Alki

Here are a few pictures from our short trip to Alki this morning. It was cold and windy and perfect for collecting beach glass. As we were leaving the beach, G was leading the way and telling me I was taking too long. Theo, on the other hand started helping me find beach glass. And shells, and rocks and seaweed and cigarette filters.

Overlooking downtown Seattle at Anchor Park on Alki

He is as mischievous as he is cute

Anchor Park on Alki

My sweet goofy boy

One of the fifty plus pieces of beach glass I found. My hands were freezing by time I was done but it was worth it.

Looking for treasures

The boys were running from the water.

Like Labradors

We just spent the afternoon and evening at the annual Christmas Party that Ryan's soccer buddies have every year. I felt so comfortable with this group of people that I was able to fall asleep in a comfy chair in the living room while everyone else watched the Seahawks v Packers catastrophe. There is something I find so comforting about sleeping in a noisy room with activity going on all around. I wonder if it calls to something that is so deep, so old that it is embedded as a feeling rather than as a memory. Like being in the womb - warm and safe, or being a small child and falling asleep on your grandparents couch while surrounded by aunts and uncles and noisy cousins. This comfort is something you experienced but can't remember other than in this way of feeling.

Over the years this group of people has become special to me. When I first met them I felt like I didn't belong - not because of anything they said or did - it was me being hyper aware of how different we were. Or so I thought. They played soccer and I didn't. They enjoyed athletic pursuits in general. While I enjoy watching football and have come to enjoy watching soccer I don't do so much of the playing of the sports. 

As I was able to get over my self imposed feelings of inadequacy I started to think of them as not just Ryan's soccer buddies but as my friends, too. With each wedding, each Lamb Day, each random gathering I felt more and more like I belonged. And to feel like you belong in a group like this, a group of people who grew up playing sports, who have that camaraderie, is special to someone like me; someone who didn't grow up playing sports. I am not lacking in friendship - I have some kick ass friends - but this group of people is different from any other group I've been a part of. They are also some of the happiest people you could hope to meet. Seriously, they are like Labrador Retrievers, always running and chasing balls.

This past summer the Morelli's opened their home on Orcas Island to the group. It was such a fun weekend that the collective group made it clear we wanted to be invited back en masse the following year. The kids put on a talent show one night. The kids were hilarious and not always on purpose; there was dancing and joke telling and lots of improv. The next night the kids had the adults put on a talent show. While the kids got to choose their talent the adults had to draw their talent out of a hat. Ryan had to dance, Brad had to sing an opera, someone got to show off their sick break dancing moves and I got to tell a joke. Everyone laughed at my joke me because I was laughing so hard I could hardly breathe let alone tell my super awesome joke. 

Wanna hear it?

Too bad. 

"Why couldn't the witch have babies?" 

"Because her husband had a halloweenie!"

Ha! Get it? See - I told you it was hilarious.

I may have had a little bit too much to drink that night. Maybe.

As I sit here, having looked through some of the photos from tonight that people posted on Facebook, I noticed how people were sharing their own appreciation for this group. Instead of limiting myself to a few words on Facebook - and instead of going around to each person at the next gathering and telling him/her how much I appreciate him/her (because people would think I was dying or something and it just seems kind of creepy) I'm doing it here. So, soccer peeps, if you are reading this: I appreciate you.  

Hope

The kids are in bed and the house is quiet. The Christmas tree, in its imperfect glory, is a colorful focal point in the dark room. I'm sitting next to the fireplace, my right arm is getting quite warm but I don't want to change positions because that would involve turning away from the warm glow of the Christmas tree.

I have been sitting here off and on throughout the day trying to write this. I sat at the dining room table earlier and last night I was in the basement staring at my computer screen, unable to write. I can't find the right place. I can't find the right words. Nothing about what I'm trying to do is coming easily to me and I can't understand why so I'm just going to muddle through this feeling of not capturing what I want to say with just the right words. 

This exercise in what feels like futility is to tell you about Jason. To tell you that he was a great guy. That when I think about Jason the first thing that pops in my head is his smile. His smile could light up a room. He was kind of quiet and unassuming but you could sense a deep well of contentment in him. Physically he wasn't a very big guy but his - I don't know what to call it - his aura? his being? The thing that was Jason was big. His calm, his happiness and his love, were all larger than that could be contained in him. He kind of just spilled goodness because there was so much of it in him.

