Dare I hope?

The last few weeks, I've been feeling pretty down, my peeps.

Money's not been tight, it's been downright squeezing us dry.

We've had a few mechanical issues in our home...and by mechanical, I mean both of the human skeletal and the architectural plumbing sort.

And on the emotional front, things that had once kept psychic demons at bay have been threatening to no longer work.

As if that wasn't enough, my laptop has been finicky and thus my connection to the Internet (TO YOU!!!) has been sketchy at best. So I've been pretty much reliant on my husband's laptop. Which is with him 90% of the time. Niiiiice.

Oh, and I am due to have a repeat mammogram in the next couple of weeks because the one I had six months ago had some suspicious specks. *Gack*

I've been...scared. Unsure. Isolated. Fighting hopelessness. Broke.

Then, out of nowhere, a situation fell into our laps. One that would give me hope, and take away a lot of the crap I've feared the past few years...not that it would fix all of our problems, but one that would make a lot of things better.

I don't know if this situation will work out. I'm afraid to really hope, because what if I get too excited and positive and it all falls apart? What if I am left where I am, minus the dream of this new, most delicious carrot dangling before me?

So. I am trying to pretend the carrot doesn't exist, and fighting the urge to indulge in fantasies.

But should I be revelling in the dreams while they are possible? Is it better to indulge and have hope thus risking disappointment, or just pretend that hope doesn't exist?

WWYD?

So, today I was at the grocery store with my four year-old daughter, and my mom. Three generations tooling around the aisles, grabbing at things and yelling at each other to PUT them back!

At one point I was price shopping for cheap selecting the perfect vintage Pinot Noir for our dinner, when this young dude glides past me and scoops up a bottle of Jäger without even slowing down. I smiled, thinking of some (mommy?) blogger I'd read earlier today who'd talked about doing a few too many Jager shots with her husband (Dang? Who was it? Help me out!!!).

It's Thursday night in a college town, nothing odd about someone grabbing some Jäger...what was impressive is that he just stroooooooooooode on while fluidly whipping a bottle from the shelf without disturbing its neighbors.

A minute or so later I met back up with my mom and daughter, and suddenly there was that Smooth Dude walking past us. Chattin' on his cell phone and walking towards the exit. Still sailing smoothly, but his gait was also somewhat less...effortless.

And the Jäger bottle? Nowhere to be seen.

I stopped and watched him and Smooth Dude just continued sailing right out the door. Buh-bye, SD. Buh-bye, bottle of Jäger.

I said to my mom, before SD was out the door, "He is stealing a bottle of Jäger." I thought about running after him. I thought about contacting a Sales Associate. As I stood there I thought a lot of things in a millisecond.

But, you know what? I didn't know for sure he stole anything. For all I know, he's a David Blaine in training and one of his skills is Being Smooth and Non-Bottle Moving Whilst Drifting Through Grocery Store Aisles.

Or maybe he realized he didn't have the cash and randomly dropped the Jäger off somewhere.

Perhaps the person he was talking to on the phone had just told him, "Smooth Dude, my roommate just totally bought some Jäger. No worries. Time to party on and you don't need to buy any Jäger (because in my head Smooth Dudes and friends all talk like characters from Wayne's World)(Party ON!) !"

It could be that elves scurried out from the dairy section and stole the bottle from him and threatened him with a fortnight of bad luck if he didn't vamoose immediately.

Who knows what really happened. It just seemed pretty certain to me that I'd just witnessed a theft.

I looked at my daughter (who had, by the way, been a very reluctant shopper this entire expedition).

I looked at my mom (who probably, by the way, thought I was being a very reluctant shopper this entire expedition).

I thought about what it would entail to chase SD down, accuse him, call the cops, who knows what. Yowsa, but I just thought, "Forget it. It's not worth it if I'm wrong."

Honestly, part of me thought it wouldn't be worth it if I was right. I know that was lame and weak of me, because morally and socially and economically and theoretically and realistically and fiscally and...deep breath...legally it's just wrong to steal. But when I thought of the flipping hoops I'd have to go through, and what if I were wrong (but I know I wasn't)? Forget it.

It didn't seem worth it.

Was I wrong?

What would you have done?

Good-bye, Yellow Brick Road

Dear Sir Elton John,

I’d like to thank you for helping me when I was in third grade.

There was this talent show thing. I fiercely wanted to be in it, but I didn’t know what my talent might be. I settled on baton twirling, as it was something I had recently taken up and it made me feel kinda cool.

