A Pre-Fall Report

Have you ever noticed that most of my little blog posts start with either "nothing much going on here" or "wild times over here!" Funny what our brains perceive.

Let's start with Brett's newest hobby. He still goes out surfing in the early mornings - if no one can go with him, I tear myself out of bed and plop into the sand and pretend to read while I closely monitor him from the shore. I don't like folks playing in the water by themselves, especially if you're going to keep slipping and sliding around on a board that might knock you in the head. 
Oh but there is something more dangerous and exciting; hydrofoilng. It's all the fun of surfing but with more things to hold onto and heavier, sharper equipment to split your head open with. He loves it, and I love that he loves it. He does however, come home with a new injury each time he goes and voluntarily went out and purchased a helmet to wear during his excursions. That tells you everything you need to know. Luckily the hydrofoiling is a two man-operation until he gets to being skilled at the endeavor, so I get to act like a cool and indifferent wife when he goes out foiling with friends who will surely do their best to save his life. 

Here he is with our good buddy, George, who got Brett into the aqua sport. On this night George arrived with a milkshake for Brett to drink while they discussed hydro-strategy. I thought it was awfully cute.

We've been soaking up the last of the hot summer days because it's dropped down into the 80's and to us that feels like Fall weather. Pippa has finally been diagnosed with a bowel disease (fun) which is a relief because the poor little squirt is always sick. Now we know how to patch her up and get her back to being a wild-hearted pup. I hosted another Food Lion protest (we've never had a company hold out this long) whereupon someone gave me the finger as they drove by and another told me what I could do with my sign. I don't know why it amuses me so, but it does. The rest of my group finds it sad, so I have to withhold my enjoyment.

Papa Clint and his band played a big show under the Ravenel a couple weekends ago (delightful weather) during which time Mom and I were approached by an 84 year-old man who looked at each of us and then said, "So what do you think?" as though he was a real catch. Mom and I exchanged glances and then she threw me under the bus to go dance with him. Luckily, Clint's song ended and the band took a break in the knick of time, so I spent the rest of the night hiding from that man. 

We had a 10 day stretch with houseguest Erik squatting at our place while his house was rented out for what was going to be his trip to Europe - but his friend over there got a job and subsequently wouldn't have time to play with Erik. So Erik bagged the trip but kept the rental income, and stayed at our place. Erik is a highly unobtrusive house guest. He is easy to entertain because he's happy to just sit wherever there are other humans. If he's not interested in what you're doing, he'll still sit with you but will do his own thing nearby. He carries around a grocery bag of snacks so you never really have to feed him either. He left for a few nights to visit a buddy in NC, and had a few work shifts, so he was in and out in an inconspicuous way.

He was here one night when we hosted the whole Eisenhauer clan. We made the four little boys eat outside -mostly because we didn't have enough space at the table - so they stayed outside and wreaked havoc on our yard for most of the visit. Occasionally one would come inside "to poop" and then go back out again. They all pooped shortly after dinner in-between shoving scuppernongs into August's underwear and balancing on the pieces of board left in the marsh while Brett rebuilds our dock stairs. So they smelled like poop and pluff mud and sweat. Then Jeff made them hug me and Brett goodbye and shake Erik's hand even though all of us insisted it wasn't necessary. They weren't even all the way out the front door when Erik was at the kitchen sink with soap up to his elbows while I was actively gagging while wishing them farewell. Brett looked at the two of us and simply shook his head. 

Also during Erik's visit, we captured two of my stray cats and had them neutered. (It was a big ordeal.) But they had to stay in the guest bathroom to recover, so Erik had to use toilet paper with stray kitty paw prints on it, and shower next to dried flecks of tuna that the cats dispersed around the bathroom in an attempt to escape.

Highly focused poker night for the fellas.

Additionally, I had to have to blood drawn during all of this, and Brett was planning to come along because I come from a long line of squeamish people and sometimes this particular activity makes me woozy. Alas, the night before, Brett found out he had to be in North Charleston at the same time as my appointment, but I thought to myself, "Ah, I'll be fine. I'll just go on my own." 
Then some other part of my brain texted Mom to see if she was free. "Sure thing." So despite being thirty-five years old, my mom drove me to my blood draw... where I promptly passed out and had to be revived by a very nice phlebotomist and some damp paper towels. It was because they took three vials of it and I wasn't expecting that, so each time I became more and more offput. Then I got real hot. I must have had some visual symptoms as well because the phlebotomist looked at me and calmly muttered, "Oh no." Then I saw dark spots. "Can I get some help in here!" they yelled. I remember worrying that the yelling would scare Mom, but then I got real drowsy and took a nap. In the chaos of it I heard Mom's voice say, "I'm her mother, can I go back there with her?" and at some point I opened my eyes to Mom's smiling face while she told the phlebotomist that "her father passed out watching his dog get a vaccine. She comes from a long line of weenies." It seemed to take ages to pull me back out of it again. We shuffled me back to the car and then Mom took us to a breakfast joint for something sugary. I sat in the car feeling very sleepy and frankly, glad I passed out to make all of it worth mom's time.

Cliques, Cuddles, and Cancer

It turns out that the day-to-day goings-on inside of an animal shelter is golden fodder for storytelling. The place is nuts. It's dramatic, hilarious, disgusting, and heart-meltingly sweet. The collection of humans that choose to work in such an environment vary in states of consciousness from barely finished high-school to veterinary PhD. There's a class system at the shelter, which strikes me as very amusing, what with all of us equally speckled with poop and bruises. Just like in high-school, I belong in no group. I'm too cheerful and healthy for those on the "low" end and too cheerful and simple for those on the "high." So I drift around, being of amusement to all and known by none. In that sense, I've found my place. If it posed no risk, I'd describe the groups of people - how they determine who is like them and what activities are the result of such belonging. It's a riot... but I wouldn't want HR to see my published observations. Instead, I can tell you about the animals (also a class system; ranging from pit-bull to golden-doodle) and the endless antics they create for themselves in a day.