I was talking to Ryan at Starbucks a day or two after Jason died. Ryan told me he used to think Jason had the best luck - he was always winning something at office parties and at industry events. I said that maybe so many good things happened to him because he wasn't given a full life. Whatever good that was to be had needed to fit into his thirty-eight years before cancer claimed him. 

But talking like the cancer was predestined and that all of Jason's goodness had a finite amount of time is kind of lame. His goodness didn't have to be snuffed out. If he had a treatment that would have worked for him his goodness could have filled up many more decades. His kids could have had a dad to be there for the big life events and even more important, for the minutiae that is life.

This is where I'm looking to you for help. I'm trying to raise money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society by doing the Big Climb. Your contributions will help further the research that is needed to find effective treatments for the Jason's out there who do not know cancer is lying in wait for them. 

If you want to learn more about the LLS and the Big Climb please click on this link: http://www.llswa.org/goto/apriljahns; and if you are able to please consider contributing to this great cause.

Jason Holdridge

1977-2016

Love Letter to Meg

Ryan took the boys to Cub Scouts last night. I was no use. I looked quite the sight, horizontal on the couch, under a blanket, eyes half shut. This cold and ear infection have kicked my butt. So it was there, in the warmth of the living room, with it's fire in the fireplace and lights turned up a little too bright, I lay scrolling through Facebook.

I caught a name that doesn't pop up in my feed very often. Meg McKennon. It was her sister's post that Meg was tagged in. I sat up. No! This can't be real. Meg died this weekend. How? No!

I read her sister's post. Then I read it again. I went to Meg's page and there was an ex of an ex with whom she was friends posting how much she was loved and going to be missed. 

The years she was my team leader and boss and then friend came rushing back to me. I think the last time I saw her was at the now defunct Cupcake to a Tea with Sugar cafe. She started her own company, Dwellings, and it was doing well. Or was the last time I saw her at Bud's funeral? Or was it JB's funeral? 

Meg was such a light. Writing about her in the past tense is kind of surreal. She is a light. She is funny. She is loving. She is protective. She is. She is. She is.

But she's not. She's gone. She was so young, too.

All last night and this morning I have been thinking about her. She was unlike any boss I've ever known.

She was the most inappropriate boss. Like ever. In the best possible way. And the most encouraging. She believed in me. I didn't always believe in me but she saw through my insecurities and had faith in me. 

I'm just going to ramble on now with my memories of Meg, Meggers - NOT Megan - McKennon. 

When I told her I was going to send my license back to the state because I was not a good enough salesperson to make a go of real estate she said, "No. Give it a little more time." When I told her that I didn't have more time to give she said,"Wait. We'll find you a job here. I'll make one up if I have to."

So, I became the receptionist. I told her I would take the job but only if my official title would not be "Director of First Impressions". Gag. Really, Keller Williams? That is about the worst. Sure, it's true that the smiling person in the front office is the first impression of the company many people get but it is such an awful title.

She thought I was being cheap when she would put together a coffee order and I said I wanted a short latte. She would bring me back a grande. I wasn't being cheap - I just think the short latte has the perfect ratio of espresso to milk. I told her I preferred the smaller size and she just rolled her eyes at me. One would think that would have been my job to go get the coffee but I think she loved getting out of the office.

For Christmas she gave me a thong - a bright pink thong by Hanky Panky. Those really are the best. They really are the only kind of thong to be worn. How's that for too much information? So, now when I see Hanky Panky anything I think of Meg. I think she would have laughed if I told her that. Maybe I should have told her.

She called me into her office. She was laughing hard. "April! Come here! You have to see this!" I don't remember the email but it was a totally inappropriate forward that was sexual in nature. 

I don't recall how this came about but we were talking about languages and I told her I took German in high school and it was a big waste. I could have studied a more useful language. She asked me to say something in German but I was having a hard time remembering so I went to Google a phrase to make sure I got it right. Not that she would have known if it was right or wrong. I don't remember the words I entered but the I do remember the search results. They were not what I was expecting. Lots German porn came up. I shrieked and was trying to close all of the windows and erase my browser history. I told her why I was freaking out - I don't think I ever saw her laugh so hard as she did at that moment.

When I came to work the day after my step-grandfather died she sent me home. I told her we weren't that close but she sent me home anyway. 

She was one of the first people I told when I was pregnant for the first time. I'm not one to wait 12 weeks to tell the people I'm close to. She was also one of the first people I told when I was no longer pregnant. She shared in my joy and in my sorrow.

