A Pumphouse of One's Own

In graduate school, when I left the man I was engaged to but not in love with I moved into a dark little house that had for years belonged to a woman named Frieda. I didn’t know Frieda but I loved the signs of her that remained in her house. The green and red tiled kitchen floor, the red countertops, the pink bathroom. Frieda had moved to an assisted living facility and I was renting her house. I didn’t think she would mind if I slapped a few coats of paint on the walls of the living room, which was paneled in dark wood. I was unspeakably poor but somehow found the money for a few gallons of paint and I spent the first few nights in my new house alone, painting and mentally whitewashing the past two years.

I took down the dark curtains and let in the white light of a Eugene winter. I cleaned the kitchen and stocked the cabinets with the things I liked to eat: tomato soup, saltines, pasta, cookies. I packed the fridge with cheese, lots of cheese. Feta, havarti, Gouda and some yellow kind with chives that I would cut into slivers and eat with olives. I filled the crisper with lettuce, spinach and good, dark beer.

Some nights when I stared at the walls I’d painted flat white that first week I would think they were the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.

Sometimes I think that house saved me. It did, indeed, have a lock on the door when that ex-fiancé came knocking in various fits of rage. But it also had plenty of space for me and my expanding sense of self. Somewhere amid the paint fumes, the boxes of old canning jars and handkerchiefs Frieda left behind I found a backbone, a will to get my life in order.

And by the end of that year I was in the habit of shuffling across the red and green tiles in the kitchen to make my coffee at 7 a.m. I would take the dog out then sit at my writing desk in my living room and write until noon. After a break, I edited until 3 p.m. Then I would go for a run, meet friends or read in my backyard. I finished my master’s thesis, graduated and moved in with friends in the country. I left that little house behind but I’ve never forgotten what having my own space did for me and I’ve longed for it ever since. [More]

George Bush Bought Me a Maytag

These past two weeks Seth and his dad have been giving our little farmhouse a serious upgrade. Two rooms to which we’ve always kept the doors closed are becoming a part of our house with pocket doors, paint and electrical outlets that work. Our spare bedroom is turning into a kids’ room with cornflower blue walls, an insulated floor and heater. Our laundry room has a shiny tile floor to replace the painted concrete that’s been there for God only knows how long and a cold water line that does more than drip.

And tomorrow, America’s favorite home improvement box store will deliver our new washer and dryer. [More]

Top Ten Reasons I Love My Man Today

I’ve not disappeared, I’ve just been watching a remodel unfold in our house. EJ is getting a new room (or getting a room I should say) and Seth’s dad is here for two weeks to help with putting up walls, installing heaters and basically turning our guest room into a kid friendly place.

So since Seth is working all day only to come home and work all night, I thought it time to list off the top ten reasons I love my man today. Here goes:

1. He started a new job yesterday on the Missoula Art Museum and had the choice of many carpenters in town to help him. He picked a woman and I think that’s pretty rad.

2. He offered to drop off my belly cast today at a birth art show that opens tonight so I didn’t have to lug Eliza across town to do it.

3. He sharpened his chisels last night just so we could hang out while I finished said belly cast even though he was dog tired.

4. He went to the garage last night to find fishing line (again for the belly cast) and came back with the perfect copper thread that allowed me to finish a photo collage to go along it.

5. Two years ago, when my water broke with Eliza, he came home, calmly got us ready to go to the doctor and took the time to take pictures before we went.

6. He’s been getting up with Eliza at night and snuggling her back to sleep.

7. He had pancake batter waiting for me Monday night when I got home from a late meeting because I was having a deep craving for wafer thin, almost burnt blueberry pancakes.

8. He danced with me, and my pregnant bootie at the Michael Franti concert last week. I have a huge crush on that six foot six dreadlocked man and Seth understands it. He has an equally significant star crush on Neko Case.

9. He called to tell me about an eagle swooping down toward Flathead Lake and the mountains in the distance when he was working in Polson this week.

10. He makes better biscuits than I do and will probably make them if I ask him to tonight.

Losing My Nose Ring, Not My Edge

Two mornings ago I woke up to Eliza saying, “Hey!” She was sitting beside me, staring down at me. I’m not sure how many times she said this before I woke up but after seeing me awake, she smiled.

