Did I put "quit procrastinating" on my list?

I just looked. Yes. #17.

How am I doing with that? I suck.

These lists are making me tense. All over the house, in my briefcase, I even have a post it note stuck on my dashboard. I HATE LISTS.

I'm housesitting in Lyle for two weeks, my commute takes exactly one minute and twenty four seconds. All the things I have put off on my real life list, like getting my car registered, or filing my taxes, getting my eyebrows done, walking in the evenings, writing, reading. all those things have still not been attempted, let alone crossed off. Why? I don't know. Depression? ADHD? Procrastination.

I am knocking a few things off the list, but it seems like every time I do one thing, three more things are added. I am smiling more. Walking slower. I'm even planning a party. My car still hasn't been registered. Partly because I'm not too sure what state I'm living in, more so because I am lazy. My car is full of recycling. My taxes haven't been filed. I can't remember the last book I read. We won't speak of the dental appointment I have yet to make.

I did manage to book an appointment for my eyebrows though. One thing at a time.

List

I am not too fond of lists. It makes me tense to see a visual of all the things I need to do. However, having all these big and little things rattle around my brain makes me even more tense, so one of my goals for 2009 is to make more lists. I thought I would start with writing down 37 things I'd like to do in 2009. Why 37? That's how old I will be this year. Not yet of course, later this year. It seems like a good number to start with.

1. Smile more. I tend to walk around with my brow furrowed most of the time.

2. Set an appointment for myself to worry. I don't need to worry 24 hours a day. One hour should be sufficient.

3. Travel by train. I love trains.

4. Walk slower. I'm not in New York.

5. Ride a bike. I'd like an Orange one with a basket.

6. Stand at the beach and feel the ocean wash over my feet.

7. Eat lemon sorbet. It makes me happy.

8. Make time for friends.

9. Trust.

10. Soak in the sunshine.

11. Love the people I am with.

12. More spontaneous dancing.

13. Take pictures and not worry if they are good.

14. Explore.

15. Treat myself well everyday.

16. Make more lists.

17. Quit procrastinating.

18. Make my home beautiful for my family. Fill it with things and people I love.

19. Rid my home of things I no longer love, or no longer need.

20. Forgive. Including myself.

21. Save.

22. Let go.

23. Stretch my body, mind and soul.

24. Give more with out expectation.

25. Expect more miracles.

26. Ice skate.

27. Look at the world through the eyes of my children.

28. Sleep in when I can.

29. Go sledding when it snows.

30. Be goofy. Let people take pictures.

31. Pick a day and drive to California.

32. Experiment.

33. Throw a party. Maybe even two.

34. Take pride in my accomplishments.

35. Sit by the river.

36. Hug more people, allow myself a hug too.

37. Relax.

Golden Globes and Collages

Tonight I am missing the Golden Globes. I'm not a TV fan but it is a tradition in my family to watch awards shows. There are four "must sees" in my family. Awards shows, The Sopranos, Weeds and 'The Bachelor'. I suppose three must sees as the Sopranos are no longer on.

It is also a tradition to do a collage at the start of a new year. Being a procrastinator it's much easier to do this with my family, not so easy when I'm left on my own.

This year, we find ourselves separated. Me in Lyle, Sam in Switzerland. We're doing our collages via e-mail.

Sam:

"I brought poster paper back with me from Utah. I also brought several magazines, and with the loads of magazines I had here already, I am good to go.

I have invited two friends over for next Sunday to do collages, and have soup and salad. They are both American. I just met one of them over Thanksgiving. I didn't have any American friends here until recently. I had dinner with them on Thursday night. It's really nice to speak Americana. They commented on how nice it would be to have soup and salad for dinner instead of the typical French or Italian fare. I think I'll make chicken soup and a basic salad with corn muffins.

