I Shouldn’t Even Say This

You know how you like to look as if you have things together? Or at least you try to keep from looking like a lunatic? You might be frothing at the mouth, screaming at your kids, but the phone rings and you say, “Hello?” in the sweetest voice imaginable? Or someone says to you in public, “How are you?” and you say, “Oh, fine. Busy, but fine!” when you are really thinking, “I’m drowning! If I have to wipe one more nose or smell one more stinky kid, I will throw myself out the window!”

Mostly, I strive to appear like a sane woman who has it sort of together. I mean, most days I don’t wear foundation and mascara and blush, so my face is bleary and lipless and blotchy which is always embarrassing when someone unexpectedly stops by. And recently a mom-friend told me she’d never seen me in jeans, only sweatpants, which is purely coincidental, because I don’t wear sweatpants all the time. Really. I don’t. But I don’t look like Sar*h J*ssica Parker, dancing my way through a Gap commercial, either. (Everytime I see that, I think, she’s my age, which is clearly wrong.)

But I know people think I am calm and sedate and rational. And today I wasn’t. At all.

I shouldn’t even say this–after all, what will you think–but today my twins made me furious. All I wanted them to complete for school was one unit of spelling and a few vocabulary lessons. Simple, right? They both woke up with the emotional stability of a teenage girl experiencing premenstrual syndrome. TwinBoyA actually narrowed his left eye at me while snarling through a curled lip when I went over his science assessment from yesterday. Both twins refused to do their spelling. Their defiance is what set me off.

Pretty soon I was gritting my teeth and demanding that they work. They dug their heels in. The baby was fussing in my arms while Babygirl and DaycareKid squabbled over toys. At some point, TwinBoyA expressed his displeasure with me by walking through the kitchen and casually knocking a high chair tray and a couple other items to the floor. He has been throwing things in fits of anger since before he could walk. He used to throw furniture–the child-sized rocker was a favorite–but now, he just slyly displaces things–I will find a stack of CDs on the floor or a pencil snapped in two and discarded behind a chair.

When he purposely tipped things onto the floor, I went berserk inside my head. I pursed my lips into a tight line and then went to his room and opened his headboard and threw his stack of playing cards on the floor. I dumped his bedding (unmade bedding) on the floor. I tossed some books on the floor. I emptied a plastic container full of blocks on the floor. TwinBoyB watched me do this. He was completely shocked. I did not care. I took the folded laundry from the couch and deposited it on the floor between their beds.

Both boys went upstairs and I found them playing Nintendo. I took the controllers out and told them to finish their lessons. They tried to make deals with me: “We’re not doing spelling. How about if we do music instead?” No. No. No.

I was so angry that I fantasized about grabbing the car keys and leaving the house. I imagined enrolling them back in public school next year. In fact, I called TwinBoyA over to me and I informed him how very close he was to returning to school. I said, “So if you’d like to be back in the halls of school, having people make fun of you, just go ahead because that’s where you’re heading.”

I thought of Mt. St. Helen’s . . . how it explodes when there is no easy outlet for its molten lava. I was like that volcano today–bubbling with fiery hot fury.

I thought I was such an easy-going, calm, patient, loving person. And then I had kids. Motherhood is a continual lesson in disappointment with myself. I thought I’d be better. I thought I’d have more control over how this situation turned out. I thought my kids would be more like me and less like themselves. I thought my kids would want to please me.

I thought parenting would be a stroll through a flower-filled park (quit laughing) and instead, it turns out to be an uphill climb in the rain. At night. Carrying four kids on my back. Without adequate footwear. Or a light. Or food. And all the while, they are chattering in my ears and arguing and calling each other “Stupid.”

My kids are more like magnifying glasses than anything else. They have supersized spotlights which peer into the very corners of my being, illuminating the cockroaches and dust and mucky ugliness that lurks in me. I much preferred the public me that I used to know, the unruffled person who was unchallenged and unquestioned, the person who excelled at things she tried. My kids will never know that person. They only know the screaming me who retaliates like a child and who says things like, “STOP. TALKING. TO. ME.”

