Silver Linings

My compression stockings may make me look like an even bigger fashion reject than I already am (particularly since maternity clothes seem to only come in garish colors and prints and are not particularly attractive) and they may make my core body temperature rise 10 degrees now that it's warm out, however ...

SILVER LINING: I almost never have to shave my legs. And apparently leg hair requires oxygen (or blood circulation) to grow, because it grows much more S-L-O-W-L-Y underneath these fabulous socks.

The Frontier might not get 300 days of sunshine a year, have an ocean or Sea World nearby or boast fabulous seafood, sushi and baja-style Mexican food, however ...

SILVER LINING: Staying here means living in a state that isn't falling apart at the seams (yet), the cost of living is much less and there isn't a moving truck involved (yet).

Woodstock is getting her two top canine teeth (apparently she is unable to cut just one tooth at a time), making her as moody as a 13-year-old girl, however ...

SILVER LINING: it also makes her extra snuggly and extra appreciative when mom feeds her popsicles (a special treat) and soft mushy stuff like cold yogurt and warm oatmeal.

I love silver linings!

Those of You Planning on a Beach Vacation ...

...should reschedule.

Move to San Diego is off. For good.

It's not something we're discussing in detail in the '70s Palace these days, because of the way it happened (or hasn't happened, Himself knows, but hasn't been officially notified by the San Diego team or HR).

So, a dozen boxes to unpack (or stare at until we know when/if/where we're going to move months down the road). A garden to finish (someone please tell me what to do with the massive amount of tulips in my garden space - do they come back? Can I cut them down? Do anything to make them look nice now that they've expended their springtime glory?). A summer to plan - in The Frontier.

It's been a long roller coaster ride the past 3 1/2 months.

The whole thing probably explains why I couldn't get a single realtor to call me back in San Diego.

I'm going to miss the anticipation of a sunshiny winter and a full-time work-from-home gig. Not to mention the raise, which would mean less time I have to do a full-time-gig at all.

This too shall pass. This too shall be for our benefit. It just doesn't settle anything. Himself still will be transferred somewhere, sometime. We just don't know where or when.

Murphy's law says it will be sometime late August - just when Baby Girl #2 is supposed to make her earthly debut. Because isn't that how it always happens?

I'd rather not have to repeat this week.

Tales from the House Hunter

In case you ever decide to post a rental listing, let me give you some advice.

1. Post photos. Do you really want to waste your time showing me a place I could have said "no" to by seeing the photos?
2. When posting photos, post photos of the INSIDE. Yes, the outside is nice too, but I couldn't care less what the trees in the yard look like - or the swimming pool either, for that matter. I want to see the inside, particularly the kitchen and the bathroom(s).
3. Don't tell me to drive by it first and then call you. I can use Google Earth to view the neighborhood and do a virtual drive-by. If I call you, I'm interested
4. We're in a RECESSION. In one of the worst housing markets in 60 years. Don't ignore me. If I call you, I'm interested. Don't make it difficult. Don't play games. Don't take 5 days to get back to me. If you want to rent it, act like it.
5. Don't rave about the fabulous new kitchen, remodeled things or amenities and not include photos. That's like telling me I've won the lottery but forgetting to tell me how to claim it (sort of)
6. I've worked in real estate - I know the goofy terms people use when there is nothing else to say about a place. "Plush carpeting" and "sparkling pool" do nothing for me. Carpeting is carpeting. Pools sparkle if there is sunshine out. Tell me something not obvious.
7. Bonus points if you include the square footage in your listing - this eliminates me having to call you to ask, wasting both of our time if your 3-bedroom rental is only 900 square feet. Yes, I realize you can cram 3 bedrooms in that amount of space. Unfortunately, I'm not interested in cramming 4 people and all of our stuff into that space. Thanks anyway.
8. If your rental doesn't include something major - like, oh, a refrigerator - raise the rent $50/month and buy one for crying out loud
9. Don't act like there are renters banging down your door. They aren't. Promise.
10. Include an e-mail address. It's much more efficient for both of us to ask/answer initial questions (you know, the ones you forgot to answer in the listing - like whether or not there are W/D hookups and how big the place is) via e-mail. Goes back to me not wanting to waste your time or mine.
11. Do NOT, under any circumstances, tell me that my husband needs to come see it as well. We'll survive if only one of us has seen it. He rented the place on Malibu Palms (ghetto). I rented the Hobbit Hole (short ceilinged basement apartment). We're still married. End of story.
12. Don't make me wait until your open house. I won't be in town then. If you want to rent the place, rent it. If you want to only show it to people at one time, say it in your listing. I'll cross it off my list. There are hundreds of other options.
13. Know what the neighborhood rental rates are. Don't think that because I'm from out of town I won't find out your house/unit is overpriced.
14. Don't ask me how many children will live in the house, how old I am (you can get that on the rental application) or if I'm Mormon (you know, since I'm moving from The Frontier and all). It's technically illegal, and I really would rather not give a complete stranger my entire life's story before deciding on a house. You will get all the necessary information. You can't deny me housing as a result of my answers anyway. In return, I won't ask you about the crime rate, what the neighbors are like(specifically) or other things you aren't required by law to disclose. I have my sources.