They have never done collages before. Cynthia is an attorney- super analytical, high achiever, extremely bright, perfectionist, conservative and granola-esque. She's beautiful, but she genuinely does not think she is attractive, and she hates her size 2 body. She has one son and is trying for another. She is the oldest of two children, and her dad died an excruciatingly long, painful death (four years of suffering) when she was 20. Her mom has MD and isn't doing great. She was born and raised in Utah, but her parents never did the Mormon thing. I'm very interested to see how she approaches the collage.

Dede is an artist- but works as a fund raiser at the United Nations. She is married to a French sommelier. She has had a lot of health problems in her 30s. They have no kids. She is in her early 40s. She has travelled a lot. Dede is a hard nut to crack. She is reserved at first, and then she drops bombs out of nowhere that make me laugh until I cry. I think she has lead a very interesting, non traditional life- which is why I like her, I'm sure. She is from Los Angeles, but she feels like a San Francisco gal to me. She is the youngest of 5 kids. Her dad was Nixon's estate lawyer, and her mom was the first female neuroscientist in California. She had a black nanny that raised her. I assume she will be more comfortable with the idea of collage, but you never know, right?

I love the stories and personal histories of people.

I laughed when I read your email. I never plan where I'll stick my pictures. I just "randomly" paste and adjust the pictures as I go- which is totally how I live my life. Not enough planning. I need to work on this, but not this year. :)

I have the collage I did eight months ago under my bed (I hid it when some people came to stay in our guest bedroom), and I'm not going to look at it until after I finish my collage- to compare. I suspect I'll end up with dogs in the middle, mountain and desert scenes, and bright, jewel colored, flashy objects all over. This is my consistent theme."

My mom:

"I just finished my collage--usually I get everything placed and then paste. This time I pasted as I went--it led me to a small crisis toward the end.

I'm not sure I like it--I never am at first. It takes living with. I can say no chairs this year, however, I do have two beds. I also went a bit overboard on spools of thread...sigh. I was very surprised to see I ended up with a Ganish sort of floating in the middle--go figure."

Me:

"I have borrowed a tiara from my Ava, the 5 year old daughter of my boss. It's purple with feathers on it. I love it an am wearing it now. Unfortunately, I do not have cable or satellite, so I am unable to watch the Golden Globes. I thought I could go down to the local bar, but am not sure how I would be received wearing said tiara and demanding the NFL playoff game be turned off so I can see who is wearing what on the red carpet. So uncivilized here.

Sam, thanks for the update. I so miss your writing and it inspires me to do more than a three second status update on my Facebook. I find myself thinking in the third person now. "Sara is having a delicious muffin" "Sara is wanting bacon" "Sara is moving the wash to the dryer". God help me.

My collage is still in magazine form in the back of David's car. I looked through what I had and it's all Wine Spectator and Gourmet Magazine. So, unless my goal for this year is to become a 300 lb alcoholic, I would do well to find a few others. One of the jobs my boss left for me was to discontinue all of her catalogs. "No problem" I thought. They have been gone less than two weeks, and now there are 87 catalogs that have accumulated on the kitchen table. They are mostly seed and farm equipment catalogs, with a few cute kid things thrown in. I have a feeling this year's collage will be a bit on the eclectic side.

I'm going to focus and get back to work. Right after I update my status on Facebook of course. "Sara is focused on work" Oh shut up."

Each year I my collage ends up with pictures of lemons. I'm not sure why, I don't eat lemons nor do I have them displayed in bowls around my house. My mom has decided to quit posting pictures of chairs. I have made a conscious choice to lay off the lemons, and found myself ripping out pictures of pears. Not sure what that means. The collage is not done, I suppose I'll post a picture of it later.

Adios Myspace

I used to keep my blog on Myspace.

Thanks to my dearest most special friend Bob who has finally moved over to the dark side of Facebook, I can finally delete my Myspace page. I've moved some miscellaneous past blogs from there to my new home on Blogspot. These are just strange, personal musings from the last two years. This blog is not updated on a regular basis, I write when I get the urge. I may post three blogs in a day, or nothing for three months. Whatever. If you'd like a regulary scheduled blog, try my weak attempt at reviewing cheap wines:

http://recessionwine.blogspot.com/

Wine of the night? Syncline 2006 Cuvee Elena. Because I can.

