Chaos. But in a good way.

It's such a cliche, but Jesus Christ, moving sucks.  As many times as I've done it, it never gets any easier.  At least with this one, it's a local move, so I can be slightly less organized and still get it done.  But then I'm disorganized.

And for reasons that I don't understand, we decided to throw a little barbecue for Josie's birthday the night before the movers were coming.  So instead of spending valuable time getting ready, we were trashing the house with balloons and cupcake pans and dirty mixing bowls streaked with batter.  

But it was good to hang out with friends.  And Josie had fun doing the requisite destroying-baked-goods ritual of the first birthday.

Prey

Predator

To the victor go the spoils

 The move itself went fine.  The movers were great and worked quickly and efficiently.  But now we're in that stage of moving when we're technically in the house, but it's like living in a war zone.  There's debris everywhere.  I have no idea where anything is.  I'm all disoriented and keep walking into the wrong room.  Every time I take a step I trip over something.

But still, I love the house.  We're so happy.  I can mince down the block to grab a dozen eggs at the local grocer, or across the street for coffee, or two doors down for nails at the hardware store.  It's such a great neighborhood.  And the house, for all of the work it needs, feels like home.

Aloha, Denver

Yesterday Jason and I were in the car, driving back from dropping Zeke off at school. We were stopped at a light, and an older lady was crossing in the crosswalk. She looked at us and smiled and said "Welcome to Colorado" (she must have seen the California plates on our rental car).

And that's pretty much what it's been like to be in Denver so far.

We're living in this incredibly cool intown neighborhood, about a 10 minute drive to downtown, with an elementary school across the street, funky little shops and restaurants around the corner (including a wonderful yarn shop -- all the more reason to get back into some serious knitting -- and an ice cream store that has become a daily stop for us), and super nice neighbors. We'll be walking down the street and people will stop and chat us up. Jason said at one point, "will someone just be a prick to me, already? Am I going to have to be the neighborhood asshole, just so there is one?"

This is the kind of aloha spirit we expected from people in Hawaii, but never really found.

And while Jason definitely misses the surf, and had a hard time his first Sunday here (Sundays were his regular surf days with his buddies), on Monday he went snowboarding at a great mountain about 45 minutes away, and came back feeling rejuvenated and excited about living near the mountains.

In so many ways, this moving is looking to be a good one for us:

• We live about a 5 minute drive from a Super Target, which happens to be the highest grossing Target in the country. And in addition to having the expectedTarget-y goodness oozing from its brick walls, it's got a full grocery store, so we can do all of our shopping there, and for unbelievable prices. The first time we went, on the second or third day we were here, we filled up a grocery cart. In Hawaii, the bill would have been $300, easy. In Colorado, the total was $113. We practically wept with joy. And really, the cost of everything is similarly reduced -- gas, rent, utilities. It's such a pleasure to not feel constantly ripped off.

• The horrendous traffic in Hawaii was a constant source of stress and aggravation for us. When Jason worked on jobs in Honolulu, it used to take him 2 hours to drive the 25 miles between our house and work. It would take me 40 minutes of sitting in bumper-to-bumper crap to take Zeke 4 miles up the road to his school. Now, we can get downtown in the heart of rush hour traffic in about 10 minutes, making green lights all the way, and never sitting in any of the stand-still shit that makes my blood pressure rise just thinking about it.

• There are so many choices. For everything. All different kinds of ethnic foods. A million different retail establishments. In Hawaii, if we wanted to go out to eat, we'd be spending at least $100 for just the two of us, and that was at someplace like Chili's or Outback. Here, there are diners and cafes and little neighborhood bistros, all reasonably priced, that make having a social life an economic possibility again.

• My parents came to visit last week. Instead of having to travel for 13 hours and deal with the jet lag that comes from a 6 hour time difference, they hopped on a 3 hour flight and didn't suffer significant exhaustion as a result. Next month my brother's band has a gig in New York City. If my work schedule permits, flying in for the weekend to see it is an actual possibility. It's just so damned nice to be closer to everyone I care about.

• Everyone here looks so healthy. In Hawaii, we got so used to seeing so many morbidly obese people everywhere we went -- entire families where no one was under 250 pounds, including the kids, bellying up to the buffet line for more barbecue and spam and sugary sodas. Here they all look like they stepped out of an REI/North Face/LL Bean/Land's End catalog, with their ski racks on their cars and trailers on their bikes so they can tote their kids around while they do their errands.

• It's such a pleasure to have friends here. We became friendly with our neighbors in Hawaii, but only really felt truly simpatico with one or two select couples. Here I've got my cousins and friends from college and friends from high school and friends from Atlanta, not to mention Kathleen and Rich. Zeke will be able to grow up with their kids (they came over last night for a pizza party, and ran around so wildly that after they went home, Zeke was practically begging to go night-night), and with his cousins, and with the children of our other friends. And they're all smart and literate and politically astute and fun to hang out with.

There are definitely things we miss about Hawaii. It is a beautiful place, and it was fun to be so close to the beach and to be able to surf all the time and to just have the experience of living in a tropical paradise. I loved being able to do things like drop Zeke at school and head up to the North Shore to watch the Pipeline Masters. But it's not a bad substitute when tomorrow, we're going to drop Zeke at school and drive a mere 45 minutes to go skiing.