A friend and I decided to try out together, and we chose your song "Saturday Night's Alright (For Fighting)" as our background music. We rocked! AND we were chosen to be in the talent show. Woohoo! Throwing that baton up into the air as I spun around and caught it, while hearing you croon, “Saturday, Saaaaaturday, Saturday, Saaaaaturday, Saturday, Saaaaaturday, Saturday, that’s all riiiiiiiight!” is truly one of my favorite memories of my school days.

Suffice it to say, I have quite the soft spot for you in my heart.

So, back in 2004, when you accused (United States) American Idol voters of being “incredibly racist” because an African American had been eliminated from American Idol Three, I shrugged it off and made apologies for you. I figured your heart was in the right place, and hey! You had my back in third grade.

I know, you don’t need me to make apologies for you, but I did anyway. I’m pretty loyal that way.

Later, when an African American ended up winning that same year you called us racist, I thought you’d retract your accusation. You didn’t. I assumed you were on to better and bigger things.

Fast forward to today. Rather, yesterday. Nearly four years to the day that you accused the American Idol voters of being “incredibly racist” (really, a pretty heavy accusation, I must say), you have leveled a new charge against the people of the United States.

So, now, you are calling the people of the United States misogynists. Why? Because Hillary Rodham Clinton isn’t kicking Barack Obama’s ass in the Democratic Primary?

A bit ironic, no? Because, what if she were ahead in the delegate count? Would we then be incredibly racist because Barack is African American?

Sorry, but your accusations are starting to ring hollow, Sir.

But we still have Paris our baton twirling rendez-vous. That was all good. Thanks for the memories.

Sincerely,
Christine

Fight the Frump Friday...Rock Bottom

I was intending to write a Fight the Frump Friday post today. Cuz it's Friday and junk.

Buuuuuuut, it's almost 12:30 in the afternoon. I'm in my pajamas. Hair greasy and unbrushed. Ditto for the teeth (and let me tell you, greasy teeth are anything but unfrumpy). My socks have holes in them and my face could use some serious exfoliation.

I was sick yesterday, and my daughter came down with a fever last night. I slept pretty fitfully, with her cuddling up to me all night and whispering intermittently, "I love you, Mommy."

It was worth not sleeping.

Anyway, today I've been trying to find a decently priced hotel room in San Fransisco (for the Bossy visit, squee!) that isn't a flea-ridden hell-hole riddled with various drippings from prior visitors. Wish me luck!

So my point is...jut like sometimes you gotta be cruel to be kind, sometimes you gotta revel in the worst grossness your body can create in order to realize just how bad you don't want to be a frump.

I'm hitting Frumpy Rock Bottom here, peeps.

(I must still be a bit sick...I said "squee" and I think I misspelled it!)

Toga! Toga! Toga!

When I was in college, I was so broke that I took my measly paycheck to the local Meijers to cash it and have money orders made for my share of the rent and utilities. For my most broke six months, I was left with about ten dollars for food and bus fare for the following two weeks.

I bought a lot of eggs and cheap bean burritos.

I'd always thought those days were far behind me. The reality is, though, that these recent months have been so financially difficult that we're dangerously close to reliving my college experience. Frankly we are barely making it paycheck-to-paycheck. We're fortunate that we have money trickling in from here and there (and some super great friends (especially this one; she just started blogging today) who've helped out in a pinch or two), otherwise I don't know what I'd do.

Sometimes the idea of reliving college years is appealing. NOT the scrimping and saving part, though.

Anyway, today as I was backing out of our driveway, I realized I'd forgotten something inside the house. As always, I was running late, so I hurriedly threw the car into park, opened the door, and stepped out.

Except that instead of putting the car in park, I had put it in reverse. I realized this as my foot shot out from under me and I started to fall and stumble backwards. I was hopping on my left foot, trying to get back into the car and find the brake with my right foot. As I struggled, I had visions of the open door knocking me over and the car continuing on without me. With my four year-old daughter strapped into her car seat.

But instead of hitting me, the open car door caught on a decorative column on the side of our house. There was an odd, groaning sound as the door bent; at that moment I made it into the car and slammed on the brakes.

I had to pull forward so that I could close the car door. It was stuck waaaaaaaaaaay open. I briefly considered ditching it and biking to her preschool, but we were already late and I was working. Plus I didn't want to deal with the hassle of getting out of the car, extricating my bike from the garage, emptying the variety of things I'd packed into the car for the school day and shoving it into the bike trailer, so I said, "EFFF it!" and yanked as hard as I could.

The door budged by about six inches.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEF IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!" I yelled and pulled with all my might. It closed!

Well, almost. The 'door is ajar' light is still on. Whatever. The door isn't going anywhere right now.

So, now we'll have to scrape up the money for the deductible. Fun, fun times.

And not a keg party in sight.

