Blythe Spirit

Snow Patrol

We had a bunch of plans for today, but instead we did this:

It’s been snowing for more than twelve hours and it looks like the drifts will be here for a while. My Montanan friends are not impressed, but I think I’ve officially become a wintertime wimp. And I live in a place where I’ve never actually seen a snowplow in real life, and where we make any possible excuse to stay inside and eat chocolate cake. It works for us. We also live on a big hill, so the cars are staying parked for now. We’d planned a big family birthday party for Jeff this afternoon but no one wanted to risk life and limb to get here, so we were forced to eat his raspberry fudge birthday cake ourselves. There are lots of leftovers, so I have the feeling the cake going to be the center of our culinary plan for the next few days. I know you feel sorry for us.

Pounding it Out

We had that day today, the one I knew was coming. It was the day we remembered we had become homeowners and we had to actually do some stuff around the house. Jeff spent most of the afternoon raking up soggy leaves, the same leaves he’d looked up at when they were still living on the tree and we were looking around the place with our realtor. He pointed out that soon they would be wet and lying on the driveway. Call him Nostradamus.

I started my afternoon by putting a bunch of holes in the walls. The people who lived here before us must have owned a whole bunch of very heavy artwork, because they left monster-sized picture hangers behind in every room. We’re talking about the kind with plastic casings and fat screws hung side-by-side – multiple hangers for each picture, it seems. And they were kind of bugging me, but until I pulled them out of the walls I didn’t even realize how much. They were a glaring reminder that we hadn’t yet made ourselves at home, that we didn’t have enough substantial stuff to fill up our walls, and neener neener neener, the people before us were better decorators than we are.

So when I had a satisfying pile of sheetrock-dusted screws and hangers in my hand, I spackled the holes and sanded them down and even painted over them with paint I found in the garage (fortunately the right colors – probably should have checked that out before I began ripping stuff off the walls and smearing white spackle everywhere, but apparently it was my lucky day). And, wow, it made a difference. I don’t find myself gazing at the walls, wondering what once hung there and trying to figure out if we having something to hang there so I don’t have to pound in another nail. Now that they’re gone, I can pound my own nails and hang my own pictures, and start feeling like I live here for real.

I am my own worst nightmare.

When we left Germany, I swore I would bring the European lifestyle along with me. Not all of it – not the sausage and gravy at every meal, or the horrible customer service. But I’d bring along the simplicity, the habits of taking a walk every day, of shopping only when I really needed something, of using only as much as I really require. I figured we’d live in a small house within walking distance of a grocery store and a park. We’d try to get by with just one car. I would grow lettuce.

But either I’m an easily swayed consumer (probably) or I’m a living example of why the American lifestyle is the way it is (also probable). Yes, I could have had all those things I wanted. But they would require sacrifice and I’m weak willed and, believe it or not, those things can be really expensive. Living near a grocery store AND a park AND in a neighborhood where we felt OK about the local elementary school meant we’d all have to share one bedroom. And, well, if I wanted that lifestyle I would be living in New York City. At least we wouldn’t need a car there, but it would be tough to find a place for my lettuce.

So here we are, not quite in the suburbs but almost. We have two cars, one of them an SUV and neither of them a hybrid (because we don’t live on a bus line, and buying one hybrid would have cost more than both our cars combined). Theo spends more time in his car seat now than in his stroller. I have yet to fully explore our neighborhood on foot.

On the other hand, I met a really nice mom at the playground yesterday and we could actually, you know, communicate in a common language. And I’m ten minutes from Trader Joe’s, where they sell delicious food and the checkers are unfailingly courteous. And I do plan to plant some lettuce in the back yard.

Electric Avenue

We are drowning in a sea of instruction manuals around here. The former owners of our house helpfully saved every last piece of paper associated with every item in it, including all of the documents pertaining to its construction. I’m sure I will one day be glad I can find out who installed my furnace, but today I’d just like to know how to make the heat go up from 62 degrees to 72 degrees. Like, right now, not after I’ve spent fifteen minutes pressing all the buttons on the digital thermostat.

After I gave up on that project, I decided I would try to turn on our gas fireplace. Because that should help me get warm, right? But I’ve never had one of these things, and even after calling the fireplace company (at a number found in that giant stack of papers, of course) and pressing all the knobs and wishing I owned a pair of protective goggles just in case, I still can’t figure out how to ignite the pilot light.

I have yet to really decode the TV instructions and keep turning off the cable box but not the television, or vice versa, so none of it works at the same time.

On the positive side, I found my winter clothes buried deep in one of our moving boxes, so at least I can put on a sweater. And our electric and gas bills should stay really low.

You Are Here

We are in our new house. It is full of boxes and I can’t find any soap or a notepad, but I’ve been reunited with my KitchenAid mixer and the Christmas decorations.

Theo stayed with a babysitter the day we moved and came home suddenly knowing how to say “sorry.” Which says to me that there was a reason he had to learn to apologize. Maybe he’ll figure out he should have said “sorry” after he head-butted me this afternoon and nearly gave me a black eye. Thank goodness my German spectacles are made of Titanium.

