Worst idea ever
Posted: October 15, 2013 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: breast cancer awareness month, Lace Up for the Cure, New Balance, pinktober 9 CommentsI saw this ad in the Sunday paper.
Please. No.
Just no.
Pinktober is sucky enough for those of us who are unwillingly on Team Pink. One month is bad enough.
No.
My sweet mama
Posted: October 13, 2013 Filed under: Uncategorized 13 CommentsMy mom died today.
Eight years ago today.
In some ways it seems like just yesterday. It some ways, it seems like I never even knew her. At all. I can’t really remember the sound of her voice. When I try to recollect her voice, I hear the sound of her when she was sick, and it was not her, not the real her. I miss the sound of her laugh. She had a great laugh. It was genuine and from the heart. From the belly.
I miss her so much.
And yet, I feel like I don’t remember her at all. It’s as if she was never here at all.
She was awesome. So awesome. And she would want to spank me with the wooden spoon for being so unhappy and ungrateful for what I do have and for cussing so much.
Some times, I really hate those whose moms are still alive. I hate those whose moms are still healthy. If you have a mom, and she’s alive, I hate you. If you have a mom, and she’s healthy, I hate you.
Maybe that makes me small & petty & hateful. I can allow for that and I don’t care . It’s not rational, and I know that. It’s not logical, yet I don’t give 2 shits. You did nothing wrong, yet I feel the way I feel. I hate you. Could not care less. I hate you nonetheless. Even if you & your mama don’t have all that great a relationship and even if she drives you crazy or she’s distant or she’s not what you want or expect or need…I don’t care. I still hate you. Because she’s here. And mine is not. And that makes me hate you. All of you.
That’s what cancer does.
I hate cancer.
I fucking hate cancer.
Signs of life
Posted: September 12, 2013 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: 9/11 Memorial, Freedom Tower, September 11, terrorist attacks, The Memo, The Survivor Tree, World Trade Center 4 Comments
Yesterday I wrote about the anniversary of the September 11 terrorist attacks and my friend M, who I met through this little blog, sent me this photo. It’s the new Freedom Tower, built on the site on which the former World Trade Center stood. M and her son visited New York City this summer and happened upon this beautiful convergence of the financial district skyline and the new building as the sun was setting. The result: a stunning light shining from the new tower.
Looking at the play of light suffuses me with warmth, and it calls to mind the visual my yoga teacher uses while instructing us to concentrate on our breath. She says to imagine our slow, long, belly-tightening exhale as a plume of breath exiting through a small hole in the top of our heads. A concentrated ridding of toxins and stale air. That’s what I think of when I see M’s photo: out with ruin, in with new life. Signs of life.
The Freedom Tower stands 1,776 feet tall and, according to the Lower Manhattan Development Corporation,”serves as a beacon of freedom, and demonstrates the resolve of the United States, and the people of New York City.”
Surrounding the tower is the Reflecting Absence memorial, which pays tribute to the 2,986 men and women who died on that terrible day. I visited the memorial in February while on a girls’ trip with my bestie Yvonne, and I still haven’t found the words to describe the experience. It was a brutally cold, insanely windy day — I think the temperature was 27 degrees, which is this Texan’s version of hell — but the discomfort the weather provided seemed fitting as I began my trek toward the memorial. I walked from our Times Square hotel to Lower Manhattan, freezing my tail off the entire way. This idyllic shot of Central Park blanketed in snow looks tranquil, but within that tranquility were some mighty cold temps. 
As I reached the Financial District, I noticed an increased police presence around the memorial — a sad reminder of the lasting effects of the terrorist attacks. Ditto the incredibly long process of getting through security to enter the memorial.
The memorial contains two giant pools of cascading water, each set where the Twin Towers used to be. The walls of water are the largest man-made waterfalls in the United States, and the deep, dark pit in their centers are an incredibly powerful symbol. The brochure from the memorial says that the pools are intended to be “a reminder of the Twin Towers and of the unprecedented loss of life from an attack on our soil.”