Dear Maine- Fuck You

Just a bit of a letter I wrote the other day. Eh.

I've been composing an essay in my head the last few days, it's about
all the things I hate about Maine.

1. Those cute accents you were talking about? They're cute for about
five minutes. I'm sick of "Lobstah" "Chowdah" and "Beeah". I'm tired
of being called "Sarer". Why the Hell would you drop an "r" in a
perfectly good word like "Park", just to add it on to "Pizza". Hence,
a sentence here would sound like; "Pahk the Cah and we'll pick up a
Petezer". WTF is that.

2. The sun sets at 3:30 PM. I know that in the winter we have fewer
hours of daylight up here in North America, I accept this. But 3:30?
My kids are getting out of school and I'm popping open a bottle of
wine. You can not do this when you have children, or a job, because
you end up passing out around 7:45.

3. It's cold here David. Not just "a little chilly" or "boy is it
brisk today" but bone-chilling, teeth-chattering,
my-toes-are-frostbitten cold. If one more person says to me "Oooh! if
you think this is cold, just wait until February" I'll shoot them in
the eye. I am so sick and tired of people laughing at me because I'm
cold. It's 15 degrees out here sparky, of course I'm cold. I will also
be cold when it's -15. It's dark and fucking cold. I have this
gorgeous parka and every time I wear it someone greets me with "Nice
coat! What are you going to wear when it gets cold? Hee Haw!" I feel
like saying "You, after I skin you alive! Hee Haw!"

4. I've had one zillion people say to me, "You have to be tough to
live in Maine". Exsqueeze me? Tough? No, you have to be stupid to live
in Maine. Really fucking stupid. There are a million places on earth
that are more beautiful than Maine. You have to be tough to live in
Newark, you just have to be an idiot to live in Maine. There are no
jobs, the housing is expensive, the taxes are out of control, it's
cold, dark and people talk funny (please refer to points 1-3) The
"mountains" are in fact, hills, there are too many trees, and the
rivers are too shallow to do anything with. There are mosquitoes,
black flies that literally eat your skin, and don't get me started on
Moose. I hate these families who say with such pride that they have
been here for 200+ years. So? Too stupid and lazy to pack up and go
somewhere decent? Yeah! Sit out side of your camp and get eaten by
flies whydontcha!

5. "Camps" What the fuck is that? They are houses, not camps. I hate
it when people say "My family has had a camp on Lake Mooselookmeguntic
for one zillion years". Fuck you, fuck your camp. Who really cares.

6. My job. My job is dull. It's boring and not the least bit
challenging. My manager has made it her life's work to try and
humiliate me as much as she can in front of customers, my co-workers
and my boss to try and make herself look less than the ignorant
hillbilly she is. You see, she's from Maine. This is the only job she
has ever had. She likes to think she hasn't wasted her entire life
working in a retail store in Northwestern Maine, so anything I say she
replies with "Oh really! Well I put up the display window and yadda
yadda yadda.." Oh just shut up. She has horrible dandruff, bad breath
and would it kill her to take a shower or put on a clean shirt once in
awhile? When she speaks spit gathers on the sides of her mouth.
Luckily everyone knows she's nuts so they just roll their eyes but I'm
telling you, she'll be the first one I shoot in the eye.

7. You can't buy a decent bottle of wine up here. Nuff said. I've been
surviving on Rene Junot "table red" that I can buy in Magnum at the
local IGA for 9.99. Just to put this in perspective, I can buy the
same bottle in New Jersey for 4.99. So, I'm drinking a $5.00 Magnum of
Rene Junot as my "Good Wine".

8. I'm still living on Tim's floor. This I will go into at a later
date as I am too depressed to even write this little story out. I do
have a house, it will be ready the last week of December. So say a
prayer for your old pal Sara that I can keep myself from shooting
someone in the eye or drinking myself to an early death via Rene Junot
in the next three weeks.