The delicious taste of sweet, syrupy Karma that drips down your chin and makes your teeth ache with joy

When I was a little girl, I watched my father throw my mom through a sliding glass door. As a favor to that scared child I once was cowering in the shadows on that night (and many others), I ask you to go to Serving the Queens and read Jenn's post Yes, Jenn, There is a Karma.... This is perhaps one of the most important things I have ever read, and it was honestly a wonderful Christmas gift to find it and share it with (regift it to) you. Karma is sweet.

(I love you, Mom.)
(Yes, she reads here every day!)

Tell me it's okay to be Pollyannaish

I had my first mammogram at age thirty-five...partly for baseline, partly because I'd thought I'd felt a lump. It was chostrochondritis (inflammation of the cartilage in the chest)

I had my second at age forty...partly because I'd turned forty, partly because I'd found another lump. I got called back after the mammogram, went in for an ultrasound. They did a fine needle aspiration right then and after some agonizing days the pathology report said, "Benign cyst."

My third mammogram was the following year. The mammogram found a suspicious area (same general area as the cyst), and so again I went back for an ultrasound. The ultrasound showed a shadow; that meant it was a solid mass which is far scarier than a liquid cyst. A fine needle aspiration wasn't sufficient; I had to come back later for a biopsy. The doctor and tech both looked concerned, and tried to be reassuring but kept repeating things like, "No need to worry until we know what we are dealing with." To a hypochondriac like me (or more accurately a permanent medical student syndrome sufferer), that wasn't the least bit reassuring. It over a full month from the mammogram to the results of the biopsy, which was galactocoele (aka milk cyst). Benign.

Part of the reason my post last night was so lame was because I was dreading this morning. Yup, mammogram number four was this morning. I tried to be positive this time, not freaked out, not worrying, not saying to myself, "What if this time...?" I tried to convince myself that this time they'd find nothing, and I could leave the radiology suite smiling naturally instead of forcibly. And I was afraid to do that, afraid that hoping for the best was jinxing me for the worst. Because I learned that's how it works in medical school.

This time they found several little calcifications. "Punctuated calcifications" which is the good kind, the variety "rarely associated with malignancy." In fact, the radiologist recommended that I just return in six months for a follow up. But I dug in my heals...I know me all too well. I'd spend many a sleepless night fretting that perhaps I was the exception. When I was all PMS-y I'd look at my kids faces and tear up, torturing myself by imagining them growing up without me. Every time I'd see a pink ribbon I'd break out into a mini cold sweat.

So I sat with him in his dark office, holding the microscope and looking at X-rays of my boobs, specifically at those punctuated calcifications and he said, "Ninety-nine percent of the time these are signs of benign changes."

I said, "I don't want to spend the next six months fearing I'm that one percent. Nope, I want a biopsy."

So now I wait for the call to schedule the biopsy.

Surprise package...or, the real Sicko

Thanks to gross Karate floor mats, last December my son had a lovely wart on the bottom of his foot. After the easy remedies didn't work, we pulled out the big guns and went to a podiatrist for an application of the miraculous Blister Beetle juice. The Blister Beetle secrets juice that causes blisters when it comes in contact with skin (how fortunate it's called that, huh?).

The podiatrist also happens to be a friend of ours; this was our first visit to her office and the kids were having a great time chatting with her in her white lab coat just like they did in everyday life. The three of us left the exam room all happy and giggly.

Upon returning to the lobby, we were greeted with a big old man who looked just like Santa Claus. He was an elderly guy with a bushy white beard, long silvery hair, red suspenders over a plaid flannel shirt, and big black boots. Being the holiday season, and as we 'do the Santa thing' here, my kids were enthralled, especially my little girl. She was young enough to think that maybe, just maybe, this was the real Santa. The guy was working in, too. He asked her if she'd been a good girl this year, what she wanted for Christmas, where she thought Rudolf was (one the roof, of course!). He was charming and I was all in the holiday spirit; I was as into it as my kids were. My daughter talked about it for days, telling all she met how SHE MET SANTA AT THE DOCTORS!

If you're a regular reader, you know we're moving. Not far away, but to a different neighborhood in the same town. Being a rather paranoid mama (not to mention one who spends too much time online) one afternoon not too long ago I went to California's Megan's Law website to check out our new hood.

Podiatry Lobby Santa was on there. For LEWD OR LASCIVIOUS ACTS WITH CHILD UNDER 14 YEARS. That guy was intentionally dressed like Santa to lure kids. He looked at my children. He talked to them. And I, all bubbly and sparkly, called him Santa and played along.

