really. but.

Dear Grandpa,

Thanks for letting me stay in your guest room. The bed was really comfy. The pillows were satisfyingly fluffy. The night lite made me feel safe.

You are a good host. And yet,

I do have one humble request...

I don't want to seem ungrateful. Because, you know, I am grateful. For a place to crash. For you being all laid back about my friends invading your house, en masse. And for you just being your plain old darn agreeable self.

Really.

But,

CAN YOU REMOVE FROM THE GUEST ROOM THE CLANGING CACOPHONOUS CLOCK THAT CHIMES AND CLUCKS AND SQUAWKS EVERY BLASTED HOUR - ON THE HALF HOUR AND THE HOUR - ALL. NIGHT. LONG.?

Please.

























Respectfully and with gobs of grateful love,

Your granddaughter, who is, somewhat sleepless in Seattle.

P.S. I love you.

sweetness

I can't take any credit for this beautiful photo- it was taken by my aunt. This little guy is our newest addition to the family... my sweet new cousin being smooched by my sweet little niece.

Photos like this make me ache a bit on the inside to be home for these moments. Looking forward to showering this little darling with my own kisses when I'm home in August.

gone country

Here are several photos of the girls from their visit to Colorado last week. The swing and lake are across from our new home- a feature I hope will prove effective at drawing them back for many more visits - imminently!

In particular I love the third photo - E looks like the perfect 6-yr-old ragamuffin that she is.

clicking my heels. sort of.

Colorado.

In a blink-of-an-eye sort of way, here I am. My license plate, driver's license and wardrobe haven't yet caught up with my new locale and to be honest the dizzying nature of the past several months has me a bit fuzzy headed about exactly where home is ... Burien? Twisp? the couch I shared with Uncle Buster?

I have a wisp of nostalgia for them all.

But here I am, reunited with Husband, Dogs, and Belongings and faced with a similar challenge as five years ago: how do I change absolutely everything my cute little husband has done to our home without alienating him? My task begins this weekend and I am thankful at least this time I don't have to contend with bright orange and black-and-brown striped walls.

Yesterday, after taking my sister-in-law and nieces to the airport, I officially began to look around and start the process of making here home. With family by my side for my induction to Colorado life, it has really felt more like a vacation than a move.

The four of us had a fantastic trip out here and my nieces proved to be great little road trippers in the making. As always, they amaze me with their easygoing dispositions, especially considering 23 hours spent in an itty bitty car.

We made the journey with no maps, timelines, or plans for much of anything. Our days included meandering and sight-seeing which made for lots of late night driving.

Somewhere, deep in nowhere western Wyoming, we decided to drive through the night in order to maximize our play time the following day. We pulled over around midnight on a curvy mountain road and changed into comfy clothes.

The four of us, at various stages of undress in the middle of the road beneath a bright starry sky, is a memory I'll never forget.

Here are our two backseat road trippers at some point that night.


























However, the most eventful segment of our evening lay ahead of us. On a two-lane highway between Yellowstone and Jackson, WY, we began to share the road with more elk than I have seen in my lifetime. For 40 miles our little green VW weaved and lurched in the darkness around, between and beside hundreds of elk.

Our original plan to drive a great distance through the night quickly dissolved as we realized that these 40 miles pretty much would take us the entire night. Between the elk and the lone truck of creepy redneck cowboys who stopped beside us to "see if we were OK" we were more than alert for those forty miles.

It was too dark to take photos of the elk, but here are some other photos from earlier in the day while we were at Yellowstone.













our other roadway companions





















watching Old Faithful





















peering at elk across the Yellowstone River

The drive through the park passed too quickly and I'm currently devising a plan to make it back to Yellowstone for a longer stay. My biggest problem these days is figuring out just how to do all my vacationing with a mere three weeks of vacation a year.

How exactly do people in the real world survive with such restrictions?

this house

this house has been my constant
a place i've known
my whole life long

this house has been my harbor
where my mother and i lived
when we found ourselves alone

this house has been my joy
a place of celebrations
easters, thanksgivings, christmases,
birthday's, spaghetti dinners,
and countless other gatherings

this house has been my sorrow,
something less than it was before
after grandma died

this house has been my shelter
my refuge after college
and before buying my home
and now before i move away

this house has been my comfort
where i know
and am known

this house
has never been my house
it has been our house
the family house
where we all belong

i will miss this house
the comfort within its walls
the knowing of every nook and cranny

this house

i will miss this house
and the sweet man who lives here
the one who holds us all together

i will miss this house
i will miss my family
i will miss my home.

