Precious is not changing.

John gave me a great graduation present--a Kindle Fire. (For clarity, I'll call it the Fire and a normal Kindle, Precious. 'Cos that's its name. As in Lord of the Rings "Precious." Not that depressing movie.) My husband ordered Fire for me a month ago and I impatiently awaited it, swapping excited texts with my BFF about it at least weekly. My one hope was that it would make underlining easier. Faster and without freezing my device.

I also wanted to dispense with the devices that populate my purse. I can't leave the house without my phone, my Kindle, and my iPod. I've thought about duct-taping them together, but the adhesive...anyway. I realized I'd still need my phone, but I really thought I could dispense with the iPod, especially since I buy my music from Amazon to begin with.

I am, as I said on FB, a loyal and devoted Amazonian. I distinctly remember reading the story in Wall Street Journal and immediately signing on. At that time, I was keeping QPB in business. Remember QPB? Quality Paperback Bookclub? Whatever happened to them? And who could have predicted Amazon would deliver my books, yarn, shoes, frisbees. Well, Jeff Bezos would have predicted that, of course, but not me. So, it surprises me to have to say that I am not in love with my Kindle Fire. I don't even plan on keeping it.

I'll list my likes first. It's a shorter list.

1. Underlining is infinitely faster.



2. Apps are fun.

3. Being able to see the pictures in your books is cool.

Dislikes, in the order that I found them.

1. You can't name it. It's called Julia's 2nd Kindle. I'm sure I can remedy that by going to the Amazon site but I don't like it that I can't just press that and change it to "Sweet Cheeks" or "Clive."




2. Amazon Prime members get free streaming movies, but the only free Clark Gable movie available is "Band of Angels." Which is the worst Clark Gable movie ever. In fact, it may be the worst movie ever--with anybody in it. It was so bad, Clark and the director, who had been BFFs, never spoke again. I bet Sidney Poitier pretends he didn't make it. (I told you this is my list of dislikes in the order in which I found them.) (And, to be clear, The 5th Element or any Luc Besson movie is the worst movie ever. But I digress.)


3. It's too heavy. One of my favorite things about Precious is how easy it makes the act of reading, particularly in bed. That's my commonly cracked joke: I don't know how books caught on in the first place. They're cumbersome, unwieldy. I did find a free movie I wanted to watch, so I stayed up all night watching "Best In Show" for the thousandth time. Keeping the thing propped up or held up was an annoying challenge. And that's just a 90-minute movie. I stay up all night reading *a lot.*

4. That on-off button is in a stupid place. I turned it off more than once because it's right where you put your hands. I guess they expected people to hold it sideways.

5. There's no way to organize your content. I may have 1000 books, as Sandy likes to say, and, yes, there is enough memory to download them all into "Favorites" but once they're in there, there's no way to organize them. I had my 1000 books in 33 folders on Precious (Folders with names like "The Queue," which is what I'm reading right this minute. "Brit Lit" is, well, you know.) I worked hard to create those folders and put all those titles in those folders. That way it really is like a library in my purse. I use "archives" as, well, archives. The place where books that I finished go. Because it's "archives." See? The carousel can't be organized, favorites can't be organized...

6. There's not enough memory. Precious has 3 GB for content and I have 626 MB free, so yeah, I have a couple of books. And, as I mentioned, I like having access to them as if they were on a shelf. I looked it up and Fire has 6 GB, enough for 10 movies, OR 100 apps OR 6,000 books OR 800 songs...see how I'm saying "or"? When you're thinking this is going to replace all your devices and you have 2000 songs and almost 4 GB of books and all four seasons of "Schoolhouse Rock"...well, pretty soon, you've only got 1.5 GB left. And that's after you've removed there terrible 4th season of Schoolhouse Rock and only downloaded your Christmas music playlist.

7. The screen is shiny. I've been reading in all kinds of environments and the experience on Fire is not like the experience on Precious. You don't lose yourself in a book when you have to keep tilting it to avoid the glare. But I have been told there are anti-glare covers. But what's the point of developing e-ink technology if you're not going to use it?

8. You're tethered. You have to have WiFi to use it the way I want to use it. Since I don't have enough memory to download all my songs, I can't use it in the car the way I use my iPod. You can download movies to watch later, but it uses up your memory. I've said all this before, so...what's the point of developing the WhisperNet if you're not going to use it?

9. It doesn't have the same battery life as Precious. After it was passed around all day Thanksgiving, it was dead on the drive home. It does charge in the car, but Precious would have been rarin' to go and only needed a book light to entertain me all the way home.

