After So Long, A Sad Update

Hey friends. Carol (my beloved Normal Neighbor to this blog), died on May 1. She had been diagnosed with colon cancer at the start of 2011, and there were lots of ups and downs and calm periods and crises, and finally it was all too much, and there was nothing else to do. I'm breaking my blog silence to tell you about it because today, her mother called me, and I went over to Carol's house, and she gave me my old wig back. It was the wig I wore four years ago and had given to Carol a while ago. But she also gave me another wig Carol got for herself, one I'd gone with her to pick out. So somehow I lent one wig and got two back. She handed me the bag with the wigs, and I looked down inside it, and in that moment, it was just so much living for one day that writing about it really seemed like the only possibility.

Right after we found out her time was short, I talked to her best friend, who had just spent the whole day with her. "How was she?" I asked. I wanted to know if she talked about dying and in what way. The whole three years of her illness and treatment, we never talked about dying and we fully embraced a narrative of cure and healing, that she would do these painful, arduous, or merely pesky things and then finally be free of it all. But with that narrative taken away, I wanted to know how she was facing it. Her friend said, "Oh, we didn't talk about any of that. We talked about normal things. She wants to get the bathroom retiled." We laughed. But I thought, if that were me, I would want to talk about it. I'd want for someone to say, "This is happening and it's real."

When I got to talk to Carol myself, in the midst of her telling me about the hospice facility she would eventually go to, I said, "How did we get here so fast?" And we both started to cry, the first time we ever cried together. Because always before there was a hope, or a meal to organize, or a thing to be done, or something else to be said. But not anymore. And she said, "I know, how?" I said, "I just wanted you to have a good summer." She told me that she didn't want to die at home, because she didn't want the house to be gloomy forever for her kids, and I said that I totally got that. Then we talked about each of her kids and agreed that everything would be okay. And then I was squeezing my face together and trying not to make any noise because I wanted to hear her talk. And she said, "Of course I want more time, but you know...I don't want to just hang around."

The very last time I saw her, she was still at home, and we didn't talk about any of that. I hugged her and sat with her for about five minutes. She was sitting up and dressed, and we chatted about where I was off to next. I don't know, something insignificant. It is a lot harder to think of meaningful things to say than it should be. I think I told her I loved her. Or maybe that had been on the phone. Then a few days later she was sleeping most of the time, and then she was admitted as an inpatient, and then she was gone.

We had a funeral and a gathering of friends and neighbors, which was good and necessary. And now that has been several weeks ago, but I have felt all this time that she was at home around the corner, and we just haven't gotten a chance to catch up. It has been like one of many summers where we're both busy, or in-and-out of town, and we may not be together for a few weeks at a time. I've seen her husband, and her kids, but always with a sense that while Carol is somewhere out of sight on that day, eventually, soon, her absence will be over and we will meet.

Then, today, her mom summoned me to the house, where she's been going through Carol's closet and dealing with her things. Her mother is seventy-five and vigorous, capable, talkative--a big presence. Years ago Carol would sometimes suggest, with good humor, that her mom could be overbearing. But now she is running the house when Carol's husband has to be working. God grant all of us a busy, overbearing grandma to step into the space we leave behind.

So Carol's mom gave me a houseplant and a plastic shopping bag with the two wigs in it, the same shopping bag I'd put my wig in to lend it. And I thought, again, "How did we get here? How did we get here?" I didn't want the wigs at all. Mine, I am sick of looking at and I promise you I would never wear it again, but I bear it no ill will, if that doesn't sound ridiculous. But looking down into the bag and seeing Carol's, I felt such a shock of recognition--like, that's Carol's hair--and it brought her sadness and her vulnerability from that time all back to me. How did we get there? How do we do the things we have to do? How did I get here? And why me and not her?

I took them and thanked her and said that I would either keep them in case someone else needed them, or that I would donate them. "You never know," she said. And I walked home and put the plant in a bigger pot, then I took the wigs out of the bag and shook them out and looked at them, then I put them back into the bag and sat it at the bottom of my staircase. Then I went to Pretty Neighbor's house and drank three beers.

Now, as I have said in this blog so many times, you know everything. If you have read all this then thank you. xoxo

Flow

Happy New Year! I believe you can wish people a happy new year for all of January, don't you think? Definitely the first time you see them in the new year. I still have a handful of New Year's cards unsent. When I sat down to order my Christmas cards this year, I realized they'd better be New Year's cards, and that was the right call. It's taking a little time because I'm writing personal notes on all 60 of them. I only mention that to shame you.

LOL jk not really! Not really about the shame that is. I really am writing the notes because what else do I have to do?

Anyway. I thought about you guys yesterday morning after I played a tennis match. My partner and I got beat, but I was driving away from the match feeling fine, thinking about my day, my friends, my kids, people I know who are sick, people who are grieving, my own health, just all the things that I think about. And it came to my mind to tell you how, back when I first started playing tennis in earnest, two years ago, being on the court was the only time that I didn't think about breast cancer. In those days I was worried all the time. Cancer dread was a constant background noise to all of my other thoughts. God, exhausting.

That dread is not gone. It has just changed from being uncontrolled and omnipresent to being a familiar part of my mental furniture. I see it every day, but it has a place and I keep it there and try to ignore it. I think this gets easier over time, the not feeling afraid. And also, you know what? Fuck it.

We're diving deep into the mind of Becky today, looks like.

So yeah, when I'm playing tennis, I don't think about any of that. I don't think about my kids. Yesterday I realized that when I'm playing, I don't remember that I even HAVE kids. And I'm not even very good! I marvel at how pleasurable and restful the sport must be for people who have real skills. I think this is the concept of flow, of like, being so immersed in an activity that you aren't even aware of your own self or of the passage of time.

I remember once Laura told me how she feels at swim practice sometimes. She said, "It's like I'm asleep, but I'm awake and my body is working." I think that's flow.

I think being in flow is good for us. I just wanted to poke my head in and ask you, what activities do you have or do that make you feel that way? We're supposed to start the year the way we mean to go on, so let's get flowing, shall we?

