Even the Flying Spaghetti Monster Gets Hate Mail

Do you know who the Flying Spaghetti Monster is? Apparently, the only "being" more upsetting to the far, far, far right-wing religious conservatives than Bill OR Hillary Clinton. Who knew that uber-Christians were so totally devoid of a sense of humor. And irony.

In case you need a quick overview:

The Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster was created by Bobby Henderson as a response to the Kansas school board voting to allow the teaching of intelligent design in science classes. His point is that there is as much scientific evidence to support the idea that the Flying Spaghetti Monster created the universe as there is that the universe was created by ID and so the FSM should get equal time in classrooms as an alternative theory. In his words:

I don't have a problem with religion. What I have a problem with is religion posing as science. Teach creationism in school, fine, but DON'T teach it in a science classroom. Science = the study of repeatable, observable, natural phenomena. Accepting a supernatural explanation is a cop-out. It's faith, NOT science.

Some of the emails in the mail bag seemed relatively sane and even thoughtful. In the main, however, they were, um, not. A small sample from his Hate Mailbag (Note: I cannot take credit for the creative grammar, spelling and punctuation that follow. But I can imagine that when one is writing with this much passion, these things might slip a little):

If I was your creator and you mocked me in this manner I couldn't think of a hell hot enough for you. . . . I am sick to my stomach that my small babies will live in such a disgusting generation where God is no longer the source of strength and power. I should hope that as you mature, have children and they ever are in need of a miracle in their life, that you won't know whose name to call on.

And:

I find your site degrading and offensive. God does not allow for the type of logical fallicies you promote on your site. For instance, why would a perfect, infanate being have to rest for three days after creation? The bible clearly establishes a maximum one to six day resting ratio for the creation of the universe by an infante being. Ok, I'll be sympathetic to your tortured logic and explain how mankind knows that the bible is the word of god. 1. the bible is infallible.

And:

PASTAFARIAN?!? that doesn't even make sense!! why the hell would god be PASTA?!? It sounds like you were bored and asked "why don't pirates exist anymore? and why doesn't heaven have a stripper factory and a beer volcano?" Well buddy, just because you google searched some stupid fact and made a website, doesn't mean you made a religion.
And that FSM bible is a load of crap.

This is fun! Can you stand a couple more?

You don't need to question, God does all the thinking for us; he actually has a degree in Philosophy. Abortion is wrong, it says so in the bible, I dare you to go look it up- you probably won't find it, but that's just because your gay, which is also wrong- it says so in the Bible. Now some of us will be wondering the justification for that moral assertion, but remember the Bible is flawless- it says so in the Bible.

And my favorite (also from the letter above):

As a Christian, I follow Jesus for his teachings of love and tolerance; it is people like you who make me sick, I hope you die in a lake of fire and get your eyes pecked out by crows, so that you may go to hell and exist for eternity in a lake of fire getting your eyes pecked out by crows.

With love,

Tsk. And we think Americans don't understand fundamentalism.

Baby Steps

For me, one of the hardest things about being a mother is my overdeveloped sense of guilt. It's a gift I received long ago from my own mother and it's one that, try as I might, I just can't get rid of. I might misplace it once in awhile, but it always turns up.

When I miscarried before Hannah, I was devastated and the little voice in the back of my head didn't help much, constantly looking for something that I did or didn't do to cause it. And now when, at nineteen months, Charlotte is not yet walking on her own or talking, that little voice has become a true nag:

"You didn't know you were pregnant and you drank at that wedding, didn't you?"

"Maybe it really isn't safe to have a little wine."

"How about all of the medications they put you on to stop the labor? All those -ines and -isiums. Were they really safe?"

"You did get out of bed a few times."

"Why couldn't you keep her in longer?"

"Do you spend enough time with her?"

My OB told me I was ridiculous (in ever so slightly more professional terms). Thomas told me I was ridiculous. And it truly is ridiculous, but there are nights when I lie awake with the Melanie Guilt Show looping in my brain, vaguely wondering why makeup didn't do my hair and nails.