For the record, I did clean up the mess I made. So did TwinBoyA. They also both finished their spelling units and we discussed their behavior later. They promise to be better, to do better, to work harder tomorrow.

When TwinBoyA said I overreacted, I peered at him and said, “Child, if you light a fuse, you just might set off a bomb.”

I need a vacation.

Why Did You Start Blogging?

I’ve been blogging now for almost a year and a half. I started blogging when Brandie suggested it. I used to be part of a parenting message board and Brandie thought it would be fun if we all started journals to share a glimpse of our lives with each other.

So, a handful of us did just that.

A few of us developed an addiction to blogs and blogging.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. How’d you get started? How long have you been blogging? You know me. I’m curious and can’t stop asking questions.

Note to Self: Eliminate Small Talk Attempts

An amazing thing happened today. I left Babygirl (and the boys, too) in the care of their grandmother for three hours. This may not seem remarkable to you, but today was the first day I’ve ever left Babygirl with anyone other than her daddy.

I intended to sneak out while she was napping and then, just at the time we needed to leave, the bedroom opened and Babygirl called out down the stairs, “I waked up early!”

She came down the stairs, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. I chatted with her for a moment, then suggested a video upstairs. She agreed and back up the stairs we went. I turned it on and said, “Hey, I’m going downstairs,” and she said (sensing something), “I go downstairs, too.” She followed me downstairs and so, I looked at her tousled blond curls and said, “Well, Grandma’s going to play with you. I have to go with Daddy for awhile. Bye!” And she said, “Bye!”

I called half an hour later to see if everyone had survived my sudden departure. They had. Wow. No tears at all.

My husband and I were guests at a luncheon. A parishoner who is a doctor and his wife invited us to hear a man lecture, so there I sat in a cozy room with about twenty or thirty doctors. I think there may have been a few other members of clergy, but mostly, doctors, all wearing khakis and cell-phones.

I sat next to the doctor’s wife. I don’t know her well, so I began with an innocuous question: “Did you grow up in this area?” She did, in the rough side of town. She mentioned how grateful she was for her house now with its view of the sun setting over the Puget Sound. She explained that her mother’s grave was near our town, too, which was a comfort to her. Her mother died when she was thirteen and whoever chose the gravesite at that time picked a place far across town from where they lived. Now, though, twenty years later, the grave is near her home.

I said, “What did your mother die from?” I am always curious about these things (I scour obituaries for information, too, about complete strangers)–probably because my own dad died when he was 47.

She said, “My mother committed suicide when I was thirteen.”

Please stop me from asking questions which seem innocuous to me but which elicit a painful, awkward response! I obviously need a new set of “small talk questions.”

I apologized and extended my sympathy. She said it was no problem, that she’s actually going to share her story at a women’s meeting soon. God really cared for her and kept her in His palm, she said. She truly is living happily ever after.

As for the lecture, when the man began to speak, my brain stirred from its long nap, sat up, stretched and I scribbed notes to try to keep up. He spoke with a cultured British accent and he talked about morality and philosophy and lofty ideas I seldom probe during my days as a nose-wiper, floor-cleaner, baby-rocker, schooler-of-kids-at-home. I thoroughly enjoyed the experience which made me long for an academic life full of ideas and languid conversation over iced tea.

And then I came home to Babygirl with her crooked grin and my mother with her mint green shoes. I have a mother. I have a daughter. I am thankful.

(I ask too many questions. Beware, should you ever have lunch with me.)

Adventures With a Shiny Thumbnail and a Sad Ending

I and my glowing thumbnail were very busy today. We attempted to sleep in, but Babygirl woke us at 7:20 a.m. This is an early hour on a Saturday, yet a full two hours later than my normal wake-up-and-walk time, so I tried not to be bitter.

Saturday morning tradition at our house involves donuts. I combined a trip to the donut shop with a trip to Target to purchase a birthday present and film. Babygirl accompanied me and my glossy thumbnail and although she is darling and cute and fun and all, I much prefer running errands on my own.

