Memphis: end of day 1

A little photo essay of our ride today...

The Birmingham skyline:




The Alabama-Mississippi border:



Jason driving through Mississippi:

The Mississippi-Tennessee border:

Max takes in the sights and smells on the outskirts of Memphis:

Jason and Max chill at the Baymont Inn & Suites:

It was a pretty, easy drive. Clear skies, no traffic. Max settled into his space in the backseat -- in his kennel with his dogbed inside. He has more legroom than either Jason or I will have the entire trip. He hangs out, looks around, sleeps, eats treats. The roughest part of his day was when we went to get some dinner after checking into the hotel. We left Max in the room with his bed and the TV on, but he was completely terrified. When we got back he was barking and shaking and freaking out. So, lesson learned. We won't leave him in a strange room again. Tomorrow we want to go tour Graceland and Sun Studios (I'm hoping to see someone crying at Elvis's grave), so we'll leave him in the car with the window cracked. He seems perfectly happy in the car, and it's cold enough that he won't be in any danger. For now, he's passed out on the bed with Jason, happier than a pig in shit.

It's exciting to be en route. It was hard to say goodbye to everybody, but after a few hours I calmed down and started enjoying the ride. Jason and I listen to music and shoot the breeze about everything and nothing. Every couple of hours we stop for some water and to take Max for a little walk. It's fun.

The journey begins

Now this is fucking cool. I am sitting in the car (Jason is driving), 9 miles from the Georgia/Alabama border, connected to the internet via my new Sprint wireless broadband card, blogging. We left Kathleen & Rich's almost an hour ago, and it was, as expected, a teary goodbye. Last night there was another goodbye get-together where I said farewell to Karen and Mindy, and I did plenty of weeping then. But not as much as when Kathleen and I said goodbye. Her 3-year old daughter ran out to give me a hug and a kiss, and that's when the waterworks started. She's such a muffin, and we've had fun the last few days, taking the dogs for walks, going to the playground, playing Candyland. I think Kathleen and I were trying to put off the final hug for as long as possible, under the pretense of checking the house to make sure we hadn't left anything.

But then it had to be done. We clung to each other for a couple of minutes. I really love her, and feel closer to her than any friend I've had in my life. I loved her from the minute I met her at my second job interview with Charlie. I had already met with him and Julie, and he wanted me to meet the other associates in the firm, so we had dinner at Pricci, a really nice Italian restaurant in town. Kathleen had been out drinking the night before with my predecessor, and was nursing a monster hangover. She sat down and said, "Motherfucker, I've got a headache. I need some water." And that was it. I've adored her ever since, and in the ensuing almost 8 years, we've become bestest buds. Leaving her is the hardest thing about leaving Atlanta. But we will talk and email and see each other and be friends forever.

So now we're on the road, heading to Memphis. We just passed over the Alabama line. The adventure has begun.

homeless

We moved out of our house yesterday. We closed on Tuesday, the movers came Wednesday, and yesterday we donated the rest of our stuff to The Salvation Army, got junk haulers to take out the rest, packed up the car (badly), cleaned the house, and drove away. Even writing about it makes me choke up. As I walked around the house finishing everything up, I cried and cried. Partly because I was exhausted, party because I'm pregnant and hormonal (hey, look at that -- I buried the lede!!), but mostly because I really loved that house and I'm going to miss it. It was my home for almost 8 years, the place where I really grew up. So driving away just felt weird. Like one minute I had a house and then I didn't.

We're staying this weekend with my friend Kathleen and her family. It's so lovely to be with them and hang out before we hit the road on Sunday. Her little girls clamor for my and Jason's attention, and so far we've played Candyland, blocks, gone to the park with the dogs, watched Dora the Explorer, and read books. But I still feel homeless. It's very strange to be a guest in someone's house but not have anywhere else to go to make yourself a not-guest. I feel unsettled and uneasy.

I'm sure I sound very whiny right now. It'll pass. I think once we start the road-trip, I'll get more excited. Right now I just feel tired and nauseated and anxious.

crud

It always happens in the winter. There's a guy in my office, who is a great lawyer, a great guy, and whom I like and respect, but who basically spends October through March coughing up a lung. He's got asthma and is susceptible to bronchial-type maladies, so he comes into work and coughs and hacks for 6 months. I feel for the guy, because he can't help it, but every year, my immune system is able to fend off the germs for 4 months and then cries "uncle." This year, "uncle" happened this past Sunday, while I was skiing in North Carolina. I had a slight irritation in the top of my windpipe, then developed the racking cough, then the fever, then the sinus issues. Jason drove home Monday afternoon with the heat blasting, sweating his ass off, while I huddled under coats shivering. This was supposed to be my last week at work, but I couldn't go in yesterday or today. I spend my time coughing, shivering, sweating, sniffling and sleeping. Thanks, [office dude].

37

I'm 37 today. 37. That sounds very old to me, though I don't feel particularly old. I can't say that I feel the same as when I was 18 or 25, but I don't feel much different than when I was, say, 30. Anyway, as my mother said, getting older is better than the alternative, so I guess I can't complain.

It's already been a lovely day. My mother called me from Hong Kong to maintain our birthday tradition of her telling me the story of the day I was born. I've gotten calls and emails from family and friends. I got to tell a lawyer I'm litigating against that she's full of shit and that I'm going to get her case thrown out of court. Good times, good times.

Today is also the birthday of my friend David and my friend Kristin (the one who committed suicide). A group of my buddies is running a half-marathon in Kristin's honor and to raise money for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. If you want to do something nice for our birthdays, click here and donate to the cause.

That old familiar feeling

When I was growing up, my parents were in the U.S. Foreign Service, so we moved every few years. By the time I graduated from high school (in India), I had lived in 5 different countries and gone to 8 different schools.

Among the diplomatic kids, there were kids who hated the moving around and tended to be very jingoistic and anti-anything-not-American (including the country they were in), and those who embraced the changes, learned how to be adaptable, and took advantage of the outrageous life experiences they were able to enjoy. My brothers and I definitely fell in the latter category.* While it was hard to leave friends and start over someplace new every few years, I loved seeing the world and appreciated what a gift my lifestyle was. In any event, adapting to a new place usually wasn't hard. Embassy schools are filled with people that move around all the time, too, so they know what it's like to be the new kid. The schools also tend to be quite small, so anyone new is immediately interesting. I learned quickly that if I made an effort to get to know people, it was easy to make friends and feel at home. (Ironically, the hardest transition I ever made was coming into a big American high school in northern Virginia when I was in 10th grade.)

Before every big move, I would experience sadness at leaving what was familiar -- including good friends -- but also excitement over what the new place would be like. There is something exhiliarating about being able to go someplace entirely new, with a fresh slate, and create a life.

When I came to Atlanta, I started to feel an itch to move after 4 or 5 years. It was very strange to me to not have a new place to look forward to. I didn't like it. But eventually, I settled down and became used to being in one place.

When the house went under contract, I was freaked out about moving. Everything seemed so overwhelming and scary. But now I'm starting to feel that excitement that I used to get when I was a kid. I'm going to miss my friends terribly, but I've got a pleasant flutter in my belly at the prospect of meeting new people and learning my way around a new community. Maybe I'll teach an adjunct class in education law at the University of Hawaii law school. Maybe I'll become a really good surfer. Maybe I'll finally get my SCUBA license. Maybe I'll have a baby and miraculously teach him/her to speak without a Hawaiian accent (*fingers crossed*). There are so many possibilities, and instead of feeling weighted down by the uncertainty, I'm feeling liberated.


* I have a theory that we, and the other kids in the "adaptable" category, were able to function as well as we did because our families were so stable and we had such solid relationships with our parents. The kids that hated their parents and had fucked-up family lives tended to be the ones that didn't like being overseas. The kids that had great relationships with their parents and siblings tended to take the constant change in stride, learn how to make new friends quickly, and have fun. I recognize that there is nothing particularly revolutionary or insightful about this theory, but I do think it's valid.

Three weeks and counting...