I've only just begun the Great Housing Hunt, and I'm already fed up. It amazes me how many hoops a person wants one to jump through, how many assumptions one must make, how much time one must waste to find suitable accommodations in one of the most populated cities in the country. Egads!

Living in a Dream

It's officially official. We're moving. To San Diego. In 4-9 weeks, depending on which member of our household you ask (Himself will tell you 4 weeks, as that is when he needs to report to work; I would tell you 9, based mostly on an ill-contrived fantasy that I might actually have time at that point to find a decent place to live, pack and get my own job affairs in order).

That said, we've ramped up our housing search among the land of sand, sun and large-scale economic disasters.

I spent several years in the real estate industry - all of them devoted to marketing, messaging and customer satisfaction. I worked in the industry at the height of the craziness, and we still required our agents to call customers back within 24 hours - no exceptions. Even if they were crazy. Even if we were sold out. Even if there was no way that they could purchase a $500k condo on an $80k salary. No exceptions.

So it baffles me that we cannot get a SINGLE realtor to call us back. Not one. Granted, the commissions on a rental are much smaller than the commissions on a sale, but come on - it's 2009, the height of the worst economic downfall in 90 years, in a state where the foreclosure rate is among the nation's highest. Houses, even rental houses, aren't exactly flying off the shelf these days.

It's not just because we're out of town, because Himself couldn't get a single agent to call him back when he WAS in town. Not one. And yet, the same listings keep reappearing day after day - taunting us with their promise of fabulous living accommodations - if only you can doggedly pursue the rental agency, realtor or owner.

The market is SATURATED with houses - for sale and for rent. There are so many that the rental rates have decreased by an average of $300-$500/month over the last 12 months across the board.

Apparently, however, no one in real estate has received the memo.

Aggravation.

What have you been up to?

Alas, the Tax Man story is going to have to wait another day.

As of late, I've felt like a rotten friend. I've neglected good friends, right and left, in a quasi-attempt to save my own sanity. It didn't help that in Sunday School with my parents on Sunday we talked about being more giving of our time and talents. Then I just felt even more rotten.

An old friend asked today, "what have you been up to lately?" My answer was, "Oh, you know, more of the same..." it's fundamentally true, the fact that my "more of the same" is not everyone else's version of "more of the same" cannot be helped.

Himself travels to Expensive Beach Community this week to make a final decision on his promotion/transfer offer, at which point we will know if we will be:

1. Definitely moving (98% probability)
2. Moving in May (75% probability)
3. Moving in June (25% probability)

While there, he will also be investigating housing options. This has consumed us for the last several weeks - looking at listings, making our list of "musts" (washer/dryer hook-up, storage space, good neighborhood) "nice-to-haves" (good kitchen, back yard, under 30-minute commute) and "totally unnecessary" (that list is shockingly sparse!).

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (er '70s Palace), I have been cleaning, sorting, organizing and buying Rubbermaid containers at an alarming pace in anticipation of our third move in 2 years. This, of course, is with a wonderful "helper" always in tow, who finds piles and open containers abhorant and must find reasons to scatter their contents over two levels and 5-7 rooms as quickly as possible. Always with a gorgeous smile and delightful chatter so as to forget the truly exhausting work of following behind her.

Add to that a rather complicated, potentially serious tax issue that took me several weeks to figure out, document and file; general job insanity for both Himself and I; major financial setbacks in the land of Sara's medical bills - those of the thousands of dollars variety; and, of course, the still-continuing morning sickness and chronic cramping and fatique in the land of pregnancy (Second trimester, what? Oh yeah, I'm one of those people for which the second trimester means absolutely nothing).

Woodstock and I fled The Frontier this weekend in complete defiance of adult responsibility in order to do absolutely nothing at The Parentals. It was lovely. However, it served to make me feel like an even worse friend/neighbor/church member. I often wonder if truly charitable people just forgo their own constant balancing act, let things crash down and have enough faith they'll be taken care of if they focus on others. It flies in the face of my pratical nature, but maybe it would absolve me of some of the guilt.

Really though? I just want to know if we're moving and when. This weekly holding pattern is going to drive me (and everyone around me) insane.

And that, my friends, is what I've been up to - see? Same old, same old.

Beach Vacation, Anyone?

First, I'd like to formally welcome Anna Katherine, the newest member of the extended blogging family to the world. Congrats, Oliver & Kristin!

That aside, now that I've had several days to contemplate the eternities, er, rather contemplate yet another hundreds-of-miles-away move to a new city/state, I'm feeling a bit more settled. Don't get me wrong - packing, moving, unpacking, new doctors, new hospital, new digs, etc. exactly two years after the last major move (and less than a year after the Hobbit-Hole-to-70s-Palace move) is not, in the least bit, exciting. Just thinking about it exhausts me. My only consolation is that this move will involve company-provided movers, meaning THEY can lift the thousand-pound washing machine out of the basement. Poor washer. They weren't made to move this often. The neighbors, however, are cheering, I'm certain ... helping us move twice in the span of a year is a little taxing.

We have NOT formally accepted the offer yet - and won't until month's end - after Himself and I (separately, due to an already planned-for-trip I have for business) do some snooping around for housing and such. However, we are 95% certain that The Beach (expensive housing and all) will be our new home come late spring/early summer. We've been making up Pros list, so as to negate the Cons list that I already had in place before we even had any formal offers about moving.

