The Boys Next Door

Brett and I have an ongoing tussle with four boys who live next door. They are in high-school and college, don't seem to have a dad, and their mom is "a cool mom" so she just lets them be obnoxious and presumably stays on the other side of the house so she can play the fool. Our bedroom is right outside of their driveway which has a hot tub and a basketball hoop, so the boys invite friends over to play ball and bob in the bubbles which sounds fairly wholesome, but they seem to only do it between the hours of 12 and 4am.
Now between you and me, I don't really mind it. Sure their childish shrieks of wonder and enjoyment will wake me up on occasion, but it kind of makes me laugh. You can hear them calling each other names and giggling while they play. What fun fun can be! But then there's Brett. He values his sleep as much as the virtuous traits of others and is incensed by the indulgent ignorance of these particular boys. 

During a midnight basketball game, Brett stepped out onto the landing and yelled, "Hey guys!" The chatter stopped, the ball quit bouncing, the music dimmed. And in the silence Brett said, "Knock it off. I'm trying to sleep." This halted the fun for the night. I guess all the boys scuttled inside to hide from the grumpy old neighbor. 

The party schedule lines up with Spring Break, Summer, and Winter Break, so there is not year-round obnoxiousness. Most parties are met with no interference from the skinny couple next door. (That's us.) We don't usually say anything at all, though I got real huffy on the third occasion of finding broken glass near our fire pit. They throw beer cans and wine bottles into our yard which I now simply pick up and heave back over the fence. Come to think of it, that hasn't happened in a while. Maybe Cool Mom finally noticed all the trash in her yard. There are so many boys at this house at any given time that we don't know which ones live there. They all look the same; 5'10" with long, skinny torsos and puffy brown hair. So there is no finding the leader and negotiating a peace deal.

During a 3am Hot Tub party with music so loud it was like being at the concert, Brett again stepped out onto the landing in his underwear and yelled at the kids. They said, "Yes Sir. Sorry Sir" the way polite kids might, but not 15 minutes later they, and the music were screaming again. This time Brett walked into the yard and climbed up the fence so that his head appeared next to their hot tub and he had a brief conversation that curbed the fun to a 3 out of 10. Compromise. 

I'm usually laying in bed cringing. Not only is Brett always participating in these confrontations in his underwear, but he's not very gracious about it. It irks me every time because it is not the Brett I know. Also, in my mind I'm a cute twenty year-old college girl that lives next door and they're going to think my boyfriend is totally lame. I don't know why I think this, except for the idea that you don't ever feel much older than twenty so sometimes you forget that actual twenty year olds think you're fifty. I have no desire to even talk to these baby-boys, so I genuinely don't understand my desire to be perceived as cool from a distance. 

But then things changed. 

Early one morning, post party, I saw one of the boys' friends walk to his car and take out a tied-off bag of trash and an empty beer box, and throw them into the bushes on the property line of our precious 96 year old neighbor's house. Oh hellll nah! I thought to myself.

"Brett!" I shrieked from my office chair while I stared out the window at the perpetrator, "Wanna go yell at a boy that just threw his trash in Mrs. Cassandra's yard?" Before he even answered me I heard chaos erupt in the kitchen. Brett had been making a breakfast concoction on the stove, and suddenly I heard a thunk and a clink and Brett taking hasty steps. 

"Yeah!" he yelled as he turned on the faucet. "What happened?"

"He threw a garbage bag and a beer box over where you're always picking up litter." I heard silverware bang into a glass. 

"Ahh!" he growled, "Is he still there?" Brett screeched to a halt behind me, scanning the scene through the window.

"Yeah! He's sitting in his car. Go get him, Bubba!" Brett rushed out the door.

I was enlivened by the confrontation. Justice would be served. I watched Brett march across the street and I opened my window to listen. It occurred to me that Brett really trusts me because he didn't see anything happen and the trash was not visible in the bushes. What if I had made it all up and sent Brett out to pick a fight with a young boy for no reason. I doubled checked that I saw what I saw. Satisfied with my conviction, I settled back in my chair to watch. Brett knocked on the driver's side window. It occurred to me that the boy could be combative. What if they get into a physical brawl?