Glad You Asked

So on occasion I like to peruse the online personals at "The Onion". Bob knows this, he's seen me do it at work. Gives me the eye roll, but smiles and knows, hey, it's just what I do. One night, after about 4 tequilas, I decide to post my own personal ad. Don't do this. Only freaks do this. The next morning, nursing a hangover I check my inbox and lo and behold, I have 14 messages from potential suitors. All are completely awful except for one. An "environmental scientist" from a town about 80 miles from me. He asks a simple question:

"What sort of work environment does Rangely provide for a wine expert?"

The social retard I am..I reply thusly. (Names have been changed to protect..er, me)

Not a whole Hell of a lot there buddy. I suppose it does sound a little strange. I will clarify with a very brief synopsis on how a wine appraiser ended up in Rangeley.

Long story. How do I make this brief. OK. My former husband and I split up in New Jersey. Now, how we ended up in New Jersey is a whole other bunch of bananas that isn't relevant to this story so would you please be patient and let me finish? Fine. We're in New Jersey. I'm a happy little clam at my job, he's fine and dandy teaching in the suburbs. However, said former couple share children together, and mom (that's me), mom's not happy about them growing up in New Jersey. How many times can I say "New Jersey" in this missive? I suppose I'm trying to make a point. They're in New Jersey damnit. So I (I'm going to quit speaking in the third person now), I throw this idea out that perhaps..just maybe..the kids might be happier growing up somewhere...say..not in New Jersey (thinking I could move to Mendoza and work at a winery a friend is starting up) and guess what? The ex agrees! Yes! "You know I was thinking the same thing!" he exclaims. "So that's why I've decided to accept a teaching position in Rangeley Maine!" Wait..wait wait wait, slow down there tiger. Maine? Where is this "Maine" you speak of? I quickly get out the atlas. The map, not your dog. "Maine..Maine..What the..that's like..the wrong way". "Tut tut" he says, well, really it was more of a sound like "Fft". "It will be great! Mountains! Lakes! Fresh air! Stars!" they kids look at me hopefully. "Maine?" I say weakly. "Yes" they all say in unison. With hunched shoulders I drag myself into the office the next day."What's up buttercup?" My boss asks me. He didn't really say that, it just makes me laugh thinking of my boss saying anything close to that. He probably didn't even acknowledge I was in the same room. Anyhoo. Wow, this is getting long. So yeah, I quit my job, my boss said something that sounded like, "Why don't you just work from home up there and come down once or twice a month". I say "sounded like" because his nick name is "mumbles" and it could just have easily been "I don't like your work so go home and you can get unemployment in a month". I'm taking it as the former and working from home in Maine. The paychecks keep coming so until someone notices I'm not there I'll just keep doing it.

Glad you asked, huh.

He didn't write back.

Airatarian

My mother doesn't eat.

I mean, she eats, ok? Everyone eats. But she doesn't really eat food.

Yesterday morning it was coffee and I made her try a HobNob. She didn't really like it and ate a graham cracker. I think that was breakfast.

Then as I was leaving to go to the mall she called after me, "Here! take some lunch with you!" and ran down the driveway with a banana.

Now, she's never eaten dinner as long as I have known her. I guess that would be all my life. She was a working mother and would leave notes like, "Dinner is in the fridge" where my siblings and I would find three apples and a bag of cheese curds.

I spoke with my sister yesterday about mom and her ability to live, not just live but thrive on just coffee, fruit, cheese and wine.

"It's freaky" my sister said "It's like she's an...airatarian" .

Peacocks

My parent's next door neighbor dropped by last night and mentioned there had been some break-ins last year. Is break-ins hyphenated? I think so. Who cares.

So yes, my mother said to me this morning that she thinks she should get an outside dog, just for protection.

"It would be hard fro me to leave it outside though, just standing there in the cold why the rest of us were inside. That's cruel".

I agreed.

"What you need mom, like a guard...."

