I have this recurring dream where I have to leap great distances like some kind of mountain goat or Tom Cruise. I can feel the terror and the impossibility of the span but what can I do? I’m stuck in that dream. I have to catapult my body through the air.

In real life I’m facing a giant leap. As the clock ticks down, I have to jump from California to Minnesota, from this life to another. I already have one foot in the air, wind whistling in my ears, arms outstretched like the slow-motion scenes in the Matrix movies.

The moving truck will arrive on July 29.

I’m moving so fast that I’m practically standing still. In these seconds that pass like minutes, in these hours that disappear in a blink, I will lose half my kids. I’m flying from a full nest to a half-empty one, abandoning my two baby birds even though they aren’t babies. I’m not leaving them behind; they decline to move.

It feels weird. This is the first time since I left home in a Greyhound bus bound for college that I felt like I was unzipping one life and slipping into another.

I spend half my week doing nothing but working at my job. While I’m there, it’s as if nothing will ever change. Truth is, I’ll be giving my two weeks notice in a little over a month. Don’t tell my boss.

The other half of the week I carry on (grocery shop, clean, launder clothes) and then sort, purge, pack, sort, purge, pack. It’s always surprising how long it takes to pack a few boxes. I tell myself the each box I pack is a box I won’t have to pack again, so I am making progress. In slow motion.

I’m glad that the thrift store has opened back up so I have a place to leave my discarded belongings.

And now I’m going to pack a box. Or two.

I really hate to be wrong and I hate to be misunderstood. I am constantly questioning my own motives and so when someone else questions my motives I become a porcupine throwing quills at the threat.

I have incredibly high–maybe impossibly high–standards for myself and when I apply those standards to other people, things generally do not go well. I become critical and disappointed and irritated.

But . . . I have studied the situation, I have noticed the details, I have figured out the correct way to do things. So why doesn’t everyone do things the right (my) way? This is the question that rides around with me like a pebble in my Birkenstock. This is my story.

I know this about myself yet I run this lap over and over again as if it’s a marathon and if I just keep running I’ll find a finish line.

When I get into a judgmental cycle, my inner critic points out my hypocrisy. Who am I to make up the rules? Am I perfect? Who am I to observe and critique? Am I the queen?

Who am I?

I am the one who just wants to be good and right and perfect.

But in this case (the case I can’t really tell you all about because it’s about work and also because it’s embarrassing when your boss’s boss commands you to march upstairs to a meeting in his office and then sternly gives you a talking to that you honestly don’t feel like you deserve because he’s clearly misunderstood you and your motives and your very essence but whatever), I am choosing to literally take a breath and stop.

What does it matter to me if others are are slackers, if they are wrong and don’t meet the/my standards? It can’t matter to me.

I am only responsible for myself. I am only responsible for myself. I am only responsible for myself.

I am not the rule enforcer or the supervisor or Your Majesty.

I know this and yet I forget.

But don’t remind me because I’ll throw a quill at you.

At this time of year, yellow flowers burst into bloom here in southern California–especially following ample rain, which we had this year. I drove around–as I am wont to do during this time of sheltering in place–and tried to find somewhere I could pull over to photograph the flowers since all the trails are closed.

I told myself to just memorize it with my eyes–as my daughter used to tell me when she was young and impatient with my photography–but I wanted a photo for this blog post. Finally, I saw the parking lot of the dog park and circled around and parked.

The sky is blue, the sun is shining and the weather is warm. This is why people love San Diego. This is the exact kind of day that prompted me to say so many mornings, “What a beautiful day!” as if I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it. There’s an average of 266 sunny days a year here and each one is glorious.

I’ve loved living here but as this chapter closes, I’m looking forward to seasons and change. My husband reminds me that San Diego will still exist, even after we go. That makes it easier to let go.

But in the meantime, yellow flowers bloom everywhere, sunny reminders that time cycles around and around. I’m tucking this memory into this blog for safekeeping.

I baked cupcakes the other day without adding the baking soda. Ugh.

There are still no paper products at the local Albertsons grocery store.

