The move.

“Just get over it,” said with their intended tone of irritation and impatience. As if unexpectedly moving my family should just be taken in stride. Like, oh! Just another life experience to welcome! Like, I don’t have a right to have feelings, very strong feelings, about being relocated a mere seven months after having just moved. I guess there’s a statute of limitations on the amount of time you have to get over entire life upheavals.

It’s been just over one year (a year and two days, but whose counting?) since finding out that we were being transferred to Tennessee and I am getting over it. Getting, but not yet over it. It’s a tall mountain.

This mountain I continue to climb hasn’t just been about the physical aspects of moving, the inconvenience, the starting over, the unknown, and the fear that comes with boxing your personal possessions and entrusting their care to someone you hope didn’t pal around with a criminal element. The place where I always get tripped up on my climb up this mountain was and continues to be about the feeling of finally being home where we were in Indiana. The sense that we lived in Lafayette, that our house was our house, our friends were our friends, our city was actually our city. A palpable sense of possession. It was that we felt like were finally someplace that was truly ours.

(And maybe I keep sliding down this mountain because of a smidge of pure unadulterated rage towards THE COMPANY.)

Crossing over the state line into Indiana, the day we moved there, was where for the first time in ten years that I let my guard down. I stopped looking over my shoulder after having run away for all those years from the monster of THE COMPANY with it’s sharp teeth and horrible breath snarling, “You. There. We’re moving your family.”

I feel that snarling monster’s breath on my neck everyday now, again, like I did for all the years leading up to our move to Indiana. I’m bitterly angry with THE COMPANY, but I’m even more angry with myself for having been naive enough to think that a company, whose first priority is to make money and make decisions best for themselves, would finally leave us the hell alone. THE COMPANY is a business plain and simple, I understand that, but I truly believed for those seven restful months in Indiana that we were safe.

I remember one night just a few days after learning about our move, lying in bed curled in a ball as my crying turned into sobbing. My sobs shook my entire body, I couldn’t even breathe and was covered in tears and snot. With my face in my hands, I kept repeating, “please don’t make us move, please don’t make us move, please.” Tate found me and pulled me into his warm chest and told me how sorry he was. I looked into his eyes and screamed through my tears how unfair it was that THE COMPANY was in control of our entire life. Helplessly, he held me and apologized over and over until I fell asleep in his arms.

I knew my tears were futile, I knew Tate and I had made the decision together to move, but I also knew that had we decided not to move, it would have brought Tate’s career to a screeching halt.

Every time I think about that night and my rage and despair, I cry.

The pain is not as acute as it was a year ago. As the months have passed, I’ve slowly climbed this mountain and have embraced my blessings. I’ve made friends here and am involved in lots of different things that keep the kids and I busy. Our home is beautiful, so beautiful that sometimes I can’t believe I live in it. Considering the economy, I’m thankful Tate even has a job and as a bonus, makes enough money which allows me to continue staying home with the kids. Tennessee itself is a wonderful, friendly place to live. I actually really like living here, a lot.

The move, though? I’m not over it yet. While I do live in the here and now, I know better now than to be naive enough to think that we’re actually here to stay.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

I don’t know if they bought my house or if they are renters, really, it shouldn’t matter.  I mean if they bought my house, hopefully they’ll care for it and love it as much as I did.  But if they’re renters they might not love it as much if they don’t own it.

I feel like I need to whisper this next part.  It’s embarrassing to admit.  And sad.

As long as my house was still for sale, still uninhabited, I had this hope that maybe, maybe circumstances would work such that we’d get to move back to Indiana and slip right back into our old life, have our old friends, and just forget this whole move to Tennessee.

Those people, living in my house, I don’t even know them, but oh how I resent them.  I feel so angry at them, for taking MY house, for taking my friends, for getting to live the life I want to live.  They will be able to walk across the street for a cup of sugar only to end up staying for dinner.  I probably won’t get to even see my neighbors again, likely ever, but they will.  They will get to vacuum my frise carpet and bake in my double ovens and wash their vegetables in the vegetable sink in the island.

I don’t want to know if they have children.  I don’t want to think of THEIR children sleeping my in MY children’s bedrooms, I don’t want to think of them taking my children’s place at the neighborhood get togethers.

This is so ridiculous, I know, but what I don’t know is how to get past all this anger about the move.  It’s been months and it still feels as unfair as it did in September.  Why did this have to happen?  WHY??  I don’t want to be angry at those people who are living in my house, because I KNOW that it’s not MY house and hasn’t been since we sold it to the relocation company in November.

I guess it’s just that those people took the maybe away.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

Nearby where we live is a festival called the Feast of the Hunter’s Moon.  If you ever get the opportunity to go, you totally should!  All the participants dressed in garb from the late 1700′s.  There were artisans from all over, making beautiful items from wood and handspun yarn and food cooked in huge cast-iron pots over open fires.  The festival spanned several acres, and offered period entertainment with storytelling, music, and jugglers.

We had a blast, watching the sites, smelling the campfires burn, and watching the artists work.

On Sunday we enjoyed a most mediocre lunch at a local eatery. The place is a relic straight out of the mid to late 70′s, complete with heavy brown and orange decor. The place smells like fryer grease and the waitresses are a bit salty.  It’s a fun place to eat, nevertheless.

Oh Indiana. I’m going to miss you.

We leave for Tennessee on Thursday. On Wednesday afternoon, I’m going to return my cable box and *GASP* modem. That means I will not have Internet access for OVER 24 HOURS.

Keep the Internet spinning while I’m gone, will ya?

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

Tate has been transferred AGAIN.

We are moving to Tennessee.