Moving Hell

We're in the middle of it right now. Boxes everywhere. Clothes everywhere. Little bits of paper and debris everywhere. The house is in shambles. And we're out of here in two days.

In the meantime, Joey is kicking my ass in ways that Zeke never did. I had some very mild nausea at this point in the first trimester with Zeke, but these days I'm like an involuntary bulemic. I'll be hungry, so I'll eat something that seems appetizing, and I'll be all, "yay! it's staying down!" And then half an hour later I'll be on my knees, hugging the toilet. Or I'll be hungry, and absolutely nothing appeals to me -- all I feel is queasy. Or I'll pass a Chinese restaurant and all of a sudden I'll think to myself, "if I don't have some beef with broccoli, I'm going to die." So, essentially, I'm either puking, scarfing, or sneering at the refrigerator with narrowed eyes, as if to say, "Et tu?"

The movers are coming tomorrow, and then we clean and finish up and fly out on Friday. So I probably won't post anything until we're in Denver. It feels very strange to think that as of Saturday, my life with be very, very different.

Beaten down by logistics

I think I should have joined the Foreign Service.

When I was growing up, we moved every couple of years, frequently to far-flung locations. Cyprus to Virginia. Virginia to Venezuela. Virginia to Israel. Virginia to India.

These moves were unquestionably massive undertakings, involving all of our furniture, art, rugs, tchotchkes accumulated from years of living around the world, cars. But in the grand scheme of things, they were pretty easy, because the government took care of everything. They scheduled the movers, and on a given day armies of strong-armed lads would show up to box up our stuff and cart it onto big trucks. We had sea freights (which took a long time) and air freights (which arrived quickly). In the meantime, if we needed something to sit on or sleep on until our stuff arrived, the embassies had warehouses full of furniture for our use. In fact, if you didn't want to take your own stuff, or if you didn't want to take all of it, you could simply stock your house with embassy furniture for the entire tour. I think we did that in Israel -- some of our furniture was ours, but I remember alot of it being embassy stuff.

And of course, the government paid for everything.

I'm at the point where I would kill for that kind of arrangement.

Because my life these days is consumed by my list of things to do, very few of which can be taken care of with just a single phone call. Hiring the movers involved days and days of phone calls, compiling lists of furniture and effects, estimating weight and cubic footage, coming up with dates. Renting a house in Denver (Kathleen did most of the legwork on this), including poring over listings on Craigslist, figuring out which neighborhood would work. Renting our house here, including interviewing prospective tenants, finding a property manager, drafting a lease that met all of Hawaii's quirky legal requirements, organizing a walk-through. Renting a car in Denver to cover the time between when we get there and when our cars arrive. Same for renting furniture, since our stuff won't be there until about a month after we are. Setting up utilities. Getting Zeke into daycare. Then I spent 4 hours on the phone yesterday trying to work out how to ship the dog (long story short: our flights connect through Las Vegas and require a change of airlines, which makes shipping an animal prohibitively complicated, so we have to ship him as unaccompanied cargo on another airline that flies direct, and have Kathleen pick up the poor mutt at the airport).

Of course, in addition to the complication of organizing it all, there's the cost. Which is huge. Like, 5 figures. Luckily, we're getting a big tax refund this year, and my parents have been incredibly generous about helping to pay for the move (they're very sweet, plus they benefit by bringing their grandson closer to them), so it's doable. But we're still going to start our new life saddled with massive debt.

After this, I'm done. I'm not moving again for a long, long time. If Jason decides he can't be happy in Denver and needs to move closer to the ocean, he'll have to go without me.

Transitions

(I wrote this partly because it's what's going on in my life, and partly for my friend Lisa, who is pregnant and going through some normal pregnancy anxiety -- Lis, this is what you have to look forward to. It's going to be great, and you're going to have so much fun.)

Zeke is going through a particularly delightful stage right now. While of course I love the kid no matter what, lately he just seems so happy, so funny, so enthralled by life, that it's infectious.

When he turned one, he started the transition at school from the infant room to the wobbler room. And while it's been relatively smooth, it took awhile for him to feel completely comfortable. He would cling to me and cry when I dropped him off, he had a rough time settling into a nap schedule, and when I picked him up, he would freak out and run to me, as if he were afraid that I would turn around and leave again if he didn't grab me immediately.

At home, all of a sudden he didn't like bath time very much. This was huge, because he had always loved taking a bath. Splashing around and giggling had been one of the highlights of his day. But now he was crying and reaching to be taken out of the bath after two minutes, so Jason and I were doing our best to wash him and rinse him in 30 seconds or less. And bedtime was difficult -- he couldn't settle on a bedtime and he couldn't settle on a wake-up time, so some days he went to bed at 7 and woke up at 5, and others he went to bed at 9 and woke up at 7 or 8.

But then, in the last two or three weeks, something changed. Something clicked in him, I guess. Now when I drop him off at school, he goes right to his teacher, turns around and blows me a kiss. When I pick him up in the afternoon, he's happy to see me, but he's also happy to keep playing with his friends. He's napping from 11:30 to 1:30 every day. He goes to bed at 8 without fail (we stick him in his crib then regardless, but it's rare that he fusses. Usually he just says "na-na" -- his version of "night-night"-- and rolls over and goes to sleep).

