Twenty-three

I haven't written here in a full week, but the traveling husband was flying across the country and back again (and across and back yet again) over the course of 5 days, then I was on a Girl Scout camping sleepover, and add into that my general scatterbrained state. On top of which, was The Curse, which bounces me from crying to cramping to crabby and back again, all of which puts me into a nasty funk. Part of said funk can be blamed on PMS and the accompanying narcolepsy (and yes, that blog entry is a'comin'), and part of it can be blamed on my general WTF state of mind.

As in, WTF are we doing with this life?! WTF are we doing trying to live comfortably in Northern California? WTF are we thinking about moving out of Northern California? WTF are girls so mean? WTF does my uterus hate me? WTF are people like Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton rich and famous and I'm not? Do I need bigger boobs or crazier parents or WTF? Apparently, I've got a shit ton of whatnot banging around in my brain, nonstop. So does the husband. And the more spin he's in, the more we're all in.

The question of the ages for us has been: What determines quality of life? Is it having more than enough money? More than enough toys and stuff? Friends close by? Family? Can we make dear new friends at this age and stage of life, or do the people who have loved us for years love us more than anyone new ever could?

And as I watch Nine try to figure out where she fits in socially at school, I realize that that journey is never-ending. Or at least it's still in progress in this family. I mean, it's clear to all of us that we belong to each other, and that we are together by choice (and by triple-knotted heart strings). But socially, outside of our family unit, who's "A" list have we made it on? And does that even matter, or are we supposed to just focus on the five of us? (I count the puppy because he weighs more than both daughters combined. Also, I'm pretty sure he can speak English {with an accent} and has a lot to say, he just chooses to remain silent for now.)

In any case, we've been in Northern California for four years. Looking at it from the outside, we're pretty ingrained. I volunteer at school, we help out with swim team, the girls are in ballet and voice lessons and get invited to birthday parties. They have pals who've been in their classrooms and on their soccer teams for three years now, if not longer. I have built up a brilliant gaggle of women who have become friends and neighbors and confidantes and shoulders to lean on. The type of amazing women who show up before you've even asked them to. The ones who bring you pots of homegrown flowers on your birthday and pots of homemade chicken stock when you're sick. It's pretty amazing, actually. 

The traveling husband isn't so lucky as me, and his social circle up here is much smaller. And by smaller I mean, the only two guys who are together with any consistency are him and the puppy. But sometimes he wants to spend time with someone who doesn't eat poop and who's hair doesn't float into his beer. He's more gregarious than I am, he requires some social interaction with people, and he loves that sport-fueled camaraderie. I'm a little more okay with just sharing a vino or a tea with my best girls via phone or text, since that's all we can muster these days due to time changes and diaper changes. But geographical distance for us doesn't equal distance of the heart. Boys are more literal and visual, and my husband is no exception. He does see some friends occasionally, but everyone is hyper-scheduled in NorCal, and the guys here aren't as free to indulge in Sunday Funday as he would like. So he pines for his "boys" - not only his big brother, but the friends with whom he went to college. He shares history with these guys, and they know my husband and they love him and all his quirks. He's on their "A" list.

The point is, overall, justified or not, we tend to feel a bit +1*, to use the husband's term.

*You know when you were single and you got invited to a wedding, and the bride and groom were all, Oh, she doesn't have a boyfriend...well, she can just bring somebody...address her envelope with an "and Guest". And then you sent in your RSVP with a Yes, I'll be there (but you don't give a name of your guest because you don't know who to bring with you yet), so you got put down on the list as You+1. You+the nameless, faceless person who would show up with you and be charming enough and probably have a really good time and hopefully be a great dancer and definitely is nice enough to drink all that free wine without pissing anyone off, but still...just a +1.

Which brings me back to the question at hand again. What determines quality of life? Should we move to a place in the country where we can afford all the things and toys we want, even if it means being further away from friends and family? Does it matter that we'd be further away geographically? Because let's be serious, the actual time spent together at this point is minimal. I think we've determined that time spent, for us anyway, does improve quality of life, because when we do spend time with friends - location being irrelevant - we always feel good. So should we stop worrying about living in a small house filled primarily with dog hair and old furniture, and just get people over here to spend time? Or should we just move back down South? But what if we move "home" and we end up staring at each other and the walls every Saturday night anyway, because we've been gone for four years and everyone has their plans and their people and their activities all set already? And again, shouldn't we focus on making each other happy, and stop looking outward for answers? On the other hand, we all need to spend time with more than just who and what is inside of our house at all times, otherwise we go ape shit. Don't we?

Stop looking at me like that, I told you at the start that I'm funky and scatterbrained.

So, my mental to-do list then, is going to look something like this: Inhale. Meditate on what feels right for my family and myself. Outhale. Encourage Nine to find her "A" list. Inhale. Get the husband out of the house (with human friends). Outhale. Find dates on the calendar and invite friends over, and open our doors and our hearts to new people and different ways of spending quality time. Inhale. Pray (a lot) for guidance and strength and peace and continued good health. Outhale. Do laundry.

Oh, and lastly? Deep inhale. Find a way to gingerly tell Nine and Seven that they are, as of this afternoon, going to have to appreciate going commando, because the puppy has eaten yet another pair of panties, and the only way for me to keep him alive and eliminate stress (and mindblowing dog gas) from my life, is to evidently, eliminate underclothing. Outhale.

Here's to letting it all hang out, in more ways than one.

Thirteen.

Is talent a gift or a curse? And is it still a gift if you're the only one who knows you have it? I think talent is only a curse if you don't see it as a gift. Use it or lose it. One chance at life. And all that.