Since December, Charlotte has been progressing slowly but steadily. She is really fast crawling and walking on her knees. She'll walk upright holding on to furniture, walls, the dog or our hands. She gives long, complicated speeches in German and Chinese. She'll use the sign for "bath" and occasionally one for "more." But to be on the safe side, her pediatrician recommended that we schedule an appointment to have her evaluated for occupational and speech therapies.

As soon as I scheduled the appointment, it seemed that Charlotte decided to speed things up. (Kind of like having all of your symptoms disappear upon entering the doctor's office.) She's making more of an effort to stand on her own. She's started saying "dada" and actually meaning Thomas. She says what sounds like "Hannah" and she once said "eat."

But today. Today she came into the kitchen as I was making lunch, wrapped her arms tight around my legs, looked up at me and said "Mama." And even though the tears were prickling, I could still see well enough to know that it wasn't just a sound. She hugged me. She called me mama.

I think we're going to be alright.

Now if I can just make sure that guilt doesn't become a family heirloom.

What Was the Name of That ABBA song?

We have our own little dancing queen--although she would prefer "princess." Hannah never wastes an opportunity to get in a little dancing. The Farmers Market; street festivals; and last night's concert in a park in Redwood City. Thomas took this photo of her dancing with her cousin at Laguna Seca while waiting for Uncle Jason to finish his last laps. (Hannah is in blue.)

MUST We Be Rational?

Here we go: Taking all of the fun out of deriding each other. Advocating actually listening as opposed to, whenever someone disagrees, yelling "Shut up!" (the talking head version of sticking your fingers in your ears and repeating 'lalalalalalalalala' until your opponent actually shuts up or your producer cuts his mike). From Richard Hardwood of the Hardwood Institute comes a new proposal to put the civility back in "civil discourse:"

"[A]nyone who holds a leadership position of any kind should have to speak (let’s say, no less than three times a year) before audiences they know disagree with them, or are even hostile to their views. I’ve been thinking about this idea for awhile; but I was reminded of it again as I watched President Bush speak before the annual NAACP convention last week.
. . . . .

[T]here are important reasons why we must force ourselves to enter into these uncomfortable spaces. Too often in public life and politics, we find ways to avoid one another; we too easily detach ourselves from the concerns of others; we can come to see people merely as opponents; we demonize people without second thought or reproach. Under such circumstances, the “other” becomes objectified – someone who lives outside our realm as if they occupy a different orbit."

His reasons are sound:

The mere act of showing up, and making oneself present, is a public acknowledgement of other people’s humanity – a very human signal of respect that despite our disagreements, we live in a common space.

The pointing out of why real disagreements exist requires a leader to offer an idea, a line of thought, an argument and thus for others to see that there is a thoughtfulness and thoroughness that informs that individual.

There is a kind of entreaty at work in this approach – a call and the potential for a response. Even if the response is negative, we know there has been an exchange.

Clearly demarcating where there are real disagreements in ideas or policy allows for a discussion to be joined – there is something to be discussed and debated, even if it can’t be readily resolved.

Showing up means that any attempt to demonize others must be done with full accountability. If you want to take the tough shots, you must be present.

Finally, entering these less-than-supportive environments forces the speaker to use language that serves to engage and not push away people. For after all, the speaker seeks to illuminate his or her views, to take care in what they say, and to strive to be understood rather than to obfuscate or serve up platitudes.

Anyone willing to take up the challenge?

BlogHer '06 Update

I meant to post this earlier. Oops.

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So here I am at BlogHer in San Jose, learning how to do more cool things with my blog and enjoying some me-time. I'd almost forgotten what it was like to be on my own and it's only been two hours!

I drove down from Redwood City (we've moved!) with Mom on a Mission, who was very gracious about ignoring my I'm-not-a-morning-person-and-oh-god-where-is-the-coffee babbling.

I'm stealing part of her blog entry from this morning, changing the answers, of course. This was from the Getting to Know You for BlogHer:

1. When did you start blogging and why? Or Talk about your blog. What can I learn about you in under 5 minutes? I started blogging as a way to regain a few shreds of my sanity. I haven't had a "real" job for about five years--before my oldest daughter was born, I worked from home as a freelance copywriter and copy editor so I don't get to spend a lot of time talking to real people and/or grownups. Blogging became a bit of an obsession until I hit a big patch of writer's block.


