This how it happened, I'm pretty sure

So the cavemen were all hanging back at the cave one day.  The women had gone off to forage berries and the men were left in charge of the children. It wasn't unusual that the men were with the kids because back then the women had so much more work to do. Weaving intricate baskets, molding dinnerware from dust, grinding herbs for the medicine. Food, clothing, most of the shelter making.  All women.

Nothing simple, like say, knocking an animal over the head and dragging it back to the cave.  Which what the cave men did.  Primarily.

So the cavechildren are running amok.  Driving the cavemen nuts.  And one caveman says/grunts to another.  "Man, this kind of sucks."

And they all go on to grunt/agree that watching the children is the hardest of all of the work.  But what to do? After much deliberation they came up with a plan. "We'll tell them THEY are better at it."

"But that's ridiculous!" One of the men shouted/grunted."The women are emotional. Sensitive. These kids will run all over them. We're MUCH better at it."

This man was immediately clubbed to death.

And that, my friends is how it all began.

Sabbatical's over

Brewing something up. Grab your favorite mug and stop back in. You know I like my coffee and my humor a little darker, so I'll skip the sugar.

See you in a bit.

But! On the bright side...

So just a few days after we got home from the funeral-Thanksgiving combo Girlie got a fever. Took her in and the ped said she probably had a virus. Waited it out the full five days (no school, no leaving the house, five days of house arrest) and took her back in. One trip to the afterhours clinic and two x-rays later, we had a diagnosis of pneumonia.

Yep.

But! On the bright side... waayy back in early November (because it feels like a year ago) I had gone to a wine sale and bought a case of wine to give as Christmas gifts to my neighbors. So now I am drinking the gift wine. See how good I'm doing? The world through wine colored glasses!

I know. Don't say it.

Helms Deep

Yesterday a friend texted me to see if I needed anything. My father passed away several weeks ago and I've received many of these messages - emails, texts, phone calls. And really, it is hard to know what to say.

For the most part, we've got it covered. Hubs has been amazing with the kids and extra help on the homefront. Our neighbors have rallied around, even stocking the fridge when we returned from the funeral. Work has been lovely about giving me some time, even during the busiest time of year. Life is moving along and we're all settling in to this new reality without my Dad. But then what do I need?

I need everything to stop, even for a few minutes, the whole world still so that I can be quiet and think. I need to understand the incomprehensible. There must be a way to wrap my brain around this, but there just isn't time. Not in early December, just before the holidays. Not with a sick kid at home and preschooler to shuffle around. Not with piles of laundry and dinners to cook. Not with work to catch up on and more arrangements to be made for the burial in a few weeks. Not enough time in my lifetime, so the world spins on. Just as it should. And I need something impossible.

This week Hubs and I have been staying up late geeking out with the Lord of the Rings on dvd in several hour chunks. Last night was the second movie and my favorite part of the entire series - the epic battle of Helms Deep. Men, women, and children flee to a fortress in the mountain, sensing ambush, but moving forward anyway, going to the only place they can think of.

Like taking cover down in the basement in front of a movie when you've got a million other things to do. The illusion of safety, at least for the moment.

Lessons

Recently, Little Guy walked in on me trimming my eyebrows with a tiny pair of scissors, or as I like to call it, getting the Italian out. He asked tons of questions and though I tried to explain about the scissors near the eyes and the need for a grown-up and that he should never ever do this himself and that he would probably never need to do it, I could see the wheels turning.

He ran off to play and I thought - well, that was a mistake. Add that to the list of mistakes I have made so often as a parent. Sometimes innocently enough, but still.

Then the other day I heard this report on NPR. The piece was not about parenting, it was about Syrian politics, though one could say that both are equally chaotic (or at least I might say it). This reference is not in the text, but during the broadcast when the reporter asked the interviewee about mistakes, he corrected him and called them lessons. This struck a chord with me.

So I'm not making mistakes, I am making lessons. I think, for now, I'll go with that. And hide those little scissors too.

Living the dream

Since the passing of Steve Jobs we've all been blasted with snippets of his wisdom, the most famous (or viral) of which is a commencement address during which he encourages us to live our dreams or some crap like that. No denying the guy was a visionary. No denying that he changed all of our lives. For that, I admire the guy. But do I actually want to follow his lead?

Would you be willing to make people cry at meetings? Steve Jobs did. Or to give up having children? Oprah. Or to lead a life that is a complete contradiction to the image you sell? Martha.

The question isn't whether we're willing to follow our dreams or to pursue what makes us happy because really, we all are. The question is - are we willing to do it at any cost?