I think about this a bit. Being from Los Angeles, I was frequently surrounded by a lot of people who felt like knowing someone made you someone. But really, I'm of the mindset that knowing someone just makes you someone who knows someone. And you can tell yourself that because you once had a martini two feet away from a household name that you're all up in that bitch, but really, if you talk about it and have to name drop, you're still just a crusty barnacle.

Now certainly, there are a lot of gifted people in L.A., but what makes someone "someone"? Every famous person you know is only famous because other people in powerful positions shouted "This person has a gift!" from the studio rooftops. That's what being "discovered" means, right? Carrie Underwood would still be milking cows in Oklahoma if Simon Cowell had never said on TV that she was going to be somebody. And Simon Cowell would probably be living the life of Hugh Grant's character in Notting Hill (minus the getting married to Julia Roberts part) if he hadn't been discovered, and so on, and so on, and so on.

There are, of course, gifted people everywhere who aren't making $10 million every three months. You just don't see their airbrushed faces on the sides of a bus, or along the walls at the train station, or on the movie screens. So my question is this: Are they any less gifted because their adoring audience is smaller? Would Brad Pitt still be all sexy smoke if he was running the best drama program his local high school had ever seen? (Maybe that's not the best example. Because obviously, yes. He can sex it up no matter where he is. But you know what I mean.) 

Do gifts need louder applause and more visibility to be bigger? Do higher ticket sales make Adele a better singer? I think she's going to rock the house whether she's at Staples Center or in the shower. But what if nobody believed in her? Would she still have the voice of Ella Fitzgerald + a Brit angel? She would.

So is it our gifts that lift us up, or are the people who appreciate the gifts doing the heavy lifting? Is talent a gift only if lots and lots of people say it is? I think some of us can identify our gifts, and some of us need someone else to identify them for us. That's one thing. As parents, it's up to us to help our kids see themselves and to believe in their strengths. But whether we are singing at a church in town or on the world's biggest stage, I guess what's important is that we feel buoyed by our gift and that we share it.

I'm no Simon Cowell, but here are some recent examples of extraordinary shared gifts I'd like to shout from a rooftop blog:

A friend who always says to me when I beg her for a favor and then thank her profusely for saying yes, "I'm just happy you asked me.".

A handful of friends who generously donate their time and tireless energy to teach my daughter and the rest of the Brownie troop she is a part of how to be kind, respectful, open-minded young people. They do this by patiently holding a mirror up to each of these girls - in the form of lessons and discussions and outings and crafts - and then standing steady until they watch each one recognize the unique gift they see in their own reflection.

The skinny friend who not only told me how much weight she's gained in the last year, but who then lifted her shirt to show me.

The physical therapists, nurses and doctors who have worked to put my Mom back together again, and who have managed, day by day, and week by week, to give back to us a woman who is somehow stronger now than she was before she landed in their care. Not to mention the friends who have kept my folks company and their refrigerator full over the past several weeks.

Some friends who read my blog entry about a very dry Monday night indeed, who then responded with offers to bring vino, pronto. And the one friend who wrote a note, tied it to a pretty bag holding a bottle of wine, and drove it over today to leave it on the front step. My porch has never looked better.

The glimpses of kindness I've seen in my daughters towards each other, towards me, and towards others.

The friends and family - old and new, near and far - who have taken time out of their days and nights to email/text/comment on this little blog. The writing feels good to me but the connections it's made to a bunch of pretty wonderful people is the real gift to me.

So thank you. Looks like the only curse I have to worry about is the one that comes each month and then leaves my bathroom looking like a crime scene. And stop with the Oh. My. God. You knew I'd go there, it was only a matter of time.

Stay tuned. :)

Interlude.

Things That Make You Go Hmm. 

1. Why don't the good people at Miss America surrender the fantasy and slap an elastic strap on that crown already? Bobby pins are to USA crowns as the first two little pig's houses were to the big bad wolf. No chance. Miss Outgoing could just snap that strap right under the toned, tanned chin of Miss Incoming and that pretty lady can strut her stuff and avoid looking like Dirty Drunk Prom Queen with her running mascara and her precarious tiara. Other suggestions: Make it curved so it sits on her head like a fancy banana? Hot glue it to her extensions? Staple gun? I'm just saying, there's gotta be a better way.

2. Why is it that once a month, when I get The Curse, I also break out like a teenager (and start to eat like one)? Doritos and leftover pizza, anyone? Isn't that a triple whammy? How come each time we're reminded we can give the gift of life, we aren't also given a luminous complexion and a calm, flat tummy? Instead, I look and feel like I've been eating burritos three times a day and not washing my face. WTF, uterus?

3. Is it just me, or do you need to beg your kids to get out of bed on a school day, and then on Saturday and Sunday, when all you want is for them to sleep until 9:30, they're up at 6:15 staring at cartoons? (If your kids have ever slept past 9:00am keep it to yourself. Next you'll launch into how they "slept through the night" at three months, and then we won't be friends anymore, so just shh.)

4. Is it unusual that sometimes, even after a great day, come 6:30pm, I'm wondering if I can figure out how to switch all the clocks forward two hours, so I can put the girls to bed now instead of later and enjoy a quiet, clean house before I pass out?

5. Is it wrong to tell the kids that you know it's already past bedtime, but you need to pile into the car right quick and run up to the Kwik Mart for butter (or some other pantry essential), when what's really happening is you've realized you've got no wine and you reeeally want some? It is? I think sometimes "wrong" is just another way of saying "well played". Because running out of wine is unacceptable, she types wistfully, from her wineless couch in her wineless house, on what has turned out to be a very dry Monday indeed.