2. Who do you read every day, rain or shine? I can't say that I read them every day, but I love Dooce, MomOnaMission and Huffingtonpost. I'm sure that after BlogHer I will have a vastly expanded reading list!

3. How would you describe your writing style? I write the way I would speak if I were able to to get an entire sentence out without going off on a tangent. I'm a very tangential thinker and it's harder to mask when I'm speaking.

4. What don’t you write about? Anything considered a no-no in your book? I' try not to swear too much but since I write about politics as well as parenting, it's kinda hard some days.

5. So soon we’re going to meet each other at BlogHer. Important question. How do you party? Not as much as I used to, but I do like a nice glass of wine or three. Preferably red.

6. What is your favorite thing that you wrote? What got a strong reaction from readers? Links please? I don't know that it is my favorite because it was very painful for me, but The Roadblock did get the most reaction (all in private email, go figure) and I was repeatedly told that it was very powerful.

7. Have you written anything controversial? Is blogging controversial? Well, since I do write about politics, quite a bit of it is seen by some to be controversial. Especially the posts "Rhymes With Prick" and "Snow Job."

8. Are you and your blogging persona the same person? I like to think so.

9. If you had a super power, what would it be? To be the ultimate multitasker. Oh wait. I'm a mom. I already have that power.

Hey Sugar Sugar

I'm learning lots of geeky stuff at BlogHer today (Thomas will be so proud). But I also learned an important lesson at lunch: A panic attack does not prevent me from eating pecan pie.

BlogHer '06

I'm sitting here in the Hyatt San Jose, trying not to feel guilty about being here in the Hyatt for TWO DAYS! By myself. No kids. No dog. No moving boxes to unpack. If I wanted to, I could sit in a corner somewhere and catch up on my reading. But I think I'm going for the brain candy instead. Ok, so I don't really feel that guilty yet. But Thomas is at home with the girls--both sick--and swimming in packing paper. And tissues.

Your Tax Dollars at Work

I found this in Dan Froomkin's blog for washingtonpost.com today and thought it well worth sharing. Sadly, I think that this is one of those things that crosses party lines, so it's not (really) a slam on the Bush administration. Still, so ridiculous that you can't help but laugh. Be sure to read the response by Rahm Emanuel.

"The liberal Think Progress blog came out with its list of the "four most overpaid White House staffers," by virtue of their job titles: Deborah Nirmala Misir, Ethics Advisor, $114,688; Erica M. Dornburg, Ethics Advisor, $100,547; Stuart Baker, Director for Lessons Learned, $106,641; Melissa M. Carson, Director of Fact Checking, $46,500.

And that prompted a particularly pointed floor speech by Rep. Rahm Emanuel (D-Ill.):

"Mr. Speaker, yesterday the President said we continue to be wise about how we spend the people's money.

"Then why are we paying over $100,000 for a 'White House Director of Lessons Learned'?

"Maybe I can save the taxpayers $100,000 by running through a few of the lessons this White House should have learned by now."

After suggesting a few, Emanuel noted the other positions highlighted by Think Progress and concluded: "Maybe the White House could consolidate these positions into a Director of Irony.'"

Hurray!

At last we have a contract on the house! I'm trying not to get too excited before close of escrow in 29 days, but at last we have a contract. I was about to start calling this the House of Seven Plagues but had decided not to for two reasons:

A) There were only four:

1. The ducks. We have lived here for three years and, in all that time, I have never seen a duck anywhere near our yard. Yet just one week after we listed the house, we were on vacation on the East Coast when we got an email from our agent asking if it was normal to have eight--yes, eight--ducks on the lawn. Did we forget to disclose that? Because, really, they're making a bit of a mess and some people will probably have a problem with that. Really?!
   
