Listening

Moving Mountains, by Thrice

Confessing

Now that I work from home, I sometimes wear the same clothes two days in a row to cut down on laundry (excluding unders, of course).

Reading

The Plague of Doves, by Louise Erdrich

Feeling

Sorry about the way I acted yesterday. I should have followed my gut and gracefully declined the invitation. Instead I went and put my bitch on display.

The pube machine

I have been with James 22 years this July. For the bulk of those years I have believed, though I have never spoken it aloud, that he has a bizarre pubic hair disorder. He is, for lack of a better description, a pube machine.

In our 22 years together, I have found runaway pubic hairs everywhere. In the hallway. On my flip flops. In the vegetable garden. On the piano. In my purse. On the telephone. In the laundry soap. On the remote control. His pubes know no boundaries.

Over the years, I have quietly scooped away his runaway pubes in an effort to hide his disorder from the world. Though I have to restrain my gag reflex to do it, it is worth the effort to save him (and me) the humiliation of acknowledgeing his tragic affliction. I say nothing, to him or others. Instead, I silently hope no one notices.

James made pancakes for us this morning, which is quite possibly my favorite ritual of the weekend. The smell of late-morning pancakes on the grill and the sound of giggles from our five year old is the surest way to know the weekend has arrived.

But this morning our weekend ritual took a turn. When James brought my plate of pancakes, there it was. Staring at me with its thick, dark, curly glory was a runaway pube nuzzled up next to my steaming stack of pancakes.

I ended my silence. Pointing to pube in question, I said, "Missing something?"

He wiped the hair away from my plate. "What?"

"Your pube. I am talking about your crazy pubes. They are everywhere, you know, and now they have made their way to my pancakes."

"That is an arm hair," he said.

"Nope. No way. That's no arm hair, my friend."

He plucked a hair from his arm, and put it on my plate.

"Arm hair," he repeated.

And sure enough, there it was. I was confronted by indisputable evidence. It was thick and dark with a hint of curl, just like the hairs I have found almost everyday for the last 22 years. It is arm hair.

I spent 22 years thinking he had runaway pubes, wondering what in the hell he was doing that would cause them to show up everywhere. Now, 22 years later, the truth is revealed. No disorder. No affliction. No biggie. Just a case of hairy arms with a tendency to shed. I am feeling better about my life already.

It goes to pieces

"Men kick friendship around like a football but it doesn't seem to break. Women treat it like glass and it goes to pieces."

Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Last year I lost a friendship that I never thought I would lose. It ranks as one of the greatest heartbreaks of my life. I loved her with intensity and devotion. She knew who I was. And I knew her. She was my bestest. Anyone who has ever had this kind of friendship knows exactly what I mean. But now it's gone to pieces.

At the time it went to pieces, I had never needed her more. Losing our friendship was the third of a staggering series of heartbreaks that left me deeply depressed (a word I do not use lightly). It triggered a painful deconstruction of everything I thought I knew about myself, and I came to some sobering conclusions. The entire landscape of my life changed, and I have never felt more abandoned and alone.

But I am finding forgiveness, and I have sought forgiveness for the things I did. Though none of it changes the simple fact that what we had -- that crazy, inexplicable connection between two human beings -- is gone.

They say there are seven stages of grief, and I am finally in the seventh stage of acceptance and hope. At least I think I am.

Change

I quit my job today. Kind of. I am going from full-time to part-time, from a manager to whatever they decide to call me, from a bigger paycheck to a smaller paycheck. I am being...uh uhm...downwardly mobile.

The fear of this decision is setting in. I feel both freedom and independence in being able to financially support my family. It is not easy to let go of it. It requires trust, enormous trust, in my life partner and the universe.

But then look at my girls. Just look at them.

Surely they are tired of being shrugged off while Momma is distracted with work...tired of hearing, "No, Momma is busy right now"...tired of waking to cuddle with me in the wee hours of the morning, only to find me downstairs typing in the darkness, my silhouette pressed against the glow of a computer screen.

And me...I am tired too. Tired of doing many things, but doing nothing well. I am ready to be a better momma, better wife, better friend, better human being. Getting rid of a job doesn't make all that happen, but it's an important step in the process. At least for me it is.

So ta-ta "big" job. Life is calling.

It's a new year, baby

Last night, while saying goodbye to 2008, I drank my favorite La Crema chardonnay and James teased me to sip his “best ever” eggnog. And it was divine nog, indeed. We ate a delicious meal, lovingly prepared with our own hands. Then I listened to the affectionate conversations of bedtime between Daddy and daughters linger down the stairwell.

When the midnight fireworks woke up the baby and I was rocking her back to sleep in the quiet darkness, I couldn’t help but smile. 2008 was marked by the ache of healing. But we made it, and here we are…surrounded by so much to be grateful for and so much to look forward to. So much.

When I crawled back into bed a quarter past midnight, James whispered, “It’s a new year, baby.” It sure is.