Terrible news, and a job offer

The view of Mt. Rainier from my apartment building

Across the bay; downtown is immediately to the right

Sorry for the radio silence the last couple of days, a lot of things have happened.

First, my mother-in-law is critically ill. My husband flew out there Saturday morning to spend what time she has left with her. I stayed behind to work (and because I can't leave the cats alone for an indefinite period of time), but I'll be joining him as soon as he feels the end is nigh. My stepson is flying out this weekend.

So, there's that. She's an awesome lady, truly like a second mother to me. I'm sad, I'm worried, I'm stressed about all these expensive last-minute plane fares, and I'm in a strange city alone.

Fortunately, I have two jobs now. One is as a back-up server at one of the Northwest's top restaurants--but that's strictly on-call work, maybe two or three nights a month right now. The other is full-time, at a cute little wine bar in Fremont. I started there yesterday, and it seems like it will be a lot of fun. But I haven't worked in basically seven weeks, so now my feet and my back have to re-learn how to function. I feel worn out already. (It doesn't help that we found out about my mom-in-law, and I got the job offer, on the same day. Talk about a mixed bag.)

With DH gone, there probably won't be too much cooking going on here. I'm going to eat all the perishable stuff first, in case I have to fly out in the middle of the night on short notice, and work on finding a reliable catsitter.

On an unrelated note, we had a superb day on Friday. Sixty degrees, and not a cloud in the sky. You could see all the mountains around the city that are normally obscured by cloud cover. See pictures, above. I could get used to this sixty degrees in February thing.

Job developments

Instead of having one full-time job and one on-call-sometimes job, now it seems I have two on-call-sometimes jobs and one full-time job offer. The wine bar called me and said they didn't want me to work on call for the other restaurant, that maybe I should just work on-call for them as well. Which sounds to me an awful lot like, "I'm offended you want to work for someone else, even a little bit, so you can't work here too." That was two days ago and I haven't heard a peep since.

However, ANOTHER wine bar called me yesterday and offered me a real live full-time job. Which I'm taking. Hubs is leaving for Missouri tomorrow, to spend what time remains with his mom, and I'll be here all alone in a new city with no friends--so I'll need to work. A lot. Also, we need the money. We're also flying out my stepson for a long weekend, so he can spend some last time with his grandmother. Then I'll need to fly out, last-minute, when the time comes, and last-minute airfares aren't cheap.

So, fingers crossed this new job offer comes through, and I can start working/earning posthaste.

I have a job! Sort of

More importantly, however, we've just received word that my mother-in-law is dying. The latest round of chemo didn't work, and she's been given two to four weeks to live. My husband will be flying out there soon, as will his son; I'll stay here for a bit longer, I guess, and fly out toward the end.

One of my two jobs is the one I want: working at the Pacific Northwest's top restaurant. But I'm only working there as a back-up server, for when one of the full-time servers is sick or on vacation, so it's not regular work. The other is at a wine bar; it's a cute little funky place, but neither job is what I would call a real money-making opportunity. Both are also very different from my last job, which was high-volume, fast-paced, and stressful (but fun and lucrative). The wine bar is extremely laid-back, and the other place is exceptionally formal dining at a very sedate pace--there's one seating a night, everyone gets the same tasting menu with wine pairings, there's no frantic rushing about for anything.

Still, some money is better than none, so I'll work while I can until circumstances send me to Missouri. I also can't leave the cats here by themselves for an unknown period of time.

Pray for my husband and my in-laws. This will be a hard thing to deal with, and I fear our tentative hold on Seattle is going to be tested.

Home again, home again

The great thing about having an unemployed husband, and working in the restaurant industry, is that you can basically take a vacation whenever you want.

Granted, I'm not getting paid for that time off. But we no longer have to worry about parceling out a measly two weeks of vacation every year, or planning way in advance.