The car door popped open.

Then I heard a pot boil over on the stove. "Rahh!" I grumbled as I scurried off to the kitchen. I took the lid off, turned the flame down and set the sticky lid in the sink. I ran back to my office window only to find Brett headed this way and the boy rooting around in the bushes. 

"What happened!" I shrieked with unexpected feelings of elation. 

It was short and sweet. After failing to get a confession, Brett growled at him to "pick up your s***" which promptly hustled the kid into the bushes.

Brett went back to his breakfast concoction and a few minutes later I heard him giggle.

"Whats funny?"

"I think I overreacted."

But this is when the shift happened. As Brett described the terror on the boy's face, I realized that we are actual adults, power-wielding elders of the young-person community. Brett barely said a dozen words and had that guy rectifying his ways in seconds. I realized we are wrought with power. Young people think we're old and know stuff. They think we're in charge of them! This is a genuine revelation I'm having here.

I suppose people who have kids know this already. They get to boss little people around and intimidate their tiny friends on a weekly basis. Parents instantly become authority figures, not just of their own kids but of all who are younger than they are. There is no second guessing whether or not to straighten out a bad seed. It's part of the job description. 

Kids think I'm an adult, as in, I can pretty much make them do anything I want! It's got me wanting to be the one on our landing at 3am demanding a truce, although I don't know if I have the courage to do it yet. Parents gets to start off easy with babies and build their authority up to teenagers and young people. Entry to executive level dominion. I reckon I should start small - start hanging around jungle gyms at the park... like a pervert. A power pervert.

It's all got me a little excited for the boys' next party. 

Big Mama

You ever been lucky enough to have a friend who experiences life the same way you do? And I don't mean sometimes - I mean just about every time. I know it is not uncommon for people to be very much like one or both of their parents, so it's not surprising to hear that Jimmy hates bell peppers just like his dad does. We are all, of course, made from the same scraps of particle board that our ancestors have always used. But in the case of Nancy Union, I didn't expect that I would just be a clone of her internal experience. 

We do not look the same and we have different interests, talents, and opinions, but what we take in from any experience will be exactly the same. We can go to a party but interact with different people, eat a different meal, stay for different amounts of time and on and on, but we will come back together the next day and exactly mirror each other's experience. We will have observed the same tiny detail; a silly shaped stain on a tablecloth or a cute mannerism from a waitress. We will both suggest that the music was 1.8 notches too loud. We both noticed the same great pair of shoes someone was wearing. We will have both felt disappointment at the dessert selection and have chosen to redecorate the space in our minds using a similar color palette. We will have gotten a whiff of something that we each describe as "dirty mop water." Most recently, and this is our favorite, we will have both developed the same bizarre physical ailment at the same point in the evening. And then when we tell each other about our night we will laugh and laugh at our strange selves.

I have no original thoughts. I am just a piece of my mother that broke off and grew legs. 

This eerie likeness to each other is somewhere in the "top 5 best things in my life that I had no control over." I do happen to like my mom, so being compared to her is not off-putting or distressing, as it seems to be for so many of my friends, especially when we were teenagers. But thats not why its in the top 5. It ranks so highly because it's awfully fun. What a riot to hear your experience played back to you through another lens. "Me too!" we constantly shriek as if it is not to be expected. 
And because of this shared experience magic trick we can do, we can easily place ourselves into each others stories and then feel as though it happened to us even though we weren't there. I remember one time listening to Mom tell me about something annoying that happened, and then I got all flustered and started coming up with reasons why I did it that way, when I suddenly remembered it was Mom's thing. "Oh wait, this is your story." And then we laugh and laugh. It's really easy for us to be on each other's team. We are often our only allies.