The closing is 3 weeks from today.  Jason is a busy bee making repairs requested by the buyer.  We've arranged a not-yard sale to get rid of our stuff, and will give the rest to charity.  The only thing we're taking is my car, rugs, art, some table linens, and one piece of furniture that was made for me as a gift.  Everything else we're buying out there.  I've scoped out the stores in Hawaii near out house and already know where the Home Depot, Office Depot, Sam's Club and Pier One are.  We've got Macy's and Williams Sonoma credit up the wazoo, so we can stock the kitchen when we get there.  Very, very exciting!!

Big exhale

At the beginning of the Bikram yoga series of poses, you do deep breathing exercises in which you inhale as much air as you possibly can and then empty your lungs as much as you possibly can. For the past day and a half, waiting for our deal to solidify, I've felt like I was a quarter of the way through the move, like I had partially inhaled but couldn't get enough air into my lungs and couldn't exhale. It's been very tense and difficult. But about 20 minutes ago, I finally heard from the real estate agent that the terms of the deal were finally agreed to, so all we have to do is finish the repairs that we said we would do, and then close on February 27. I can exhale now. It's really happening.

In between days

This is the time that I hate.  We have a contract, but we're negotiating over what repairs to do (as identified by the buyer's inspecition), so it could still fall through.  Most of the repairs they have asked for are minor, but we have to treat for termites, which is about $1000, and there are a couple of other things we're haggling about.  It's all very nerve-racking.  I don't feel like I can sign a contract with a mover or make other final-ish arrangements before knowing if the deal is going to go through -- though that didn't stop me from signing a lease, so go figure -- so all I can do right now is wait.  It's hard.

To do: everything

For the past couple of weeks I've been working on a huge brief that we're filing today in the Sixth Circuit Court of Appeals.  It's 70 pages long and has consumed my life and my brain lately.  Which means that while I am vaguely aware of the fact that I will be out of my house in a month, I've been too distracted to deal with it. 

 

I emailed the brief to the printer about 20 minutes ago.  So now I have to deal with it.  There is so much to do.  My list keeps getting longer and longer.  And the buyer did his inspection on Saturday, so he might want things to be done that will add to the list even more. 

 

But with each passing day, I'm more and more excited and optimistic and less and less freaked out and anxious.  I discovered that flying from Hawaii to the west coast is cheap and easy, so I'll be able to visit friends and meet up with family without it costing everyone an arm and a leg and an endless flight.  And it really is so beautiful there.  The Leeward Coast, where we'll be living, has some of the most pristine beaches and gorgeous sunsets on the island. 

 

Today it was 19 degrees when I walked the dog this morning.  The thought of being able to stroll with him to the beach on a warm, sunny morning is quite nice. 

 

We have a place in Hawaii

Jesus.  I can't believe how quickly this is all happening.  I was freaking out about finding a place to live, and lamenting that we'd be renting a dump for a year or so while we figure out if/where we want to buy.  Then yesterday I stumbled on a craigslist posting for a 3 bedroom, 3 bath townhouse on the Leeward side with a $99 move-in special that covers the first month's rent, security deposit, and application fee.  Insane, especially for Hawaii.  So I submitted an application and the lady from the rental place called me and told me that we could have it, but the move-in special ends today.  If we take it, we save about $4000 in rent, deposit and fees.  Plus there's the peace of mind of having a place to move to.  An address I can use for my mail, magazine subscriptions, etc.  And of course, having some concrete idea of where we'll be.

 

So we took it.  We'll be living here:  http://www.kalaeloaliving.com/makai.htm (click on the layout for the 3br/1.5.5 ba townhouse).  It's a quarter of a mile from the beach and has plenty of room for visitors, so start saving your frequent flyer miles.

It's All Happening

When I started this blog last August, I was in Hawaii looking at real estate. We had just put our house on the market and assumed that it would sell within 30 to 45 days. I had it in my mind that we would be out there within months, and I was ready. Everything seemed to be moving so fast, I didn't have time to really think about it.

But then the house sat on the market for months, and I started to feel complacent. Like the move was just this thing that was always out there in the future, but not ever actually happening, especially after we took the house off the market for the holidays.

All of that time in limbo caused me to ruminate more and more on what I would be leaving, most particularly my friends. But it's more than that. It's my whole life here. I moved to Atlanta 12 1/2 years ago, fresh out of law school, with no money and no job. I got an apartment with some college friends, waited tables until I found a job in a law firm, and proceeded to put down roots. While living this city, I learned how to be a lawyer, had my heart broken, made lots of friends, traveled, became an aunt, bought a house, ran a marathon, played in a bluegrass band, and fell in love and got married. This is where I became a grown-up. I feel at home here.

And now I'm leaving in 5 weeks. We signed a contract and are closing on February 27. I'm excited for the future, but my heart feels heavy at the same time. I'm going to miss this place.

Deal.

We accepted their counter-counter-offer.  I'm freaking out.  I may throw up.

Deal or no deal?

We got an offer yesterday.  It's a little low, but we're countering.  I'm afraid to say any more for fear of jinxing it. 

How we spend our time together

Last night we were trying to set up an online account for Jason's bank account in Australia, so that he could check his balance and transfer money. One of the security features on the account is personalized questions, but you get to make up the question (instead of being stuck with the standard, "what's your mother's maiden name" or "what's the name of your favorite pet.")

I was doing the typing, so I asked him, "what do you want your question to be?"

He thought about it for a minute and said, "'How many hairs do I have on my butt?'"

"Heeeee! Seriously? That's what you want the question to be?"

"Yes."

So I typed it in.

"OK, so what's the answer?"

"What?"

"How many hair do you have on your butt?"

"6."

"Awesome."

We finished setting up the account. Then we were trying to figure out how to do a wire transfer, so we called the bank in Australia. Jason explained to the young woman that answered what he was trying to do. And of course, she had to confirm his identity.

"Ah, sir. Ah. I have to ask you some security questions. Er."

"Yes, go ahead."

"Er, well. Sometimes we don't read the questions aloud to avoid embarassing the customers..."

"No, that's alright. Read the question."

"How many hairs do you have on your butt?"

All three of us (Jason, the teller, and me) busted up with laughter. I would try to stop, and then my shoulders would start to shake and my eyes would squinch up and I'd start guffawing all over again.

This is how we spend our time together. Making butt jokes and fart jokes and imitating each others' accents (he thinks my Aussie accent sounds too posh), and laughing. It's kind of fun.

Personal Best

Saturday night Jason and I went bowling with my friend E and her new dude. She's a journalist and was reviewing the bowling alley for the newspaper, so we got to go with her and hang out and bowl and point out things that she might put in her review.

I have been bowling one other time in my life, about 6 1/2 years ago. I bowled a 53. This time, I bowled a 56. Personal best -- woohoo!! We had a great time -- drinking beer, bowling and watching the last bit of the Saints-Eagles game on TV. It all felt very wholesome and Middle America.

One of my favorite things about hanging out with E is that she's such an encouraging person. I'm very competitive, but it was hard to get too steamed about my crappy performance when I obviously had no chance of winning, and when E cheered every shot, whether I bowled a strike (which I did twice) or a gutter ball (which I did about 8 times). She reminds me of my mom, who is also incredibly positive and encouraging.

Most of the time.

Yesterday I called my folks to say hello, and told my mom about our bowling excursion.

"How'd you do?"

"I bowled a 56."

In the tone of voice she reserves for expressions of shock and dismay, she blurted, "WENDY!! That's terrible!!"

I cracked up. I guess I'm out in the cold, cold world now, the one where my mother doesn't blow sunshine up my ass at everything I do, or at least not at a really pathetic bowling score.

The Inaugural Fancy Schmancy Tastebud Dancey

Yesterday at around 2 in the afternoon I started thinking about what Jason and I were going to do for dinner. We like to cook, and most nights we'll make something pretty good -- fish, steak, grilled chicken, different kinds of veggies, yummy salads. But I'd been feeling like we were coming back to the same well too many times and was getting bored with our repertoire. So I decided to look for a fun new recipe to make.

The Food Network's website is really great for finding all different kinds of recipes, and I ultimately decided on an Italian recipe for chicken served with gnocci. I stopped at Whole Foods on the way home to pick up the ingredients, and we started cooking as soon as we got home. We decided that we would start a new weekly tradition on Wednesday nights, in which we would pick out a recipe from one of our cookbooks or a magazine and cook together.

