the starfish can be out of water for a little while, she knows they'll die if left on the land.  With the sun directly overhead, she stops and holds her hand up to shade her eyes; the beach is still a solid swath of starfish. 

Up on the trail not too far from the beach, a runner comes into view.  She realizes this is the first person she's seen all day, and so she decides to ask for help.  Before she can get the words out, the runner stops and looks at the starfish and then at the woman, "I don't know why you are bothering with that," the runner shouts to her.  "There are too many!  You can't save them all!  There's only one of you and there are thousands and thousands of them.  There's only one of you, you can't make a difference."

The woman looks up at the runner on the trail.  She keeps at her task while she answers, "Well, that is true; I don't think that I can save them all.  Most of them are probably going to die."  She turns away from the runner and toward the sea as she throws in another starfish, "But I sure did make a difference to that one."

So, I bring this story up because I'm hoping that you'll help throw some starfish back into the water.  I've been emailing with Reese Butler of Hopeline.com, and Frank Warren of PostSecret about helping them get the word out that Hopeline (you might also know them as 1 (800) SUICIDE) needs to raise as much money as possible, as quickly as possible, to remain privately run rather than government-controlled.  (Watch the video on Hopeline for the full story.)

If a whole big bunch of people would donate just a few bucks, it will make a huge difference to the people who pick up the phone looking for help.  I'm really committed to helping with this fund raising effort however I can.  If you'll donate, even a dollar or five, and leave a comment, I will match your donation.   

You can also help for free, by writing about Hopeline or by going to the site and watching the video there and running it on your blog. 

I would bet that all of us know firsthand, to some degree, about suicide.  A boy that I was head over heels in love with in high school killed himself.  I still have the textbook cover that he wrote his phone number on one day after school.  The guy who sat next to me in biology class shot himself after school one day.  I've visited friends in the psych ward after suicide attempts, received a suicide note in the middle of the night via email from someone very close to me but out of state (who pulled through and apologized profusely the next day).  One of my closest and longest term friends (however you'd say that) attempted suicide before we ever met.  I grew up with a guy who jumped off the Golden Gate bridge.  I went to the memorial of my friend, Dale, who hung himself on his birthday.  I saw how his wife and his two tiny little boys, who looked just like him, were crushed and broken with the pain of losing him.   I rode to and from Dale's service with a mutual friend of ours, Andrew, who spoke at the service.  I remember that he talked about how for most of us, when things are awful and dark, we've got a light at the end of the tunnel.  Something; whether it's faith or love or hope or responsibility or whatever, that inspires us to keep on until things get better.   But, Dale didn't have that light.  It was just dark for him, Andrew said.  One of the women that I got to know through our blogs attempted suicide last year, and I'm so grateful that I will get to see her next week.  So very, very grateful.

Even with all that life experience, and more, I've been there.  I've been depressed enough that my thoughts scared the hell out of me.  I got help.  I am so very lucky to have that light in the dark.  I talked with Reese Butler on the phone last week.  He told me the story of losing his wife and why he started 1 (800) SUICIDE.   He's making light for people who don't have any.  I think that we can all find a few bucks to contribute.  I think we can throw a few starfish before we walk on down the beach, you know?

Wow, am I ever in a bad mood.  I threw a tantrum tonight.  I didn't stomp, but I did slam the front door and say through teeth so clenched that my jaw is still aching, I am really, really, REALLY mad. 

THAT showed them.

To bad I couldn't think of any Mr. Tisms to throw down.  Like, for instance, this one:

I don't even know what my problem is.  (Well, that's patently untrue; I know several reasons that I'm cranky, but I'm sure as hell not going to blog about PMS and zits, or the angst of being born on the cusp of two very different astrological signs.)

Anyway, I mostly got over myself and made burgers and fries for the kids even though it's 90 degrees in our house and fries meant that I had to turn on the oven.  Actually, burgers meant standing over a hot stove and, well, flipping burgers, which is also not enjoyable in the heat.  I don't like getting splattered by hot grease, either.  Thank maude for gluten free beer.  I'm cringing because part of my tantrum was to dramatically skip my yoga class, which on top of being a ridiculously stupid thing to do (it's the not going to yoga that makes me crankier than anything else) is just obnoxious as hell.  At least the way I did it was.  It's somekind of twisted, faux-martyr, oh poor me crap.  Tomorrow I will not miss, and maybe I'll sneak in a Wednesday and Thursday night class just to be on the safe side.   Yoga is my mood stabilizer.   Plus, I don't think anyone here wants me around for the next few days anyhow.