Back soon with a holiday update, etc. Yes my Christmas tree is still up, in keeping with our tradition of leaving it up long enough to honor Dr. King. xoxoxo

What I Deal With

This is my text exchange with my husband from this afternoon. What this screenshot doesn't reveal is the large span of time that elapsed between the first four blue messages I sent, time that elapsed with no response even after I said "Please acknowledge," which is as naggy as I get. It also doesn't reveal that I had emailed him MUCH earlier in the day about our plans to transfer Hank from my care to his at Hank's basketball practice. I took his lack of response to that as acquiescence, but then as I headed out on my rounds, I started texting to be sure. But Matt often doesn't have his phone anywhere on his person. Or it's face down on his desk and silenced. Or a condor has secreted it in a high mountain aerie.

So then, after more Matt silence, I did what I sometimes have to do and texted Lincoln, Matt's partner. That's phase 2. Lincoln usually has the eyes-on, and can tell me if Matt is in a meeting or has been hit by a meteor, because those are the only two reasons I can think of for his not spending the one instant it would take to text me one time and thereby stop me from unleashing hell.

Can I get a witness?

Usually Matt makes instant contact with me after I've texted Lincoln. Which is why I do it, even though I'm sure Lincoln just adores being a part of our little tableau.

So after "Please acknowledge," I had a brief exchange with Lincoln and then I got Matt's "I'll be there." Now, the rookie wife would have been more admonitory or expressed her displeasure in some more overt way and it would have turned into a snippy exchange. But I've been to that puppet show and here's what I know. Fussing at Matt for anything never did anybody ANY DAMN GOOD.

Do you know this joke?

A man says to his wife, "Honey, if I were to die, would you ever remarry?" She looks somber, but says, "Well, dear, as unthinkable as that prospect is, yes, I can't think you would want me to live out my life alone." The husband says, "No indeed! Tell me though, do you think you would continue to live in this house together?" The wife thinks. "Yes, I suppose I wouldn't want to leave this place of so many great memories. It's a good house, and we would stay here." The husband nods, "Yes, that makes good sense. And tell me, would you keep my things for your new husband, like, would you give him my golf clubs?" And she goes, "Nah, he's left-handed."

That's what I was referencing in my last message, by way of telling Matt, if I could change one thing about him, this would be it, and I don't want to nag, but I swear to the living God. It seems like a small thing, and it is, and I don't know why it gets all over me, but SWEET MARY DOES IT.

And his "ack" for "acknowledge" is his declining to be admonished, even in jest.

They say--and I believe--that when you marry someone, you are marrying some number of problems that will never go away. You will work around them and through them and build Rube Goldberg-type contraptions to compensate for them, and your patience and ingenuity in building these workarounds together is what gets you down the road. You know what I mean. After some years, you don't have to have the fight anymore. You can just gesture to the file folder where the fight is stored. You get me?

And then I think of the whole package that is that guy, and how my relationship with him is my experience of grace on this earth.

And then I'm like OH WHATEVER COME HERE YOU.

As We Were Saying

This morning I opened my eyes at 7:00. There was time to get Hank to school before the 7:40 bell rang. I lay there. I could hear a gentle rain falling, the overnight rain that had been much talked about and wondered over all week long. Would it or wouldn't it rain out trick-or-treating? Friday tennis? How to move forward not knowing? But there it was, conveniently pattering in the dark, on nobody doing anything important.

I thought, "I will let the kids sleep in. I haven't checked them in late all year, and they need post-Halloween rest." I closed my eyes again. I had a dream so absorbing yet so boring that I actually thought, while asleep, "Well this isn't really going anywhere."

When I opened my eyes again it was 9:00. I had been aware, dimly, that the kids were up. I stepped out onto the landing and croaked, "Kids! Let's get this party started!"

From somewhere in the house, Hank piped, "Okay! I am wearing pants!"

"That's a good start, buddy!" I called. We can work with that. It's all about a good start.

Thirty minutes later, we were all underway, so civilized, in full daylight. Leisurely.

Then the whole day followed and it was nice too.

But enough about me. We are all fine here. How are you? I didn't exactly mean to not blog for six months. I got busy with non-computerized things. All good things. And for a while, maybe back in the late summer, when asked about my silence, I would say, "Well, I don't feel like I really have a narrative anymore." Or some lit grad horseshit like that.

Then, in the last few weeks, I've grown to feel that I don't even care about a narrative. I don't care, I just want the words. I miss talking to you guys and I miss the putting-together of words. And now November rolls around, and for the last several (three?) Novembers I have blogged daily.

So let's get this party started.

And I Thought Everyone Majored in Communications Now

Matt and I signed up to play mixed doubles tennis together in a flex league--where the system pairs us with opponents and we schedule our own matches, some home and some away--and play starts this week. We are supposed to play one match roughly every week or two weeks. Next week is spring break around here, so though we have until April 8 to play this first match, I thought our first opponents would want to get it played in the next few days. Now, the protocol is that the home team contacts their opponents and suggests a few possible dates. For our upcoming match, we aren't the home team, but I decided to reach out first, because not everyone is fully tuned in to when league play begins and they might need a nudge, and whatever.

So I sent a chirpy little note, something like: Hi guys! I know you're the home team, but I was wondering if y'all might want to squeeze in our match before we all disappear for spring break. Any chance Tuesday,  Wednesday, or Thurs nights might work for you guys? Looking forward to it, just let me know!

Sunshine! Hearts! Flowers!

The wife of the couple wrote back, and this is the entire email:

Becky, our sons have baseball games on Tuesday and Thursday night. Wednesday we have church group at our house. Sorry.

That's it? Sorry? SORRY. Heh omgWTF??!!1

Maybe this is too far up the behiney of our particular circumstances for you guys to get what a dumb-cluck, pointless response this was. I wanted to write back, okay, what about the part where you offer some alternate times? Like Kramer on Seinfeld when he pretended to be the Moviefone: "Why don't you TELL me when you'd like to play tennis?" Or why don't you in any way understand the business we're conducting here? Or just DO YOUR FREAKING JOB AS A PERSON?

And the frustrating thing is that it is still her job to schedule this match. Does she not know this? She basically rebuffed my attempt to get us started in this process. Is this going to be a case where she waits too long and then expects me to rearrange our schedule to accommodate her lack of planning? For the love.

This is right in the wheelhouse of things that drive me crazy and therefore may not be intelligible to others, I don't know. But I swear, reading her note was super DUPER irritating, because she made me feel like I was bothering her or asking her a favor. The favor of playing this match she signed up to play. God!

We are squarely in the realm of My Issues, because even now, hours later, Reader, I am so annoyed by this. It's like, you don't have to be the Homecoming Queen, but it is possible to be so bad at social labor that it just turns me right against you. And it's hard to recover, though not impossible.