At 11 a.m., Babygirl and YoungestBoy and I were standing in the parking lot of our pool club, waiting for the Easter Egg hunt to begin. The twins are officially “too old” for Easter Egg hunting, so they stayed home with my husband. The rain had stopped and I commented to another mom, “Wow, aren’t we lucky? I thought it would rain all morning.” The cold rain resumed, however, the second the kids began hunting for eggs.

But what’s a little precipitation among friends? Babygirl and another two year old were the only ones in their age group, so they each easily scooped up a basket full of plastic eggs. YoungestBoy filled his bucket, too.

We were home long enough for me to clean up the kitchen and start a new load of laundry. Then I took YoungestBoy to a birthday party, this one at a YMCA swimming pool. While the other kids his age frolicked in the safety of life-jackets, he swam underwater, bobbing up for air. This kid loves the water.

When he jumped into the pool, I found a seat on the bleachers with another mom. I didn’t know this particular mom, so I introduced myself. She told me she was Lauren’s mom and I remembered how YoungestBoy had a crush on Lauren in kindergarten. We chatted as moms on the sidelines tend to do and then I said, “So, do you have other children?” and the second the words escaped my mouth, I remembered with dismay that this was the mom whose two-year old daughter died not long ago.

I said something like, “Oh, I’m sorry. I just remembered–you lost a child, didn’t you?” We got past that awkward moment and then I gently asked, “How are you doing?” and gave her the opportunity to talk about her daughter and her loss.

The two year old had a liver disorder, of unknown cause. She had surgery as a newborn and doctors told her parents she’d eventually need a liver transplant. When she was two, they found a perfect match and proceeded with the transplant. Things went terribly wrong and two days before Christmas, she died of complications. The doctors had assured them that there was a ninety-eight percent chance the surgery would be a success, but she died anyway.

And then, less than three months later, I had to ask, “So, do you have other children?”

I thought of other friends I know, how they hate that people are afraid to talk about their lost children, of how people shy away from them, afraid of saying the wrong thing. I can only hope that I did the right thing, said the right thing, listened the right way. If Babygirl died today, I’d want to die, too. But if I lived, I’d want to talk about her endlessly, about the fine blond hair that curls just so above her ears, about the repetoire of songs she sings when she’s supposed to be napping, about the way she dances and urges me to dance, too.

Some days are like this post, I guess. You complain because you can’t sleep in and joke about your smooth thumbnail and before you know it, you are looking into the sad eyes of a mom with a loss like a giant black hole. Where do you possibly go from there? At the end, you thank God for the children you are so tired of picking up after, rub your thumbnail as if it will cause a genie to appear to do your bidding (“Pick up this mess! Finish the laundry! Wash the windows!”) and go to bed, whispering an extra prayer for the mom at the pool who’d give anything to have her daughter back in her arms.

Mr. Smooth Strikes Again

Tonight, a strange man caressed my hand and now I can’t stop rubbing my thumbnail.

See, it all started a week or two ago when I couldn’t find a thing to wear on a Saturday morning. I had a blue-jeans crisis, which I solved later that weekend by marching myself into Eddie Bauer and plucking a pair of denim jeans from the shelf. I didn’t even try them on and didn’t have time to take advantage of the buy one, get one half-off sale. I was in a huge hurry.

Since then, I’ve regretted my hasty purchase of only one pair of jeans. I love them and I want another pair so I can rid my closet of the others that I hate. I had a rough week with the kids, so the second my husband came home, I went shopping. First, I went to my favorite store, Marshall’s, where I found an Easter dress and pointy-toed pumps. After that, I headed back to the mall to see if I could get another pair of jeans for half-off the original price.

I parked outside of Macy’s and zig-zagged through the store to the mall corridor. I had my force field up, yet the penetrating gaze of a kiosk employee caused some kind of malfunction. I never, ever, ever, ever take a survey or listen to a spiel or even make eye contact in a mall. I just don’t. It’s a gift, a special psychological shield which protects me from such nonsense. Plus, I have the fat-housewife invisibility thing going on. Works great. Usually.

