Mama Leone left a note on the door

Don't believe the hype: moving sucks. Even though I've been looking forward to actually getting a place to call my own and get my stuff back from Pennsylvania, I have to say that a really, really hate moving. I'm trying to put the good spin on it: at least this is "mine" (well, in 2029, it'll officially be mine!), at least I now have everything in one place, I can try to get organized, but, seriously, I'm exhausted by all of this.

I really do love the new place. Good space, good neighborhood, yep, I made the right choice. But I am really looking forward to the day where I'm not working my way around a box or two every time I go to the bathroom. Or where I can actually find everything I need when I cook a meal.

The good news is that I'm starting to feel like it's going in the right direction. The parents came out last weekend and help whip the main floor into shape. Yesterday I was able to get all the way into my closet ("oh look! There is a back wall!") The internet is up and running ("hello, my pretty.") Yeah, someday this will all be a memory.

For now, it's a little bit at a time. Every box I can get rid of is a little victory. Every trash pick-up makes me happier. I still have way too much stuff, (oh, you have no idea) but it's starting to get under control. Maybe soon I'll invite you over.

Sorry I've been MIA

Just a quick post to explain the absence. It's mostly been moving. I have a lot of stuff, in case you missed it in previous posts. And, currently, I am without internet (quick shout-out the the neighbors who aren't protecting theirs. Oh, can you get a stronger signal -- it doesn't always come in when I need to steal it from you. Thanks!)

I promise more soon. Really. Don't go away, tiny audience of mine.

This is not a happy post

There are days that I just feel like I'm a jerk. That I'm selfish and all I care about is myself. All I think about is my needs, what makes me happy, without really thinking about how it affects someone else. And I hate myself a little bit for that.

I didn't want to hurt Mr. HP. I really didn't. And I hate that I had to hurt him to get to where I am today. Look, I know there were a lot of factors, that we both played our part in this falling apart. I get that. But I was the one who pulled the trigger, who made it all happen. And there are times when I think about his hurt, and I can't believe I could be so awful, to intentionally do this to a person. I think of him alone and I almost gasp that I was capable of causing this.

No one wants to be the villain. And I know that I'm not the villain. But I'm not the good guy either.

C'mon up to the house

Next week, I wake up in my brand new house! Okay, it's not really brand new, but it is brand new to me. I am out of the apartment with its rented furniture and white, white walls. It's a nice apartment, but it's not mine. I could settle in some, but I never really felt like it was home (home-ish, perhaps.) My cd's were in Pennsylvania; most of my books were there as well. Although there are pictures on the wall of the apartment, they are those weird hotel-like pictures that mean nothing to no one. I want to put up the photos I have taken on my trips, the pictures my mom has painted, the family tree.

I want to settle in. I want to put up shelves, and put my stupid, little trinkets on them. I want to (at least think about) painting the walls different colors. I want to make a place that people want to visit; I want people to hang out. I want it to be a place where everyone feels comfortable. I hope it's a place that brings me joy.

I know that part of that will be my attitude. I will have to work on relaxing when people visit. I will have to enjoy their company and not worry if they bang a chair into the wall. It's just a spill; we can clean it up. I need to laugh at the jokes and not worry about the scuff marks.

But I'm really looking forward to taking a bath in that awesome tub!

I never weep at night

Today, after three hours at the DMV, I walked away with new plates for my car and a new driver's license. Oh, and I got my name back. For the first time in 13 years, the name on my driver's license matches my passport.

I never legally changed my name when Mr. HP and I got married. I was going to, but it's a very (very) common last name (not that common), and I just never really got around to doing it. When I got my driver's license renewed after I got married, during those crazy pre-9/11 days, all I had to do was show the marriage license and tell them that I was planning to change my name, and there you go: my driver's license had my married name.

I had two names for 13 years: my work name and my home name. It's actually surprising how easy it is to do this. Paychecks, publications, those are in my work (legal) name; home ownership, driver's license, checking accounting: my home name, Mr. HP's last name. Of course, when I travelled, that got a bit tricky; I had to remember to buy my out-of-the-country tickets in the passport name. When I'd go to check into the hotel, I'd have to remember which name I gave.

Mortgage companies are not big fans of the multiple names, even six years ago. I had to write a letter explaining why I had two names. I resisted the temptation to just write, "because it's not 1950 and not all of us take the guy's name."

I have a couple of things that still have the married name, but today I changed the major ones. It's a bit sad, but it's also kind of nice. No more explaining why my credit card name is different from my license. (An aside: it's shocking the number of businesses that ask to see the identification, and then just shrug off the fact they don't match. I had only one place that refused to take my card because they didn't match. Seriously, why did the others even check?)

Yeah, my name is common, but it's mine again. And I now only have one.

Yeah, I know that guy (or gal)

I think everyone who has worked has worked with That Guy. That Guy who has a higher level job than you and makes more than you, but, seriously, no one has any idea how they got there. That Guy (or Gal: let's be honest, it's sometimes a gal) has a great job. He goes home at a reasonable hour; he has a nice office; he gets to travel. And, yet, no one knows quite what it is he does, what he adds to the whole system. In fact, sometimes, he makes it more difficult.

I look at these people and I wonder, how do I get that job? What did I do wrong that I'm stuck actually working? I think I could do That Guy's job. In fact, I'm pretty sure I could do it better. Or maybe I'm just feeling sorry for myself.

Fear of fiction

I have, on some level, accepted that I am a writer. I do get a paycheck as a result of being a writer (a specific type of writer, yes, but they do pay me.) I do this blog, which involves some writing, now and again. So, yes, I guess I have the ability to write. However, what I do not do is write fiction.

I read fiction. I love fiction. I love to tell a story. But those stories have to be based in fact, in actual events. I can't make up a story. Besides assignments in school, I've never written any fiction. And, honestly, I don't know if I could. Fiction requires a bravery I don't think I have. When you write fiction, that's all you. If I'm just telling a story, well, that's the way it happened and there's no changing that. When you make up a story, that's your mind, your heart, that's your story.

I'd like to think that some day I could write a story. But when I start to think about it, maybe to explore an idea, two things happen. One: it always seems like that any idea I have must have been done before. And, most likely, much better than I could do. But, maybe, I talk myself out of that, past that point, and I start to develop it in my head. Well, it just sounds so poorly written (almost "Twilight" bad!) I just can't do it.

So, all you fiction writers, I raise a glass to you. Thanks for being brave. Maybe, one day, I'll try to be brave as well.

Take a cha-cha-cha-chance

One year ago, I started this blog. 187 posts ago (although, in all fairness, Bru wrote one of those posts. Hey Bru, why don't you post more often?) And, boy, it's been a heck of a year.