I mean, is it me or is it her? It's her right?

LOL

The way this works is that we are going to beat them one way or another, hopefully by playing tennis--I looked at their last season and they never won a match--but possibly by forcing them to appear at some inconvenient default play time or else forfeit. I don't know. But GEEZ.

Okay I'll simmer down now.

So I wrote right back to her and said that I understood completely and that I would wait for her to get back to us with some times when they were available. I restrained myself from telling her the ball was in her court.

Does anyone have any idea what I'm talking about? xoxo

This Lady, I Swear

If my blog were a book--I mean, if it were a novel composed by me, not if I turned my blog into a nonfiction book--there would be people I just couldn't put into the story, because the sketch of them would be too broad, not subtle enough; they wouldn't make good fictional characters because some of their character traits are too obviously ridiculous. Like, you wouldn't write a novel in which an evil villain twirled his mustache.

Take my neighbor (please)! I've mentioned her before? I think? I don't have a blog epithet for her, yet. She's one who wouldn't speak to me at the pool the whole summer I was bald from chemo, even if she'd been standing three feet away from me, but then would say to Pretty Neighbor, "I saw Becky the other day but didn't get to say hi."

But whatever, people deal with illness in different ways, and sometimes not well. My leading with that tidbit makes it sound like I harbor some bitterness towards her, but I truly don't. I never cared for her. She will talk the legs right off a donkey, but it's all about her and her things and her kids, she really doesn't want to hear about anything else. She's oblivious to social cues. She's loud. And calling her boring is a disservice to things that are just honestly boring. No shame in being boring.

Once she had Pretty Neighbor hostage, talking to her in the driveway, and PN slowly worked her way into her car to leave, murmuring her goodbyes all the while, but Gift of Gab wasn't finished with her and put her hand on the hood of PN's car to keep her in place so she could finish sucking what was left of her soul away.

It goes without saying that whatever your kids are doing, her kids are doing it just a little bit better? And ahead of developmental schedule? Or just a hair more wonderfully than your kids. You've just got to hear how baby Fletcher did at swim lessons, the teacher said she'd never seen a baby put its face in the water so quickly and willingly!

Naturally social media makes all this into an absolute nonstop farce. My own social media history with her is that I friended her, reluctantly, at her request, only to unfriend her when she posted some thing about how Obama had a bunch of relatives in this country illegally, whatever, and then she sent me another friend request, who does that? I accepted and put her on some status like, "Only show me this person's updates never," or something, but still they come through. And part of me would miss the entertainment.

She's very active on a facebook page for fanciers of tiny, ornamental dogs.

You see? You would never make this person up.

She is fond of using facebook to "check in" everywhere. Like, I kid you not, her couch or her bed. Because that's clever, huh huh huh ha ha....I'm dead.

But her favorite places to check in are 1) Church, every Sunday that she attends, so she'll receive full credit; and 2) Restaurants, where she eats every meal. One day recently, she ate four meals out. Her friends comment on her status, "Do you ever cook?" It's a culinary Grand Tour of Taco Mac, Dunkin Donuts, and frozen yogurt places.

And the irony is that she is a sales rep for one of those cookware/bakeware companies where the stuff is sold at parties.

Anyway, I can't even remember all the things that have made me go, "Oh my GOOD GOD," and roll my eyes back into my head while simultaneously texting Pretty Neighbor at the speed of light, but tonight the thing that set me off was her announcement that her middle schooler brought home her report card, having received straight 'A's for the third quarter in a row.

We were at that moment marveling at how Hank, on his report card today, earned a 2 out of a possible 4 in "Conventions of Standard English." Proud!

I was venting to Matt about the insufferable and gassy puffery of this person and how one time she said something like, "So glad my family is up early serving the Lord" or some such. I mean honestly.

Matt goes, "Well honey, you are blessed with the talent of being able to toot that horn more subtly."

Hmmmph! I say again, hmmmph!

Three Years Away from That

Today I took Laura to a get-together with some of her swim friends at a trampoline park. I took Hank too, and I planted myself on a bench in a central location where he could buzz by every now and then and I could verify that he was still alive.

Another swim mom sat down next to me. I almost never see these women because we all just drop off at practice. There is really no standing around the side of the pool chatting. Too loud and too wet and the kids are too big for that now. We're practically strangers to each other. This lady was wearing a head scarf in a way that pretty clearly said, "I am having or have had chemotherapy."

I am long, long past the time when I needed to talk to everybody about my breast cancer. Not sure I ever really did, actually. But this lady and I chatted, first about swimming, then about child-activity juggling in general, then about tennis, which is always a topic of widespread interest around here. I said, "I had breast cancer three years ago, and I started playing tennis in earnest after I was finished with that."

That opened the door for her to talk about herself and her ongoing treatment and so on, and we talked through the rest of the hour of the kids' jumping time. Part of the time it was like we were two med students presenting a History & Physical to each other. I noticed that she was very, very conversant in cancer treatment--in oncotypes and histology and staging--whereas I was a bit rusty. I told her, "You know, it's hard to understand how, but I actually can't remember some of this." She said that was good to hear. I said, "Believe it or not, a lot of this treatment stuff will come to seem like just a really bad weekend."

I'm almost three years to the day from when I heard that diagnosis on the phone. I would love to think that the three years means I'm safer. Probably I am, a bit. We talked about the fear and dread, the cancer-worry that is now part of normal fabric of everyday life. It hums along at low volume most of the time, with occasional loud blasts of noise. I told her, "The good news is that you get it all back, all the stuff you're losing right now. It comes back." She complimented my long hair, and I said, "Yeah, I should really get it cut, I've made my point, I think."

The funny thing was, about forty-five minutes into this conversation, I'd had enough. There was pleasure in making a human connection and in listening to her share about herself, but then it was like I wanted to push back from the table. I am not at the point where I could, like, help with a support group or do some kind of work with people having cancer treatment. Maybe it's like what peace of mind I have is too lightly held, I don't know.
....

Normal Neighbor's colon cancer is back. Or it never went away? It has been two years since her diagnosis and treatment, and she has been very well during that time. But now it's back, and it's awful. She's having chemo right now, a more intense course. She is dog-sick. Her hair is thinning and I gave her my wig. Remember Codi? I don't know if she will need it, but she wanted to be ready. She came to my house to get it, and it's the only time in all this junk that I've ever seen her shaky and upset. I hugged her and told her that she would still look like herself, no matter what.