2. The ants. Again, three years, no ant problems. List the house and suddenly the little &*%$ers develop a taste for dog food. I went in to the garage one morning to feed Argus and there it was--a lovely, long, unbroken line of tiny little black ants, marching across the garage and up into the bag. I don't like to kill things (I pretend it's my Buddhist sensibilities, but really I just can't bear the crunching/squishing) so I tried everything I could find to drive them away instead. I've discovered that they allegedly don't care for talcum powder, mint, chili powder and a variety of other things I would never have thought of on my own (I love Google). The talcum powder in conjunction with the vacuum actually worked but it was impossible to get all of them or to keep them out, so I was forced to leave it to Thomas who isn't quite so squeamish.
   
3. The ants, part two. Thomas got rid of the ants and sprayed all around the outside of the garage. So they packed up, moved a little to the west and found a way in to the playroom instead. Fortunately, they don't seem to like the high-pitched shrieking that little girls are so good at and so they moved out again pretty quickly.
4. The dog--not ours. A couple who either recently moved into the neighborhood or just got a dog walks said dog by our house at least once every day. The husband always walks the dog on the other side of the street, the wife on our side. And every time she walks the dog, it pees on the "For Sale" sign in the front yard. I'm guessing it was a letter for Argus, but I was beginning to take it as another type of sign.
   

B) My second reason for not calling this the House of Plagues is just that I really love this house. I love the tree-lined street and the way the house seems to welcome you home. I love the quiet of the back yard at mid-day when all of the dogs are sleeping and the silence is broken only by the clicking of the humming birds, the drone of the bees and the occasional chattering of the squirrels. In the spring, there is the lush smell of wet jasmine and lemon blossoms. Summer brings warm tomatoes fresh from the vine and mountains of fresh basil . . .

I'm going to miss my house and (most of) the neighbors, but I hope that the next family will be as happy here as we have been. And I know that our next home will be even better because Thomas will only have a five minute commute. Hannah can't wait and neither can I. After all, now I can put him back on KP!

We Now Return to Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

Yesterday I took the day off from the whole keeping-the-house-spotless thing. It was nice. The girls happily made a mess in the playroom. I did make all of the beds and did a few loads of laundry, but I also left dishes in the sink and the coffee maker on the counter.

Did you know that people selling their homes do not drink coffee, use a microwave or even own a toaster? Our counter must be completely naked to show just how much room there is for a potential buyer's junk, so all of our stuff has to go in the garage. Well, not the microwave. We put that in a corner of the counter where it's not as obvious. And because there is nowhere to plug it in unless we drag it across the counter, we use it to store the mail and other important papers that would otherwise gather on the counters and any other unmoving surface.

Rabbits, wire coat hangers and paper. They all have a way of "mysteriously" multiplying whenever two or more are left alone together. So I'm back to work today. I have to go and empty out the microwave before the door pops off.

The Elephant in the Room

WMD that didn't exist.

Yellow cake uranium that didn't exist.

Ties to Osama that didn't exist.

Secret detention facilities that don't exist.

Liars in the White House who don't exist. Ok, I made that one up.

Americans have grown accustomed to having their politicians lie to them, especially on the very long eve of an election. But this administration has made it into a higher art and the media is allowing the mistruths emitting from the West Wing to pass as "misinformation" and "exaggerations" and "fabrications" rather than calling them what they are: A bunch of big fat lies.

It's a tiny little word, lie, but one with enormous ramifications. Especially when the lies are used by a president to send our military to war. The same guy who also uses the open-ended war on terrorism to justify the abrogation of our civil liberties.

Since we can't get rid of the Elephant in the House anytime soon, let's at least acknowledge the elephant in the room: "Liberal media" or no, much of the press has continued to give the Bush administration a pass. Bush says warrantless wiretaps are necessary--must be so. Bush vilifies the NY Times--and only the NY Times--for the banking story; only a handful of newspaper editorial boards come to their defense.

Let's face it: This administration is incredibly able and talented when it comes to selling fear. Americans are afraid of the next 9/11 and rightfully so. But the most important thing I've learned is that you can't live in fear because that isn't living. And to paraphrase a very wise little fish in Finding Nemo, "If you never let anything happen to him, nothing will ever happen to him."