*shiver*

My friend's old neighbor is on that website; he was eighteen and having sex with his girlfriend who was seventeen (or was it seventeen and sixteen). He forever has to carry that around with him, explain it to new neighbors, etc. That would suck and I do feel bad for the guy; yet I wouldn't let my kids play with his kids, even though when I was seventeen I had sex with my eighteen year old boyfriend. Hypocritical, yes. Mamabearish, yes. I will do whatever it takes, however paranoid,to keep my kids safe.

This flipping Santa dude came out of the woodwork. He looked so harmless (and isn't that what I've tried to teach my kids...bad guys can look good)! Frankly, it wouldn't bother me ONE LITTLE BIT if that Blister Beetle juice was used on whatever body part of his was necessary to make sure he didn't harm another child.

In an attempt to fight off my own temper tantrums...

...I decided to watch a couple of my fave temper tantrums. Here they are for your viewing enjoyment as well.

P.S.: Just got turned down for the house we really wanted. The pets. Again. Two more possibilities...one isn't looking good. So we're really in all likelihood down to one. If that doesn't work out, I don't know what I'm going to do.

*UPDATE*: We're down to one. The one that wasn't looking good was in fact NOT good. They are going to sell, not rent. Please internets, put out good vibes that this one comes through. We're down to the wire here.

**UPDATE 2**: I've heard that when some try to click on the videos, they are told that the vids aren't available any more. Weird, because they are for others, and they are still on YouTube. Should I explode now? Please let me know.

Does this blog make my butt look big?

I usually hate sitting. You can generally find me standing, putzing around my kitchen, hauling laundry, getting kids in and out of the car...you know, the stuff we do. I don't even watch TV sitting down. I stand at a counter and listen to music or the radio and multitask.

When I'm not sitting, I'm probably lying down, or at least reclining. I read while horizontal. Play with the kids sprawled along the couch or on the floor (but more likely walking around doing something). Maybe it's a function of poor posture, but sitting just isn't comfortable enough for me to pick it over standing or laying around.

BUT then this blogging thing happened to me...I started delving into this wondrous blogosphere and needless to say, I was hooked. The thing is, my laptop isn't wireless here at home. So I sit here reading. SIT here reading. Then I started my own blog, and I sit here writing. SIT here writing.

See where this is going? I've been sitting on this ass of mine, and you know what? I now understand what that gross term Secretary Spread means. I've gained weight because I've been sitting on my ASS. Which has gotten wider and puffier as a result of my newly adopted stationary status (no, I'm sure it isn't the inconsistent exercising and lack of willpower about all things savory and Cabernet Sauvignonish).

So...I've joined the lovely Mrs. Flinger's challenge...weight loss war. I am gonna win the cashola, beotches really looking forward to this opportunity to encourage each other on our weight loss goals. Honestly, I am. Because I might give up red wine (as if) but I'm not giving up blogging.

Our house, in the middle of the street

I'm feeling...unsettled. Literally, without a settle. Our home is sold, all contingencies lifted, and we close escrow on November 14th...four weeks from yesterday. For one dollar less than a cool million. Thank all that is good for that.

What's causing me to stress eat (dang but I wish I wasn't one of those people who eat when stressing) is that WE DON'T HAVE A PLACE TO RENT YET. The place we had planned on renting, the home of a friend, is now on the market...so, no renting there.

Our credit sucks. We might as well have declared bankruptcy, it's that bad. Don't ever get behind on your mortgage payment, especially not more than once (that's my first advice to you).

We have pets; three cats and the Cutest Puppy Ever. All indoor, all litter and house trained...we don't like living with pee all around any more than the next person. Buuuuuuuuuuuuuut...most renters don't like the idea of some scummy person with crap (well, someday we aspire to crap) credit and a zoo renting their pristine home.

We've been turned down multiple times...once for the credit, the rest for the animals. We have one place we are seriously considering, but frankly they want 5K for a security deposit and an exorbitant rent and while we're ready to do it, we'd like to find something more reasonable.

There were, literally, a few hours over the weekend when I started to formulate back up plans in case we didn't find a place to live. Here is a sampling:

1.) Move in with my Mom; she has a two bedroom condo so that would be plenty of room (my mom is sweating just reading that).

2.) Rent a storage unit, put all of our belongings in it, and live in the minivan. My husband's car would be like a second home! We could vacation there!

3.) Shave the animals and pretend that they are quadruplets.

4.) Arrange some sort of a bloggy challenge/giveaway/contest and the winner gets the eight of us as PERMANENT HOUSEGUESTS (my second advice to you is do not enter that challenge/giveaway/contest)!

5.) Just keep on keepin' on, and trust that it will all work out.

I'm going with number five. Pollyanna, that shall be my nickname.