So we spent last week in Virginia with my family and friends (since the restaurant was going to be closed three days for the July 4th holiday anyway). I slept ten hours a night, I ate three meals a day--at normal times--and most importantly, I sat. A lot. I was almost completely off-grid, since I can't get a cell signal or internet at my parents' house, and the most strenuous thing I did all week was wander through the garden in triple-digit heat.

Have I mentioned lately how much I enjoy sitting?

I may have to take a week off again in a couple of months. I like not being tethered to the corporate teat.

Anyway, while I was there, I cooked a big meal for dear friends, and I caught up with another childhood friend that I hadn't seen in the better part of 20 years. I hung out with my niece, now 18 months old, read a few books, and finally got the dent banged out of the back of my car. (There's one thing to be said for country living--it's cheap. An oil change, fluid check, and dent repair for the Prius cost me all of $32. Total.)

I brought back a fair amount of my mom's garden, to feed us for the next week or so. It's back to the grindstone now--I'm working all week, and hubs is redoubling his job search efforts and applying for a lot more stuff. It may be a while before anything definitive happens on that front, so we both may have to get used to this new normal.

Clomid, part 2

Here's how the Clomid thing works. I take five pills, one a day for five days, at the end of my period. Then I get bloodwork and an ultrasound to see where things are. Repeat as necessary. I had three ultrasounds and three rounds of bloodwork to determine that I'm ovulating right about now. So we'll see what happens.

Mostly there haven't been any side effects, but I have been feeling particularly tired lately, without much of an appetite. I'm not sure if that's due to the Clomid, or if it's just a February thing.

In other news, I got a new haircut yesterday. I haven't decided if I like it, or if I have mom hair.

The house is quiet again

Everyone left this morning.

By "everyone," I mean my stepson, who's been visiting us for the last month, as well as my BFF and her kids who were here this weekend. We've had a steady stream of visitors this month, to take advantage of stepson's presence on the East Coast, and while it was great seeing everyone, I'm looking forward to a) quiet, b) free bathrooms, c) being able to watch R-rated movies again, and d) no longer having to keep a steady supply of Cheerios, hot dogs, and peanut butter in the house.

Although right now, the house looks like the laundry-and-dirty-dishes fairy exploded, so I have that to deal with.

Did you know ice cream cakes now cost $30?

Earthquake!

By now I'm sure you've heard of yesterday's 5.8 earthquake in central Virginia that rattled buildings all over the East Coast. My husband claims to have felt it at his office in Rhode Island (I didn't). Everyone I know is fine, no injuries or damage.

My parents, oddly enough, were in Gettysburg when it happened. They visited last weekend, and decided to stop off in Gettysburg to do some sightseeing on the way home. It was a lovely visit--we did some sightseeing in Boston, drove to Newport, RI to ogle the mansions, and ate a lot. My mother brought me approximately 12 metric tons of food, which she always does. I'm still working my way through it all.

In other news, waiting tables is going well--I should be able to actually earn money by the end of this week (as opposed to training). My BFF and her kids are visiting next weekend, which I'm very excited about. I seem to have reached the end of the chipmunk infestation; so far the Death Buckets have gotten 15, the tomato carnage has stopped completely, and I haven't seen or heard a live chipmunk in a couple of days. The tomatoes, incidentally, are ripening beautifully.

Plans are going ahead to move to Rhode Island in pursuit of much cheaper rent. Our current landlord seems willing to negotiate our rent down, perhaps considerably--but my husband's work is offering moving assistance and cash in hand. I've been poking around the closets, culling a few items, getting things ready for the inevitable packing.

Aunt Lucy's funeral

(Technically, Great-Aunt Lucy's funeral.)

Driving to Virginia was a bitch. What took me 9 hours on Sunday, with no traffic, took 12 hours on Friday. Some asshat decided that the Friday of a holiday weekend was a good time to do construction on the Delaware Memorial Bridge, which means I sat--SAT--in traffic for 2 hours, to traverse 2 miles, because they took 6 lanes of traffic down to 2.