It only took me two months to realize how great it is not to live in a swing state. I don’t think I’ve seen a single presidential campaign ad on television.

I can’t seem to find time to sit down and write a coherent post. So you’re getting this weird list instead. Next time maybe I’ll just inventory one of the boxes I’m unpacking and you can live the excitement right along with me.

Strange Days

My life these days can only be described as strange. The whole world is living with a background soundtrack of financial panic; the sounds of the stock market crashing, doomsday predictions and what-ifs about candidates in the upcoming election, dire warnings to squirrel away some money in a coffee can or the heel of your shoe. And here we are, spending literally hundreds of thousands of dollars (most of it belonging to our mortgage lender, eek) in a head-spinningly short period of time. We’ve bought two cars and a house (well, probably) in just the past six weeks and we’re poised to shop for several major appliances in the space of a few days. The outflow of checks with one or the other of our names signed at the bottom is shocking and yet we just keep churning along. It was all planned and budgeted and it would make sense if I were to explain it to you, but still. It feels a little like we’re heading over a waterfall, just sure that our raft will carry us safely to the bottom, while everyone shrieks around us.

Besides the financial oddities, we’re residing in a strange temporary/permanent world. On one hand, everything is temporary – first we were in a hotel and now we’re crashing in a family guest room, we get our mail at a PO box that is our only permanent address – but we’re planning for the long term like we’ve never done before. We kept telling our realtor we wanted a house we love so we don’t have to move for a long time. We wanted a car that would last. I went out and bought a zoo membership because of course we’ll be around to use it all year. After three years of knowing for sure that we were making relatively short-term choices, I feel like I’m playing psychic.

But I’ve found that the one thing that keeps everything else feeling slightly normal is Theo. No matter where we’re staying, he expects fruit and yogurt and cereal for breakfast. And he doesn’t care if we want to test drive some bargain car we found on Craigslist, when it’s naptime he needs to go to bed. When my head is spinning from one too many life decisions (cable? internet? cable internet? AAAAAGGGH!) I’m almost always interrupted by a small voice saying “Helicopter! Helicopter! Heavy?” just before my skull explodes.

This morning I completed a particularly surreal twenty-four hours that was capped off by triggering my own car alarm six times in a row (Hi, neighbors of my in-laws, aren’t you glad we found somewhere else to live?). I was wearily driving us home after stops at two different car repair shops (don’t ask) and pitying myself while my son shouted OUT OUT OUT from his car seat. We were passing a park and I decided, what the hell, let’s get out of this car and act like we live here. So we spent an hour or so sliding down the slide and yelling Wheeee! on the swings. And one of us almost expired from delight when a passing fire truck appeared and the firemen waved and then found us in the parking lot as we got in our car and sent us home with a plastic fireman’s hat.

It felt really normal, like that’s what moms and little boys do on warm Wednesday afternoons in October. So maybe we’ll do it again tomorrow, but without the car alarm.

Why I Love America

Elections don’t always bring out my warmest feelings toward our country. Frankly, they make me think it’s broken. I feel pummeled by voices enumerating all the ways people running for office are going to fail and take America down with them. I worry that we’re headed for bad things. Right now, especially, when nothing seems to be going right (the economy is bad, we’re still at war, people are driving to Mexico to get their teeth fixed, and the fabulous shoes I bought online make my feet hurt), it’s easy to think there are better places to live.

Before I moved to Germany, I thought I might be more comfortable living somewhere else. I didn’t feel patriotic. I was frequently critical of my country and it seemed like my views didn’t fit with most of the opinions I heard were from “typical middle America.” I looked forward to escaping the advertising that seemed to hit me over the head everywhere I went. I thought the health insurance system had to be better outside my country’s borders. And I was ready to live in a place where religion wasn’t starting to encroach on the government. I knew I would miss my native language and all of my friends and family, but I was ready to take a break from American culture, including bad reality television, shopping as recreation, and the idea that our leaders must sound and act less intelligent than they are in order to get elected.

After three years away, I still think our health care system is broken, in fact it’s even worse than I remember. I wish my son’s diapers didn’t have Blue’s Clues plastered across them. And I am doing my best never to watch an episode of The Hills. But I’m so grateful to be here anyway.

America is the land of choice. At the grocery store, we get to choose from twelve different flavors of pickles, sliced five different ways. We can listen to talk radio where people argue about gas prices or we can switch the dial and hear heavy metal from the 1970’s. We can wear our clothing backwards and though people might stare, they’re not going to stop us in the street and tell us to turn those pants around, Daddy Mac.

Americans mean well. They want to be liked and so they begin and end conversations by being nice. They ask questions. They really want to know about you. They actually care (or they know it’s their job to care) whether or not you’re finding the organic whole milk you’re looking for. And they think your kids are cute.

Americans need to know why there are rules, and are careful about making new ones. They ask a lot of questions, and they expect answers. They want it like they want it. They don’t care if no one else eats peanut butter on the pancakes, they’d like some please and they’d like it on the side. And, usually, they get it, without argument.