From the peanut gallery

My son's kindergarten year was just over a month along; I was at pick-up, waiting for him to come out of his classroom, walk under the rose covered trellis in the center of the kindergarten courtyard, and run up to me for a big hug and flash me one of his broad grins.

I was chatting with the other moms, still getting to know this new world of School as Parent Not A Student. Another mom came up and thanked me for some graphic design work I'd done for a charity dear to her heart, a physical and behavioral therapy center for children handicapped either physically or mentally. We went on to discuss my pregnancy (I was seven months pregnant with my daughter) and her other children.

Her youngest had just started preschool. She loved the place, but was considering switching schools, "We got a notice in the mail just before school started; the preschool campus is peanut free because some kid has an allergy. That's ridiculous! My daughter loves peanut butter and jelly. Why should I be inconvenienced because of someone else's kid's problem? I don't care. I'm still sending in peanut butter and jelly sandwiches."

The words are burned into my memory because I was so incredulous. This is a woman who's middle child, most unfortunately, was born with a constellation of issues which left her developmentally disabled in a variety of ways. This is also a woman who is extremely wealthy, and whose other children attend a very expensive, elite, private school. This is a woman who put her disadvantaged child into the public school system and lobbied heavily (to the point of a lawsuit) for said school system to provide this child with every possible intervention. This is a woman who put this child into kindergarten before this child was remotely ready, with the full intention of having her repeat kindergarten. This is a woman who understood that her child was disruptive in the classroom and whose private aids were a huge financial drain, but felt it was important for her child to be mainstreamed because the other children learn compassion.

This is a woman who told me all of the above. I didn't disagree with her decisions...every parent needs to be an advocate for their children, and needs to follow their conscience to that end.

But in response to her peanut allergy outburst, I said, "You do understand that while it might be a matter of inconvenience to you, it might literally be a matter of life and death for this child, right? A peanut allergy isn't something to mess around with."

"Whatever. It's not my responsibility."

Yup. Hypocrisy incarnate.

During this conversation my hand went protectively to my belly, hugely swollen with pregnancy. This reflexive gesture is one innumerable women throughout the ages have lovingly performed as they carry babies in their wombs, silently and ever so fervently wishing for them to be healthy and happy forever.

My daughter is healthy and infectiously happy.

She does, however, have a peanut allergy (we have no family history, so it was quite the surprise). It sucks so bad.

I'm not one to ask others to sacrifice for my sake. I chose a preschool for her because it is a cooperative and I am allowed to be there with her every day; as I signed her up I knew I could monitor what the other kids ate. I would be there with an Epi Pen if she suffered an anaphylactic reaction and couldn't breath. I could watch her, take care of her, be responsible for her.

As I walked through the gate on the first day of preschool I was thrilled -and nervous- to see a sign loudly proclaiming, "THIS IS A PEANUT FREE SITE."

I had checked a box on one of the bazillion of forms that yes, she has an allergy. I'd noted in the blank, peanuts. That's it, that's all I'd done. Had I raised a red flag that had altered this preschool campus? I didn't want that.

As it turns out there are two other kids at that site with peanut allergies, kids whose parents had advocated for them and requested that peanuts be restricted from snacks served. The school went further than that and asked that on the rare occasion food is sent in with a child that it be peanut free. I cannot tell you the piece of mind that this has brought me. I still am there at snack time, every day (I am almost always there, all day every day)...just in case.

Peanut allergies just aren't seen as serious, for some reason (links are from a blog new to me, these posts of hers prompted me to write about my daughter's peanut allergy). I have my theories as to why that is, but I'm sure it is a conglomeration of issues. That being said, I simply want my daughter to be safe in school.

I hate feeling defensive about my daughter's condition. As if it weren't real. As if I was just being hysterical. It's just Skippy, right?

A big old blogging hug

My buddy Casey over at Moosh in Indy is asking for support and words of wisdom/encouragement for her friend who recently suffered a miscarriage. Here's the comment I left over at her blog; if you can stop by and help her friend through this by sharing your stories or sending well wishes it would be much appreciated. And a doggone nice thing to do!

-----------------------------

I had two miscarriages in-between my two children.

The first started with some cramping and spotting. I remember the moment I knew for sure that it was serious; I was laying in bed and felt a gush accompanied by horrible cramping. At that exact moment the chimes outside our bedroom window rang, despite it being a totally calm night. I was nearly eleven weeks; we’d seen the heartbeat nearly a month earlier.

The second time I was in the doctor’s office for a routine 7 week vaginal ultrasound. We were so excited…but then the silence in that dark room as my OB tried to locate a heartbeat was overwhelming. My own heart was pounding like crazy, and everything was reduced to the concerned look on my doctor’s face and my thought, “Not again, not again, not again, not again, not again.” Those moments seemed to last forever, until he looked at me and said, “I’m so sorry.”