“Hey!” I said as I sat up. I ran my hand through her curls, then because I’ve been waking up really congested these days, scratched my nose with the back of my other hand. I felt something hard and pointed and when I pulled my hand away I saw my nose ring had fallen out. A tiny L-shaped piece of metal, the thing was prone to stick out but it rarely came out by accident or otherwise because it was such a pain to get back in. I sat looking at it in my hand and instead of putting back in the hole in my nose I put on the shelf next to my bed. I scooped Eliza up and headed down to make breakfast. [more]

Calving: It's Coming on Spring

It happens every February and every year it takes me by surprise. When we are at our grayest, slushiest, muddiest here in western Montana and I’m ready to move far, far away, the calves in my neighbor’s pasture start dropping. A few at first, they appear as slick black spots on an otherwise drab landscape. Mama cows lick their bottoms and faces clean and munch on afterbirth right outside our kitchen window. Then the eagles come and circle the pasture for a bite of that afterbirth. After a week or so the pasture is teetering with calves just finding their legs and birds hopping around in the hay behind them. Even though these births are timed perfectly by my neighbor rancher and somewhere along the way these cows have been trained to birth according to his plans, it’s still the first sign in my world that spring is coming. Come June these calves will have fattened up a bit and they will inevitably break through our fences to eat our hay, tromp on our flowers. But this year I’ll have another baby of my own to look after and probably won’t pay these calves that I’m so fascinated with now that much attention.

Notes From a Neat Freak

A few weeks ago, I got my Virgo on. Somewhere in the description of what we Virgos are supposed to do and not do is something about being a perfectionist. In my life this translates (in the most obvious way) as being a neat freak.

So on this particular day, I took Eliza to daycare and set about cleaning out the room that will be hers once we finish a small remodel to the space. I organized clothes into plastic bins, I packed books based on size into cardboard boxes, I folded bedding, I recycled magazines. I loved the satisfactory clink of carabiners as I packed them away and how neatly our mountain of backpacks looked on top of the wall of storage containers I’d built in the garage by the time I was finished. It took me all day and as I stood back to look this tidy little moment of perfection I fought the urge to take a picture. I made a mental note to threaten Seth with divorce if even thought about touching my work of art.

“The crampons, ice axes and climbing rack are all right there in that bin on top,” I told him later as I proudly showed off my day’s work. “So don’t go digging for them!”

David Sedaris once wrote about visiting his sister and that the upheaval of her apartment made the homosexual in him want to scrub and clean until his hands bled. I often think I have a little gay man inside of me pointing out the spots on the tub that won’t come clean, bleaching the sink, mopping sap off the kitchen floor. I like to think David and I could live together in a spotless place somewhere with neatly folded towels and perfectly organized cupboards. Then I remember that he’s a smoker and we’re both neurotic writers and my little neat-freak fantasy evaporates. [more]

What's In A Name: From Genteel to NASCAR

We’ve been tossing around baby names lately. Just like last time, we settled on a boy’s name pretty quickly. And just like last time, we can’t quite put our finger on a girl’s name. I like names that would sound good on an 80-year-old southern lady. Ada, Ruby, Ida, Adel. But I’m finding there is a fine line I don’t want to cross. Southern is one thing but I don’t want this baby’s name to sound, as I wrote to a friend the other day, like she lives in a house up on blocks in the Oklahoma panhandle. Genteel yes. NASCAR no. Ada yes. Delores no. This indecision on what to name the baby if it is a girl is the only thing that makes me think we may have a sister for Eliza floating around in my belly.

Love and What it Looks Like

Last night Seth made a bed for me in the pump house and let me sleep there all night long. Alone. I haven’t been sleeping well in part because I can’t get comfortable in my ever-changing body and in part because our child doesn’t sleep. We’ve tried everything. Everything. And I’ve finally decided that it is just who she is. And I love who she is. I’ve stopped blaming myself and thinking that her lack of sleep is because of something I have or haven’t done. One day, Eliza will sleep but until then we have to stay sane. Seth couldn’t have made me happier with roses and champagne. Letting me get a full night’s sleep was about the kindest thing he could have done. It’s funny what love starts to look like.

Scared awake

The other night I had a dream I took a pregnancy test and it was positive. Fear shot through me as though I was 17 years old. I woke in the early morning to the sweet it-was-only-a-dream realization that often accompanies nightmares. Then as I lay there I had a heart-stopping moment of the truly awake. It wasn’t just a dream. We are having another baby. I sat up, heart pounding, terrified.