For most of us the answer is no, not at any cost. So we end up with our ordinary lives. And that's really okay. Even admirable.

The mind is a terrible thing

I had no appreciation for the mysteries of the brain until a few years back when I wound up with chronic insomnia. Once I got it into my head that I couldn't sleep, I actually couldn't. For around a year and a half, I survived on three to four hours a night, sometimes in two to three small naps.

The worst part was, the more I tried to think it through, the worse it got. For the first time ever, the brain that I had always relied on was actually working against me. It blew my mind. And sort of changed my personal philosophy forever.

Anyway, I am hyper-aware of how the brain can convince us of things, even when we should believe otherwise, even when all evidence points to the truth, the opposite of what we've gotten into our heads. Or on our heads.

Which brings us to lice.

Ha! You didn't see that coming did you?

So one of Girlie's friends has lice, poor kid. Of course, both Girlie and I have been itching ever since the mother sent the message. I've checked Girlie over many many many times. Nada. But still, here we are. Itchy. Just got a lice update email from the friend. Itchy to a new level.

And then there is my other friend who recently commented, half seriously, that she had been wondering if she had some sort of auto-immune problem. She's been feeling run down, achey, cold symptoms, etc. Her brother died over the summer, so the illness is way more likely to be grief sickness, depression. But the terrible brain, such as it is, goes to the worst and most evil idea first.

It makes me wonder though - can I harness these crazy thoughts for good?

If only. For now I am googling homeopathic lice cures.

Just in case.

Date night

Nope not talking about date night with the Hubs, though my friend recently commented that the Mr. and I have been going out a good bit. I told her that we'd been weighing our options and recently decided that dinner and a babysitter is roughly equal to the cost of a marriage therapy session, including the wine. So, date night it is.

She thought I was kidding.

But this time date night refers to the fact that I am just home fresh from a "first date" with a new girlfriend. Met a great writer gal at a reading in July and just had a feeling we'd connect. This girl isn't in my everyday circle, so meeting up again was going to involve an actual invitation. After becoming facebook friends, I took the plunge and asked her out. Schedules kept colliding and months later we finally worked it out.

Tonight we met for dinner and drinks. I wore perfume and cute earrings. We had all that so where are you from kind of chit chat. All of which, I'm 99% sure (though it has been a while), qualifies it as an official date.

Anyway, it went well and we left with plans to exchange short stories.

Which is pretty much like second base for a fiction writer.

Dishwater

The other night the dishwasher was full and it made sense to do the remaining dishes by hand. I filled the sink with sudsy water and put my arms in, almost up to the elbows. I couldn't believe how good it felt to stick my hands in that water. I'd forgotten. I'll scrub a pot, rinse a wine glass, but rarely these days do I fill a sink. And there it was - the warm water, dishes thudding against metal, the scent of the dish soap.

These are ambitious times and today we're all the CEO's of our own little start-up. We take on each day with drive and intention. We know that things have shifted, that our minds will be the new industry, that the ability to connect and express ourselves have become a commodity. We don't understand it and still we're all scrambling to take part. We do it because we have to. We email, we blog, we post on facebook, we participate in groupspeak, groupthink, and we try to stand out in all of it. We do it for a living. We do it for leisure.

All this participating is exhausting, so we let the machines do the work. We load the dishwasher lickety split and let the warm water run over the dishes without us. We know we're missing something, we have the vague sense of the loss, but we can't get our arms around what it is. And we can't get our arms around what it is, because often enough, we're not even touching it.

Don't get me wrong, I don't want to get rid of the kitchen appliances. I'm happy to turn a dial and let the oven bake my chicken without having to stoke a fire around it. And I'll blog and tweet and sell things online. But there is something about how I had forgotten that sink of warm water and the way it felt really good, not good because it accomplished anything, but because it actually felt good. It makes me wonder - what else am I missing?

Run a sink full to the brim. Add dish soap. Stick your hands in.

You'll see what I mean.

Shiny, happy. People.

Last week one of my favorite all time groups announced a break-up.

REM's music is the soundtrack to the movie montage of the teenage me, the early twenties me. I was part of a group of students that lobbied to have "The End of the World as We Know It" as our senior song. It didn't fly, but we did learn all of the lyrics.

Years back Michael Stipe said his only regret musically was the song "Shiny Happy People". It was a huge hit and he felt like it didn't reflect the real sound of the group. I have to agree, not so much shiny happy in their music. At the time, I wasn't crazy about the song either.

It is hard to imagine that the members of REM aren't a group anymore. Couldn't they have just gone on without the announcement? No pressure to produce, guys, just keep existing. Because the announcement changes things for me, as if somehow when the possibility of REM still existed, the possibility of a younger me did too.