10. I can't type on it. I was going to get a stylus to make it easier to type, but since it's only going to be an at-home device, that's really not an issue. So I won't even bemoan the fact that I can't text with it.


11. Kids books on Fire aren't all that. Kids books should be books, anyway, so I only put that here to be whiny.

I know that Amazon will upgrade Fire and eventually it will be what I want it to be, but it will not be $200 anymore. For the time being, I'm going to stick with Precious.

I'm an asshole. No changin' that.

So, I have a 33 year old niece and she is fabulous. She is my sister-in-law's daughter and I couldn't like her more if I'd watched her grow up, but I met her when she was 22  or so. She's beautiful, whip-smart, and funny as hell...I love it that she takes John apart every time she sees him.

We're going to my sister-in-law's for Thanksgiving. We haven't had Thanksgiving there since we were newlyweds. I can't wait for the brother-in-law's wonderful deep-friend turkey. I am also excited for Finn to have a family holiday instead of just us sitting around talking about how much we hate Arizona. He'll be able to hear family stories, eat good food, play with neighborhood kids. Very excited. For him. For me...I'd like to stay home with a Bloody Mary and, perhaps, even a cigarette. Because I am an asshole.

Sunday, John came in after the Redskins game and says Erika is bringing her boyfriend to Thanksgiving. Hooray! Her 47 year old still-married boyfriend. Oh, and did I mention, he's her boss? Oh.

One could say that I don't know all the details. OK, any of the details, but I don't shy away from a knee-jerk reaction.

So I posted a note to my sister-in-law. We had been talking on FB about Finn's birthday, so I just added onto that. It went like this:

Julia E. Pheifer: Um, could you tell me how you want me to act on Thursday because I can't be trusted. But I'll do whatever you tell me to do. I'm pretty sure I'll need alcohol, but I do worry it will make me say things I shouldn't.

Niece of Julia: What would you be worried about?

Yeah. That's right. The note on FB about Finn's birthday was to me, John, sister-in-law and nieces. So I tried to hold my ground and backpedal, which is, of course, impossible.

Julia E. Pheifer: Not being welcoming to your gentleman friend. But I see it is too late to worry about what I might say drunk or sober.

Niece of Julia: Perhaps I am a little late to the show. Why would you not be? I would hope that you would be welcoming to anyone that I am with. I am not sure what John relayed but I imagine it is something along the lines of that he is going through a divorce. I thought honesty would be the best policy. I'm not going to defend my relationship with Steve nor may excuses for it. He's a good man and I should have no reason to believe that will not be welcomed or comfortable in my mother's home with my family.

Yeah. I'm an asshole. Whatever. Ain't nothin' I can do about it now. (And, in my defense, I could give a shit that he's divorced or not divorced. I care that he's 47 and he's her boss. But I did not write that. Because my assholeness does know some bounds.)

John was blissfully unaware of this until my SIL called him and asked to speak to me, rather urgently.

Why did my sister need to speak to you? Is there anything the matter?

No. Not really.

Pregnant pause.

OK, I did something stupid. I don't want to talk about it, so you can just read it.

Five minutes later John comes out of the bedroom and stands staring at me.

Your sister wanted to let me know she's being Switzerland.

And what are you? North Korea?

Well, I prefer to think of myself as Serbia. You know, I do something nutty and small...

North Korea, he said.

Title something to do with

Mom, can I have some milk?

Of course.

You’re probably wondering why I haven’t

Brachiosaurus!

haven’t blogged in a month. Well, it’s because

Two!

because we move

Rectangles!

moved.

three-ee-ee

Super Shapes! For flashlight

We moved and Finn can’t enroll in school. Baltimore county has

No…no…no..

really

Yes! That’s him!

Really strict rules about enrollment because  their schools are so good. (Gets up to find paper work to provide supporting evidence)

Hey, Mom, his hands are popcorn seeds

They’re popcorn seeds?

See? Did you see?

I can’t find the papers, but you have to prove where you live. A lease won’t do, a mortgage won’t do. A contract on a house definitely will not do. (Contracts can be broken.) You have to show three pieces of mail addressed to you at the address you’re trying to use to enroll your kid.

Hey mom, Stegosaurus, stegosaurus

So, today, I am conducting an art project. I am showing you in real time what it’s like when I sit down to do

Two down, two more to go.