-70 degrees. Year-round. Okay, not quite, but almost. No Frontier snow, but also no crazy Desert summers. 300 average days of sunshine. A girl could get used to that, especially since the move also comes with water nearby.

-I've actually been there (Himself has never even been to the state, at least one of us has spent a fair amount of time there). This is a bonus, given that I at least can personally vouch for the weather, the food, the things to do, and the public transit.

-Lots to do - Sea World, the zoo, outdoors things, the beach ... and the economy means that "locals" get jaw-dropping discounts.

-A single commute. Himself would be commuting, which means we can centralize our housing search in proximity to his job. I got the full green-light to telecommute and keep my Frontier job. This also adds to the list:

• Reduced childcare costs (I will only need someone one day/week for meetings)
• I get to be AT HOME with Woodstock and Baby X. Time will only tell if I'll stay sane being at home and working, but ... for now ... I'm thrilled.
• Flex time. The Beach is an hour behind The Frontier, meaning I'll get off earlier, but telecommuting also means I can work whatever hours I want. Meaning a mid-day trip to the Farmer's markets in La Mesa on Fridays is not out of the question.
• Ironically, it means an increased ability to meet people. No, I won't be in an office, but a flex at-home schedule gives me the option of meeting SAH and WAH moms as well, if we pick the right neighborhood.

All of this makes the cost-of-living increase slightly more palatable.

-Have I mentioned the weather? Because it snowed 11" last week in our corner of The Frontier. Apparently, the calendar forgot to remind Mother Nature that it is now Spring and all wet stuff should come in the form of rain. Woodstock and I built a snowman Monday for crying out loud.

-Better place for visitors. Who really wants to visit The Desert unless it's the middle of a deep freeze? No one I know - well, except for Heidi, but she's from there, so that doesn't count. Even my city-adverse father said, "Hey! The Beach would be a much better place to come visit, and it's closer."

-It is, in fact, closer to The Parentals than The Desert (mine, anyway, it will still involve an airplane to Himself's). Okay, truly? Mileage-wise it's about 50 miles further. Time-wise, it's a few minutes closer, due to interstate-only travel (this is, of course, pending you don't leave during California's infamous day-long rush-hours). It doesn't really matter. Family is excited about new pending vacation spot.

It's really happening. I could be the resident of another state within 2 months. Woodstock could be living in her third house in 20 months. Poor kid. I promise we'll slow the moving down when you're in school.

It's Getting Closer ...

Himself got a call today. Looks like expensive, beachside move is an official option. Still waiting to hear about the desert option. Rumor has it we could also be offered the option to stay here and he'd just be on the road all the time.

Looks like tomorrow, I'll be having a conversation with The Boss of The Office as to whether or not telecommuting from several hundred miles away is an option. If not ... big fat wrench. I don't want to squash Himself's career chances, but I refuse to be a pregnant woman looking for a job again. Been there, done that, TWICE last pregnancy.

If you ever wondered why employment lawyers are still in business ... get pregnant and look for (or take) a new job. I'm not going through it again.

Prayers and good thoughts appreciated. We need all the guidance we can get this weekend.

Deja Vous

In the last 13 years, I've lived in 10 cities and 4 states. I've lost track of how many addresses that includes or how many moves. There was a period of my life where the longest I lived anywhere was 4 months. In those 13 years, the longest I've lived at a single address is the 3 years we spent in No. VA together(as opposed to the first time we lived in No. VA as single people).

We're nowhere close to breaking that record. And now, it seems we're stuck in "repeat" mode - only at the moment it feels like "repeat" is stuck on pause.

Two years ago, spring of 2007, Himself and I got a hair-brained (ahem, inspired) idea to move to The Frontier. Looking back, it was a good thing. For the first 15 months or so from that point, it most definitely was NOT. Good things take patience and faith.

We knew it (the pending move) was coming. Himself's job warned us from the beginning that we'd not likely stay in the area. However, a year ago, when working for The Factory, still in the throes of deep post-partum depression and living in The Hobbit Hole, I gleefully shouted, "ABSOLUTELY!" when Himself said, "Would we be willing to relocate." And then I promptly forgot about it.

I like the '70s palace. I like the neighborhood. I like my easy commute, the relatively low cost of living in The Frontier. I like the place I was at in my life, prior to all this hold-your-breath-and-wait mumbo jumbo. I like that I have a fenced back yard, a house that's just a little too big (and never feels too small), a spot to plant a garden. I like that I finally have food on hand, because I have lots of storage space. I like that I'm minutes from hiking and camping and the great (when warm) outdoors. I adore my sitter. I love The Frontier summers - which make up for the winters I could do without. I loved that we've planned a trip to Yellowstone in June, one to Capitol Reef in late April and are within driving distance of family. I like my midwife, the OBs in her office and my perinatologist. I even like teaching teenagers every-other-Sunday.

Could all of this be replicated somewhere else? Almost certainly - at least most of it. But after years and years of change (all fine and good in your 20s and single or childless), I'm tired. I'm tired of being a bit of a nomad.