Yet, this dark-haired man reeled me into his space and asked me, “Do you have natural nails?” And I held up both my dish-pan hands and with a laugh said, “Of course! I’m a housewife!”

He looked at me with pity and compassion and took me by one dried up, wrinkled hand with its one age-spot and said, “Oh, I can help you.”

“Let me show you this,” Mr. Smooth said. And he gazed into my eyes as he held my hand. I’m afraid I had a little smirk (which he may have mistaken for a grin) on my face because I was so amused and I was thinking, Oh, just wait until I get home! Perfect blog material! His eyes twinkled and I couldn’t help but notice his long lashes. And he had some kind of accent, but I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you if it was Middle Eastern or Italian or Latin. All I know is that he was buffing my fingernail with a small rectangular block and I was thinking, I’m SO not buying anything. I wonder how much that thing is? and if I ask him how much it is, he’ll think I’m going to buy it and I’m not.

I also remembered how my sister once gave me a nail-buffing kit and how it was fun to make my nails shiny and smooth one time and then it was just too much hassle. I think I sold that kit at a garage sale.

Meanwhile, Mr. Smooth is shining and buffing away. When the thumbnail is done, it glimmers and glows and Mr. Smooth smiles and blinks at me and insists I smell the different lotions that accompany the rectangular buffing tool. I sniff each one, make a face at some. He tells me his favorite and asks which one I like. I know where this is going.

Sure enough. “This kind of product would sell for $59.95! But we don’t have television commercials. You just tell your friends and I can sell this to you for $29.95.”

I raised my eyebrows in a Do-you-think-I-shop-at-Nordstrom’s-because-I-just-came-from-the-Marshall’s-clearance-rack-where-I-purchased-a-silk-dress-and-patent-leather-Ralph-Lauren-pumps-for-a-grand-total-of-$60-dude-look and said, “I don’t think so.”

He said, “No?”

I said, “No.”

He leaned in conspiratorially and said, “Tell you what. You’re probably my last customer of the night, so I can give you the lotion free and the whole thing is only $19.95.” I grimaced and said, “Uh, no.”

“No?” he said.

“No.”

He must have mistaken me for a desperate housewife who would fall prey to the handsome hand-holding antics of a long-lashed accented man, but no. I’m no floozy. And I also wouldn’t dream of paying $19.95 for a fingernail system when I could buy something similar at Target for half the price.

He said, “Why?”

I said, “Too expensive.”

He raised his hands in despair and shrugged and he was done with me. No lingering fingertips on my palm, no fluttering touch on my wrist, nothing. No more flirty gazes into my eyes. My force field snapped back into place and I was invisible again.

I said, “But good job!” and hurried off. He didn’t even say good-bye. All I have to remember him by is my silky-smooth thumbnail. I can’t stop circling it with my index finger. Mr. Smooth! You have ruined me! I was perfectly content with my neglected nails and now, I am obsessed with the ridge-free zone, the way the light glints off my thumbnail.

So if you a woman walking around tomorrow making tiny circular motions on her thumbnail and pressing said thumb to her upper lip to feel the smoothness, that would be me.

Did You Hear Me Screaming?

I was unable to get Blogger to cooperate with me yesterday, despite my pleas. I hope you didn’t miss me too much. (Blogger Support assures me they are working on their issues, but I’m not holding my breath.) By the way, if you are unable to comment using the comment feature, feel free to email me at melodee at gmail dot com.

I “interviewed” two blogging friends. Jan answered her interview questions over at Happy Homemaker. Be sure to say hello and let her know I sent you.

Wash Lady answered her interview questions, too. Check out her answers at Life’s Laundry. Again, tell her hello and enjoy her site.

A couple of others are working on their questions, too. I’ll post links to them soon.

I’ll be back later (God-willing, if the creek don’t rise and Blogger cooperates) with something to say. I think. I just might run away from home. I don’t like twelve year old boys much today.