When I sit down

Two down two to go or is it one down one to go

When I sit down to do anything. Anything other than sit and stare at Finn and wait for whatever he may ask me to do or listen to or see or say. We take walks with the dogs, of course, and his dad takes him swimming every evening, and he has two hours of tutoring at Sylvan learning center four days a week so his brain won’t rot.

They all got a problem. Mom. Why don’t they just use the elevator?

I don’t know.

So, if I don’t answer, it gets louder and more insistenter. And he can't go where we just bought a house because we're just under contract and he can't go to the school by the hotel because

Rowf! Rowf! (Dogs barking at maids vacuuming outside our door.)

He should be careful with his skates, Mom. Pink yellow, yellow. Pink yellow yellow. Pink yellow yellow. Pink yellow, yellow. Pink yellow yellow. Pink yellow yellow. Pink yellow, yellow. Pink yellow yellow. Pink yellow yellow. Pink yellow, yellow. Pink yellow yellow. Pink yellow yellow. Pink yellow, yellow. Pink yellow yellow. Pink yellow yellow.

Finn, please stop.

I type 90-110 wpm, so I can pretty much capture everything. I thought about recording this and putting it online, but I don’t want anyone seeing my fat ass on video for the rest of my life. Speaking of my fat ass, I had planned to use the exercise equipment here at the hotel to its fullest extent but that was before I knew that Finn wouldn’t be allowed in school. 

Oh, yeah, that’s what I was telling you. So we got a PO Box and started changing our bills over to that. But the phone and the

Rooaarr. What's a dick?

What?

She called them dicks.

She did not. This is a kid's show. A dick is another name for a penis and mom uses that work when she's mad when she's driving and she should not and she's very sorry. Don't ever say that. And she did not say that.

The phone and the bank will not accept a PO Box and that’s the only bills we have right now. And his job, the job we moved here for? They keep sending stuff to our Arizona address. But I think we might have that

Agh! Give me that! (Finn’s playing with my super sharp scissors that are usually kept in my craft basket and why they are not there I do not know.)

Licked. I’m hoping that I can show them two pieces of mail addressed to the hotel and one pices to the PO Box. Oh, and I’m going to cry.

Don’t get me wrong, I rather enjoy taking him all around Baltimore. And I’m still not over thinking I’m going to die, so this

Do you like Olivia?

Yes, I love Olivia.

I love her too. Well, I like her. We should get that pirate ship.

So this is actually pretty precious time for me. But…do you know what I’m saying? I can’t take him downtown every day. I’ve *got* to do laundry today. Each of us have one clean t-shirt. Finn has no clean

I feel light headed. Mom, I feel lightheaded.

Really? Huh.

(He heard the phrase on some show the other day and he’s been experimenting with it since. I have not yet said, “You feel lightheaded? Oh, I’ll make you feel lightheaded” Performs the Homer Simpson

Please get your fingers out of your mouth.

OK, well. That’s all the energy I have for this task. Gotta get this laundry going.

Can I have that? 

What are you going to do with a pink skateboarding girl doll? Get that off! I am not watching Spongebob Squarepants.

Rowf!

(I attest that everything in this blog is true and occurred exactly like this between 11:45 and 12:11, Tuesday, November 15, 20011.)

Change and risk are the same thing

This is going to be a deep, dark, ugly truthful post. So if you think I'm sunny and funny and you like to read about the funny things dogs and husbands and six-year-olds do, you should stop reading now. 

I just got off the phone with my mother. I usually try to text her or e-mail her so I don't have to actually speak to her. I don't know if it's her insanity or her disease, but having conversations with her is very, very difficult. I usually find something else to do while I talk to her because she will go off on a tangent and while I'm waiting for her to finish or come to a point, I need something to do. I opened my Solitaire game before I dialed her number.  

That's not completely fair. In her defense, I have seen her brain. Her neurologist showed me her MRI. Remember how the guy on Quantum Leap always complained that the space-time travel was making his brain like Swiss cheese? My mother's brain is literally like Swiss cheese. The plaques that the disease multiple sclerosis leaves on her brain make looking at her brain like looking at a polka-dotted piece of fabric.  But, enough neurons seem to be firing to allow her to be mean and still alive, so...there you go. (Wait, was that a tangent? Is my brain Swiss cheesing?)

Anyway, in today's conversation, I learned that Fred*, the husband of mom's BFF from high school, Fiona,* died. Like I care. (I called to let her know I would come over later to look at her computer.) Mom is writing a letter to their daughter, Jennifer, recounting the evening when Fiona met Fred. That seems sweet, I guess, if you ignore the fact that Fred left Fiona in an ugly and public way for another woman at least 15 years ago. But rather than put energy into mentioning that, I said, "That's nice," and put the red queen on the black king. 