Had my date with the (quite handsome) cardiologist this morning.  He ordered me an ekg, which took all of two minutes and came back abnormal (like the last one I had) but he says that it's fine.  (If you're interested in that sort of thing, I have flipped Ts, which is also what your ekg shows if you've had a heart attack.  I didn't, though; I just have a wonky heart.)  The persistent lightheadedness is probably because my blood pressure is low.  I have orthostatic hypotension, but I get lightheaded just sitting around thinking or whatever. 

He also told me that the weird veins in my arm are maybe just how it is from now on; or maybe I need a little more salt or water (or both) in my diet.  He says it's not related to me feeling like I'm going to faint.  It's remotely possible (but he really thinks not, and I think not even moreso) that there's an obstruction (a blood clot) somewhere, or there's an even smaller chance that it's something worse, which he defined only as "exotic," because why worry over nothing?  Basically, we talked for almost an hour (!) and he showed me his support hose. 

It was a pretty good date.

I'm going back next month so he can watch me run on the treadmill (his idea and phrasing) and do an echocardiogram before and after exercise.  He gave me his phone number and email, but I'm totally not going to call.  Instead I'm taking Jenny's advice and playing hard to get. 

I'm a little bit nervous because I have a date tomorrow.  He's a doctor.  A cardiologist.

I still have the achy Hulk Veins in my arm, and whenever I lie on my back (I had to look this shit up even though I was at one time a technical writing major, if you are stuck on the lay/lie thing, here you go) I feel like the left side of my neck is puffy.  Like maybe the arteries there are acting like the veins in my arm.   Turns out that if your doctor sees you and agrees that you do have the Hulk Veins on your arm but notes that you don't have rillybadpain or redswollentenderness then she will say, Meh.  It'll get better on its own.  But, then, if you send her an email and you're all casually, like, Heeeeeey, yeah, so it feels like there is a band around my upper arm and I'm still lightheaded and, you know, like, WHAT SHOULD I DO?  then she will sigh and roll her eyes and have the secretary call and get you a visit with the cardiologist just to shut you up. 

Whatever.  I'm freaked out enough to take it.  Honestly, even if this isn't dangerous, I want it to go away because my arm is a freak show.  It's embarrassing to have these protruding veins in my arm and omg, on the back of my hand.  I just want it better.

Then today I came down with a weird-ass rash on the ring finger of my left hand.  Nowhere else.  It's like a bazillion little itchy dots, just where my wedding ring would be if I wore one (I'm allergic to mine, so it's in my jewelry box).  But I haven't worn my ring in a long time, so it's not from that.   I'd ask the doctor about it tomorrow, but I am sure that he'll just shrug his shoulders at me and tell me to not worry about it.  I'm not, worried about it that is, but it itches like hell and is making my finger look like a lizard tail.  Between the reptile skin and the Hulk Veins, I'm feeling not so cute, ya know?

My friend Jen Downer put up more shots from our photo shoot in May.  She's the best and if you're anywhere near Portland, you need to hire her.  Thank me later ;)

After the ten years I spent operating with a huge sleep deficit, I never thought that I'd have trouble sleeping when the kids were big enough to mostly not need me in the night.  I was wrong.  More often than not I don't really get going sleepwise until a couple of hours before I have to get up.  I'm not looking to complain about it, because, honestly, who cares?  I think, though, that weird sleep is the reason I have such funky dreams.  I won't blog about them, because dream blogging makes peoples' eyes glaze over, but you should know that I've been having some totally bizarre dreams and one of them took place in a German cafe that served coffee in cups that were as big as halved bowling balls.  That was just too awesome to keep to myself.

Yesterday I had an odd task on my to-do list: take a photo of myself in a face mask, smiling.  I learned a few things during this particular photo shoot, and I thought I ought to pass them along so that if you ever find yourself needing to get a face mask self portrait you can benefit from my experience.