For instance, Bowser and Peaches, a bonded pair with a collective weight of 185 pounds had a twinkle in their eyes when I took them out to the yard. Bowser is a Mastiff/ Great Dane mix, so when he stands on his hind legs, he's taller than me. Peaches is just a big mutt - she's about my size when she stands up. So I let them out one day, and as I headed back to the door, Bowser got the bright idea to stand up and shove me over to Peaches who was already standing up, ready to catch me. She then put her paws on my shoulders and pushed me back over to Bowser. They did this back a forth just twice before I made a bee-line for the door, but they beat me to it. Bowser stood in front of it and hurled me back into Peaches arms. Peach sent me sideways, let me scramble a few feet away and then intercepted me and tossed me to Bowser. I tried to think of an escape plan while they played ping pong with my body. It went on for a full minute, which is a long time to fight to stay upright with what are effectively peers of my weightclass. They weren't trying to hurt me so I wasn't scared, but I was concerned about how to get out of it. I knew if I fell down they might wind up hurting me by accident. I was just preparing to climb the chain link fence when I broke away and threw myself through the gate. I was completely winded and seeing dark spots as I stood in the doorway recovering from what is undoubtedly the most physical wrestling match I've ever been apart of. 

I didn't find it funny until a half hour later. I told my manager about it and she said, "Oh," like she'd just remembered, "Yeah they do that to new people." and then she just went on back to her work.

(Brett's first volunteer day with Theo.)

It also turns out that being understaffed is fairly common, so when my trainer and I wound up being the only two working a 10 hour shift again this week, I called Brett and convinced him to come "volunteer." This had a twofold outcome; we had an extra set of hands, but best of all, Brett got to meet the pups I've been telling him about. He loves to hear what the dogs are up to each day, so he was pretty excited to have wet noses to match up to the stories. (On that day he fell in love with three dogs in particular; Ralph, Tinky, and the undesirably named, Princess.) (He has since come back to actually volunteer, and then fell in love with Roxy and Ian.) (It's very satisfying to watch.) The point is, now I come home from a long shift and say, "Guess what Earl did today?" and Brett will go "Oh gosh..." because he knows all about Earl. Then I'll tell him what Earl did and he'll say, "Well what did Sully and Blu do about it?" because he knows that Sully and Blu are on either side of Earl's kennel. It's tons of fun. 

(Brett's newest love, Roxy.)

At risk of the blog becoming an animal shelter report, I'll just tell you that we had some puppies come in with scabies and mange, a mama and puppy come with kennel cough, and a handful of cats come in with ringworm. In such cases, each ailment gets it's own quarantine, and depending on the spreadability of the condition, we have to "gown up" or "scrub in" before going to tend to those critters. So when I looked in the mirror one morning on a day off and noticed a reddish-brown smudged circle on the end of my nose, I worried I had contracted something gross. The smudge was not there the night before and I hadn't noticed it when I woke up, but I didn't really look in the mirror either. Had it shown up overnight or within the last two hours? I studied the spot in the mirror and then set out Googling what it could be.

It wasn't scabies or mange - thank goodness. I wonder if it's cancerous? I took to an image search of cancerous smudges that aren't moles. Nothing looked quite like it, but maybe kind of close? I should probably go to a dermatologist, especially with how rapidly it appeared. I hated that it was on the end of my nose. It was so loud and obvious. I realized I don't own any foundation or flesh-colored goop to hide things under, nor would know how to use it effectively. 

(Brett's least favorite animal, the perpetually happy Ferguson.)

Oh man, do you think it's ringworm? I hesitated to Google image ringworm. I didn't want to see it or have it be true. Would they have to slice worms out of my nose? Don't you poop out ringworm? How does that work? What will my nose look like in the end? I Googled it, and it wasn't a perfect match, but it wasn't totally off. I got that hot feeling you get when something has quietly gone awry and you're the only one that knows about it. It seemed too small to be ringworm... I went back to the cancer idea, did some more Googling and then set out looking for a dermatologist with walk-in availability. (It doesn't exist. You have to wait three months like everyone else being ravaged by cancer.) 

I grabbed a small mirror from a box of forgotten toiletries I keep under the bathroom sink, and went over to the window to study my downfall in the daylight. It looked more orange out here than in the dark bathroom. Kind of a caramel color. I touched it to see if it hurt... no feeling at all. Is it smooth or bumpy? I ran my finger across it, and it wiped right off. 

It left no trace, not on my nose or my finger. It then took less than ten seconds to connect the smudge to the foam from a cappuccino Brett had surprised me with an hour before. I laughed out loud at myself, rolled my eyes at myself, and then ran off to tell Brett what a bumpkin he'd married. He also rolled his eyes and laughed, and in the moment I had endeared myself to both of us. What a hopeless little doofus. 

(Brett's first, truest, and deepest love, Grace.) 

(Pictured here with secondary caretaker and wife.)

The First Day

I've taken a job as a caretaker at the local animal shelter. Long story. 
Someone quit on my first day, leaving just me (a total newbie) and one other person there to do what is usually done by four people. As is my custom, I was too nervous to eat before my TEN HOUR SHIFT so I went in at 7:00am with an empty belly and a huge bruise on my leg from where one of the dogs had bitten me a week earlier during my working interview. This will be fine.

I'll tell you that I came home marinated in slobber, poop, blood, and something of a taffy-like consistency.

Didn't ask what it was. 
I was initially thrilled to be wearing scrubs for this new job. People look smart in scrubs. I see now that it is a kindness to your wardrobe. I only bought two sets of scrubs thinking of them more as a school uniform that I'd wear a few times before washing. That is absolutely incorrect. They also act as an incubator of sorts, so when you're outside in the sun being walked by a hound as tall and heavy as you are, you can really feel the sweat trickling down your back and into your waistband. 

The morning is the more accurate portrayal of a typical day. The animals need breakfast, a trip outside, fresh water, etc. I helped lasso pups to take out, sterilized kennels whose residents couldn't hold it until morning. I cuddled some puppies, was glared at by the dog that bit me, and was head-butted into a cinderblock wall by an excitable pitbull. I packed bags for "doggy day out" volunteers, wheeled around a hotel-sized laundry cart, collected breakfast dishes, and was monitored by a dog named Aurora who they told me not to look directly at, and definitely don't try to pet her. I sat in on the daily "rounds" where the caretakers report on the ailments of residents to the staff veterinarians. The dog crew had nothing to report on but the cat staff had a number of cases of diarrhea and someone with swollen testicles. Then I went home for lunch and sat on the floor until it was time to go back. I thought my scrubs were gross then... just you wait.

After lunch, that one person left/quit and the shelter opened up to the public. The person training me had to go do "meet and greets" with people wanting to adopt animals, so I was left alone to tend to the behind the scenes chaos. Goodbye easy first day activities. I was in the back working out where things are kept when the day went awry. The post-op animals needed to go outside, one at a time for safety reasons. "But don't tend to Bella. She can be dicey." Bus Bus leaped five foot jumps over and over while I tried to get a leash around his neck. "Make sure you double leash him. He'll get away." I was just leaving when the veterinarian came in. "I'm so sorry, when you're done, there's a mess in the clinic."