Living, man, it is not for the faint of heart. That's all I got.

Polyamorous Reading

Ocular proof I started this Harkness book in July, having excitedly preordered it, and I am still damned reading it.

Books I am in the actual middle of reading, a partial list in no particular order:

Shadow of Night by Deborah Harkness.
If I Am Missing Or Dead: A Sister's Story of Love, Murder, and Liberation by Janine Latus.
A Wanted Man by Lee Child. (Previous post on my Reacher habit here.)
State of Wonder by Ann Patchett.
First Shift by Hugh Howie.
Fifty Shades Darker by E.L. James. (Whatever.)

Books I have completed lately:

Before I Go To Sleep by S. J. Watson. (OMGZ page turner.)
Heaven is Here by Stephanie Nielson.  (Darned inspirational, really.)
What Really Happened: John Edwards, Our Daughter, and Me by Rielle Hunter. (NOT PROUD, OKAY?)

I never used to be like this, but I've kind of become a starter and not a finisher of books. I've never felt qualms about abandoning a book that isn't good, but lately I'm abandoning books that ARE good and that I enjoy. Yet I managed to watch all of season 1 of Homeland in the last two weeks. Hmmm.

Part of the issue is a formatting problem. I can't decide whether I still like reading physical books or prefer the kindle version. I look at this list and see that the three books I finished lately were all ebooks, and of the unfinished list, only one is.

What are you reading, and do you have commitment issues too?

My Hungarian Wig-Loving Housecleaner is Back

Remember Fabienne? I first had her start coming to clean like three and a half years ago, and I last wrote about her when she broke up with me in a text. That was the summer of 2011. We parted as friends and life went on. Hank would ask about her every few months, possibly as a comment on my housekeeping.

Then a few weeks ago, I was sitting somewhere waiting for a kid to do something. I got a text and it was from Fabienne, after over a year of silence. It said, "Hello, I'm thinking of you. You're in my prayers."

Well, I was reminded of the joke about the psychoanalyst who passes an acquaintance on the street. His friend says, "Hello," and the shrink thinks, "I wonder what he meant by that." I read her text a few times and went, "Hmm, huh?"

Then I texted back something like, "Hi! Thank you, we're doing great, how are you?" But then I sat there and stewed, yes Reader, I stewed. You see, that day I was in a vulnerable frame of mind about my health and cancer and dread and mortality. I don't know, I mostly feel bulletproof but there are still bad moments. They get farther apart. But something had made me feel afraid, and then I got her text, and I was like, "Why am I in Fabienne's prayers? Does she know something I don't know? Does she sense, like, a disturbance in the Force?"

Yes, I can be this crazy, Reader. It's time you knew. (You already knew?) But I am also pretty good at recognizing when I need to be talked off the ledge, and I can sort of talk myself down from there. I spun my little hamster wheels. Then I realized, aha, it's early October and we have all been hit with a veritable air-drop of pink ribbons and of course she's thinking of me because everything is breast cancer breast cancer all the time. She sees that and is reminded of me. Okay. Yes, so that's how I convinced myself that Fabienne did not have supernatural/divine knowledge that I was sick again.

Writing it really makes it seem more ridiculous than it felt in the moment.

ANYWAY.

So we exchanged a few more textual pleasantries and then she says, "Can I come back and clean for you?" And I'm like, "So am I in your prayers really or was that just your opener?" Ha! No I didn't. I said, yes please, come on Friday. So she did.

She's come twice since then; she did a really good job the first day and a slightly-less good job the second day. So we're back to where we were.

Her telling me I am in her prayers reminded me of something my sister told me. When Christians want to say no without saying no, they say, "I need to pray about it." I love that so much. Because there is no rejoinder. You're being pressured to buy a car or sign up for a timeshare? I need to pray about it. Extra PTA responsibilites? Better pray about it.

Anyway, so Fabienne is back on the scene and I thought I'd bring you up to speed. I don't know why the story of her reentry has to be so tied up in the story of my ongoing mental adjustment to having had cancer but there it is.

xoxoxo

Beans Don't Burn on The Grill

So as I was saying, the video game company in my basement is leaving the nest. Three and a half years ago, they were two guys in our guest room. Then they were five guys in our guest room. I still can't believe that worked, like, at all. Then, if you've been reading for a while, you probably remember (ie, were traumatized by) the Big Basement Project of 2011, which led to at least one marital argument and a few all-nighters and at least one diaphragmatic hernia. So pretty standard for home renovation.

So the guys moved into the basement office and life has been grand. I've loved having them down there. Matt was close but not too close, and it had the feeling of being part of an exciting enterprise. I do recommend hosting a start-up in your home at least once in life--it is fun. Lots of ups and downs. We've celebrated the ups with many a midnight ice-cream party, and we've weathered the downs with countless whispered kitchen conferences. It has been a pleasure watching these guys work hard, and watching Matt get to do what he wants to do. Now the news around here is that, as the result of various wheelings/dealings, the game company is moving up and out. This is good, all good. It's a great deal for them. It means they'll get to grow and hire people and bust a move into phase 2. But since we're here to talk about me, I'll tell you that I'm a little sad to not be Wendy with the Lost Boys anymore. And I'll miss the flexibility of having Matt on the premises during the day. Yet, at the same time, it was also time for this start-up to get, like, started up. Doncha know.

So last night Matt and I went out and I was totally rocking this pair of Tracy Reese booties I found on ebay for a song and they are so adorable yet way, way less comfortable than I hoped. I think we're talking your basic one-hour shoes. Anyway, right. So we went out and then after dinner he showed me around the offices they're moving to. They're joining forces with a bigger game studio, and these guys have got a super-slick space and lots of great resources. Like a usability/testing lab. Which is apparently greatly to be desired.

I snapped this picture of the testing lab because as soon as I walked in the door I was transported to my college language lab. Do you remember the college language lab? Man, I don't know, I love languages and liked studying them, but somehow that language lab just sucked the life right out of me. Just me? One cool thing he pointed out though is that each little station has a camera set up to film the person playing, I guess so their reactions can be gauged and somehow used to improve gameplay. I dunno but fancy!

And across the hall is a room full of snacks.

