Just when I feel like giving up…

I get a response from someone in the Maldives that enjoyed my post. Really. And in French. I think I am going to be buzzed on that for days.

Last night I got a late night phone call from a friend who is writing a book. She is going through the nuts and bolts stage of proof reading. She called and began with, “I have spent 10 years of my life on a stupid book that I should throw out.” And it went down hill from there.

I gave her a suggestion that I will take myself. I will do my proof on my Nanowrimo script starting from the last chapter. Then go to the second to last, etc. That way you don’t get all wrapped up in the story, it is out of order and so all you see are typos and commas. I notice that I am often so wrapped around the “start at the beginning”- axel, that the last few chapters, scenes, stories, suffer from “are we done yet?”-syndrome. I wonder if that is why books that are trilogies are sometimes better, because they actually have to keep the story going through the ending chapters.

Satisfying endings are a Bitch. Absolutely. I am struggling with finding a satisfying ending to 30 years in Seattle. I struggled and never found a satisfying ending to the job I just left. 16 years and I think I would have had more closure if I had just severed my leg and left it on the door step. Something final, so that I could move on. I just want to move on cleanly and with integrity. I want to have someone, somewhere give me a hardy bon voyage. And yet, I seem to shy away from it. We had a chance to go to parties this weekend, see people, say goodbye, and I couldn’t leave the house. As if I were being held by this incredible forcefield that was my shame and my failure and my judgement holding hands outside the door like some ridiculous game of Red Rover.

And like when I was a kid, I was so ashamed of being to fat and heavy, to slow, and to chicken, that I would try to wait until the game was over and never really run to try to break into the line. I was a turncoat, a coward. The is what it feels like right now. I am paralyzing myself in place in this 806 square foot condo, behind half packed boxes, shaking and crying and being useless. I have quit caffeine and need to take Xanax, a lot just to make my heart stop pounding out of my chest. If only I could find a way to move this fear into momentum. I don’t need to break through the arms of the other team, but loping up to them and then falling on the grass, a foot from where they are, and sobbing is not what I want either.

So a little love from the Maldives in French. A pretty picture of the new house on my desktop screen. All but one person saying that they love Bellingham. These are the bon mots I am going to hold on to.

Group of children (7-12) playing red rover in yard
That’s me, in the green shirt. Going for it. 



I was on a diet when I was 12 years old. I was going with my mom to WeightWatchers, Tops, and any other weight loss thing since I was born. I remember in Tops if you had gained the most weight over the week they sent you home with the piggy figure. I loved the piggy figure and was delighted when we got to take it home.

With the amount of dieting my mom did in the course of her life she could have been a dietician herself. She probably lost and gained herself 40 times. The times in her life when she was “thin” she was that way for only a short amount of time before something catastrophic happened. The last time was before she died. But even then she was still chubby to my standards and obese to anyone else’s.

I am thinking about what I want to write about for NANOWRIMO (nanowrimo.org) For the month of November you write a novel. 50,000 words in a month is 1700 or so a day. I did it the year I met D3. I wrote a book about my dating experiences. Sure enough as soon as I cleared all that energy and looked back and laughed at it, it seemed to clear the way for me to have a relationship with D3.

I wonder if I would be able to clear 50+ years of disordered eating if I were to do the same. This would be a brilliant time to do it too, since we are packing to move at the beginning of December. I could pack and NANOWRIMO as I moved out of the tiny condo and to a place where I will be able to walk and move more. I have noticed I can do almost everything in the condo’s kitchen in 3 steps. 2 if I plan it well. What will happen with stairs, and the ability to just step outside and walk in nature? Maybe hand in hand writing and moving would help. I don’t want to have to use a cane, or get rid of all my favorite clothes because I have had stress and made bad food choices and then laid in bed from shame.

Don’t get me wrong. I love a lot about my body, but I know that less weight will make me feel better. I am not looking at ever being skinny, that’s not me, and the maintenance would be impossible. But healthier, fitter, able to move and dance easily would be awesome. Also, I will need something that lets me feel creative while I wrangle contracts, and movers, and boxes, and all the detritus of a new start in a different city.

P.S. Let me know if you have any extra moving boxes.


This is the 38th time I have moved.

D3 and I just bought a house in Bellingham. We are moving to the first residence that he and I will own together as married people. We have been in our little 806 square foot condo in Seattle for two years. The Seattle Condo is perfect, 2 blocks from the new transit center, next to I-5, a mall and movie theaters in walking distance. Maple leaf is a perfect neighborhood. This is a dream place for anyone wanting to be in Seattle. It is the only place I would want to live in Seattle.

However, I have been in Seattle 30 years and I cannot get over how it has changed. All the neighborhoods I have at one point or another lived in, are now very different. I was up on Capitol Hill, where my first apartment was, and I cannot find a single place that is still there that was there when I lived there. It is like my memories have been washed away. I think The Deluxe Burger is still there. That was the first place we ate in Seattle when we first arrived. But is is very different.