Bus Bus bounded through the sunlight with me staggering around behind him. I came back hot and panting and made my way to the clinic. A stray had been dropped off and he did a big nervous job in his cell and then danced in it and smeared it up the walls and between the metals bars of his door. The smell was awful. Four other strays were waiting in cells in the same tiny room. One was an enormous bellowing hound dog who crooned wildly the whole time I was scrubbing poop out of the divots in the concrete walls. Then someone came over the walkie talkie. "Can we have someone from dog staff come to Intake?" I scrambled past the guinea pigs and a rat named Atticus to help relocate a puppy with missing chunks of fur. I finally went back to the post-op dogs. Llyod was ready for his outing, but Johhny Cash had slipped out of his cone of shame. "We need a large collar for a dog that was just dropped off." "Bo pooped in his kennel." "Can you grab some clean towels?" "Can you get someone ready for a doggy day out?" I ran around for hours in all different directions. The were dogs barking, kittens sleeping, Aurora steadily watching me, potential adopters asking me questions I didn't know the answers to. At one point I looked over and there was a cat dangling from the ceiling and another scaling the wall. 

The poo-painting stray created another masterpiece in his cell (someone else cleaned it for me) around the time to start the dinner feedings. "Olive is on a special food for her kidneys. Slate will eat too fast and barf so he needs a slow feeder. Ricardo gets wet food as does Lynn. Everyone else gets scoops based on weight, ok? Oh, and give Jasper some chicken. And don't feed Bella or Aurora. I'll do them." After dinner they go back outside and that's the portion of the day where I walked a dozen dogs who have never walked on leashes before. Cat staff watched through the windows of the air-conditioned Cat Corner as a different dog dragged me to the front door every ten minutes or so. I had one dog left, the giant bellowing hound. "I wouldn't walk him if I was you," the intake manager said. I found the girl "training" me and told her what the manager said. "Why?"

"I don't know. She just said she thinks I shouldn't. What does she know, I wonder?"
The girl thought for a second, "Well, you're going to find out," and then she shoved a second leash in my hand. I suited up the Laura-sized dog and made a point of controlling him as we walked past the intake manager to the door. She was going to think I chose to defy her. 

Once outside, the dog flew me like a kite, like a bit of lint stuck to his back foot. I found that I could overpower him if put all my weight low to the ground so I squat-walked, occasionally grabbing onto small trees to help stop his momentum. My toes crammed into the tips of my new supportive shoes. My black scrubs held onto to every ounce of sunlight. I had managed to eat a small lunch and most of a banana but the hunger was really setting in. I'd had no time to be nervous (great) but also no time to eat much or even drink water. "Just another hour or so until five," I told myself. 

"We're definitely not getting out of here at five today," my trainer blurted as she ran past me in the hallway. "Hey Laura?" someone said, "We need a hand in WAGs." I had to go to the back and look at the layout map to figure out what wags was. Then I watched a stray pup get blood drawn, vaccinated, and microchipped. "I'll be glad to train you in these minor medical things if you're interested," the veterinarian told me. I smiled politely and withheld my queasiness. I threw a few pretzels into my mouth as I helped Bowser and Peaches into the main yard. I kept getting locked out and would have to run around the complex to the front door. Someone had pooped a hug soft poo in the side yard. I tried to pick it up but really just smeared it around. Back inside, two cats were fighting and another was wandering loose in the main thoroughfare.

By about 5:30 everyone had had dinner and been outside for the last time that day. I stood in the hallway between the cat area and the kennels, panting, my hands on my knees. The perfectly coifed and dry cat staff were filing out, getting their things, saying goodbye for the day and clocking out. I waited for my "trainer" to make sure we were done. That's when she came busting out of the dog area, found the manager and said, "That was the worst day ever. I never want to do that again." I hadn't even paid much attention to what she had been doing all day. I felt alarmed about such a confrontation until I realized that she and the manager are good pals. "We were totally understaffed!" Then she looked at me and said, "I've never had a day like this before. This is not normal." I kept waiting for her to tell the manager what an outstanding job I had done, that really, she couldn't have done it without me, but she never did. 

Brett laughed when I came through the door at the end of the day, and snapped this horrendous and entirely accurate photo. What you can't see are the claw marks and fresh bruises scattered all over my thighs and ankles.

I suppose it's nice to know that I've already had the worst possible day available to me, barring the physical injuries that everyone on staff seems to have endured. I got home a little before six, completely filthy with vibrating muscles and a growling stomach. I took a shower, contemplated burning my scrubs, and fought to stay awake until 8:45.

Now, on to day two.

The Kindergarten Catalyst

The biggest thing to happen of late is little Livvy starting Kindergarten. She was excited about it and wandered right on into the school, so the only thing to report on is that Ellen had a collection of meltdowns leading up to the day, and a final blowout after dropping her off. But now it's all just part of life. I'll admit to going through photos of baby Liv and then comparing them to current day Liv, and it's an wild and confusing thing to look back on. How does that just happen?

First birthday to first day of school.

I'll also admit to being very worried about whether or not she and Nick will morph into nervous, anxious little squirts. Liv nearly dispelled my concern about this for her with the way she pranced into a new school ready to follow the rules and delight all who pass her. I was not this way on my first day of school (all seventeen of them) and neither was Ellen, who I believe had to be wrestled out of the car on her first day of Kindergarten. Ellen and I both go on to develop anxiety of different brands. Hers; high in quantity but of a manageable magnitude. Mine: typically low in volume but of nearly unbearable intensity.  

I'm worried about this because my own panicy anxiety has been especially bad for that last three months or so, and it is deeply distressing. I also keep hearing about the increasing anxiety of younger folks that has been brought on by a collection of woes: social media, academic and extracurricular expectations, and a climate based fear due to the ongoing degradation of natural environments around the planet. Apparently young folks are very worried about their futures, and not just the "what will I be kind" but the "will there be clean drinking water" kind. I wasn't smart enough to have worries beyond my immediate surroundings when I was young, so the positive here, is that today's youth are much more plugged in and aware. That will probably be used for good, right?