So when Mom got an unfair parking ticket at Folly the other day and decided to march on into Town Hall with it, I was her hype-man. "Yeah! Go in there and tell 'em!" The parking people had already left for the day, so Mom and I ranted and raved about the frustrating changes to our beloved beach as we rode back to James Island. Mom went on about "rich Yankees" while I came up with the new slogan; Can't live here. Can't rent here. Can't park here. We were volleying our fury back and forth when I said, "It's the Janet of the beaches!" I had a metaphor going in my head that I didn't realize I hadn't said out loud. But with conviction, mom said, "Yeah!" and then she slightly cocked her head and thought for a minute. 
"Cause Janet's supposed to be the fun sister!" I continued. 

"Mmm hmm!" Mom agreed.

"No wait, that's not her name. What's her name?" I asked. Then I realized her name is Cindy and that Mom couldn't possibly know what I was talking about. I burst out laughing at Mom's enthusiastic support of my thoughts despite her confusion. 

You don't know what I'm talking about do you?"

Then Mom giggled. "I really don't, no."

"Why did you agree with me?"

"I didn't know what you were talking about, but I know we feel the same, so I assumed I agree with you." 

We cackled all the way home.

Big Mama's got my back - even when I'm wrong.

Additionally, and unrelated, Mom has this life affliction where small inconveniences are drawn to her with a magnetic pull. They are not unique inconveniences; getting stuck behind a tractor when you're running late, being forgotten in a doctor's office waiting room, choosing the stall with no toilet paper, etc, but you can almost count on them to all find Mom on the same day. It is typical for Mom to have a few intentions for a day, only one of them urgent or important, and that will be the one task that is thwarted by the universe. This is so well documented that it is barely news to anyone anymore. Dad often accuses her of "complaining," but Mom and I know it is something insidiously focused on her. And because she is so polite, she usually accommodates the inconvenience, accepting it with patient grace - at least until she calls and tells me about it. On rare occasions she attempts to stand up for herself, and typically that backfires. There is no justice for Nanny U, and she and I find it outrageous. What is it about her?

Just last week we popped into a cafe for coffee before running a couple errands together. We enjoyed our mugs and shared a pastry and then said, 'Ok, lets get going, we're on a tight schedule." We ambled down the sidewalk and rounded the corner only to find Mom's car surrounded - completely blocked in by an assortment of obstacles. Four school buses were parked in the road, trapping the car in place. A huge walking tour blocked the sidewalk on the passenger side. Roughly 100 kindergarteners filled the street, pouring out of a nearby playhouse and filing into the buses. No other cars seemed to be blocked in. Only Mom's. 

"Bluh!" Mom grumbled. 

Just another day. 

I was thinking on all this - her and my internal equivalency and the hilariously exasperating ways she is hassled by existence and I laughed out loud for a few minutes all alone in my office. I just like her so much.

It's a sincere joy, however selfish, to be a clone of your soulmate. 

Lots (of) Confusion

There are two vacant lots in Mom and Dad's neighborhood, something like twelve houses down, and Ellen has been wanting one to go up for sale for years so that she can live a few doors down from her most affordable babysitters. The owners of the two lots are sisters and one of the sisters used to go to church with Mom and Dad. I have changed the names for the sake of privacy but we'll say church friend's last name is Balfour, and the sister's last name is Keene.

Ellen decided to write a letter to each of the sisters; introducing herself, informing them that she went to Sunday School with their children/nieces, and that she grew up in that neighborhood and would love to buy their lot if they ever choose to sell. While she wrote the letter, Mom and Dad uncovered some confusion on the names of the sisters. 

"Is her sister Diane or Margret?"
"No, Margret is that other woman. Diane married John."
"I don't think so."
"Yeah, because Sarah is their daughter."

This went on and on and resulted in family-wide distrust in who's name was whose. I cannot remember the word for word conversation but I can repaint the experience. It goes something like this:

"Ok, so then it's Diane Balfour and Margret Keene, right?" Mom asked. 
"No," Dad corrected, "Diane is right but I think it's Morgan Keene."
"Morgan! We don't know a Morgan."
"Yeah we do. Her sister is Diane."

Ellen finished scribbling out her letters and then read them out loud to the family. 