The dish called for pieces of chicken sauteed with onion, garlic and figs, and then simmered in red wine reduction and chicken stock, seasoned with lemon zest, parsley, thyme, and a couple of other things. The cooked gnocci is sauteed in butter with chives, salt, pepper and nutmet, and then garnished with pancetta.

It was insanely delicious. I've never eaten or cooked with figs before (except for fig newtons), and they have a rich sweetness that complemented beautifully the salty, onion-y, wine-y taste of the sauce. Jason and I sat there eating and sort of laughing to ourselves, like we and our tastebuds had stumbled into paradise and couldn't quite believe it. Jason said, "So, have you thought about how we're going to top this fancy schmancy tastebud dancey for next week?"

"'Fancy schmancy tastebud dancey?' Did you just think of that? That's awesome."

"Yeah, I'm feeling pretty clever right about now."

"So are your tastebuds dancing?"

"There's a riot in my mouth. It's mayhem in there."

"That's what we'll call it! Our new tradition will have a name: Fancy Schmancy Tastebud Dancey!"

"I'm thinking c-h in the spelling of 'schmancy'."

"Absolutely. s-c-h-m-a-n-c-y."

"'Hello, Bob? I'm sorry, I can't go drinking with you that night. That's Fancy Schmancy Tastebud Dancey night.'"

"Hee! Should we do an acronym? Call it FSTD?"

"No, I don't want to give anything food-related a name with 'STD' in the title."

"OK. So it will be our weekly Fancy Schmancy Tastebud Dancey."

And that's how traditions are born in our house. Next week we're making a New Orleans redfish served with a smoked mushroom salad. Yum.

House for sale

Click here for the new listing for the house. Tell your friends!

The Bulgarian State Opera

Last night I went with Kathleen and Mindy to see the Bulgarian State Opera perform The Marriage of Figaro at the Fox Theater. The good news was that we got tickets for half price because we bought them less than 30 minutes before curtain. The bad news was that it totally sucked. I love opera, I love the Fox Theater, and I especially love The Marriage of Figaro, but watching this production was the theatrical equivalent of eating bad clams. The prospect of a show done by the Bulgarian State Opera sounded all Old World Europe and grand. But I guess Bulgaria isn't doing so well -- or at least, their recent economic progress hasn't trickled down to the State Opera's coffers -- because the plays I did in high school had higher production values. I felt bad, because the performers were really trying -- the effort showed on their faces, like a baby straining for a poop. But it just wasn't good. Mediocre singing, terrible acting, plodding pace, no set design. I'm sure I sound like a snobby bitch, but so be it. We left at intermission, figuring that if we paid half price, we got our money's worth by watching half of the show.

Line of the night, by Ms. Kathleen A. Sullivan, upon seeing the numerous uni-brows sported by various musicians as the orchestra stood up to be introduced: "There's alot of hair in that orchestra pit." It took all of my powers and all of my skills not to giggle throughout the overture.

I have the cleanest house in the world...for at least the next few hours

I feel like I've been hit by a truck. Our house is being relisted today, so we spent the weekend cleaning and organizing. One would think that there wouldn't have been that much to do, given that we had been showing our house only two months ago. But no. Apparently, our last realtor, while very nice, was even more of an amateur than we thought, because she gave us a few minor chores and then told us that the house looked fine. Little did we know.

The Shark came by last Wednesday to walk throught the house and tell us what we needed to do to get it ready to show (and stage for the extensive photos he will be taking today and posting on his website). I followed him around with a pad of paper, writing everything down. The list was over a page long. We needed to:

• replace the light fixture in the dining room (which I've hated for the entire 7 1/2 years I've lived in the house, and have been meaning to get a new one for God knows how long, but just never got around to it)
• clean out and organize every closet in the house
• recaulk the bathtubs in both bathrooms
• get rid of the CD rack (which had 300 CDs in it)
• get rid of the huge easy chair in the sitting room (*sniff* -- I love that chair)
• rearrange the furniture in the guest bedroom
• get rid of as much as possible on the kitchen counters, which meant I had to redo every cupboard in the kitchen
• get rid of the drain-rack next to the kitchen sink
• move the stereo speakers off the top of the armoire in the living room and put them on the floor
• pop the screens out of every window and clean every window, inside and out
• clean out/organize the garage
• clean/organize the laundry room
• get rid of every last leaf and stick on the lawn and driveway, and possibly plant some flowers (in January!!)

Saturday morning, we slept in a little bit, but as soon as we got up, we were off and running. Every waking minute of the next two days was spent working. I loaded 900 songs onto my ipod in the process of culling through the CDs. I threw away the extra spices that were cluttering up my spice cupboard (I had 4 tins of bay leaves, 5 boxes of baking soda, 3 extra containers of nutmeg, 2 boxes of ground mustard, and 3 boxes of whole cloves). I organized my 40 pairs of shoes and my 25 purses. We washed, folded and put away every piece of laundry in the house. I caulked the tub and washed every window. We vacuumed, moved furniture, compiled massive piles for the dumpster and the Salvation Army. By the end of the day, my lower back was so locked up that I couldn't even sit, and even rolling over in bed proved to be enormously painful. Thank God for Dr. Lopez, my chiropractor -- he worked on me for 1/2 an hour this morning and told me I would need to do stretches "a bunch of times" over the next few days.

But the effort was worth it, because the house is pristine. We got everything done. And it will look perfect until either Jason or I set foot in the house again, because Pig Pen has nothing on either of us.

A Fresh Start

The New Year’s party was everything it should have been. It was fun, it was silly, and it rinsed away the bad taste of the old year and prepared our palates for the sweetness of 2007. I spent the evening playing with some of my favorite friends: Mindy & Chris, Kathleen & Rich, Elizabeth & Anthony, Julie Lewis, David & Michele, Karen & Phil, and all of the peanuts: Addie, Lula, Bella, Lila, Grayson & Dylan. And of course, my bestest, most favorite friend, Jason.

As promised, we had the moon bounce and the champagne fountain and the firecrackers and the sage. The champagne fountain was a gloriously tacky affair. All molded plastic and chintzy metal, with rough looking cherubs and chains (to guide the liquid from one level to another without splashing) that could have doubled for the on/off pulls on my ceiling fans. Plus, the people that rented it before us appeared to have used it for some kind of thick, fruity drink, some of which somehow got stuck on the inside, so the middle part looked all globby and gross when it was lit up. As soon as it was delivered, I ran a warm water and vinegar solution through it for 20 minutes to clean out the pipes, but the dark globs didn’t move. I don’t want to think about how they got there in the first place, but whatever. The essential plumbing was clean enough for our purposes.

The real beauty of the fountain is that it removed any and all effort that might normally accompany the act of drinking champagne (lifting those heavy bottles, for example). It also made every glass flow into the next, as it were. No tilting the bottle all the way for the last dregs to remind me of how much I had already had to drink. The champagne just streamed out of 4 different pipes into the main basin, so any time I wanted a refill, I just stuck my glass under the stream for a few seconds. All in all, I probably consumed at least a bottle and a half of champagne. Plus a couple of beers, a shot of whiskey, and god knows what else.

The moonbounce was also a bit hit. One of the best things about the party was that everybody brought their kids, so we had all of these little monkeys under the age of 4 running around. Bella, my friend Michele’s daughter, was particularly delightful. As soon as she arrived, she wanted to play with everything and everyone. She followed our dog around, she and I jumped up and down on both of my beds, we danced, we giggled, and we bounced in the moonbounce. It had been raining all day, and continued to rain off and on throughout the night, but we waited for breaks in the weather and didn’t mind getting a little wet. Bouncing is incredibly liberating. I would yell “woohoo!!!” without the slightest touch of self-consciousness or irony.

Much to my delight, Michele showed up at 10:30 or 11, having come straight from the hospital after delivering 6 babies in 24 hours, on about 90 minutes worth of sleep. We had been afraid she wouldn’t be able to make it, because she was on call and apparently every pregnant woman within a 10 mile vicinity of Northside Hospital broke her water on December 31. But Michele was a trouper. Notwithstanding her exhaustion, she rallied and bounced in the moonbounce, drank some champagne, and burned sage.