What got me through those experiences without losing hope was the fact that miscarriages are so common. Painful and devastating and all of those horrible things, but also natural and not something to be ashamed of…the loss of a pregnancy is something women (and men) have been grieving throughout time. It sucked to be part of that group, but I knew I wasn’t alone.

I’m glad you’re doing this for your friend. She needs to feel not-alone. Hugs to her, and to you.

Apologies in advance for not proof-reading this...

I'm just too exhausted. This past week has been a whirlwind to say the least. Seven (or was it eight?) days ago we weren't planning on selling this house. Today it's officially on the market and our Realtor held an open house. He's been in the biz for years, is a close friend of the family, and knows his stuff. He was pretty ambivalent about holding an open house and left the decision up to us. His take is that they tend to be more about agents gathering clients looking to buy than actually selling the listing. I said I didn't care if he had an open house or not...he responded it doesn't hurt and as long as we were cool with the inconvenience he'd do it.

We whipped this house into shape like you wouldn't believe. Happily, we didn't have to go nuts on staging; we just had to straighten closets and pantries and cabinets and the like. Our friend/Realtor power washed the exterior, hired someone to clean the windows, someone else to touch-up paint (and paint over a very funky and fun but dark bedroom), and someone else to clean the carpets. We've also started the inspection process to speed up any potential sale along.

We did go a bit nuts on the landscaping...took down the NEW TRAMPOLINE, rearranged furniture, placed some cheesy place setting in various outdoor seating areas. Thankfully one of my best friends helped me (and honestly the fact that her husband is our Realtor didn't make her work any harder...she's just a gem) and that made a world of difference. She does staging (I have in the past as well) so between the two of us we knocked some serious shit out.

I am so fucking tired.

So today was the open house. It seems it went rockin'...his best ever. Crazy traffic. Some seemingly interested parties. We shall see.

The most interested couple had one concern. Our home, while only 4.5 years old, backs up to a mature neighborhood...a hoity-toity (I must be tired if I just used that phrase) golf course country club neighborhood at that. For me that was a HUGE bonus. They have mature landscaping and are all ranches (ramblers they call them here...one story, people) so it is far more private than you generally find in a new(er) construction.

But that hoity-toity golf course country club community (whose homes sell, by the way, for 100K plus more than any other place in our little college town) was built back in the day before underground power lines. So along the back of their lot line are strung old-fashioned above ground power lines.

The problem isn't that they are an eyesore...along the back of our lot line is a row of seventy-five or so year-old gorgeous oak trees that blend into the trees and large shrubs in the yard behind us on the other side of the fence. The power lines are hardly visible.

They are afraid of the health ramifications. These aren't humongous lines...just little neighborhood ones, and at the end of a street as well. As someone who sits in front of a computer all day...well, I'm not wasting too much sleep worrying about electricity.

*ring*

My Realtor called just as I was finishing the last sentence. These people are very interested, just worrying about the power lines. It seems it is a Feng Shui concern for them as much as anything else. THAT I get (and I'm not being sarcastic). Seriously, as much as I love this house it hasn't been good for our financial situation AT ALL.

Maybe it's those power lines draining our financial juju.

Ooooooooooh, Spooooooooky

*cue supernatural-sounding music here*

The following is a story about some weird shit that happened to me many years ago:


I was 20 and rooming in Southern California with a friend who had an eighteen month-old daughter. Due to a cascade of events she was doing the single mom gig, and I helped her as much as I could with her little girl. That was my first glimpse into the love that comes with parenting; I haven't seen her since she was six, but I feel that I know her in a way that few can.

Anyway, one weekend afternoon my roommate and I were meandering along a beach; at one point we stopped and spoke face-to-face,trying to decide if it was time to turn around and head back to our towels. I was facing my friend with the ocean behind her, my back was to the rolling dunes. The little girl was propped on her left hip and the waves calmly lapped at her feet while I wiggled my toes in the dry sand.

Suddenly, OUT OF NOWHERE a wave that must have been five feet high engulfed her and her daughter.

And then they were gone.

The ocean was back to looking calm, and there was no sign of the two of them. I stood there for an instant, stunned, and then (here is where it gets weird) I ran out about five feet into the water, stopped, abruptly made a left turn, ran about 10 feet parallel to the beach, stopped, bent down, put both of my hands out, and waited. I couldn't see anything, I just was acting without knowing why. A few seconds later the baby emerges from the water, still being held by my friend (one hand under each of her armpits)...all I could see of my friend was about half of her forearms. She then released her grasp on her daughter, who was now in my hands as well (I grabbed her by the waist).