One day I answered the phone in the early morning at work and it was Meg telling me she wasn't coming into the office because she wasn't feeling well. I asked her if the traffic coming from Renton was too much (she lived less than a mile from the office in West Seattle). *crickets* I knew she probably stayed over with Jeff who lived in Renton. They were trying to keep their relationship quiet and I probably wasn't supposed to know they were dating as they held the same position but in different offices. She told me later that she had me on speaker phone and that she couldn't believe I didn't hear Jeff laughing. She said she also flipped me off. I can only imagine how red her face was. She could light up a room when she blushed. 

Keller Williams has a company wide gathering called Family Reunion. It was held in Las Vegas every year, maybe it still is. I assumed I would stay in Seattle and hold down the fort while everyone was gone. Nope. Meg and Christi thought I should go. I told them I was fine staying but they insisted I go and take classes. So, I went. I learned a little more about the company and a lot more about myself. And Meg. I can't share all of my memories from that trip there because, you know, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

Just kidding. Nothing super crazy happened. Just intimate conversations that I cherish.

The house she rented was cute as a button. Adorable. Everything about it was cozy and comfortable and reflected her warmth. I don't remember anything specific about her house other than one felt at ease and comfortable in it. When she moved in with Jeff I helped her pack a little. Looking back at the house after it was emptied of everything Meg I stood there and took it all in. There was nothing special about the house. All of it's warmth and charm was gone; she is what made the place special.

Sometime after she left and I was gone from Keller Williams I learned that one of our agents, JB, died. He was a large part of the company and I knew Meg would want to know. Part of me thought she might already know but I couldn't think of who would have called her to tell her. I called her when I was without Gavin - which happened to be on a trip to the Home Depot in West Seattle. So, I wandered the store for an hour talking to Meg about JB and his sudden passing, about life and about hopes and dreams. 

It was at Bud's funeral (another real estate agent) that I realized we still had a connection. We laughed and cried together. We told Estella, one of Meg's super close friends and fellow agent at KW, stories about Bud since she didn't know him that well. The three of us huddled together in the bathroom fixing smudged make up and blowing noses. Meg used the toilet while we were in there. I laughed and thought, "Well, if we weren't close before, we are now."

I think Bud's funeral was one of the last times I saw her. I think Meg understood Bud's pain. How he had a smile for everyone but that there was a sorrow just below the surface. I know Meg had pain, too. She had a smile for everyone but in quiet moments she would let me see. Her hopes. Her fears. I don't know if she knew she was showing me or if I drew it out - or if everyone can see the pain others try to hide.  She didn't give words to her hurt but it was there. Maybe we all have that pain and it is through our own experiences with suffering that we are able to recognize it in others.

Or, I'm just full of it and feeling super emotional and reading more into my memories because a woman who was dear to me many years ago is gone. I could write more but I won't. Even though she is not here, the things she told me in confidence will remain locked in my heart. The things that made her blush - aside from Jeff's story - the stuff that pissed her off, the things that made her cry - will be my memories.

Everyone who met Meg was drawn to her. She had a pull and we all went to her; wanting to be special in her eyes. I hope she knew how special she was in our eyes. How so very special.

Goodbye, Meg. 

Warm Fuzzies

Do you have a favorite Season? My favorites are summer and autumn. Winter is too cold and Spring isn't much better aside from those couple of glorious teaser weeks in April and May. Summer, with it's heat and sunshine and days to be spent complaining about the heat and going to the beach chasing children with sunscreen makes me happy. Maybe it's the vitamin D. Maybe it's the blue skies. Maybe it's the heat and driving with the windows down.

Autumn is lovely, too. And not because of pumpkin spice. Enough already. If I liked pumpkin pie more than I do I might enjoy the other things sprinkled with the pumpkin and the spice. The best way to eat pumpkin pie, in my not so humble opinion, is with copious amounts of whipped cream. Copious. Like, 2/3 whipped cream to 1/3 pie. Better still is to just skip the pie altogether. 

Not all of my happiest memories are from Fall but it's in this season that I seem to reflect the most. Maybe other people reflect around New Years. By time the New Year arrives I'm cleaning up Christmas and trying to get rid of clutter.

So, I'm going to write down some of my happy memories. I hope they give you warm fuzzies, too or allow you to reflect on your own happy times.