I suppose a lot of it is my own fault: be careful what you wish for and all of that. Although, really looking at it, all of these changes, in the end, are a good thing. I have to believe this. Now is the time to believe the cliches: everything happens for a reason; when God shuts a door, He opens a window; what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. I am clinging to these cliches on some days.

The adventure of the year has been a good thing. I feel like I've done so much. I've certainly done some things I didn't expect. When I started writing, I think it was with the hope that it would help me find some things, things I'd been missing. I doubt if the writing changed anything, but it has been a help. It has allowed me to explore myself and to think of things in a different way.

When I think of the past year, I can't help but look at my left hand. The ghost rings are still there. This both comforts and bothers me. Shouldn't they be gone by now? But I know that one day I'll look and notice that they're not there anymore. And it will break my heart a little bit.

So, happy birthday, Garfield Statue. Thanks to all who have read. Thanks to everyone who has been there for me this year. I needed you more than you know.

Soft the drowsy hours are creeping

When I was a kid and even through early adulthood, I was a champion sleeper. I could sleep pretty much any time, for as long as my parents would let me. I'd fall asleep quickly and rarely wake up during the night. I was one of those kindergartners who actually wanted to nap at nap time. I'd sleep on the band bus. I may have slept between acts at a concert. In a bar. So, why is it so much harder to sleep these days?

There are nights that I just can't seem to remember how to sleep. My body feels all wrong. Like, I can't remember where to put my arms. (How can my arms be in my way? And, yet, I can't get them so that they feel right.) And my mind keeps racing. I just can't relax. Am I worrying that much more these days? And then, once I finally do get to sleep, I probably can't go more than 3 or 4 hours without waking up. And that's when the serious worrying comes in.

Is the worry about anything important? Rarely. But I just can't stop it. And then I start the arguing with myself: stop being ridiculous. You know, you have to get up early. Why are you so worried about such silly things? Of course, if you don't worry, no one else is going to take care of it. Hey, did you ever think that you might be crazy? Hey, what would happen if you never fell asleep again?

Oh, I miss being able to sleep like I was a kid. It may be the only thing I miss about being a kid. Can you imagine: ten hours of solid sleep? That sounds fantastic! Maybe I'll dream about that tonight.

Those days when you were happy

Some of my favorite things are the family pictures I've collected over the years. Now, with digital cameras, cameras on our computers, there seems to be so many pictures of all of us. But pictures of my Nana in her 20s, well, there aren't many of those. I treasure those old pictures of my grandparents when they were young. Pictures of my parents as children. Pictures of my siblings as little kids with my parents looking so very young.

As much as I treasure the pictures of the people I love, when I take pictures, I don't usually take pictures of people. I'm not sure why, but maybe it's that I just can't capture what I see in that person. A photo is such a small part of that person. It's just a fraction, just one angle. Or (she says selfishly) maybe it's that there isn't a picture of me that I really love.

As I grow older I am more aware that this version of myself won't be here forever. Yes, time keeps moving forward. I hate getting my picture taken, but I know that this is the youngest I will ever be.

I have very few pictures of the former Mr. HP. He has almost none of me. I'm not sure why, but this is something that really hurts me. I always get a bit choked up when I think about this. I suppose the idea of all those years represented by a small stack of pictures. That it all can be so easily set aside. (Now, looking at the lyrics to the song that supplied this post's title, I note the phrase "To prove they love each other, a long ago.") I'm not sure that more pictures would change anything. But, for now, it might make me feel a little better. A little more a part of history.

Out of the mist your voice is calling

I just finished reading "Twilight." It was surprisingly bad. Of course I know it's meant for teenagers, but it was just not a good book. Please understand that I have great love for kid/teen lit. Books got me through childhood. I'll still pick up one of those books I read as a kid and most are still fun to read. I love me some "Harry Potter" and "Lemony Snicket." If I pick up a Judy Blume book, I won't put it down until someone drags me away. This, "Twilight", is not good writing.

What I don't get is the adults who like this. I've heard from more than one person my age that, although not deep, it's a good read. It got good reviews from real places: "The NYTimes", "Publishers Weekly." Don't be fooled. Yes, it moves along quickly (which is something, I guess), but it's bad writing. Here's an example: "I didn't feel like mentioning that my stomach was already full -- of butterflies." Ugh, really? (It's the dash; the dash just makes it so much worse.)

By the way, this post is going to contain some spoilers, so don't say I didn't warn you. (The biggest spoiler: the writing sucks.)

I can understand why the book is popular with 13-year-old girls. The main character, Bella, is basically average but just a bit cooler than average -- she could be you, tween girl reading "Twilight"! Of course, she's good at school, well, except icky things like gym and math. And, of course, when she starts at the new school, all the boys go after her, including the super-hot vampire who has never shown an interest in any other girl ever. (And she keeps insisting that she is nothing special, to which the reply is always a version of, "oh, Bella, if you could see how special you are." Please, just stop.)

And what Meyer does to the vampire myth is ridiculous. As far as I can tell, there's no downside to being a vampire, except (a) you have these urges for blood, which, really, who doesn't crave some stuff that's maybe not so good for you? and (b) there some pain when you actually become a vampire, but that goes away. The vampires here are all fabulous-looking, forever young, and have super powers. They can go out in daylight (but they sparkle. I know! What the hell is that about?) They can drive fast. They don't eat real food or have to sleep. They're good at baseball. Seriously, sign me up.

Books like this make me think that I could write bestsellers. But do I have to write so poorly?

Miss New Orleans 2009

So, yeah, I forgot to tell you about my trip to New Orleans. I have never been to New Orleans before and, hey, what better time to go than the middle of summer? (Actually, it's not like DC isn't a sweat box anyway this time of year, so might as well sweat someplace new. With booze.) Let me tell you: totally loved it.

New Orleans is awesome because the people there call you "sugar" (Did I get a "God bless you, sugar?" Why yes I did.) It is awesome because you can buy tiny skulls in the same shop you buy your new crucifix. It is awesome because there is tons of yummy, yummy food. And you can walk and walk and see so much rough beauty.

I got my fortune told (I'm not going to tell you the details, but Miss Hope assures me that I am on the right path.) I drank absinthe. I had a (well, maybe more than one) hurricane. I had (maybe more than one) beignets. I lit a candle at St. Louis Cathedral and saw Marie Laveau's tomb. I bought an interesting shadow box, um, thing on the street. (It's actually quite charming. When asked about its history, we were told, "Well, I had it a few years and, before that, well, Paul had it." Oh, Paul. Of course. How much? $3? We'll take it.)

I would go back in a second. I really loved it more than I thought I would. Yeah, I could do without the drunk assholes, but it's a small price to pay. Mmmmm, beignets...

And, yes, I am listening to Cajun music right now.

