Giving Notice

I just sat here a minute and read through my last blog post.

I had no idea that within a few hours of hitting "publish" it was all going to change.

The first thing that happened is that Brendan and I decided to separate.  While this may be *shocking* news to you, it felt like 8 long years in the making to us.  I'm not going to detail all the reasons, but we had the best of intentions when marrying on that gorgeous May day in San Diego.  

Like two puzzle pieces that just don't fit, we tried and tried and tried and tried.  The fighting, constant bickering, and general malaise of the situation affected not only both of us, but one certain little boy who had taken to yelling at us to "Stop fighting!" even if we were just having a lively discussion about something fun or interesting from life. 

Brixton, a sensitive little soul from the start, has anger issues.  You know what causes that in a 4 year old?  Adults yelling.  Adults fighting.  Adults with grumpy faces. 

Sure, we could have stuck it out for 5, 10, 15 more years.  More bickering.  More fighting.  More tension.  More anger.  It didn't make sense.  For us or for him. 

And that's all I'm saying about it. 

That happened on a Friday night. 

Friday afternoon, in a homesick, unhappy fog, I randomly went to the website for teaching jobs in California and searched for jobs in Orange County.  There were none.  Then I searched Butte County, where my hometown is.

And there were jobs.  Two jobs, in fact.

Whatever, I thought.  I'll just apply because I should update my info on here anyway.  It's not like I'm going to actually get a job or anything.

So I applied.

Long story short, I got interviews.  And I got jobs.  Two job offers. 

One of which I accepted.  In my hometown.  In a middle school. 

Then I got a place to live.

Meanwhile, I was packing.  Talking with Brendan about how all this would work.  (He's moving to the Bay Area very soon--just about 2.5 hours away).  We did everything as amicably as we could.

On Saturday, August 15th, Brixton and I left Illinois, towing a small trailer filled to the brim with boxes, beds, and anything else we could cram into the space.  Barely enough time to say good-bye to friends.  There were tears.  Confusion.

Side note: driving on the 80?  It's the ugliest thing I've ever seen.  Sorry, Wyoming.  You're ugly.  Salt Lake City?  You have potential, but get rid of that smog.

Three days later we crossed the border into the Golden State.  It's been a whirlwind of unpacking, setting up utilities, getting ready to start teaching, and dealing with an unexpected gut-punch of loneliness and sadness so profound I can literally feel it on me. 

Brendan's coming for a visit this week--staying for 5 days.  Brixton can't wait and I know Brendan can't either.  Our house is up for sale come Monday and we're praying it sells quickly, so Brendan can get out here sooner rather than later. 

The Dirt

Sometimes I wonder if my life is a candidate to end up on a Dateline Mystery show in some capacity.  It's not that I make entirely bad choices, murder people, or steal money in cancer schemes, but yeah.  Maybe in my head I hear that guy's voice, the host, narrating my day.

That's not normal, is it?

I'm on hour 27 of some pretty strong depression right now and no, this isn't a cry for help, it's just a blog post so let's not make this more than it needs to be.

I love California.  I can't help it.  Drought or not.  Lame laws or not.  Even hippies or not.  I love it.  And I was there for 10 days.  Home.  With family.   Little nephews.  A beautiful sister-in-law.  My goofy brothers who I love more than they'll ever know.  And my parents.  Who can get enough of their parents?  Not this gal.

I love where I grew up.  Red dirt.  Pine trees.  Miles and miles of nothing.  People missing teeth.  It's just the way it goes in a little mountain town.  My brother took me in his 4x4 up into the mountains.  You know you're going far out when it's 45 minutes on a paved road and then about an hour on dirt roads.  And toilet paper is referred to as "Mountain Money."  And you can't even post a selfie to IG because there's no cell service.  Like, wha????

I went to California hoping to reminisce about some good old memories at my 20th high school reunion and ended up making loads of new ones, laughing way more than I have in a long time, as well as making some new friends out of people I grew up with forever, but didn't really know.  There's  just something about being with people who you grew up with that gets to me.  I'm so nostalgic like that it almost hurts.  

I got to hang with my bestie, a girl I met at an ill-fated slumber party when we were both 13, played Barbies with her at 14, and held her hand in the car on the way to her wedding when she was 20.  We don't get together often due to geography and some other factors, but wow.  We make the most of it.  (Chuckle).

So, yes, after a week of excitement, a week of being at the creek, a week of listening to sappy country music that stirs emotion, I landed in Chicago with all my luggage and a big lump of sad in my heart.  I curled up on the couch, called my mom, cried, then took a few happy pills which made me sleep, which equals happiness, so I guess they worked.

 He literally had just told me (in a brat voice) that he wasn't tired. 

Emerald Lake, Mt. Lassen.  I love that this is so close to where I grew up.  Next time I'm camping.

 Love these two.

 Brixton: Aiden, I have something I need to tell you.

Aiden: Look!  There's a ding ding!

Might be a few years before communication really sets in between them.

 On the airplane on the way there--the whole trip before us. Brixton looking fresh.

Perfectly acceptable creek attire.

Sometimes it all just comes together.  Sorry for the boobs.  #sorrynotsorry

My mountain man little bro.  Apple Kurt

Couldn't stop catching polywogs.  Or frogs.  Or frogwogs.  I don't know what my deal is, but I love catching animals.  Remember the chicken?  Also, I'd like to point out that after a lifetime of being a nail biter, I think I've kicked it.  Those are my real nails.  *so proud*

This got bad a few seconds later.

