The Everywhereist

I know this picture is blurry, but it’s still kind of magical. My mom was angry because I was doing dishes in her house.

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Dear Mom,

Please don’t read this post, okay? No, no, it’s not because I talk about how crazy you are. Sheesh, mom … Yes, I know you aren’t crazy. Yes, I realize I make you out to be crazier than you actually are on the blog. The reason I don’t want you to read this post is because it’s about your Mother’s Day gift. We don’t want to ruin the surprise, right? Of course we don’t.

So go browse some other site, okay? Like Facebook! You love Facebook.

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Some things, particularly those that are sad or difficult or heartbreaking, are best heard when you’re at home.

Rand and I got back into town yesterday afternoon, and felt that peculiar brand of jetlag that so rarely afflicts those who live on the west coast of the U.S.; after nearly two weeks in Australia, our internal clocks were running behind.

After a painfully long flight from Sydney, and another two-hour hop from LAX to home, I had no idea what time it was when we landed. The numbers on the clock were meaningless, bearing no relation to me. I wandered around the house in a daze, exhausted, but too wired to actually nap. For a while, I just curled up on our bed, shivering from jetlag and somewhat delirious, and Rand started piling all manner of blankets and sweatshirts on top of me.

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Warning: before writing this post, I spent waaaaay too long listening to NPR, after which I devoured some poetry, and then chased the whole thing with a few swings of prose. The result is … whatever the heck is going on below. It has nothing to do with travel. Sorry.

Rand and I have a shower in our bedroom.

I mean, in our bedroom. Not in a bathroom in the bedroom. No. It is IN the room. At the end of the bed.

Pictured: the end of our bed, and our shower.

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It’s about as ridiculous as it sounds. In the two years that we’ve lived here, we can’t really make sense of it. The doors are glass, so you have absolutely zero privacy if someone is in the room. When one of us has to wake up early for whatever reason, we’ll shower with the lights off, so that we don’t wake the other person.

Have you ever showered in the dark? It’s really weird, and yet strangely familiar. I’m pretty sure it has to do with some pre-memory of being in the womb.

And then I start to feel guilty for not having called my mother in a while.

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It’s November 1st, and like any forward-thinking lunatic, I’m contemplating next year’s Halloween costumes. I only have 364 days to go.

We take Halloween rather seriously in our house. My mother is to blame. I don’t quite know when she learned about the tradition of dressing up for the holiday (I seriously doubt it had been exported to Europe back in the late 70s, when my brother was wee, so it must have been after she moved to the states and I was born), but I can imagine her hearing the word “costume” and getting that charmingly crazy look on her face that I know too well.

And so, on one October that I was too small to remember, a brilliant madness began, and continued throughout my childhood. My mother would make elaborate costumes, and do my hair, and wonderful things like this would happen:

My brother and I, circa 1984.

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(My apologies for the gap in posting. I had intended to get up several blog posts yesterday, but instead I systematically poisoned myself.)

Carving out some quality time in Dublin.

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After the fussing and fueding that accompanied our Ireland trip, Rand and I decided to institute something we call “date night”. I know some of you are reading that and wondering why the hell a childless, petless, gardenless (I threw gardens in there because they sound like a lot of work) married couple would need a date night.

Or, in the words of my dear friend Sarah …

“Screw you. You don’t have kids. Every night is date night.”

(It was said with love, I swear.)

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Rand and I have been home a lot this summer.

This is in part due to the fact that we hate to leave Seattle when it’s finally sunny here, and partly because I needed to let folks dig around in my brain. (You know how it is – when people have been digging around in your brain, you want the comfort of your own bed and an endless supply of pajamas. Also, pudding. Lots of pudding).

The nice part about being home for the summer is that I am able to catch up with all those friends who live in Seattle, but who I rarely see. Like my friend Mike. Here is a photo of the two of us, and our respective loves:

We decided to do awkward prom photo poses. Mike’s the one wearing plaid who isn’t Rand.

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It’s been six weeks since my surgery.

My surgeon said that it would take about six weeks until I felt completely like myself again. Six weeks until I was more or less recovered. And he was right. I feel like myself.

More or less.

I feel more tired. And more sensitive. Literally. I have a soft spot. Like babies do.

And I am less … tumor-y. And less headache-y. Are those even real words? I’m not sure. And I’m less concerned about whether or not they are.

Here’s what my head looked like right after my surgery:

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For several days, there were staples in my head. I wish there were a more technical term for them, but there isn’t. They were not sutures or metallic head brackets or anything like that. These were good, old-fashioned, industrial-size staples, like the kind you’d find at the hardware store.

Miraculously, I don’t remember most of them going in, save for one. I do remember that last one, because it felt like … well, it felt like someone putting a staple into your head. The poor doctor wielding the staple gun apologized repeatedly.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “This is why no one likes me.”

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