We can't keep "agreeing" to give up bits and pieces of our freedoms because we won't get them back. And we can't keep promising other countries those freedoms that we are willingly relinquishing. Go back to the beginning: "Give me liberty or give me death."

Little Princess

This is Charlotte in the pagoda at the Elizabethan Gardens in Manteo, NC. My friend Sarah took it during our vacation in June.


My beautiful baby.

The Real (estate) Diet

Atkins. South Beach. The Abs Diet. They all did what they were supposed to--until I got bored, anyway. Not that I need to lose that much, but, really, is there a woman on the planet who is actually happy with her weight?

Now I'm trying the Real (estate) Diet, whether I like it or not. Want to give it a try? To get started, all you have to do is put your house on the market. Preferably right about the time the inventory goes through the roof--if you'll pardon the pun. Make sure you have an offer in on another house on the same day, just to keep life interesting.

In Stage One of the Real (estate) Diet, you could lose quite a bit. Mostly because you're too busy cleaning the museum that has become your home. When you start to feel hunger pangs and go to open the cabinets, you'll notice the fingerprints/spots/smears/drops, etc. And the ring of the phone will put you in overdrive, nicely ramping up your metabolism so that you can get everything in order and the kids and dog out of the house in the time you have before yet another agent arrives. All because you said "Sure, half an hour will be perfect."

Once the calls drop off, you'll start moving into Stage Two. You'll begin to feel like a teenager again--sadly not in the euphoric, I-am-invincible way. More like in the hang-around-the-house- waiting-for-the-phone-to-ring way. I have all agent calls sent to my cell phone, but still need to be close enough to the house to go home and get Argus out before the agent shows up. For some strange reason, a 150-pound Great Dane bounding at the front door tends to scare people off. But when the phone doesn't ring and the silence becomes deafening, you might find yourself reaching for snacks instead of the dust rag. So expect a little weight gain.

Stage Three begins when you drop the price and relist the house. Basically, you move back into Stage One, with the added incentive of knowing that you're moving closer to the closing date on a second house. And let's face it: Unless it's in the French Alps, I don't really need another house right now. (Ok, that's a want, not a need.)

So here I am in the midst of Stage Three, not sure I'm liking this diet any better than most of the others. (I'm excluding The Abs Diet here because the smoothie recipes alone are worth the price of the books.) But for for me there is a silver lining in all of this: If I get so exhausted from keeping the house spotless for three weeks, I can't really be obsessive compulsive, can I?

Now if you'll excuse me, there's a fingerprint on the back of the TV that's driving me nuts.

A Beautiful Thing

Sometimes a beautiful thing happens when you least expect it: your child's first smile or laugh; the hummingbird that mistook you for a flower; the moment you looked into a friend's eyes and saw your soul mate. And sometimes this beautiful, wonderful thing comes from the last place you would expect it. That happened today, when George W. Bush set aside almost 140,000 square miles of ocean around the northern Hawaiian islands as a national monument.

The Pew Charitable Trusts has been at the forefront of the drive to protect this amazing bit of ocean, which (courtesy the Washington Post):

"include[s] almost 70 percent of the nation's tropical, shallow-water coral reefs, a rookery for 14 million seabirds, and the last refuge for the endangered Hawaiian monk seal and the threatened green sea turtle. The area also has an abundance of large predatory fish at a time when 90 percent of such species have disappeared from the world's oceans."

Bush hasn't exactly been the darling of environmentalists during his time in office, and some sceptics are already saying that this was an easy way for him to rack up brownie points and an environmental legacy. After all, the islands are uninhabited and the commercial fishing concerns were small scale. But just this once, lets give the man the benefit of the doubt. Sometimes people do something because it is the right thing to do rather than for political gain.

In Response to a Reader

I received a comment tonight on one of my older posts (yes, I do read them) that made me wonder if I've been clear about several things in the past. First, I'd like to thank Paul for his comments, both the nice and the not-so-nice. The feedback always makes me look for ways to improve my writing and to re-examine some of what I've written before. And anything that makes you think can't be all bad, even when you're "pegged as just another air-head follower of the Democrat line."