Three-hundred sixty-five degrees

Tomorrow, God willing, I am finally (finally, finally) buying a house. I am almost afraid to write this and I'm knocking on every bit of wood I can find. Why do these things have to be so damn stressful? Is this part of the test of homeownership? ("If she can't handle a few crazy last-minute tasks by the mortgage company, then she can't handle fixing the plumbing.") 

The mortgage company is killing me. They are like the worst boyfriend ever. Sure, they sweet talk you at first ("my, you have such a pretty credit rating!") but then they get demanding. Last pay stub, please? Well, okay, but this was through relocation. If they had fired me or I had quit, don't you think they would have told you. But, fine, I'll fax it over. Passport? Fine. Bank statement? Can you please send me a list, so I can do it all at once? Oh, no, we like little bits of information. It makes us feel wanted and keeps you busy at work.

Okay, here's what I had to deal with, less than 48 hours before settlement (less than 24 hours before the paperwork needs to go through so that I can go to settlement), the charming and delightful Esther needs me to explain the money in my savings account. Uh, it's my money. From saving it. But there are three big deposits. Big deposit #1 (which alone is enough to cover the downpayment plus a reasonable cushion) is from the equity on the Newtown house. Hey Esther, didn't you get a statement from the relo company about that amount? "Yes, but it's lower than what I have on the statement." 50% lower, by any chance? Calculate, calculate, "yes, that's the amount." Yeah, well, I got half, the former Mr. HP got half. That's how these things work. So, it's justified? "These payments are usually direct deposit." It had to go through the lawyer, but, still, there it is, in the total amount. See, right on the statement. Not enough. I had to send darling Esther the letter from the lawyer. Which has the following text:

"Dear Angela: I am enclosing check no. XXXX in the amount of "large sum" which represents your half of the settlement payment."

That's it. No mention of equity or anything like that but somehow, that makes the money real. Okay, we've got it covered, right? Because that's more than you need. No, I need to explain the two other large-ish amounts. Why? Because Esther (sweet, wonderful Esther) needs it explained. Okay, we had money in shared account, now we have separate accounts. So now the money is there. In my account. Not good enough. I have to call the bank, so they can tell Esther the same thing. Fine. But wait! At 10:20 this morning, Esther finds another bit of money that I need to explain. Seriously, we have now exceeded my downpayment by a very large amount of money (enough to buy a very nice car. A very nice one.) Why do we need to know about that money as well? Pretend it doesn't exist -- just stop bugging me at work. Because that paystub you needed so badly, it may be my last one if you keep me faxing crap to you all day!

Luckily, it all seems to be straightened out. By this time tomorrow, I will own a house. (Can't move in yet -- they're renting back for a month, but still, yay!) (Hope that wasn't too soon...knock, knock, knock...)

This generation got no destination

My nana had this great painted black lacquer jewelry box. When I was a kid, I thought it was so beautiful and elegant and this was the type of thing that classy adults had. For this reason, if I see one at a flea market I. Must. Have. It. 

We are walking down the street in Frederick. There in the window, I see a lovely one with cranes and golden branches. In the hospital thrift shop window. Did you hear me squeal with delight? I'll bet you heard something. I go in. "I'd like to see that black lacquer jewelry box in the front window, please." Older lady gives me a look. "We can't sell that yet." Excuse me? "The items in the window aren't for sale?" I ask. "Not yet." Okay, I'm confused. She tries to explain to me, because, clearly, I am an idiot. "If we sold everything in the front window, well, then we wouldn't have anything to put on display." Of course. "So, I can't buy anything in the front window?" I am clearly trying her patience. I may be one of the dumbest people she has ever met.

It will be for sale, in a few weeks. Ah. Obviously. I can look at the list, but I can't touch it or buy it now. This is an unusual business model.

Of course, I am completely pissed off, but that damn box, it's haunting me. Yeah, I'll probably bust on up to buy it, but I'll be annoyed! Yeah, that'll show 'em.

If you want to be free, all you got to do is say so

Oh, Sarah Palin, why do I dislike you so? Sure, there are hundreds of reasons. The dopey names for the kids, the hunting out of helicopters, that voice (oh my God, that voice!) The coy oh-guess-what-I'll-be-doing-in-2012 attitude. But I think the biggest reason (which covers a number of the little reasons) is that she's almost the same age as I am and I am really pissed that, somehow, she got to be our representative. 

Being a chick my age, I know lots of chicks my age. And I can line up about 100 that I know personally that are way, way better than Ms. Palin. Women with more education, more intelligence, more charm (seriously, I do not get her appeal at all), more experience, just everything. I think the reason the Tina Fey impersonation was so popular was because folks secretly hoped that Tina Fey would actually replace her. (Sigh of relief -- we can all sleep at night with Tina Fey as Vice President.) I just feel like Sarah Palin represents that attitude of, as a woman, if you're cute and flirty enough, you can do anything. Society will forgive your lack of education and/or experience and/or ability to hold a series of thoughts together.

My hope is that this early entry into the oh-I'm-not-running-for-President-yet-big-wink world will yield one of the following outcomes: (1) more and more people will see (or be reminded) what a moron she is, (2) she will step into some scandal or whatever that will kill her chances, (3) she gets that spot on "The View" (oh, you just know that she'd be just as happy doing that as being President) and stops bothering those of us who don't watch daytime television.

By the way, if you want some real Palin hate, give Bru a call. She'd love to talk to you about it.

Sets the summer sun on fire

The local gas station/convenience store has the usual assortment of candy, drinks, salty snacks, all those good things. You can buy your sort-of-beat-up flowers, a sewing kit, or a gallon of milk. You know, the usual stuff. It's always good to stop by, to see the latest trend in snacks.

There's one section that is clearly "yeah, we have no idea where these go" (a/k/a "guess what Marketing thought up!") This is where you get your sangria-flavored gum or your chocolate Skittles (yeah, I know: gross) (and I like chocolate.) The other day, I see this light brown stick...thing...I have no idea. Time to investigate: "Chick-O-Stick" (and, good news: "Made in the USA"!) But, seriously, what is this? The "Chick" part makes me think that it's some sort of disgusting chicken-flavored meat snack. But further investigation revealed otherwise. It's "crunchy peanut butter and toasted coconut candy." What? Could there be a worse name? But it sounds so delicious! 

Oh, yeah. I got one.

When the lights go down in the city

Until last week, I'll bet most of you were willing to admit that you were a Journey fan before you admitted you were a Michael Jackson fan. But if you look at the timing of their biggest stuff, it was about the same time. "Off the Wall": 1979; "Infinity": 1978. And "Thriller": 1982; "Escape": 1982. And, for me, the music of Journey was a bigger deal than Michael Jackson.