He's learning more and more words. He figured out how to jump with both feet off the ground, and is now showing the other kids in his class how to follow suit. He loves bath time again, splashing and laughing and jumping around in the tub. Plus there's the pre- and post-bath naked baby game of "chase," in which Zeke runs around upstairs and Jason and I run after him or he runs after us or we hide and then jump out and yell "boo!" as Zeke collapses in a fit of giggles.

He loves being outside, inspecting plants and trees, patting the dog, going to the playground and going down the slide by himself, running everywhere.

And he's just so insanely sweet. He'll be playing and then all of a sudden he'll run over to Jason or me to give us a hug and a kiss. I'll catch his eye in the rear-view mirror when we're driving somewhere, and he'll give me this huge toothy grin and say "hi!" He melts my heart.

Essentially, everything is perfect. He's doing great. He's comfortable with his life.

And in two weeks I'm going to uproot him and he's going to have to make another huge transition all over again. New house. New school. New friends.

I know he'll be fine. Kids are incredibly adaptable. Hell, my parents schlepped me all over the world, and I did just fine.

But a part of me feels incredibly guilty and anxious about taking him out of his comfort zone.

Stuff

My life is consumed with stuff these days. What stuff we're taking with us. What stuff we're selling on Craigslist. What stuff we're donating to Goodwill. How to get temporary stuff to use in Denver before our shipment of stuff gets there.

It's exhausting.

The move is coming along swimmingly. It's pretty much completely organized. We've hired movers for the household effects and the cars, the house is rented, we've signed a lease on a place in Denver, and I'm in the process of organizing the house.

The worst part is my office.

I have two filing cabinets full of stuff to cull through. I've filed the tax returns and organized the related documents we need to keep, so now it's down to making piles. And my shredder is working overtime -- I've almost burned the motor out twice.

And then there's the difficulty of figuring out what to keep and what to throw out.

I am not a pack rat. There is nothing I like more than going through old things and throwing most of them away. But I'm finding myself sentimental about Zeke's "artwork."

Every day at school, the wobblers do an art project. Even at the tender age of 1, there is an explicitly established curriculum. For example, this week, one of the things the kids are learning about is the mail system. Don't ask me how 1 year olds can possibly have any concept of sending or receiving mail, but I'm not a professional educator, so what do I know? Anyway, this week's art projects all involve the mail. On Monday they glued pieces of construction paper together to make a mailbox. On Tuesday they used crayons to scribble on "envelopes." Today they're playing with stickers to represent stamps. You get the idea.

This is one of my favorites -- Halloween project with footprint ghosts

Thanksgiving project. As far as I can tell, the teachers cut out pictures from the Safeway sale flyer and the kids glued them onto a piece of paper. Wonderfully random.
"My Family" -- not sure if I should be concerned about this one.

Don't know what the theme was, but it employs Australia's sporting colors, so we may have to stick this one in a frame.

My feeling is that these "art" projects are fun ways for the kids to work on motor and sensory skills involving gluing and working with paper and all that, but there isn't anything particularly original or creative about the finished product. It's very cute, but I certainly don't delude myself into thinking that when Zeke was smearing glue on a particular piece of construction paper, he had any idea of what he was creating or any editorial input into the final result. He's not exactly on the verge of cutting off his ear and changing his name to "Vincent."

But I can't bring myself to throw them away. They're so funny and cute, and while I know they will serve no purpose other than to sit in a box and gather dust, it seems worth it for the once every blue moon that we'll drag them out and look at them when Zeke is 7 or 15 or 25.

The Happy Place

It's the middle of the night and naturally, I can't sleep. Zeke has been up during the night for the past week -- he's cutting 4 molars at once and they're brutal -- but tonight that's not even the reason I'm up. I dosed his bedtime bottle with tylenol, advil and a little dimetapp (his nose is running and he's coughing), and I guess it worked. Of course, now that I've written that, watch him wake up and start screaming in exactly 7.9 seconds.

I've been trying to process the changes that are coming in the next four weeks. I'm starting the job as of March 1, and just to preserve what little sanity I have left, I'd like to be in Denver about a week before that. So I have 4 weeks to get my house rented and pack up my shit and move all of it, plus 2 cars, to Denver. In February. Meaning that inevitably, some massive storm system (or several of them -- why be optimistic?) will hit the Rockies and its mountain passes, shutting down all traffic and commerce, and I'll have my stuff some time in late April.

I'm not feeling down or pessimistic -- just overwhelmed. I'm making lists and cleaning closets and getting estimates and getting our tax refund (which will be a massive help), but the speed with which I have to get so much accomplished is freaking me out.

Some people, when they're on mental overload, talk of going to a "happy place." Thoughts of sitting on a warm beach, hammock swaying in the breeze, the smell of Coppertone wafting into their nostrils, sipping a cold Corona.

But I've decided that Denver is my happy place. So I'm doing all of this to get there.

A friend of mine came up with the concept.