Two years ago, I made the move to a new place when I was 28 weeks pregnant. While I was closer to family, I felt isolated in my pregnancy - small office, new city, the normal transitional quirks. Then I gave birth and spent 6 weeks underground in The Hobbit Hole, feeling absolutely alone. I went back to work, and that only made it worse - winter set in (the coldest/snowiest in years), The Factory became a prison and I stumbled along.

I'm TERRIFIED to repeat that. Add this time the potential that I'll be working from home full-time with a toddler and a 3rd-trimester pregnancy, which then turns into a toddler and an infant is huge. I'm terrified. Indeed, I've learned lessons - no basement dwellings. Must have lots of windows. Must have good neighbors and a good boss. But some things? I'm not so sure I can control, other than praying very, very hard.

And, to be honest, the thought of moving again mid-pregnancy or later, to a new place and starting over makes me want to curl up and throw a stubborn tantrum. I don't want to have to find my fourth Midwife/OB in two years. I don't want to have to start the whole "here is my medical history, here's the current plan of action w/ my injections, liver monitoring, etc..." again. I don't want to have to deal with the fact that no Midwife/OB treats the same way and I may end up being on someone's high-risk-therefore-you-get-no-say list, like so many with this clotting issue. I don't want to give birth in a strange city, where I sit alone for weeks or months with two small children because I don't know a soul and my family is too far away to come.

Maybe I am perpetually grumpy. Or just irritable because we can't make plans more than 2 weeks out - just in case we find out soon where we're going to end up. Thousands of pregnant woman move daily, they don't get a choice. I can - and will - suck it up and get on with life and make it a good experience.

But it doesn't mean I'm not going to mourn a little and wish I wasn't living a repeat of my life 2 years ago.

Life as Numbers

I want to know when I got so old.

I'm not saying that I AM old, necessarily, just that I FEEL old. Like the world has been placating me for years, making me think nothing has changed, and BAM! suddenly I wake up and realize that the illusory netting has been yanked away only to reveal significant gaps between what was and what is.

Just as in the story of the frogs slowly boiled to death as the heat was turned up a notch at a time, so as not to alarm them (how's that for a gruesome image of the day?), time seems to lull one into a false sense of "everything is staying the same" as the subtleties of change are hidden to stop the inevitable freaking out and moaning about lost youth, opportunities and the hideous outfit that you swore would never go out of style.

Browsing through some old high school photos of friends today, I had one of those moments of sudden realization: things have changed A LOT. I don't remember everyone looking quite that funny. And we definitely didn't look quite that young. We were OLD. 16 at least. Nearly adults. Old enough to know that our parents knew nothing and that we would conquer the world.

Except, it was all an illusion. Now that I am actually growing old (or at the very least speeding into middle age - after all, the life expectancy when I was born was 77.3 - which means sometime the last week of April 2016 I will be exactly "middle aged"), I realize my parents knew almost everything, the world is only conquered in the minds of youth and poofy hair bows were NOT the be all and end all of style.

The kids I babysat as infants and toddlers are in college. Some are married. Some have kids. I reminisced yesterday about the birthday of a friend I met a decade ago - how we, 10 years ago, hit up TGI Fridays for a girls' night out and a round of frozen drinks. The fact that it has been 10 years and a dozen hairstyles ago made me ponder if I was any better off now than I was then. My greatest fear in life is looking back and realizing I was running in place. And then I think about the numbers ... I haven't even stood still long enough for my bookcase to gather dust.

Since the high school photos, I have lived at 16 separate addresses (if you don't count my stint as a semi-permanent basement dweller at Heidi's or the two summers I spent with my parents) in 11 cities and 3 states. I've lived with at least 50 people - not including Woodstock, Grover, Heidi's clan or any relatives. I have lived with people from at least 20 different states (Utah and Wisconsin being the two states from which the most roommates hailed ... ironically, I've never actually been to Wisconsin).

In that time, I have traveled to 20 additional states, held 16 different job titles at 9 companies (including 4 job titles at 3 companies since I moved to The Frontier), supervised just shy of two dozen people, reported to nearly that many different people and broke a personal record interviewing 40 times in a single calendar year on three different job occasions. I have earned a college degree, been promoted and promoted, volunteered, held countless church positions, made friends, dated, become engaged, been married and given birth.

It's a lot to cram in less than 1.5 decades. In fact, it averages out to a new job title and address every 9 months over the last 12 years and a new company every 15 months. It's no wonder people can only track me down via Facebook! The whole thing becomes rather alarming when I realize I've worked for two different companies at more than 3 years each and had a 3-year stint at one address and a 2-year stint at another address. (The statistics looked much better prior to our migration west).

It makes me feel old, as it is likely with all that change that I've become chronically exhausted. Add in Himself's stats and the whole thing threatens to bring my life expectancy down several decades.

Looking at it that way, the change has been rapid and a little jerky - creating a metaphor between my life and the pinball machine that used to inhabit the infamous "214" where Himself once took up residence. And yet, while the environmental changes have been stacatto, the internal ones have been subtle. It seems like mere moments until closer examination reveals enough subtle change to feel like centuries.

Cell phones were only used in dire emergencies, if at all. They were luxuries few people had. I was the first incoming freshman class in The Great Frozen North to have an e-mail account - a laughable, plain text, FTP-access-only, no attachments, graphics, sounds or hyperlinks e-mail account. Debit cards were a new thing, $100,000 could buy a very nice home in a lot of places and the 90s became the decade of the super model, grunge, platform shoe revival, and the anti-80s.