One of Hundreds of Questions

As we dropped off his brothers at church for youth group at 6:11 p.m., 7 year old YoungestBoy, remembered that a magician would be performing at his school at 7:00 p.m.

I quickly adjusted my plans and YoungestBoy and I dropped off video games at the rental store, made a quick stop at Target for diapers and microwave popcorn (the essentials). As we shopped, YoungestBoy peppered me with one question after the next. He noted, “Mom, I have hundreds of questions in my mind.” As the owner of an already cluttered mind, I find this terribly distracting, yet I play along.

We dropped the diapers off and arrived at the school in the nick of time. The magician did a great job of handling the rowdy little crowd of kids. YoungestBoy was picked to be a helper and not only did he grin at the crowd, but he played along with the magician, exaggerating surprise at the way the magician created a peanut butter and jelly sandwich even though the jars were set on tables six feet apart. (It’s complicated. Just trust me on that one.) YoungestBoy is a born performer. He relishes being on stage. I’m a little scared. (But then again, maybe someday he will be able to afford to buy me a house with a pantry.)

Here is the only question I can remember out of the non-stop barrage of curiosity flowing from his brain: “Mom, would you rather lick a slug or touch a great white shark?”

That’s easy. I’d touch a shark any day. Under no conditions would I ever lick a slug. At least I have some answers to some of the questions. That’s a good start.

Grenade or Band-aid?

He was thirty-three years old and had already been married fourteen years. He and his wife had survived bankruptcy, twenty-five cross-country moves, cancer, job hirings and job firings and mostly lean times. They had three children in four years and then the surprise baby who arrived five years later. For quite a few years, the marriage had been stale. He quit conversing with her. They exchanged few words, fewer looks, no affection. They’d promised to love forever, but forever stretched so far past the horizon that he finally gave up. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life trapped in this beige box of discontent. He couldn’t endure this. It was no way to live, he said. He wanted to be free.

He bought a big yellow do-it-yourself divorce book. And without warning, the divorce grenade hit our family and blew up the life we knew. It was as if our parents agreed it would be better to demolish the house that was our family, in order to rebuild houses somewhere else out of the scavenged materials. They thought it would be better for us somehow. Blow it up. Sort the debris. Rebuild.

The problem with blowing a house to smithereens is that you aren’t left with much but a hole in the ground. Once the debris settled and the dust cleared, we barely recognized each other. The jokes we shared were obliterated along with the walls of our house. We were all so badly injured by the blast that we curled in upon ourselves, determined to live or die alone. I was eleven then.

Neither our mother or our father were able to salvage much of what had been our family. They started over with new people, leaving us to pick through the scattered remains of our yesterdays. My brother and sisters were badly damaged and suffered lifelong emotional disabilities from the divorce. I emerged fairly unscathed and managed to find healing when I forgave my parents for their mistakes when I was twenty.

But I still don’t understand how anyone would choose to blow up a marriage instead of finding a way to remodel it. Unless a house is unfit for habitation, doesn’t it make sense to remodel? Or to add on? Why toss a grenade?

My parents spent the fourteen years after their divorce regretting their decision. They each remarried vastly inappropriate people. They were each divorced again. My mother remarried two more times; each man was more horrific than the last. (Shotguns, bruises, too much alcohol, unemployment–fill in the blanks.) My sisters and brother and I were taken care of on a purely physical level, but our hearts were crushed. When we came home from school each afternoon to an empty house, we each retreated to our own rooms and locked the doors. We came out for dinner and then disappeared again to our safety zones behind closed doors. My brother and one sister battled drugs and made a series of scary decisions.

Every day was not a horror, of course. We had happy times. We celebrated birthdays. We shared some hobbies, long-distance bicycling, mostly. We gardened together. I excelled at school and busied myself with volunteer obligations and church activities. We might have seemed to have adjusted well to our new blended family. But I always figured that at any time, our family might derail and I knew that I couldn’t count on any of the grown-ups to rescue us. It was every man for himself.