The names of those killed that day in New York City, Pennsylvania, and at the Pentagon are inscribed onto waist-level granite surrounding the pools. The six victims of the 1993 World Trade Center bombing are included as well. Seeing all the names is powerful, especially upon the realization that the names stretch all the way around the massive pools. Seeing multiple references to unborn children is crushingly sad.
I wonder if the friends and families of those who perished gain some smidgen of comfort from seeing and touching the names. I wonder if those friends and families are at all buoyed by the fact that random people like me, who never knew their loved ones, are moved so deeply by seeing those names etched into the panels.
I also wonder why we need signs such as the one pictured below. Do people really have to be told not to scratch or sit on the panels containing the names?
And do people need to be told not to throw anything into the pools? Were I to see someone scratching, sitting or throwing things in this sacred place, I’d be sorely tempted to push them into one of the pools. 
A shot of the Freedom Tower while still under construction.
The Survivor Tree, pictured below, is yet another symbolic piece of the memorial. (Apologies to the unnamed tourists who ended up in my photos.)
According to the memorial’s blog, The Memo, this tree endured the terrorist attack at the World Trade Center. A few weeks after the attack, the blackened, leafless tree was discovered in the rubble in the plaza of the World Trade Center. The ornamental pear tree was originally planted in the 1970s between buildings in the World Trade Center complex. Before September 11, the tree was tall and full. When it was uncovered after the attack, it was an 8-foot-tall stump with broken roots. “The tree is a testament to our ability to endure,” Mayor Michael Bloomberg said. After the attack, the tree was nursed back to health at a nursery in the Bronx, where caretaker Richie Cabo said “It looked like a wounded soldier. When I first saw it, I thought it was unlikely it would survive.”
By the spring of 2002, though, the tree showed signs of life, and Cabo knew the Survivor Tree would survive. “It represents all of us,” said Cabo. and the then-8-foot-tall stump with broken roots is now a 30-foot tall thing of beauty and is a popular site at the memorial.
Like most of us, the Survivor Tree has faced hard times and has seen better days. Uprooted and damaged, yet showing signs of life.
As I left the memorial on that frigid day in February, I took one last look at the Survivor Tree and smiled as I noticed the tightly-closed buds forming on the branches. While it was still too cold and too early in the year for those buds to open and unfurl their renewal, they were there. Showing signs of life.
Leaving the memorial, the wind whipped in between the Financial District’s buildings. The sun dipped out of sight, and the temperature seemed to drop even lower. My feet hurt from my cross-town walk, and my face ached from being the only part of my body exposed to the cold. But my heart was warmed by the Survivor Tree, and by this random tourist in her chicken hat.
This day in history
Posted: September 11, 2013 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: 2001, al-Qaeda, gender reveal, national tragedy, September 11, terrorist attacks, World Trade Center 6 CommentsSeptember 11, 2001. A day that changed our lives. It’s been referred to as this generation’s Kennedy assassination — everyone remembers where they were when it happened. As the unbelievable images flooded the TV and the tragedy unfolded, our brains struggled to comprehend the horror of what was happening in Lower Manhattan.
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Four planes hijacked and intentionally crashed into three buildings — both towers of the World Trade Center in NYC and the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. That third plane crashed into a remote area of Pennsylvania before it could reach its intended target.
I was pregnant with my favorite girl on this fateful day. My #1 son was a toddler in the throes of the terrible twos, and life was hectic. The day before the attack, I suffered what I thought was a terrible thing. I had my ultrasound to check the development and health of my unborn child. We wanted that child’s gender to be a surprise, as it was with my first pregnancy. So many things in this life of ours are structured and scheduled and planned to the hilt that the idea of hearing my OB-GYN say “It’s a boy!” or “It’s a girl!” very much appealed to me. My sweet mama, however, did not like that plan because it thwarted her shopping efforts for my unborn children. That motivated YaYa wanted to buy pink or blue, not gender-neutral colors. She disapproved, but I held firm, and we were indeed surprised and delighted to learn of that first baby’s gender at the moment he entered the world.