Kathleen picked up the sage (which was neatly wrapped with piñon in a special, made-to-burn bundle) at Sevenanda, a hippie-ish store in Little Five Points that sells such things. We stood in a semi-circle on the back deck, around the outdoor fireplace (I optimistically lit a fire during a break in the weather, daring Mother Nature to fuck with it). We lit the sage and passed it from person to person, each waving the smoking sage bundle and talking about their hopes for the new year.

And then came the surprise.

Jason had been talking for about two weeks about a “surprise” he had for me on New Year’s. I knew he would never give me a hint and I couldn’t imagine what it could be, so I put it out of my mind and acted uninterested when he brought it up. By the time we did the sage circle, the party had been going on for hours, and I had completely forgotten about it.

When it was Jason’s turn to speak (he went last) I knew something was up when he took the sage and gave Rich an “OK, hit it” type of nod of the head. Rich took off into the house. Jason started talking about how great his life is and how happy he is because of…me. As he was talking, Rich came back out to the porch carrying an enormous trophy, and suddenly, I knew what the surprise was.

I was being presented with the Spouse of the Year award.

When we were newly married, Jason and I started joking around about having an annual Spouse of the Year competition between the two of us. If one of us did the other a favor, we would talk about the points tally for the competition running neck and neck. We envisioned a trophy with a pair of bronzed boxer shorts on top or something like that, and that we would present the award on December 9, our anniversary. I always thought it was just a cute joke, but sometime in November, Jason went to a trophy shop, had a trophy made and engraved, and enlisted our friends to help him carry out the presentation and keep the secret. It was one of the sweetest, cutest things anyone had ever done for me, and that is saying something, because my husband makes a point of being sweet to me all the time.

Then it was midnight. I turned on the TV so we could catch the countdown on Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve, and discovered that 2007 was less than a minute away. We blew our noisemakers, counted down, and kissed and hugged each other. Jason and I called our parents and siblings to send them love and kisses. I paraded my trophy around with pride.

The hangover from the party hasn’t worn off. Every time I think about it, I get a happy flush in my belly. My friends and I keep emailing each other about what a great night it was. I’m excited for the new year. The house is going on the market in 4 days, we hope to be in Hawaii in a few months, my brother and his wife are having a new baby in June, and, with luck, maybe I'll be knocked up soon. Who knows. Anyway, I’m nervous and excited and thrilled with where my life is going.

Happy New Year, everyone.

Aging sucks

My grandmother was a formidable woman in her time. She is a graduate of the University of Michigan, and was incredibly intelligent, always devouring one book or another. She was a radio DJ in New Orleans during World War II. She was an actress in professional and community theater. She was a business owner in an era when most women didn’t work. She started her own upscale bridal business after working for years in the fashion industry. I remember parading around her store as a little 5 year old, trying on veils and pestering the seamstresses and saleswomen, and then working in the store during my summer vacations when I was in my teens. She taught me about style and cooking, took me to the theater and the symphony, and provided a great role model for me as a strong, independent, smart, opinionated woman. We occasionally clashed – I think because we’re both so hard-headed – but I always respected her for her strength and her ability to give as good as she got.

Old age has not been kind to her. Her health has been bad for years – back problems, knee problems, staph infections, pneumonia, hypoglycemia, you name it. Basically, she’s felt shitty for one reason or another for about 20 years. And now her mind is going as well. Dementia began creeping in around two years ago, and it has advanced aggressively, particularly in the last 9 or 10 months. She's still physically able to get around and take care of herself (somewhat), but is more and more unwilling to do so, which means that my 90-year-old grandfather is doing everything -- cooking, cleaning, laundry, driving, bathing.

This past weekend my mom and I went up to see them. As always, it was a pleasure to spend time with my mother, but the trip on the whole was rough. My grandmother doesn't like to leave the house, often resists getting dressed, and won't get up to go to the bathroom, or maybe she doesn't realize she has to go, so she ends up wetting the bed or the furniture. Then my grandfather has to clean it up.

My mom and I tried to encourage my grandmother to put herself on a bathroom schedule, so that she would go every couple or few hours automatically, thereby reducing the likelihood of having an accident. But she insisted that she didn't have a problem and that we were being mean to her (just like my grandfather) in trying to get her to go to the bathroom. Or to get dressed. Or take her medication. Everything is a protracted battle, and it never ends.

As a result, my grandfather is angry and bitter. He's always been a sweet, good-natured guy, but now he raises his voice at his wife and snaps at her in a way he never has before. He nags her, and she gets her back up and resists his requests even more. This is how they spend their days, fighting and bitching at each other. It's incredibly depressing and wearisome.

I don't know what the solution is, or if there will be one. My mom and her siblings are trying to encourage their parents to avail themselves of some of the services offered by the local Jewish family organization, or to consider assisted living. My grandfather is showing some reluctant willingness to try it, so we'll see what happens. Meanwhile, I've been looking at old pictures taken when my grandparents took me to New York City when I was 8, or when they came to visit us in Israel and India when I was in my teens. I marvel at how strong and beautiful they both were, and I try to remember them like that, rather than think about what I witnessed this past weekend.

New years' eve party shopping list

• 1 bunch sage leaves
• cloth dolls representing 2006
• pins (to stick in 2006 cloth dolls)
• various items representing shitty 2006 events to burn and/or destroy
• lots and lots of booze

This past weekend, my Girls' Night crew held its seventh annual Dirty Santa party. Everyone brings a gift purchased for $15 or less, we draw numbers, and the numbers determine the order you pick a gift. Later numbers are good, because if you don't like the gift you choose, you can force earlier numbers to swap with you. (That's the "dirty" part. The first year, one of the girls thought that the presents had to be dirty, so I ended up taking home a bag of condoms and K-Y jelly.)

The gift part was fun and funny, as always -- gifts ranged from pajama bottoms to Christmas-themed cheese spreaders. I ended up with a tiny bamboo cutting board, two tiny bowls (for miniscule amounts of dip?), a pedicure set, and the above-mentioned cheese spreader.

But the evening was more cathartic than anything else. For the first time in a long time, all of the original group was back together (with the obvious exception of Kristin), and we spent hours ruminating on the events of the past 12 months. Which kinda sucked. In the past year, our various members have dealt with 3 miscarriages, a horribly unjust lawsuit and verdict, spousal infidelity, severe family trauma, and the suicide of one of our best friends. Particularly in the last half of the year, it feels like it's been an onslaught of one bad thing after another, to the point that we're feeling a bit superstitious. Some sort of exorcism or spiritual cleansing is in order.

So, for New Year's Eve, I'm having a party. We're going to jump on a moon bounce, blow shit up, drink lots of champagne, burn sage and poke voodoo dolls representing 2006 with pins. The bad mojo of 2006 will be cleared out, and we will face 2007 with hope and optimism. We have each other, our husbands, our families, our brains and our senses of humor. We will prevail.

One year ago today...

I'll take "really aggressive" for $2000, Alex

My brother has an accountant who does his taxes. Upon being hired, the accountant asked him, "do you want to be aggressive, or really aggressive?" I like this approach in accountants and, now, realtors.

We've decided to hire a shark. The prospect of renting the house from the other side of the planet is becoming less and less palatable, the more I think about it. We'll be losing money and it will be a big pain in the ass. So, we decided to put the house back on the market, using a realtor recommended by a friend. I know people who have had dealings with this realtor, and they wholeheartedly recommend him while describing him as an insufferable, unethical jerk. "He's a scumbag, but he'll move your house," seems to be the consensus.

Works for me.

Resistance Is Futile

I come from a family of pickers and squeezers. We scratch each others' backs, pop each others' zits, tweeze each others' splinters (a favorite of mine), peel sunburned skin, and excavate each others' dermatological blemishes. I have never scratched my mother's back without having her ask, "is there anything to pick?" I'm sure this strikes most people as disgusting, but we think it's kind of awesome.

It's taking my husband some time to into this tendency, but he's slowly but surely learning to appreciate it. He's getting better at letting me poke and prod him with tweezers, needles, and my nails, and he's even reciprocated a couple of times. The only thing that he won't let me touch, much to my dismay, is his eyebrow hair.