"Peacock! Yes! What a great idea"

I wasn't going to say peacock. I'm not sure what I was going to say, but it wasn't "guard peacock".

It's all Greek to me

There was a marble serving plate on the counter at work yesterday, so I spun it and asked my colleague what she saw. She smiled and looked at me blankly like she always does when I ask her something and she either does not understand, or can't hear me.

"Chocolat" I said, "I guess you haven't seen it".

"I've seen it" she said "It's the French one with words on the bottom".

"No, no subtitles, it's in English".

"Right, the one about how life used to be in Italy".

"Well no, it takes place in France".

"'Like Water for Chocolate'" she frowned, "I didn't like it".

"Yeah..that's a Mexican film".

"Whatever".

Clumsy Anacronym

I've got to quit making fun of my manager. Really, I can't keep doing this.

Today she and a co-worker of mine were folding sweaters. "You can't describe a sweater as 'clumsy'" she said "clumsy isn't an adjective, it's an adverb".

Knowing I did not want to get involved in this conversation, I tried to leave the room.

"Sara!" She shouts. "Clumsy is an adverb, right? It can't be an adjective".

"Er well...I suppose it could be an adjective, if you were describing a noun...like..um, a person. The person was clumsy".

"Yeah but, it's really an adverb, right?"

Well, if you were to say, "He stumbled along, clumsily" You'd be in adverb territory.

"What about a sweater. Can a sweater be clumsy?".

I suppose it could be.

"Hee Haw! Right!" she snorts. "You need to have a long talk with your ex-husband, because you are WRONG baby! So wrong.."

Yes, tonight I will consult my ex-husband who teaches High School English about Adverbs. Maybe I'll call my English professor father and brother as well for a second and third opinion because , GASP-I don't know the English language.

Earlier that day she was decribing her daughter coming up with some anaconyms. "You know, like Happy for Sad, or Hot and Cold.."

I think she's FUBAR.

Jeroboam of 1947 Pommery

What have you been drinking?

I have six boxes of empty wine bottles in my basement. They aren't mine, they belong to my former employer. My ex-husband moved them up from New Jersey.

A few months ago I wanted to rent a u-haul and empty out our storage. My ex-husband volunteered to fly down, pack everything up and drive it back. I know you're thinking "How nice of him", but it was because he was paranoid that I would take something that belonged to him. You know like an old high school notebook or his collection of concert ticket stubs from the 70's and 80's. Anyhoo. I had some boxes that I had been storing at the warehouse at work, so I asked if he'd pick those up on the way back as well.

"How will I know what boxes are yours?" he asked

"They'll say SARA on them, in big, red letters."

Years ago when I was married to my first husband, I used to throw my clothes in a big garbage bag and toss them on the U-haul. One move my ex-husband saw the big garbage bag on the u-haul, and threw it in a dumpster somewhere in Texas. Now my family will always tie a ribbon on anything packed in a garbage bag, and I will always mark anything packed in a box with my name on it. REALLY REALLY BIG.

So it worked. I did end up with all my boxes. Plus six boxes of empty wine bottles. These aren't ordinary wine bottles either. They are the empties from the 'Top 100 wines of the Century' dinner my boss puts on every year. If you are interested in attending, you can for the mere $17,500.

So now, if they don't want the bottles back, I'll need to take them down to the recycling center in town where I'll unload a month's worth of the Rangeley "Highlander", milk jugs from the IGA, and a Jeroboam of 1947 Pommery.

What's up with your hair?

My youngest child Isobel called me into the living room this evening to show me something on television she found interesting.

First off, let me state that she is seven. She has never known a world where you couldn't pause live TV. This has nothing to do with the story really, it just makes me laugh when she wants me to see something on television and states "Hold on, let me rewind it".

So Isobel was showing me a Mom and her daughter, standing in a hallway.

"Do you like her outfit mom?" she asks, pointing to the TV mother.

"Sure, it's cute".

She starts the commercial up again, the TV daughter looking at her TV mother and telling her how young she looks.