I’m in the middle of my workweek and I’m so tired that I am squinty.

All the parks and trails and beaches are closed here and this week the weather is supposed to warm up to the 80s and I’m feeling kind of bitter about not being able to go outside and enjoy the weather–and my time off–in nature.

I replaced a door knob this week. Grease covered my hands and I had to use sheer determination to compensate for weak hands. It’s funny how directions use one sentence (“Remove screws from face plate”) and it sounds so simple until you realize that you cannot access the screws because the thingamajig is stuck and so you have to bend metal with a screwdriver handle. But I did it. It took a solid hour.

You know what’s worse than cooking dinner? Cooking dinner after a twelve hour shift. Yesterday I ate avocado toast and baby carrots for dinner. Tonight, we’re having English muffin pizzas. Tomorrow? A bowl of cereal and a cup of water. Or maybe gruel. I just don’t care. The fresh vegetables I bought a week ago are probably rotting. I’m trying to care, but I’m just too tired.

I saw a guy in a tiger costume skateboarding and being filmed by another guy with a fancy camera in Carlsbad the other day. I wish I had more information about that.

Okay, well, this has been your friendly nonsensical update.

Farewell until next time.

I finally did it. I called the cable company and cut off cable television. Of course, I also increased our internet, but the bottom line is that I cut $200 a month.

Why didn’t I do this earlier? I supposed it’s because I remember the old days before cable television (five channels if you were lucky) and hadn’t fully embraced the new days of streaming services–even though my kids fully have. We have Hulu and Amazon Prime and Netflix, so we will never lack something to watch–and none of my kids have watched real television for years.

I was determined to do nothing today. It sounds easy but for some reason, I find it incredibly difficult to just laze around. I woke up and decided to go for a walk. Turns out it was rainy but I went anyway, listening to a podcast about Joe Exotic (that guy! have you heard about him yet?). My daughter asked if I’d bake something because it’s her boyfriend’s birthday today, so I baked brownies.

Then I decided to get a late lunch at Chik-Fil-A and drive along the beach. Again, it was rainy but it was relaxing to drive and listen to yet another podcast. I stopped by the Flower Fields and took a couple of photos and then my husband called and now here I am.

What will I do with the rest of my do-nothing day? I think I’ll stream something . . . or scroll on my phone or maybe I’ll even read.

Tomorrow? My son is getting his wisdom teeth pulled, so that will set the framework for the day. (Better him that me. Fun fact: I never had wisdom teeth at all.)

My new-to-me Honda CR-V would not start yesterday at 6 AM in my driveway. I was on my way to work for a 12-hour shift and for a moment I thought I just didn’t know how to start it. You press your foot on the brake, then press the button. So I tried again. The lights flickered and kind of waved goodbye and turned off.

For a second, I thought I’d have to stay home then I remembered I have another car! Score!

So I took the Fiat instead which is the car I used to drive before I essentially gave it to my daughter.

This morning Neighbor Bob met me outside my house and jump-started the CR-V. Additionally, he showed me exactly how to hook up the cables after I told him that I was scared of jump-starting cars. Then, he drove his red pickup to Pepboys while I followed in my vehicle. He led me inside and told the guy I needed a battery and after I was all set (waiting in the waiting room, sitting on a plastic covered chair), he left.

Afterward, I went to Costco where I donned my medical mask and joined the other shoppers. With every breath my glasses fogged up, so that was awesome.

We all looked like armed robbers with our bandanas and masks. What is happening!?

I was so happy to find paper towels to purchase. What an odd time to be alive when my heart leaps for joy over paper products.

But what you’re really asking yourself is, “Who is Neighbor Bob?”

Neighbor Bob is the man who lives across the street. He is a retired orthodontist, the kind of human being who once appeared on our doorstep and offered to take over my daughter’s orthodontia work for free.

About a year ago, after a sudden job loss, we knew that we’d need to move somewhere, somehow. The where and how were unclear, but the undeniable truth was that we’d need to sell our house.

Have you ever sold a house? I was dreading the entire process. And one day as I drove up my street, I suddenly thought, “Bob should buy our house.”