But that's not really my point. I don't want Nick or Liv doomed to a life of debilitating fear but I don't know how you prevent that. And I would think that Ellen and I would be able to pick up on whether or not their "first day jitters" are the benign kind or the truly devastating kind, but I also know that adults miss things sometimes (because of course a kid doesn't want to go to school) and that there isn't a lot you can do about a kid that feels unnecessarily nervous about something. (Also, I'm not excluding Lee in parental ability to identify or empathize with an anxious kid. I'm just not familiar with his experience.) 
I thought back on being anxious in school or church or some other establishment that forced me to participate in things that didn't feel right, and short of being released from participation, I don't know what any adult could have done to make me feel better. Certainly they all tried, because they are lovely caring people. "Don't worry Laura, it's not a big deal." "Oh everyone thinks it's fun, you'll love it too." "It's just a short while. Over before you know it." But none of that ever calmed the internal storm, because it didn't matter what other people felt. I wasn't having the same experience. 

It may have helped for someone to spend the time (a lot of time) explaining all the details to me, so that I could understand what I was being thrown into. I like details. Kids aren't given a lot of information - they're just sent off into new buildings with eerie strangers until their parents comeback to get them. The kid is left to wonder what they will be doing in there. What's the flow of the day? How many people? Will there be any breaks? Should I bring food? What do I need to know before I go? Do we know who the instructor is? Are they kind? Will I get hurt? Can I leave if I need to? While I understand that there are lots of people (extraverts) who wouldn't be completely burdened by not knowing these things, I know that there are plenty like me that don't feel safe unless they understand what to expect. 

I see this in myself even as an adult. For example, I loved volunteering at the pet shelter. The people are nice. The animals are fun. I'm glad to help out. But every month they send an email to the volunteers, trying to recruit us for events around town. Adoption events, puppy yoga, fundraisers, etc. And I'd probably be glad to help - but they don't give you any details about it. How many animals will you be in charge of? Would I be the only person? Is it inside or outside? How long is the event? I have questions about food and schedules and the venues and the paperwork, and while I could call the shelter and get that information, it's easier to just not volunteer. 

The fun part of this is talking to Dad (and often Brett) about these things. They would have no questions about what they've signed up for. They would just show up on the day in whatever clothes they felt like wearing, with nothing but a wallet and keys in their pocket, and they wouldn't have an ounce of worry or concern on them. What is that? Dad could then find out he was underdressed, wouldn't be provided any food for eight hours, and was supposed to bring trash bags or something, and he'd just say, "Oh. Oops. How can I fix it?" Can you imagine? I've thought about it, and I'd be willing to pay a six figure sum to have that disposition.
In case you're also like Dad and don't understand any other possible reactions; Mom (for example) and I would be embarrassed as well as riddled with guilt about getting things wrong. We'd feel like idiotic burdens. We've inconvenienced everyone. They have to cover for our failure. We'd also be worried about our blood sugar getting too low and becoming woozy - which isn't the end of the world but then other people would have to stop what they were doing to care for us, and that's highly pride wounding, embarrassing, and inconvenient. Everyone will hate us. We should just go home.  

Yes, this is people pleasing - and it's a safety mechanism. We learn to do it at a young age to keep out of trouble. Not everyone is afflicted with it and it can range in severity but the point to take away is, it's an effort to stay safe. A therapist will tell you that it goes back to our tribal/nomadic days where not being amenable could mean exile (which would be death) or, something like having a visible meltdown episode would make people think you were possessed which would scare them, so they'd kill you. So, people pleasing is one of the first things we learn. I guess some of us have a harder time shaking it off. 

People pleasing, a one-off bad experience, a single unmet need; these are just three of hundreds of things that can cause an anxiety disorder.

How do you spare someone from such a life sentence? 

A Mountain Visit

We trekked up to Asheville with Ellie and Caroline for a long weekend getaway - an escape from our oppressive temperatures. We booked an exciting house on a mountaintop, changed the oil in our car, and then dumped the pups off with Mom and Dad. This was fortuitous timing (that's sarcasm) as Pippa has been on a somewhat inconvenient medicine schedule for a stomach ulcer. It's a lot of pills at strategic times, but the real doozie is this one pill you have to crush up, stir into a slurry, slurp up into a syringe and then squeeze into Pippa's mouth, twice a day. 
Thanks Mom and Dad, see you Monday!

Pipps is doing great, thanks for asking. 

We got in Friday afternoon and then snacked and chatted until we left again. The fun part of traveling with friends is getting that twenty-four hour access to how they move through a day. I've known Ellie since we were five, so few of her choices strike me as funny, except for the fact that most of her choices are funny. She's the most steadily sanguine person I know. Her mood rarely changes from cheerful optimism. When she's mad or scared or anything different, it has about a ten percent opacity. You'll only know because she told you - it won't be discernible in her voice or behavior. Caroline, like me, is much more inclined to feel many different emotions in a day. Caroline, unlike me, will tell you about them. I appreciate this about her because she and I are usually on the same page about things but she'll say something about it and subsequently, she seems like the problem child instead of me. 

Our rental house had a scary, North Carolina driveway. It was all right angles and steep inclines on a gravel path. The car would slip and tremble as you made your way up and up and up, and being that we are all from a very flat place, the driveway seemed dicey. That is to say, I did not like this driveway but with an unfazed Brett behind the wheel, I could sit quietly and endure the tension. Caroline also did not like the driveway but she lived in fear of coming or going from the house each day. She would look for ways around using the driveway ("let's order in!"), walk herself down the hill, or sit in the car discussing her worries as we rolled back down the mountain. Ellie sat in whatever seat of whatever car we took that day and carried on enjoying the mere concept of being alive. 

So watching this particular group of people for a weekend was a joy. Brett and Ellie hit it off the very moment I introduced them to each other ten years ago, and it's continued to be such a joy to see them pull the fun out of each other. Caroline and I often sit together and watch them play, like proud moms hosting a successful playdate. As the more vigilant (anxious) members of our group, we let them wreak havoc in the controlled environment we create for them. "Come on you two, it's time for lunch. Ellie, have you had any water today?" While they play, Caroline and I talk about "important" things ranging in subject from politics to human health to unique experiences. She is a good listener and a direct but fair responder. She will not sugar coat things but won't present anything to you that she doesn't think you can handle. Also, she's real easy to make laugh.

Up to no good.

So that's one way we pair off. 

The other one is equally fun for me to observe. Caroline and Brett are similar in many ways. They are highly disciplined, prioritize doing what's best for their future-selves, and have high ethical standards. They both wake up early for sunrises, require good coffee, and set off exercising before Ellie and I are even close to waking up. So while they're busy implementing ways for us to all better ourselves, Ellie and I will be deeply invested in trying to shock the other, be it with behavior or wit. Usually the two of us are laughing so hard that we're crying, which is great fun to us, but seems to embarrass Brett and Caroline when we're out in public. 