Isobel turned to me with a concerned look and said:

"Mom, you have such a pretty face, I just wish you dressed better".

Yeah yeah..let me slip into a cute, little Spring dress to shovel the foot of wet snow that fell last night, after that I'll throw on some strappy sandals to wear to the IGA.

Oh, now this has nothing to do with anything, but the snow reminded me. DO NOT knock the foot of snow off your car using an old, metal snow shovel. If you do this you run the risk of cracking your windshield, which I happened to do this morning. A broom would be better.

A Grouchy German is a Sour Kraut!

So we're now into day nine of our cross-country to the Northwest extravaganza and so far it's been wonderful. Wonderful up until yesterday.

We drove over to Bellevue Square to browse the Apple store. Ok, I don't want comments like: "why didn't you just go to the one by the University? It's closer". I know it is, I like Bellevue. No comments David.

We're hungry so we stroll into the Cheesecake Factory for lunch. I chose the Cheesecake Factory because I find it's everything both right and wrong about the United States all rolled into one. The shear, creative genius of this obscene menu and the absolute gluttony of it. Plus they have beer.

While chowing down on Cuban sandwiches, we're discussing his job situation in Germany and his plans to start looking elsewhere. I casually say "How about Seattle?" Where he looks me right in the eye and says:

"I'm too old to move here".

I'm not quite sure of what happened next as everything seemed to slow down and get very quiet around me. I do remember saying half laughing and half choking "You're too...old?".

We ate our sandwiches, he continued talking about his work as I struggled to breathe. Damnit. He did it in one of my favorite malls too. Asshole.

Three years we've been doing this. Three fucking years. New Jersey was too ugly, Boston was to cold, Maine was too remote. Now, had he just said "Seattle is too rainy" or "I don't like their recycling program" I probably would have fell for it, again, and continued this bizarre long-distance whatever it is we have for another three years. But, "I'm too old to move to Seattle"??? It's a jackass way to say "I don't want to live with you. Ever."

We drove home in silence. He tousled my hair and asked me why I was so quiet, if something was wrong, I seemed sad. A mature person would have taken that opportunity to discuss what was he just said, however, we're talking about me here. So, I smiled and said I was just tired.

Friday I'll put him on a plane back to Munich. I'll give myself the weekend to drink too much wine, cry a lot and eat Ben and Jerry's. Then Monday morning I'll start over again.

This Gang of Chickens

My father bought six Arcana chickens last week on a whim.

My parents don't live on a farm, they don't even live in a rural area. They live in a suburban neighborhood outside of Seattle, and now they own chickens.

The chickens live in a shed in the backyard. They seem pretty content in the garden eating whatever it is they find living in the grass and admiring themselves in the hubcaps of my parent's caravan. However, once in a while they escape. Or, as my seven year old daughter pronounces it, "es copey".

As I was driving back from the grocery store the other day, I saw them outside the yard. They walked on the sidewalk like a gang of short people with feathers. They looked as if they should be wearing little red bandannas. So far they have always managed to make it back home, and will stand outside the gate until one of us lets them in.

Last night they tried to make it home but somehow ended up in the wrong yard, a fully fenced one in which they could not find their way out. My father called in the house instructing me to help him with the chickens. I came out and he asked where my coat was, as if wearing a coat was standard uniform for chicken catching. I told him it was 70 degrees, I didn't need a coat. "Your funeral" he said pointing to the blackberry bushes that lined the fence between our yard and the neighbors.

My dad, armed with a coat, hat and broom, broke into the neighbor's yard. I was instructed to guard the hole at the end of the fence. He would flush them out with a broom, I was to grab them and throw them over the fence into our yard.

The chickens, however, were not the least bit intimidated by the broom, but excited to see my dad out side of the yard and went running to him. I could not see my father over the blackberry bramble, but could see chickens being tossed, one by one over the fence.

Our neighbor came over to our house about a half hour later. She had just returned home after seeing "Disturbia", glanced out her window to see a strange man wearing a wide brimmed hat and carrying a broom, throwing chickens over a fence, and had a major panic attack.