"That's a great letter," I told her. "Do you think you should type them though? Your handwriting is a little... frightening."
"What?" Ellen spun the letters around to look. "No it isn't!"
"Let me see," Dad asked. She handed one over. Dad glanced at it and then made guilty face.
"Not uh!" Ellen shrieked.

"Let's see," Mom said. Dad passed it over to her and Mom looked at it for a few seconds before her face broke into a smile. Then she giggled. "I think you should probably type these." Then all of us laughed at Ellen, who stomped off to the playroom computer. "Hey, while you're down there, go on GIS and look up which sister owns which lot."

Ellen came back with her typed letters and some difficult news. 

"I looked on GIS. The lot is owned by Diane Bolfor."
"Yeah, Diane Balfour," Dad repeated.
"No, Bolfor. With an 'O'."
"What?" Mom said.
"It's Bolfor!" Ellen shrieked. 

"Well that must not be the same person." Mom said. 
"Of course it is," Dad suggested, "It's a typo."
"On GIS?"
"Yeah!"
"That can't be right. Laura, you went to school with their daughter. What was her last name?"
"It was Balfour."
"See!"
"It says Bolfor!" Ellen shrieked again.

"Ok, well what was the sister's name?"
"Margret Diane Keene," she said dryly.
"Oh," We all said in unison.
"So maybe Diane Keene is the person y'all know?" I suggested.
"But we know a Margret and a Diane. And it's always been Balfour." Mom said.
"Which one owns the lot?"
"They both own a lot!" Ellen exclaimed. 
"Do you know which one goes by Diane?"
"The one whose last name is Balfour." Mom answered.
"But there is no Balfour." Dad added as though everyone knows this. "There's a Bolfor."
"Do y'all even know this person?" Ellen asked. "Maybe its a totally different family."
"There's definitely a Balfour," I added, "Went to school with her."
"But what are the odds the Bolfors have a Margret and a Diane?" Mom asked, "No, it's definitely them. She's a Balfour."
"It can't be a Balfour. It's a Bolfor! Dad shrieked. "It's a Bolfor, baby!"
"Maybe Margret goes by Diane and that's the person you know - since you knew both names."
"But her last name is Keene. That's their maiden name. The sister married into the Balfours."
"The Bolfors," Dad corrected.
"Who gives their daughters the same names?" I asked.
"Who do I MAIL THIS TO!" Ellen shrieked.

Collectively, and after another six minutes of confusion, we came up with neutral ways for me to address each envelope (Ellen's handwriting) since we don't know who they are and if we know them or not. I desperately tried to hold onto the conversation so that I could transcribe it here for you but it was too chaotic and I was laughing too hard. Mom was indignant, confused. Ellen was inconvenienced. Dad and I were terribly amused. Ellen hastily sealed up the envelopes and hustled them to the mailbox. I noted that this is the kind of Seinfeld conversation my parents have together that I will miss being a part of once they kick they bucket. I tried so hard to save the memory. We ate dinner together, still trying to figure out if we know the Balfours or the Bolfors.

Ellen has not heard back.

I Blame Denzel

Every Olympic cycle finds folks worldwide longing for an everyday pluggish person to compete next to the athletes so we can be properly impressed by their feats of strength. *Regular person for scale. Like the adrenaline-filled car chases and inexhaustible fight scenes in action movies, the Olympians leave me feeling very much like I could probably do that. Just about anyone can build muscle and stamina, it’s about committing to the bit. I’m somewhat bendy and have always been able to pick up anything I needed to pick up, so surely a boot camp obstacle course would only be slightly more difficult than carrying all my groceries in at once while my collection of cats circles my ankles. I’ve always been convinced I could breeze through Navy Seal training because of how much I like myself. An angry drill sergeant yelling put-downs in my face seems more like their own personal problem. I just don't think I'd fall for it. 

Now Denzel Washington, I believe all these things about him too. You won't rattle his self-worth. You won't even get him to wheeze a little after a lengthy run. After watching his stoic performance being waterboarded in a rip-roaring adventure film, I was certain I’d be equally as tested but still beautifully composed and attractive if it ever happened to me. So I tried it that night in the shower.

