I thought I’d post a quick entry here tonight and yet I have very little to report. Working full-time, even from home, even from my computer in the midst of my household, still feels like work. The downside? My housework is neglected. And I can’t seem to get a decent dinner on the table. The upside? A paycheck! Oh, and I do actually like the work. That’s a plus.

My husband had an eventful week. He had a wisdom tooth pulled on Wednesday morning and despite my dire warnings–I’d had a molar pulled last summer and it was grim and unpleasant–he had no pain, no residual effects whatsoever. I felt stupidly defensive, as if my reaction to a similar situation (gloom and despair) was irrational.

I surprised my husband with a new iPhone for Valentine’s Day. Normally, I barely notice Valentine’s Day, let alone participate in it, but this year I needed to make up for a dismal performance at Christmas. (We always agree: let’s not go crazy at Christmas–“don’t get me anything,” we say–and then he always GETS ME SOMETHING while I have clung to the original agreement.)

Anyway, my fortysomething husband is now all hip and happening and able to receive and send text messages–imagine that! (We are woefully behind the times.) The iPhone inspires awe.

He shocked me by buying me a cool little digital camera, an improvement over my current digital camera which has become quirky (ie. refuses to work from time to time even with fresh batteries installed). This camera will come in handy when I fly to New York City in ten days. Oh, hadn’t I mentioned that? I’m flying to the corporate office on business.

Now, the very thought that I–a housewife with a favorite pair of slippers that I wear all day, every day–will be jetting off to New York on business–cracks me up. My initial concern was that everyone in New York would mock my purse, but I have been comforted–and gifted with a new purse–and now I worry only about finding cheap tickets to a Broadway show.

Any suggestions?

You never know where life will take you. I never thought it would take me to Manhattan on business. Now, tell me, if you were flying at midnight, arriving at 8 a.m. in New York City, what would you wear during the flight?

It’s 12:38 a.m. and I’ve finished working and turning in my hours for the pay period. It does not seem normal to be awake at this hour of the night. Usually, the phone rings at least once or twice in the mornings before I’m fully coherent. I manage to make my 10-year old a school lunch and comb his hair every morning before 8 a.m., but then I always return upstairs to my still-warm bed and fall semi-conscious for awhile.

I’ve always been predisposed to a nocturnal life, but for almost the entire last fifteen years I’ve been required to recalibrate my settings and rise early. When my twins were babies, they woke up every morning at 5:30 or 6. Until they were about four years old, they woke up that early, no matter what time they went to bed. For those four years of ruthless mornings, I vowed to get revenge when they were teenagers, but as it turns out, it’s so nice and quiet when they are sleeping late that I do not bang pots and pans by their heads at 6:00 a.m. to torture them as they tortured me for those long years.

Time is so odd because sometimes it stretches way past the horizon. You can’t imagine anything will ever change. You’ve been changing diapers forever or wiping noses for an entire lifetime. You can never imagine sleeping in until 10 a.m. or driving anywhere without buckling everyone into carseats or leaving a child behind when you run errands.

And then one day you look up and everything’s changed. Your kids are taller than you, your baby can grate cheese all by herself, and your mother is almost 65 years old. And that very day you get a letter from your immortal great-aunt and in her suddenly shaking cursive she tells you that she is 84 and Uncle Em is 81 and they’ve had a difficult winter and that the highlights of their day are when the mail arrives at 1:30 p.m. and the newspaper arrives at 4:30 p.m.

And you realize that these notecards that your great aunt has been sending to you for forty years–give or take a few months–will one day stop arriving.

And the crocuses you planted are pushing through the wet dirt already.

Not a single moment stops, ever. Life is a rushing river, never ever a stagnant pond. Grab the babies and kiss them while you can. And, by all means, take a few moments and send dear Aunt Nellie a letter and make her day.

So, last Friday night, my youngest sister and I went out to dinner to celebrate our birthdays.  (Hers in October, mine in January.)  After our dinner, she was supposed to pick up our other sister, the one who does not speak to me, from our grandmother’s house.  Because of the location of the restaurant, grandma’s house and my house, we decided the most sensible thing would be to stop by my grandma’s house on the way.