Sure, Steve Perry: not a face for video. In fact, I would argue that MTV killed Journey. MTV was made for Duran Duran, who sounded good but looked  so pretty. Steve Perry, not only not-so-pretty, he had that twitchy way of singing. Yeah, that's not a video you need to see over and over. They almost got it with "Faithfully" where they didn't show much of him actually singing, but no one can do the videos like MJ. 

Go through that Journey catalog. If you're about my age, you'll be singing more of those songs than Michael's. "Pretty Young Thing"? "She's Out of my Life"? Even "Thriller"? Please. If I'm in the car and "Open Arms" or "Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin'" comes on, I am singing at the top of my lungs. And I'll bet you know more words to "Don't Stop Believing" than "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough." 

I'll stand before the Lord of Song

I wish I would have written this before Friday, but, seriously, I've always felt Michael Jackson was overrated. I'm not saying he wasn't a star; sure, absolutely, he was a star. But was he really this great influence on music that the media and others are claiming he is? Maybe he influenced dance, maybe he influenced folks on how to be a completely whacked-out celebrity head case, but his influence on music? Not so much.

Do you have any Michael Jackson music on your ipod? Okay, maybe you do, but do you have any music because you genuinely feel it's great music or do you have it because "Beat It" reminds you of high school? I love pop music but I have exactly one song with MJ ("ABC"). That means I have as many songs by Hanson as I do Michael Jackson. Yes, he sold a ton of albums,but that doesn't mean I need to hear any of it again. It feels, well, dated to me. Yeah, the videos were awesome, but we're not doing those much anymore. And how many of those albums did he sell because of the videos? I think we all forget how much MTV ruled the world in the mid-80s.

He was a celebrity. He was a media event and played that as much as he could. He clearly did not have a normal life. He was obviously out of his mind and may or may not have committed various crimes. He was interesting to the media, but not because of his music (unless it was because he couldn't make or sell albums at the same rate these days.) The media was there because most stories about him involved the phrase, "oh, you're not going to believe this one." 

I go back to, yes, he was an influence on dance and mixing the dance with the pop music. He set the bar high for the number of records sold, but, no, not an influence on music. 

As I walked to work this morning, Leonard Cohen sang "Hallelujah" to me, and I thought that if I had to choose between all of MJ's music (yes, including the Jackson 5) and this one song, this one song wins, every day of the week. 

Leaving Pennsylvania

Yesterday the house was packed up and I left Pennsylvania. After over 20 years, I am no longer a resident of the Keystone State. Moving is always hard, but this was especially bad because it's not just leaving a house, it's leaving a whole part of my life. It's leaving so many parts of my life: my early adulthood, my marriage, my grad school, my first job as a scientist, as a writer. 

I spent a lot of time yesterday, just walking around the house as it was emptied. I remembered when we were making plans for the house, picking out paint colors, all those little things. I remember being happy. I remember laughing a lot. I remember wondering what went wrong, when it happened. I was thinking about how we were so close and now we are separate. I walked around the house, and it was so real, knowing that it is all over. This chapter of my life is done.

When the house was empty, I did one last walk through each room. I cried. I felt like there should be something more I should do, but I couldn't think of anything. I put my keys in a drawer, got into my car, and left Pennsylvania.

Packing it up

Today the house gets packed up. Well, the stuff that is mine -- the former Mr. HP has already moved his things out. The house is both empty-feeling and cluttered. When I arrived, I walked around, just looking at what was left. Yes, I did cry. I don't think there was anything that specifically made me cry, but seeing only half of our things (well, I guess it's now my things and his things), well, I couldn't help it.

Most of yesterday was spent dividing up the little things with TFMrHP. It was amazingly civil. We joked around. ("Take a muffin pan." "Will I ever make muffins?" "Maybe not, but I don't want you saying, 'That bitch didn't even give me a muffin pan.'" "Well, that would be worth it.") (He later found some muffin mix and decided that, yes, he should have a muffin pan.) He had too much stuff for his car, so he packed up my car as well, and we went to his new house. It was definitely odd to see the furniture in a new setting. To see his new life. While I was there I took one of the sprinklers.

I'm still crying on and off, but not too much. Little things trigger it. Last night it occurred to me that he has very few pictures of me. I was always that one taking the pictures (or my mom). The wedding photos are in a small pile in the family room. I should give him some of those pictures, but which ones? Does he want a picture of me? So, yes, I am crying.

I wonder what he thinks about all of this. I guess that's the problem. I can predict his behavior but I have no idea as to what he is thinking, what his emotions about all of this are. Is he sad, is he relieved, is he moving on? I look at his house, and, yes, it is exactly what I would have predicted. It's not the house I would have wanted. (But, it occurs to me, that I would have yielded to what he wanted. If we would have found that house in Maryland, I would have said okay.) I want him to be happy but I don't know if he knows how to do that.

Oh, this is just rambling. It's time to sign off for now.

The beginning of the end

In a few minutes, I am heading up to Pennsylvania for what should be the last time for a while. The last time as a resident, at any rate. I am putting it off, but it needs to be done, that last trip. 

I have lived most of my life (hard to believe sometimes -- I do think of myself as an Ohio girl) in the Philadelphia area, and it's hard for me to believe that I won't have a place up there anymore. The next time I visit, I will truly be a visitor.

I really do love the Philadelphia area. Sure, there are things I don't like so much (the people could be friendlier, the refusal to put up street signs), but it's really become a part of me and a part of my life. I know I will be crying plenty the next few days. And, believe me, it will be over stupid stuff ("oh, an Acme! sniff!")

I am dreading seeing the half-empty house. I am already braced for what that will be like. (At least I think I'm ready, but I know the reality will be much more upsetting.) This may be why I am doing this now: can't blog and drive, so this will put it off just a bit more.

No, it is time to go. Time to face it and say good-bye. 

No Sound, Just Fury

My temper, in case you were wondering: not good. It's generally not under control and goes off, just like that. I try, God knows, I really do, to keep it in check. Unfortunately for those close to me, I spend so much energy keeping it under control at work and in other social situations, I tend to let it fly when I'm at home.

I see myself doing it, losing control, and I hate it so much. I hate that I can't keep that monster in. That I would say those things. Such awful things. Who does this to the people they care about? Well, I do, apparently. And I wish  could just pull that part of myself out and destroy it.

No, it doesn't come to any good. No, it doesn't help "clear the air" or reach an understanding. It hurts other people. And, of course, I can really hurt the people I'm closest to. Sure, I know exactly what to say to make it cut deep. And, unfortunately, when I can't control my temper, those awful things come out.

What I would do to take back some of those things I've said. I wish, I wish I could just be the better version of myself. I really didn't mean it. But I have no idea how to stop myself from doing it again.

