Revive me again

I’ve spent hours going through old blog posts because at some point my blog became contaminated with spam links. I noticed this a couple of weeks ago when a link to my blog came up in my Facebook feed.  I read the post and noticed a strange link and then realized that spam is spread throughout my blog like termites. So I’m going through each post and removing the link by hand. (So far, I’m finished with 2009 and 2008.)

Speaking of termites, I’m so afraid we have them, at least in the large wooden patio covering in my back yard. Some of the wood is coming apart and if I lived in Washington state still, I’d just assume it’s rotting wood or something inexplicable but now I’m just worried about termites.  I’m having some companies come and do “free” inspections but it strikes me as improbable that a company who is in the business of exterminating termites would not FIND termites.  It’s like a kick-back from them to them.

Anyway, reading my blog posts from ten years ago has been an encouragement to blog more regularly. In ten years I won’t remember so much of this time in my life. I can see that clearly because when I read those posts from 2008, I am flooded with emotions. And I want to kiss myself on the lips in gratitude for preserving in words all those minutes and days and weeks.

For instance, will I remember in ten years that today my cell phone rang and my 20-year old son told me, “First of all, we are okay,” before explaining that “his” car (that we leased) was rear-ended on the freeway because he had to stop suddenly?  He managed not to hit the car in front of him but the guy behind him smashed into the bumper and trunk of his car.  He pulled over and took a photo of the guys’ license. He photographed both cars and got the guys’ phone number. Then he called me.

The funny thing is that the smashed in part of the car had already been dented (by an unknown driver in a parking lot way back when he first got his license) and then by rolling backward in the driveway and bumping (hard!) into a fire hydrant. I’m still not exactly sure how that might have happened, but it did.

Will I remember that it rained today and that I:

1) Woke up at 7:15 AM and got up at 8:30 AM and went for a walk on the trails?  Even though it was lightly raining?

2) Drove Adam to work at 10 AM?

3) Came home and ate yogurt and homemade granola while watching an episode of Breaking Bad (Season 4 – I am ten years behind everyone else)?

4)  Agreed to meet husband for lunch at Souplantation at 1 PM and when he called at 12:47 PM and said, “Are you almost here?” and I said, “Um, yeah,” and when he said, “Where are you?” and I hesitated for just a second before confessing, “In the laundry room.”?  (I followed that up with, “You SAID one o’clock!”)

(We tardy people always think we can do just One More Thing.  In this case, I thought I could just switch the laundry real quick before heading out. Non-tardy people show up fifteen minutes early.)


My 15-year old daughter spent the night last night at her friend Erika’s house. She’s there all day and tonight, too. I just read about her five-year old self in my blog posts from 2008 and it kind of makes my heart hurt to remember. Then again, I had those sweet times with her, even if she can’t remember them.  Even if she’d rather be at some other house all day and all night.


I’m in the background investigation stage of getting a new job as a dispatcher. It feels super invasive to have questionnaires sent to my seven references plus my family members, including the sister who hasn’t spoken to me in fifteen years. I feel like I haven’t really taken a deep breath since December 11, 2017, when I applied for this job.  I just really want the job.


I just read an Ann Patchett book (This is the Story of a Happy Marriage) and it was a delight. Now I’m reading a quick mystery by Harlan Coben.


And with that, I consider this blog revived.

Revive me again


I stood in line at Target today with an armful of things I didn’t know I needed until I found them while on a quest to get hair mousse.

In front of me stood a woman with a little girl. I watched them interact.

The woman ran her fingers through the child’s hair and asked her if she’d brushed it that morning. The woman told the girl that something was bad for her brain (screen-time? I didn’t hear) and that they should get some exercise, maybe go for a walk.

I remembered with a pang when my girl was that small and I felt such a rush of longing for her small self. I miss her childhood in a way that I never missed my sons’ younger days. Maybe that’s because the boys were all noise and headlocks and video games and smelly socks and unflushed toilets.

My daughter was dollies and tea parties. She was stickers and markers and notes penned to the “Best Mommy In the Whole World.” She was stuffed animals and “Finding Nemo.” We used to walk around the block in the afternoons and when she was really little, she once insisted on going into a neighbor’s yard where she started to gather their ceramic gnomes.