"Think of it," she said. "You get to go to this place with good job prospects and you've got friends there and family there and activities that you love and it's not too far from your parents, so they can see Zeke when they want, and the cost of living is reasonable and the schools are good and everything is great. It's a ready-made happy place."

And she's right. I don't believe in fate or destiny, but there is something remarkable about how it's all working out. I got the job that I wanted, in an economy that couldn't be shittier for jobs, and I get to work with my best friend. My kid has a spot reserved in the daycare I wanted him in, without having to get on a waitlist. I'll be living in a duplex that went up for rent around the time I got the Denver interviews. The duplex is across the street from Kathleen's house. It's a 10 minute (max) drive to work. It's also a block off a main street that has a funky concern venue right there, and as a way to appease neighbors, the club gives 4 tickets to every show to people living within a block of the street. Two of my first cousins live in Denver, and I've always been close to them. One has two small children close to Zeke's age. So he's already got a ready-made peer group. Via the miracle of Facebook, I also discovered that at least 5 friends from college, 1 friend from Atlanta, and 2 or 3 friends from high school live in Denver.

That is the best part. One of the hardest things about living here is how isolated I've felt and how difficult it has been to grow a network of friends, especially going through my first pregnancy alone and having no posse to lean on and no group of little posse monkeys for Zeke to roam with.

All of that changes in 4 weeks. In addition to being able to work with Kathleen again, and live across the street from her, and have her munchkins play and go to school with my munchkin (and possible future munchkins), I already have a posse, including family, that I can call to go out for dinner or run errands or lean on for a favor. And they can do the same for me. And I'll be a 2 hour flight from my parents and brothers, so instead of crazy ass travel that involves major jet lag and major expense, making frequent visits financially and physically prohibitive, we can pop over for long weekends.

The thought of it makes my heart skip a beat, and takes me to my happy place. The tasks at hand don't seem so insurmountable. Because I'm going to my Happy Place.

You can't take me anywhere

I'm usually not big on the "here's what's happening in my life" type of posts -- I like to write more thematically -- but I'm so overwhelmed that I can barely think straight.

So I got the job in Denver. Now I'm waiting for my new boss to finalize my official start date. In the meantime, I'm trying to do my taxes, collect outstanding bills from clients, rent my house, figure out which furniture and household effects to keep and which to sell, figure out exactly when to move, where to live in Denver, blah blah blah.

And I know I'll get it all done. But I'm assuming that we'll be out of here and halfway across the world in about 4 weeks, and I'm not quite sure how it's going to happen without me losing my mind.

In the meantime, we went to the movies on Saturday night. It was our first date night, just the two of us, in 3 months. We were supposed to go to Jason's company's annual Christmas party (they do it in January to save money). I had the babysitter booked. And then we decided to bag the party and go see Slumdog Millionaire instead. Because we went to the party last year, and while it was cool to win the iPod (though I only had it a month before it got wet and never worked again), the party itself was kind of a dud. The thing started at 6, and by 6:15 the vultures had cleared out the buffet. The band was beyond atrocious. And a number of people got really shitfaced and were a drag to be around.

So really, between going to a crappy party with a bunch of drunken morons and seeing Slumdog Millionaire, it was a no-brainer. First, the movie has gotten phenomenal reviews and is cleaning up during awards season. Second, everyone I know who has seen it has raved. Third, it's set in India, which automatically means there's a good chance I'll adore it. And fourth, movies mean snacks.

I'm generally not a big snacker. I don't munch on chips or nuts or snacky things during the day. Plus I'm a messy eater. I try to be neat, but I invariably end up with crumbs on my boobs or a stain on my shirt. Jason thinks this is hilarious. He jokes that it's my way of saving things for later on.

But I love movie snacks. When I was in college, my sorority did a rush party with a Hollywood theme, and we served little cups of popcorn with raisinets mixed in. I had never mixed popcorn in candy, but when I tasted it, I felt like I'd died and gone to heaven. So now I have to have popcorn with raisinets when I go to the movies.

I also don't drink soft drinks. Unless we have visitors who like them, I don't keep them in the house. And if I do have one, it'll be diet.

But at the movies, I have to have a full-on, sugary Coke.

We settled into our seats with a box holding a big bag of popcorn, my box of raisinets, and two drinks. And by the end of the night, I was happier than a pig in shit. The movie was phenomenal -- I don't remember the last time a film left me so filled with joy that it felt like my heart was going to burst out of my chest. And I had my snacks.

By the end of the night, Jason looked over at my and almost choked on his popcorn. Because there was all 5'2" of me, settled into my chair, with popcorn all over my shirt, digging around for that last raisinet, all while trying to watch the movie over a pile of food that came up over my nose.

When the movie was over, I got up to throw away our trash.

"Oh, no, baby. Let the man with the big wheelie bin come to you. You've earned it tonight."

Too much information, but then again, not enough

A friend of mine who is pregnant called me the other night. She lives on the other side of the world from me and we don't get to chat very often, so it was really fun to catch up with her.

We talked alot about her pregnancy. She is about 7 weeks or so away from her due date, and getting nervous about the delivery.

"I've been doing all kinds of internet research. I've read so much about the experiences of other women. I just want to know what it's going to be like. What was it like for you?"

