Last night I cleaned the fridge. I mean, like, emptying the fridge in preparation for the move and it was B-A-D. I knew this day was coming so I'd put off cleaning it for awhile. Ugh. I don't even want to think about the stench that came out of some of that tupperware when I popped open their tightly sealed lids. I kept cursing under my breath that I'd be happy when we were all moved and this nonsense was done.

But here I sit tonight - the last night in the house before it's all packed up - and I'm very, very sad. I love this little house! I keep getting weepy when I think about all that has happened here in the last five years. It has been a wonderful home for us and it is just teeming with warm memories. Here are a couple that I'm savoring at the moment...

That first summer we were here - 2004 - Dude would come home from work, toss his bag in the house and, before he changed even, would check on "his" tomato plants beside the house. I had never seen him care about something like that with such passion. This is the guy that is totally anti-pet and took YEARS to come around to wanting children. It even made our holiday letter that year that Dude had taken a "parental interest" in those tomatoes. Ironically, I don't remember actually eating any of the tomatoes that MUST have resulted from his tender loving care.

The kitchen in this house is miniscule. I'm so not kidding. It is the smallest kitchen I've ever seen in a house and was, by far, the biggest drawback to our purchasing it. Regardless, I've cranked out some pretty impressive meals here. One that stands out as amazingly superb was Thanksgiving 2006 - the one when my older sister and her husband came to visit. We made duck breasts with a cherry port reduction, pesto mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, horseradish creamed spinach, dressing (cooked in a muffin tin so that there was a higher ratio of crunchy outside to soft inside than is found in a regular casserole dish), rolls (the most delicious dinner rolls ever) and stewed orange cranberries. We also made pecan pie and a pumpkin cake with an ornate mandarin-orange-and-pomegranate design on the top.

October 25, 2007: I was almost 33 weeks pregnant, working from home that day and on a business call with an attorney who was giving me a thorough recounting of an important conversation with my boss. As I stood at the bottom of the stairs - GUSH! - my water broke. I wasn't sure if it was gross to say my water had just broken or if I should just try to end the conversation quickly without mentioning that I was standing in a puddle and my sweatpants were glued to my legs. I guess I wasn't thinking very clearly because I opted for the latter. It took me a good two minutes to get off the phone. Dude was also on his phone in the kitchen conducting a conference call. I said, "Honey!" He ignored me. "Honey!" Still nothing. "DUDE!!!" His head popped around the corner with a look on his face that clearly said, "Can't you see I'm on the phone?"
Me: "I'm pretty sure my water just broke."
Him: "Guys. I've gotta go." And he promptly hung up.
Thus began our adventure as parents.

I could go on and on but I won't. Suffice it to say that this little house has been good to us and I'll miss her.

I just got off the phone with my grandma. Today would've been my grandpa's 89th birthday but he passed away a year and a half ago. They were married for 67 years and the fact that he's gone and she's all alone in a nursing home seems like cruel and unusual punishment.

There was a time about 4 years ago - before they moved to the nursing home - that Grandma was in the hospital and I went to stay with Grandpa for the weekend. We'd never spent so much time alone together before - just the two of us. We had a blast! Grandpa regaled me with stories, I cooked him anything he wanted (corn on the cob, English muffin pizzas), and we spent a healthy amount of time matching the carefully filled out and filed information cards with the numerous antiques in the house as we readied for the annual flea market and antique sale. He was extremely thorough and each card noted what the item was, where and when he'd purchased it, how much he'd paid, and what he was hoping to get in resale. Grandpa was impressed that he only had to show me once how to work the filing system, which meant that instead of double-checking my alphabetizing skills, he could tell me stories about toys he had had when he was a kid, dating my grandma, WWII, how much he loved my dad, etc. Sometimes he'd get frustrated when his arthritic fingers wouldn't allow him to show me how to play with an old toy or peel a peach. He'd say, annoyed, "I'm 85 years old. How much longer am I supposed to live?" At first I was taken aback by this comment but by the third or fourth time, I said, "At least through the weekend, Grandpa." I couldn't imagine anything worse than him dying on my watch.