The swearing inside my car was epic.

I made it to Grandma's in one piece, eventually, took a long hot shower, and drank the rest of Grandma's hooch from Christmas with my mom and dad. The funeral on Saturday was very nice; there were probably at least 150 people there, including a bunch of extended relatives I hadn't seen in years. Saturday night we all went out to dinner with my brother so that I could meet my new niece, Aislynn.

She's a cutie--and she makes faces in her sleep, which is just about the cutest thing I've ever seen. Almost as cute as a basketful of kittens, yawning.

One day of socializing, and then back on the road, back home to Boston.

Remind me the next time I decide to drive 9 hours each way for a three-day weekend, that it's not a good idea.

Then, predictably, all hell broke loose at work on Monday because I'd missed Friday.

Fortunately, there are three things to cheer me up:
1. Spring weather.
2. Book club tomorrow night, which means martinis.
3. My friend L and her new boyfriend are coming over for dinner Saturday night, which will be AWESOME. I may even break out the good wine.

My hubby flew his son back to LA while I was at the funeral, and somehow the rental car gods smiled on him while he was there: he got magically upgraded to a Mustang convertible.

He described it as "awesome, and growly."

I'm so jealous.

The end of an era

The last of my grandmother's sisters died this week. She was one of eight, born in the living room of the house she grew up in and that her brother lived in his entire life, the house that has been in the family continuously since 1600-whatever, still with the original root cellar. Grandma's taking it hard--because her sister died, duh, but also because my grandma is now The Last One Standing. The two brothers that are left are both younger than she is.

I think I'm going to drive down for the funeral this weekend. Not because I was particularly close to my great-aunt, but because all my uncles are coming in for it and it occurs to me that my grandma's time left on earth is now probably pretty limited. It will be the end of an era when she finally goes, and I'm hoping she hangs on with tooth and nail to these last years and does not go quietly into that good night.

I hope that for everyone, actually, that we all suck all the juice out of life right up to the last minute and that our last thought is not a pain-filled, weary acceptance of death but a "Goddamnit, who drank the last of the margaritas?" before keeling over of a heart attack in the middle of the conga line.

Special visitor!

Tonight my stepson comes to visit for the next ten days. My hubby left yesterday to fly out to the West Coast and pick him up (everyone except me thinks he's too young to fly by himself). So last night, in the absence of my better half, I had a slice of ham and a bowl of peanut butter ice cream for dinner. And went to bed early. Hot stuff, I tell ya.

I've laid in a supply of kid food (Cheerios, hot dogs, white bread) in anticipation of his arrival. I'm already horrified by how much more crap food costs than regular food, and I'm also horrified that a loaf of premade bread a) costs 16 times what it costs to make a loaf at home, and b) requires at least 37 separate ingredients, when my 25-cent-homemade loaf required only 4: flour, salt, yeast and water. But what can I do? He won't deign to eat homemade bread, and I'm tired of fighting the food battle. If he wants to subsist on hot dogs and PB&J while he's here, fine. At least the hot dogs are kosher and the buns are whole wheat. I'll report back after he's gone.

We're taking him to NYC for a day this weekend, which I'm very excited about. I've asked all my friends to meet us for dinner--it'll be great to see everyone again. Tomorrow night the neighbors are coming over with their boys, one of whom is my stepson's age; we'll have pizza and let the kids play video games. I'm hoping he makes a friend.

There's still nearly five feet of snow on the ground.

And that's all I can say about that without screaming.

Two bright spots: I've recently discovered Groupon. Love. It.

I've also recently discovered Travel Hacking Cartel. It's a paid subscription, which I'm not too sure about, but I love the idea of collecting bajillions of frequent-flier miles (and not by flying). I'll be testing it in the upcoming weeks, to see how many frequent-flier miles I can accumulate without getting new credit cards. Goodness knows I could use some free travel right about now.

Meanwhile, I'll be saving up for this house. This will be the family compound.