For those who don't know it, I am an independent voter--I just tend to lean more to the left. Before every election, I do my homework to find out what a candidate stands for, what they really believe in, before making up my mind about who gets my vote. I would love to see politicians remember why they went into public service in the first place, instead of spending all of their time trying to get reelected. I would also like to see the proverbial pigs fly. But like them or not (politicians, not pigs), it is my duty to vote for the person I think will do the best job. I believe that it is also my duty to ask questions when I think something is amiss. The few political musings in this space and the occasional letter to the editor are my way of doing that.

Most of my family consider themselves Republicans--always have been, always will be. Even my older sister who once thought herself a liberal now refuses to vote for ANY Democrat. Why? Because Bill Clinton had oral sex in the Oval Office and lied about it. She can't understand how I could still like him. I will never understand how she could think that oral sex is morally more reprehensible than distorting facts and/or outright lying to get us into a war that cost thousands of lives, not to mention the billions of dollars.

Anyway, Paul, for what it's worth, I do try to keep an open mind, and I make an effort to 'fess up when I've said something really stupid or just been flat out wrong. And I make every effort to use multiple resources before forming my opinions, which at the end of the day are just that--my opinions.

One More Reason I Love Hockey

With all of the crap you hear these days about which [insert name of sport] player is, has been or may be doping, it was really refreshing to see this headline in today's Washington Post: "1,406 Drug Tests, Zero Violations by NHL Players"

Sure there are some thugs on the ice and, on any given night, you stand a pretty good chance of seeing a fight. Thomas and I once watched as the maintenance guys shoveled the blood off the ice (sounds worse than it was--just turned slushy pretty fast). But most hockey players actually seem to play for the love of the game. Just watch the face of the guy who just scored--whether it's his first NHL goal or 50th. Pure joy--like the face of a little kid who woke up to find that he'd been given the toy store.

And off the ice, how many hockey players--even the stars--would most people be able to recognize? They are, by and large, team players. They're not out there show boating on the ice and promoting themselves off (TO? Anyone? Anyone?). They know how to pass to an open team mate (Kobe?). They seem to be more focused on getting the win than on improving their own numbers (Ok, don't look at Jagr). Most of them stay out of trouble. I'd go on and on, but really, I think I'm beginning to bore myself.

So I'll just say that I hope Carolina doesn't win the next game. I'm not ready for hockey season to be over.

Sell, Sell, Sell!

I've mentioned before that we are selling our house in San Jose. So far, lots of traffic, lots of interest, no offers. Except of the advice variety, as in "If only you had put it on the market two months ago!" Yes, yes, thanks. We get it. Smile, nod, don't hit. Repeat as necessary.

But at 5:30 today I got a call from our agent saying that the agent of a very interested couple wanted to come by for a quick walk through.

In the week since we've been back from vacation, I've managed to get the whole make-the-house-perfect-and get-out-in-20-minutes thing down to a science. Every morning, the beds are made immediately. The coffee maker, toaster and blender are returned to the garage as soon as we're done with them. Charlotte's high chair is wiped down and stashed in the garage after every meal. The floors are spot cleaned, except on open house days when I get out the bucket and rags and wash every inch of non-carpeted floor. Argus eats outside and any resulting mess is promptly removed. The mail gets stacked neatly in the microwave--yes, the microwave. Really, my inner obsessive compulsive is in heaven, but it's very hard on the girls, especially Hannah.

I had a really good feeling about this past weekend, that someone was going to make an offer, so I slacked off a bit on the cleaning. But after a very long morning of deafening silence, I decided, "What the hell. I'm going to make a lasagna." This is no small thing when you're trying to sell a house. People want aromatherapy: vanilla or cinnamon or freshly baked cookies. Not the onions and garlic lightly sauteed in olive oil with a bit of salt and cumin that form the beginning of my secret lasagna sauce. Secret because it's never the same twice; even I don't know what went into it last time. But again, I digress.