I hadn't planned on doing it. It was a regularly scheduled “everything” shower, so I settled in for the long haul. Razor, washcloth, face mask, conditioner…. washcloth. I thought of Denzel. He’d just been waterboarded on my TV screen mere hours ago. It was fresh on my mind. What I thought I knew about waterboarding is that it really only kills a person if something goes wrong, otherwise it’s just a convincing simulation of drowning. It’s like Survivor or Fear Factor. You know the TV executives can’t afford a death on their watch so it won't actually be dangerous. Waterboarding is like reality TV; merely a perceived threat. I put the wet washcloth over my face and stared straight ahead. It was muggy under there, but not all that different from being outside in July. I tipped my head back slowly, letting water flush through the fibers and drizzle out onto my neck. This is kind of nice, I thought but then I tried to inhale and a garble of washcloth and water filled my mouth, sending me back upright again, spitting and gasping for air.
Tip #1: Hold your breath. (That's the end of the tips.)

I took a deep breath, replaced the washcloth, and then went whole-hog, flat-faced under the shower head. I held my breath like a champ until I couldn't anymore. I parted my lips discreetly, thinking the water wouldn't notice and I could sneak a little air past it, but it caught me red lip-ed and filled my mouth with hot water. I whipped the cloth off my face and took a deep breath. This is harder than I thought. I went on to try a plethora of ways to figure out how to breathe under such conditions, including sticking my tongue straight out to create a tent-like structure to act as an air pocket, but I'll go ahead and tell you that this is a foolproof exercise in keeping a person from breathing. Those torture folks really know what they’re doing. 

The life lesson came later that night as I tried to sleep. My chest hurt; a strange kind of fluid pain up high, where my lungs might be. While I would normally spend ample time trying on different ailments, mulling over their causes, symptoms, and potential duration, my mind skipped the pleasantries and went straight to the most probable cause. Occam’s razor; it’s got to be water in my lungs. 
Whoopsies. I laid on my side, facing away from Brett. Eyes wide open. Ok hold on… I worked to keep myself calm. This is no big deal, people swallow water swimming all the time. Wouldn't I have felt it if I inhaled water? Why would water in your lungs be a problem anyway- they could probably use a little flushing out. Aren't they kind of made of water? I had almost brushed it off as nothing when my brain whispered, “Dry drowning.” 
The hell does that mean? I asked my brain. That’s when I remembered hearing the term one time, more than twenty years ago. I read an article about a little boy that drowned a few hours after swimming. I didn't remember anything I might have learned from the article - just the term "dry drowning," and that’s when I knew my fate was sealed.
I will die tonight.

I wondered if I ought to wake Brett up, tell him I had waterboarded myself out of curiosity and now I don't feel good. 

If he didn't laugh at me, he’d probably make me go to the hospital. I wasn’t interested in either option so I kept laying there, strategizing. I took a deep breath. It didn't hurt. Should it hurt? I felt on the verge of panic but I also felt stupid. But people aren't supposed to die from it, I argued, That's the whole point! How many times have I told Brett I was dying but then I didn't die and had to apologize in the morning? How many times will I give him evidence to have me committed?
But I don’t want to die. I thought to myself, and then I paused.

I'd never had that thought before. I've never had the opposite thought either, though I'm certainly prone to lamenting the stupidity of modern existence. My easy preference for solitude over company and my bi-annual flirtation with nihilism had me cast myself away from others; different from them. I had written myself off as a kind of accidental misanthrope. A self-proclaimed tragic case. 
I was struck by the thought because of the urgency in it. My own death as a concept has never scared me and suddenly, when it finally seemed a real possibility, I was just SO disappointed.