Now, obviously this makes no sense. Bob already owns a house–the one across the street. But this voice spoke quite clearly to me and so I mentioned it half-laughing to my husband. He looked puzzled but then he jokingly mentioned it to Bob and Bob said, “Hmmm, I might do that.”

You see, Neighbor Bob is a man who likes–or rather, he needs a project. He had redone his entire house when he and his wife purchased it. He redesigned the landscaping and would be often out in the yard with a wheelbarrow and shovel. He’d help neighbors with their yards and houses.

Bottom line: Neighbor Bob bought our house and now we rent back month-to-month. My husband moved to Minnesota last September, so ever since I’ve been here with the kids as we drag this move out so two of my kids can finish up school years. (Did I already tell you that?)

Neighbor Bob solved the problem of water flowing through the garage when it rains. Neighbor Bob has redesigned my front yard and soon there will be a new walkway and stairs and flower boxes. Neighbor Bob takes my trash can in (or out) if I’m not around.

At any rate, we now own a really cute home in Minnesota and we rent this one here in California, too. It’s a lot to juggle but soon life will calm down–for all of us, I sure hope.

Meanwhile, Neighbor Bob continues to be a blessing to our family in a way that I never could have imagined when I decided he should buy our house. Life’s weird sometimes.

I used to call myself a “reformed” perfectionist because my house was sometimes messy and I’d surrendered to the chaos. Laundry baskets were heaped with folded clothes and shoes were piled near the front door. I’d leave dishes in the sink overnight.

Rather than feel despair, I accepted the flaws in my life and in myself. A perfectionist wouldn’t allow it. I’d joke about not being Martha-Stewart-approved. Ha ha ha, I’d laugh without mirth.

A perfectionist definitely wouldn’t live like this.

Recently, I’ve indulged in naval gazing via a personality typing system which pegged me as a perfectionist, one who desires to improve, to reform situations and to bring order to chaos.

I realize now that my belief that I am never quite good enough is part of perfectionism. My looming fear is that I am at the core a bad person. Consequently, I try to hide that fact by doing the right thing as much as I can. Frankly, it’s exhausting. (It’s also why criticism stings so fiercely.)

Unfortunately for those around me, I also see their flaws and mistakes so my bossy side comes out. Please use this pan (it’s the right one). Do this paperwork that way. Put your stuff where it belongs. Do this, then that. Why? Because it’s right.

I want to do the right thing. I want everyone to do the right thing. I believe there is a right way and a wrong way and I’ve spent a lifetime trying to pinpoint the right way. Furthermore, I want everyone else to do things the right way. (I’m looking at you, idiot driver, merging onto the freeway “wrong.”)

I’ve lived a lifetime being called “Miss Perfect” and being accused of thinking I am perfect when inside, I am so aware of my flaws that I want to cry. I am mortified by mistakes I made as a child, by flubs and missteps taken as a teenager. Just a glimpse into a mirror or my closet has my inner critic yelling at what she sees.

I was a “perfect” kid growing up–if you weren’t inside my head. I never caused any trouble, other than that time in seventh grade when I was sent to the principal’s office for questioning a teacher’s decision to run through every single question and answer on a worksheet. I followed rules, I made good choices, I avoided the rebels and the troublemakers. I won awards and certificates and accolades.

But once I realized I would never be a concert pianist, I stopped practicing enough. I’d laugh and call myself a renaissance woman because I’d tried so many things but do you see me perfect any of those things? No.

Why when my inner critic was so loud and nit-picky? I thought the voice in my head was just me observing myself and drawing conclusions but come to find out, most of you don’t have an inner critic who is constantly nagging you and criticizing you and telling you that you will never be good enough.

Fortunately, along with age comes a realization that this life is really just a vapor. Do you really want to spend it trying to control the uncontrollable? Do you really want to listen to that mean voice in your head all the time? Do you care that you aren’t perfect and never will be?

No. (Well, a little bit if we’re being frank.)

But I really do wish you’d all do things the right way . . . which, shockingly enough, is my way. (Trust me, I’ve done the research.)