That’s what my parents’ divorce taught me. I learned that the only person I can really count on is me. Promises mean nothing. Parents may or may not stick around. Expect nothing. Guard your heart. Keep a distance.

Should my parents have stayed in an unloving, dull, unfulfilling relationship? No. They ought to have remodeled that relationship, reframed it, redecorated it, paid attention to the structure of their life together. Grown-ups get to make those sorts of decisions and they have an obligation to their children to grow up and to realize that life is not just all about them anymore. And life is not all about being “happy.” “Happy” is not the point. I’ll take commitment and promise over “happy” any day of the week.

My dad died a mere fourteen years after he divorced my mother and exploded our family. My mother was in the room when he died, holding his hand, crying, despite everything–all the subsequent spouses and houses and divorces–with him until death parted them. He loved her in his flawed, imperfect way. She loved him. They hurt each other and instead of holding on, sticking together, figuring it out, truly growing up together, keeping their promises, they burned the bridge our family stood on.

None of us knows the last scene of our lives. That moment may be distant or it may be around the next bend. Situations and relationships are fluid, changing, always in flux. What looks foreboding and simply impossible today might seem like a small challenge tomorrow. That scarred landscape ahead might be bordered by a delightful path along an ice-cold river. You just don’t know until you get there.

But don’t blow up the house when rearranging the furniture will do. Remodel, don’t demolish. For the sake of the kids. Because I promise you, the house built from broken boards and shattered glass and torn shingles will never seem like home to the kids, even if you love the new skylight and figure everyone will forget the old home place. The kids never forget.

“It Could Always Be Worse”

My friend, Brandie, mentioned to me today in an instant message that I haven’t written a word since Friday. Why? I offered the following reasons before the phone rang and naptime arrived and I abruptly abandoned our chat.

1) I have been too busy. My husband worked Friday night, most of Saturday and most of Sunday. (Retreat for the board of a rescue mission, funeral, meetings, church, meetings, and then another meeting.) I accepted a transcription job, so I had sixty-four pages to transcribe by this morning. The weather here was glorious, so we spent a lot of time outdoors. I took the kids twice to the school playground where the boys rode bikes, climbed the monkey bars and ran around. Babygirl pedaled her bike, too, and played on the slides. We finished each playground excursion with a McDonald’s ice cream cone.

2) I am too boring. My husband worked Friday night, blah, blah, blah, blah. My big outing this week was a drive to The House I Lust After Love to take pictures of the neighborhood for my friend, MarathonMom.

3) No one reads my blog over the weekend anyway. Well, hardly anyone.

Not long ago, the boys read a story in literature called “It Could Always Be Worse.” This is a tale of a Jewish man who had come to the end of his rope. He went to his rabbi for advice. He complains how bad things are: he’s poor, he and his six kids and in-laws live in a one-room hut. “Believe me, ” he says, “–my home is awful, and things could not possibly be worse!”

The rabbi tells the man to take his animals–his cow, goat and some chickens–into his house to live with him. Of course, things get worse, much worse. The man runs to the rabbi to complain. The rabbi tells him to take out the chickens. Soon after, the man runs to the rabbi again, complaining about the goat. The rabbi tells him to remove the goat. Then, the man runs to the rabbi crying about the cow. The rabbi tells him to take the cow out of his house.

Not a day later, the man runs to the rabbi to report, “Rabbi! You’ve made life sweet again for me. With all the animals out, the house is so quiet, so roomy, and so clean! What a pleasure!” (The End)

And that, my friends, is why staying home with just my four kids feels like a sort of a vacation. Today, DaycareKid didn’t come (sick in the night, I guess) and CuteBaby only stayed half a day. I felt liberated. I cleaned out YoungestBoy’s closet. I washed the twins’ bedding and remade their beds. These chores, done during daylight on a Monday, no less, were a pleasure, because normally, I’m fully occupied by the duties of my regular life: schooling the twins during the morning, taking care of 3-month old CuteBaby, refereeing the squabbles between Babygirl and DaycareKid, answering the phone, interacting with the laundry. (Interacting! Ha!) ( realized very recently that I am a working mom and a stay-at-home mom. I even make more than minimum wage now, a whole lot more if you count my occasional transcription work.)