This is one of the standard amenities in tech companies, I think--keep your people from wanting to wander away from the office by plying them with goodies--but it would be a big problem for me. There's a huge glass jar full of peanut butter cups and I would just move my laptop over next to it. And then get my head stuck in there. Problem.

Anyway, it's all a lot nicer than our basement, I GUESS. And it's only about ten minutes from our house so I'll still be able to pop in and give my opinions about everything, which I know they totally want me to do.

That's the update on the life/work sitch around here. I'm sure you'll be hearing more about this. xoxo

More People Who Are Bad

Friends, I am really upset. Due to a cascade of screw-ups, some mine, some GoDaddy's, my suburbanmatron.com domain expired without my knowing and was scooped up by some garbagey company who stalks expiring domains so they can buy them and redirect them to ads for cheap viagra. So now my links all over the internet are broken. Unless you are in the market for some cheap viagra.

GoDaddy is supposed to "park" a domain when it is in the final stages of expiring. That is, when you go there, you see a GoDaddy page that lets you know something is up. But my domain worked fine--I updated this blog on the 14th--and then all of a sudden, it was whisked away.

This business of buying up expiring domains is a whole shady corner of the internet. The guy who got mine is a 21 year-old who lives in his parents' basement in Chicago. He offered to sell it back to me for $5,500.

Think of all the boner pills that would buy him.

Or don't think of it.

So, I don't even know. Any advice or ideas you have are welcome. I'm left with the plan of trying to continue to get my correct links out through facebook and twitter, though I know this only reaches a small part of my readers. I mean, it's not like this domain was my livelihood, but I'd been building it for over four years.

Maybe I'll still get it back. I can't think that the traffic generated by people google searching my blog will generate this domain-stalker any real money. Certainly not enough to live on his own and maybe kiss a girl one day. We'll see.

Makes me way madder than my purse being stolen.

I will still be here, and if you have me linked on your blog and are seeing this post, please change your link to the URL that is up top, www.suburbanmatron.blogspot.com. And follow me on fb and twitter and all that so I can keep you in the loop. And if you are following SubMat on fb, maybe share this news with any friends you have who are also readers. Sniff.

Meanwhile I'm going to go do some emotional eating. But first I'll favor you with an emoticon.

xoxox

Well, July.

Sometimes that happens. You're talking with a friend, you pause to look down at your sandwich for a moment. You might be saying, "Well seriously, I don't know, yeah, I know, totally! Do you want this pickle?" And then you look up and your friend is gone and doesn't blog for a full month. You look back down at your pickle. Its juice is soaking your potato chips. This happens sometimes.

Amy and I both, by unspoken accord, took an unannounced summer breaky from blogging. Then, as she has already revealed, we were the recipients of a snippy email from our dad earlier this week:

Saturday will be one full month since either of you has blogged. In recognition of that landmark date there will be no cake and cocktails on the deck at the Briar Patch. Please make no plans to attend. Love, Dad

He has such a way about him.

In response to this, Amy hastened to post an update, but I reacted to this epistle with the stony silence that makes me so beloved in the family. When I want to ignore something, I can ignore it thirteen ways to Sunday. Shhh! I was resting!

How are y'all? You look good! I mean some of you literally look good and I am sure of this because I've gotten together with two bloggers in the last month, Jenni and Aimee. So, meeting and greeting, swimming and sunning, sweating and swatting. Summer ramped up and with it came an increase in activities for every member of the family. On one hand, I feel like a ton has happened, and then again, if you asked me, "What have you been up to?" I could with truthfulness say, "Nothing much." So it will probably take me a couple of weeks to tell you about the nothing much. I mean, you know how I do.

Tonight I'm in North Carolina at the mountain house. Tomorrow at dark o'clock we're heading up to DC to spend the 4th with Dave and Katie and Baby Gabriel. It will be moist and steamy and patriotic and we can't wait. I'll be checking in. I swear! Don't look like that.

The other morning, Hank announced, "Mom, I've grown my first patch of man hair." I asked him to show me this man hair and then he couldn't locate the man hair, but insisted that "It's on my tenders." I mean, that could have been a whole three-paragraph blog post right there. You're so sorry you missed it!

If you're on the road for the holiday (not you, Aussies and Canadians but Happy Belated Canada Day), travel safely. I kiss your face.

I Mean Gah

Is anyone else like this? I just hate having stuff on my daily calendar, like things to do at pre-scheduled times. When I look ahead to the next day and there are several, like, appointments, it kills my joy a little bit, and I feel dread and assume that I will spend the whole day feeling harried and gritting my teeth. And it doesn't take much. I guess I am kind of a delicate orchid, 'cause like, three scheduled things in a twelve-hour period and I'm all I KNOW WHY THE CAGED BIRD SINGS.

Today's agenda was...
Sleep late because Hank is out of school: This did not present a problem
Morningish: Get Laura a dress for her graduation
2:45: Go help set up the gym for the fifth grade dance tomorrow.
4:30-5:00 Hank swim lesson at our pool: this is a new thing this week and not assimilated into my routine
Clear dining room table of Legos for Matt to have a board game night with his buds
Prepare dinner?
5:15-5:45 Hank karate
6:00 play a tennis match
Laura swim practice, either at her swim club 5:30-7:45 or in our pool 6-7:  not gonna happen

Because every post needs a picture.

Okay, looking at that list, my stress could have been that lots of these things overlap or potentially would overlap if they all happened, and it makes me feel that I am not doing well with logistics when I can't be in two places or feel like I'm letting something slide. And some of the things are optional-ish, like Hank's karate and Laura's swimming. They just need to be done a certain amount every week, so every day I'm alert to whether we can squeeze those activities in or not. Matt helps with the kid transport some (he usually retrieves L from her practices) but 5:15 is a bad time to ask him to participate. Really the three things at 2:45, 4:30, and 6 were what was crowding my joy, but there was no problem with their overlapping or with the things themselves. All perfectly pleasant! And yet, seeing them in my calendar, I just wanted to take to bed.

So all day I'm twitchy and jumpy and I'm not sure when unscheduled-but-important things (shopping, cooking, cleaning) will get done. I asked Matt about taking Hank to karate and that was a non-starter.