Jason's hair is brown, and he has brownish-blonde eyebrows that are relatively normal except for this one, super-blonde, mutant hair that's about an inch long. It sticks out and curves back dramatically, and is noticable from every angle because it's so much lighter than the rest of his eyebrows. It's mezmerizing. And I'm going crazy from wanting to pluck it.

The Hair went away a few months ago -- perhaps in the shower or as part of the natural shedding process -- but it's back with a vengeance now and it's driving me mad. Last night we were sitting on the couch talking, and I couldn't stop staring at The Hair. Just sitting there, mocking me. And then Jason noticed that I'm staring, and he'll mess with me by brushing at his eyebrows so that The Hair sticks out even more than usual, and joke that he'll pull it out by himself and donate it to Locks of Love. It's torture.

But I'm determined to triumph. If I have to sleep with tweezers in my bedside table and pull it out in the middle of the night, I will.

F*&^%$#@K!

The guy that was buying our house was selling a house in order to buy a new one, and his buyer backed out of the deal. So no house sale. Goddammit.

The Internets Can Be Strange

This past weekend I got an email from someone who had viewed some pictures I have up on Flickr. She had seen photos from the triathlon that I did in August, and wrote me that she had always wanted to do a triathlon, but was scared of having to put on a swim cap. So she wanted me to a) email her a description of how one puts on a swim cap, and b) take pictures of myself putting on a swim cap and send them to her. Yes, you read that right. I'm really hoping that she did it on a dare, like her friends bet her on whether she would get a response or something like that. Needless to say, I deleted the message. But honey, if you're reading this, just go to your local sporting goods store and ask the nice lady in the swimwear aisle. I'm sure she'll be happy to help you.

Unbelievable, Part 2. No, make that "completely insane."

The guy that looked at the house this week -- that had to convince me to let him because I had already delisted the house and was over the entire process -- wants to buy it. He's sending me an offer tomorrow. And he wants to close December 11, the same day Jason goes to Australia. This is totally blowing my mind (which is already halfway out of my head because I'm so nervous for tomorrow's Michican-Ohio State game that I can barely contain myself. Go Blue!)

Unbelievable

I'm glad I appreciate irony, because if I didn't, this whole house-selling process would leave me discombobulated.

After having the house on the market since July and getting no offers, we decided to take the house off the market and rent it. Last week I talked to my agent, and she pulled the listing on Friday, but it didn't get into the system until yesterday. We got 4 calls over the weekend from agents looking to show it, and then another one yesterday. I told them all that the house wasn't on the market anymore, but the guy from yesterday whined so much about how his client was reeeaaally interested and he reeeaaally wanted to sell it for me that I relented and let him show the house today. He called me this afternoon and told me that his client loved it, wants to come back tomorrow to see it, and is looking to make an offer this week -- he's deciding between my house and one other. Maybe it's reverse psychology, like people who only fall for people that blow them off. I just think it's hilarious that my best chance at selling the house has only come after I took it off the market.

Rest in peace, my friend

About six years ago, Kathleen and I were lamenting the fact that we didn't have a close group of women friends to hang out and kibbitz with. She had met a woman (Michelle) at a continuing legal education seminar -- they were both in the vegetarian line for lunch and began chatting -- and thought it would be cool to gather a group of fun, smart women to do regular "girls' night" outings. I'm not sure who had the idea originally (whether it was Michelle or Kathleen, or something they came up with together). So we did it. Kathleen brought me in, I invited my friend Karen, Michelle brought Kristin and Mindy, etc. I think our first event was bowling. Our second was a hockey game, which ended up being hilarious because Michelle, Kristin and I ended up participating in an on-ice competition during one of the intermissions in which we raced to win a $100 gift certificate for Sports Authority (I won).

Over the past six years, the group (there are 9 of us, by my count -- Kathleen, me, Karen, Michelle L., Michelle S., Michele H., Judy, Mindy and Kristin) has stuck together. We've been in each others' weddings, babysat each others' babies, watched each others' dogs, listened to each other bitch, held each others' hands, and dried each others' tears. We get together regularly for dinner, parties, movies, bike rides, and walks. We ran 10Ks, half-marathons, marathons and triathlons, cheering each other on and pulling each other along the whole way.

I've never had a support group like this. There is nothing that any of us goes through alone. Every one of us has gone through a time when we were held up by the others when we couldn't quite hold up on our own. This group of women is the single reason that I'm anything less that 100% psyched about moving to Hawaii. The prospect of life far away from them feels very lonely.

Yesterday, we lost one of our own. Our friend Kristin, who had recently moved up to New Jersey to be with her fiance, took her own life, for reasons that none of us can comprehend.

Kristin was one of the kindest, most generous people I ever knew. She was an immigration lawyer, and utterly devoted to helping her clients. She would do anything for a friend. If you needed a ride to the airport, a dog-sitter, a drinking buddy, whatever -- she was there. She and I were frequent movie and opera buddies and shared books all the time. She was one of the huppah-holders at my wedding. She and Michelle L. and I did the Chattanooga Half Marathon together this past spring, and when I had a horrid day in the race -- exhaustion, dehydration -- she and Michelle came back to find me after they had finished and ran the last mile in with me. The last time I saw her, she was in town to close on the sale of her house in September or October, and she and Jason and I went for ice cream and had a great time laughing and shooting the shit.

Of course, we are all heartbroken and shocked. I feel awful for her parents, with whom she was very close, for her fiance, who is a lovely guy, but mostly for her. It kills me that she felt that her problems were so bad that there was no other way out but to die.

The girls are all rallying together. We're going to try to get together soon and try to process this. It's so surreal. I don't know what to think or to say or to do.

Rest in peace, Kristin. We loved you and will cherish your memory.

Election Day

Please get out and vote. Unless you're a Republican, in which case, please stay home.

Stick it to me, Part 2

I just got back from the acupuncturist. It was, to say the least, an interesting experience.

The office is in a nondescript professional building in Sandy Springs, just off of 285. The waiting area is pretty low-rent looking, with a haggard looking receptionist and lots of pictures of flowers with Chinese calligraphy. But the treatment room was very clean and professional looking.

Dr. Li is a tiny little woman who looks about 35 but is probably closer to 50. Shiny black straight hair cut in a blunt bob with bangs. First she did an interview/evaluation in which she asked about my insomnia, my general health, eating habits, etc. She took my blood pressure, which was fine, as it always is. Then she asked to look at my tongue. So I opened my mouth and showed her my tongue. She said, "hmmm..." in a way that made me self-conscious, and wrote some notes in Chinese. Then she felt the inside of each wrist, as if she were taking my pulse, but pressing on a number of different spots.

After feeling my wrist, she looked at me suspiciously, as if I'd been holding out on her, and said, "how long you have lower back pain?" I admitted that I'd had problems with my lower back since I was about 14, but that I didn't bring it up because I didn't think it was relevant to my sleep problems. She nodded, and told me that my kidney and blood energy levels were both low. "Chi very low. Should not be so low. Perhaps add to sleep problems."

She gave me some recommendations to aid relaxation generally. Some breathing exercises I'm supposed to do at night, plus I was told to avoid spicy food ("food too spicy not good for sleep") and to add more broth-based soups into my diet, especially later in the day. "Soup good for digestion, help you relax more."

Then we got down to business. I took off my shoes and lay down on my back on the table. She put needles on the top of my head, at the bottom of each temple, on my forehead between my eyebrows, on the tops of my wrists, on my arms near the crook of my elbow, and in my sternum. It didn't hurt at all. With each needle insertion, she would press down on the skin, wipe it with an antiseptic cloth, and then gently tap the needle in place with her finger, like she was hammering in a nail. Then she attached wires to the needles in my temples and sent electrical current into them. It wasn't a hard shock -- more like a mild pulsing. She turned off the lights, covered me with a blanket, and told me to close my eyes and listen to the classical music that was playing. I lay there for about 20 minutes, feeling more and more relaxed as the time went on. After 20 minutes, she came back in, turned on the lights, pulled out the needles, and told me to come back once more this week. "Then we make more plan. May take 3 to 5 time for you to sleep better. Try be patient."