So I told her all about my labor and delivery. We talked about epidurals and pain and what it's like to push and all of that.

"But," I added, "it's different for everyone."

"I know, I know," she replied. "That's what's so frustrating. I don't want to hear that it's different for every woman. I just want to know."

"Honey, I can totally relate," I told her. "Believe me, when I was pregnant, I was on those pregnancy sites every day, reading article after article, thinking that somehow I would happen on the one that told me exactly what it would be like for me. But of course I didn't. There's no way of knowing. All you can do is prepare, take a child birth class or something. The one thing I kept reminding myself was that whatever it was like, it would be over eventually. It was an event with an end. And it was long and difficult and part of it was painful, but then it was over. So here's my advice to you: stop doing research. Stop reading articles. It's only going to make you crazy, and the answer you're looking for isn't out there."

And the truth is, that kind of uncertainty is rarer and rarer these days.

I am an internet addict. And a Google addict. As Kathleen can tell anyone who asks, I have this compulsion about knowing the answer. When she and I worked in adjacent offices, we would talk to each other through the wall. Occasionally, she would yell over a question -- about a word definition, a historical point, whatever. Sometimes I knew the answer. But sometimes I didn't, and it would be quiet for awhile.

"You're googling it, aren't you??"

Having a wealth of information at your fingertips is mostly a useful thing. Looking for a recipe? Try allrecipes.com. Need to print out postage to mail something, and you don't feel like going to the post office? Do it online. Basic medical question? Try WebMd. Look up words at dictionary.com or thesaurus.com. Need to shop? Everything you could possibly need, you can get online. Missed this week's episode of Friday Night Lights? (Fucking TiVo!) You can watch entire episodes online for free.

I look back on the days before I started using the internet regularly -- probably around 1995 or so -- and I honestly don't know how I functioned.

But there are downsides. One is that all of this information has made us into a nation of amateur diagnosticians and psychologists. The University of Google can make you feel like an instant expert in anything. And there is alot of valuable information out there. But there's also alot of crap.

And for me, the biggest downside is that having the universe of possible answers at your fingertips can make you think that every question does, in fact, have an answer. That if you look hard enough, you can figure everything out.

I learned this when I was pregnant. There are a million websites, like Babycenter.com, that provide information on everything from calendars helping you track the baby's development to tips on how to deal with swollen ankles or where to buy a great maternity pillow. You can do research about the different types of genetic screening, ways to alleviate morning sickness, whatever. And it's great. When I was having Zeke, I was on the website all the time. But like my friend, the real answer I was looking for -- i.e., exactly how would my labor go and would the baby be perfectly healthy and fine -- isn't out there to be found.

Like most people, I hate uncertainty under the best of circumstances. Being in between situations, or having to wait for something to determine your fate, without any way to know, is torture. And now that I'm so used to being able to find the answer to just about every question I could have, it's doubly so.

I'm supposed to hear this week from both of the firms I interviewed with in Denver. I'm so nervous, it's killing me. There's no amount of research I can do, no amount of checking my email over and over, that will provide me with the answer I want. So I just have to wait.

Looking back, and waiting

Happy New Year, everyone. I'm back. I missed you.

The Denver trip was good. I got to spend time with Kathleen, hang out with my cousin and her family, and catch up with an old college friend who lives in Denver and whom I'm really looking forward to seeing on a regular basis.

The interviews went well. But interviews are like first dates. You're all anxious and excited beforehand, then they seem to go OK, everyone appears to be enjoying themselves, and then they're over. And you're left with the "well, I felt good about it, I think they felt good about it, but are they going to call me" feeling. I should know something in a couple of weeks, but until then I'm in limbo. My least favorite state of existence.

Over the past few weeks, all I've seen every time I turned on the TV or opened a magazine was a year-end list of bests and worsts, or some similar retrospective. In that vein, it's been a weird year for me. Highlights would be my friends all visiting for my birthday in February and having time off to spend time with Jason and surf. Watching Zeke grow and learn, and helping him along that path, has also been great.

But mostly I feel like the past year has been tough. My grandmother died. Jason and I both are out of work. The year has brought trials and tribulations for close friends and relatives. And as much as we can point to positive aspects about this adventure of living in Hawaii, the truth is that it has ruined us financially. Two years ago I lived in a nice little house in Atlanta with a relatively low mortgage, and I had a steady job that allowed me to live comfortably and well within my means. I am now in a house that is worth less than I owe, with a mortgage payment that is crushing me, and which I will not be able to pay after this month unless I either get a new job or borrow from my parents, or both. And since there are no jobs in Hawaii, the only way to live is to leave here and start over.

I am trying to be optimistic about the Denver interviews. They seemed to go well, and I have hope. But if they don't pan out, I honestly don't know what I am going to do.

The moral of the story is, don't ever, ever travel with me

I am the queen of the travel fuck-up.  If it can go wrong in the course of air travel, I have experienced it.  Massive delays, flight cancellations, missed flights because of gate changes that went unannounced, lost luggage, emergency landings because of equipment failures, you name it.

But I have never experienced anything quite as ridiculous as what caused me to arrive in Denver 12 hours later than I was supposed to.