People ask me why we move so much, this is why.

A Rebel Without Pause

There are two rules I follow when I post something online. Do not post after drinking, and do not post anything controversial.

This evening I'm breaking the rules. Both of them. For Bob, the wine of the night is a 2005 Michel Schlumberger 'La Brume' Dry Creek Valley Chardonnay, paired with wild salmon and asparagus. This was one of the wines I got in exchange for the empty top 100's. Excellent!

Back to our regularly scheduled blog.

I belong to an online pregnancy group. Wait, not a pregnancy group. I *did* belong to an online pregnancy group, when I was pregnant. Which isn't now. It was eight years ago. Now were a group of women with seven year olds. I love the women on this pregnancy group and somehow we have managed to stay together for eight years. These women are truly people I consider friends.

OK. So today this interesting quiz was posted, and we all posted our results:

pewresearch.org/newsiq/

What concerned me were the scores that were posted. The average score was 60% correct. The lowest being 15%, the highest 96%.

Where are we getting our information from? Does anyone watch the evening news/read newspapers/news magazines anymore? Are we, as a country, that out of touch? We have thousands of young men and women, only a few years older than my son, in Iraq fighting in my country's name, and there are people out there who can't be bothered to know how many have died? How many our leader is sending over there?? We've got our sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives stuck in the middle of a chaotic (or as my former manager would say, 'chow tic') un-winable civil war and we're too fucking busy to know how many of them HAVE BEEN KILLED!

I'm pissed. I'm fucking pissed watching this country being led of a cliff and I can't understand why were not all in the fucking street protesting. Actually I can, because according to this little test the majority of us can't be bothered to read a fucking newspaper. Oh wait, our president doesn't read newspapers either.

Being unpredictable and unstable is just part of my mystique

"Can you hold four ducks at one time?"

That's the question my father asked me yesterday as we were getting the new duckling pen set up in the back yard.

"Here! Try it!" he said, handing me a pile of ducks.

Things I'm learning about myself:

I can hold three ducks at one time. Four is one duck too many.

I've also accepted the fact that I am a flake.

Since the Markus left we've been e-mailing back and forth, analyzing just exactly went wrong. Well, he's analyzing because he is an Electronic Engineer who happens to be German and a Virgo, so he just can't help it. I know exactly what went wrong and what needs to happen to fix it.

So today he says this to me:

"Yes I have to deal with it. I am talking about your non deterministic behaviour."

Hmm. I think. It's not quite English. So I asked my farmer father.

"What do you think non deterministic behavior means?"

"He's calling you a flaky woman" my father replies.

Hmm. Well. That's not going to change. So yes. He has to deal with it. I'm not going to try and change my basic nature just to make it easier for someone else. I tried that before, it can end up disastrous. Please refer to "My ex-husband is an idiot". (I'm not talking about you David, the other ex-husband. You seemed quite entertained by it all). I'm unstable, and flighty, and quick to change direction. I'm also adventurous, game for a laugh, adaptable and sometimes forget to eat. So yeah, I can take a few wrong turns and end up living with my parents, chickens and four ducklings. I think it's part of my charm.

I'm taking "non deterministic behavior" as a compliment.

I'm also getting a root canal today.

Don't Eat That

Right now we're getting ready to move. Not right NOW, now I'm typing with a parrot on my shoulder (last and final name, pantoufle), which by the way said his first word today, which was "hello", sounding nothing like the sweet kind of sing-songy parrot voice that I had imagined him using, but more like a Mexican bandito. I think that may be the longest sentence ever written.

Anyhoo.

I'm really not a big fan of moving, ironic, I know. Once I went through every move I'd ever done and it took me 45 minutes to go through the list. Seriously. I don't like moving and yet here I am again, this time not even quite sure where I'm going. I'll need to have that nailed down by Friday I suppose.

Anyhoo.