We did everything together, and not just because she would cry if I left her with a sitter. She loved to swim and she adored the ocean, so we’d go on long strolls down the beach. “Want to go see the sunset?” and she’d always say yes. She’d insist on wearing a swimsuit, even for a nightly stroll when it was too cold for getting wet and she’d get splashed anyway.

For years, I took her to every soccer practice and every soccer game. I sat on the sidelines while she practiced, even when other parents just dropped their kids off. She talked non-stop while we drove from place to place. Her constant chatter was the soundtrack of my life.

When she was very little, she’d come into my bed every night or early every morning. She’d rotate like she was a rotisserie chicken and it drove me absolutely crazy how she could not be still. If she didn’t come into bed, she’d just wake me every ten minutes by standing bedside and saying, “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom.” until I stirred.

(When was the last time she crawled into bed with me?)

What I’m saying is that we were close.  We were very close. Every night she’d call downstairs, “I’m ready!” and I’d go upstairs and tell her goodnight.

Until one night, she didn’t call me upstairs and I didn’t notice.

She used to watch “Survivor” with me and then one night, I remember saying, “Okay, but only if you’re still and if you don’t talk.” (I so regret those moments I was irritable and short with her. I thought we had forever.)

She never watches television with me anymore, even when I ask.

I miss her.

I miss her blond curls. I miss her hand in mine. I miss her absolute belief in me.

Now, sometimes when I say something, she scrunches her darkened eyebrows at me, conveying her astonishment at my ignorance or . . . whatever. I get that scrunchy-eyebrow look fairly regularly. She is far, so far from me.

I never, ever expected her to drift away. I thought that we would always be close. (Is that crazy?) I don’t even know the moment that the tide carried her away and now she’s a speck out in the sea.

So, she’s growing up, becoming herself by trying on some different personas. (Her current persona has purple hair and wants a septum piercing.) She’s 15. She has to find her way. She will find her way.  (I hope it’s back to me, someday.)


My heart is an empty nest, feathered with memories of a little girl who once adored me.



Today was okay. Busy, but fine. Whatever.

(Still unemployed. Husband left the country on a trip this morning. I had to get up super early today. Took my car for an oil change. Just regular life.)

And then at 9:15 tonight, my son said, “Is that water?” He pointed to my office ceiling, the same ceiling that is only two years old.

This is the ceiling that was repaired after a toilet overflowed and left puddles of water that rained onto my desk. It cost a lot and involved my insurance company and ended up raising my insurance rates.

Yeah, that ceiling. It has an unmistakably wet mushy spot.


It’s always something, isn’t it?

This time I poked a big hole in it and only a few drops of water plunked onto my desk chair.

I guess I’ll be calling a plumber tomorrow.


Tuesday Museday

Several times today I clicked my iPhone on to check if it were Tuesday or Wednesday. That sums up the discombobulation of unemployment coupled with the kids’ Winter Break. I have no idea who I am or what day it is.

But life has a way of propelling one forward. I’d seen a video of someone making lasagna and my longing to eat that lasagna gave purpose to my day.

How much smaller life is than I once imagined it would be. Small goals, easily reached.

My husband has let me know in no uncertain terms that I can no longer classify myself as middle aged unless I plan to live to be 104. I insisted that the first ten years of life don’t really count, therefore I am obviously middle aged, even if I should die before I reach 100.

So I have small goals. I’ve given up the illusion that kids–mine or others–value my opinion or instructions. It’s so stupid, really, that once you add decades of life experience–plus a lot of reading and observing–younger people dismiss you because you’re old middle aged.


I wanted lasagna. I got in my daily exercise–the better to outlive you, my dear–and bought the ingredients. I cooked it. I ate it.

Here’s a tip for you youngsters.

Next time your eyes slide past a middle aged person as you search for someone who is exciting and relevant and unwrinkled, stop. Ask that invisible older person in your life, “What do you think?”

You might be surprised.

Meanwhile, I’ll be hiking and eating whatever I fancy for dinner because I can.

Tuesday Museday

Let’s start the new year with a boring blog post, shall we?

Today, I undecorated my house.

I also decided that since I was putting my Christmas dishes away, it would be a great time to declutter the cabinet where I keep them and then, just for good measure, rearrange the living room furniture.

I finally sat down after (mostly) accomplishing those projects at 7 PM.