Interesting. Why do you want to be here? my brain asked, and answers poured out, tons of them, like they'd been lined-up, waiting to rush the field. All of them small things. Rainy-day indulgences. Family dinners, sun on my face, hot beverages, falling asleep on my husband's chest. Laughing with my mom. Crusty bread right out of the oven, watching dogs sleep and birds fly. Flowers. Bike rides. Beach days. Card games, sweet tea, dinner parties, music - sad music. My sister’s real laugh. Books and blankets and bonfires. The smell of a newly painted room. Colors! My dad’s stewed green beans, and his salad dressings, and his frozen peanut butter cereal log. Punch-lines, one-liners, cheap-shots. Margaritas, french fries, and dancing in creaky old beach bars. Watching my mom hate things. Surprises. Furry animal feet. Well-worn t-shirts. Natural born storytellers. Blueberries. Strange laughs. People who light up when they see their people.
I fell asleep smiling.

I didn’t drown that night. I confessed it all to Brett as soon as I woke up. “I waterboarded myself and thought I was dry-drowning last night but I didn't and I realized that I really like being here!” He stared at me a moment before silently turning to grind his coffee beans. (He’s always appreciated existing and has pushed back at my blasé attitude about life.) “There’s just so much to be excited about!” I informed him.

Three Notable Dinners

I was invited to a dinner party by a new-ish friend, and it was described as a "fabulously festive fete" so I arrived in semi-costume only to find that they didn't mean you were supposed to dress festively. I promptly removed my shimmering top hat (wish I was kidding) and then made my way into the group of eight adult women who have real jobs and fine lines. It took me too much time to get to the alarming realization that they probably thought I was an adult woman who belonged in that group. I was the youngest one there and the oldest was forty-three. When did I move into this age category? I don't recall that happening. 

A neat thing happened though. We were all talking about lots of interesting things; jobs (horse-back riding instructor, party planner, software mogul), life outlooks (hopefulness, optimist, nihilism), travel (Thailand, Norway, Hawaii), relationships (I've dated every branch of military!"), etc, and it occurred to me that no one was talking about their children. At this age, everyone I talk to tells me about toddlers. Because toddlers are all they experience. "Excuse me," I said to the table, "Does anyone here have kids?" We all silently looked at each other, waiting for someone to fess-up, but no. "None of us?" Eyebrows silently questioned? Heads shook side to side. Mouths pressed into thin lines. 
"How odd," someone said.
"I never even put that together," our hostess admitted, "That must be why you're all so interesting."

We all cheers'ed to being childfree and then made points to acknowledge how much we love our friends that have kids because I think we all feared being the kind of people that society thinks childfree people are. I was caught off guard by being at a table of 8 middle-aged women who intentionally chose not to have kids. You don't find many of those in the wild and there I sat, inaccurately placed at a table of adults of course, but in likeminded company nonetheless. How niche.

Here's my favorite picture of Nick and Liv - to prove I love them.

A few nights later, Brett and I popped out to a nearby ramen spot for dinner and we sat, happily participating in the ritual of reading a menu, placing an order, and then settling in to look across the table at your dinner mate. "So!" he began. Several minutes into what was undoubtedly a new musing meant to further advance his intellectual abilities, my eyes wandered from our table to the glittering string lights cascading along the ceiling. There were houseplants high on shelves with ruffage and vines trailing down towards the tables. The specials board was written in rainbow colors. Shimmering golden trinkets dangled from the ceiling. What fun, I thought. 

"And so if you consider the willingness to uphold a moral principle as an expected part of..." I watched a girl with a shaved head and combat boots march past our table. She joined of group of artsy, grungy girls sitting on velvet couches cheersing their drinks. At another table were two girls deep in a discussion. Over there, another group of alternatively dressed women, some of them striking me as quite masculine. Then it dawned on me. I scanned the entire restaurant - women. It's all women. "Because cognitively, we understand what is correct..." Brett and the waitstaff were the only men present. A girl winked at me as she walked by. Gay. This is gay. I thought to myself. I had to search for proof. And that's when I took a look at the drink menu: Les-be-honest, The Sapphic Spritz, a Rhubarbie-Girl. 
"It's Lesbian night!" I whisper screamed to Brett. He put his gesticulating hands down.
"What?"
"Everyone in here is gay! It's all women!" 

