29

Tomorrow is my birthday. I am wondering how many more 29th birthdays I can get away with. Maybe 2 or 3??? No big plans. P's mother will be in town, and so on Saturday night we're going out. I told P I want Mexican food. I'm pretty easy. I do require a rhubarb pie, however. I'll probably have to both make it and eat it though. The rest of the family doesn't share my passion for the 'barb...

This is me when I was really 29. I don't look that much older, do I?? (Notice I haven't included a recent pic for comparison.) 29 was a good year. I published my first novel, got engaged, got a big grant. Maybe this 29th will be spectacular too.

I've been going through the girls' old clothes and artwork...after watching an episode about hoarders on Dr. Phil, I got motivated to go through the boxes of onesies and mountains of fingerpaintings that have been gathering in the corners of our house. It's so hard to throw/give away that stuff. I finally got the collections down to a manageable size; there are some things I just won't part with. At least I don't keep tuna cans and cereal boxes, I guess.

I'm starting to think a lot about the new book. I think this one is going to have multiple points of view. I start teaching the Intro to the Novel workshop this weekend. The timing is perfect.

Squawk! Hallelujah.

I am totally obsessed with photographing these baby birds. Watching them is fascinating. I think the fourth egg is a dud. It still hasn't hatched.

I finished Holy Skirts last night. It was amazing. I checked Housekeeping by Marilyn Robinson and Ordinary People by Judith Guest out of the library the other day. I have found that getting books out of the library makes me read faster...knowing that I have to bring them back really helps me get to the end.

I am starting to get excited about going to Vermont this summer. I spoke with my grandmother this morning. She wants me to go through my grandfather's things...including a virtual library of books...and bring back anything I'd like. Time to get more bookcases. He has THREE encyclopedia sets, a leather bound set of the classics, an entire bookcase of philosophy books as well as shelves and shelves of poetry and fiction. Nevermind the files and files of ephemera he so meticulously kept. In my file is a pop-up book of Hansel and Gretel. Their house is like a giant treasure chest. I am also going to bring back his Underwood to add to my typewriter collection. I inherited my other grandfather's typewriter when he passed away a couple of years ago. My most prized possessions.

Crack

Happy Father's Day to Daddy Robin! The baby robins have started hatching. There are three so far.

Last night was wonderful. We had friends (and friends of friends) over for a barbeque. It was an international night...only in DC. Our guests were from Israel, Africa, France, and Mexico. One of our friends brought some Vietnamese coffee, and another brought the most delicious homemade icecream I have ever tasted. We let the girls stay up and catch fireflies. When they finally went to bed, I put the container in their room so that they could keep watching them as they fell asleep. Esmee was simultaneously fascinated and freaked out by them. We all ate too much, drank too much. It was a blissful night...mosquitoes kept at bay by a new citronella lantern I bought. Terrific conversation.

One of the guys from France, who is my age, said that he recently started destroying all of his photos after a couple of years. This way his memory isn't skewed by the photographic images. I was horrified by this idea. I think that so much of my memory is intricately tied up with the images found in old photographs. He said it was either brave or stupid, he wasn't sure yet. Maybe a little of both?

Today is Father's Day and I bought P a fishing pole and tackle box, got him his fishing license. He's so excited. It is also my dad's 60th birthday. I need to call him and give him a hard time...

Blue Eggs, Blue Eyes

I forgot to mention a while ago that I went to check on the dove eggs one day, and they were gone. Just gone. No evidence of foul (fowl?) play whatsoever. And then a couple of days ago I noticed some bird activity in the exact same spot on our fence. And then yesterday, lo and behold, I found this: a nest with four perfect robin's eggs. This spot must be prime real estate for young bird families, I guess. They must not have heard about the last residents.

Esmee now says "Blue Eyes" when she plays "Peek-a-Boo." I think she's trying to say, "Surprise."

Arrival of the Fireflies

A dreamless night last night. Maybe it was because the fireflies have finally arrived. Last night I sat outside for an hour watching them. Took some pictures. The streak is me moving the camera to follow one of them.

This weekend we are going to barbeque. I am looking forward to having people over. I've felt remotely remote lately.

Also, I think I'm getting an ulcer. My stomach has been hurting for days now. My body is pissed off at my brain.

Nightmare

The dreams are getting worse. This morning, after getting up and reading "Little Quack" to Kicky who was feverish again and complaining of a stomach ache at 3:00 a.m., I fell back into a sort of death sleep in which I dreamed that my old agent had read the revised version of the novel and had nothing good to say about it. She said it was "worse than the first draft," that Betsy was a terrible character, that none of it was believable (or readable for that matter). And then there was a horrific moment when I couldn't figure out how she'd gotten a copy of it...was it out there, circulating the streets of New York, was I the laughing stock of the literary world?

I need a hobby.

It's gray outside, and George Bush is on every channel. Great way to start a day...