(My dog, Lola, is sitting at my elbow, trying to get me to make eye contact with her.  She thinks that we ought to just hug it out but I am avoiding her gaze because it’s never enough with her. No amount of petting will satisfy her.)

(She just gave up and is lying down now.)

I am reading Before the Fall, so I retreated to my bed to read for a couple of hours before taking an accidental nap. So I’m pretty much awake now that it’s time to go to sleep.  Story of my life.

My outside Christmas lights are still burning bright. Tomorrow I’ll have to take those down but first, I’ll have to get a storage container since they are all new this year–and I’ll have to find a spot to stash stuff in the garage.  It’s always something, right?

(The dog has redoubled her efforts at making eye contact with me.)

Also, I found the missing Christmas stocking while cleaning out the cabinet where I stashed an untidy stack of never-used tablecloths. I knew it would turn up sooner or later, and sure enough, it did, just in time to be packed away for next year so now I have eight Christmas stockings and I sure hope that doesn’t mean I’m adding another person to my household by then because, no.  Enough.

You can never pet me enough to make me happy. Beware.
Let’s start the new year with a boring blog post, shall we?

This is the way the year ends

I thought about doing one of those fancy end-of-the-year posts that summarizes the Best and Worst of the year, but the events in my life that are memorable are mostly things I wish I could forget, but never will. Alas. (And I can’t talk about them here.)

I learned this year that sometimes people I love will inexplicably choose behaviors that I never even thought to forbid. I learned that truly, the only person I can control is myself.  I learned that, most importantly, I can choose my attitude in the midst of terrible situations.  (This year, my reading of Man’s Search for Meaning turned out to be perfect timing.)

This was a year in which I read less than usual because I had trouble focusing on a fictional world when my real world was stranger than fiction.

I began this year with the slow burning terror that I would lose my job at some point. I had no clear time-table which is like knowing a fire is approaching your house and smelling smoke but not knowing when the flames will lick at your front door. Do you sleep or spend all night packing up your important stuff?  Do you cook dinner or throw your whole pantry into a cooler so you can take off at a moment’s notice?  Is there any point in standing on your roof with a garden hose?

As it turned out, eleven months later, the call came and I lost my job.

So now I’m in a different muddle, one in which I don’t know when the next job will begin–or what that next job will be.

Stress. So much stress.

On a positive note, though, I have to point out several things.

I finally got myself together this past year and started walking at least 10,000 steps a day in March. I’m feeling better physically than I have in years.  I believe that all the exercise gave me strength to get through my days while feeling less frazzled than I would have otherwise.

My husband and I celebrated our 30th anniversary this summer with some fun at Disneyland.  He is the constant steady calm in my life.  Even in the midst of a very stressful season for him professionally, he’s been the stable, gentle, funny guy I married all those years ago. He is the best choice I ever made.

Also, when I reached out to a few friends with my tales of woe, those friends regaled me with their own tales of woe.  Knowing that my delightful friends–who are beautiful, accomplished, hilarious, smart women–traversed similar rocky paths has been such a comfort to me.  When I think, “Where did I go wrong?”, I remind myself that I am not alone and I am not the one who made STUPID choices.  (Still.  It’s been aggravating.)

I’m sure there was something else I meant to point out, but maybe I mentioned that I’ve been distracted these days?


Here’s to a new year.  This one definitely ends with a whimper.

This is the way the year ends

Holly jolly, oh my golly

So I’ve just wasted almost two hours of my time worrying. My kid is at a friend’s house and when I texted to just check in, there was no response.

I decided, in no particular order that:

1)  The child ran away from home and is probably being sex-trafficked as we speak.

2)  A car hit the child and the child is now paralyzed, lying on a cold, dark street, unable to answer the phone.

3)  A wildfire swept through the neighborhood and the child has been burned beyond recognition which is why the police haven’t appeared on my doorstep yet.

4)  Aliens exist and have abducted the child and the adjacent solar system has no cell service so obviously, my text messages didn’t go through.

The truth is so much more boring. The phone was plugged in, getting charged, in another room while the child was downstairs at the friend’s house, eating dinner and watching some Christmas movie.

Listen, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.

Having a baby when you’re 37 is no big deal.
Having a teenager when you’re 52 is almost more than the heart can take.

(I know.  I’m irrational and possibly need intensive inpatient treatment.)

Holly jolly, oh my golly