It's no wonder change has to be subtle. Otherwise, the sheer volume of the sights, sounds and experiences would threaten to overwhelm one's fragile persona. Either that, or one would simply feel like 12+ hours of sleep was mandatory.

That's another thing ... I don't remember needing this much sleep before I started growing old.

Dream A Little Dream

I have this ridiculously impractical dream:

A colonial-style house on a smallish (1/4 acre) lot in a New England town. Preferably one within a reasonable train ride to a major city (NY, Boston, I'd even consider a "minor" city like Portland, ME - doesn't really make a difference).

We had a perfect honeymoon in New England - 10 fabulous days during "sprinter" (the calendar said spring, but coming from the south, it felt suspiciously like winter). After that, we trekked to New England every year - sometimes for a quick weekend flight, sometimes for a leisurely drive.

Each trip reminded me that a) living anywhere where the cost of living is HIGHER than in DC is not terribly smart and b) old towns = really narrow streets. However, each trip also served to remind me that I really, really love New England.

I'm having one of those days when I say, "to heck with it - let's just move somewhere else."

Except ... well, it is a whole lot harder than the first time I did it - with an airline ticket and two over-sized suitcases. Every subsequent move to a new place has meant more headache. More connections to leave behind, more stuff (Woodstock doubled my space requirements), a higher cost involved and more risk.

It's a nice dream though. Maybe when I'm 70, we'll call Woodstock and Grover, have them take what they'd like out of the house, gather up the basics and spend our quiet years in a colonial house on a smallish lot in New England.

A girl can dream, can't she?

Operation Import Virginia

Last summer, I informed Heidi with excited glee that friends of ours from Virginia were also moving to Salt Lake City. Together we chatted - wouldn't it be great if we could just import our friends from Virginia - thereby eliminating the need to go great distances to visit them?

It appears we are on to something.

A couple of months ago, I came home and told Himself, "I have something to tell you that you'll never believe in a million years."

Without missing a beat, Himself said, "Oliver and Kristin are moving to Happy Valley."

Apparently, we agreed on that news being the most surprising thing we could think of. If you know them, you probably aren't surprised at that.

Last night, I got to again welcome Oliver and Kristin from Virginia. It was surreal. It was a whirlwind of young children and old adults who had last (and first) all been together nearly six years ago. It was a quick flashback to 14 months ago when I arrived, tired, sore, swollen and vowing to never drive more than an hour or two a day. It was a sense of delight that two of my favorite people were now less than an hour's drive away. It was a sense of the void they surely left in our beloved Chantilly congregation when they departed. It was a giddy sense of "Hoorah! More Virginia friends!"

Most importantly, it was an itch to play Killer Bunnies.

Apparently the barely-discussed, but often-pondered Operation Import Virginia is off to a grand start.

Shiny New Life

I am known, for better or worse, to surround myself with drama - typically not of my own creation, though sometimes when it gets really dull, people wonder.

Through the last six months of "head shrinking" - I've realized that I am an adrenaline junkie. I don't know how to function in a mode that is not the physiological equivalent of "fight or flight." I have done a fair amount of reading about the "chronic state of phsyiological stress" lately. In short, something has to change.

In the past several months, I've made strides to begin healing the frenzied anxiety-black velvet curtain of depression nonsense. I've worked at not caring so much about some things. I've tried to assuage the guilt of not saying "yes" every time - or doing everything I should be - because "should" is subjective.

And the drama continues.
* I was forced/chose to change jobs ... it was a good decision, but has come with a month's worth of continued drama, lawyers, legal advice, covering my rear end, analyzing and discovering that much of what I thought wasn't actually true.

* In an attempt to gain control and reduce the anxiety, we moved. The Hobbit Hole was up for sale. I couldn't continue to focus on healing and reducing the almost-daily panic attacks when I was worried about what parts of myself were exposed when people came through the house or how clean it was. But moving in and of itself, even just next door, was enough frenzied nonsense to send me into orbit. Especially since it happened CONCURRENTLY with the job drama (timing was not planned that way).

* Son came for the summer. Surprisingly, it turned out to be a pleasant experience. But he came the day after I quit my job, two weeks before moving day. One can only imagine the insanity.

With the maelstrom of changes, I haven't done so well at focusing on those things I need to be focusing on. There is no routine, no settled contentment. Little things turn into bigger mini-dramas overnight.

We set up the washer/dryer yesterday. The washer was a breeze compared to last year's set-up. The dryer, however, required an unplanned trip to Home Depot, 2 hours and a fair amount of "what the hell were we thinking" conversations between Himself and I - the two people least equipped to be involved in any kind of appliance anything on earth.

This morning, Baby Girl woke up with diarrhea of epic proportion. I could smell the result halfway down the hall, before I even entered her room. It was 5:45 a.m. I finished the batch of laundry I'd started before bed, picked her up (no way even she could sleep through that stench), cleaned her, changed her and dumped her back into bed with Himself. I embarked on another three loads of laundry - because, of course, the soiled pajamas, changing pad and towel were not even close to being able to be washed together.