The men in my husband’s family like to close ranks, and produce lots and lots of boys. My hub is one of four boys, as is his dad and one uncle. There were 14 boys born in a row in that family. Girls seem to not be on the menu, and the hub’s family predicted yet another boy for the clan. When my #1 son entered the world in 1999, they likely smiled smugly at the interloper (me) who insisted there was a 50/50 chance either way. Boy or girl didn’t matter to me; either one would be great.
Fast forward a couple of years later and again I pursued my surprise. Despite the family history of lots of boys, I still didn’t want to know until that child’s birthday. At the ultrasound on September 10, 2001, we peered over my big belly to peek at the fuzzy image on the monitor. The baby on the screen appeared quite clearly and cooperated fully in our efforts to count fingers & toes while avoiding glimpses of the boy- or girl-parts. That baby cooperated fully, but did it with his/her right arm laid across his/her face, as if to convey the inconvenience he/she suffered as he/she afforded us a quick glimpse into that underwater world. Little did we know that this dramatic gesture in utero would prove to be a harbinger of things to come.
We laughed about the dramatic gesture but did not speculate as to the gender of the child-to-be who would act that way, even before being born. We were clear about not wanting to know. We reiterated our wish to be surprised. We said it multiple times in multiple ways. And still, the doctor slipped. My heart was broken.
I went to bed with a heavy heart and a perhaps misguided anger toward that blabby-mouthed doctor. I awoke to images on The Today Show that made no sense. My pity party was officially over.
A few months later, a baby girl was born.
The all-boy trend came to a screeching halt, and sugar & spice became the fragrance du jour. Trucks, dinosaurs, and baseballs were joined by fluffy stuffed toys, floral patterns, and giant hair bows.
Twelve years later, my #1 son and my favorite girl will discuss the al-Qaeda attacks in their social studies classes. A lot has changed in the 12 years since the terrorist attacks. My busy toddler is now a 9th grader, and that dramatic baby in my tummy is a 6th grader. Twelve years later, my little darlings are not all that little anymore, and before long they’ll be spreading their wings and setting off on their grown-up lives. The world is a different place now than it was before the terrorist attacks. More dangerous? Perhaps. Less secure? Certainly, at least in our minds.
We will never forget.
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Tragedy
Posted: August 7, 2013 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: helping a friend through loss, Khalil Gibran quote, loss of a child, quotes about grief 17 Comments
A friend of mine has suffered an unspeakable loss. I’ve been reeling since I heard the terrible news last night. An unexpected tragedy suffered by someone I like and respect has rudely interrupted my vacation, shattering the peace and tranquility of time spent at the shore.
My heart is heavy as my friend joins a club for which no one wants a membership. I’m instantly transported, despite my best efforts against it, to the time of my mom’s death, and all the sadness and grief that entails. Nearly 8 years later, I’m instantly transported back to the worst time of my life, via a friend’s shared loss of her beloved family member. While I can’t fathom her exact experience, I know enough to know that her heart will never again be whole, her life will never be the same.
I draw much comfort from quotes. The words of those more eloquent than myself soothe and calm me during tragedy. A couple come to mind as I walk silently behind my friend in her grief. A few steps removed, trailing her with flowers and cards and support and whispered words for the inevitable falter in her step as she attempts to move forward toward a life wildly shaken.
“Grief is the price we pay for love.” — Queen Elizabeth II
“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” — Khalil Gibran
While we can never understand why such tragedies strike, I do know one thing: I agree with Queen Elizabeth and Khalil Gibran on both counts. However, I wish more than anything that my sweet friend did not have to pay the price or become a strong soul in such a terrible way.
Embracing imperfection
Posted: July 22, 2013 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: body image after breast cancer, daily yoga quote, embracing imperfection, life after breast cancer, namaste, reclining position, yoga class, yoga fairy, yoga practice, young women and breast cancer 8 CommentsI have an app on my phone that gives me a yoga quote every day. The idea is to take a quiet moment and read the daily quote, reflect upon its wisdom, then go about my day in a serene and float-y way.