And now.

Though I will say this for middle age (gah), I do find it easier to relate to the shiny happy. It used to be hard to be an optimist, and now I find that the more I've been through, the less I think any of it is really a big deal. There is always something to look forward to. I've been asking around and it turns out that I am not alone in this being happier as you get older thing.

I wonder how Stipe feels about the song now.

What? You noticed?

So, um, I haven't been here for awhile. Since starting the internship, a good bit of the creative energy has been sucked right up and I'm feeling a bit dry. My writing is, of course, in the ditch. The blog, the fiction, all of it. Trying not to stress too much about it.

My dear friend Esme Foong and I are writing a new Virgin piece for Grubdaily, about how to kick start the writing when life gets in the way. I am going to write it and then I'm going to take my own advice.

Meanwhile, there is fun to be had today. Hubs and I are heading in the drizzle to see the Avett Brothers at the Life is Good Festival. My hand it shakes my head it spins...

should be a good time.

What I need...

is four extra hours in the day. Trying to juggle the new job/writing/back-to-school family thing, plus squeeze in a little time for myself.

I would totally be able to do it all, too - if I could put my little people in bed around 8ish and then have a nice 4 hour slot ahead for all of the extras, while still getting a decent nights sleep.

Or maybe I could have some kind of time-suspending superpower where I could stop new things from happening while I deal with the existing to-do's.

Or maybe I could clone myself and give the knock off girl all of the grunt work (because she'd never be quite as good as the original me anyway).

I could also lower my expectations.

But where's the fun in that?

You ain't from around here, are you?

Almost fifteen years ago, Hubs and I took a trip to New Orleans. We did it up Louisiana style with drinks at starting 10 AM and the like. We ate too much food, stayed up much too late, and after a few days the muchness was too much. We decided to drive two hours north to St. Francisville to take in the sights, and yes, to dry out a bit.

St. Francisville is a gorgeous little town filled with plantations and old south graciousness. We stayed at a B & B, got plenty of rest, and recharged.

One night, we stopped at a little local non-touristy meat and three for dinner. We were finally feeling like a beer with dinner. It might have been a dry county or something of the like, but when Hubs asked about drinks, the waitress actually said "You ain't from around here, are you?"

I thought about that question when I was back in Georgia visiting family last week.

I grew up in the country on a dirt road named Pine Needle, near a place called Pumpkin Center. My high school had something like a fifty percent graduation rate. After I left home, my parents moved to the suburbs. Usually when I go back to visit, I'm not really going back to the way things were then. I almost forget. But this time we stayed out near a lake where Hubs' family has a little place, just a few miles from my childhood house. The lake place is off of a dirt road, just like where I grew up. As you drive down the road, red dust billows up behind the car. There are potholes and deer to watch out for. And snakes. In that part of Georgia there are always snakes.

But my parents were never country. My dad didn't hunt or fish or farm. My mother never in her life made a scratch biscuit or fried a chicken. If you asked, my parents would say they just liked the peace and quiet of living away from town. We never fit in. Though I can't quite put my finger on why, it always felt like we were hiding.

So when I did get back there last week, it felt intimately familiar yet I couldn't really find myself anywhere, like one of those memories you might only be able to bring forward because you still have the pictures. I thought about that waitress in rural Louisiana.

Definitely ain't from backwoods Louisiana or rural Georgia or even suburban Boston. And though I can tell you where I grew up, I seem to be still trying to find the place where I'm from.

Classic

Just got back from ten days in Georgia. My father in law has a little place at the lake near where I grew up and we passed this country store on our way over there.

People never believe me when I tell them the best country dinners down south are always from the gas stations.

None chucks

Earlier this month Little Guy turned four. I've been waiting for four, since, well, since zero. Four is supposed to be the beginning of reasonableness. Four is the end of baby and the beginning of kid. I am so much better at kid.

Four, so far, has failed to show up and do it's job. But! Everyone swears by five. So on we go.

On his birthday this year we gave him a few Lego sets. He's been playing with Legos at the neighbors houses and has been pretty enamored with them, even going so far as to attempt to five finger a few Lego guys on the way out. So despite the fact that most of the sets he loves are for five year olds, we bought them anyway.

The neighbor boys came over to build the sets and Little Guy achieved some street cred. At least with the seven and under set, he's in.

His favorite item is a little ninja Lego man which he carries with him everywhere. The ninja comes with an assortment of itty bitty weapons. As Little Guy opened the box, he actually shook as he said "Noooooooone chucks." How does he know what they are? So he carries around the tiny little ninja with the teeny tiny numchucks and all is good.