With their voices soft as thunder

At night, I worry. I can't help it. If you talk to me at 3 in the afternoon, all is well; I have it under control. Catch me at 10 at night, my life is falling apart. I can't help it. It seems to be when it all crashes in (although 3 a.m. can also be a good time for a freak out as well.) 

I worry about everything. The thought pattern can be something like this: I wonder if I'll ever find a house. Maybe I'll never find a house. Maybe I'll find a house and someone will outbid me. Maybe I'll move into this great house, but the roof will cave in and since I've been mortgaged to the edge, I can't afford to fix it. Ever. Maybe I forgot to pay my Visa bill and my credit rating will be shot, so I won't get the house to begin with. Maybe someone has stolen my Visa number. Maybe someone has stolen my car. Did I see my car today? Did I leave the windows open -- that sounds like rain outside. Maybe it's not rain; maybe the pipes are leaking. Maybe that ceiling fan (yes, the one that has been there for 4 years) will suddenly come loose and gut me in my sleep. 

Yes, all very rational.

I can't seem to not worry. Sometimes I can hold it off for a bit, but then it just shows up a bit later. Sometimes the best solution is to give it to it, not sleep, then crash a few days later. But those can be rough days, the ones with little sleep.

I know there are people who can not worry. I envy them. My old boss Big Red was one of those people. I'd go to him, all up in arms about something, he'd shrug, "What are you gonna do? These things happen. Let's get lunch." So jealous. He probably sleeps like death at night.

Silver Lake

Mr. Higgy-Piggie and I used to walk almost every night. It was a walk through the neighborhood, sometimes varied slightly, but we always went to Silver Lake Park. Silver Lake Park is a very tiny park on the edge of Newtown, at the end of the Newtown trail. It's so tiny and insignificant that when I called the Newtown Parks and Rec Department, they didn't know it existed. ("I don't think there is such a park," she told me. I wondered if perhaps my imagination is better than I thought.)

The park is really just a bridge over a creek, a couple of fields (no picnic tables or anything; just field), and a very short path to a small body of water that someone very generously called Silver Lake. It's a small, stagnant pond which we just called "Goose Poo Pond" as, well, lots of geese without a lot of water movement. They installed a fountain which ran for one year, and it actually seemed to help, but the next year, no more fountain, so we figured the funding must have run out.

For a small park, there was a pretty good diversity of animals. Geese, obviously, the occasional duck, one swan who would give us the stink-eye as if we were invading his space (who we referred to as "Belligerent Swan"). We would occasionally see beavers, who, one night, gnawed down all the little trees, then seemed to disappear. Big bull frogs, who always scared the hell out of me. Bunnies, squirrel, deer, that sort of thing. We could stand on the bridge and see the fish and turtles.

The last walk we took was the day we had our "big talk." We needed air, to get out of the house, so we did our usual walk, ending at Silver Lake Park. As we walked down the path, almost to the lake, I saw something in the path. It was some animal that had been dead a short while; I have no idea what it was. But it was awful. Other animals had clearly gotten to it. This horrible thing, there in the path. 

We quickly turned around. That was the last walk to Silver Lake.

Nothing else matters here

Today GM declared bankruptcy, which is a shame for a lot of people. They're closing a bunch of plants, which just adds to the number of folks who have already lost their jobs. I'm reading about where these plants are located: Ypsilanti, Columbus, Pontiac. It really is sad. 

But there was also this this article in the New York Times about car dealerships closing. Which, I'm sorry, I just don't have the sympathy for the car salesmen that are out of jobs. I'm sure there are some perfectly nice guys (and women, but, really, mostly guys) that are car salesmen. But, you know, most of them: pain in the ass. 

I'm okay at the haggling thing, but the idea of it is just annoying. I hate that you might get one price one day, another price a different day. That if you crack too soon, maybe you're out some cash. I hate, hate, hate, the little tricks: "this would be your monthly payment" (but how much is the car, exactly?) "this is the price of the car (minus your trade-in)." Of course, what I hate the most is the way they treat you. I've had salesmen question what I could afford, wonder why I'd want a stick shift, and get annoyed at me because the color of the car wasn't the most important thing to me ("but you're a girl!" I swear to God, that's what he said.)

I feel bad when anyone is out of a job, but car salesguy, not as much.

It's starting to wear me down

I'm sick of house hunting. Really. I'm just fed up with the whole thing. I want to crawl into bed and wake up three months from now, magically moved into a new house, with my stuff unpacked. Heck, I'll even take keeping it in boxes -- I can unpack it myself, thanks.

I find that even looking at listings of houses is making me a bit tired. Another crappy kitchen. Another boring shower. They're starting to look alike. Have I seen that fireplace before? I think I know that purple bedroom.

I want my house to magically appear. I got to redfin constantly, hoping that it will be there. I'm afraid that I'm getting so tired of this whole process that one day I'll see a house and just throw up my hands go say, "Fine, let's be done. This one will work." That I'll settle. And there's a part of me that thinks, well, would it be so bad? It would let me get on with my life.

But I don't want to settle, I want to love it. I'm just getting impatient, you know.

Walking away

Well, apparently I was too insulting. I put in a bid for the hot mess of a house and they were like, "yeah, we're not even going to answer that." So, yes, I am still available, if you know a nice place that will treat me nice.

This is probably not a bad thing. The house really is a mess. It would probably just lead to heartache. I mean, what would I do with those crazy holes in the ceiling anyway? Maybe they're just there to let out the bad spirits -- patching them up may only mess with the feng shui. Even the "good" rooms, the kitchen, the family room, they had issues. Yes, I must remind myself that it's for the best.

I am getting anxious. Of course, the rational side of me knows that there is a house out there for me. I'm starting to get sick of waiting. I'm sure it will all work out, but there are days I'm searching for the fast forward button.

Anyway, I've convinced myself that the hot mess needs an owner that is not me. I will miss the phone by the toilet.

My Latest Love

I may have found a house. I know, it took me long enough. I did have, well, complications, which is a big part of why it has taken so long. But, today, I put in a bid and now it's cross-fingers time.

Let me tell you about it: it's a hot mess. And, yet, I can't stay away. I first saw this house months ago. The good: glorious kitchen (a 15-foot island!), a lovely yard, good location, a glorious kitchen (oh, yeah, it's really [potentially] beautiful). The bad: wacked out master bathroom (with bidet -- ugh!), weird holes in the ceiling (yeah, we're looking at a pretty intense home inspection), missing kitchen cabinet doors, inch of dust on the ceiling fans, lots of little things that make you wonder, "Are they actually trying to sell this house?"