Instead, I usually read the daily quote as I’m loading the dishwasher and scooting our little piggie Piper out of the way and hollering at my kids to turn down the TV and wondering where my grocery list is and trying to remember if I paid the lawn guys and hoping I remember to water the new shrubs before they shrivel and die a brown, crinkly death in these dog days of Texas summer.
What part of that is serene and float-y?
None. Nada. Zilch.
I’m coming to grips with the fact that I just don’t lead a serene and float-y life. Going to yoga helps, although I don’t think I’ll ever master the art of calming my mind, even in the midst of a perfect yoga class, in a darkened room with my favorite instructor with her calming voice and lovely music.
Adding the daily yoga quote to my hectic, too-busy day and to my static-y, not-calm mind was a somewhat-desperate attempt to impart even more calm to my spastic self. Some days a quote resonates with me, and some days I think, “Yeah, right.”
Today’s quote grabbed me, and not necessarily in a yoga way but in a more all-encompassing way.
“These days, my practice is teaching me to embrace imperfection: to have compassion for all the ways things haven’t turned out as I planned, in my body and in my life — for the ways things keep falling apart, and failing, and breaking down. It’s less about fixing things, and more about learning to be present for exactly what is”. — Anne Cushman
That one got my attention and forced me to slow down (and to ignore the dishwasher, et al). My guess is that this quote applies to everyone, regardless of whether you’ve ever set foot in a yoga class or attempted a reclining pigeon pose. Of course this quote applies doubly to any of us who have faced a serious health crisis, such as a cancer diagnosis.
My first thought when I read this quote was about how much I’d love to be in the presence of Anne Cushman, whoever she is, and hope for osmosis. I’d love for her acceptance to permeate my body and mind. I’d really love to emulate her practice of “being present for exactly what is” especially as it relates to my post-cancer body.
If only there were a “being present” fairy. A lovely, serene, calming cousin to the Tooth Fairy, who would visit those of us who struggle after diagnosis. She could float into our windows while we sleep and sprinkle yoga-fairy dust around our pillows. She could whisper words of wisdom into our ears and smile knowingly as we nodded sleepily, eyes closed and minds calm. We would fall under her spell without even knowing it, and would awake from our typically-disjointed sleep, no longer plagued by hot flashes or night sweats or nightmares about recurrence. We would emerge from non-tangled, not-sweaty sheets, refreshed and renewed and filled with compassion for the many ways in which things didn’t turn out how we expected. We would smile as we alighted from bed, bathed in calm and knowing that we now have the power to embrace our imperfections. We would no longer instinctively avoid our reflections in the mirror; that part of our minds that tells us “Don’t look! It’s not pretty! It’s not the same!” would be erased, no longer needed. We would cease the relentless and futile pursuit of “fixing things” about our bodies and souls post-cancer. Instead, we would smile sweetly at the broken parts and love them because of, not despite, their imperfections.
Namaste, y’all.
Someone’s to-do list
Posted: July 17, 2013 Filed under: Uncategorized 8 CommentsMy little dog has undergone a big change since we moved into our temporary house. Gone is the lazy, timid dog; he’s been replaced by a brave explorer who wants to charge out the front door and sniff around the entire neighborhood.
I’m shocked by his behavior.
He stands at the front door and scratches multiple times a day. It’s so strange. (One thing hasn’t changed, however — his lack of brains. He hasn’t yet figured out that the front door on the new house swings open on the opposite side as the door on the previous house. Granted, the previous house is the only home he’d ever known before this house, but still….He scratches at the hinged side of the door in the temporary house to alert any- and everyone to the fact that he wants to go exploring.)
I’m not used to this energetic, brave, and curious creature. I’d rather gotten used to my lazy dog.
Regardless of the sudden and inexplicable personality change, he’s nice to take for a walk. He doesn’t tug on the leash, nor does he make that unpleasant “I’m choking myself but I can’t stop” sound. He strolls leisurely but purposefully, sniffing every inch of ground and interrogating each blade of grass. He doesn’t pay any heed to people passing by, and he didn’t even notice the Vietnamese kids smoking pot in the garage two doors down.