I'm sitting on mom's lap in the house on Travis Street. Mom's back is to the window in the living room and my back is to mom's front. In each hand I hold one of Mommy's fingers and I'm moving them around as if they are joy sticks. I feel warm and content and fascinated with Mom's fingers.

My Daddy is driving his truck; it's just me and him. We are on the road that goes by the Dairy Queen (which I now know to be the Cape Arago Highway). Daddy is singing part of Clementine to me. I think it's "Oh, my darling." He tries to scoot me closer to him so he can put his arm over my shoulders. I am so happy and safe but super embarrassed that Daddy is singing to me so I admonish him with an, "Oh, Daddy!" 

It is near Christmas time. I must be three, just a month shy of my fourth birthday because the following Christmas Daddy is gone. Christmas cartoons are on T.V. at the same time as the evening news. Daddy turns the T.V. to the news. Ike and I complain because we want to watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer or Charlie Brown. Mom is nearby in the kitchen and hears us so she turns to Daddy and says, "Doug. Let the kids watch cartoons." Dad switches to the cartoon. He is probably annoyed but I am happy to get to watch cartoons and learn that mom wields some serious power.

We live in Vancouver now. It's Saturday and my step-dad drove to Seattle to watch the Huskies play. Mom takes me and my brothers to Landover Athletic Club to go swimming for a while. Mom brings a book and listens to the echoes of, "Mom! Watch me!" for a couple of hours before we dry off and walk the half a block back home. We bake cookies and laugh and tease each other. We congregate at the kitchen table or sit on the bar. It's warm in the house and it glows. I am at peace with my mom and my brothers.

More than the glowing warmth of the kitchen I remember how the backyard seemed to morph into an otherworldly place in the Fall. Looking outside there was a long hedge of tall arborvitae that separated our house from our neighbors. There were two or three tall evergreens that towered over the house. There was nothing special about our backyard, no landscaping that made it beautiful to me. It was the way the light bounced from the green grass to the green arborvitae. It looked like a lush sanctuary. 

I think it was the last day of school in the eighth grade and Wendy had a sleepover. Wendy, Kim, Torrie and I thought it would be fun to go back to the Jr. High and play a real life version of Calvin Ball (from Calvin and Hobbes). It was raining but I think that is what made it fun. We ran and chased each other all over the football field throwing a ball and making up rules as we went along. We were wet and muddy from head to toe. I think that was the last time I played like that with my girlfriends. 

It just occurred to me that maybe the reason why playing in the rain and mud with my friends in the 8th grade is such a treasured memory is because it was the last time I played like that. 

Kim, Wendy, if you are reading this I think we need to schedule a play session on a grassy, muddy field. Kim, bring Michelle. We'll make new memories.

Strawberry Shortcake

This picture was taken at my Grandparents house in Coos Bay, Oregon. This is the same fireplace where a log rolled out and caught my little brother's diaper on fire. I vaguely remember adults swarming him and putting out the fire. He wasn't hurt. The same fireplace where we roasted hot dogs - Grandpa preferred his uncooked and cold. *gross*

Circa 1981

The dress I'm wearing was my favorite dress. Really, look at it. What's not to like? Cute collar, apron and the best of all? The Strawberry on the apron. I think it was a Strawberry Shortcake dress.

My dad helped my mom with the laundry one day and somehow this dress was ruined - maybe it got bleached?

I was devastated. I put on the ruined dress and went to Don and Betty's house across the street to show my displeasure. Betty answered the door and I blurted out, "Look what my Daddy did to my dress!"

That's all I remember. This picture, that dress, my neighbor Betty.

I smile every time I look at this picture. Ike, a mini version of our dad, Joel a cute toddler with his belly hanging out and me, so happy and unaware that this dress was about to be destroyed.

1981

I was chatting with someone a couple of days ago when, in the course of conversation, a concert in 1981 came up. 1981, I thought, I was four years old. The worst year in my short little life - nothing has come close to it in the thirty-five years since. I kept that to myself, of course, but it has been gnawing at me all weekend. Hell, it gnaws at me every year at this time of year. This is one of the big years, though. The 10, 15, 20, 25, 27, 30 and 35 year marks bring about fresh pain and the old familiar pain and introspection. I'm learning to not be surprised when I learn a new way the pain and loss presents itself.

It was on October 28th, 1981 that my dad died. He had an irregular heart beat and was told that he was going to need a pacemaker when he was about 40. Wrong. He needed it sooner. Much sooner. He was only 27 years old.