Which brings us to yesterday. I had a sitter coming because I was planning to get a few hours in at the office for my internship. (I love this job by the way. Please send all your happy thoughts and wish on rainbows and all that these people get the funding together to make me a position, because, seriously, I am a perfect fit for that place.) I was almost ready to leave when I noticed that Little Guy had one of the oversized Lego tires in his mouth.

Now this boy never ever puts things in his mouth. Girlie did it all the time, but Little Guy really never has been that kind of child. Hubs and I discussed it when we bought the Legos and decided that he'd be really good about it. Except yesterday. So I explained that he shouldn't, took the tire away for a bit, and he assured me that he wouldn't do it again.

So there I am interning at my dream job when I get the call. Little Guy might have swallowed a Lego tire. He said it did, then he said he didn't. The sitter wasn't sure. He wasn't choking or in any kind of pain. I talked to him, he assured me that he hadn't actually swallowed it and all was well.

Then a few minutes later the sitter texted me that he was "burpy." I packed up and headed home.

It turned out fine. I don't think he actually did swallow the tire. I did take him over to my pediatrician neighbor for a consultation. He is also the father of two boys.

And of course he told me not to worry. This too shall pass.

Just another manic Monday

So we're heading to Georgia for ten days this Saturday.

Though I've been to visit, the kids haven't been back in a few years and in addition to the two enormous suitcases and the dog and the carseat and the stroller, I'll be dragging along all kinds of guilt, stashing it in the overhead with my backpack of busy snacks (if it fits).

Plus there is the nail-biting over where to stay and who to stay with and how to make the rounds to see everyone without short changing anyone or making ourselves crazy. There is the crazy early morning flight we booked on points (both ways), the long layovers (both ways), and the reality of traveling with the four year old boy who will either be an angel or something requiring an exorcist. And the logistics around visiting my Dad in the nursing home with the kids, and as of last week a potential surgery which I am hoping will be scheduled after our visit.

And Hubs is out of town this week. He gets back Friday. We leave on Saturday.

So how can I tell I might be losing it?

I packed on Sunday - all of the clothes for the entire family for a trip we're taking this upcoming weekend. I'm done packing, six days ahead. I'm cleaning, organizing, ordering groceries for when we get back, knocking out back to school stuff. It looks like productivity, but really it's crazytown.

Last night I had a dream that my Dad drove us to my parents' place (something he can't do) and he was able to stay at the house with us (something he can't do).

This morning I woke up thinking about my him. And then I thought - I really need to clean the kitchen ceiling fan. So I did.

And then I organized the freezer.

The value of a value

Somehow, I found myself reading this opinion piece about the economy over the weekend. It must have been one of those rabbit hole situations, because I can't say I remember going over to CNN's website, but then there I was.

The essay sparked some horrendous comments from both sides of the political spectrum, enough so that I hesitated to link to it. I'm not at all interested in arguing about who is responsible for getting us here. I will say that though I fall way left of center, it seems to me that the situation has reached the point where we need to be willing cut precious social programs AND raise taxes on the highest income bracket. We may well be past the point of an either/or approach. And as for how we got here, why argue the philosophy behind the construction of the ship while the boat is sinking? Get as many people on the lifeboats as possible, we can figure that out later.

But on to the meaningful stuff. The part of the essay that struck me was the bit about the actual value of money.

Many years have passed since the dollar was backed by gold. Instead, the value we assign to our currency represents a measure of our faith, what we believe it to be worth. This has never been more true than now. Often the value only appears a number on a screen, up then down, in our hands and then out before we've even touched it. Almost a figment of our collective imagination, and yet we spend a large number of our waking hours working to get at it.

But I don't want to chase after something that doesn't exist. I want to pursue real things. Sure, you say, but we need money to get those things. Having money often clears the obstacles. Right. That is the paradox isn't?

Still, I am wondering if a little philosophy change might help, even if it just comes down to semantics. Like the travel experience I want to have is the focus instead of the trip itself, the end goal now twice removed from the money part. I want to live in my neighborhood because of the amazing people. What, besides buying a house here, can secure that? Maintaining these relationships if I have to move down the road a bit. Continuing to rent this house might do it too. So it could be about getting to the heart of whatever it is that I want and sticking to that. And the big part - being open to whatever else there is to get me there.

Moving to Boston on one income has been a stretch for us. On top of that we picked an expensive area. We chose it because of the schools and the 95 commute and the close access to the subway. We wanted those things because of our values - education, leisure time, and access to culture. Of course, all of that comes with a price. An actual dollar amount. So it isn't easy. It is something that stays on my mind. It has also caused me to think about money (and how to get a bigger chunk of it) more than I have in years.