On our walk today I noticed a piece of paper on the sidewalk, soggy from last night’s rain yet still intact and legible. It’s someone’s to-do list. I picked it up, both because I don’t like leaving trash lying about and because I’m nosy. I’m a habitual list-maker myself, so I was curious to see what action items are on someone else’s list.
This is an important list. I really wish I knew to whom it belonged, so I could return it. Judging by the seriousness of the items on the list, I think its owner may need it.
Settled (mostly)
Posted: July 8, 2013 Filed under: Uncategorized 8 CommentsIn the span on time between my last post and this moment, much has occurred. Moving house is perhaps one of the most stressful events in life; moving house twice — into a temporary house while the new house is being built — perhaps doubly so.
While I attempted to organize the move in my typical borderline-OCD fashion (purging outgrown toys and clothes, organizing closets, designating heaps of goods for donation, and segregating our worldly goods into “need now” and “won’t need until we’re in the new house” camps), unforeseen issues came into play.
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The moving truck was too small to contain our worldly goods, requiring multiple trips to the temporary house and the storage unit.
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The storage unit was too small to contain our worldly goods. The movers were on the clock for 10 hours instead of the 4 we had estimated. Our upstairs AC unit died an untimely death, in the midst of a record, 103-degree heatwave.
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The housecleaning service failed to show the day before closing, resulting in a late-night cleaning marathon that neither Trevor nor I want to repeat. If our family owned a swear jar, that baby would have exploded that night, and money would have rained down on the greater Fort Bend area.
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Then came the Tetris-like process of moving our pared-down worldly goods into a house roughly half the size of the one we’re used to sprawling in. Not that I’m complaining. Our temporary house was generously vacated for us by our dear friend and all-around good guy, Ed. He selflessly took on a wandering lifestyle, with a few nights in a motel and a couple of weeks in our friends’ guest house before taking off for our beloved Salisbury Beach, then landing in an extended-stay hotel that will accommodate his two lovable dogs. That is true friendship, people, and if you find yourself lucky enough to be in the company of a person like him, I suggest you grab on with both hands and cherish that friendship forever.
Add to that long list of challenges the presence of some very difficult home buyers. We smugly accepted their offer over another offer on our house after just 4 days on the market. We clinked glasses and toasted our good fortune to have attracted such seemingly rock-solid buyers in such a short amount of time.
Perhaps we should have held out a few more days.
Good grief, this was a hideously difficult process.
I’m quite certain the contempt we feel toward them is mutual, and this is one chapter I am happy to put behind me. The day after closing, I awoke with a strange feeling that took me a moment to recognize: joy. To quote my favorite yoga teacher, I felt a lightness of heart and an abundance of joy in my heart. All because I knew the madness was over and I would (fingers crossed) never have to deal with those people ever ever ever again.
One unexpected benefit of life in our temporary dollhouse: the close proximity and the week-long absence of cable TV and the internet has spurred my favorite girl and my #1 son to spend some primo quality time together. From playing cards on her bed to building a Popsicle-stick crossbow to her schooling him on how to bake cookies, those kids have had a ball together.
Life is good in the new (temporary) ‘hood. 
Rules? What rules?
Posted: May 8, 2013 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: ain't nobody got time for that, angry baby meme, Mike Hammer Allstate insurance, the rules don't apply to me, uninsured motorists 6 CommentsLast month I got rear-ended. Bummer.
It was a beautiful day, I had my family in the car with the top down; we had just come from signing the papers on our new house and were euphoric at the idea of building our “forever home.” The euphoria prevailed even as we hurried from the builder’s sales office back toward home to get my #1 son ready for baseball practice. As we were short on time, we decided to run through Chick Fil A to grab him some dinner before practice. As I idled next to oncoming traffic in the strip center, waiting to turn left into Chick Fil A, I saw a big pickup turning out of the grocery store parking area to get in line behind me. The driver of the truck must have taken her eyes off the road for a moment, because BAM! she hit me.