What I really like about this friendship is our willingness to snap at each other. It sounds counterintuitive but I think many friendships ignore or endure bits that make people uncomfortable, because we don't want make waves. There are people I love spending time with but wouldn't ask them to change things I don't like. Here, we can all tell each other "Hey, you're being childish right now," and we'll still go home giggling arm in arm. 

Early birds discussing world peace. 

So some highlights. Let's see.
There was a huge Indian dinner.

A hike that nearly killed me on account of the common outcome of an Indian Dinner.

Lots of coffee shop visits.

Poker night.

And a general wandering around in a town that wound up being only about 3 degrees cooler than our home temperatures. We also managed to consistently patronize establishments without air conditioning so we were all about as sweaty as people can be. 

Other highlights I will note purely for my own memory of this trip (it would be far too much to explain);  a rockstar named Billy Balls, the breakfast casserole, pet gerbils, "yes, but she's well fed.", the angry trucker, the art student, Caroline's unexpected spit-take, the overweight nudists, and the hairy man at the coffee shop that we all found strangely attractive. 

We laughed so hard I felt sick. I think that sums up the weekend.

Male Men

A good ol' summer-storm power outage.

Our mailman has a lead foot. He comes ripping through the neighborhood after lunch each day, often bypassing blocks at a time, I think to unload packages first and loop back around to deliver paperstuffs. You can hear him zooming around long before he gets to your house because he's got that little mail truck's sewing machine engine pushed to max capacity. It's buzzing with all it's might. When I hear him at the neighbor's house, I make my way to the window so I can watch him deliver our mail. He flies past our house and screeches to halt at our mailbox. He stops so abruptly that he and the car lurch forward before settling back on the asphalt. Then he smacks open our mailbox and leafs through his piles for stuff with our names on them. The best part is watching the envelopes leave his car and make it to our box. I think he throws them or flings them or flicks them, but either way, they leave his hand before they leave his truck. It happens so fast that I can't quite figure it out. 

He'll smack the tongue of our mailbox but up again and then hit the gas with his whole foot. He and the little car whiplash backwards before plowing ahead to the next house. It makes me laugh every time. And he's not a friendly, pleasant person. I've smiled and waved and all the things but he never acknowledges me. In fact, he scowls. Also, he has a frustrating habit of hustling anything that won't fit into the box up to the front door. He hurls it to the porch, scampers back to his truck, and then lurches forward to the mailbox to deliver the paper mail. Why doesn't he just put it all by the door and save himself twelve seconds? 
In any case. I like him. It's like if Dad was a mailman - except that Dad would be very friendly, jubilantly engrossed in his own competition to deliver mail the fastest. 

Some birthday visitors.

Unrelated but equally amusing, I read that half of men surveyed believe they could land a commercial airliner in an emergency situation. This helps to explain many of the encounters I've had with their kind. Not only do I not believe I could land an airliner with no prior experience, part of me feels worse putting it in the hands of someone so irrational. But, I also couldn't just sit there and do nothing, so I guess I kind of get it, and anyone willing to keep me from having to enter the cockpit has my respect. It's a complex conundrum to consider... if you're a woman. Apparently heaps of fellas think it's simple as pie.

I approached Brett with my findings. His expression suggested that what I told him was not wild information. "Do you think you could land a commercial airplane, Brett?"

A knowing, guilty grin spread across his face. I saw him relent to his own mind. "Well, yeah."

Then we laughed and laughed.

Brett understands that pilots have to fly many different planes for thousands of hours before they're allowed to do so for others, but he still felt this information was negligible. "If it's an emergency, I have to something."

"Yes, but that's not the question."

I go on to find out that men (represented here by Brett) feel they could land a plane because of prior video game experience doing so, as well as a general understanding of engines and the aerodynamic principles of lift and drag. I will concede that I do not have a general understanding of engines or aerodynamics, so I'm comfortable letting the gamers and nerds take the lead in this particular emergency.

Then we introduced the idea of talking to air traffic controllers on the headset while maneuvering the plane and that only bolstered Brett's confidence. I'll concede again here and say that I could probably do it if it was being explained to me - but it certainly wouldn't be a smooth ride. I suppose a gentle crash landing is acceptable in this instance.

Then I had the thought that we ought to let a woman do it because she would do a better job listening to the traffic controllers. Not saying men wouldn't, just that women would listen harder - maybe let them finish their sentences before yanking on the lever or pushing the button. I didn't say this out loud to Brett because I knew it would make him grumpy and defensive, and that would cause him to both miss and prove the point I was making. But I'll say it here because I am the author of this space.

There is no need for me to even call Dad to check because I know he thinks he could land that plane too. I don't think he'd even be all that worried about getting it right. I think he'd be thrilled by the challenge. Brett would be appropriately stressed. Dad would be unnervingly excited. So then I did that thought experiment. Do I want the inexperienced pilot to be judicious or optimistic? Both traits seem paramount to the situation.

I couldn't decide. Hopefully they're both on the plane and can work together.

Today I found myself wondering about my mailman landing the plane. He certainly works fast. Seems motivated. But I worry he would be satisfied stopping the plane with a direct hit to something with a little give to it. "Close enough!" he'd think, and then he'd hop out and rush off to his next assignment.

My favorite barnacle.

Adult Level Musings

This month has been one of introspection, strategy, and fresh peaches. They are my favorite summer fruit, you know. Brett and I are plodding along, deciding what we want our life to be and it's interesting how stationary such musings are. Planning is all talk until the day arrives. (Though we have no such moment in mind, so...) 

The kittens have begun coming around for snacks so I've snapped a few pictures. The shelter said that if I "handle" them frequently, they would become accustomed to people enough that I could bring them in to be adopted after a certain point, but they won't let me come within two feet of them, so I guess we just have six cats now. Brett is understandably outraged.

Here is a family photo. Dad (Mr. Ned Cricket) and Mom (Clara) are on the left.

These two are Cameron and Barkley. 

I've reached a stage of old person enlightenment whereabouts I am no longer interested in pretending my enjoyment or approval of other people. It's almost like I want them to know that I'm not impressed. What is that about? 

Brett and I have always had to move around strategically so that I don't get trapped or ropped into things on account of my politeness and people-pleasing. 