We stayed at a hotel and when we checked in we were being so goofy.  "We're going to our high school reunion" we told the snarky front desk clerk.  I'm pretty sure he just thought we were going to smoke drugs in the room all night, but here's evidence JEFF D. that we did go to the reunion.  

 My best guess is that this is circa 1994.  I'm wearing a pajama top a la Kurt Cobain.  The vacant look?  A la Vicodin.  (Totally kidding.  I didn't do drugs until I was much older.  Mom. I'm kidding.)

Indigestion

This post is about indigestion, as if the title didn't clue you in. Warning for male blood family members: also mentions of throwing up and extremely unsexy nudity. Scroll to bottom for photo.**

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If you've never had it (indigestion), like Brendan, congrats.  Think heartburn invading all of your stomach region and intestines.  If you've never had heartburn we can't be friends anymore, because apparently you aren't making the same kinds of bad food choices I really appreciate in a pal. 

Last night I almost died of indigestion.  What started as a slowly glowing ember of pain turned into a violent confrontation that left me doubled over on the bathroom floor and now writing a blog post about it.  These are the kinds of stories you were hoping for, no?

I've heard that a heart attack can sometimes feel like a bad case of indigestion and I thought about calling Brendan in and telling him, "Make sure Brixton knows I loved him," several times.  Tums didn't help.  Writhing in pain didn't help.  Water didn't help.  Making a sound like, "Ugggggggggh" didn't help. 

Then the sweats started.

Turned out I was sitting on the heater grate. 

Then the sweats really did start and at first I was like "heater grate" and then I realized the heater was off.  And the saliva started.  And the churning. All signs pointing to:

Throwing up.

Now, if you're like me and most people I assume, throwing up is one of the worst things in the world.  Sure, it provides some relief from whatever ails you, but at a price. For me the price is tears running down my face, profuse sweating, weakness, a touch of soap opera grade dramatics, shivering, and of course the vile act itself. 

Throwing up molten lava just wasn't going to be an option, so I laid on my side and tried to keep still while making 101 deals with the Lord above that he'd heal me instantly.  Even though I know he heard my prayers, the healing wasn't instant, but within a few touch and go minutes, the sick feeling subsided.

In the meantime, Brendan had  heard my theatrics and came in.  I couldn't tell him what was wrong for fear of the pukes hearing I was feeling confident enough to talk and coming back to show me what real pain was. 

Instead, he stood there over me in his pajamas (man fur and undies) and watched helplessly as I wiggled around like a decapitated snake.  Also, by this time, I was pantless, because another side effect of feeling like I'm going to throw up is stripping.  Inexplicable.

In any case, the thread of dignity I still have after childbirth spoke up, letting me know I was being observed.  I very sweetly, respectfully, and kindly asked Brendan to go away, so I could be as weird as I wanted to be without a witness.

It's funny how when you're sick, you try to identify the culprit.  You're like, "It was the chicken! I thought the color looked off." or "That salad! I'm never eating salad again." and then the very thought of the perpetrator food makes you even sicker. 

At first, I chalked it up to arsenic poisoning, because I have some imaginary enemies who are just crazy enough to do that.  But after some careful reflection, I figured out it was the combination of miso soup and lemon-lime Gatorade.  Never again, friends.

**Did you really think I'd take a selfie while nude and almost dead on the bathroom floor?  You might want to think about what kind of person YOU are. Hint: One with problems.

I Hate Titles #1

I'll spare you the "catch up on what I've been doing for 5 months" and just tell you this: I'm alive.  Everyone's alive.  That's what's important, right?

Things are going really well, thanks for asking.  Back in September I got a real job as a freelance writer and I've been turning in work every week since. I love it.  It also means I have a paying reason to sit in coffee shops again, which is what I'm doing right now.  

We got a dog in November.  She's kind of a spaz, but we're working with her.  Her name is Lexi.  Here's a picture:

Having a cat and a dog in the same house has been a bit of an adjustment.  So has wearing anything black since now I'm covered in animal fur and look like a pet hoarder at best and at worst someone who picks their outfits from clothes thrown on the floor and then sat on by said pets.  (I would never do that.)

We are also dog sitting a dog right now who inexplicably backed herself up onto my boot this morning and pooped.  If that's not good luck, I just don't know what is.

Onwards.

Let's talk about hair.

This is my hair plan for the next year or two.

Not color-wise, obviously, since I'm not sure pukey green is really my color, but I love the cuts and I miss long hair and bangs apparently.  All images via my Pinterest board-- keeper of images, waster of time.

Next.

Brixton's turning 4 in May, which boths defies logic and makes perfect sense.  Here's what he looks like now:

This throwback from Halloween lets you in a little bit into what we've had going on.  Story: he hated the mustache.  It made the costume though, right?  So I did what any self-respecting mother would do and I told him I wiped it off.  He was none the wiser until we arrived at our Halloween party and all the moms commented on his new addition.  Slowly, he figured it out and was irritated with yours truly. 

Well, hopefully the blogging will stick this time.  Sometimes my writing seems so mood driven that I can't crank stuff out, but honestly, blogging was really a great way to keep me taking pictures and writing down memories. 

So, I'm back Mom.  Enjoy.