I knew that I would encounter my sister, obviously, but I am not about confrontation.  We arrived at the house and Estranged Sister was in the driveway retrieving something from our mother’s car.  I believe I said, “Hi,” on my way to the front door.  Once inside, I found my grandmother sitting in her office at the back of the house.  My mother sat at the desk and my grandmother sat in front of the desk.

I knelt by my grandma and she held my cold hands and told me how happy she was that I was there.  I had no idea but I’d walked into the middle of a dramatic situation–for that was the last night my grandmother was to spend in her own home.  She’s been living alone since my grandpa died in 1987.  She is 101 years old, nearly 102, and a few weeks ago, she fell.

As she tells the story, she lost her balance while trying to get her nightgown over her head.  Next thing she knew, three firefighters were in her room.  One said, “Do you know where you are?” because he was concerned that she might of hit her head.  She said in an indignant voice, “Of course I know!  I am in my bedroom!”

They lifted her up and put her on her bed.  She did have to go to the hospital but had no broken bones, just some bruises and scrapes.  That fall put into motion a series of events and my mother and my uncles and my cousin had decided that Grandma would move in with my cousin so she would no longer be alone and vulnerable.  (Oh, and did I mention that my grandmother is blind due to macular degeneration?)
My mother said, “Melodee, Grandma has some news!” and I said, “Grandma, do you have news for me?” and she acted surprised.  “News?  No, not really.”  And so my mother mouthed words to me and wrote a note and began to cry.  (The note said, “Mother is moving to Cindy’s.”)  Later, when we were alone, I said to Grandma, “So I hear you’re going to stay with Cindy?” and Grandma said, “Well, we’ve talked about it.  I’m going for a few days.”

That threw my mother into a sobbing panic.  In the driveway, she said to me, “We’re moving her chair and her bed!  What if she is upset?” and I said, “She’s just scared.  She’ll be all right.”  The transition from living alone, as she has for twenty years, and moving in with someone is enormous.  But everything will be okay.  At least that’s what I insist on believing.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, as I sat in my grandma’s book-filled office, I was aware of my sister’s presence in the other part of the house.  How awkward.  After a while, I walked out and talked to my cousin.  My other sister had told Estranged Sister that we’ll be giving her a ride.  (My other sister’s car is at my house.)

Eventually, we say farewell and head to the car.  Estranged Sister puts her suitcase and stuff in my trunk.  Here are the things I said to her on the way home:

1)  When was the last time you saw Grandma?  Did she look much different?

As usual, I was the one who made attempts at conversation.  Estranged Sister answered the question and that was that.

My other sister and I chatted most of the way home.  I may have directed another question or two toward the backseat, but I can’t remember now.

I invited her into my house for a second while my other sister came in to get something.  Estranged Sister stood by the doorway, picked up a newspaper from the recycling pile and read it for the few minutes we were inside.  She didn’t say hello to any of my children.
We could hire a therapist full-time for the rest of our lives and never untangle the knot that ties us together.

And now, she’s back in Japan.

I saw Michael Clayton tonight (starring my boyfriend, George Clooney). Now I have seen all the movies nominated for an Academy Award for Best Picture. (Atonement, Juno, Michael Clayton, There Will Be Blood and No Country for Old Men.) I’m going to guess that No Country for Old Men will win, but it’s hard to know. I’m going to predict the winners here. (Waiting for a password reminder, then I’m going for it.)

Interestingly enough, the sister I spoke of recently (who does not speak to me) will be arriving at my mother’s house (a scant three minutes from my front door) tomorrow night. Do you think she’ll call? Or stop by? Ha ha ha ha.

It’s not too late . . . for you to send something exquisite and expensive for my birthday which is Monday. How old will I be? That’s right, boys and girls. Forty-three.

My daughter is five. I was trying to remember being five years old–that was the year we moved into the first house owned. My dad teased me and said it was haunted, but I didn’t believe him, even at the time.