"Fiona was with me when I met your daddy, too, but I won't tell Jennifer that story," she said. Yeah, I said, happy to uncover the ace of hearts. And, then, she launched into the story. Of when my parents met. Like I want to hear the story of the entrance of the sorry man who would come to stain both our lives with his alcoholism, his addiction to porn, his sexual abuse of me, his sexual abuse of my aunts, and his philandering. The man whose caprices she allowed so that I had no college fund and she had to work her ass off to keep food on the table. But, by following his dreams, he was able to "be his own boss." Loosely translated, that means he had a broken down radiator repair shop where he could drink and smoke his days away and not even be bothered by silly things like customers. But, again, I digress.

I have told my mother repeatedly that I do not want to hear happy tales about my father. There are no happy tales, as far as I'm concerned. She stubbornly refuses to stop. She says, "He lived. He existed. I can't just pretend he didn't exist. And, we had happy times." 

Really? Yeah, I guess we were happy when I was really little. Oh, but then I remember that she had already caught him peeping at her sister Nancy while she changed clothes. I just found this out a few years ago. She already knew things were not right when I was a year old! And she stayed! She said she thought it would get better. 

I guess we were happy that summer my uncle and aunt (my mother's littlest brother and baby sister Susan) came to stay with us. Oh, except that he started sneaking into Susan's room to fondle her and "catching" her in the bathtub. Which, again, she knew about at the time and she didn't leave! Or call the police! Yeah, I just found this out a few years ago, too. 

So were those the happy times? Or how about when he finally started targeting me? Was it ever happy after that? Don't answer that. Because I'm afraid I won't be able to control my reaction.

I'm thinking all this while I'm waving the phone away from my ear. I don't want to know the story, but I do want to catch when she finishes her story so I can say, "Yeah." 'Cos I'd hate to hurt her feelings by making her think I didn't listen. What is wrong with me, people?

After I managed to be monosyllabic enough to get her off the phone, I texted my BFF. I said that sitting through one of my mother's stories is so painful that, "It's like an assault." And then I realized...it *is* an assault. It's the only thing she can do to me. She's angry about the fact that I avoid her and ignore her and I'm moving and Lord only knows what else, so she punches me with her words. My God. I have got to save me.

My shrink and all of my friends and my husband--in other words, people who genuinely love me--want me to walk away. Just walk away and change my phone number. My mother hints that there are family members who think that I am terrible for how I behave toward her--I don't call, I don't write. I have yet to slap her, even though when she tells me I've gained so much weight I "don't look like yourself anymore" I do imagine it. I have decided that I really don't give a shit what they think. 

But why not walk away? Well, as my friend Ashley told me, "You're better than that." Yes, I guess that's it. But then I wonder if I'm just acting out my mother's martyrdom. I learned from the best.

God, I would love to walk away. I've walked away before. The only reason we still talk is because after a blessed year of not having her in my life, she called. She had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. And I didn't think it was right to not be there for her. 

What I didn't know is that the woman who repeatedly told me to "buck up" during my childhood, would not buck up. Only for a short time did she take the treatments that would have slowed progression of the disease. It was too much trouble to ask my flaky aunt to give her the shots, the shots hurt, they made bumps under her skin...there were a million excuses. So her disease progressed rapidly and when I realized she had no qualms about asking me to wipe her ass, well, that's when I said, oh, no. I ain't doin' that. 

I didn't know that she wouldn't take any steps to lessen the impact of her disease on herself or me. I won't go into that because you don't need to hear about my mother's bowel and bladder problems and her hemorrhoids. But, take my word for it, she won't take care of what can be taken care of because, well, I don't know why. That's the part of the story where she bursts into tears and says, "I can't talk about it." 

When I stopped coming to her place every day and made sure she had attendants to service her, oddly enough, she was able to wipe her own ass. Funny how that works. Yeah, she had me coming over to her house every day because her wound care physician was a male and while she liked him well enough, she didn't want to be left alone with him. She wanted me to protect her. I don't think she ever understood why that pissed me off beyond belief.

So, I'm at a crossroads. I could walk away. I could leave her to her own devices. Alienate my family, yes, but live without ever hearing another story about my father. Is that a change I'm willing to make? A risk I'm willing to take? I'm thinking about it.