I have aged today

I'm teaching a certain someone to drive a car with a manual transmission. After having spent the first few lessons learning to go forward, today we progressed to driving in reverse.

As we walked toward the car to begin our lesson, I commented, "Hey, you did such a great job yesterday, why don't you back the car out of the driveway?"

Call this decision ... serious teacher error.

Driving Teacher Lesson #1: Just because your student has mastered the skill of moving the car forward ... does not mean your little pupil has a clue how to move the car BACKWARD.

Really though, why is this? It seems logical enough to me: if you know how to maneuver a stick shift forward, isn't it the same skill to go backward?

Whatever the case, the evidence suggests BAD LOGIC on my part.

Driving Teacher Lesson #2 (and I should be fired for this one): when teaching someone to drive a stick shirt in reverse, make sure NO OTHER CARS ARE BEHIND YOU.

Especially your mother's car.

My student wasted no time before hurling at a rapid (i.e: LIGHTENING) speed toward the car behind us.

I really cannot emphasize enough here the truly impressive velocity at which we were moving.

Driving Teacher Lesson #3: Keep your composure at all times. Or, at a minimum, refrain from swearing at your students.

Really, when you're teaching someone to drive a stick shift, you want to avoid freaking out. It's bad for their fragile budding confidence. Instead, stay calm, use nice even vocal tones and say things like, "Great job, you're really getting it!" or "Wow, that was really an A+++ transition into second gear!"

Refrain from frantically shrieking, "Oh my gosh, STOP!! What are you doing? Oh my Go&! BRAKE, BRAKE, BRAKE!!!!"

Finally, said student slammed violently on the brake. Truly in the nick of time.

Incredibly, there was no impact- we didn't even bump the other car, and yet, they were touching.

And all this,

was the first five seconds of the driving lesson.

five at play

A birthday party...
Playful all the evening long
Memories made at Grandpa's

spring special

"Well since you asked, I'd really like to have one of those 10-piece Chicken Nuggets from McDonald's."

how bout them apples?

Once,

a long, long time ago,

my Grandpa made a dessert called Apple Betty.

And then,

for no apparent reason

he never made it again.

Twenty years have come and gone

and a few of us,

well, me and my Dad,

have never forgotten this Apple Betty.

Every now and again, one of us will nostalgically recall the perfect wonder of that heavenly dessert.

Warm, gooey apples,

crunchy sugary bliss

We'll plead, "Grandpa, will you please make that wonderful Apple Betty again?"

And he will say, "Someday, I will."

But he doesn't.

So tonight,

I did.

And all he said was,

It's about time.

my life as a big yellow truck

10 generous mover-people + two drudging days + one glorious caffeine drip = move complete

And oh what a relief THAT is.

Because moving? Just plain sucks.

This particular move hailed every opportunity to remind me just how it's such a perfectly unpleasant nightmare. And because of that I can safely say, this is our last move. We will be buried in Colorado.

No, actually, we will be buried wherever that blasted truck ends up. I sincerely hope it's Colorado but if for some inexplicable reason Court ends up in Hoople, North Dakota or Yoder, Kansas with an unloaded truck, that's it, we're done. I hope you'll visit.

On the positive side, what an amazing little family we have here in Seattle. These people justifiably could (should) have said drop dead when we asked for moving help yet AGAIN. Really, we are way overdrawn on what's reasonable in this regard.

But instead they arrived one-by-one with chipper spirits, able bodies and coffee(!!) and voiced not one complaining peep, not even about the new oafish sleeper sofa and ginormous treadmill we've added to our inventory since we last called on their services.

They are just fantastically fabulous and honestly it saddens me to be reminded of this just as I'm up and leaving them in 10 short weeks. It would be easier if they weren't so great so I could be all THANK GOODNESS I'm leaving those LOSERS behind.

But alas, they are wonderful and I love them.

So, at last, the house is empty.

My entire life - husband, dogs, worldly possessions - is whirling across the country at an 80 mile-an-hour blur.

The dogs are riding in the cab of the truck - as in on the same seat -with Court. I'd love to be a fly on the vinyl for some of the precious moments these three are undoubtedly sharing. Court already called from the road to tell me the dogs have twice eaten his lunch.

HAH!

Welcome to MY world buddy. Those two little scamps have been eating my proverbial lunch for five years now.

Maybe I'll get lucky and he'll dump THEM in Hoople, North Dakota.

i wonder, how long till he's tired of this?

Translation (in Italian): "Getta that camera outta my facea"

avoiding 124th St

This is the final weekend before I move out of my house.