I had just assembled the lasagna when Kelly called with the info about the agent who wanted to come by. I apologized in advance for the lasagna smell and then went immediately into staging mode. Wipe down all counters. Sweep floor. Tidy playroom. Don't mention plans to Hannah because she will do her best to thwart said plans. Run upstairs and down, turning on all the lights, opening all the windows (really, I feel like Wee Willy Winkey here). Come to a screeching halt outside the upstairs bathroom when I step in, and then notice, a small puddle on the floor. And droplets leading away from the puddle to a small person hiding behind the door with her hands over her ears.

"Hannah! Did you pee on the floor??"

"No! But my big-girl panties are wet."

"Did you pee in your panties?"

I am rewarded with a sniffle and a nod.

The clock is tick, tick, ticking.

Fifteen minutes until the agent shows up and I am on my knees dabbing frantically at the little drops that form a trail from the bathroom through the hall and into the bedroom.

She's been so good lately with the potty-training. One accident in over a month. Why Now?? No time to wonder--just get it clean and get out.

We made it. Just as I was getting ready to put the girls into the stroller, the agent--John--showed up. We took Argus and walked around the block while he checked out the house. When he was done, he drove by, stopping to let us know that he was done, that the lasagna smelled wonderful, and that he would call Kelly later. He asked about the roof and the solar panels (for the water heater) but said nothing about the little accident upstairs. He also was kind enough to refrain from mentioning the one thing I didn't notice: the huge . . . present that Argus left on the back lawn.

I can't wait to have this over. We're all going a little batty.

The Roadblock

I've hit a roadblock. I keep telling myself that I haven't posted to my blog for awhile because I've been busy with the move and vacation, etc., etc., etc. But tonight I realized that it was because a friend challenged me--asked, really, but it feels like a challenge if you don't want to do it--if I had ever written about when my brothers died. Two of them on the same day. A third lived, but his fiancee died a couple of days later. I haven't written about it, mostly because I don't think I've ever known how to even deal with it. But I tried, and had to stop when I couldn't see the keyboard anymore. Apparently, my typing skills are not what they should be.

I'm going to go ahead and post what I've written--it's not done. Maybe it never will be.

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One of the most amazing things about having children is finding in them bits of yourself and other members of your family. For instance, you could easily mistake Hannah's baby pictures for Thomas's. And they look exactly alike from the knees down, especially in the summer when they both live in flip flops. Charlotte is showing signs of having inherited the same calves and feet. Both of the girls have their grandmother's little toe with the nail that sort of curves up and around, making it hard to polish, not to mention trim.

And every time Hannah laughs, I see that she has the same pointy little fang teeth that my brothers Michael and Steven have. I had to stop here for a bit because I'm never sure whether to use "have" or "had" because the last time I saw Steven he was neatly zipped into a black bag on the cold steel table of a Denver morgue. Michael was across town in a coma with a smashed face and an arm so badly broken that the first two doctors wanted to amputate. By the time the rest of the family and I reached Colorado, my oldest brother, Bill, had already been shipped back to Virginia to the funeral home. We didn't see him again until he was wearing a mortician's mask and bad suit. Charlotte has his eyelashes, a long, dark fan she alternately hides behind and flirts with. The one other person on the plane, Michael's fiancee Sherry, managed to hang on for another day or two.

There are some moments from that time that I will never forget and some that are buried so deeply under the grief that I don't think they'll ever come out. I still don't remember that my best friend, a true California blonde, dyed her hair dark brown. But in eight years I haven't been able to shake the vision of watching myself frantically pounding on Steven's chest, screaming at him to "Wake up! Wake up! What about Owen? Dammit, wake up!" But though his eyelids opened a bit to show those beautiful, pale green eyes, his expression never changed and his chest never rose again.

A few of the long curls had escaped from the bag, coiling around his face. I reached to wind them around my finger as I had done when he was a little boy sitting in my lap in the park. I remember recoiling from the touch because while I had been expecting the silky soft curls that he once hated, I felt instead the crisp of dried blood. I suppose that because he was to be cremated, they hadn't bothered doing the full body wash.