*Names here are changed to protect the innocent.

Hodie is in for some change

The move to Baltimore is proceeding. John is leaving Wednesday in the car to drive cross-country with the dogs. Finn and I are flying out next Saturday. My sister-in-law has volunteered to keep our dogs until we find our forever home. She has a dog named Bosch and a cat named Violet. I know that Charlie will make the necessary adjustments because she's Charlie and she's the smartest dog I've ever had. But Hodie. Well, Hodie is damaged.

When I adopted him, I was told that he was in the system because his owner was in jail. Whoever had Hodie could not destroy his sweet nature, but he certainly gave it his best try. It has taken five years to get Hodie to come out of the gate without peeing. Even though he knows that he's going on his beloved and ever-memorable walk.

I chose Hodie because of a glance at that sweet nature. We were not in the market for a dog. I was by myself and we have agreed getting a dog is not a decision you make by yourself. I was on my way to an appointment with my shrink and got tired of waiting at a light, so I cut through the PetSmart parking lot. I felt so guilty about cutting through the parking lot that I stopped at the store to show that I wasn't really cutting through. I was just going to get Charlie some bones, but I glanced, just glanced, at the dogs brought in by the humane society.

Hodie, whose name was then Boog, was kept in a cage with his brother, Elliot (The animated movie Open Season had come out the year before.)  Hodie was chewing on a squeaky toy. As I watched, Hodie spit out the toy and nosed it toward his brother who was staring into the distance, depressed. "Give me that dog," I said. And someone heard me. I will feel guilty about this until the day I die, but I separated Hodie and his brother. The humane society assured me that was o.k., but I've never felt right about it. But before I knew it, I was sitting in my shrink's office with a sleeping Hodie curled at my feet.

Yes, the shrink and I talked about how disrespectful it was to do this and how did I think the dog would fit in and...I believe I said, "Whatever. This is the sweetest dog I've ever seen."

Fortunately, everyone (everyone named John) fell in love with Hodie the minute they (he) laid eyes on him. John said that because I'd done this horrible thing, choosing this dog without consulting my partner, he was allowed to name the dog. And he christening him, Doggie Hodie. That's dog for Don Quixote.


Of course, my then 2-year-old loved him at first sight--that's how dogs and little boys work. We noticed further sweetness, but we also noticed strange behavior. He refused to come out of the gate whether beckoned or leashed. He was desperately afraid of John despite absolutely no threatening behavior on his part. Then there's the utter and complete devotion to me. Which, surprisingly, can be annoying. Hodie's my right hand man--if I reach out my right hand, he's under it. (Same for the left.)

I can't use the restroom alone. Of course, I don't sleep alone, but Hodie has to be touching me. If I'm away from the house, Hodie puts himself in his crate and doesn't come out until I return.


When I had surgery to implant my pacemaker, Hodie couldn't stand to be around me. He would sniff my wounds, cry and run away. That lasted about a week. Right now John has a scuffed knee from a fall in the driveway. Hodie sniffs it and cries every day. 

Even now, four years later, we still have unexplained fearful behavior. Just yesterday as the rest of the family sat in the living room we heard Hodie crying from the bedroom. We called and called for him to no avail. Finally I got up to see what the problem was. There was a broom in the doorway. "Hodie, you can come out." And he hopped over the broom and came with me.There are times when he's sprawled in the floor, sleeping. He'll yelp, jump up and run away to hide in his crate. What *is* that?

Hodie loves ears and toes. All dogs love toes, of course. Charlie has her own toe song "She's Charlie, she's Charlie, she's very, very soft, she's Charlie, she's Charlie, she'll lick your toes off." That's from when Finn was a baby. She never cared about our grown-up toes and she really doesn't show any interest in Finn's six year old toes. Hodie, however, sniffs all toes extensively every day, sometimes several times a day. It's an insistent invasive sniffing. Same for the ears. All the ears. In fact, that's how he wakes up Finn. First the ears then the toes. And Hodie somehow keeps the coldest wettest nose you've ever known. How he does that we do not know.

Hodie has a toy and when he brings it to you you are expected to reach for it, but you can't have it. No, no, no, you can't have it. He likes to play mouse under the covers. If you put your hand under the covers and move it around, Hodie goes nuts. Great fun.

When Hodie goes outside, he has to go with Charlie. Charlie will scratch the door loudly and insistently until you open the damn door, dammit. Hodie will not bark to remind you that he is out there. He has spent entire nights outside because he won't bark or scratch. He just goes and curls up on the wicker sofa on the porch with his paw over his nose. He's ever so grateful when you let him back in.