It does scare me. It is quite possible that these people have done no maintenance on it. (Why, yes, those are the original air filters on the furnace, is that a problem?) Here's one: the fan in the one bathroom is missing -- what the hell? Or, here's a better question: what the hell am I thinking buying this house? But the place draws me in. It's got personality.

I have been looking at smaller, more reasonable houses. But those houses will always be starter houses. The house that you hope to move out of someday. This house, while a bit of a mess, could be cleaned up, fixed up, and really be awesome. I can see wanting to stay there. Plus, this house, it fits me. It has things I want (good kitchen, nice but minimal yard, nice family room). Some of its weaknesses (only three bedrooms and one really small one, no real dining room) just don't matter to me. I just hope that they actually want to sell it. We'll see how negotiations go (although I did put in a really insulting offer...)

But, seriously, there's a phone right by the toilet. I mean, what the hell?

Count one to ten

There are times I wonder what might have happened. What would have happened if Mr. Higgy-Piggie would have gotten that pair-programming job in DuPont Circle? (I guess he's technically still Mr. HP, at least for a while longer.) What if he had gotten that job that was in Germantown? What if we had sold the house right away, or had loved a house down here? Would I be doing what I am doing now, I wonder. 

I can always point to things that cause the changes but what about the things that don't happen that cause those changes? I remember being excited about when Mr. HP was coming here, what our life would look like. There are times I look at the houses we were considering and I think, if we lived there, would we have been happy? And it really wasn't so long ago.

Right or wrong

Every week I read "The Ethicist" in "The New York Times" and it almost always pisses me off. Not that I disagree with some of his conclusions or advice (although it's almost always cutesy and a bit random: "Return the ball but keep the bat" or some nonsense like that.) But it does make me wonder: how does someone practice ethics for a living? What qualifies someone as a professional in the ethics department?

When I was in grad school, it was a requirement that we take a bioethics course. It was taught by that media whore Arthur Caplan. (Oh, you know who he is; you've seen him giving his opinion on CNN, MSNBC, all those places. I'm sure you have. I don't think he ever turns down an opportunity to flap his gums.) This was a 3-day course and all I can say is that there's three days of my life I'll never get back. Here's what I learned: (1) Nazis: not ethical (2) Tuskegee Study: also not ethical. Hey, thanks Caplan!

Seriously, if, for one split second, you think Mengele was conducting research in an ethical fashion, a few days with Arthur Caplan will not be changing you. I guess that's the question: can a course change your ethics? Can a few talks keep you from submerging kids in ice water? "Oh, now I get it! That's wrong! I'll stop that now."

(Although the course was held in the beautiful auditorium of the Archeology and Anthropology Museum, which almost did make it worth the three days. It is seriously stunning and the seats were comfortable.)

The thing that pissed me off the most was that there are some real ethical issues to discuss. The ethics of who owns research (I'm looking at you Watson and Crick, and how you screwed Rosalind Franklin), the ethics of not allowing a grad student to graduate because you want another year of his/her work in your lab, how to determine which data is just "outlier" information, etc. These are the interesting questions. These are questions that a lot of folks have to deal with, not the obvious abuses of human life.

But, back to the original question, what makes someone an expert on ethics? Seriously, I want that job. I want to be the person who dictates, yes, this is good; this, not so much. Of course, since I'm a scientist, I have shady ethics (as anyone familiar with Frankenstein knows.) (An aside that pisses me off: IRB boards are required to have a "non-scientist," as if that "non-scientist" raises that ethics bar. [And, seriously, what makes someone a "non-scientist?" I would argue that an MD is a non-scientist.] Do publishing houses run books past scientists to be sure that they are doing that job right?) But, I think I'm ethical; can I be a bioethicist? Can I go on CNN and tell the world that this or that genetic engineering is right or wrong? Because I really think I could handle the job.

Now I'm off to inject children with mysterious chemicals. 

Spoiler alert

I read spoilers. I can't help it. If someone knows what's going to happen in a show and they post it on-line, I'll be trying to find out. Yes, I do want to know who will be voted out, who will be killed in the season finale. It doesn't really ruin a show for me. I know it would for some people, but I just like knowing ahead of time a little bit about what will happen. 

Lately I have been wondering about my own life. If I knew there were spoilers out there for my life, would I read them? Would I want to know what is going to happen? These days, I'm not sure what I would want. I would like to think, yes, I welcome the surprises, those unexpected things that happen. But there is also a part of me that wants just a little peek into what is going to happen.

Lately, my life has had lots of changes. A lot of people would think that it would be stressful, which, yes, it is, somewhat. But it's also been exciting. It's been good. Really. As nutty as it may sound, I've been enjoying the crazy. There are times I think I should be more stressed out, but these days I can look at what is happening with a feeling that it will all be okay.

But there are days that I do worry a bit. As I sit in this "temporary" housing for the 7th month, I look ahead and do wonder what the future will bring. Yes, I am enjoying the surprises, some of these unexpected things that have been happening. I know I will find a place to live, I will settle in, I will meet people and start to find those places to go. But on these days when I worry, I really want that peek.

Cross fingers

We may have sold the house. We have a contract (we got screwed, in case you're checking on that one, but we expected that, it being a buyer's market). Now we just have to get through the inspections and hope that no other issue raises its ugly head. 

I just would like to say, these people have been jerks. I am sure they will continue to be jerks. I don't have a problem with negotiating a good price. Yeah, that's to be expected. But you don't have to change the settlement date (the date that we made perfectly clear to you a number of times) at the last minute. You don't have to see the house 20 times. You don't have to make, then cancel appointments. You don't have to demand things just because. 

I can't stand these people. Fine, it's a buyer's market. Feel free to jerk us around. But, you know what, we're still living in your house. Yep, that's right. We still are hanging out. So, maybe the house won't be as clean as you might hope when we leave. And maybe we won't point out that typo in the contract. Because you have given us absolutely no reason for us to help you out. In fact, I gleefully welcome any opportunity I have to screw you over. If I can make your life a tiny bit more difficult, I am a bit happier.

I may not be a nice person. 

Sunday Randomness

When I'm staying at Mom and Dad's, it's hard to grab time to write, let alone pull the thoughts together to get a "whole" post anyway. Plus, during the visit, there have been those little random bits that may not be a post, but are still interesting. Here's your list:

* Saw an old ad for the Fonz arcade game, which is silly and 1970s to begin with, but my favorite thing about it was what Sega called themselves: "The Quartermasters." 

* Tried to help Mom clean out her closet. She wouldn't get rid of one dress because she said it would be nice for a funeral. Her funeral. Or maybe she'd want to get buried in a nightgown -- she hasn't actually decided.

* Every time I get a manicure I swear I'm going to get them more often. But then I only seem to get one when my sister talks me into getting one.

* Mom really hates horse racing ever since she saw that filly die last year at the Derby. But she was happy that a long-shot like Mine That Bird won.