My flight on Friday night was to leave at 11 pm.  So Jason was going to take me to the airport at around 9-ish, and we recruited a neighbor to come and sit with Zeke, who would have been asleep at that time.  We're sitting around watching the news or something at around 7 when all of a sudden the power went out.  

No biggie.  We were experiencing some weird weather, lightening and such, so power flickers happen.  

About half an hour later, the lights flickered on, but only at about half power.  

"That was probably someone trying to fix the transformer and getting fried," Jason observed.

Then the lights went out for good.  All over the island.

Perhaps you heard about it.  Seeing as how it made the national news and all.

We went outside, where the neighbors were all congregating.

"I bet your flight's cancelled.  Last time this happened, it shut the airport down," said Kyle, one of our neighbors who has the tendency to be the voice of doom.

We turned on the radio, which was broadcasting emergency information.  All grocery stores and convenience stores were closed.  Waikiki was in total gridlock and people were fighting in the street.  Everyone wondered how Obama was doing and whether he had power.

"It's going all Lord of the Flies pretty fast,"  I observed.

Another neighbor walked up and told me that he had heard that the airport was still open and that flights to the mainland were leaving from gates 14, 15, 24, 25 and 28.

"Did you happen to hear whether United flight 42 is still taking off?"  I asked, only half joking.

"Nope, they didn't mention that," he grinned.

After much back and forth, we decided to just go to the airport and try it out.  If in the meantime an announcement was made that flights were cancelled, then we would just turn around.

So Kyle stayed with Zeke and Jason and I left for the airport.  

When we got there, there was some hustle and bustle, though most of the airport was dark.  Jason dropped me off at the United terminal and I got in line.

The line didn't move.  Looking inside, you could see that agents were doing the agricultural check (you can't take plants in or out of the island) and security screenings by hand.  It looked totally chaotic. 

I kept checking the monitors for information, all of which listed my flight as still taking off, still on time.  A couple of other people in line did the same.  We all got friendly.

Finally, at about 10:25, a lady came out and announced that all United flights out had been cancelled.  She was a fellow passenger, and was making the announcement because the United agent inside refused to come out and tell anyone in the long line, which snaked around the building, what was happening.  He told the lady that he figured that if people wanted to find out what was going on, they would eventually make it inside.

Everyone started clamoring around the lone agent inside at the desk.  I called United on my phone, learned that the flight would be taking off at 10:15 the next morning, and called Jason to come and get me.  

A number of people have asked me if I was all pissed off and irate.  The truth is, no.  The one thing about constantly experiencing travel problems is that it's made me very Zen.  

At least I had a bed to sleep in, unlike the poor bastards who had to sleep on the floor of the United check-in area, which, like the rest of the airport, has a roof over it, but is otherwise outside.  

And I'm in Denver, safe and sound now.  I had 7 hours on a plane during which I didn't have to deal with a squirmy toddler.  The flight was largely empty, so I had an entire row to myself to lie down and read an excellent book from cover to cover.  Kathleen picked me up at the airport and we stayed up 'til late shooting the shit and drinking champagne.  

So really, it's all good.

I feel like it's something of a personal failing, really

To watch chick flicks or reality TV or to read comic strips like "Cathy" (which I don't, by the way), one would come away with the impression that women and shopping go together like bacon and eggs. In this world that is played out for us in the media and elsewhere, women get together with their friends and meet for coffee and then cheerfully peruse designer handbags and browse racks and racks of blouses and jeans and skirts and accessories, while complaining good-naturedly about their husbands and their busy lives. It's all very fulfilling -- a way to charge your batteries, if you will.

I can say in all honesty that I have never felt that way. In fact, the older I get, the more I absolutely despise shopping to the point that the thought of it makes me tense.

But right now, it cannot be avoided.

I have job interviews in two weeks, one with a fairly buttoned-up firm where the lawyers all wear suits (they didn't get the society-wide memo that we're all going business casual). And I don't have a fucking thing to wear.

You see, when we left Atlanta, I knew I'd be working from home, and that even if I did have to look somewhat professional, a pair of black pants and a black blazer would suffice. So I went through my closets, containing upwards of 25 suits and dresses, and gave them away either to friends or to the Salvation Army. I kept one black pair of pants and one black blazer, neither of which fits me particularly well since having a baby.

Plus, Colorado is cold. The clothes I have are not suitable.

My mother generously offered to buy me a new interview suit. Knowing how I am about shopping (the poor woman has suffered when she wanted to take me shopping and everything she suggested for me was met with, "no, thanks, I don't need it," as I nervously scouted out the nearest exit), she advised me to go when I was well rested and in a good mood.

Today I went up to the local outlet mall go get an outfit for Zeke for his school's Christmas program. After I had picked up what I needed for him, I figured I'd look in some of the grown-up stores for a suit.

This was a mistake.

First of all, I had just come from teaching a Baby Boot Camp class, so I was wearing workout leggings, a heavy sports bra, and running shoes -- not exactly conducive to trying on silky blouses and pinstripe suits. Second of all, I was hungry and a little tired, and thus ill-suited to partake of an activity that I hate under the best of circumstances.