Brett leaned back in his chair and casually scanned the crowd. Then he leaned forward. "Are you sure?"
"Look at the girls in here. Half of them could beat you up!" He looked around again. 
"You're right."
"Was there a sign? Is this an event? Are we supposed to be here?" I pushed the cocktail menu into his hands.
"Do they think I'm gay?" He huffed in frustration.
"I don't think they're looking at you, Bub. I think I'd be the real treat here." I wiggled my eyebrows at him and he grimaced. 
He looked around again at all the punk, hipster, grungy girls in there. The shaved heads, the purple hair. The baggy cargo pants. "This isn't what guys imagine when they think of walking into room full of lesbians."
"I get it."

And that's the story of how Brett and I wound up eating ramen at a lesbian speed dating event.

For Brett's birthday we threw a little dinner party. I did a full middle eastern meal: roasted sumac potatoes, chicken musakhan, eggplants and lentils with pomegranate molasses, and a beet galette with za'atar. There was also pita and salad. I was exceptionally proud of myself. It's the most food I've ever made at one time. Brett and I thought it was delicious. We gobbled it up and served ourselves seconds and thirds, noting to each other how great this turned out. We were eating with such enthusiasm that we barely noticed that our guests were not having the same experience. 

They had polite portions, unfinished piles, one was merely pushing things around on his plate, a pile of parsley picked off and pushed to one side. I wondered if Brett and my tastes have traveled beyond that of "ordinary" people. We make a lot of ethnic food and I'm certain Brett has singed off my tastebuds with many of his concoctions. Have we lost touch with subtle flavoring? I intentionally put this menu together because it seemed like a middle eastern spin on ordinary foods. Feeding people is a humbling, vulnerable experience. Normally I fret and fuss, worried people won't like it, but I looked over at Brett's plate piled high for a third time, his cheeks rosy with delight, and I pushed the pita over to the parsley picker, "Here Drew, fill up on bread," and then I went back to my plate.

I feel I'm one step closer to mental freedom. As Lollie says, "There'll be another meal in a few hours."

Apart from the social extravaganza that is The Holidays, I have been so distracted by my own undertakings that I know little of what's going on outside of my bubble. We had a beautiful Guy Family Double Decker Tea Party for Brett and Carolyn's birthdays that was most exciting. Giggs set the prettiest, daintiest table and fussed over finger foods and tasty spreads - and I took a picture of it, but admittedly, it's an awful photo. All the humans in the frame have their mouths open, anxiously awaiting incoming breadstuffs. Nonetheless, it was fun to have everyone at the table.

The biggest change, surprisingly, is the lack of Grace in our house. (The dog - not the virtue.) We have been surprised to find what a big presence she had from someone who never said anything, rarely made noise, and often left the room when we entered it. Brett and I have gotten back to our normal routine, but Pippa may as well be lost at sea. Grace entirely dictated Pippa's days for the last eight years so Pip doesn't understand that she can now choose to do whatever she wants. She barely ate for the first two weeks. She follows us around, tentatively sitting here, oh but wait, should I sit there? Is it nap time? Where should I be? She won't go outside by herself so Brett has been bundling up and walking to the end of the yard at 11:00pm to get her to go to the bathroom. A bright spot is that we can take her to the dog park now. We've always avoided the dog park, as well as other dogs, what with Grace's tendency to bite others. Pip loves other dogs and gets big wheezy whistles and zoomies at the park, sniffs butts, splashes into the pond, rolls in sand, and then comes home and sleeps for the rest of the day. 
So, we're getting there.

The bulk of this month, Brett and I have been in our offices. Occasionally shouting to the other about meeting in the kitchen to take a lunch break. He's been focused on a "marketing campaign" to get word out about his business and it's been very cool to watch it play out and result in exactly what he was hoping for. He's met some neat people doing neat projects and slowly the requests are trickling in. Meanwhile, I was kicking-butt building the website for my new business idea when I came to a multi-pronged fork in the road and instead of handling it like a seasoned entrepreneur, I crumpled, pouted, and spent three days rethinking my entire existence. Brett reminded me that hurdles are a normal part of starting something new, and even though I know he's right, it always feels different when it's you. Other peoples' problems are easy. Mine? Impossible. Can't be solved.

I'll get back to it on Monday.