And ... a batch of jam. JAM?! On a work day? When Baby Girl has caused an additional mess to clean and there is laundry in various stages of "done"?

But I wanted to learn and do new things this summer. Canning was part of it. A perfect storm of house capable of providing off-season storage space for the massive water-bath canner and free fruit provide the opportunity. Still, jam on a work day morning was out of the question - except yesterday's drama prevented me from doing anything with the two boxes of apricots taking up the microscopic amount of floor space in the kitchen ... and the top ones, from the top of the tree, were rapidly ripening beyond the point of no return.

I had no choice.

New job. New house. Annual visit from Son. Baby Girl's first encounter with diarrhea. Canning. Picking. Installing appliance(s). Packing. Unpacking. Waiting a very long time for a paycheck. Full-time work after a three-week hiatus. Five loads of laundry in 12 hours. Preparation for next week's camping trip. And on and on and on.

Even the shiny new life is wearing me out.

Because Someday I'm Going to Run Out of Underwear

There are times when I wish that we were a little handier.

Sara: Himself, we need to get the washer/dryer hooked up no later than Monday night.

Himself: I work late all week.

Sara: Um, not a good excuse.

Himself: What's the rush?

Sara: Baby Girl is on her last clean pair of pajamas. She has also ensured that nothing I have worn in the last week can be worn again, by marking her territory with snot. And someday I'm going to run out of clean underwear. (Not to mention the fact that the move has meant I have gone through rags and dishcloths like 5-year-olds go through toilet paper).

Himself: Oh.

Is it just Himself or do men not think about the ramifications of not having a washing machine, especially when one's house is inhabited by an infant and a pre-teen boy? Seriously.

To Himself's credit - he got out of setting up the washer/dryer last year, but he heard about all the horror stories, so he's a little worried. Then again, last year the washer/dryer was set up by a blind guy and a pregnant woman. The washer is 250 pounds and involves small parts. You have to give us some credit.

Wish us luck.

S-P-A-C-E

Seven years ago, I moved into a 900 sf one-bedroom apartment. It was perfect for a single, living-alone person. When Himself moved in, it was still okay. It had a dining room and a cute balcony and was 1/2 mile from work.

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The next apartment was a 1,200 sf three-bedroom, 1.5-bathroom apartment. We actually lived there for free because two of Himself's Navy buddies wanted a) to collect BAH (housing allowance) and b) a place to keep their stuff while they were out to sea. Since one cannot collect housing allowance without having a house, even though they paid $400/month to rent, they ended up with an extra $300/month in their pockets. Thank you, Uncle Sam.

Anyway, said apartment, even though it was on very grand-sounding "Malibu Palms Dr." was the closet thing to a ghetto I hope I ever live in. Seriously. It had NO good things about it. The worst things were a bathroom with no outlets and 18" of counter space in the kitchen.

Then there came The Palace, a brand-new, 1,000 sf, 2-bed, 2-bath heaven of two-tone walls, crown molding, 6' windows, 9' ceilings, a soaking tub, the greatest apartment kitchen ever, fitness center, pool ... I loved it. It drove me crazy the living space was all one room, but after the ghetto, not such a bad deal. Of course, it was more than twice what we'd paid for any other dwelling ever. But it wasn't quite in Outer Darkness, the commute wasn't horrible, and I did get a discount.

You can imagine, then, the Hobbit Hole's glory - 7' ceilings (5'10" where there was a bulkhead involved), no linen closet and oh, in a basement. But it had some redeeming qualities - a great storage room, a decent (if eccentric) kitchen and a great backyard.

Yet for all of these places, there have been two things I've always longed for - enough space to not have to look at the Christmas decor year-round and space for guests.

My anxiety goes into overdrive when we have overnight guests - because everywhere we've ever lived since my apartment 7 years ago has a single living space - and "open" floor plan, where everyone in the house must pileontopofeachotherlikethis. Everyone is in the way. The TV blares, people in another corner talk over it. Any kids involved go nuts.

Not very condusive to someone who needs a 4' radius of personal space at any given time.

But THIS move, a 1,500 sf 2-level duplex has space. A single-car garage (which I will never park in for fear of not being able to get OUT of the car), a basement storage room. Decent closets. A family room. A dining room. A SEPARATE living room. A backyard. A guest bedroom/bath.

Himself would tell you that the cabinets are suspect (read: Brady Bunch-era) and the windows are cheap (same deal). There is no pantry. But I am in awe as I unpack. There are spaces to store things logically. Skis, Christmas, outgrown baby gear in one place. Board games (all 30+ of them) in another. Food storage in another.

And separate gathering spaces - for kids, adults, whoever. Just in time for gas to be at record highs and too expensive for anyone to come visit.

Figures.

Yes, Mr. Postman, There Really is a 2 at the End

There are some definite advantages to moving next door versus anywhere else:

* The move was (is) virtually free, other than the $40 in takeout we've spent because we haven't been organized enough to find everything to cobble together a meal, including cold cereal (since rectified last night by putting away 85% of the kitchen "stuff" at 11 p.m.)

* One only has to carry things once. No loading, then unloading the truck with large, heavy, bulky or multiple items. Just lugging them across the lawn is enough.