I know for sure I'm moving because yesterday I received mail addressed to the New Owner. I have mixed feelings about this letter. On the one hand, only a solid buyer would change his address before the house is legally his; on the other, must I be this in touch right now with the fact that my cute house will soon belong to someone else?

This avoidence, I think, is manifesting itself in my neglect of the last 10% push to get packed up and out of the house. This weekend I've done nothing. Well, not exactly nothing. Just nothing involving Pine Sol, packing tape, and heavy lifting.

I intended to hit it hard this weekend, to have everything all sealed up and perfect for when Court and Penske arrive this Thursday. But yesterday, with the best intentions for later-day-productivity, I went for a walk with Auntie P. We planned to walk for an hour but after such a long hiatus from 1:1 time we walked and talked... and talked and walked some more.

This is Auntie P and Uncle D. His name actually starts with a T but I use D because he's a dork which I say with the utmost admiration. I have found a kindred spirit in many a dork which is why this photo really disappoints me. I'm all about goofy photos and completely missed the memo on this one. It's a great shot of them though and if ever it seems I'm at all strange, well here you go. Genetics.


Anyway, after 2.5 hours of walking I was quite sore which didn't bode well for getting anything done this weekend.

Really that's an excuse though. It's been so nice this weekend that I've resisted the whole indoor routine and instead decided to putter around some of my favorite Seattle places. Lincoln Park ranks just about #1 on the list.

Lincoln Park has a bit of everything: woods, trails, beach, ferry boats. It's the sort of park that can be jammed full of people and still you feel secluded.

The C&P Coffee Company, also in West Seattle, is another great place. I inadvertently slighted them the other day when I wrote about independent coffeeshops having crappy coffee. This is not true of C&P. Their coffee rocks. And this little shop has funk that rivals any Seattle coffeehouse. It's an old 1907 Craftsman home that was originally a hunting lodge. The house has tons of old character and none of the modernizing and perfecting that wrecks such homes. This was my view on their back porch.

I love the Dutch door and the shutters off the kitchen. The sign above the door is pretty cool too. It says, "Never kick a fresh turd on a hot day." This is definitely not the sort of thing you're going to learn at Starbucks. But thanks to C&P now you know. Next time you are tempted, don't do it.

So go C&P. Not only do you have stellar coffee and a good vibe but you are also a true friend. I'm glad I spent the weekend with you instead of being productive at my own house.

long awaited pot of gold

I'm a wimp. I tweaked my back the other day and have been completely laid out since. And though it hurts, even I know it's not real pain. But because this body is so unaccustomed to any sort of trauma, big or small, it goes into 'duck and cover' mode over the smallest of things. So much so that I really did nothing yesterday... no blog writing, no dishes, not even a shower. I was flat out-of-commission.

Honestly (and I'm knocking on faux wood while saying this) I've had minimal exposure to true physical pain and I believe this is primarily the reason I'm so wimpy. The biggest injury I've ever had happened when I was nine. At the time I was in gymnastics. It was the day before our Meet and I was practicing my routine in my girlfriend's front yard. My younger brother was there too. Though, reflecting back, I can't for the life of me figure out why he was there. We despised one another until we were well into our early twenties so the fact that we were engaged in voluntary contact is even now a bit baffling to me. The only thing I can surmise is he had a crush on my friend and there was some sort of parasitic loitering going on.

In typical punk-younger-brother fashion though he couldn't resist any opportunity to bring me misery, and so while I was innocently practicing my routine, he dared me to do a one-handed cartwheel.

I imagine our banter went something like this.

Cue mocking snickering.

My brother: "You suck. That routine is really stupid."

Me: "Shut up. Obviously you're just jealous because I'm good at my routine." This here also would have been a good time to ask "Why are you EVEN HERE?"

Him: "You're not good. I'll bet you can't even do a one-hand cartwheel."

Now, here's where it would have been wise for me to take better stock of my situation.

I was a smart girl. I had a quick wit and large arsenal of barbed insults and likely could have claimed victory in any verbal showdown. But what I could not do was a one-handed cartwheel. And truth be told, because I'm all grown up now and can admit this, my two-handed cartwheel really did suck.

But oh how those words burrrnnned me. In all honestly, the fact that this twerpy creature lived and breathed and walked the same earth as me burned me even more but short of doing something that would require the judicial system to deliberate the question "Do we try her as a child or an adult" there was nothing I could do about that.

So because I was sweet and innocent and not at all the murderous type my only recourse to get him to shut his piehole was to prove him wrong.

When you really suck at doing things, like hurling your body through the air for instance, you really should pause first. Catch your breath, evaluate your surroundings, and proceed with caution. In my case, lots of caution. But propelled by years of fraternal injustices, with all the 9-year-old indignation I could muster, I launched my body into furious motion.