And that was it. I have no idea if it worked (I guess I'll see tonight), but I'm cautiously optimistic. I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, I had soup for lunch.

Stick it to me

I've mentioned more than a few times in this blog that I have insomnia. Lately I've taken the drastic measure of going off of all sleep medication entirely, because nothing was working. I've tried just about every sleep remedy on the market, and eventually they did nothing but make me feel stoned during the day. I don't really sleep any better or worse than before, so I guess I'm somewhat better off for getting all of those chemicals out of my system.

Now I've decided to try acupuncture. I read some articles about the use of acupunture to treat insomnia, so I figure I may as well give it a shot. I've got an appointment at noon this coming Monday. Wish me luck.

Baby talk

We had friends visit from out of town this past weekend -- an old buddy of Jason's and his wife. I'd met the wife once before and didn't think much of her, and having her in my house for 2 days reinforced 1) my initial opinion of her, and 2) my utter abhorence of baby talk. This woman never met a perfectly harmless sentence that she couldn't make unbearable by her sing-songy inflection, accompanied by a jutting lower lip and batted eyelashes. She doesn't need to make this kind of play -- she's an accomplished surgeon, well-educated, active, etc. But for some reason, she feels compelled to speak as if she were a helpless child, and her husband eats it up, much to my (and Jason's) chagrin.

My reaction (near-vomiting every time she spoke) reminded me of one of my parents' favorite stories about me as a tot. I don't remember this, but apparently when I was about 2, we were living in Caracas, Venezuela, and belonged to a swim club in our neighborhood. A woman who knew us came up to me and asked me in a very baby-talky way where my parents were. I fixed her with a cold look and told her to piss off (or something to that effect).

Now, don't get me wrong -- I don't condone young kids lipping off to adults or being disrespectful, and if a child of mine ever did something like that, there would be hell to pay. But a big part of me gives props to my two-year-old self for refusing to be talked to like a moron.

FOR RENT: 3BR/2BA, W/D, scrn prch, deck, det. garage, pets OK

It looks like we're going to go with renting the house. We won't make any money on it, but we'll be able take a killer tax deduction, so... Whatever. Jason needs to get out of here, and I'm ready to make a decision and have a timeline and all that. We'll keep it for sale simultaneously, so whatever works out first is what we'll do. Anyone looking to rent in Decatur?

Blee blah bloo

I haven't posted in awhile because there hasn't been much going on. The house is still on the market. We had some nibbles but they didn't pan out. We're considering renting the place for a year, instead, but that seems like such a colossal pain in the ass. The holidays are fast approaching and we've already got our travel plans for Thanksgiving and Christmas (Jason's going to Australia, I'm staying home), so it doesn't look like we'll be getting out of here until at least January or February. Meh.

On a happy note, I'm back in the (bike) saddle. Jason took me for my first-ever mountain bike ride, on actual trails with trees and rocks and shit. I was nervous about whether my shoulder would be up for it, but I was surprisingly pain free. It turned out to be my head that was the problem. I was so scared of crashing that I was overly hesitant, to the point that I was increasing my odds of crashing. But Jason gave me some helpful technical pointers, and I eventually got the hang of it and had a really great time. The hard part was shedding all of my road riding instincts, because it turns out that the techniques in mountain biking are polar opposites of those you use on the road. On the road, when I descend, I crouch down and lean forward to pick up speed, and when I climb, I pedal standing up. I learned the hard way that leaning back and standing on a trail climb produces a wheelie, and then a fall onto my butt. Luckily, I fell into a bush and didn't hurt myself at all (except for little matching bruises on each cheek). It was more startling than anything else. I also almost bit it when I followed Jason over a big rock, without realizing that it was going to send me airborne. So I ended up doing a bitchin' little hop, and somehow managed to stay upright. I felt very extreme, like the dudes in the X Games. We're going back on Saturday, weather-permitting.

Mental Health Day

When I was growing up, my parents let my brothers and me take one day per quarter (or maybe semester, I don't remember) to skip school as a mental health day. We weren't allowed to use it to get out of a test or anything like that, but if we just felt exhausted and like we needed a day off, we could take it.

I've decided to carry the tradition into my adult life (and to perpetuate it with my children, if we have some, god willing, *throws salt over shoulder*, ptooey ptooey ptooey), so yesterday I took a mental health day and stayed home from work. I am going through a terrible bout of insomnia. I maybe sleep for 2-3 hours a night, and even those are full of nightmares or anxiety dreams, and the rest of the time I'm either fully awake or in a semi-awake/dozing state that isn't restful at all. This has been going on for about 3 weeks, and I'm fried. Ambien, my old and true friend, has abandoned me. I guess I've built up a tolerance after all this time, and my body is finally saying, "yeah right, bitch, you can't fool me any more. You will not sleep!! Bwahahahaha." Or at least it feels that way. So yesterday, I slept all morning, got caught up on my TiVo'd shows, cleaned out my closet and all of my dresser drawers, took a couple of naps, exercised, and relaxed. It was lovely. I slept horribly again last night, but at least I'll always have October 12 (which is Addie Bowen's birthday -- happy birthday, sweetie!).

I recently read an article about the torture issue, or more specifically, whether "alternative" methods of questioning, such as sleep deprivation, constitute torture. Menachem Begin (former PM of Israel, and possibly a distant cousin of mine) was quoted in the article, talking about how he had been interrogated by the KGB using sleep deprivation, and that it unquestionably is torture. He states:

In the head of the interrogated prisoner, a haze begins to form. His spirit is wearied to death, his legs are unsteady, and he has one sole desire: to sleep... Anyone who has experienced this desire knows that not even hunger and thirst are comparable with it.

I came across prisoners who signed what they were ordered to sign, only to get what the interrogator promised them. He did not promise them their liberty; he did not promise them food to sate themselves. He promised them - if they signed - uninterrupted sleep! And, having signed, there was nothing in the world that could move them to risk again such nights and such days.

Amen, brother. There are nights when I feel like I would give anything -- confess to any crime, perform any task -- simply to be able to sleep soundly.

Watch your language

I've been working on a case involving a state school for the deaf and blind, and the student in question is deaf. I spent last week working with teachers and staff from the school, many of whom were totally deaf or hard of hearing, so we had a sign language translator much of the time. Some of the folks could speak, others used signing to communicate but included some vocalizations, and others did not communicate orally at all. Being exposed to signing was fascinating, and really got me thinking about language and how it works.

One of the teachers I was interviewing -- I'll call her "Dianne" -- was talking (via a sign language interpreter) about a student in the school who might be a good witness in the case. We were talking about whether the student would need an interpreter to testify, and whether she would benefit from real time transcription (an accommodation in which a court reporter takes down the testimony and it appears on a monitor in real time in front of the witness and the lawyers). Dianne said that the student was smart and could sign very well and was also "good at English." I was taken aback by this statement, because I hadn't really considered that she and I had been communicating in anything but English.

But of course, we weren't. I was using English, and the interpreter was taking concepts I expressed and relaying them in American Sign Language (ASL). Sign language isn't a translation of English, but a conceptual language all its own. One of the things that I noticed in reviewing the documents in this case was how rudimentary the written English was of the students and even the teachers. The grammar and conjugation was way off, and sentences would be reduced to their most basic subject-verb-object forms. "Why did you say you would do that" becomes "why you say do that," or "I am concerned that Joe will hurt himself" became "I worry Joe hurt self." Dianne made me realize that when a deaf person can sign and read or write English (or any other language), they're actually bilingual. Maybe she reads the word "mother" and "translates" it by imagining the sign for mother,* the way I read the Spanish word "madre" and translate it to English in my head.

Yet, for purposes of litigation, language must be very precise. The biggest and most important part of any trial or hearing is the transcript, but if we were going through an interpreter who translates our very specific choice of words with conceptual signs, or if we're dealing with a hearing impaired person who doesn't sign very well but also doesn't hear all that well, how do we make sure that our questions are understood and answered properly? How can we make sure that the transcript reflects what the witnesses actually intend to say? It reminded me of George Orwell's 1984, in which the government limits language in order to limit thought.

Anyway, the whole process gave me a newfound respect for the teachers that we were working with, and I now can't stop thinking about how the language we use influences our perception of the world and everything in it. And of course, now I'm obsessed with learning sign language.