I've discovered recently, however, one big disadvantage:

* The post office fails to recognize a one-digit change in address and continues to deliver mail addressed to our new address to the mail box next door at the Hobbit Hole's address.

At the moment, it is nothing more than a general annoyance, because we're still technically paying for (and cleaning and schlepping stuff out of) the Hobbit Hole. However, upon the arrival of new tenants, my general annoyance will likely grow into massive consternation.

The Hobbit Hole's address ends in -50. Our new address ends in -52. Apparently the dear postman feels he's doing us a favor by delivering mail to the Hobbit Hole that was mistakenly misaddressed. (Just like he's doing us a favor by delivering our mail to the upstairs neighbors or vice versa, or delivering all mail to former occupants to our box to deal with).

Yesterday I went to the post office and asked that they please make a note that indeed we have requested our mail to be forwarded. No, it is not a typo. Yes, we really did move next door. Yes, I relize it's easy to confuse one digit. No, after a year of mail issues, I'd rather not wait and let this "sort itself out."

Until then, if you want to reach us, send us an e-mail.

The Great Bedroom Escape

Sleeping in a new place is always difficult for me. I don't sleep well as a general rule, but I sleep even worse if I am in someone else's bed or someone else's house. That includes the first few nights in a new home.

However, either the new house has good karma or I am suffering from sheer exhaustion over the drama of the last month, because I have slept blissfully well all three nights I have spent in the new house (new being a very relative term, of course, it's 30 years old).

Additionally, while Baby Girl has her bedroom on the same level as ours, she is back in the far corner - so we had to drag out the baby monitor. I have grown unaccustomed to hearing her cries so loudly over the monitor on the rare occasion she wakes up in the night.

Last night I went from a dead sleep to a frenzied stupor in 0.7 seconds when Baby Girl let out a series of wails from her room. It shocked me so completely, I forgot to just wait it out to see if she would rescue her binky and drift back to sleep, and I launched myself out of bed in a mess of bedding, flailing limbs and grunts. Completely disoriented, I stumbled around in the blackness of our bedroom until I found the door. I opened it, and walked out.

Strange, I thought. I would have thought there would be at least some ambient light from the window in the family room. I was unable to find the banister in the dark, which indicates the necessary place to turn toward Baby Girl's room. Instead, I ran into a wall.

Still in a state of heavy delirium, I stumbled back into the bedroom and fished for my cell phone to use the LED display and brighten up my path to Baby Girl's room a little.

Imagine my surprise when my cell phone illuminated the room just enough to reveal my "adventure" had been in our completely empty walk-in closet. The door out of the bedroom wasn't even on the same wall.

By the time I found my way out of the bedroom, Baby Girl had given up and gone back to sleep. Funny how easy it is to feel so dumb at 3 a.m., even when no one is around to witness it.

Adieu, Hobbit Hole

As of Wednesday, the Hobbit Hole will belong to someone else. I have the annoying bits of odds-and-ends to cart out (and about half of the kitchen), then a deep cleaning, and we'll close the door on our first year in The Frontier forever.

I'm surprisingly nostalgic about the Hobbit Hole - perhaps because it was Baby Girl's first home. Perhaps because of the lush backyard. Perhaps because I cannot yet locate the salt and pepper.

To listen to Himself, however, one would think the Hobbit Hole was a palace. Um, what?! Remember last year? When Himself spent days moaning about the low-ceilinged luxury digs (complete with 8-legged house guests) I conjured up for us while he was still in VA?

Fast-forward 12 months. Now he is moaning about the move to the house next door. Never mind the fact he forgot to tell work were moving on Saturday the 12th fate would have it, they scheduled him to work his once-a-month Saturday shift on ... you guessed it, Saturday the 12th. We are grateful for the mattress, box springs, bed frame and box of damp laundry (we had to move the dryer before the last batch of laundry was dry Saturday morning)he managed to move over.

Saturday morning brought a parade of comedic proportions. Enter Sara, with Baby Girl in the backpack on her back hauling boxes from one house to the other, Son lugging some odd-shaped box or another, and five neighbors - three of whom were under the age of 22 - all parading back and forth from The Hobbit Hole to the new house. The parade was so successful we wore a path in the patch of grass separating the two houses. Hopefully the new occupants of the Hobbit Hole are friendly, since we've already created a shortcut between the two houses.

Sunday morning brought more comedy as we discovered that the breakfast cereal was at the new place (it has yet to be christened with a name), but the milk, bowls and silverware were at the old place. All of Baby Girl's things were at the new place, but most of our clothes were still in the Hobbit Hole's closets. All personal hygiene products were at the new place, but my makeup was at the Hobbit Hole.

You get the idea. Today, it was slightly better. I only had to run over to the Hobbit Hole for the loaf of bread and the trashcans, as I was getting tired of the pile of Baby Girl's diapers in the corner of the dining room. The rule is now, if you return to the Hobbit Hole, for any reason, you MUST return with a laundry basket full of items.

At this rate, we might be out of the Hobbit Hole by sometime mid-winter.

Belonging

Baby Girl and I went on a walk today - that's twice this week I've managed to work out. And, while I think the excuse for moving Daylight Savings back into March is ludicrous, I'm singing the praises of the man who started it all.