When solicitors come to the door, I'll let them do their who 15 minute spiel even though we already have a termite guy, and then I'll take the pamphlet and their phone number and suggest that I need to talk to my husband. I know it takes a lot of courage to knock on strangers' doors to sell them things - and people can be so mean - I just want to give these burdensome salesmen a cheerful place to rest for moment. I don't know if it's kind or not. 

One time I played the part of "vacuous, skill-less wife" and said I didn't know about these things and you'd need to talk to my husband - even though I'm the one that actually manages these things. I told Brett about it and he was shocked that I would reduce myself to that of the patriarchy's expectation of a woman and I said it was the only time I've been grateful to be perceived as stupid. Point is, Brett has to answer the door when solicitors come.

What was I talking about? Oh yes. 

Lately, I'm unbothered by skipping the bit where I humor folks and instead I just get to the point. And while I will agree that it is liberating and more efficient, it does make for much less interesting encounters. 

Tomorrow is my 35th birthday and I've been looking forward to the part of getting older where they say you just don't care about things, and I can see that I'm knocking on that door. It's quite exciting. It's happening earlier than I expected though, but so has the joint pain and loose thighs, so I guess I'm older than I thought I'd be at 35, while still feeling like 35 is a young person. 

But then I see group pictures like this one (a celebration of a med. school graduation) and realize that we all probably look like adults. When I'm walking around Downtown, I feel like I probably blend in with all the college kids, but then I'll unexpectedly see my reflection in a shop window and be stunned by the clear fifteen year difference. What do you mean??

I don't mind. I'm just surprised. 

Meanwhile, Brett hurt his ankle and couldn't make it through the grocery store on foot, so maybe I should rest my case.

These thoughts aside, we've been swimming in the creek, making peach cobblers, and sitting on the porch reading until it gets dark at 9:00. It's my all time favorite time of year, and we haven't even gotten to boiled peanut season! 

Here's a grainy photo from an Eisenhauer grill-out on the hottest day of the year so far. My car read 108˚ - I didn't even check the "feels like" temperature. In fact, it was so hot, I took to an activist's endeavor that's caused quite a stink. I'll tell you more soon!

Gym Whims

In just two months, I'll have been a member of a real life gym for a full year now. It's been 300 days and I'm still amused by it. While my attendance shows no real strategy to my exercising, I do stop in somewhat consistently which would lead one to believe that I have some kind of a plan - not like those folks who sign up in early January and don't show up again after March. I never thought I would feel superior to anyone at a gym but I feel it's ok to acknowledge one's preeminence over the New Year's crowd. 

Sixty percent of the time I go to the gym with Mom. We walk on the treadmills together for a half hour or so and then we go about our separate routines. She does a full body thing while I tend to focus on leg strength. Occasionally we're on neighboring machines and a few times we've gotten so tickled that we'll be silently crying and wiping tears away with towels meant for disinfecting the equipment. Admittedly I do a better workout on the days when Mom isn't around. 

I joined the gym for an intersecting collection of reasons. First, it was after my months of not being able to eat and the doctor told me I was six pounds of muscle underweight. Second, Mom was given some kind of early diagnosis of osteoporosis which made us both look at me with my equally dainty bones and realize that I should try to get ahead of this. And three, I had just quit my exciting job and needed something to get me out of the house. 

And so ten months of observa... I mean, exercise has taken place. I like going to the gym because the people in there are very cute, what with their grunting and flexing and intentional outfits. I like watching the pair of guy friends take turns lifting the same weight and secretly competing with each other while chatting about their weekend. I like the young girls in their matching sets and water bottles who only seem to be working on their glutes. If you go early in the morning, the older crowd will be there and my favorite is a group of five men in their late 60s. One of them walks on the treadmill while the other four hang on the sides of the machine and shoot the breeze. They're all dressed like they came to exercise but I never see them do anything. 

I love the pairs of older women sitting side by side on rowers or bicycles, so deep in their conversations that they're barely moving any of their limbs. I like catching a buff guy striking a pose in the mirror, and there's also a lady with huge balloon boobs and too much lip filler who makes a real show of her workouts. It's just all so terribly human - and when they aren't bothering you, humans are adorable. All of our little hopes and intentions.

I'm also terribly amused by how no one looks at anyone else. People keep their eyes down. They give everyone their space and privacy. That's nice. But they won't smile at you if you accidentally lock eyes, so obviously my real goal at the gym is to make someone smile at me. I try all kinds of tactics; looking thrilled, looking worn out, acting like this will all be the death of me... but most people avert their eyes. Girls in their twenties are most inclined to return my smile. I successfully made one guy laugh and now we are friendly passersby. "Oh hello again. Nice to see you." Also, the staff is very friendly.

Oh! And even as a novice gym person, I can tell that lots of people are doing the exercises wrong. That's fun to watch, though I do worry they'll get hurt.

So that's all the fun, external stuff. Internally is less fun, more intimidating. It's a lot of wondering what to do with yourself between exercises. There's a lot of down time at the gym and nowhere for you to be in those moments. I've just finished on the stair-stepper but need to catch my breath before the hamstring curler, so I just stand in the walkway and pant and try to act confident and casual. Why don't they have benches for breath-catching? I find myself rushing from thing to thing just to avoid the awkward in-between time. I think people are looking at me because I know that I've secretly been looking at them. I worry that I will put too much weight on a machine and hurt myself and I also worry when I go to machine right after someone my size and they're using 90 pounds more than me. Am I especially weak or are they especially strong? Where should I be in this process? And is there anything more embarrassing than overestimating yourself and then having to decrease the weight?

Once, on the thigh-squeezer machine, I had a great big fat lady to my left and what had to be a 80 pound college girl on my right. Both of them looked like they've never exercised before and I smugly thought that I must be what they both aspired to. Look at that normal-sized girl with the shiny hair and the mustache. She is so lean and presumably strong. I hope I can be like her someday. I was lost in my self-aggrandizement when I looked over and saw that the tremendous woman on the left was squeezing something like 180 pounds together with her thighs. I was shocked! I whipped my head over to check the tiny's girl's machine - she's squeezing 130. I whipped my head back to my weight rack. 60 pounds. What do you mean! I shouted to myself. I checked all the numbers again and came back confused. How do I justify this? I asked myself. And I'll tell you. They were both doing five reps and then waiting around for two minutes. I had to show them, so I just kept squeezing. 5 reps. 10. 20. 35. My thighs trembled with fatigue. Slow and intentionally. I told them in my mind. That's how you build strong muscles. Not this, blasting out a few reps. That's just for show. I told them everything I've gathered about exercising and then fled the scene and soon as it seemed plausible.