So THAT'S why

Warning: TMI alert. If female issues freak you out, don't read any further.

I've always had irregular periods. (Outside of the 15+ years I was on the pill, anyway.) Sometimes they'd be relatively normal, 4-5 weeks apart, and sometimes I'd go two or three months at a time without one. And I never had any warning they were coming--I don't have PMS, or cramps, or bloating. Not that I'm complaining about that, mind you, and it's not like I wanted more periods. But from mid-August of last year to mid-January this year, I didn't have one period.

So I figured I should probably have that looked at. I went off the pill last February, figuring it'd take my body awhile to cycle back to normal. My husband and I are trying to get pregnant, with a lower-case t. We'd like to get pregnant, but I'm not freaking out about it or anything. However, it's hard to get pregnant when you have NO IDEA when you might be ovulating, and even harder when you don't ovulate at all (as in, five months without a period).

My gynecologist informs me that I have polycystic ovarian syndrome, which means I don't really ovulate. It's a hormonal imbalance, nothing serious--the first step is to take a drug that will correct the hormonal imbalance, and see if that gets me regular periods/ovulation. If not, the next step is fertility drugs (which I'd really like to avoid, for a number of reasons. The primary one being that with this syndrome, my chance of having multiple babies would skyrocket to 15%, and twins already run in the family. And it's been my experience that if a doctor tells me there's a 5% chance of something happening, it will happen to me. Thus I'd be virtually guaranteed to have twins or triplets. Or more. No thank you.) None of this surprises me; I figured I was hormonally out of whack anyway, since I never got PMS.

But you know what? If it turns out I can't get pregnant, I won't be completely heartbroken. Don't get me wrong, I'd be a little heartbroken. I'd like to start my own family with my husband. But I don't feel the maternal call strongly enough to pour tens of thousands of dollars into fertility treatments or IVF or whatever, which we can't afford anyway, and I can think of excellent uses for all the income not having kids would free up (like travel, and plus we'd be able to travel), and I like my boobs the way they are, and my stepson will be a teenager soon and I don't relish the thought of parenting an infant and a teenager at the same time.

Still, I'd like to start my own family with my husband.

Obviously, I'll keep you posted. And hey, if nothing else works, I'll put on a cheerleading uniform and we'll do it in the backseat of an old Camaro after a football game. Then I'll be guaranteed to get knocked up.

Grandma's hooch

Happy New Year!

We've spent this past week and a half with family (my husband's, then mine). I met my niece Leah for the first time, learned how to knit and crochet, bought a 12-quart stainless steel mixing bowl (which Leah fits into), watched my stepson make out like a bandit on Christmas Day, and spent lots of time eating and laughing.

I will admit my family has loosened up considerably in their old age. They're a lot more fun than they used to be (or maybe I'm just old enough to fully appreciate adult fun?). Part of the annual Christmas get-together are my grandmother's increasingly funny antics. She's 84 and going strong--one of those old Southern ladies who plays cards with her bridge club and still cans her own pickled watermelon rind. The first year of our now-annual get-together, she cracked everyone up with the advent of her rooster collection. The gift exchange that year went something like this:

[Grandma opens a big present, to reveal a two-feet-tall ceramic rooster.]
Grandma: It's just what I always wanted!

Someone else: Grandma, you wanted a ceramic rooster?

Grandma: Yes, I've always wanted a cock for my kitchen.

[Everyone starts giggling.]

Grandma: For Christmas this year, all I wanted was a big ceramic cock, any size, any color, but preferably black and over 18 inches tall.

[We're all in hysterics now, rolling on the floor.]

Someone else: Grandma, you wanted a cock for Christmas?

Grandma: Yes! I can start a collection now! I'm going to put him in my kitchen and call him Cocky.

I'm still not sure Grandma knew why we were laughing so much, but now she gets roosters of every size and description from everyone, each Christmas. Rooster statues, clocks, salt and pepper shakers, creamers, placemats, plates, you name it. We all snigger like fourth graders whenever she says the word "cock."