So, that is Hodie. I am worried about him and any changes this change my wreak.

Not Much Has Changed

People call these lists "Bucket Lists" now, but in 1996, the Washington Post ran a story about a list the author kept called "50 Things to Do Before I Die." I found mine today as I was cleaning. Given that I am known for my ADHD, I think it's important to note that there are only 35 things on the list. I can't imagine that anyone is interested in a bucket list other than their own, so I've broken this list into two blogs. Part II when I get around to it.

My sister from another mother, Sandy, was recently surprised...horrified...annoyed...to find that many people have lists like this and she does not. And now rather than sitting down and making a list, she's wearing it like a badge of honor. She's like that. So, I thought I'd rub her nose in my list. I'm like that.

1. Own my own home. This was three years before I bought my condo. Sometimes, when I'm stressed or homesick or whatever, I still dream about that place. It was absolutely perfect and all homes are measured against this yardstick.

I mean, it was perfect aside from the lesbians having noisy sex every stinkin' night and the guy across the hall smoking cigars that made the whole building smell. Oh, and there was that guy upstairs that my dog *hated,* which made me think that he was murdering women up there. My dog Ike didn't hate that guy across the hall, though. Well, until we started hanging out and he would come over at 6 a.m. to wake me for our run. Ike hated that. And you should have seen Ike the night our relationship, ahem, changed. But Ike was totally down with our wedding. Yeah, I married the guy who smoked those damn cigars. And he still does! They're horrible!

2. Become a total vegetarian. At some point, I scribbled "nevermind" next to this, but I've been revisiting it lately because my son is quickly becoming, well, fat. He has a terrible diet because I stopped trying three years ago. Once we're moved, I have to do better. And doing better might involve becoming vegetarian. But, good Lord, being a vegetarian is so labor intensive. I had a group of friends in the '90s who were vegans and they didn't have time to think about anything else. We'll see on this one.

3. Live and work in a foreign country. You know, I'm going to check this one off. Arizona has been a foreign country to me. This place...

4. Speak a foreign language fluently. I took French in high school and college and I really regret I didn't do better in these classes. Every year I buy some French grammar books and download some podcasts or audio books and go at this one again. Fluently, to me, means able to get through something more difficult than Paris Match. Someday, I'm going to read "Remembrance of Things Past" in French and watch a Catherine Deneuve movie without subtitles. I might be 102, but it's going to happen. I can feel it.

5. Get a graduate degree. I did that! I can hardly believe it!

6. Write a book. You know, I stopped earning my living from writing 10 years ago and I have never once looked back. The two times I have ever revisited a newsroom--via my dreams--I woke up and thanked God that I do not work in a newsroom. Being pithy on Facebook and Twitter is enough for me. Keeping a journal for Finn is enough. Writing a blog is something I resisted since blogs existed because it's more than enough. Which leads me to believe that I was never a writer. Yeah. I was just a kid going through a lot of shit who had no one to talk to so I wrote it down. And I learned the rules well enough to make a career out of it for 15 years. But I don't think it was ever part of my soul. While most pharmacists have writers, poets, or musicians struggling to get out, I sincerely believe I was a writer with a science nerd struggling to get out.

7. Work from home. I know myself now and I know this would never work. If I don't have a place to go and a task to get done, I will not move.

8. Get my original figure back (145 pounds). I laugh at my 29-year-old self when I see this. I'd give anything for my 29-year-old figure, much less the 20 year old figure I was referring to. I'd be happy with my 35-year-old figure (170 pounds). Sheesh. But when does this whole "I want to be thin again" obsession end? Will I still be 75 years old and worried about my waistline, or lack of it? Because, really, I gotta move on.

9. Learn to play piano. Yeah. Still want to do this.

10. Take ballroom dancing lessons. Check! John and I took lessons before our wedding. We had a fabulous choreographed routine set to "Ain't That a Kick in the Head" by Dean Martin. It's really a shame people don't go dancing like they used to. There's really nothing better than being held and holding your partner, listening to music, all dressed up, moving in concert...

11. Take ballet lessons. I have no idea what I was thinking. I was 29, that's all I can think.

12. Learn to paint watercolors. I have always been fascinated by people who can turn ink and paper into a window on the world or a representation of what's in their head. I want to be able to do that, (but not with words. Have I made that clear?).