The interesting part of gyming, is that you can be perfectly proficient at other forms of exercise but it doesn't translate into anything impressive at the gym. The gym is its own specific kind of exercise. Nevermind my Youtube Pilates training to hold a plank for two minutes - you can't use that at the gym. So there you are, curling 8 pound dumbbells like a middle schooler, and no one in there would guess that you can hold an L-sit longer than they can. I bet people look at me and write me off as skinny. An outrage! I'm quite strong - much stronger than people expect me to be. And I know this is true because I have surprised many a stranger at the grocery store (carrying all my grocery bags on one arm) and the lawn care centers (heaving 50 pound bags of soil) and even at a self defense class I took in college where the instructor couldn't release themself from my grip, told me I was "abnormally strong" and then made me sit out the exercise. This struck me as counterproductive seeing as most attackers will be men, no doubt larger and stronger than Laura Union, so maybe the instructor needs to come up with a better maneuver.

But at the gym I just squeak out a few dainty weighted moves here and there and then go back home and get a real workout via YouTube. I'm just not really sure what I'm supposed to be doing in the gym, but it think it's all awfully cute. 

(Photos curtesy of a handstand gone wrong.)

Big Lue's No Good Very Bad 10 Days

The bad luck festival started with a Nicolas Cage movie. It was a Sunday night. We didn't know anything about the film but wanted to get out of the house, so we raced across our little island and came screeching into the theater parking lot just about five minutes late. Subsequently, we had to sit in the front row. Not only do I find the front row uncomfortably close, I hate that you can't take in the whole picture - you have to scan your eyes from one end to the other to see what it is you're supposed to be looking at. 

About thirty minutes in, I began to feel queasy. I thought back on my lunch that day and admitted to myself that all of it was iffy, probably mere moments from being past due, but I ate it anyways because Mom and Dad taught me not to throw away food. Deciding that my lunch was the cause for my discomfort, I forged on, watching Nicolas Cage sweating beneath a hot Australian sun. About an hour in, I realized I was sea sick. 
It's not entirely uncommon for me to get motion sickness in movie theaters. The screen is so big and the lights are so bright. Things are swirling and flashing... it's a recipe for vomit. I recall a submarine movie I saw in high school that really set me off (K-19, Harrison Ford) and most recently, one about airplanes left me queasy for a few hours (Top Gun; Maverick, Tom Cruise). And now I add Nick Cage to the list. Despite being the toughest person you know, even a rouge woosh in a hammock can send my stomach into pirouettes. Being in-transit of any kind makes me a little queasy. Even swimming in a strong current can send me out in search of a ginger tea. I've always been this way really, though it does seem to get a little worse every year. So knowing myself as I do, I watched the rest of the film with my hand acting as a visor, only glancing at the screen occasionally. For the record, and in my defense, we go on to find out that the movie was meant to be a fever dream of sorts - made to disorient and discomfort you - we looked this up on account of what happens next. 

We left the theater, went to dinner and carried on with our normal routine and went to bed feeling fine. The next morning, I opened my eyes, smiled at my beloved partner and sat up to start the day. That's when I felt all the liquid in my brain moving in circles like someone had flushed the toilet up there. Instantly dizzy, queasy, nauseous and panicked. "I have vertigo!" I shrieked to Brett. I'll fast forward and tell you that it was awful, certainly not a way a human could live out their days. Dad had vertigo once and declared the intention of suicide if it didn't go away. I have since told this to my friend, Jenn, who said the exact same thing. "I thought I was going to have to kill myself." So I'm not just being dramatic. I sat very still in bed all day, alarmed, and unhappy. What I've written up there has simplified it. It was a truly horrendous experience that I now live in fear of experiencing again. So, there's that.

I told Mom about the movie and my symptoms and shortly after we hung up, she called back and informed that I had a vestibular migraine - brought on by visual stimuli. Diagnosis made me feel better. Shortly after that, she sent me a Yahoo News article entitled "Is Nicholas Cage's New Movie Making You Sick?" It made other people feel bad too, ok? 

The dizziness retreated slowly over many days but, being the toughest person you know, I got back to work on the renovations the next day. A few days later, I banged my knee so hard that it burst open on the spot. I was home alone, and on account of the dizziness, I hadn't eaten much in days. I'm not sure if it was the deep panting one does when experiencing big pain, or the generalized weakness of my body at that moment in time, but I started to black out. Oddly, this struck me as quite funny in the moment and I heard myself chuckle out loud. I once read that if you laugh while in pain, it won't hurt so bad. I noted then, that it is simply not true. I staggered over to the couch with dark spots crowding my vision. I laid on the floor and put my feet up on the sofa and then imagined Brett coming home to find me unconscious in this position with blood oozing from my knee. That also made me laugh. I can't say why I felt so calm teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. Perhaps the lack of blood flow? Anywho, I laid there a good while but never passed out and then just got up and carried on with my day, except that I couldn't bend the one leg. No worries, I'll just limp around.

A couple days later, I electrocuted myself at the job site. A surprisingly bumpy experience. Not smooth and electric like you might think.

A couple days later, Brett took me to a concert so loud and aggressive that I had a panic attack. Brett suggested this might happen, but I scoffed at him. "I'm really quite tough," I remember telling him. Sure, screamo punk isn't my preferred genre, but I didn't want him to miss it just because no one else we knew could go. A concert is a concert, right?.... turns out, no. 
The thing about panic attacks, is that you don't just have one and then go back to your routine. There's a sort of "come down" that takes a few days - like any wound or pimple that you just have to wait to let heal. This means I was unable to eat for a few more days, which most certainly added to the dizziness I still had. 

Still hobbling around with the one knee that won't bend, a few days later I ran into a bench, right at knee level, which caused me to hyperextend the injured knee, during which time I heard a loud and distinct pop come from the area, and know I can't straighten that leg.
And to top it off, on day ten, I put in some earrings that assured me that were nickel free, but they must have lied and now I have disinfectant for my achey earlobes.

Do I think this is funny? Sure. 
In the debut moment of each of these experiences however it's a sort of frustration marinated in fear. Many times over the last ten days I have thought about people who live with these kinds of limiting ailments; perpetual dizziness, headache, hunger, or mobility woes. Ugh. What is this life? For the first time ever, we were watching an action movie, and when the main characters jumped from a balcony to the street below, I felt the impact in my own knees, right there in my living room! I commented on it, just like my parents do. "Oh that would kill my knees!" Brett, with his double ACL surgeries agreed. 