Gimme fever

There's a fever raging through our house. Esmee got it first: 103.5 at the highest. Kicky is now crashed out on the couch with a 104 temp. Last night it was almost 105. The weird thing is there are no other symptoms (besides the vomiting which I think was because of an Ibuprofen overdose). She is miserable. You can feel the heat coming off of her. So far I just feel a bit of a pit in my stomach (which very well just live there anyway). P seems fine too.

It's pouring rain outside, Esmee is asleep, and the house feels weird. Infected. Too quiet. I've been tumbling through my to do list and actually managing to cross things off. Planned for my class tonight, ordered the first season of "Curb Your Enthusiasm" for my dad for Father's Day, balanced the checking account. I lead a thrilling life.

I'm reading Holy Skirts now...picked it up again...and I think it's genius so far. Rene is a brilliant writer.

Plecostomus

I've been having disturbing dreams lately. While I was in San Diego, I had a dream that I was eating goldfish out of a fish tank upon the back of which a dirty, scabby, Ty Pennington was clinging and sucking algae like some terrible human suckerfish. Last night I had a dream that Angelina Jolie's body was stuffed under a manhole in my backyard, and I was the only one who knew about it. But while my subconscious is busy defiling celebrities, I've actually been feeling sort of strangely happy: a sort of calm before the storm feeling. Precipitous. San Diego seems to have rejuvenated me. I am finding that I have tremendous new reserves of both energy and tolerance with the girls. I am placid. Patient.

Reading This Book Will Save Your Life. Not my favorite A.M. Homes, but it's pretty good on the heels of a visit to southern California.

Ocean Beach

I'm back from the beach and a little melancholy. Being there made me as homesick as I suspected. It didn't help that the weather was perfect...sunny, seventy, with the coolest ocean breeze. I gorged myself on all my old favorites (New York Giant Pizza, chimichangas, etc...). I got happily sunburned after a languorous day in the sand, bought some kitschy beach stuff for the girls, and then had an awesome visit my girlfriend H. and her family. Her girls (3 and 1) filled the whole the merbabies left, but I was still so happy to see them this morning.

I miss the beach. It felt like I was home.

Vacation (All I Ever Wanted)

Starting to feel some pre-flight jitters. A lot of it has to do with my fear of flying, but I also think there's a little part of me that's afraid that going back to the beach will make more homesick than I already am. I love where we are, I really do (though it's been difficult these last few days with the temperature in the nineties), but there's still this little snarly thing in my belly. I'm worried that I'll get there and not want to come back.

I also know that I'm going to miss the girls. P and I are accustomed to these tandem vacations, but I've always got at least one of the kids with me. They're appendages really. Just extra arms or legs. Kicky's old enough now to miss me too; she's already asked me not to go. I do think four whole days with Daddy alone will be great though. For all of them.

I'm also hoping that this vacation will be a good distraction from the prevailing dread and anxiety and hopefulness and fear and anticipation for the book...

Entrance to the rabbit hole... 

The Blue Door

I spent most of yesterday painting the stairwell to our basement. It's what I call Breathing Water blue...to match the framed dust jacket P made for me (that I finally hung on the stairwell wall after the paint dried). It's shocking. The color. Kind of theatrical. I also faux finished the door to look like it has panels. It almost feels like you're falling down Alice's rabbit hole when you go down the stairs now.

Packing for my trip...bringing lots and lots of books. I always think that I'll read during my flights and almost always wind up so anxious that I can't get through more than a paragraph or two. But better safe than sorry. This trip I (won't) read This Book Will Save Your Life (A.M. Homes) and Preservation Hall (Scott Spencer).

I need to start writing again. I feel useless. I always think I'm going to enjoy my down time and inevitably end up feeling scrappy and disjointed. I think teaching the Intro to the Novel class at The Writer's Center will be a nice jump start to get me back to work again.

West Nile

I started reading Holy Skirts this morning while the girls splashed around in the mosquito infested baby pool...but, alas, it was just too hot to concentrate. It's 85 degrees inside and 90 out. So we came inside and Chelsea came over to cut my hair. She's amazing. It has been two years since my hair has been touched by a pair of scissors. It looks so much better. I look less like a crazy lady (the kind that sits on her porch in her slip with a bottle of Jim Beam and a shotgun threatening all the neighborhood kids) and more like a regular person.

P comes back from San Diego tonight. I'm ready. The girls have exhausted me. (One particularly bad moment in the bead aisle of Michael's yesterday almost put me over the edge.) I miss him too.

I am gearing up for my own vacation on Friday. I can't wait to dig my hole in the sand. A nice deep hole.

Slug

I am surviving the weekend without P. I actually thought I'd get some things done while he was gone, but instead I've been useless. It's hot, and I'm sluggish. I was going to paint the stairwell last night, and instead I got sucked into four hours of "Laguna Beach." God. How pathetic. Today my to-do list is novel length, though if the weather predictions (88 degrees!) come true, I will more than likely find myself crashed out on the hammock or sprawled uselessly under one of the ceiling fans.