13. Have a weeping willow tree in the front yard of my own home. See below.


14. Have a mimosa tree in the front yard of my own home. I had just moved out of the house owned by my boyfriend. These are just extension of my wish to have a place where I would make the rules and where I could not be asked to leave. But, having lived in a place where willows and mimosas won't grow, I might change these to "Will always live where there are trees and grass."

15. Create a flower garden. See above.

16. Create a vegetable garden. Ibid.

17. Teach small children or handicapped children. My 29-year-old self liked kids, but had no experience with children or the handicapped, and Lord was she stupid. I am not a teacher. I am a learner, but imparting my lessons to others...I don't think I'm capable. I'm taking this one off the list.

18. Have a library in my home. Check. Not only do I have a house full of books, the Kindle was invented in the meantime. I have a library in my purse. My God. What a wonderful world the 21st century is.

More to come...

Things have got to change.

I’m taking a break from cleaning. My God, I would rather do anything but clean. I’d mow the yard if we had one. 

The thing about cleaning is it’s just going to get messed up in a week or less. Now that I’m married and have a kid, it’s going to get messed up as soon as they walk in the room. And, I know, I bitch about my mom probably too much, but I just remember her getting so wound up and angry about cleaning. I swore I’d never do that. And the only solution for that is to not clean. Selah. I totally get why she was angry—she was the only one doing any of the work. But she couldn’t bring herself to stop doing the work because of her own expectations and, I guess, society’s expectations. 

I had some insight into expectations when we tiled our bathroom floors. John did it all in one weekend and I told my mother what a wonderful job he did. They really are beautiful, I said. “Now it’s up to you to keep them that way,” my mother said.

That’s become a punchline in our house. Good grief, it is not my job to keep those floors clean. It’s both our jobs. Just like it’s both our jobs to keep this house clean. But we both gave up when I got sick. But why John didn’t pick up the slack when our lives fell apart…well, I have not figured that out or forgiven, as I often mention.

Unlike my mother, I really have no problem not doing the work. Plus, because I’m so out of shape, I start sweating if I walk across the room, so if I start cleaning…forget it. I have not done routine housework for three years. And it shows. Arizona brings contributes its own special evil to the mix. I have never lived anywhere where I had to dust vertical surfaces. Or where inches of dust collect on things kept in closets or cabinets that are always closed.

The man from the moving company came last week to look at our stuff to do an estimate for the move. He was an older man who probably believes I’m supposed to keep house. I could tell he was appalled. He was very friendly getting out of his truck. By the time he left, he was barely acknowledging me. Whatevs, dude. Not my job. Not doin’ it by myself.

The cleanest room in the house is Finn’s room. He does get routine cleaning from me. He gets his sheets changed. I clean the tub for him. Finn deserves better than the dysfunctional people he’s got raising him. I just hope that getting out of here works the miracle that I hope it does. I hope getting back to a normal life, where I have a routine day, where we have a dual income, instead of an income and a constant drain, will help. If not, we’ll *all* go to therapy.

This is a case where things have got to change.

But all the therapy in the world is not going to make me like housework or do housework.

Really, this change thing is just getting on my nerves now.

So, John the Realtor came over yesterday to look at the house. We talk on the phone from time to time and we get a postcard from him every quarter, but I have not actually laid eyes on him since we bought the house in 2002.

Before he arrived, Finn asked, "What's a realtor? What does he look like? "

"A realtor is a guy who sells real estate. He's a guy who sells houses. He is tall and he has white hair and he wears glasses. His name is John, too. Just like dad."

"Is he old?"

"No, he's not old at all."


Back in 2002, John was a trim white-haired fellow who drove a snazzy car and wore snazzy summer suits. (Aren't summer suits are the bee's knees?) I never got the impression he was much impressed with me. Perhaps because he witnessed a big yelling fit in his conference room when my John, let's call him Sweetie, decided (as we were putting in our offer) that he did not really like the house we were about to put a bid on. A house I had already fallen in love with.

John the Realtor did arrange a meeting between me and his friend Dr. Tong, the dean of students of the University of Arizona College of Pharmacy. I don't think it helped me get in or anything, since I didn't get in the first time I applied, but it was a nice way to use your community connections.

I was surprised and horrified when John called that morning. When the company handling our relocation said it would take care of everything, I didn't realize that included contacting John. When we talked, I told him, flat out, our house has not been cleaned since I got sick--which is three going on four years. And that I really don't have the energy to clean. Or the will. And, yes, he could come over and have a look at what we've done, but he had to promise not to call Child Protective Services on us.