• unless you have recently bleached the everlovin hell out of your teeth, do NOT let them show when you smile
• the above may not apply if the facemask is blue or green or something other than so-white-it's-nearly-blue, but do think long and hard before you go there
• a little visine is handy for not looking jaundiced or stoned
• I'm not saying you ARE jaundiced or stoned, I'm saying that when contrasted to that blinding white facemask, your eyeballs might need a little halp
• if you cover your eyebrows with the face mask stuff in an attempt to disguise the fact that they are wildly (and I do mean wildly) unlevel, you will look not like someone who has such bad adult acne it leads to weeknight alcohol consumption frequent facemask applications, but instead exactly like someone from the set of Dawn of the Dead
• the above realization may cause you cry a little, especially if you have a hard time with horror movies, or if it makes you remember that Sarah Polley was in the most recent DoftheD and she was also in The Sweet Hereafter.  if The Sweet Hereafter doesn't make you cry, you need to seek therapy
• you can never go wrong with pigtails, but nine times out of ten it's best to keep em low
• take a bajillion photos and do it before the mask hardens. not a one of us needs extra wrinkles, but we all need options
• stand in front of the mirror, point the camera at the mirror, and then look into the lens
• think about a funny IM string with Jenny.  be sure not to recall one of the funniest ones, because that will more than likely lead to peed pants and a not-smile on your face.  you want to be about to break into a big smile, not fighting with your own facial muscles
• if you have never IMd with Jenny, you are missing out and should take care of that straight away
• keep. your. chin. up.  (even if you're looking down a little.  yes, you can)
• that applies to any photograph.  if you don't ever have to worry about a double chin I don't want to know you.  nothing personal
• not looking dead-straight on is probably your best bet.  this is triply true if you've got an asymmetrical face like I do
• keep that stuff off your lips.  it tastes incredibly nasty

Okay.  I am off to make some supper out of yesterday's organic and local produce delivery.  Then Willow and I will wait for the sun to set so we can go light the sparklers that the big kids' dad gave to her.  She's very excited and I'm totally into the photo opp.

************************************************

later that night. . .

**updated**

Thursday morning all the kids went to camp with John (where he teaches and they attend) and I went to work.  Sometimes on Thursdays they all sleep over, out in a big field on the grass and under the stars instead of in tents.  Last night was one of those nights, and then they stayed at camp all day long today and I didn't see them until 4:25 this afternoon.  They arrived home sunburned, smelly, dirty, and exhausted.  Five minutes later the big kids' dad and his fiancee arrived to take the kids out to see an old friend's band perform at a park in San Jose.  After Lex washed his feet in the bathtub and I found clean socks for Nate, they were set to go.  Except for Sophie.   Sophie had on clean clothes and a fresh coat of sunblock over her sunburn, her hair was in braids and she had shoes on.  But, she couldn't stop crying and she wouldn't let go of me.  I held her in my arms, standing on the front porch, and she clung to me, burying her face in my neck and shaking with sobs.  She couldn't even speak.  She just couldn't go knowing that she wouldn't see me again until Monday night.  We decided that she could just stay here for the night, and that I'd drop her off at her dad's house in the morning.  After they drove away, Sophie and I sat on the couch and she just hugged me, still a little shaky with all that effort of crying so hard. 

I need to be with you, Mama, she said. 

I suggested that we go out for dinner.  So we did; we went to our favorite place and ordered the same things we always do.  When Sophie had eaten all of the salmon she could, she came over to sit in my lap.   Can I have a sip of your juice? 
No, I said, it's only for grownups. 
What will I look like when I grow up? she asked me. 
Well, I think you might look a little like me.  She made a face.  Huh, I said, does that worry you?
Well, no, she said, but your hair is black and mine isn't. 
That's true, I said, your hair is much lighter.  But your face looks kinda like mine. 
She put her hands on my cheeks and said, Oh goody, cause you are hotter than July!

It's so hard sometimes, this whole split family thing.  I get along really, really well with the big kids' dad, and I honestly, sincerely love his partner.  She's awesome.  It's not easy, though, for the kids to have to move back and forth between our households.  The rules are different, the lifestyles are different, the houses are different.  With me working full time, I feel like the time I spend with the older kids is so rare.  It's still jarring one year into this (the full time job) because for almost ten years I was with them whenever they were here.   Today I was looking at a bunch of photos of the kids and I realized that I wasn't around for any of it.  I didn't recognize some of the other kids in the pictures.  I feel like a fucking stranger sometimes.  But, I do have my girls here with me tonight.  They're just out of the bath and are stretched out in the living room, watching some of the new movies we scored at the closing sale of the video store we used to always go to.  When it gets dark we'll wander outside, to see if the guy a few houses down, the one with the boat, has fireworks again this year.  And maybe we'll stand in the dark street, covering our ears, laughing nervously at the booms, keeping an eye on the sky for the occasional firework display.  And I will watch their faces, like I always do, while they take it all in, cementing the memories that they'll carry with them and bring out like treasures someday when they're grown.   

Okay -- now it's a little later and we're back in from walking around our neighborhood.  The guy with the boat did not disappoint.  His display this year was quite impressive, and we totally cheered and yelled as the bottle rockets exploded over our heads.  I got hit by a few chunks of firework crud, and I did have to stomp out a couple of embers on the lawn, but it was so fun anyway.  I went outside in my cowboy print flannel PJ bottoms, a tank top, flip flops, and a beer, but it was dark so we walked over to the junior high field anyway and watched the far-away fireworks.  The moon was perfect, a low and huge sliver of a crescent just on top of the houses and trees.  When the girls got too cold, we walked back home, and now we're all in my bed.  The girls are giggly and making butt jokes, (Sophie just said to Willow, You are made out of balls!  Men's balls!  You are a salted turd!) and the fireworks are still exploding outside.  We're all done, though, and are going to try to get some much needed sleep. 