Then later Matt comes to me and says, "About later, I need to go to a thing at 6, it will take an hour." And it's a thing that is kind of a fun thing, sorta, but also a work/networking thing. And I'm all instantly pissy, and I go, "Well I have tennis, what are you going to do with Hank?" (I am delightful.) And he says, "Can you really not take him with you to your match?" And so then I'm into a big thing of "Well I don't knooow, what if I take him and our match lasts three hours?" And he goes, "Well maybe you could take him with you and then I could come retrieve him," and I'm like, "I guess I could leave him here with Laura..." and we're into this sort of stand-off thing, and it's NOT EVEN A BIG DEAL except for the schedule! The SCHEDULED THINGS have got me all twitchy and feeling like we're all caught in a net. So then I sniff, "It seems like when YOU want to do something, I need to be super flexible, but when I want to do something, there is NO FLEXIBILITY." And Matt, with this tone of infinite love and patience, says, "Do you really think that is the truth?" And I realize I can't argue with him because it's not like he ever does anything except work his ass off. And I was like, okay I'll stop now.

So this is what the scheduled things do to me. The scheduled things!

And then, THEN, none of it amounted to anything! Unsurprisingly, I was able to do everything in sequence like a normal person and it all got done. Laura skipped neighborhood swim practice to stay home with Hank. (The game company boys were downstairs too.) And whereas I thought the whole day would be one long endurance test, I was finished with my match by 7:22. I arrived home to find Matt welcoming his friends, pizza ordered, and Hank asleep in a chair. Matt carried him to bed, there was tons of daylight left, Laura had her clothing plan for tomorrow's graduation all set, and I was like, "Oh." Then I drank a beer and watched Mythbusters with her. I am a crazy person, you have no idea.

Or probably you do.

I don't know. I mean, I have no problem having things to do. I am busy all day long. But as soon as there are certain times things must be done, I am like, FORGIZZLE. The kids' dentist appointments? Cast a shadow on my brain for days in advance. Just me? You?

I mean, praise be that I don't have an actual J-O-B. God forbid.

Smacks,
b

One of The 940 Saturdays

Hank's weekend job is going to birthday parties, and my job is wrapping the gifts and driving him. Today was a double header. The first party was at Chuck E Cheese.

At 9:30 in the morning.

I know. I know! Who does that? I laughed when I got the evite. I laughed because I thought it was a terrible idea and yet I knew I'd be getting up earlier on a Saturday than I do during the week and driving fourteen miles so that Hank could attend.

But you see, Chuck E Cheese is like Hank's Paris. He enjoys the place rhapsodically, he vows to return more often in the future, and he is sure that he is really his truest, most essential self when there. I could not stand in the way of that.

I came in, said hi, saw him busily setting out with his pals and his tokens, and then I left and ran an errand. I came back in time to see them bust a pinata full of tickets and spend their last tokens and it was still way more Chuck E Cheese than I wanted. The whole economy of tokens-tickets-little toys is depressing to me. But I am not here to bag on CEC. A mommyblogger griping about Chuck E Cheese is like an 80's comedian talking about the bad food on airplanes. (There used to be food on airplanes!) Nah, I'm not judging the Chuck, I'm just observing that it was the way it was. He had a blast. And I will say that at 9:30 in the morning, the place is clean and calm-ish.

Then we had a couple-hour lunch break at home before heading to the next partay, which was at Hank's karate place. THAT was a hootenanny and I literally spent about three minutes inside. When I arrived back at the end, all of the kids were exhausted and sweaty. It had turned into some kind of pre-K Crossfit. That was at 4:30. So Hank put in a 9-5 day of birthday going.

.....

There's a little tidbit floating around on the intersphere about there being only 940 Saturdays between when your child is born and when he leaves for college. If your child is five, 260 of them are gone. I know, let's just sit with that for a minute. Click on that link--the Jezebel article has a graphic that makes it easier to grok. And yes, really, 940 is a big number. That's a lotta days! But it's more that there even is a number--that our lives with our children don't stretch out forever and ever in front of us like it seems when they're very little.

(I anticipate that my dad will be along in the comments to tell how he had this realization--that we have finite days with our children--when he was taking my younger sister to college. I don't know why MY leaving home did not occasion this thought, heh. We should ask him! But I mention it not to jump on your story Dad, but because I thought of it when I read this.)

This 940 Saturdays thing comes from Harley Rotbart's book No Regrets Parenting. I'm not likely to read it--I think I get it--but if you do, tell us if it's good. I mean, I am not like a guru of Parenting Zen, but I feel like I do okay with not feeling bogged down in the hard details and instead enjoying the passage of ordinary time with these guys.

Back when I was doing my cancer treatments and was scared and thought about dying more, I used to play a little game. I would ask myself, at some random point in the day, "Okay, if all of life were this moment right here, right now where you're trying to adjust Laura's watchband or waiting for Hank to put on his second sock, if this were the last and only moment forever, is it good? Is it enough?"

I never felt perfect fulfillment in those moments--like a resounding "YES" that would make a great ending for this blog post--but the self-questioning became a habit of mind that was its own comfort.

Goodness. I started at Chuck E Cheese and where did I take us? I've said it before, but man, daily blogging.

Hope your Saturday was good.
xo

Good To See You Too!

A couple of nights ago, I was making a late-ish run to Publix. As I walked in the door, I nodded to a man walking out. He was carrying a 24-pack of soda on his shoulder and really studying me. Nice-looking fellow.

Then he said, "Mary Ann. Mary Ann! I haven't seen you in so long!" He was looking right into my face and I figured that in just a split second, he would realize his mistake. But he just kept grinning at me.

I shook my head slightly and said, "Sorry, wrong person. I'm not Mary Ann."

And immediately, for some INSANE reason, I felt like I was lying. That I really WAS MARY ANN and didn't want to run into this guy.

(I am crazy. Also, why did I feel the need to apologize?)

Then, THEN, he goes, "But it is such a coincidence because your name came up at lunch today! And I said, 'Mary Ann! I haven't seen her in so long!'"

And I'm just shaking my head, like, nope, still not that person. Not a coincidence.

And then he seemed so crestfallen. And he goes, "And then there you were!"

So I said, ruefully by this point, "But it was not to be." Then he said, embarrassed, "Well, sorry to bother you, good night," and walked on.

But I don't know if he believed me! I think he thought I really was Mary Ann. I am not even kidding you right now!

Reader, I felt a little bit bad that I couldn't be Mary Ann for him. I mean, not in any particular way. But I don't know. It was odd being the obverse/wrong side of someone's fortuitous-encounter-that-wasn't. Now, the next time (if ever) he does run into Mary Ann, his meeting with her will be haunted by his failed meeting with her/me at Publix. And maybe he even left there harboring ill feelings toward Mary Ann if he did in fact think I was really her and that I/she didn't want to be recognized by him. Do you see? Problems!