We left at 4:00 p.m. for the playground and stayed until 5:00 p.m. Normally, my childcare duties extend until 5:30 p.m.

Truly, the days when my twins were babies seem like a picnic compared to the juggling act I perform now. You don’t realize how easy it is to parent a baby (or two), until you no longer have time to watch “The View” or “Oprah.” You aren’t grateful for a non-verbal infant until your house is filled with the shouts of pre-teens and toddlers. You have no idea how easy it is to clean a house when the only ones messing it up are you and your husband because your babies can’t use their hands yet. You don’t cherish those monontonous hours until later, when you realize your house, now full of chickens, a cow and a goat, wasn’t really that bad before. Working around naptime? No big deal. Loneliness? I could cope. Boring television? Oh, if only I could actually locate the remote control and turn the television to something other than Sesame Street.

Those were the days.
These are the days.
For tomorrow, I just might be living with an aardvark. You never know.

It’s all in how you look at it.

I’ve Been Unfaithful

I have a confession to make. I never, ever dreamed I would be in this situation, but an email last week changed everything. Before I knew it, I was climbing into the cab of a super-sized pick-up truck and heading out of my neighborhood, leaving my husband and kids behind. Oh sure, I returned that night, but something inside me has irrevocably changed and I will never be the same. Even though I’m here, my heart is there.

You wouldn’t be so suprised if I detailed my current living situation, the drabness, how things have broken down without warning. When I was there the other night, I felt whole and new, like a rereleased song with enhanced digital remixing. And when the all-too-short moments passed, we went to Starbucks and drank hot drinks and shivered in the air-conditioning and talked about it. We talked about other things, too, and then I climbed back into the pick-up and back to my regular life in my worn house built in 1972 filled with shabby-not-chic furniture.

I’m in love (you might call it “lust,” but I think this is the Real Thing) and I don’t think it’s too soon to admit it. When you fall in love, no amount of boring logic and reasonable thought matters. When I saw how big it was, that’s when I knew. I hadn’t even recognized my longing until that night when I walked into a small room and found a pantry that went on and on. That’s right. A pantry. (What did you think I was talking about?)

You believe you are content with your own house until an out-of-state friend emails and asks if you’ll take a look at a house they hope to buy. That’s what happened to me the other night. The housing market here is hopping, so when my friend, RealEstateAgentFriend, alerted my friend, MarathonMom, that a house was available, MarathonMom (who lives across the country) asked me to check it out for her. RealEstateAgentFriend came and picked me up in her husband’s pick-up truck and off we went.

Here is what $370,000 will buy you–a house built in 2002 with a giant living room, even bigger upstairs family room, formal dining room, eat-in kitchen with cozy gas-fireplace room/family room attached, two ovens, a built-in microwave, a enormous laundry room with attached pantry (that was when I fell in love–it’s a long, narrow room with shelving all along one side), three bedrooms, three bathrooms, HUGE CLOSETS EVERYWHERE, a two-car garage, oh, and did I mention the PANTRY? Everything was shiny and clean and new and in contrast, I am living in a Goodwill store with poor hygiene and body odor.

MarathonMom (named for the marathons she insists on running even though she is now the mother of three and has a Ph.D., oh, and did I mention that she also has long, straight, naturally blond hair and is the sweetest person on the planet? I hate her, no, I love her! I can’t help it!)–oh, where was I? MarathonMom and her husband (the doctor) won a bidding war and now own the house. They aren’t moving in until July, so they’ve asked me to go by once a week and open the windows and check on it. She said I could have a party or roll around on the carpet or whatever I want.

She has no idea. I’m in lust love and there’s no way I’m leaving the new object of my affections, even if I have to move into the pantry. Just call me Alice and give me an apron. I’m staying.