* While shoe shopping with Mom, the word "bondage" came up. From her. Not enough therapy in the world.

* For as long as I can remember, my parents have sworn by tea. "Coffee? Bleh!" This visit (in conversations separate from one another): "Sometimes I drink coffee now." Who picks up this habit in their 60s?

* Tried to teach Mom about her ipod touch. It was quite the challenge. She did successfully download a bunch of apps, but then went pack to the pool game she plays all the time (although she doesn't know the rules.  At one point she asked me what "ball in hand" meant. When I explained to her, she said, "Well, I didn't have all the advantages you did growing up?" When is knowing the rules of 9-ball an indication of a privileged childhood?)

* What Mom thinks is funny: "Maybe your next boyfriend will have 5 children and you'd be a stepmother to 5 kids." She couldn't stop laughing.

I'm sure there's more to come. We have all day today.

Skill set

I think we all have things that we're good at, the things that just come easy. We also have things we struggle with. "I can't dance." "I can't balance my checkbook." "I've never been able to juggle." When you say things like that, everyone nods and comes up with their list. I'm not sure why, but yesterday I was thinking, I wonder if I'm good at love.

I think it's a legitimate question: can you be good (or bad) at love? Some people are naturally funny, some people are generally bitchy, so there's a good chance that some people will naturally be good at love. That they would know what to say, how to behave, without even thinking about it. They know what the other person needs and they can just give it to them. Me, I'm prickly. I'm kind of a pain in the ass (as Mom has pointed out.) I'll forget your birthday. 

It's a skill set I need to work on. Unfortunately, there are no classes at the local community college.

A Letter

Dear Maryland Drivers,

I know that we haven't known each other very long and this may be a bit forward, but I feel I've waited long enough and I must share this with you: you suck. Yes, every one of you. I know it seems harsh and some of you may wish to argue, but I'm feeling pretty confident in that statement. 

Now, it's not all bad. I think you have hope. It's not like you're a Georgia driver! I think if you follow a few basic tips, you would be at least tolerable:

1. It is generally accepted that, when you drive on a major interstate (I-95, for example), that you drive at least the speed limit. This is especially true when you are in the left lane. Here's a secret: in many parts of the country, when one drives in the left lane, they often drive faster than the speed limit (gosh, I hope no cops are reading this.) I know you may not be comfortable with all that speed. That's fine; that's what that right lane is for. Yes, a whole lane for you. Enjoy.

2. If you pass a truck, you don't have to slow down when you pass it. It actually makes the job harder. Think about it. If you want to go 54 mph and the truck in front of you is going 50 mph, yes, you want to pass (you have all this speed!) But, as you pass, if you slow down to 40 mph, it will be a challenge. Keep up those 54 mph speeds; trust me, it will work out better for you.

3. That wet stuff coming from the sky: rain. Don't be frightened. It shows up now and again. You don't have to start driving 40 mph. Especially if it's so light, the windshield wipers are on intermittent. If it really is that scary, maybe don't drive those days?

4. Just because a cop has his flashy lights on on the side of the road doesn't mean you have to slow down and see what is going on. And, when you see that there's nothing there ("hey, where's the accident?") don't slow down more, just to really check out the scene.

I do think you have potential. Your roads are pretty nice and much better marked than anything you'll find in Philadelphia. I'll try to work with you. I think we can both be happy.

The spirit is willing...

I want to blog every night. I really do. And most days I have many, many thoughts (and, oh, in my head, I am so clever. Such thoughts!) I seem to have so many ideas when I am just walking home and thinking. But some nights I pull up that blogger dashboard and just stare at that empty space. Tonight is one of those nights. 

How can I not have something to write about? So many things are happening, not just with me but with the world. If I was at dinner with you, believe me, I would not shut up. Have I got a story for you! I would be saying. You would be hiding the wine thinking, that's enough of that! 

Of course, lately, there have been days when I've had the thoughts, the ideas, but this is not the place. Not yet. I am such a tease, but soon. (maybe.) Maybe you need to take me to dinner.

I listen two, three, four times a day

I miss Philadelphia radio. Look, I'm not going to say it's the best radio in the world. I was one of those people who listened to Howard Stern when he first came to Philadelphia because, oh God, not DeBella. (Those of you from Philadelphia know what I'm talking about; sorry to the rest of you.) But Philadelphia radio has two things I'll really miss: Oldies 98 and KYW.

Oldies 98 is a damn good station. First off, they use the term "oldies" rather loosely, so they pretty much play anything pre-mid-1980s. And because they have a pretty loose format, they play a nice variety. But the bonus is that they play the Philadelphia area hits. Oh, I love the Philadelphia hits! "The Bristol Stomp"! "South Street"! (Where do all the hippies meet?) "On the Way to Cape May" (oh just sing it, "I fell in love with you...") I miss those songs. I just want to sing those songs. Loudly. With no shame. (And let's not forget the secret Philadelphia hits like "Sweet Caroline" -- shout out to the Triangle Tavern!) (Now I miss the Triangle Tavern, which, of course, is not the same without Dusty.)

But Oldies 98, you can be replaced. (I'll have to see if iTunes carries "Wildwood Days.") However, I'll never replace KYW. KYW is an old-school news radio station. It may just be the perfect station. I love its theme (and can you resist singing along?), although they did "update" it a few years ago. I love that you get traffic every 10 minutes on the 2's. I freakin' love Fred Sherman! I love the teletype in the background. (How many times did I fall asleep to that in graduate school? So soothing...) I love the predictable order of the presentation (you'll get your sports at 15 minutes after the hour, financials at 25 or 55 after.) You'll get your beeps telling you the time at the top and bottom of the hour. Seriously, why don't other cities have these stations.

Now I'm off to do the Bristol Stomp.

Something tells you that you have to move away from it

The house has been on the market for a while and we just got our first offer. It's very low, but we're still negotiating. It's weird how you think about money in these situations. If I bought a television, and I noticed that it was on sale $100 cheaper a week later, I would be completely pissed off. "I lost $100!" But when you negotiate those house prices, thousands of dollars get thrown around. No big deal, let's shave $10,000 off the price. Hey, that's a car! A trip to Europe! A damn fine trip to Europe! I guess I can't really think about it -- it'll make me nuts.

It's a nice house. A really nice house. But it's too big for us. I could never make it feel cozy. Comfortable, yes, but not "home-y." We had empty rooms, rooms that were never used. We never had a meal in the dining room. I never took a bath in the big tub. The house is "staged" now, to look like we used all the spaces, but I know we never did. 

I'm beginning to look at this house as a symbol of my life. Big with lots of potential, but a lot of it hasn't been used. Why are you waiting to do with these spaces? I need to decorate these spaces and start moving in.