I remember so clearly that my mother put our vacuum cleaner in its white vinyl box right inside the front door. The glass next to the door was 1970s opaque mottled gold. I remember the sun shining through that glass onto the vacuum cleaner box. (Our vacuum was a cannister with a long cloth hose . . . you pulled it around kind of like a dog on a leash.) When I think of that house, that’s what I remember first: the vinyl vacuum cleaner box in the glowing golden light of that window.

My parents were so young when I was five. My dad was only 28 years old when I was five. I try to imagine growing up, being five in a household with such young parents. I wonder if my parents saw me as clearly as I see my daughter. Or do all children feel sort of invisible and insignificant?

The other day, my daughter was carrying around a dog statue she bought for a dollar at the “One Dollar Store.” She’d had me fasten this purple leash on its neck and she dragged it and swung it around. I told her, “Be careful because that dog might break,” but she didn’t listen to my warning. We were heading to the elementary school to drop off her friend to kindergarten. While they climbed into the van, I jogged up the driveway to grab the mail.

When I opened the van door, I heard and then saw her bawling. I said, “What happened?” and she wailed, “I broke my puppy!” I glanced down at her hand and saw she was clutching a gaping hole where the puppy’s front paw had been. I couldn’t stop myself. I said, “Grace, I told you to be careful.”

She cried with such gusto that I envied her. I can’t even remember the day when I would let loose with tears without any consideration at all. Nowadays, when I feel like crying, I first try to talk myself out of it, then I bite my lip, then I breathe a shaky breath. If I still can’t stop the tears, I wipe them as quick as they fall, force myself to be silent and hope no one notices.

But a five year old hollers and cries out loud, lets tears smear on her face, lets her nose run without regard for appearances. What freedom.

After I promised to fix the puppy with glue, she was instantly all better. Life is simple when you’re five.

I was five so long ago. I wonder if anyone remembers me being five? My dad has been dead for 18 years. My mother’s 65 and from all accounts, remembers very little of her life as a stay-at-home mother.

Sometimes, like this morning, I wish my daughter would stay five. She climbed into bed with me while I was desperately trying to stay asleep, trying to hold onto the images in my dreams. “Will you hold me?” she said, and I flung one arm over her body.

She’d nudge her freezing cold feet onto my legs until I said, “Stop touching me with your cold feet!” but what I really meant to say was, “Please, don’t even grow up. Stay five forever. Let’s just cuddle here under my quilt and pretend that we will always be close and that you’ll always want to be next to me more than anyone else in the whole wide world.”

This is my last winter with my baby girl before she heads off to kindergarten. The next thing I know, she’ll go to junior high and develop a crush on an older boy and get her driver’s license and decide I am so uncool and apply to a college back East and meet her future husband and never, ever, ever crawl under the covers with me and giggle when I tickle her by wiggling my fingers on her back. My days of sniffing her little girl curls will be over.

But I will never forget when she was five and I was forty-two.

I may have left out some details in my last hasty blog. I am not doing medical transcription forty hours a week . . . in fact, I am no longer doing any medical transcription at all since my other Internet job turned into a full-time job. I work as a Community Manager on a website for moms. When I began, I worked 12 hours a week. Those twelve hours turned into nineteen hours. Nineteen hours turned into twenty-nine hours. Then, remarkably, those twenty-nine hours became forty hours a week, complete with benefits and everything.

I have turned into the mythical stay-at-home mother who works full-time on her computer . . . you know when people ask, “Are there any legitimate work-at-home jobs?” Well, there was one. And I have it.

I absolutely love my job and I am so grateful to have it.

* * *

In other news, three boys are spending the night. How did this happen again? Every time I allow it I think, NEVER AGAIN. And then I relent. I’d rather they all be here driving me crazy than somewhere else doing who-knows-what.

* * *

And now, Six Weird Things About Me, a Meme brought to you courtesy of Smoov.

