All Adither

Here we are

...apologizing for our dirty houses that aren't, in fact, very dirty

...buying sweaters from Nordstrom (gasp!) and sometimes Value Village

...sneaking around like little thieves while the kids and husbands are occupied, stealing time for small things that make our hearts trill

...drinking red wine. We're sure it's too much, too often. We don't know how else to cope with this comfy life

...deciding not to understand the bad things that are coming

...taking comfort in the tucking of a curly hair strand behind our daughters' ears and the patting of our sons' heads

...watching our televisions with horror

...making believe we're 32 instead of 42

...stir-frying brussels sprouts that look like tiny alien heads

...trying to figure out if we're happy and just pretending to be moody, or moody pretending to be happy

...our eyes leaking at the slightest provocation, sometimes because of wind, and sometimes because our childrens' teachers give glowing behavioral reports

...plodding along in our part-time jobs, happy to have flexible schedules, yet not liking the corporate speak that is sneaking in to every meeting, making us feel like schmucks instead of Real Writers

...wondering when our time will come, even though it's clearly already here

Short list

• I think this is a spectacular article about marriage and fidelity. Or lack thereof. Go forth and read. Read! You won't regret it.

• Yesterday, I received an email about a new conference called BlogHer Writers and I got myself seriously worked up about going. Texted J. at the office, looked at airfares and hotels. Then I came to my senses. Flying across the country for a single day of information that doesn't include one-on-ones with agents or editors. Mmm. Probably not. But I do love the fact that it'll be swarming with Penguin people.

Although this is probably what they'd do to me the first time I tried to corner one of them to pitch my manuscript:

• This makes me stupidly happy. Goats in trees.

What's making you happy right now?

Normal, Washington

In some ways, my last post was B.S. I did go to Portland and have the time of my life, but I was hardly "stepping out of my usual existence". Especially considering I've had no usual for the past three months.

This summer, J. was on sabbatical and, at the beginning of it, he announced that he didn't want to "waste" his time off at home, so away we went.

1. First, the kids and I traveled to Michigan for three weeks. During our visit, I left Max and Claire with my parents, met J. in Detroit and we flew to France for 8 days.

2. When we arrived home in Seattle, we took two days to unpack and repack, then drove South to Yosemite, stopping in Bend, Oregon, Reno, and San Francisco among other less illustrious towns. (Fortuna, California anyone? Shudder.)

3. After that, we spent another week and a half back in Seattle before jetting off to the Big Island of Hawaii for 2 weeks.

Kids threw up in Ziploc bags, we played road trip games, we ate at Subway more times than I care to admit, we kayaked and watched sunsets and stood in the crooks of redwoods. We rode mules and hiked and I cried because my feet hurt and it was all too much.

I realized I'm a princess whose idea of camping has its roots in childhood when my sister and I slept in the yard in our dad's musty pup tent, opening a cooler for breakfast and served ourselves cereal and milk. Then trooped inside to watch cartoons. It had nothing to do with fecund, grimy bathrooms, locking everything with a possible scent, including lip balm, in a bear locker, or counting down the hours until I'd arrive at an Oakland Holiday Inn.

The summer was deliriously spectacular. It was fun. It was hard. It was messy. It's something, given a another six months or so, I'll grow nostalgic for.

Now the kids are back in school, J. is back at the office, and I am back to my usual of food prep, laundry, and going into work a few hours a week. I have been sneaking in a little writing most days, which fills me to the brim with satisfaction.

So yeah, life is just settling back down again. But when I wrote my last post from the train zipping between Portland and Seattle, there was no normal at all.

 

Time off for good behavior

I wake up early and lift my head from the pillow. My brain swirls, like a current reversing. I drank a little too much the night before.

My friend Tricia and I are on vacation from our regular lives.

It is only seven a.m. Six hours of sleep. I can work with that.

I dress as quickly and quietly as I can, pack my computer into my backpack and leave the hotel. The late summer morning is extraordinarily warm for Portland. The streets are quiet, sun slanting between buildings.

On every block a homeless person who’s been out all night asks me for change. Guiltily, I walk past them, looking for a coffee shop with comfy chairs. I find only Starbucks full of hard tables or indie cafes with tall stools along counters.

It is September 11^th, and I know every airwave will be full of remembrances and tributes. As they should be, I suppose. Still, like Tricia and I discussed, 9-11 has infiltrated every American's lives in so many ways already. I don’t feel the need for an anniversary to ponder all that happened. But then, maybe it’s important for people who’ve lost someone they know to commemorate the day.

My rejection of big 9-11 memorials could also be apathy. We are in the midst of an eating/drinking/shopping/photo-snapping orgy in Portland and are trying not to think too much.

The night before we went to a club. An actual, cheesy-ass bar where the music blew my eardrums and people shimmied around and music videos flickered across massive screens. It was ridiculous. I danced. I did. I felt stupid. But the experience was so different than my normal life that I had fun.

I’m getting old though. Case in point: watching Beyonce writhing around in a sparkly, gold bikini and Rhianna straddling tigers bugged me. Really? I thought. What kind of message is this sending? Yeah, I know. It’s having a daughter that does this to me.

The one decent looking guy in the place tried to chat me up and bugged me, too. Besides being physically there, I did nothing to encourage him and edged away from his air grinding. By the time we left, I saw that he’d found someone willing and, presumably, unmarried.

I wondered how skanky that willing someone, if she hooked up with him, would feel in the morning.

I never find a café with the soft chairs I crave or open my computer to write. Instead I get a coffee and take it back to the hotel lobby where I read my library book on a velour couch, feeling dirty (literally) and exhausted and refreshed.

Luckily I don’t yet know when I get home I’ll find an equally exhausted husband, one child with a migraine and another who sits sulking in the car for an hour after we pull into the garage.

I only know that I still have it in me to step out of my usual existence, at least for a day.