Her arms disappeared and my friend was gone again.

I stood still for a second, checked on the baby girl who was now on my left hip who was sputtering but fine, and inexplicably I started running parallel to the beach again, about 15 feet from where I had been standing. I stopped, bent over again, put out my right hand...and waited. Then, out of the water and directly into my waiting hand, my friend's right hand appeared. We clasped and I pulled her out, and the three of us stumble back to the shore and my friend and I discussed what we had separately (yet somehow together) experienced.

She said she was tumbling and turning and didn't know which way was up; she just clutched her baby as tightly as possible. Then, she didn't know why as it was counterintuitive and against all of her maternal instincts, she pushed her daughter away from her body and extended her own arms as far as she could...and then let go of her little girl. She didn't know why she was doing so, as she couldn't see me didn't know I was there; she didn't know I'd grabbed her daughter any more than I knew what she was doing. She just acted without thought. As I had been doing.

She tumbled around a bit more, then stuck out her right arm, felt my hand in hers. The rest you know.

If this hadn't happened to me I wouldn't believe it. If I hadn't written it down at the time I would doubt my recall. If this friend and I hadn't over the following years occasionally rehashed it I might think I had exaggerated my memory.

I don't know what was at work there, but something was.

(We came to understand later that this was a particularly dangerous beach with an odd shelf and these types of waves happen occasionally. So that explains that. The rest...your guess is as good as mine).

Times When Christine Really, REALLY Had to Pee (A Trilogy); Part I

(This is part one in a three-part series detailing in mind-numbing depth three separate occasions where I, Christine, had to pee very, very badly and managed to inconvenience strangers and family alike)(Oh! I just thought of another...perhaps this shall be a tetralogy).



Picture it, Madrid 1997 (prize of nothing given to whomever gets that reference). It was well after dark and I had just arrived in Madrid. As I exited the train I managed to get myself robbed; I freaked out for a few minutes wondering what I was going to do without cash, credit cards, or the map to the hostel at which I had a reservation. I sort of remembered where the hostel was relative to the train station, so I started walking. Pretty soon I was lost and wandering around a poorly lit warehouse district (yes, not creepy at all). Eventually I stumbled upon my hostel; it was 11 pm at this point, way past their curfew.

As I rang the doorbell of the hostel, I tried to convince myself that the owners would take pity on me; I was a girl traveling alone who had been robbed in their beautiful city. They would understand why I was late and would be okay with the fact that I didn't have my credit card with me; they would take me in, perhaps give me some tea and a warm rag to wipe off my dirty, tear-stained face, console me, and do all they could to help this scared girl.

Uh, no.

I had to beg them to let me in; I started thinking that perhaps I should have taken my chances with the two slimy American guys who had "felt sorry for me" and offered to buy me "some beers" and let me "stay with them." I pleaded over the intercom and explained my story and after many protestations they let me in. Then they wanted payment. Up front. Now. "They took my wallet; if I can call American Express they will wire you the money from my bank account in the morning," I explained. "I just need to make one phone call."

"No. Phonecalls are not allowed after 8pm. It disturbs our guests."

I was beyond on the verge of tears. Ultimately they capitulated; I called AMEX as the two owners of the hostel sat five feet from me sighing and coughing and rolling their eyes. Finally, they got confirmation of their payment and I got to retreat to my room. I have little memory of going to bed, just the recall of a vague uneasiness all night.

In the morning I decided to high-tail it out of Madrid. I had wanted to go to the The Prado, but I was so freaking jittery I needed to get out of a humongous city and into a more manageable small-scale situation where I'd feel safer.

Thus Toledo it was. Less than an hour south of Madrid and home of El Greco, Toledo had been on my itinerary anyway...I was just bumping up my visit.

After leaving my hostel, I ran into a shop and grabbed some bread and a one and a half liter bottle of water. I hadn't eaten since I left Barcelona so I was famished. And thirsty (AHA! YES! Where the pee part of the story starts). I chugged the water and ate the bread as I ran to the station.

Once I arrived, I bought my ticket and located my platform. I had less than ten minutes before the train left...I was starting to feel the urge, but the closest lavatory was a bit of a sprint away. Could I hold off until the train was out of the station to hit the john (in case it was a Hopper Toilet that just dumps onto the tracks)? Yeah, I could make it; I didn't want to risk going to the bathroom then and having the train leave without me.

So, I hopped on the train and wiggled in my seat as I wait for us to exit the station...and when the time came I made my way to the back of the car, full of that feeling that relief combined with urgency that comes as you know are finally going to go.

Nothing. No bathrooms.