“THE RULES: Each player of this game starts with the “6 weird things about you.” People who get tagged need to write a blog of their own 6 weird things as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave a comment that says “you are tagged” in their comments and tell them to read your blog.”

1. I hate raw tomatoes and Kraft macaroni and cheese.

2. Being too hot makes me crabby. I cannot think straight when I’m sweaty.

3. I am fascinated by Betty Broderick and watched not only the CourtTV coverage of her trial, but also the two television movies made about her which starred Meredith Baxter.

4. I used to consider whether I’d rather be deaf or blind. I alway chose deaf.

5. I have never been to a prom.

6. I own a lot of earrings but I always wear gold hoops.

And a bonus weird thing:

7. I like to sleep in a cold, completely dark room. Night lights keep me awake. Even a crack of light under a door will wake me up.

Oh, and I’m not tagging you but if you want to play, consider yourself tagged.

Just so you know . . . working eleven hours (on the computer) in one day will make your knees ache.  You will long for sleep with the intensity of a nursing mother who has a newborn.  Eleven.

That’s why I don’t have time (yet) to tell you about going to Seattle with my friends (dear, dear friends).  I went, I ate, I slept, I laughed, I talked, I listened, I shopped and I bought a lipstick which holds great promise (could it be The Perfect Lipstick?).  And then I landed with a thud back into my regular life, got right to work, washed a load of dishes and never really stopped to breathe (or download a photo or two from my digital camera to illustrate the post I haven’t written about going to Seattle).

Tomorrow is normally an easy day for me (five hours of work), but for various reasons I will be working ten hours.

It’s another case of being so close (to the computer), but so far away (from the blog).  Alas.

Here is what you do when your college friend from 1984 through 1987 is coming to visit Monday and you haven’t seen her in eighteen (?) years and you are keenly aware that she possesses exquisite interior decorating superpowers which she demonstrated during the summer of 1985 by using small lamps to make a former Hotel 6 room (with aqua shag carpet) seem homey.  (We lived as roommates in said hotel room during that summer when I first met my eventual husband who is upstairs at the moment wondering if I’ll ever come to bed before midnight.

1.   Borrow a dump-truck and rid yourself of the hand-me-down sectional with the rips and stuffing the children like to pull out and leave in fluffy balls on the floor.  Buy a new couch.  And a matching chair because you can.

2.  Paint over the red stripes in your living room which seemed festive and whimsical in 2002 but which have annoyed you for at least three years.  And paint the rest of the family room and the entry-way while you’re at it.  Consider painting the vivid golden yellow living room, but decide against it because who cares.  (Besides me, I mean.)

3.  Spend Saturday hunting for a replacement glass lamp fixture for the vintage lamp which your daughter broke several weeks ago.  A bare light bulb might be acceptable for every day use, but not for a visit by your long-lost friend–and her husband and his sister.

4.  Re-hook the draperies by the patio window because you put the hooks in the wrong place the first two times and were too lazy to fix it two (three?) months ago.

5.  Remember that you meant to install new curtain rods and curtains in the kids’ bedrooms upstairs.  Oops.  Wonder if it even matters.  Consider ways to keep your friends from going upstairs.  “No, our bathroom is broken.”

6.  While your desk is pulled out from the wall so you can paint, unplug every computer, printer, light and electronic device.  Sort out the cords.  Plug in the brand spanking new surge protector and replug everything.  Dust desk.  Rearrange.  Admire.

7.  Thank God that you had the forethought to lose 57 pounds in the last two years.  Because, seriously, that is the worst feeling in the world knowing that you have no choice but to see people who knew you when you were young and cute and had no idea that you were young and cute.  (“Cute”?  Well, you were young.  And had a ton of rock-star permed hair and skinny legs back when skinny legs and giant sweaters and long shirts were all the rage.)

8.  Hire someone to paint the upstairs master bathroom, even though you don’t intend to let anyone see your bedroom because after twenty years of marriage, you still have four Rubbermaid tubs serving as bedside tables.

9.  Hire a carpet cleaner.

10.  Hire a housecleaner and then spend most of Saturday shopping and seeing a movie.