Happy 4th.  Here's to freedom.

This may shock you, but I very rarely have the house to myself.  I know!  Ha. Ha. Ha.  Anyway, tonight I DO have the house to myself and I have no clue how to use my time.  It seems that I've forgotten how to just be, which is not a good thing to discover. 

It's not that I can't sit still, or that I am bored, it's just that coming home to an empty (but holy hell, so very, very trashed) house leaves me a little disoriented.  I guess it's the possibilities that have me all discombobulated.  I could do yoga to music that no one here but me likes; I could cook myself an awesome supper; I could take care of all my hand-washable clothes, or watch a movie without being interrupted.  Or read -- I could read!  I could make phone calls, pay bills, balance my checkbook, catch up on email, knit, sew something, have a kegger, go to the beach by myself, rearrange the furniture, steam clean the carpet, or go for a walk.  I could read blogs. 

So far, I used my time by stopping at the pharmacy after work, collecting the mail, standing over the  kitchen counter to eat dinner directly out of a take out container (was good, tho - grilled tofu topped with roasted zucchini, portabella mushrooms, roasted garlic, and pesto), opening a beer, and IMing with one of my most favorite human beings in the whole wide world.   At this very moment I am downloading music from iTunes, figuring out which pj bottoms and tank top to wear, and trying to decide if I should deal with cleaning the bathrooms, the kitchen, or the living room first.   I need to vacuum, change all the bedclothes, clean the duckweed from the washer and dryer (sore subject, don't ask) and then wash some clothes.  I think it's hilarious that all of that sounds relaxing to me, simply because it's quiet here and I can just chill and do stuff at my own pace with a beer in one hand and loud music on the other.  (I don't know, just go with it.  It's only a figure of speech.)

I'm sure that I'll miss the kids tonight.  Every night, or just about, one of them comes and finds me to snuggle.  A night or two ago Willow got in bed next to me and said, Mama, turn your head toward me, please.  I need your cheek.  I don't even know if she was really awake, but it was funny how formal her request was.

My grandmother on my dad's side raised five children, though they were more spread out in age than mine are.  She is always telling me how much she misses the noisyness of them.  The mess and volume and energy.  How quiet her house is now that all the children are long gone with grandchildren of their own.  Now that my grandfather is not there with her.  Enjoy this time, she says to me, I know it's hectic and tiring, but some day it will be very quiet.  Too quiet, and you'll miss this all so very much. 

I know I will. 

It's a little after 6 a.m.  Sophie just came into the living room, rubbing her eyes and telling me with a froggy little voice about the bad dream she had.  (A baker killed her and dipped her in chocolate and she never, ever, got to see me again.)  She really shouldn't be up just yet, but she's not interested in going back to bed so while I'm up getting coffee I toss her a leopard print blanket and she curls up under it on the couch, asking for a movie.

I'm crouching down in front of the tv, looking through the drawers of DVDs for Shrek the Third, when I realize that today is my brother's birthday.  My little brother, who is somehow turning 35. 

Maybe because it's so early, or maybe because I'm still not getting enough blood to my brain, I'm hit with a memory that totally envelops me: J and I are little kids, in the living room of our old apartment in Texas.  I can see the layout of the room perfectly, the Three Stooges in black and white on the TV, and J, curled up and petting the sky blue satin trim on what's left of his blue blankie.  J and I used to get up early on the weekends, before our parents, and turn on the TV.  I was only six or so, but I'd make us cinnamon toast or instant oatmeal, and we'd get all set up on the coffee table, facing each other and having to look to the side to watch our shows.  I remember my dad running out of the bedroom one of those times; the time that I got too caught up in Larry, Curly, and Moe (and Schemp!) and forgot the cinnamon toast and smoke poured out of the oven while the alarm beeped. 

I'm lucky.  My brother is one of my very best friends, and I *love* his wife.  I even forgive them for moving to another state, and for the times that I started crying in the middle of Trader Joe's because I thought I saw him across the store and realized just as I was going over to hug him or punch him in the arm that it couldn't be him, that he's somewhere else now.

Happy Birthday, J.  I love you.  You're a kick-ass uncle, an amazing man, an incredible friend, and the most patient free tech support on the planet.