I zipped out of that car into the next, and then the one behind it, all the way to the end of the train. Nada. I worked my way back to the front of the train...no bathrooms anywhere. I went back to my seat, wondering what the hell I was going to do? I'd been traveling around Europe for well over two months at this point and I had never encountered a train that didn't have bathrooms. It hadn't occurred to me that this could be a possibility.

The conductor came by and I asked/mimed him how long until we arrived in Toledo. He pulled out a map; we weren't even a quarter of a way there. I was screwed; there was NO way I was going to make it. I tried to explain this to him; he wasn't getting my broken Spanish, my fairly good French, my English. So I used the international symbol for having to piss in the worst way: I locked my knees together, grabbed my crotch, and bulged out my eyes.

He got it. He put a sympathetic hand on my arm; once again showed me the map, pointed to his watch...NOW...pointed to the map, pointed to his watch again to show me the time lapse until we arrived in Toledo. Another half hour at least. There wasn't much between where we were and here; no other cities, no other stops. "Gracias" I said with a smile I plastered on my face. I knew I wouldn't make it.

I hummed, bounced, and squirmed. The minutes elapsed as the crop fields passed by my window. The motion of the train only seems to serve to swoosh the urine around in my bladder; waves of pee knocking against my urethra. I sat on my heal, hoping it would somehow act as a cork. I assessed the seat in which I was sitting; a bowl-shaped resin type thing. I *might* hold *some* pee, at least prevent it from sloshing onto the floor. I wondered what I could pull out of my backpack that would be sufficiently absorbent. Not only did I consider that, I actually thought it would come to that.

Suddenly, in the middle of what seemed like endless feilds, the train came to an unexpected stop. Outside my car there was a little platform, a dock only as long as my car and half the one before it and after it. There were two little buildings on it; the large one had a window covered by shutters. "Great," I thought. "This will help my situation - a delay."

Then right outside of my very window the conductor's face popped up. He waved for me to come down! Come down! He pointed to the little building, and to my extreme joy I saw those wonderful silhouettes of a male and female. BATHROOMS! I looked back at the conductor and he had backed away from the train, continuing to beckon me to detrain. So I did. And I RAN towards those bathrooms, carrying my huge backpack on my back.

"HEY!" I heard. I turned around and the conductor threw a key on a stick to me; I caught it, chucked my backpack to the ground and fumbled my way into the bathroom.

It seemed forever long, that pee. I realized as I was in there that someone could be grabbing my backpack and hopping on the departing train. It's worth it, I thought.

But I didn't hear anyone shuffling away with my bag, and I didn't hear the train chug away. I exited the bathroom, handed the smiling conductor the key and thanked him in as many languages as I thought we might have in common, but mostly with "Gracias, gracias, gracias." He stopped the train for me, a girl who didn't know better than to not guzzle a liter of water before boarding.

I picked up my backpack and as I headed towards my car I thought of how I had discovered a new Walk of Shame. The Ugly American who inconvenienced a train full of people; maybe made some late for work, or for getting home to their families, or disrupted their day's activites because I hadn't bothered to do my homework.

But then I heard a funny noise;I looked up, and out of each train car window were as many heads as could fit through; they were clapping, smiling, and waving.

Within twelve hours I'd experienced some of the worst and some of the best we as humans had to offer each other.

Series of Fortunate Events

Our little town has an abundance of single lane roundabouts. I love zipping around those traffic circles...the dance of cars merging, rotating, and exiting is just plain fun; it's the mom-in-a-minivan version of a doing donuts in a snowy parking lot. I know, that's pathetic. But I take me thrills when and where I can.

Today as I was circling one of those center islands, I saw a car getting ready to merge. What I DIDN'T see was the driver looking to his left to see if he needed to yield to cars already on the roundabout (that is, ME). Nope, the dude just cruised right into in intersection, arm dangling out the window, face staring straight ahead. I had to slam on the breaks and was forced to stop in the middle of the circle. As I sat there, he slowly turned his head and gave me a look like, "What? Why are you looking at me with your mouth hanging open? And why are you stopped in the middle of the road?"

If I hadn't stopped, if I weren't a paranoid driver that is always anticipating others to be boneheads, that guy would have plowed RIGHT INTO the passenger side of my minivan. Right exactly where my daughter was strapped into her cow-printed car seat, singing to her stuffed animals. I looked back at her and an image flashed in front of my face: that car seat smashed towards the center of the car. Right exactly where my son was sitting engrossed reading The Grim Grotto.

For a split second, my world was over.

But I turned back around and exited the roundabout, my world intact. The worries (financial, financial, and financial) of the moments before Mr. Stupid Driver blithely cut me off were forgotten.

So thank you, Mr. Stupid Driver, for reminding me to put it all in perspective.