This year, my uncle brought several Mason jars of moonshine and something called "Apple Pie Hooch." He brewed it himself, using the following recipe:

2 gallons apple cider
1 1/2 cups sugar
3 cinnamon sticks
A bottle of grain alcohol

(Brew the first three together over medium heat, stirring, until the sugar evaporates. Let cool to room temperature, add the grain alcohol, drink.)

Grandma discovered the apple pie hooch and has been drinking it steadily all week. "Grandma's hooch" has become a new family catchphrase.

I asked my sister to take a picture of me in the hot tub, drinking moonshine out of a Mason jar, surrounded by uncles and aunts and cousins. That's me--class all the way.

No words needed

My great-grandmother's kitchen knife. Look how worn down the blade is. And still going strong.

In other news, this is my 250th post!

To name change or not to name change?

...That is the question.

My first, and default, stance on the name-change issue is, "He can change his own name if he wants it so bad." I never saw the point, and usually viewed it as a gross inconvenience perpetrated by a needless and paternalistic/misogynist tradition.

However.

Now that I've seen close friends come down on either side of the name-change issue (some changed their names; some didn't; and in fact there's a third wrinkle, in which her husband's last name got either tacked on at the end or hyphenated onto her own), I have to somewhat revise my previous position. I still think name-changing is dumb; but it does make things so much easier when you have kids. Especially in emergency room situations.

So, because we're hoping to welcome my new stepson into our home by the end of the summer ("hoping" being the key word there, as his mother has suddenly realized that the end of the summer is nigh and that a costly custody battle might not be such a bad idea after all), I will bite the bullet and change my name so that we all have the same last name and I don't have to explain to endless teachers/officials/authority figures that no, really, I AM this kid's stepmother.

The question is, in what form? Do I stick my new husband's name onto the end, giving myself four names? Do I hyphenate? (No, that's pretentious.) Do I just give out my name as first name-previous last name-new last name? Which might be easiest in the long run, but then I will officially have the weirdest name ever. I have sentimental attachment to my own name, I don't want to drop it completely.

For the meantime, I'm not changing it. I don't see any point in filing the paperwork until H comes to live with us/I get pregnant, whichever happens first. But you've all been warned. Start practicing saying it now.

The Family Compound

A recurring theme during the wedding festivities was that of The Family Compound. I've had a low-simmering fantasy for a while, of collecting all our separate family units (my sister, my brother, my parents, my Dear Husband's sister and parents, with invitations out to all aunts/uncles/cousins/extended family) and close friends on a big piece of land somewhere. We'd each have separate houses, with one big central meeting house. You know, like the Kennedy compound. We could hang out all together in the big central house, or be alone in our separate houses, as mood dictates. And everyone would have a specific job--I'd cook, my sister would homeschool the children, our mothers would sew and garden, John's brother-in-law would be the brewmaster, my dad would be in charge of hunting and fishing, and so on. We'd grow lots of vegetables and raise chickens and goats and ducks and things and make our own cheese and sit on the giant deck every night drinking good wine and watching the kids play.

Surprisingly, it only took one mention of The Family Compound for everyone to get on board with it. Now everyone wants to be a part of the compound. Even my dad, though his comment was, "As long as there are no hippies." In fact my sister and I started discussing possible places to locate this thing. I'm gunning for Costa Rica, but Utah/New Mexico, Washington State, Tennessee, and central Virginia also made strong showings. The compound can't be anywhere too cold, must have high-speed internet and be within reasonable distance of a major metropolitan area (major enough to get good wine and medical treatment, anyway), must be pretty, and must be somewhere where land prices aren't too high. Ideally I'd like access to fresh seafood, too. The real stumbling block is of course the money. Maybe if we all start saving right now, we could afford to buy the land and part of one house in twenty years, but that negates the part about raising children there.

Guess I'll have to start playing the lottery.