Happy new year!

It's been a crazy year. I was just thinking about this, because about a year ago, I was in Barcelona. I was working at Novo, and, if you asked me, I was planning to retire with the company. I was living in Pennsylvania. No plans to move. I was with Mr. Higgy-Piggie. All was well. So I thought.

Nothing is the same now, is it? A lot can happen in a year. Did I have any idea that it was all going to change? If someone had told me, if someone had pulled me aside and said, "Heads up. It's gonna get crazy" would I have believed them? I would have been wondering, why would I want that? And, yet, now that I am here, I am happy to be here.

I have a memory of that trip to Barcelona, standing in the sun and feeling absolutely content. Now, looking back, I know where the cracks were. I can see where things changed, where they fell apart. It's been hard, but it's been good for me. I know that this will be a year that I never forget. It's completely changed me. In a good way. (I think, I hope, I'm pretty sure.)

I'm glad for change. I'm glad for most of this change. But another year like this, I might die of exhaustion. 

I can name that tune in 3 notes...

For some reason, my dad feels it's important to be able to recognize songs on the radio. Name and artist. And so, when we were kids, he had this game where he would let us listen to the introduction of a song, and, before the singing started, he would turn it off. "Name and artist?" And we would have to guess and, once we got it right, we could hear the rest of the song. After a while, we would just shout out the names and artists so that he wouldn't shut off the radio.

All three of us have the freakish ability to name songs and artists on demand within seconds. (Well, older songs. We're all old now, so we have a limit of 1950s through the mid-90s.) Andrea and Scott are hipper and may have an expanded range. When I was at Rohn & Haas, the guys would love to try to stump me. Once. They got me exactly once. Freakin' "Radar Love." (I guessed Deep Purple, which was wrong but got the comment "impressive guess!") Slick used to say that's why he dated me: because I knew all the songs on the radio. 

Dad also encouraged the variety in music as well. So, yeah, that was a "Guys and Dolls" reference. Followed by a Salt and Pepa joke. Yes, that mix tape has a Patsy Cline song followed by one by X (and, dammit, it works.)

Last summer, we were out to dinner. "More than Yesterday" starts playing. Dad points at the speakers. Artist? I rolled my eyes, guessed correctly, and went back to my salad. Dad just smiled.

An inappropriate crush

I have a crush on a house. I keep thinking about it; it's so cute and nice to look at. I walk by whenever I get the chance. The thing is, it's just not good for me. It's too small, the kitchen is minimal, there's no room for expansion. I think one of the reasons I like it so much is that it's in a lovely location and is surrounded by bigger, beautiful houses. And I keep looking for excuses to get in it or just be in the neighborhood. I look at its pictures on-line and imagine us together.

There are other houses around that have more room, that have better space. I should like them more, and, sure, there's one or two who kind of get my attention. Maybe one will win my attention. And yet, I am still drawn to this tiny, inappropriate house. That's overpriced. 

Sigh. I have a crush on the Jordan Catalano of houses. 

Promises, promises

Tomorrow, I will be back to the regular schedule. No, really, I mean it. In the meantime, a picture. I am still trying to grasp that this is from just a year ago. So much has happened...

Ashes, ashes

I am no longer wearing any rings. The reason (the reasons), well, that's for another day. But, as of this past Sunday, my hands are naked. 

I used to wear 5 rings. One on each middle finger, one on the ring finger of my right hand, two on the ring finger of my left hand. I got these rings at various times; I've been wearing the two on my ring finger of the left hand the longest. My naked hands remind me of being younger. Of high school and days working in labs. 

I have no tan lines to remind me of the rings. However, the two that were on my left ring finger have left two ring-shaped dents in my finger. Here it is, days later, and the two ghost rings are still there. I wonder how long they will remain.

Thanks for coming, there's the door

My parents are visiting this weekend. I love them, I really do, but... My brother has already warned me: "Be nice." When I am not nice?! Oh, yeah, I could be nicer when they come to visit. Sure, I can point fingers and say that they could be easier when they visit. But I do have a tendency to freak out and overreact. I try to tell myself: relax. But I am not a relax kind of gal.

I think that sometimes it comes down to showing off your life. "Look at what I've done! See? I'm an adult and I've made good choices!" And, they know the weaknesses, not that they're looking for them: it's just easy for them. Not that they're even looking for them -- I'm looking for them to point them out. Of course, their opinion means a lot, so a throw-away comment from them, well, I can't help but take it to heart. 

I will relax. (deep breath.) I will enjoy myself. (close eyes. another deep breath.) It will be a good visit. I will not overreact. Okay, I will try not to overreact. 

I'll let my gal Sarah to take it out: "I've always had these fantasies about being in a normal family in which the parents come to town and their adult daughter spends their entire visit daydreaming of suicide."

Before and after

Today is a day with a before and after moment. You know those moments. They start with things like "I'm sorry, there's been a terrible accident." Or someone already crying when you pick up the phone. That moment when something is forever changed. When there is no going back. I'm not ready to talk about today's moment. But it was there today and I knew it right away.

But I know there was a before and after moment before, the moment which lead to this one. There was a moment when things were the same, and then they changed. And that moment, I can't find. When did it happen? Because everything used to be one way and now it is different. There was a time when it tipped into the new. I was happy with the way things were and now I am not. When did that shift occur? When was that before and after moment?

Will you still need me?

These days I am noticing the lines around my eyes. They're not just there when I laugh or when I make a certain face. The grey hairs, there are a lot and they are also here to stay. My skin, it's different now. My eyes look tired. I realize that I am older than my mom was when I graduated from college. How did this happen? I'm not ready for this. In my mind, I am still in my 20s, well, maybe early 30s. Sometimes I can fool myself when I look in the mirror. Other days, when I really look, I see how old I am.

I think the most upsetting thing to me is that I know it's not going to get better. Today, I am as young as I will be. The birthdays, they will keep coming. The lines will get deeper and multiply. I'm not going to stop laughing, so I guess I'm stuck with them.

I opened one eye...

My first moment of clarity came at my grandfather's funeral. My mom tells the story of how she wasn't sure if we should go to the actual funeral (I was just-9, my sister was almost 7, and my brother was 5), if we were old enough for this sort of thing. But Papa was a big part of our lives and she thought it was important for us to be there. I remember that it was very warm, and my mom was very upset. And then it hit me: I was never going to see him again. Ever. No more visits, no more pipe smell, he was gone. This is what death was. And I couldn't stop crying. 

My mom told me years later that she saw how upset I was and really regretted bringing me to the funeral, but I reassured her that it was a good thing. That it was important I understood what was happening. That something important happens when someone dies. I remember looking at my sister and brother while I was crying and feeling much older than them.