*Hold your right hand up to your face with your thumb at your chin and wiggle your fingers. See http://commtechlab.msu.edu/Sites/aslweb/browser.htm for video demonstrations of different ASL signs.

Quality time with the family

This past weekend Jason and I went up to New York to visit Sam and Erica. My parents were up there, too, so we got to kill two birds with one stone. Got in late Thursday night, walked around the city a little bit Friday morning, and then drove up to Sam & Erica's country house in Kerhonkson, NY, in the Hudson River Valley. It's been very pleasant but still pretty warm in Atlanta, so it was a bit of a shock to be up north where it is most definitely Fall. The leaves were changing colors, the air was crisp -- it was beautiful.


Above: Sam and Erica's adorable country house.

And the weekend with the family was predictably hilarious. First, Jason was delighted to discovery that Sam, for some reason, owns a bull costume. I don't know if he and Erica get their kicks playing matador or what. Anyway, Jason found it in the basement and put it on, and then surprised Erica and my mom when they got came in from outside.





















Then we went shopping to load up on groceries and other supplies. Since my mother and I are apparently genetically predisposed to spent at least $100 every time we walk into Target, we loaded up on candles, toilet paper, wine glasses, and of course, shoes. In fact, Erica and my mom and I each got a pair of adorable red suede flats, which we all wore out to dinner that night.

Below: the girls in their matching shoes


And the dinner was amazing. Erica made reservations at this cool place called the Dupuy Canal House Restaurant. The restaurant is in an old wooden house, and it's very cozy and quiet. The food was delicious, and we feasted and drank wine, talking about history and books and gossip.

But, being the freaks that we are, we couldn't just have a civilized meal and leave it at that. First we had a contest to see who could balance a spoon on their nose (Jason won). And who could make musical tones with their wine glass. And Sam balanced his scotch glass on his head for at least a minute. And my father lost his shit, laughing hysterically at the fact that Sam had made up a story, tried to pass it as historical fact on Wikipedia, and then was pissed when the moderators had the audacity to remove it. To Sam, the real insult came not from the fact that a fictitious entry was rightly removed from a website that is meant to be an encyclopedia, but rather that the reason it was removed was not its lack of accuracy but its lack of noteworthiness. This was too much for my father, who was laughing so hard that he was gasping for air and yelling, "I'm having a heart attack." I think we scared away the other patrons in our little dining section.

The next day we went hiking around a quarry before breakfast, and then later that afternoon went to a wine-tasting. We had notions that it would be like a scene in Sideways, with a beautiful farm house next to a stream, with a big, spacious wine bar inside and quiet, knowledgeable patrons commenting on finishes and hints of blackberry and "this wine has some serious legs." In reality, not so much. We went to the Riverdell Winery in New Paltz, which didn't have a lovely farmhouse on a stream so much as a shack on steroids. Sam drove up the driveway, observed the multitude of Toyota Camrys and New York Women's Rugby tour buses, and said, "I'm not so sure about the demographics of this place. Where are the Beamers and Mercedeses?" Inside, the patrons were less gracious and sophisticated than loud and abrasive. There were even women rugby players making out in the corner (with each other). The somalier was a loud fat woman who, when we asked what she recommended, literally yelled at my father, as if she had been too close to the speakers at the Bon Jovi concert the night before, "IT DEPENDS ON WHETHER YOU LIKE RED OR WHITE." Uh, no shit, lady. And thanks for your help.

That night we cooked dinner at home. Grilled chicken and portobellos, salad, and the most unbelievable corn I have ever had in my life. Seriously, when we started eating, everybody took a bite of corn and then all you could hear was gasps of pleasure -- it was like the corn equivalent of crack. More wine, more joking around, and then Michigan football. I couldn't ask for a nicer day.

The next day we went back to the city and headed home, but not before taking a walk in the country, looking at trees and funny scarecrows and old barns. I'm on the road again tonight, traveling for work, but still feeling the afterglow of this weekend. I love my husband and I love my family and I love that they love each other. Life is good.

Old age, and why I'm perhaps suffering the effects already...

Yesterday was my Grandma Anne's 90th birthday. My brothers and I sent her one of those big gourmet gift baskets full of yummy goodies. I talked to her yesterday afternoon, and she was having a wonderful day. Everybody had called and she was feeling loved. We chatted about what it was like for her to be 90 and to look back on all of the things that have happened in her life. The world has changed so much in 90 years, it must be like recounting a dream to think back on World War II or the civil rights movement or the emergence of rock and roll.

My Grandpa Leo is also 90, and my Grandma Ruth will be 87 next week. I had four great-grandparents until I was in high school. I've got good longevity genes is what I'm saying. Time seems to pass so quickly -- Jason and I will celebrate our first anniversary in two months (yoiks!) -- but given my lifestyle and genetic makeup, I should have a long time left to go. I hope I do something worthwhile with it.

In other news, I had to shower at the Y this morning because we had no water. Last night Jason and I were doing the dishes after dinner when we noticed that the water pressure was really low and getting worse. We went and talked to our neighbor across the street, investigated the water meter, scratched our heads thinking that maybe there was a water main break somewhere in town. It was a big mystery. Perhaps someone was playing a practical joke on us?

Turns out, I'm just a forgetful dork and I forgot to pay the water bill, so somebody from the county came by yesterday and turned it off. I looked through the pile of mail that I'm really bad about paying attention to unless it's an issue of Entertainment Weekly or Sports Illustrated, and found a notice from Dekalb County informing me that I owed them $55 and that my water would be cut off if I didn't pay the bill by September 21. Oops. Luckily, we had some gallon jugs of water that I keep in the laundry room in the event of a natural disaster (Jason laughs at me about this -- who's laughing now, smart guy?), so we had water to drink and brush our teeth. But since there was no water for flushing the toilet, when I had to pee at 3 in the morning, I went outside and did it in the back yard. Seriously. Anyway, I paid the bill online and it should be back on today, but I guess I've learned that I need to look at my mail more than once every two weeks.

Yet another thing that my husband and I have in common...

He thinks he may have a hairline fracture in his right arm as a result of this fall. Welcome to the gimp club, honey!

Happy New Year, but if your New Year isn't actually happy, I disclaim all liability

My dad sent this lovely New Year's blessing (happy 5767, everyone!) out to offer good wishes for Rosh Ha'Shana. To my great amusement, it included the standard confidentiality disclaimer and tax warnings that accompany all emails out of his office. Leave it to a Jew to wish you a happy new year, but with disclaimers.

May this New Year bring to you and yours all the blessings of Peace, Health, Happiness and Prosperity.

L’Shanah Tovah!

This communication, along with any documents, files or attachments, is intended only for the use of the addressee and may contain legally privileged and confidential information. If you are not the intended recipient, you are hereby notified that any dissemination, distribution or copying of any information contained in or attached to this communication is strictly prohibited. If you have received this message in error, please notify the sender immediately and destroy the original communication and its attachments without reading, printing or saving in any manner. Thank you.

Circular 230 Notice: Pursuant to regulations governing practice before the Internal Revenue Service, unless expressly stated otherwise, any tax advice contained herein or in any attachment hereto cannot be used, and is not intended to be used, by a taxpayer for (i) the purpose of avoiding tax penalties that may be imposed on the taxpayer under the Internal Revenue Code or (ii) the promotion or marketing of any tax-related matter or program.

The Chicken and the Egg

A friend of mine who is going through a significant traumatic event suggested that she is so shattered by it that she doesn't know if she will be the same kind of person when it is over. I haven't been able to stop thinking about that -- the notion that certain experiences are so profound that they change who we are as a person. I've been looking back over my life and trying to analyze how I've changed from point to point, and why.

About 8 years ago I had my first depressive "break." Clinical depression runs in my family (on my dad's side -- my mother is the most nauseatingly sane person in the world), and it hit me hard when I was about 28. I was in a serious relationship with a guy that I really loved, but was overwhelmed with feelings of despair and worthlessness. It took me months to accept that I needed help (and, it turned out, medication), but in the meantime I made my boyfriend so miserable with my own miserableness that he dumped me. He didn't handle the breakup well, and many of my wonderful friends are still ready to string him up because of the way they think he treated me, but it wasn't his fault. I was broken, and he couldn't fix me, and I subtly punished him for it, and he couldn't take it anymore. That's the truth.