I think I need to pour all of this out on Craigslist and see if we three can find each other and work it out.

Any missed/chance/misleading encounters you need to process?

How We Enter The World

Today my cousin Patrick and his wife Jessica had a baby girl, Olivia. They are the couple whose engagement and wedding I blogged about, like ten minutes ago, and now here comes Jess with a baby carriage.

So we start off like Olivia, just a wee baby thing with closed eyes and little fists, and then in less than a year, we are like this.

Business casual

Baby Gabriel! This boy doesn't turn one until July, yet somehow I suspect that he already has a LinkedIn profile. He just seems like he's in command of something. Probably there is a flowchart showing that a few other babies are his direct reports.

I already have his birthday present, so Gabe, would you hurry up and turn 1? Dawdling.

....

The pictures of cute babies are my offering to you, as I have had a busy day and am done being productive and alert. Or rather, I am finished, not done. As my mother in law would say, "Cakes are done, children are finished."

I had a tennis match this morning (winning! tiger blood!), and then a bunch of normal stuff, and taking Hank to karate, and discussing Laura's day with her ("Mom," she said, "Some of my friends are having problems with their relationships so I'm trying to give them a little coaching," and she couldn't BE more my child. I swear, it's like she's still attached by the umbilical cord 'cause we are activated by the same impulses). Then I had another tennis practice from 7-8:30, and that is a gracious plenty of tennis for one day.

Then, just now, in my kitchen, I spilled a great quantity of my DoMatcha Organic 2nd Harvest Matcha powder all over the floor. I just stood there in disbelief as the unbelievably fine green particles settled down on the floor, the edges of the cabinet doors, the toe of my boot. It's the most expensive mess I could have made with the contents of my kitchen. I mean, I'm sure Studio 54 had more costly powders to clean up at their place, but gosh, seeing all that matcha on the floor hurt. Matt didn't seem appropriately grieved and so I told him that it cost thirty dollars a jar, which would actually be a great bargain, as the current Amazon subscribe 'n save price is $33 and change. Then I used two pieces of paper to scoop up a good bit of what was spilled--thankfully the floor was basically clean--and vacuumed up the rest. Let us turn the page on that chilling scene.

I am going to be in bed by midnight-thirty if it kills me. Six and a half hours of sleep is not the same as seven and a half. Oh not by a long shot. This is an ongoing issue for me.

What are you up to?

Beck out.

A Searching and Fearless Moral Inventory

Tennis practice this morning was kind of weird. Yeah, this has become one of the those blogs where I talk to you not about the sport of tennis, like, in itself, but about my local culture of tennis and how it makes me feel. You know, one of those blogs.

So why was it weird? First off, we were all pretty rusty after having had a week or ten days off. Only my friend T had played over break, but that girl watches tennis on youtube (vids of the Bryan brothers) and takes notes. Girl is dedicated. Anyway, we were all rusty but I in particular played like ass. Such that, at one point, the coach called out, "Becky, WHAT? You're just not swinging at all!" And I tried to yell, "Yes Coach!" but while I'm talking I'm comically clumsy. It's like I was all, "Okay, I got this!" then slipped on a banana peel. Or stepped into a mop bucket. The tennis equivalent of that.

Also, I didn't get to hang with my cadre of buddies, but was paired with a perfectly nice woman I'll be partners with on Thursday. We won a match together a couple of weeks ago, for our other team (a lot of these girls are on the same two teams, confusing). She's fine, we just don't know each other that well.

Meanwhile, Debbie Downer, from last week's post, is paired with Pretty Neighbor again this week. And not to beat a dead horse, or dogpile on someone who, as I have already stated, is a bit crazy, while we were on vacation she sent a whackadoo email to the whole team, apologizing for having played badly and enumerating specific areas of her game she was going to work on. I was going to tell you immediately but really, too cringe-inducing. And today she did her best to horn into a conversation I was having with the coach about my string tension. MY string tension, mine! But enough! Let us just wish her well and return to ladylike placidity on the subject.

I don't know, Reader, but it gave me something to think on as I drove home from dropping Laura at swimming. And then the Chick fil A employee in the drive-thru line told me they were out of vanilla wafers for the new banana pudding milkshake and I was like, "Dammit! Why is everything such CRAP?"

But I rallied somewhat afterwards.

And that was a lot of what happened today.

Worst blog post EVAR.

But you have my love!

Marital Strolling

On Superbowl Sunday Matt and I went for a brisk walk in our neighborhood. The air was warm and caressing and stuff was in actual bloom.

We talked of soup.

Matt allowed as how he wanted more soup in his life. I observed that I make a whole darn lot of soup as it is. And he shared with me a wish for even more. So we considered the soup landscape and how I might meet his needs within it.

I rattled down a slight hill. "I think I now fully see the world of food through soup goggles," I said. "You just start with some fat and add the aromatics, and then you can just go anywhere. It's exciting!"

Matt strode along beside me. "I don't like celery," he said.

This opinion was so objectionable that I could not admit it into the conversation. "Yes you do," I said. "I put celery in everything." I swung my arms.

Keeping up a quick pace, he said, "Well, I don't like actual chunks of celery."

Still I pooh-poohed, "Oh yes you do! You don't like celery like Hank doesn't like butter. He just doesn't want to see it or know about it, but it better be in his oatmeal!"

Matt said, "Don't invalidate my dislike of celery."

"I'm not!"

"Yes you are, you're doing exactly that." We reached a flat stretch and he sped up. I scrambled to keep pace. He was right. I was invalidating his dislike of celery.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I should not do that."

I have this tendency to think I know best in some areas, and when I think that, I won't really even hear what other people say, I'm too busy organizing my rebuttal.

I'm working on this aspect of myself, starting with soup.

Then Matt made me jog up a huge hill.

The End.

Errands

I just got back from taking the kids up the road towards the mountain house, where they will spend the weekend with my parents. I met my dad at the halfway point. Or, in one version of the story that could be told, I drove fifteen miles past the meeting point and had to turn around and come back.

My version of the story is more complex. It has to do with Demorest, GA, the planned rendezvous point, being not very well marked coming from the south, and my thinking I was somehow passing through Cornelia when I was passing through both towns, somehow, and then I was introducing Hank and Laura to Tenacious D and I wasn't as super duper alert to the signage as I might have been, though I will say that sign was in a weird place, like way up over the road instead of off to the right where I was looking.