Soon after that weekend, Grandma and Grandpa moved to a nursing home near my uncle in North Carolina. They made the transition from their big house on the hill to sharing a single room. Getting old had never seemed so unfair to me than at that point, but everyone knew - including them - that they could not care for themselves any longer. After Grandpa died, I realized that THIS was the worst part of getting old. At least they'd still had each other when they moved. Now, it's just Grandma. And every night she tells Grandpa goodnight and turns out the light in the way they did together for over half a century - pretending to blow it out as she turns it off. It's devastatingly sad. And I'm terrified that it's a glimpse into my own future.

Grandma told me on the phone the other day, "Don't get old, kid - it stinks!" Oh Grandma, how I wish I could avoid it! My mortality has never been more real to me than since I had Belly and The Bug. Sometimes it feels like, if I'm not careful, I could blink and I'll be almost 88-years-old like Grandma. I just hope Dude is still around to hold my hand and turn out the light with me.

So this is an interesting place to be. I've considered starting a blog for some months, but have felt kinda embarrassed about it without typing word one. It seems a little...arrogant. I mean, who cares about my day-to-day musings? And then I realized: I do. So here I am. I guess I'll start at the beginning.

I met my husband, Dude, 15 years ago when we were set up by a mutual friend as a one-night stand. I was 18; he was 26. I was a waitress; he was the tour manager for a popular, international rock band. And nothing actually happened on our first date. Nada. Zip. Zero. I thought he wasn't even interested in me. Needless to say, I was wrong. We eventually (two days later) hooked up and we're still together. We started dating in Milwaukee; moved in together and got married in Los Angeles; bought our first home and had our girls in Washington DC. I'm no longer a waitress and he's not a tour manager. We've yuppified to a certain degree. Dude's an entrepreneur and business consultant with an MBA and his hair is about 6 inches shorter. I was a nonprofit executive until I quit to stay home with our kids.

We are the parents to 13-month-old twin girls - Belly and The Bug. Twins do not run in either of our families and we conceived them completely au naturale. A "spontaneous twinning" is what my OB called it. We were beyond stunned at that first ultrasound. I kept laughing a little maniacally and immediately suggested that it was time for Dude to schedule a vasectomy. Perhaps this was a tad inappropriate...but I totally freaked out and inappropriate is what I do in those kinds of situations. Anyway. Now I can't imagine only having one of them. They're just awesome. I won't expound on that point further because, while I think their shit DOES stink, I am their mom and am somewhat biased in their favor (but really - ask anyone that knows them and they will back me up).

After the girls were born in October 07, I completed my maternity leave and went back to work at my job at a national nonprofit organization. Talk about stress! I found it utterly impossible to be the totally dedicated employee that I needed to be (and had been previously) and then come home to be a full-service (read: breast-feeding) mother of twins. Plus maintaining balance in our marriage and a sense of personal identity. I almost had a full-blown breakdown about seven different times. Although I loved my job (mostly - somewhat - that may make a future blog), something had to give and that was it. I quit at the end of June, just as the girls turned 8 months old. Life slowed down and developed two naps a day. I felt like I could breathe again.

What I haven't mentioned yet is that right before I got pregnant, I cried to Dude that I missed our life and friends in LA. I cried hard. In a nice restaurant. The couple at the table next to us looked so unbelievably uncomfortable that my husband started saying, "It's not you - it's me. We can still be friends." This is one of the things that I absolutely love about him - he is so WRONG sometimes that it's breathtaking. This is one of the many reasons we're married.

But I digress. Dude, being the perfect husband for me, agreed that we could move back. But then I got pregnant. And then there were TWO of them in there. We switched gears a little and decided on Portland, Oregon instead of LA. That was a year and a half ago. It took us awhile to get the ball rolling - we did become first-time parents of twins after all - but we finally put our house on the market this fall. The sign out front currently says "SOLD" and we are scheduled to settle on December 15th (my birthday, btw) at 11am. Then we will go to the airport and the moving truck will pull out to haul our lives the 2800 miles to Portland. A new adventure will begin.

This is a good time to start my blog.