But this money as a theory thing has me wanting to shift my focus. To stop zeroing in on the finances. To move on to thinking about things that have real value. Things that actually exist.

The intern

Starting a new position today working a few hours a week over at Daily Grommet. They call it an executive internship because I'm a little too crinkly around the eyes to call myself a straight up intern.

I'll be working with the product launch team. The job is a dream combination of storytelling and retail sales. It will be a great way to freshen my resume and has loads of potential as a future job opportunity. Last night, I had that first day of school feeling with the outfit all picked out and the lunch packed.

Can't wait to get to it.

Baby did a bad bad thing

So the other night I went to a lovely reading over at Brookline Booksmith and then I stole something.

The night started out innocently enough. A neighbor asked if I wanted to hear a few women read from the 2011 Best Women's Travel Writing and have dinner afterwards. Faced with the prospect of a full week alone with the kids? Yes, yes I did. I would have said yes to a trip to Walgreens to drink generic soda and browse the greeting cards.

The reading exceeded expectations. The women have had some amazing adventures (including one woman's experience judging a testicle eating contest and another returning to a hotel room in cold war Russia to find the maid wearing her leather skirt) and the writing was top notch. After, we browsed Brookline Booksmith, one of my favorite indie bookstores. Don't worry, I didn't steal anything from them.

It was one of those wonderful Boston summer nights where the rain was blowing sideways and the temp dropped to something close to freezing. Spicy food was in order, so we headed to dinner at an Indian restaurant nearby. After the meal, we split the checks three ways. The waiter brought my card back to sign and I picked up the pen.

The pen was weighty, nice to hold, and a beautiful blue color. Cerulean blue with gold trim. It said First National Bank of Arkansas. I started to sweat a little. I flipped it over and a name was inscribed on the other side. John Byron Huffman.

"I really want this pen," I said to my friend.

She examined it, encouraged me to take it. We checked out the other pens. Generic Massachusetts insurance company and something else, I forget. My pen had some history. My pen belonged a character in one of my stories. My pen was the precious.

My other friend had the idea to make a trade. I pulled a crappy plastic pen from my purse, stuck it in the check. Slipped the precious under a napkin. My mind raced along. The pen had obviously been given for a promotion or some recognition. Who was this guy? Did his friends call him J.B.? How had this pen ended up in Boston?

But, I felt guilt. Tremendous and horrible guilt. It was a nice pen. It didn't belong to the Indian waiter or even the restaurant itself, obviously, but still I felt - shady. Maybe I could tell them some story? About my father, my dead father, who worked for First National Bank of Arkansas. But then, no. My Dad is in a nursing home, not doing well. Can't go there. I could just ask for the pen. But then, how exactly?

I slipped it in my purse. More guilt. After the waiter gathered our checks, I noticed a flurry of activity near the register. Agitation. One waiter slapped the little book holding the checks on his palm. The three men hovered outside the kitchen. Arms folded. Clearly annoyed. They knew.

Or did they? Maybe someone else had stiffed a tip. My friend started showing us pictures of her New York trip. I wanted to leave. She showed us more pictures. The men glared at me over her shoulder. The pen seared a hole in my purse, or it didn't, but I felt like it would burst into flames. Or something.

Finally, time to leave. We get up. I pick up my bag. Nothing happens. Go to the small lobby. Nothing. Retrieve my umbrella from the holder. Nothing. Step outside.

I stole that pen. But then, it was the pen they hand you to sign the bill. It can't be a big deal. And it said First National Bank of Arkansas. Did I mention how blue it was? How J.B. is now a character in my linked series (the banker who forecloses on my main character)? I stole the pen because I write, I'm a writer. It tweaked my imagination. And I'm from the south. And Arkansas? Arkansas is always quirky.

I stole the pen because I'm a little crazy.

And yet it feels like a good luck charm, this stolen thing.

I'd post a picture of it, but I can't find the camera, and then, you know, J.B. might track me down. And the pen is mine. Really not a biggie.

Really.

Right?

Does this look good?

It started with a whiff of a sassy tude and the request to download Selena Gomez songs to her iPod. Next there was some squinting at the mirror, some swiveling to examine the outfit. Then she started asking - does this look good?

This morning she was taking forever in the bathroom and I went upstairs to find her meticulously applying lipgloss.

Does this look good?

No baby, it doesn't. I mean, you do, of course.

But this? This growing up thing?

Not good at all.