I called my dad as I was approaching Cornelia. "Okay, I'm almost to Cornelia. Is Demorest a lot past that?" (Here you might be thinking, "Becky, don't you make this trip, from your house to the mountain house, all the time?" Yes, yes I do, but it's remarkably hard to remember what comes after what except that the Goats on the Roof are just before Clayton, and some ways before that is a Subway/gas station with the World's Dirtiest Bathroom, and there's a Chick-fil-A in Clayton (closed Sunday), and somewhere past Franklin there's that Walmart we went in that one time to buy Legos. That's my mental map of the route.)

So when I called Dad he said, "Yes, Demorest is up the road past Cornelia, I'm in Tallulah Gorge right now, and I'll be at the spot in fifteen minutes." Cool, okay, I rang off and motored right along until all of a sudden I found myself in Tallulah Gorge. I figured that space had somehow twisted itself, mobius-fashion, and I had wound up on the far side of the meeting point without ever going through the meeting point.

It was with genuine bewilderment that I called him again and said, "What just happened? I am in Tallulah somehow. I am not sure what to do." Dad drew on the patience and clarity that he honed during his thirty years as an educator. "Uh, turn around? Go the other way," he explained. Then he gave a series of instructions involving mile markers and an Arby's, and I got the car pointed in the other direction and found him.

Sometimes I just like to go driving around Georgia.

On the way home, by myself, in the afterglow of a jamocha milkshake, I was thinking about that phrase, "the Sandwich Generation," for people who find themselves being caregivers for older parents while still having kids at home. It's related, I guess, both to the trends of aged folks living longer and to people waiting until later to start their families. For some reason it came to my mind, and I thought how I feel like I'm in a sandwich too, only it's a good sandwich that makes my life easy. I have these children I love and am enjoying bringing up, and yet I still feel as nurtured by my own parents as I did when I was a little girl. It's a happy sandwich and I am grateful for it.

I came home to Matt, both of us ready to commence our childless weekend, and before we could, one of his artists was leaving and broke his car key. So Matt is right now driving him home while I wait. Artists, man. Seriously, they can barely keep their shit together. This is the guy who got his car stuck in our front yard one time. Jeebus. I don't know what it is.

Not really artists, jk! You know I love you!

But that errand gave me a chance to pop in and say Happy Friday to you guys.

I hope you get yourself into a good sandwich this weekend.

xoxo

It's A Vulnerable Time

Most nights I lie down in Hank's room for a few minutes when he goes to bed. This is a nice time in many ways, as I get to stop moving for the first time in a while and Hank shares what's on his mind. (Last night's tidbits were, "Mom, I know what snot is for and also what its real name is," and "Dad says one of the hardest things of all is to imagine what it's like to be somebody else." Both important topics for reflection.) Then, after he falls asleep in mid sentence, I have a few minutes of quiet reading time.

So while this is a good part of the day mentally and emotionally, somehow biologically or physiologically (biorhythmically?) it has some not good effects. I lie down pleasantly full from supper--not too full--and feeling good about the food choices I made all day. I get up wanting to eat All The Things. Somehow in that few minutes, I shift phases from having been sufficiently nourished for the day into someone who would gladly rob a Hostess Twinkie truck. It's a good thing I don't have a gun.

It's a particular desire for something sweet that I know has to be related to tiredness and is not a dietary need at all. I don't have much of a sweet tooth at other times. Usually there is no junk food in the house, phew! So I can be satisfied by drinking my nightly cup of tea and maybe eating a few almonds. Those cocoa almonds are good for this.

It's possible that this is my body telling me I need to be going to bed at that time, but I am a terrible and habitual night owl.

Anyway. I'm coming to how the marital dialogue portion of this story. But first a detour through another part of our bedtime routine in this house. You'd might as well move in.

Matt and the kids have nightly wrestles up on our big bed. But the term "wrestle" is now a sort of catch-all for a range of activities that includes, but is not limited to, charades, trivia, tickling, interpretive dance, and physical challenges. It is their thing and I never witness it, I just hear the hollering and thumping. It has grown and gotten more ritualized and complicated, to the point where he now makes bets with them about different things and, the following day, doles out small rewards for amazing feats. I'm sure it's normal to have one's children perform for treats?

Which leads to the fact that he bought a bunch of 90%-off Christmas candy and hid it on a high shelf in the book room, for parceling out to them over time. Like, a really high shelf that I can't reach, and I wasn't even sure exactly which shelf it was.

So the other night I stumbled downstairs, having grown drowsy in Hank's room and developed a fairly raging craving for one small treat.

I cut right to the chase, "Where is that candy you got? I want one piece of it."

And he smiles and starts to get all "Oh you want candy! Well let's discuss this situation." Like, not in a lascivious way, or not only that way, but he's all ready for us to have the little kitchen flirtation moment we have after the kids are in bed and we can relax out of our day roles into different roles. I can change from having been super competent all day to wanting to be indulged and he can refocus his attention away from work, and then we can move on with our pursuits, severally or together. You know the kitchen moment I'm talking about.

But I had a monkey on my back and I did not want to play. I was like, "Give me the candy. Give it to me now. Please." Which he thinks is hilarious. And I can see how ridiculous I am being but I can't help it. I said, "GIVE ME THE CANDY. I don't want to play." And now he is getting the candy down from the shelf, while attempting to poke gentle fun at me and I am not having it, so I escalate by saying, "I don't get it. Are you hiding the candy from the kids or from me? Or from yourself? I DON'T GET THE WHOLE NARRATIVE OF THE CANDY."

"Oh ho!" Now he is just enjoying himself. "You don't get the narrative of the candy? Is that your PhD talking?" And then I am just wounded because that is a totally normal way to talk about something. Everything has a narrative of what it is and why it's where it is and oh never mind! Give me the candy.

Then, perhaps wounded himself by my stiff-arming his attempts to be playful, he brings the whole bag of candy into the kitchen and sits it on the counter. I take a piece and punish him by avoiding eye contact. Until two seconds later when I come to my senses and look at him and shrug. I apologize for being a crazy person. And somehow the whole thing serves as our kitchen moment anyway.

He has been married to me for almost seventeen years.

What are y'all up to? Any narratable kitchen moments?

xo