So, I got to work. Sweat was dripping off my chin and the dogs were hiding in the front bedroom, but  you couldn't even tell I'd done anything. And I had to stop in the middle to go get the boy because Finn gets out at noon all week so teachers can have parent conferences. 

At 3 p.m., there was a knock at the door and I opened it to find a slouching, skinny old man with a pot belly standing on my porch wearing a blue golf shirt and Sans-A-Belt pants. His eyes were hooded and he spoke very quietly. "Hello, Julia!"

John the Realtor had aged. And lost his style. He shuffled into the house. Now I really felt terrible about the house because I couldn't offer him a seat. Finn was dominating the couch and I worried that he couldn't make it into or out of one of our low easy chairs. And...wait, was he trembling? The heat here sometimes makes me quiver, but it wasn't that hot.

Because I'm Southern and not yet old enough to speak my mind, I did not say, "My God John. What the hell is the matter with you?" I said, "John! Thanks for coming!" And I started showing him the various improvements we'd made to the house--air conditioning, hardwood floors, tile in the bathrooms--and the various...non-improvements--chipped paint on the woodwork, a vent cover duct-taped to the wall, a DIY kitchen floor that is coming up.

Every step he took make me feel worse about the house. He seemed unable to step over or around the piles of laundry that the dogs use as beds. I wanted to take him by the elbow. Finally, we stopped the tour and chatted.

"I have Parkinson's now," he said. "That's why my voice gets quiet, and I can't walk very easily and sometimes I forget stuff."

Well, that beats the hell out of heart failure. He's still getting out every day working his tail off the way most realtors do. And, it's another example of change knocking me for loop.

The only constant is change.

So, I meant to start this blog when I started pharmacy school--to post hilariously about what it's like to be in the classroom with a bunch of 20-year-olds when you're 40. Those thoughts were hilarious, but I didn't have time to post them since I was keeping up with the baby, the dogs, the husband and the studying.

Then I was going to start it when I got sick and had to take off a year. That would have been a a bunch of navel-gazing about fear and death. Everyone has enough of that in their own heads, who needs mine added to the mix?

Lately, I thought I'd start a blog when got a job, all about being a working mom in her new career. But, of course, it's my life, and, like yours, it's not that easy. I have to pass the Naplex to get licensed to get a job. And my husband just got a job in Baltimore. So I'll be coordinating a move to the East Coast from Arizona. And trying to figure out when to take the Naplex. Oh, and trying to figure out where to move my mother. (She's 65, has MS and I don't like her. And, no, I'm not telling her I have a blog.) And, let's not forget I have to get that little boy into a good school. And find a house we can all agree on. And lose 50 pounds.

So, my name is Julia. I'll be your guide if you're interested in my thoughts about changing careers, dealing with an aging parent, keeping my marriage going, whether to keep the marriage going, living with chronic illness, making sure my six year old doesn't turn out to be a serial killer, getting a job with my new skill set, and whatever else comes up along the way.

This is my backstory: In my previous career, I was a writer and an editor, so I like to think I know how to communicate. I worked at newspapers, edited and wrote newsletters, blah, blah, blah. I took the Meyers-Briggs personality test that indicated pharmacy might be a fit. My husband was the only person who believed it was possible. (My mother just laughed.) Since I am the kid who was kicked out of high school chemistry, it did seem like a long-shot. It's funny what you can accomplish when you're not worried about your drunk dad sneaking into your bedroom and co-dependent mom making your life a living hell. I was able to get through the pre-reqs for pharmacy school, get into pharmacy school, and do well in pharmacy school.

Until disaster struck. In 2007, I got a cold and I didn't get better. I went to campus health, but the doc said it was asthma. Nevermind that I'd never been diagnosed with asthma before. Finally, when I ended up in the ER, I learned that I had heart failure. Most likely, the virus that gave me the cold went to my heart. And most people get better in six months, but I didn't. So I have a pacemaker and a great big old heart. My ejection fraction is 40 percent (normal is 50 to 60) so I don't think I'll drop dead anytime soon. My husband didn't handle my illness very well, which is a major problem in our marriage. I'm willing to work on it, but I have a lot of forgiving to do and you may have already noted that I'm not very good at that.

Before you think I'm a total Debbie Downer I have nothing but good things to say about my son. He's my greatest accomplishment. And I'm very fond of my dogs. But not today because one of them knocked over the garbage can in the kitchen.

Hm. I guess that sums it up. Let's see what changes.