Claybourne Project

This little project has been taking up a large amount of my time. I've loved almost every minute of it. Last week was a bit terrifying, however: I stood, fingers crossed, uttering silent prayers, while four guys tried to heft an 800 lb. piece of granite down the stairs (one piece of 8 granite slabs they had to transport from the driveway to the basement). It's the closest I've come to heart attack, I think. To ease the pain, I went and sat in my car in the rain until they'd made it passed the point where the staircase turns. The stone is now safely installed and looks beautiful. We're getting there. Furniture--the fun part--is next.

what's the rush?

Yesterday evening, after dashing about rain drops and hopping over puddles I found myself safe withing the confines of the car. I wiped big beading raindrops from my black suit pants onto the rubber mats of the car, and began to wonder. Why is it that we dream of this glamorous grown-up life, full of business-casual, and pearl earrings, and electronic devices with which we can check our email, look up the word "careful" in Spanish, while simultaneously talking to someone four states away about a project that is bigger than us both? Why, I wondered, do we rush rush rush to this point in our lives, only to get here in all our high-heeled glory, only to find ourselves hoping we didn't miss significant steps in our childhood?

I replayed the day in my head on my way to my next destination: a room full of 150 or so grown-up women, all gathered together sitting shoulder to shoulder to listen to a real grown-up woman, tell us that we're going to make it, and questioned whether or not I believed her.

under the sea undertaker

My sister had a fish named Gills. He lived for two years, which in fish years is practically 180. One night after my sister's piano recital, we came home with ice cream stained faces to find Gills belly-up in his bowl in the kitchen. We sent him to his watery grave the only way you can when you live in the suburbs.

Once, my neighbors asked me to feed their frog, Marvin. Marvin was five years old, which in frog years is basically prehistoric. It was just for the weekend -- a few flakes of food and that was that. He'd kick about his glass bowl world, bobbing his head above the surface when no one was looking, and they'd be home before he knew it. The saddest part wasn't telling them Marvin had gone the way of all the earth. The saddest part was telling them the only spot we could find for his final resting place was a narrow strip of dirt beside their driveway.