But, I was there, after all, so I figured I may as well take a look.

I went into the Banana Republic store. Nothing terribly suit-y. Lots of separates, but I wanted something conservative. The Saks outlet - nothing. The Michael Kors store - nothing.

The Anne Klein store had a couple of promising options, but on one the button on the jacket was too high and looked weird, and on the other the jacket looked good on the rack but horrible on my rack.

Nothing at Brooks Brothers. Nothing at Ralph Lauren. And the Barney's store made me want to slap everyone in there. All hipper and cooler than thou. Feh.

And of course, this particular outlet mall gets swarms of tourists, all of whom seemed to be prancing around in Ugg boots (paired with miniskirts or shorts) even though it's 83 degrees and sunny. This annoyed me to no end as well.

By the end of it, I was in a fair strop, as my husband likes to say. I was tense and grumpy -- in no shape to shop productively. So I went home.

What's wrong with me? Why am I incapable of enjoying this activity that others of my sex seem to view as a sacrament? i'm not ugly, as far as I can tell. Clothes look OK on me. I don't have body issues. But nonetheless, going to a mall gives me an anxiety attack.

And the worst of it is, I still need to buy a suit. Meaning I've got to fight the traffic and venture into Honolulu to go to Nordstrom or Macy's or Neiman's during the Christmas shopping season.

I have a stomach ache.

A lesson in appreciating what you've got

We've been in Hawaii for almost 2 years. There are things about it I've liked - the weather, the physical beauty, the ability to go to the beach 365 days a year - but mostly I've been wanting to leave. I hate being so isolated from the rest of the world, including what I obnoxiously think of as the "real" America (so very Sarah Palin of me). The expense and time it takes to travel anywhere (other than another Hawaiian island) is depressing. The public schools suck academically, and the local culture promotes an attitude of anti-intellectualism that drives me insane. The cost of living is astronomical. The provincialism and racism makes it hard to make friends. The traffic is horrendous all the time. There's no Target.

But -- and I've said this before -- it is a wonderful place to be unemployed, especially if you can put your kid in daycare. The past two months, Jason hasn't been working and I've been working only sporadically, so we've had lots of time to play.

We go surfing at least 3-4 times a week.

Our tans are fabulous.

(My tan is rockin'. Zeke's, not so much. I may be an unemployed bum, but I'm still a responsible parent with the sunscreen.)

We take naps in the afternoon before going to pick up Zeke at daycare. We've hosted visitors and had time to show them the island.

(With Andrea at Waimanalo Beach)

We've seen Kelly Slater, the best surfer in the world, win the Pipeline Masters surf competition, which is on every surfing fan's list of things to see before you die.

(A competitor takes a steep drop on a huge wave --
the face of that wave is probably 15 feet. Yoiks.)

Basically, it's been an extended vacation in paradise, which few people ever get in their lives.

But we know we have to leave soon, because we can't afford to stay. So I've been job hunting in Denver, and I've got two interviews there at the end of the month. The odds are pretty good that I'll get an offer from at least one of the firms, so the end of our run here is becoming more and more discernable.

And it's making me a bit sad. Living in the cold, having to go to an office and do actual work
every day (*shudder*), giving up all of this fun and relaxation -- it's going to be a shock to the system.

I know that Denver will be a great move for us. I will loooove being close to Kathleen, having Zeke grow up with his cousins, being a short plane ride away from everyone I love.

But the prospect of actually leaving has brought all of the things that have been great about life here into sharp focus. It puts a lump in my throat.

Oh, the tables, how they have turned...

This morning Jason and I dropped Zeke off at daycare and drove up to the North Shore to see the final rounds of the Pipeline Masters surf competition. Yes, we're those kinds of assholes. But it's Pipeline Masters! The Wimbledon of surfing!

So as we're driving up, I'm talking to a friend about our little episode at Tracks the other day and also about how Jason is having a bitch of a time getting the local electrician's union to recognize and give him credit for his credentials. He want to take his electrician's license, but his manager couldn't get his act together to certify Jason's hours in time, and then the union gave out bad information about the deadline for filing the application to take the exam, and then of course, there's the question of whether the union will even allow him to sit for the exam because he got his training in Australia instead of in Hawaii. No matter that the training in Australia is a million times harder than what Hawaii requires, or that half the guys Jason works with couldn't find their way out of a hatbox with a map.

My friend laments the crappy attitudes and racism we had to endure while surfing. I point out that racism is affecting Jason's job as well, and that there's a good chance that the electrical board overseeing the exam will be harsher on Jason's application because he's a haole.

My friend responded, "well, then maybe another good thing about going to Colorado is that at least there white people might have a chance to get ahead."

And that, my friends, is a sentence that I never thought I'd hear uttered.

It took me 10 minutes to stop giggling.

Update

So much is happening, it's been hard been write about any of it. Not because I'm shy, but because I've been so nervous and anxious that it's like I'm communicationally constipated, if that makes any sense.

Halloween was fun. We dressed Zeke up as a University of Virginia football player. I made him a little jersey with his name on the back, made some shoulder pads out of pieces of foam, and used black lipstick on his cheeks. He was outrageously cute, and quite pleased with his costume.