I've never known whether or not I really believe in g/God, but there were two instances during this time that made it impossible for me to rule it out completely. The first:

Sherry was a self-taught artist and Navajo. Her funeral, in the Rocky Mountain National Park near Bolder, Colorado, was officiated by a Navajo medicine man from the university. I can still remember how calm the day was, and the deep green scent of pines against endlessly clear blue skies. We stood in a circle, holding hands as prayers were offered. Then everyone was invited to take a handful of her ashes and scatter them to the four winds. As I stood there, not sure I belonged, I gradually felt a peace that I hadn't had in days--maybe even years--and then I began to notice that every time the medicine man said the names "Sherry" and "God" the wind rose around us before settling back into nothing.

The second:

Owen was two and a half years old when his father died. For days he kept asking for his Daddy. When was he coming home? Where was he? Karolyn didn't know what to tell him. She had tried "Daddy had to go away" and anything else that seemed like it might placate him. How do you explain death to a two year old?

Steven's ashes were scattered in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, in a place he and Karolyn used to go when they were dating. On the hike up, Owen kept asking when Daddy was coming and talking about what they would do when he got there. But a funny thing happened on the way down the mountain. Owen pulled away from his mother and ran toward a clump of bushes. He stood there alone for a bit as if looking for (at?) something and then turned away. Before he continued down the mountain though, he turned back, waved to the bushes and said "Bye, Daddy. I love you." He never asked for him again.

Whether it was g/God or nature, someone found a way to explain death to a two year old and to make it just a bit easier for the rest of us. If only he/she/it could do the same for Michael.

Speechless in California

I finally did it. After almost 10 years together, I managed to render Thomas completely speechless. As in stuttering in shock and awe. A perfectly prepared meal, all parts ready and at the proper temperature at the same time? The house stocked with a year's worth of Newcastle or Guinness? A brand new boob job? No, no and he wouldn't be interested.

So what could possibly render my usually unflappable mate silent? Two little words. "That's it." Doesn't seem like much, but in response to the question "Where are the rest of the bags?" when getting ready to leave for a two week holiday . . . Ah, priceless. One bag for me and the girls and one for him. Both would fit in the overhead compartment if we were crazy enough to try to lug them in addition to the girls, the stroller, the diaper bag and Hannah's backpack.

If only I'd known, I would have started rolling the clothes into tiny little logs ages ago. Good thing it was a summer holiday. But with any luck, the shock will carry over for a few more trips.

Because There Were Just Too Many Hours in the Day

Two weeks ago, Sarah sent me a real estate listing for a house down the street from them. She said it was great. I laughed at her and then Thomas and I went to look at it anyway.

It had a strange layout, the sort one would call "custom-designed" on the flyer. And one did! The house was big and the yard was great, but it just didn't feel like home. And I had no interest in going to the trouble and expense of moving just to go across town. Even to have Sarah and Ryan as neighbors again.

But it did get us thinking. Just one week later I saw a listing for a house in Redwood City that was in our price range, larger than what we have now, and--best of all--just 1.5 miles from Thomas's office. So the girls and I went and looked at it and a couple of others on Friday (5/12). Thomas looked at it on Monday morning (5/15). We put an offer on it on Tuesday (5/16).

Now we've gone from not really thinking about moving to making an offer and listing our current house; getting estimates for movers; scheduling window cleaners, house cleaners, painters, the gardener and a stager (not my idea); renting a storage space and truck; booking the Broker tour and scheduling the photographer for the virtual tour. ALL before next Wednesday. Why? Because on Wednesday, we leave on holiday for two weeks. Timing is everything.

So why are we doing this to ourselves? Right now, Thomas has a one hour commute each way. That means that he gets to see the girls for about two hours a day during the week--assuming that Charlotte (as much a morning person as I) wakes up before he leaves at 7:30 to catch the train.

In addition to being a great house with lots of light and space, the new place has an enormous backyard that is, to put it kindly, crap. It looks as if no one has touched it in years--tall, scrubby grass and weeds and most likely, rocks. Lots of rocks. But I looked at it from the deck and saw terraces and an herb garden. Masses of flowers and tall grasses. A hammock swaying in the breeze. Hannah and Charlotte chasing Argus across the lawn. And maybe even another Japanese Maple, since Thomas won't dig up the one we planted two weeks before we found the new house.