So we're packing, and one of the first rules of moving is do not buy anything that will need to be packed up and moved, before you move. This includes food. So the first two weeks are fine, lots of chips and crackers and cheese. Big containers of dip from Costco. There's a bottle of Scotch that needs to be worked on, not really enough to justify moving it, but too much to dump. That sort of thing. By the last week though, it gets rough.

Right now it's some artichoke tapanade, a can of beans, some relish. Lingonberry jam, a can of Fresca, some salt and a freezer full of Boca Burgers. Now, I'm allergic to soy so that limits my choices a bit.

So. Here I sit, chowing down on my jar of relish, thinking I'm getting really tired of all this...not being stable. My goal is to make it nine months with out moving, which is one month longer than I've made it the past three years. Place your bets, ladies and germs.

Coffee Ready?

My oldest son Ian, is leaving in two weeks to live in Santa Fe with his biological father, step-mother and two year old sister.

When I found out I was pregnant I was 18 years old, and had been dating his father for an entire three weeks. When I told him I was pregnant his response to me was, "Couldn't you have waited until the Simpsons were over??". He was 25. He promptly asked when I was having an abortion, and I told him I wasn't, just because I at that age I did the opposite of whatever was suggested. I suppose some things never change.

I had Ian on October 6th, 1991. I was 19 and had never held a baby in my life. I was single, and now solely responsible for this amazing little creature that changed my life forever. When he was two months old an older gentleman stopped me on the street, looked me dead in the eye and told me to enjoy every minute, because it goes by so fast. That day feels like yesterday. It really does go by that fast.

I married Tim because Ian chose him. We were getting our passport pictures taken by Tim, and after it was done Ian walked up to him and hugged him. He was two, and had never hugged anyone else but me in his little life. I took it as a sign. We saw him through sleepless nights, potty training, pre-school, kindergarten, birthday parties, dying pets, nightmares, chicken pox, road trips, pokemon cards, moving, Jr. High, best friends, losing grandparents, bad grades, holidays, pre-teen angst, High School, first dances, first girlfriends, broken hearts, good grades, first jobs, driver's ed, second girlfriends, paintball tournaments, teenage angst, teenage rebellion and all the joy, confusion, terror, long nights, silent treatments that comes with raising a child.

His father missed all of it.

Last year we got a call out of the blue from his biological dad. He had married a wonderful woman, and had a child. He wanted Ian to visit. Tim and I took a deep breath and put him on a plane to Santa Fe. Ian discovered a whole family he had never known before, and the sweet kid that he is, fell in love with them. Last week, with tears in his eyes my baby asked if it would be ok with us if he moved in with his newly discovered family. What am I supposed to say? Am I supposed to point out that this was the same man who asked when I was getting an abortion? That he never wanted to be a father? That he wanted nothing to do with him for 15 years? No. I smiled and said of course it was ok, that it was a wonderful idea that he leave and get to know the other biological half of who he was. Of course it's ok.

When Ian was a baby he would wake up every morning between 5 and 6am. Without fail. I suppose it has to do with the long line of farmers and ranchers he comes from. Being a single mom I had one rule, I would not get up before the automatic coffee maker went off at 7. Every morning between 5 and 6 I would wake up to "Good morning mommy! Coffee ready??" and I would call out to his room, "Not yet baby, 7 o'clock" and he would play patiently in his crib until then. Looking back I should have just gotten up, enjoyed every fleeting second that went by so fast, but as a single mom, I took advantage of the appliance.

He's still up at six, but now he's making the coffee and walking down to get the paper because he has developed the same habit as his mom. We sit in silence in the morning, drinking our coffee and reading the New York Times, sometimes exchanging comments on the stories we read or our plans for the day. But in two weeks it will change. He'll be at the Desert Academy in Santa Fe, taking Chinese and Calculus because it's not offered at Rangeley Regional School and he really wants to take these classes to get into St. Johns College, and Tim and I will be mourning the fact that we lost our kid too soon. It goes by too fast.

God speed little man.

My Look-alikes

People often mistake me for The Hoff.

My Celebrity Look-alikes