I am so accustomed to not feeling badly and being able to move in any way that suits me, that the sudden realization of what aging is going to do to me, has me entirely spooked. It's going to be awful!

And I have never been burdened by the thought of aging before. I've actually looked forward to it, but I realize now that my mental picture of aging was incomplete. It was only the visual stuff. I love gray hair and think people are their most beautiful in their 40s and 50s. Before that, they just look like they aren't done cooking yet. But I left out the physical parts of aging. I couldn't dream up the aches and pains because I hadn't felt them before. Somewhere in all this, my good knee took on sympathy pains for my bad knee and then they were both hurting me, just getting up for a glass of water. My ankles took the brunt of my walking strangely and suddenly, they felt like they were made of glass. What's happening? This isn't my body? What do you mean I can't change it?

It has reinstated some enthusiasm for going to the gym, and I know that will help heaps, but there is a part of me that knows I'm kidding myself. There is nothing I can do that will keep my body moving the way it does now. That is terrifying. How is no one freaking out about this?

As it stands today, I'm only dizzy for the first few minutes of waking up. I have a gash on one knee but I can straighten and bend the leg if I do it gently. The migraine is at 5% of what it was and the sense of panic has finally retreated, resulting in reaching 90% of my usual meal consumption quota. 

My earlobes hurt the most.

The Flip

As it is my morning routine to fix a hot cup of something indulgent and then sit at the computer and look at houses for sale, I stumbled upon a little foreclosed apartment right around the corner from our house. I took in the sights of this little place; the surprisingly low asking price, the cute little patio, the way you could really open up the place if you knocked out that one wall.

I showed it to Brett. "We could flip this. It just needs paint and an updated kitchen." I kept the demolition bit to myself for the moment. Brett's eyes glittered with intrigue. 

I called Dad. "Hey Dad, there's this place around the corner..." While Brett and I were still working through the very adulty idea of an unnecessary real estate purchase for the sake of making a profit, Dad called back. "I've set up a showing at 11:00. Meet you there."

Well, I guess we'll just go look at it. 

Brett's and Dad's excitement built as they wandered through. "You're right. Just a little work would have this place looking great!" That's when I mentioned my solution for the awful kitchen. "So I was thinking, if we took out this wall, we could make this whole side into an island."

As is common with both of these precious men, the initial knee-jerk reaction is that of denial, or often in Dad's case, the exclamation of "it can't be done!" But mere seconds later, they began working out the logistics, and piling their ideas on top of each others. "I think y'all should put in an offer," Dad said, "I think it's a good investment." Brett and I looked at each other. "Want me to draw up the papers?" Dad asked, as though it's a simple as buying groceries.

After talk of contracts, finances, interest rates, and a remodel cost analysis, our low-ball offer was accepted. Something like four days later, we were the proud new owners of yet another fixer-upper. 

Now, I grew up on the fringes of the Chris Union School of Renovations. He had a roller my hands at six years old, repainting a townhouse over on Crosscreek Drive. I have absorbed a surprisingly large amount of knowledge simply from listening to him bark at contractors on the other end of the phone. I know that you need to move quickly. Every day you spend working on it adds up to another month of interest payments. Dad likes to stack the contractors on top of each other, but in this case, Brett and I were mostly going to do it ourselves. I know that you will have annoying surprises along the way and that "you have to spend money to make money, baby!" 

Now, I've also been living with Brett 'the sloth' Eisenhauer. As the one with superior knowledge on this undertaking, I barked at him on day two that we weren't going to be treating this like the projects at our house. "We've got to move fast. We can't go piddle around for an hour or two each day and then come home to read. We have to treat this like a job..." and blah blah nag nag to which Brett responded graciously, and then I woke up sick the next morning and was in bed for ten days while Brett did all the work. "What was that about wasting time," he'd ask me at the end of his highly productive days.

Dad came in initially to help do some electrical work and to let us run our plans by him to make sure we weren't way off. After helping knock down the kitchen wall (men can't resist demolition), Popples politely left his little birds to renovate the nest. Off we went. Quite quickly I realized that my superior knowledge on the logistics and paperwork of this undertaking was much less important than Brett's superior knowledge on how structures, appliances, and plumbing works. Turns out he doesn't really need help from anyone with less upper body strength than he has. 

I'm the brains, but he's the brainy brawn.

So I started painting. I went into it real cocky too - on account of wielding a roller since the first grade. "I can paint this whole place in a week tops!" I declared with pride. I have since determined that there is likely a little pocket of hell where you paint an entire room white but come back the next day and can still see the purple wall through your new paint. Again and again, day after day, like that guy carrying water around in a holey jug. At least Sisyphus gets to be outside.
Painting took about four weeks but I became enraged about it somewhere around day three. "I can't do it anymore, Brett! It's like painting with milk!" 

That's when dutiful Mama stepped to help trim out the rooms. It helped as much mentally as it did literally. Also, we got to chit chat and yammer like we used to at my flower setups. 

Meanwhile Brett hit assorted snags, we took odd detours, we'd purchase things in the wrong size or finish., We found out too late the refrigerator we bought sticks out too far, but we should have tried putting it in sooner because you can't return it after 48 hours, so we had to buy a second refrigerator and find somewhere to store the first one. We've learned lots of little things about such undertakings and while I think it's an exhausting way to make a living, Brett is enlivened by it all. His problem solving brain gets to run wild and I've had a hard time getting him out of work-mode at the end of the day. "Are you thinking about PEX fittings?" I'll ask him while we eat dinner in silence. We've both been falling asleep pretty early.

As we wrapped up the project, it became a family affair again. Dad had to come troubleshoot a real plumbing conundrum and Mom clocked-in touching up doorways with the milk paint while I tiled the kitchen backsplash and Brett installed vanities, mirrors, fans, and light-fixtures. 

We kept everything white and bland (bleh!) so that it will appeal to the masses, and now we're getting the place ready to be listed and shown. What a ruckus. 

Brett wants me to find us another to flip.

For years now I have started my mornings peeking inside peoples' houses purely for thrill of it. What wild decor decisions did they make? The multi-million dollar homes for sale Downtown are usually garish and tacky, and I enjoy cackling at the pompousness of their owners. On the other end, I really love the small, old, dusty places. I redo them in my mind and make them bright, airy places with a new lease on life.  

There is something to having pulled the trigger on this little apartment flip. It suddenly all feels very possible and not that crazy, so now I find myself at my computer in the mornings, hot cup of something in one hand, scrolling through the listings with the other, while a mild sense of urgency and competition builds as I make my way to the end of the hot sheet.