I've got the Princess and the Pea party to plan. Invites this year will come with bracelets with "pea" beads. I also need to buy the paint for the stairwell. Chelsea, our neighbor, is going to cut my hair tomorrow. I also need to pick up a few things for my trip next week. All the while I've got to keep the girls from killing each other. They're going through a fighting phase (please let it be a phase).

I'm reading Ordinary Daylight, a memoir of an artist who lost his vision. My wheels are spinning for the next book: diving into some research. It's all a distraction really from obsessing about the fate of Two Rivers...

Chimichanga Envy

Okay so now I have a mindbrain...the book is going out this afternoon.

Thankfully, I convinced P to park at the airport which ultimately spared the rest of us from a 4:00 commute to Baltimore this morning. He called to let me know he arrived safely and then, the bastard, sent me a picture of a chimichanga. I could kill him. I'm going to eat chimichangas for breakfast. lunch, and dinner next weekend.

The girls are being sweet today. We went to the grocery store this afternoon and got everything we'd need to make homemade pizzas. They were so careful, artful in their designs. And they were good too! (Kicky was particularly proud, though she wound up picking off all the mushrooms, green peppers, and pineapple.)

Oh yeah. Bummed about Kat not winning American Idol and feeling a sort of withdrawal. Got the American Idol shakes today. But the bigger question is, "Am I desperate enough to watch 'So You Think You Can Dance?'"

Mindbrain

Tomorrow's the big day...the book goes out. I am one big fat bundle of raw nerves. P is also leaving tomorrow for his San Diego vacation. The girls and I have to drop him off at BWI by 5:30. That ought to be a fun trip. I am excited for him though...he needs a vacation, and unless he leaves town he doesn't ever really relax. While he's gone (FIVE DAYS ALONE WITH THE KIDS) I hope to do some fun things with the girls: a picnic on the Mall, a visit from some friends, maybe (if the weather permits) get the baby pool out. I suspect it's going to be a very, very long weekend.

Here are the latest Kicky-isms:

"Daddy, do you have a mindbrain?" (Translation: migraine.)

"Daddy, you need more fashion, more style, to be a rockstar." (Does he have some secret aspirations I don't know about???)

"Mommy, so when are we going to Hollywood anyway?" (Soon, baby, soon!)

Sidenote: Voted for Kat last night on AI, though that last song was the schmaltziest, yuckiest song I've ever heard.

Confession

It's been a sad week for me, though I'm ashamed to admit the source of my sorrow. I know writers are supposed to be scholarly and contemplative, writing and reading and discussing things of import all the time. But I (you may be relieved or disgusted to know) am not this sort of writer. I am an interminable sucker for TV. Always have been. Hours a day. Every day of the week. There, it's out there. And the aforementioned heartbreak started with Elliot's departure from "American Idol" on Wednesday and culminated in the end of "Will & Grace" last night. I wept for both endings. Even Sophie's Choice hasn't done that to me yet.

Speaking of which, this weekend I want to finish reading it. It's incredible. I wish I could write something so absolutely complex. If you haven't noticed I'm on a real 1970's lit-kick lately. I actually ordered a used copy of Scott "Endless Love" Spencer's Preservation Hall too which arrived a few days ago. ( I feel less guilty about my TV affliction/addiction, because I am equally addicted to buying books -- the used books feature on amazon is my heroin.) P's also got another 10K on Sunday. This time we won't go to the race, but we'll meet him at The Diner afterwards. I'm thinking about their Croque Monsieur. I am also teaching my final workshop until mid-June. I am ready for the break.

Oh, and lastly, next week the book goes out and I'll start my feverish trembling.

And this?  

The face.

Okay, so it's not a Rembrandt, but it does look like a face, no???

Prodigy

So I have been trying unsuccessfully to upload a photo to accompany this post...not sure if its impact will be as huge without it, but here goes.

Esmee is a prodigy. An artistic genius. A savant. Last week we found three faces drawn on the wall. We blamed Kicky who swore they were not hers. Initially we didn't believe her, and then P reasoned that the faces were likely simply a happy accident of (thankfully) washable marker. But then yesterday, while Kicky and Esmee were in the kitchen drawing, Kicky screamed out, "Esmee's drawing on the table!" What I found was a face. And body. With arms. Legs. Hair. Buttons. Scrawled all over the kitchen table. Still leary of Kicky's truthfulness, I got out a big pad of paper this morning and asked Esmee to draw a face. Here's the crazy part: she proceeded to draw a whole series of faces. Eyes. Noses. Hair. Smiles. I brought one of them to her preschool where I consulted with some of the teachers who were amazed. She just turned two in January. She hardly speaks. And yet, this, this genius!! I wonder when the galleries are going to start contacting us. Really. Goddang, I wish I could put up picture!!

Get back to work, you say? Start a new book, you say? I know, I know. WAY too much time on my hands...