And really, I think things would have turned out fine if I had just bothered to look down first. Where I would have seen the GIANT TREE ROOT right in front of me. I have no doubt, looking back, that my brother patiently waited, biding his time like a calculating venomous viper, until I was standing just there over that root. And then he pounced.

I never even got vertical. I landed in a crumpled heap just beneath the tree. Pain shot through my arm like fire and I knew instantly something was terribly wrong. But my brother, gloating like the king of eight-year-old miscreants, was rolling on the ground, legs flying about in malicious satisfaction, laughing, "You suuuuuck!" Really the only thing that could have given him greater enjoyment was the knowledge that I had also broken a bone in my hand. And there was no way he was ever going to know that.

I got up. Called him something that would probably still get me grounded today. And went home.

At home that night my hand swelled to the size of a hot air balloon but I wasn't making a peep. (And while I'm on this subject, I want to say I think there was some clear parental neglect going on here. I mean, seriously, aren't parents supposed to intuitively know when you've cracked something on the inside? I walked around for 24 hours with something broken that God created whole, and after my brother, I fully blame my parents for not noticing, for not stepping in and saving me while I battled to preserve whatever 9-year old dignity I had left. This, coincidentally, also reminds me of that Christmas where all I got was one ugly pink and cream Victorian sweater. That too was neglect and to my mom who might be reading this YES THERE WAS TOO A CHRISTMAS WHERE WE ONLY GOT ONE GIFT. And mine was ugly.)

Anyway the school nurse came to my aid the next day and promptly sent me back home to be transported by my parents to the doctors for casting.

And that right there, until I tweaked my back the other day, ended my experience with injury. It did not unfortunately end my experience with twerpy brothers. But God is gracious and I think even he knew my affliction, the burden I carried through childhood, was too much to bear. So just like God gave Noah the rainbow, promising to never be quite that mean again, God too has given me my very own rainbow of sorts. Because from that twerpy little demon has sprung three of the most beautiful things I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.

It's like God is saying,

I'm sorry

No, I'm really sorry

And, again, I'm sorry. Really.

And you know what God? As mean as it was, you have more than made up for it. If I had known way-back-then that enduring this:

would get me this:

I would have said, bring it on.

But just so we're clear, if an apparition of my little brother appeared to me today, heckling me with that same "you suuuuck" jeer; sadly,the most I could hope for is that this time I would at least remember to look down.

And if not, well, there we would have my second real injury.

be careful what you wish for

Grandpa: "You better not put that picture on your Glog."

Me: "Oh Grandpa. That there comment just got you a front row seat on Prime Time."

one hip nonno

A welcome side effect of not having cable TV is that I'm required to venture out for my weekly fix of American Idol and Biggest Loser. These days on Tuesday and Wednesday nights I can be found rendezvousing with my Grandpa in West Seattle. This 100% true-blue Italian is so very 'today'. He has an iPhone, he emails, chats on Messenger, surfs YouTube, and even follows my blog. He also shares my enthusiasm for vacuous reality TV programming. Honestly he's more hip than most 30-somethings I know, including yours truly. I'd tell you how old he is but like I said he follows my blog and I could get busted for that. I'll give you a hint though: 1926. Whoops. Did I just say that?

Our weekly AI huddle typically kicks off with me springing through the door around 7:45pm in time to raid the fridge for leftovers. My Grandpa's a cooking savant and generally has something lurking around that will thwart any success I've had at healthy eating that day. Last week it was Tomato & Feta Pork Chops. This week it was Texas Hash. He doesn't know it yet but I'm putting together my menu request for next week. I'm moving soon and feel completely justified in being as pushy as necessary in order to get all my favorite meals in before I leave. Next season I'll be back to microwave popcorn.

The mere watching of American Idol with Grandpa is entertainment enough all on its own. His running diatribe about the contestants is a constant source of amusement for me. Maybe it's that he's cheeky enough to say what I'm generally thinking but he has me chuckling throughout most of the show. I forget which contestant last week received this critique, "Now I don't like that short skirt with those long legs. Looks to me like she's wearing a loin cloth." With commentary like that, it really doesn't matter what you're watching. It's just darn funny. There was no 'golden ticket' tonight for poor Brad Paisley either. "What's this, I don't like him. He should be voted off. You ain't good. Hmum. Bring on Carrie Underwood."

Speaking of being voted off, it occurs to me that this post could get me voted right out of my weekly Idol venue. I did say he's a really good cook, right? I mean really REALLY good.