For me, 30 years is a long time to be in one city. But things change. I know that is the way of things. I also know that at 54 I am getting to a place where change is harder and harder. Like my stiff morning knees, my ability to change is slow, and needs to warm up. I am ready to live somewhere that is slower, and gentler, and just a bit flatter (did I mention my stiff knees?)

So D3 and I are buying a house in a smaller city, near the Canadian Border,  that is a block from the water, and is 3 times as big as the place we are in now.

Last night D3 had a moving meltdown. I have seen them before. When I went to Scotland before we were married, I helped him get his stuff organized to move to Seattle. We joke that his move was just 6 boxes. But in reality it was 5 visits to and from Scotland with big empty bags, we even made the Best Man at our wedding carry some of D3’s stuff over. This last visit to Scotland we got the end of the stuff that he had left in Scotland. I have seen D3 hit the numb, overwhelmed, middle distance stare before. We packed about 8 boxes yesterday and he had to stop and nap between every 3.

This is where I am the best marriage partner ever. I have, in my life, moved 38 times. 38! Thirty Eight! Three- Eight! AND I have been in this condo for 6 years, and the house before this, 8 years. So if you do the math it is about once a year. A few times more than once a year (5 is the most), and I have been in 3 places for 2 years. This does not include the years of travel when my home was my backpack.

When I was a kid my dad would come home on Thursday night and say we were moving Saturday. I would spend that evening putting as much as I could into my dresser and the two boxes we were allotted to pack. I spent the next day at school packing my desk and saying goodbye. Then I got up Saturday to a quick breakfast and moving. Saturday night as soon as we were in the new place with out beds made, we stopped for Kentucky Fried Chicken. Sunday was spent unpacking. Monday, new school.

This summer we put new floors in the condo, so we had to pack everything into a storage unit. (Oh, if I had only known, I never would have unpacked.) And now, between Thanksgiving and Christmas we are moving again.

It is the end of this world as we know it, and I feel fine.

packing-boxes   P.S. we need boxes.

Jet Lag is my friend.

Jet lag is a misnomer. It should be Jet Drag. As in, “the jet dragged you behind it for many hours and then left you and your luggage in a heap on a conveyor belt”.

When we got back from Scotland one of our bags had popped open. Well, actually, the entire zipper the length of the duffle was gone. Not open, not broken, GONE. D3 held up my make up bag, all alone and on the belt, over his head and looked at me like “Oh, this can’t be good.” It is a very classy Barbie lunch bag, so I did not fear being judged. The things missing from the bag are as follows: 1. An awesome Steampunk Coffee shop metal cup (very sad to not have a set.) 2. One blue and one green sock. I had doubled them up to keep my feet warm and then stuffed them into awesome steampunk coffee shop metal cup. So I now have a set of socks that are one green and one blue. 3. A box of Scottish shortbread. (Which is the tragedy of the whole thing.)

Inside my Barbie Makeup kit: 1. My extra pair of glasses, the cool blue cat- eye ones with the sparkles. 2. The Luckenbooth neckless that D3 had given me. 3. The pirate’s bootie of jewelry my mother-in-law had bestowed upon me. Yes, I even took a pair of earrings out of the woman ears! (Side note: She has a wooden box of rings that displays them all and when she showed it to me I had a serious moment of jittery lust and drool. I have never thought I liked gems, but shown together, they are delicious.)

So the Sleep part of the trip is really the biggest problem. I have a ridiculously strong internal clock. Up at 7:21 a.m. most mornings, 3:30p.m. eyes closed if only for 5 minutes, 7 p.m. hot-flash, 9:30p.m. reading in bed, 11:30 p.m. wake up to pee and turn off light and put book away, (twenty runs to the loo all night) then 4:30 a.m., my witching hour, when I wake up and debate getting up and getting a jump on the day or snooze until 7:21 a.m. The 7:21 a.m. part is interesting, since that is the exact time I was born.

Where was I? Oh yeah, Jet Drag. I lost all of the next day we came back to “just a little short nap” events. Then I started the 30 minutes every 6 hours pattern. Now I am staying up as late as possible (8:15 p.m.!), so I can sleep past 3:30 a.m.

I am looking forward to greeting the inventor of instantaneous travel. Be it by turning a ring, like in Beauty and the Beast (the book, not the movie) or the Transportation pod, like in The Fly (the second one, not the first) or some sort of beam-me-up contraption. I will grip their hand (or whatever, if they are aliens or robots) and thank them for easing the part of travel that kills me every time.

Then I will book my trip to the Maldives.

Really. I need to go there.
Really. I need to go there.




This is me.

Today is World Mental Health Day.
I have Chronic Depression and Anxiety. I have OCD. I have struggled with finding the right balance of meds to make it possible for me to function in this world. I have to remember that these drugs are not a crutch, they are as valuable to me as insulin is to a diabetic. If you suffer daily, you can find help, you can be listened to, you can find a way to make living a joyful experience and not a chore.
There are others like you. You are not alone, I am not alone, we are not alone.