Anyway, as we were walking (or, rather, I was walking, and she was sleeping in her Snugli), I found myself wandering (my mother would be horrified) into random neighborhoods. I paused at every single house for sale and wondered what they looked like inside. I watched children play in the streets, couples walking their dogs after works, teenagers out running. I walked and walked and walked (it was only upon returning home that I realized I had been walking for 90 minutes and it was nearly Baby Girl's bedtime - no wonder she was sleepy!).

As I walked, I thought about belonging.

After two years in our apartment in Northern Virginia - two years of railing against renting, I bought curtains for my living room windows. It made a huge difference. I felt settled. Nearly everyone I knew rented. It was too expensive to even consider any other option, so I hung my curtains and settled in. Long before that, however, I had settled in socially - making friends, investing in long-term relationships and feeling as if I belonged.

That is what is missing here. I realized tonight I am consciously holding myself aloof, because I know The Hobbit Hole is not a forever proposition - or even one beyond our year's lease. I know moving is right around the corner, again. I'm not naturally social - I have to force myself to be social - so combined with the hesitation to make any truly meaningful emotional investments, thereby subjecting myself to eternal guilt for not being a good enough friend to keep in touch, I haven't exactly made any friends.

In fact, I realized as I was walking, that the next time I move, I'm not bothering with unpacking any of the holiday items, camping items, most of our books, the special occasion kitchen items, anything home decor, etc. A boring, simple existence, to be sure - but the thought of packing again and moving makes me want to cry.

At the same time I was patting myself on the back for being so smart and efficient in planning our next move, my heart sank. It is exactly this same line of thinking (subconsciously of course) that has resulted in me living here for nearly 10 months and having nothing to show for it.

Not one new friend.
Not one new business networking contact.
Not one dinner party (to be fair, we have no dining room or dining room table).
In fact, only one couple over for dinner - or anything - ever.
Not a membership to anything (other than the library, without which I would either go broke from spending too much at a bookstore or go mad from not reading).
Not one favorite hangout or walking destination or place.
Not one radio station programmed into the car (due mostly to the fact that I listen to books on CD while I drive, and I've memorized the call sign of the local NPR station -the only radio to which I really listen).

Our lease is up in two months. Himself still doesn't have a job. I desperately need a new one. All of which must revolve around Miss Jan, Baby Girl's sitter, as I'm not willing to sacrifice her services even out of geographic inconvenience.

Other than the very obvious blessing of Baby Girl, I don't have much to show for the past year, and I know it's subconsciously on purpose, because it's not as hard to leave nothing as it is to leave something.

That and curtains made for 6' windows don't work very well in The Hobbit Hole.

Let Me Count the Ways ...

Since I moved west, I often get the question, "What do you miss the most about the East Coast?"

For months and months and months, I've answered, "Almost everything - traffic and cost of living the exceptions."

Today, I finally realized what it is I miss the most (besides my friends, the smorgasboard of food options and the "One True Grocery."): Diversity and tolerance.

And, while we're at it, I also miss decent public transit.

Homesick

Can one be homesick for a place in which one has no family, no juvenile roots, no actual claim to roots at all, in fact?

If so, I am homesick.

It is ironic, really, that this week I have had an especially strong pining for all things (okay, most things - I certainly don't miss the traffic) DC. At this moment most of my immediate family are on their way to visit for the weekend. Tomorrow at this time, some of Himself's family will arrive. It is my first time as an adult hosting any sort of family function (try not to burst out laughing picturing a family reunion at the Hobbit Hole a la Bilbo Baggin's birthday party).

And yet ... I am homesick for my other home. While Utah might be my childhood and collegiate home, the Frontier itself is not either of those. Nor is it my home of adulthood. I have even fewer roots in The Frontier than I do in DC. Himself and I met when we were both living in the DC metro area. Most of our mutual friends are there. Most of our married life thus far was spent there. Our second family is there - a comical group of friends cobbled together by our mostly mutual expatriate status.

We will celebrate the birth of Baby Girl at her blessing in church this Sunday. We formally name her and bless her and celebrate the miracle of her life. I am beyond happy to be able to share the experience with our families (and a few friends who have also migrated to The Frontier). However, I have found myself longing this week for the family of sorts we left behind in Virginia. I feel as sad celebrating Baby Girl without them as I would without my immediate family.

I miss the variegated friendships, the deep relationships that formed in absence of any local family members. I miss my feeling of confidence and independence and passion about the area in which we lived. I miss the second mothers, best friends, close colleagues, food buddies and mentors I left behind.

The rising emotional significance of this weekend - the first meeting of my family and Himself's family, the celebration of Baby Girl, my first family hosting responsibilities - has paved the way for strong feelings of longing for my two worlds to collide - the world of my carefree, confident young adulthood and the world of my childhood, which is now the backdrop for my child's childhood.

I do not question the move. Clearly, we have been blessed beyond comprehension. I am continually reminded of all of the magnificent things that have happened since our arrival in The Frontier. Yet it does nothing to diminish the yearning I have for the relationships and memories I left behind five months ago. I wonder if the pioneers - the first permanent settlers in The Frontier - felt something akin to what is going through my heart and soul this week. A profound gratitude for their arrival in The Frontier and everything it meant, mixed with a nostalgia for what they had left behind.

I am homesick.