The year I turned 27 was hard as were the years when my brothers turned 27, too. Of course, all milestones were difficult. Starting Kindergarten, learning to ride a bike, Homecoming and Prom, High school graduation, wedding. He didn't get to meet any of his grandchildren. I think he would have made an awesome grandpa. But of course I do - he was my dad.

Then there were the years when my kids were four and five years old. Oh, God those were the worst. I've always told the boys that my daddy lives in Heaven. They didn't ask questions until about a year or so ago. Gavin asked how old my dad was when he died. He seemed to know 27 was kind of young. I held my breath, just waiting for him to ask me how old I was. It was several months later when he finally asked how old I was. You could see the information sinking into his head. I want to give him assurance that I'm not going to die but I can't. I tell him my dad had a sick heart and that I've had my heart looked at by a heart doctor and that it is good.

That December right after my dad died I was lying on the bottom bunk at night when I yelled out for my mom. Mom came in and sat on the edge of the bed and asked what I needed. "I'm going to ask you a question and you better tell me the truth!" She agreed and I asked her if Santa Claus was real. "No. He's not," she answered. I wailed, "You lied to me!"

Of course it was many, many years later that I realized how I put it all together. Sometime that summer or spring of 1981 we were sitting at the table in the kitchen eating dinner when I asked my parents if they were going to die. I don't remember exactly how I asked the question or what their exact response was but I do remember being assured that they were going to live for a very long time. Then my dad goes and dies a few months later. Not exactly what I would call a long time. If they lied to me about how long they would live, what else were they lying about?

This shouldn't come as a huge surprise but I have a problem with telling my kids Santa is real. So, I don't. I kind of ruined it for Ryan but I just couldn't do it. It felt like lying because, well, it was lying. I am totally fine with the tooth fairy, though. I like to pick and choose my lies.

Santa? Not real.

Tooth fairy? Look she left you a dollar.

What do I have in my mouth? Um... not candy.

It feels like the only big painful surprises now are when a young father dies. I know two such men who died this year. It brings it all back. It is amazing how quickly it floods back, visceral and thick. A parent at the boys bus stop sent out an email last year looking for support in a charity event that raises funding for cancer research. He had battled cancer a couple of times when his kids were really little. Just reading that made my heart constrict and my the backs of my eyes sting.

I try to not worry about who is next. I know it isn't rational but I feel like I put in my dues for crappy life experiences so I should get a pass for the foreseeable future.

I wonder how this 35th year will shape up. I am hoping for uneventful. I will even try to not complain about the gray hair I see slowly taking over my head. After all, not everyone has the privilege of getting gray hair. I will complain if I start getting wrinkles, though. Those can't be dyed.

No Words

Well, that title is misleading. I have LOTS of words. They are just not nice words.




That picture sums it up.

Keepin' It Real

I just returned home from picking up a couple things needed for the upcoming Boy Scouts popcorn sale this weekend.

I don't know the other parents that well because Ryan was the main scout parent last year. This year we have two scouts so my parental involvement will necessarily increase since they'll be in two different dens. Packs. Groups. I don't really know what they are called.

As I was driving to the house in the hills to gather the card table and Square card reader, I noticed the homes got larger, and larger, and larger. There weren't cars in the driveways because they have three and four car garages and their cars will fit in said garages or both of the occupants are at work because it’s the middle of the day.

Not everyone can be a lady of leisure like myself, writing at 1 o'clock in the afternoon just for the hell of it. Hmm, maybe I should pretend I'm writing this at night because Ryan will eventually read this.

I'm not what you would call the best hausfrau. I keep a decent house, a cluttered and clean house. If you look really close, past the clutter you may notice the surfaces under the clutter is actually quite clean.

Baseboards? Clean. Trim around the doors? Clean. Light switch plates? Clean.

When I see a stack of papers to be sorted or laundry to be folded or food to be cooked the grime in the corners of the kitchen sink calls to me. The dog hair that gathered like tumble weeds since I last swept two days ago calls to me. Those teeny tiny specks of paint that splattered on the floor in our bathroom from ten paintings ago - likely the previous owner - taunts me. I. Must. Clean.

Hm, that was quite a tangent.

I think driving in that neighborhood caused me to evaluate my life choices. Not finishing my nursing degree. Letting my license as an LPN lapse because - ugh - I hated it. Not figuring out something else to do that would pay more than I could make as a receptionist. Social work would be awesome. It would also require a degree and the work would be hard and fulfilling but still with crappy pay. Meh.