Before I left, I thought America was without a singular culture. We don’t have a special hat or ethnic dance or anything except McDonald’s (which, incidentally, has moved waaaay past symbolizing America and now just means fried potatoes in your language of choice) and bad TV to distinguish us to the world. But we do have a culture, and it includes pride, openness, and high expectations. Like any culture, some members take the defining qualities too far. But at a basic level, they are good traits.

America feels like home to me. Before I left, I thought another place might feel more comfortable, but I was wrong. I realized that, no matter where I go (and I hope I visit many more places, because there are some fantastic ones I haven’t seen yet), I’ll always be a visitor anywhere but my own country. It’s a terribly imperfect place, but it’s the only one I know where I can drive thru and order fake cheese nachos at any hour of the day or night.

Cecily over at Uppercase Woman invited her readers to write about why they love America. I invite you to join me in my response. Tell me in the comments why you love our country. Or, if you have a blog, write a post and link to it here.

Housing Crunch

I began this house hunt swearing I would not settle for a place where I had to live with orange shag carpet or harvest gold kitchen counter tops. I didn’t want to look forward to a future of DIY weekends spent removing disgusting grout from aging bathroom tile or renting a wallpaper steamer. I wanted to keep the part of my European lifestyle that involved walking to the grocery story and five-minute jaunts with the stroller to the park. “It’s a buyers’ market!” they said to me. “You’ll find a great bargain for pennies.”

It’s never that easy, is it? I’m picky, I want space and a fence and I prefer wood floors. I refuse to pay top dollar when it’s supposedly time to low-ball. And I’ve unexpectedly found it hard to choose a house because I spend too much time gazing into that metaphorical (or, in some of these houses literal, if you count the light fixtures) crystal ball, imagining my lifestyle of the next ten or twenty years, and I’m paralyzed.

Where do I want to grocery shop when I turn forty? Which school has the best set of miniature trucks in its kindergarten toy bins? Is the yoga studio down the street one of those overheated ones, or is it more my style? Will my friends drive up and think, oh, they got a good deal or will they say oh, surprising they couldn’t find anything better in this market? In fifteen years will the neighbor’s tree be so tall that it will overshadow the skylight? Is there a place for my quilting supplies, when I finally learn how to quilt?

The other, more practical part of my brain, is reminding me about last time we tried to find a place to live. It was torturous, there were tears and compromises and it was not a good way to begin a big life change. I’m a little bit afraid we’re off to a bad start again. We’ve already hesitated and lost at least two places, and we learned this morning that our latest candidate, which had been on the market for 17 months, was likely sold at auction(!) the same day we viewed it.

But I’m working hard to look at the bright side, which today includes waffles at the breakfast buffet and Theo reaching out to some weeping guy on a TV talk show and yelling HUUUUUUUUGGG.

Land that I Love?

When did Ryan Seacrest become more famous than Oprah?

When did everyone decide that GOING GREEN was the cool thing to do, and that they needed to put it on labels and bumper stickers and billboards and t-shirts and in places that could not possibly be environmentally friendly but we’re going to force it anyway because it’s so trendy?

Why did they turn my favorite greasy suburban Chinese restaurant into a sketchy Mongolian BBQ place?

When did Crocs become business attire?

Why oh why did my local newscaster get bad plastic surgery so that she now looks like Janice Dickinson with a dye job?

When did Dr. Oz become the new Dr. Phil?

American Fries

There’s really nothing more American than a country church pot luck supper. I’d forgotten about these kinds of meals, featuring orange Jell-o with carrot shavings, homemade brownies with frosting, grocery store rolls, twelve kinds of mayonnaise-dressed salads, and heaping platters of fried chicken.

The church ladies keep the groaning buffet table stacked with plates and pasta salad with celery, and blocks of margarine.

It’s been a long time since I happened upon food like this. Even before we left for Germany, we spent most summer Sunday afternoons grilling flank steak and marinated asparagus, or sampling Asian pear-apples from the farmers’ market, or something lame and yuppie like that.

But yesterday we were invited to join our friend Aaron and his family for a celebration. Aaron was Jeff’s roommate in college and beyond. They lived together when neither of them could afford a bed so they slept in sleeping bags on the floor of their summer apartment, both doing shift work to earn money for school. They shared a couple of different rental houses after graduation, when Aaron was a first-year science teacher and Jeff was riding the bus to an office downtown.

We’ve all been all over the place since then. We missed Aaron’s wedding in Guatemala a few years ago, so we really wanted to be there for this big day. I am so proud of him, and so hopeful for his wife and three sons. I don’t know anyone kinder or more patient or who appreciates life more than he does.

I spent all afternoon watching Theo chase after a bunch of kids he’d never seen before, but whose parents I’d known since before I knew how to grill asparagus. And I licked the chicken grease off my fingers and remembered that home is about tastes and people and sounds we know well, even if we haven’t visited in a very long time.