The depression was very intense. I kind of felt like a marine in boot camp, where they're supposed to break you down to your barest elements as a person so they can rebuild you as a soldier. I felt like a raw, exposed nerve ending all the time, I had suicidal ideations (never could or would act on them -- don't worry), I felt worthless and despondent and beyond salvation. But then I went to therapy and went on medication and got better. I've had relapses, but the difference now is that I recognize what's happening immediately and get help. Mostly it's just chemical. I feel fine on the meds, and I cycle downwards fairly dramatically when I'm not on them. The only side effect that I can't get rid of is insomnia (I'm writing this at 3 in the morning). I haven't slept through the night without the assistance of ambien or something similar in 9 years, and I've resigned myself to the fact that I probably never will.

So how did the depression and the breakup back in 1998 affect me? In a way, it made me determined to take control of my life to the extent I could, and not be a slave to my chemical makeup. I know I have tendencies to feel down, so I'm determined to not feel that way, to the extent I can control it. I feel like I have two choices: I can deal with whatever comes, and get on with my life, or not. "Not" is not an acceptable option. Life's too short to feel crappy about things, so a big part of my approach is to just not feel crappy.

Since 1998, my life has changed quite dramatically, and I did things I'm not sure I would have done before. I ran a half-marathon and then a marathon, though I had never been a runner. I bought a house and got a new job. I started playing bluegrass music in public. I made new friends. I joined tennis teams. I started a book club. Best of all, I married an Australian surfer that I met on vacation in Costa Rica.

Without the depression, I don't know that I would have ever done any of these things. On the other hand, maybe the outlook I have now was always in me, just waiting for an opportunity to emerge, like a butterfly in a cocoon. So the depression, in a way, provided me with the impetus to act. But the desire, the impulse to make a life, was there the whole time. And since then I've felt very strongly that I control not only my destiny but also how I'm going to feel about it and what I'm going to become. I'm relatively fearless about how my life is going to go. Marry an Aussie surfer/electrician? sure, I love him and he's fun and sweet and he makes me happy. Move to Hawaii? Why not, it's pretty and people will come visit. Have a kid soon? Hell, yeah. We're ready. Full steam ahead.

Yesterday my mother called me to tell me about an envelope of my old school records from when I was in first grade in Venezuela. The teachers loved me, I was cooperative, smart, eager to learn, a joy to have in class, blah blah blah. In the "needs improvement" section, the teacher said, "Wendy has a difficult time keeping her work space neat and organized." I would like to invite my teacher to my office to let her know that her observation would be as applicable now as then -- my desk looks like a filing cabinet was dumped out onto it, and it pretty much always looks that way. I try to clean it, but it doesn't really take. I guess that part of me has been encoded since the age of five, and it's never changed, and it's never going to.

I want my friend to know that her core as a person isn't something likely to be changed by anything. She's smart, principled, moral, ethical, and serious. I suspect that those qualifies may spur her to make some changes that she might not have otherwise made, or that she didn't realize she had the strength to make. But it will still be her. Some lessons learned, a little more circumspect, perhaps, but still wonderful her.

Depressing but true

My agent has tried calling the poop-stepper's agent, but no response. Not good. It's looking more and more like we may have to take the house off the market and try again in the spring. *sigh* I'm so bummed. We were so encouraged only a few days ago and now feel hopeless. On the plus side, we're going to the Falcons' home opener against the Bucs on Sunday (big grudge match), which should be really fun, especially because I scored good seats. And I've become addicted to Project Runway. So I've got that going for me.

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It's a couple of hours later and I just got a good pep talk from my real estate agent. She told me to keep the faith, so that's what I'm going to do. I figure we'll ride it out for about a month, and if it hasn't sold at that point, we'll figure something out at that point. So I'm feeling a little better.

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.

Help me out, people.

Yesterday I had a bit of a stomach bug and there wasn't much going on at the office, so I went home early. I had some unwatched Netflix movies, including Midnight Cowboy, which starred Jon Voigt and Dustin Hoffman and won the Best Picture Oscar(TM) in 1969 and is supposed to be this incredible classic. I had rented it because it was one of those venerated, hip movies that I had never gotten around to seeing. To my surprise and dismay, I found it to be boring, plodding and pointless, and was utterly unmoved by the characters or the acting. Now, I consider myself to be a relatively sophisticated consumer of culture, so I'm a bit unnerved by my reaction (though I also thought Crash sucked major ass and cannot for the life of me figure out why anyone liked that movie, so maybe I'm just out of touch and not as sophisticated as I think I am). Anyway, if someone can explain to me what it is about Midnight Cowboy that is so great, I would most appreciate it.

Hanging in there.

The house sale is officially frustrating as hell. The market completely sucks right now, to the point that every major news magazine/organization has a cover story about how shitty it is and how everyone trying to sell right now is going to lose their shirt. We just lowered the price -- again -- so maybe that will help the process along. I know that houses in my neighborhood and price range are selling, if somewhat more slowly, so I'm hoping it's just a matter of time. I keep having the same conversation with everyone I know.

"How's the sale of the house going? Any nibbles?"

"Not yet. We're still getting a fair amount of traffic through it, so we're encouraged, but you know how it is. The market is screwy right now."

"Yeah, I've heard that. Well, hang in there! It'll sell."

"I know. We're trying to be patient."

So, we're hanging in there. Not that we have a choice, but whatever.

As for what else is going on, we had a lovely Labor Day weekend. Friday night we had dinner with Kathleen and Addie and Lula, and after dinner Jason and I had the honor of taking Addie for ice cream by ourselves while Kathleen took Lula home to put her to bed. Good babysitting practice for when we have our own bambini.

What else? The rest of the weekend, I spent much time on the couch, watching tennis and napping. We were shocked by the freakish death of Steve Irwin. Jason took Max for a walk late Sunday night and lost him for 45 minutes when he let him run around off the leash for a few minutes. The poor dog is almost completely blind, especially at night, so he must have wandered away (bumping into things the whole time) and couldn't find his way back. Jason found him a half mile down the street, sitting in front of a car under a street light. Saturday night we went to the drive-in movie, which was very fun in an old school, kitschy kind of way. We saw a gloriously awful movie about hip-hop and street basketball called Crossover. It's the first movie I've ever seen that got a 0% -- yes, you read that right --rating on Rottentomatoes.com. Not a single positive review. We loved it, so screw you, critic bitches. It was a beautiful, breezy night, and we sat in our little camp chairs drinking Australian shiraz and eating Fritos and Fiddle Faddle and had a grand time. We watched another bitchin movie on Sunday called Roll Bounce, an awesome 70s teen roller-skating movie. Interestingly (at least, it's interesting to me), both movies starred Wayne Brady (who I love) and some new kid named Wesley Jonathan, who can't act for shit but is quite cute and charismatic on-screen nonetheless. Anyway, as soon as my arm gets better, we're totally going roller skating.

Speaking of which, my arm is getting better. I have so much more range of motion than I did even just a few days ago, and I don't ever wear my sling or have to take heavy-duty pain meds (which is good, since I went through all 30 of the pills I had in a week). I figure I'll be back at full strength in another 2 weeks or so, so I'll have to find another triathlon to compete in, because I need the training. I'm feeling a little pudgy.

The Bestest Get Well Card in the World

Last night when I got home from work, there was a large envelope waiting for me in the mailbox. It was from my brother and sister-in-law, Sam and Erica. Erica has a jewelry business, so I figured it was something related to that, perhaps a new catalog that she had put together and wanted me to see. Instead, what I found was the most awesome get-well card ever.

Apparently, Erica gets catalogs from supply companies, including a fine establishment called Fine Mountain Gems. They have their astonishingly unphotogenic employees model jewelry designs. Erica had the idea to use the catalog to make an inspirational card. Sam helped her take it to the next level.

I'm not sure if this guy turned to Jesus for sodomy, or to sodomy for relief. Syntax, Sammy, syntax.

I think Chinless Lady is my favorite.