I have an acquaintance, who by all appearances is very prim and proper, once said that if something happened to her husband the only thing she thinks she could make money at would be selling her body. My eyes bugged out and my jaw dropped before I laughed. I'm sure she could earn quite a living as an escort - she’s gorgeous.

Then it occurred to me that if something terrible happened to Ryan, and I had to go back to work, the money as a receptionist wouldn't cut it. I couldn't even be a stripper. There are so many reasons why. I can't dance, provocatively or otherwise. I have two children. I'll let you figure that one out. I would have to be the discount stripper. The one who keeps it real. A friend said, “Nah. You could just go to one of the clubs on Highway 99.” Gee, thanks.

When we first moved to Beacon Hill there was a woman who had a one man, er, woman, operation out of the back of her van. I called that van the hooker-mobile. She was definitely a discount prostitute. Well, I can't say for sure she was a prostitute. She could have been selling drugs and her clientele was 100% male.

As all of these thoughts were swirling through my head, as most of my thoughts are wont to do. I thought of the clothes I was wearing and the car I was driving in this affluent neighborhood.

Last night I sat on my couch and mended these super tiny holes in the shirt I am wearing now. If you look closely, or not closely, just in my general direction you could see I did something to my shirt. I can afford a new shirt and I didn't have to mend it or the two sweaters that I did last night; I could have just bought new ones.

Ryan would probably like it if I did that as my state of dress could reflect poorly on him. He is the one who brings home the bacon after all. I just can't be bothered to go shopping. It’s such a chore. Drive to the mall, walk the mall, get lost in the mall, try on 20 shirts only to find one that I like or 20 that I love and are really freaking expensive.

When I'm at Costco buying a flat of fruit and 50 pounds of birdseed I always swing through the clothing section. If I see a shirt I like, I'll throw it and two of the same in different colors in the cart. Two birds. One stone.

We got rid of the minivan this summer. Good riddance! Kind of. Sure it had horrible gas mileage but oh the space! Having a minivan is like having a living room on wheels. Everyone has their own quadrant. Children with their own quadrant can’t reach the other to hit or steal toys.

So I was cruising in this neighborhood of considerable homes, one might even call them McMansions, in our sweet ride: a 2004 Pontiac Vibe. Don't be jealous of my well-loved and well-used car. I do not worry even a little bit about someone denting it.

You know what I really like to do? When someone is clearly taking up two parking spots because they don't want anyone near their precious car I will squeeze my twelve-year-old ride in as close to the line as possible. See? I can be a jerk, too.

We did buy a nice car this summer, a 2014 Lexus. It's the nicest car either of us has ever owned. I really, really like it. And I love when the Pontiac Vibe is parked next to the Lexus 450H in the driveway.

Keepin' it real, folks. That's what we are doing.

If I could have had a glimpse into my life now as an adult when I was a little girl I would have thought I was a millionaire. Nice home, fancy car, baby grand piano, expensive shoes, vacations and fancy food. If I want green beans I buy fresh green beans - not the canned stuff. See? Fancy.

My first home was tiny. TINY. There were five of us in a two-bedroom house. My current garage is bigger than the house I grew up in. Many of our neighbors did drugs. I saw pot for the first time when I was four or five; saw it smoked for the first time when I was five or six. I thought, “Why are they smoking out of a pop can?” Oddly enough I've never smoked pot even though it wouldn’t have been that hard to come by. I think assumed if I did I would end up like some of my neighbors.

Maybe I should delve deeper into why I feel so uncomfortable and out of place when I'm surrounded by affluence. But I guess it's all relative. Who knows, someone could feel uncomfortable in my house. I would have felt uncomfortable in it when I was a little girl. It's a middle class home in a middle class neighborhood. Maybe that is why I'm such a crappy housekeeper. I want to bring everything down a notch as to make others feel comfortable in my home. Somehow I don’t think Ryan would buy that excuse.

Oy. That’s quite a lot to put out there in my first post in… let me see… five years! Wow. If I really wanted to I could take advantage of this quiet house and meditate and try to understand these uncomfortable feelings I’m having. Or… I could get up and clean behind the fridge because it has suddenly become very loud. There’s probably a mountain of fur under it that is blocking the motor.

Yeah, I know what I’m going to do. Everyone in my house is going to be so pleased with our quiet fridge.