After the initial shock passed, we issued a collective groan at the interruption to our idyllic day. Mr #1 son fretted about whether his Chick Fil A was still on the table; fast food is a rarity in our lives, and that boy has a major soft spot for all junk foods. I handed him some cash and he walked across the parking lot to procure his feast while we exchanged information with the lady in the truck.
Her first reaction upon getting out of her truck was to announce that I didn’t have my turn signal on. I shut her down speedy quick: I most certainly did have my turn signal on (which she would know had she not taken her eyes off the road!), and it makes no matter because the person who hits another car from behind is at fault. Period. She piped down after that assertion and switched gears from combative to contrite.
She produced an insurance card and we copied down the details. As she pulled away from the scene of the crime, we took down her license plate number, just in case. While I certainly like to believe the best in people, even total strangers who ram the back of my car in a parking lot, you never know.
The “you never know” part took a starring role in this suburban drama. When I contacted her insurance company, I received the dreaded news: her policy is no longer valid. She’s uninsured.
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It gets better: I of course have uninsured motorists coverage on my policy, but there’s a $250 deductible, and it rubbed me the wrong way, big time, to have to pay money to cover someone else’s damage. Add to that the fact that we just bought a house, I mean literally, and the idea of spending money to cover some irresponsible bad driver just made me mad. My insurance agent, who is a rock star, assured me that we would find her and make this right.
You may have heard this about me — I have a whacked-out sense of justice. It irks me to no end when things don’t work the way they should; add to my list of annoyances: irresponsible people who drive around in a big-ass truck without insurance.
Did I mention that my rock-star insurance agent is named Mike Hammer? For real. In 1994 we chose him out of the phone book, way back when phone books were relevant, because of his name. All these years later, we likely could have found a better deal, maybe from that cute little gecko, but Mike has always given us top-notch service and I believe in loyalty (again, whacked-out sense of justice). I’m so glad we never strayed from Mike Hammer, because he put on his private-eye hat and found the lady who hit my car. With no valid insurance policy, her insurance company couldn’t track her down, and her license plate number didn’t come up in the system either. I’m not going to accuse her of having stolen plates, but in addition to letting her insurance lag, she must have let her car registration lag as well.
He called her up and told her that she must have mistakenly given me the wrong policy, because the information she provided is invalid. She assured him that she does indeed have insurance, and when he told her he’d gladly hold on while she went to get the real insurance card, she said she didn’t have it handy. He said no worries, I’ll hang on while you go out to the garage and get the card out of your glovebox. Cue the radio silence.
No need to hold on, Mike, because there is no valid card in the glovebox. Miss Missy in her big-ass truck has no insurance. Did she knowingly provide me with bogus information at the scene? Again, I’d like to believe the best in people, but she’s making it pretty tough.
She assured Mike Hammer that she would call him back with the correct policy information, and he said good deal, that’s a relief because my client sustained some significant damage and needs to get her car fixed.
I know y’all will be shocked to learn that Miss Missy has yet to call Mike Hammer with that information.
I did a little sleuthing myself and found out where Miss Missy lives. I’m sorely tempted to show up on her doorstep and demand restitution, but considering we do have the right to concealed handguns in the Great State of Texas, I’m going to refrain.
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Instead, I will go get an estimate on the damage to my car, call Mike Hammer with the amount, and let him call her again to ask when we can expect the cashier’s check for the damage.
Wouldn’t it just be so much easier if everyone followed the rules — the law, in this case — and carried valid auto insurance?
But apparently the rules — and the law — do not apply to Miss Missy, who has no problem driving around whacking other cars in her big-ass truck. Perhaps that’s a good thing, though: she should have plenty of money to pay for my car repair since she’s not spending one penny on car insurance or registration.
It’s been too long!