His school has a little trick or treating outing for the kids, and when we showed up for it, he was giddily running around the room, flirting insanely with everyone he encountered. He hated the actual trick-or-treating -- all he wanted to do was run out into the street. And it's not like he's allowed to eat candy.

That night Jason and I went on a date to this cool Mexican restaurant up on the west side of the island. It's the side of the island that's really trashy and full of homeless people, so people were quite surprised at our choice of outing, but the restaurant was great. Of course, we were the only people not in costume. When our waitress teased us about it, we said, "oh, no, we're dressed as parents getting time away from their kid."

The big news of the weekend was deciding that we're going to leave even sooner than we anticipated, i.e., we're not going to wait for May. Jason can take his licensing exam in January, and if he passes it, we're out of here ASAP. My biggest regret was having to call the law school to tell them that I can't teach the education law course, but it's how it has to be. We've got enough money to float us through January or February, but beyond that, it's a big fat question mark, so I've already started posting resumes and doing job searches and looking at real estate listings in Denver.

Speaking of which, the prospect of living in a place where the cost of living is reasonable almost makes me weep. I was looking at rental listings in Denver, and we could get a really cute place in a terrific part of town, and even with the loss we'll take renting our place here (it'll be at least $1000 difference between what we can rent it for and what we pay in mortgage), we'll still come out about $1000 ahead every month. Crazy wonderful.

I'm also going to sell Baby Boot Camp. I'm not taking it to the mainland with me, so I may as well get rid of it now. Oh, well. So much for being an entrepreneur.

Limbo

I'm feeling all jittery and nervous. Everything feels like it's up in the air, like I'm waiting waiting waiting for things to happen.

Which, of course, I am.

It's the last week of the election campaign. All signs point to good things happening on November 4, but being a Democrat, I can't help but assume that somehow it's all going to go to shit. The Republicans will steal the election. Democratic voters will be harassed or purged from the voter rolls. The Bradley effect will turn out to be real (though, based on what I've read, it never actually existed, even in the Bradley election). It doesn't help that I'm an obsessive blog-reader/poll-checker/pundit-keeper-up-with. It's good to stay in formed, but it's not doing anything to calm my nerves.

Jitter jitter.

I finished my first week of Baby Boot Camp classes. I have one paying student. Woop-dee-freakin'-doo. I've had a couple of people register to come to class and then not show up. I had another come to do a class, but then announce that "she wasn't really into exercise," so I doubt I'll see her again. I've got another new student coming to class on Thursday. We'll see what happens.

Twitch twitch.

I've got some legal work to do, but one client owes me alot of money and I need to get paid if I want to pay mortgage next month. Which I obviously do.

Jitter.

In the meantime, I'm preparing my application to be admitted to the bar in Colorado.

Filling out a bar application is a little bit like being in an episode of This Is Your Life! I've had to list the names of three lawyers that know me, three people that know me from every locality I've lived in, the address of every place I've lived in for more than a month since I was 24, every job I've held, every school I went to, etc. The good news is, I'm admitted to practice in 3 jurisdictions already, and I was smart enough to keep copies of my old applications, so I don't have to bang my head against the wall, thinking "dammit, what was the house number of that place I lived in for 8 months with Jenn and whatshername??"

And all of my conversations with Jason consist of "which car should we take to Colorado?" "should we ship the car all the way to Denver or just to Oakland and then drive to Denver?" "should we start checking real estate listings?" "have you submitted your electrician's licensing stuff?" "we should call that real estate guy and see if he can recommend a good property manager for when we rent the house" "how much of the furniture should we take" blee blah bloo.

But mostly, they're just, "Gawd, I can't wait to get out of here."

You're shitting me, right?

This is so ridiculous I can't even believe it's true, but I swear I'm not making it up. The woman that expressed great interest in our house at the open house on Sunday came by to look at it again today. Which is great, except that apparently, for the first time since he was a puppy, Max took a dump in the house. Jason came home and found it, with a footprint across the middle of it, and then a series of shitty footprints leading across the carpet, through the laundry room, and out the back door. I'm praying that, as with getting hit by bird shit, having a prospective buyer step in dog shit while inspecting your house is good luck. Oy.

We have a nibble

I don't want to say too much about it because I'm afraid of jinxing it, but there's a person who's very interested in the house. Fingers and toes crossed.

Grrr.

I'm so bummed. The Kailua place that I love was taken off the market. This process is so annoying.

Weekend miscellany

We had a good open house yesterday -- about four groups came through in 2 hours, and a couple expressed serious interest. So that's good. On the down side, the Ala Wai condo sellers got another offer. I don't know what it was or whether it was accepted. Argh.

In other news, I did a triathlon yesterday. I felt pretty good about it. I need to work on my transitions and my running, but it was fun. Such an improvement from the Chattanooga half marathon, which was utterly f'ing miserable for me. Kathleen, Michelle LeGault and Julie Lewis did it as well, and Jason and Rich and the girls came up to cheer us on. Jason was so proud of me that he got a little choked up when I finished. So sweet.

I'm definitely pumped up to do another one soon -- there's a sprint up at Lake Lure in North Carolina in September. Kathleen and I are mulling over signing up.