Posted: May 7, 2013 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Goodwill, Houston real estate market, micro mini pig, moving house, pet pig, poppin tags, potbellied pig, selling our house 4 CommentsI’m finally back in my blogging chair, after 3 weeks of prep for selling our house. It’s been a busy, exhausting existence as I cleaned out closets, touched up paint, boxed things up, and whipped our house into “show palace” quality.
Pedey Dog is especially exhausted by all the pre-moving festivities
The house went on the market Friday, and we’ve had 8 showings and are entertaining 2 offers. Gotta love the red-hot real-estate market in the great state of Texas.
Please tell me the prospective buyers looked in this linen closet, which hasn’t been this tidy in years. 
Ditto the pantry, hall closet, and downstairs linen closet.
I defy any member of this household to say they can’t find what they’re looking for in here!
Closets this neat & orderly fill me with a crazy amount of happiness.
I’m tempted to leave the closet door open!
In the process of getting this place ready to sell, we’ve taken the age-old real-estate advice of “de-personalizing” the house: removing personal effects such as framed photos and the collection of assorted clobber that migrates under magnets on the refrigerator door. While I haven’t packed up every personal artifact, a lot of it is gone.
The former “gallery wall” has been cleared and is now part of a spacious, but boring, hallway.
The “after” picture is a lot less interesting.
When I shared this photo in celebration of my #1 son’s birthday last week, my friend Michelle texted me to say “Wow, your house looks empty!” and my friend Christy said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen your kitchen desk totally cleared!” 
It’s true. I always have a basket on the corner of the desk full of papers, unopened mail, magazines I intend to read, etc etc. Somehow the pile in the basket would just grow taller as more things were added but the papers and mail sat undisturbed and the magazines grew dusty. Every once in a while I’d empty the whole basket in a frustrated purge, but the basket itself was a mainstay.
Not anymore. This house is still occupied, but the everyday detritus has been ruthlessly culled. Box after box of stuff we don’t need in the near future went out the door and into storage (thanks, Ed; aren’t you so glad you have a pickup truck and extra space??). Tons of stuff went to Goodwill, where shoppers will be “poppin tags” aplenty with the pile we donated.
I’m so glad this stuff is at Goodwill instead of in my office!
While I was aggressive in my culling, I did also try to forecast what we might need access to and at what point in this process. It’s rather like a triage; the stuff we definitely won’t need (holiday decor, specialty baking pans, and winter clothes, for instance) got boxed up first and were out the door. Stuff we may need between now and when the new house is ready at the end of the year went out the door as well, but is a bit more accessible. I’m not usually a big-picture thinker, but am trying hard to forecast what we need at the ready versus what can go into the deep recesses of storage. The one thing I did not account for was the crazy-cool weather we’ve been having. Field Day at my favorite girl’s school dawned with the temperature a mere 42 degrees — down-right cold for us thin-blooded Texans. She wanted to wear one of her cute hand-knitted scarves, and was a bit peeved at her overzealous mother when she learned that the winter accessories had been packed up and shipped out. How was I to know that Houston would have the coolest temps in the history of weather recording?
With the end of the school year approaching, our needs and our schedules will be much more flexible (and if we need a scarf at any point between now and the end of the year, I’ll take full responsibility for my short-sightedness). A big plastic bin of summer clothes, a few swimsuits, and a pair of flip-flops will suffice from June through August. But once school starts, we’ll still be a few months away from moving into the new house, so we will need a slightly bigger wardrobe, a more structured schedule, and the ability to find things when we need them.
It’s an adventure.
My favorite girl said she hopes the house sells fast, so she can go back to living like a slob. Both kids are sleeping on top of their comforters, rather than under the covers, so it’s easier to make their beds every day. I’m on constant patrol for any stray item not in its proper place or any rogue crumbs not wiped from the kitchen counters.
The one family member who has not yet been disturbed by the flurry of recent activity in and around the house is Piper. She’s thoroughly enjoyed her car rides when prospective buyers have come to look at the house. As long as her food bowl is filled twice a day, she doesn’t care what goes into a box or is moved to storage. 
The Pink Underbelly 