I feel bitterly angry that I allowed myself to finally feel at home someplace.  In the ten years that I have been with Tate, we have moved at every request of the company.  For me, I moved begrudgingly and suspiciously and have watched over my shoulder and held my breath waiting for his company to call with our next move.

This time, though, I allowed myself to dream what it would be like to raise my children here, in THIS place.  I allowed myself to breathe after ten years. I immersed ourselves into this town and embraced all it had to offer.  We have made friends and we have made plans.  We have made a life and a home here in Indiana.  Never once had it occurred to me that I shouldn’t root myself and branch out and allow myself that hope of home.

I feel bruised and numb all at the same time.

Right now I have no desire to write.  My mind swirls with nothing except relocation companies, mortgages, real estate, and moving vans.  I don’t know if I’m taking a blogging hiatus for awhile or if the desire to write will return as I digest and stew on this information.  If you’ve recently emailed me, I will reply sometime.  I’m purposely ignoring my inbox because I simply do not have the power to think past myself and my family right now.

At least if we have to move, it’s to beautiful Tennessee and luckily we already root for the right team.

And you want to know something funny? I just got my Indiana driver’s license last week. I’m supposed to pick up my Indiana license plate tomorrow. [insert maniacal laughter and tears]

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

Three retired gentleman proudly showed off their love of all things train. Like little kids, you could see their excitement to show off their painstakingly built models.  These men had known one another for years, finishing each other’s sentences and filling in gaps in their stories about the history of the railroad in this part of Indiana.  Their knowledge and dedication was apparent.

Carson didn’t care about the stories. He was in awe of watching as the model trains circled the elaborate track over and over again.

I could have stayed for hours, listening to the mens’ stories and watching the wonderment in Carson’s eyes.  Or at least imagining the wonderment in his eyes.  He wouldn’t turn around and risk missing one of the trains passing by.

Live in Indiana or close by? Visit the Linden Depot Museum in Linden, IN.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

My new neighborhood here in Indiana is the POLAR opposite.  Everyone talks to each other (except one family and they don’t talk to anyone), we have neighborhood parties, and we all are always just, well…NEIGHBORLY.   It’s exactly what I wanted in a neighborhood, down to the ability to walk next door to grab a cup of flour or have the neighbor across the street offer to take my kids when I have to go to the doctor.

Though wonderful, it can be a little overwhelming at times, to say the least.

Partly because we live on a virtual postage stamp and partly because there are lots of kids in the neighborhood, there is NO privacy.  There have been times I just want to go outside, watch the kids play, and not talk to anyone.  Instead of peace and quiet, I’ve had a two hour conversation with one of the neighbors while the kids run around screaming.  Other times, I’ve had to be the bad guy and carry two screaming children home from an impromptu neighborhood get-together with all the kids because it was well past dinner time.  Try explaining to a two-year-old and a fifteen-month-old why everyone except them gets to stay outside and play.  (Hint:  It’s not fun.  Lots of screaming is involved.)

I truly love the community where we live.  However, it would be nice to be able to control how much community I have to ingest sometimes.

Not being one to just bitch without having a solution, I think I have found the answer.  Not only will my idea bring joy and happiness to weary neighbors across the universe yearning for peace and quiet, but it will make me RICH.

It’s called the Go! Neighbor Alert/Deflection System, or GoNADS.  It’s very simple, all you need is three colors of fabric, red, green, and yellow.  You may recognize the red, green, and yellow colors from when you learned about traffic laws.  In case you’re not familiar with this or you’re just plain dumb, let me give you a brief refresher course…

Red means “stop.”

Green means “go.”

Yellow means “be careful, slow down.”

Place your selected flag to alert neighbors of your outside plans on your mailbox or flagpole.  As an added bonus, you can also use “flag holding” as a means of punishment for unruly children, making them sit in the driveway holding the flag, for all the neighbors to see.

Now your intentions will be known.  When people see a red flag, they’ll know that they need to stay the hell away.  A green flag tells your neighbors, “hey!  We’re ready to play!  Bring some beer when you come!”  A yellow flag means, “be careful.  I have PMS/my husband is going to be late AGAIN/I’ve been drinking.  You may not want to come over right now unless you want me to talk your ear off.”

I’m going to sell these pieces of fabric in a kit, complete with rubber bands!  Right now, I’m thinking that $39.99 is a good price for my GoNADS, so I’ll start taking orders now.

Cha-ching.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

The acid in my stomach is churning with worry and trepidation.  Two kids, a stroller (I don’t even KNOW if they allow strollers), camera bag, hand cleaning paraphenalia, diapers, wipes, beer, sunscreen, snacks, extra clothes, and my TWO TOO-YOUNG children (yes I think I DO need to mention them twice)…blueberry picking??…Why do I do this to myself?  

All I can think is, “There’s going to be mud!  There’s going to be blueberry juice!  The stains!  I won’t survive!  I won’t survive!”

I can almost hear the blueberry farm workers calling as I set off into the field with all my gear and two toddlers and into my certain demise, “DEAD WOMAN PICKING BLUEBERRIES.”

Dear Interwebs,

It’s been great knowing you.  Due to some bad decisions on my part, I guess that this will be our last time together unless somehow, some way, I make it through this execution day.  Pray for my soul.

Your pal,
Jennifer

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

See?  Practically related!

My hometown was also home to several other celebrities.  I like to drop their names sometimes to make myself look cool.

Ever heard of the Disney Channel?  How about the slightly popular, High School Musical?  Lucas Grabeel, better known as hunky ”Ryan Evans” from HSM also graduated from MY rival high school.   It’s like I KNOW him. 

Aaron Buerge, a former male slut suitor on The Bachelor STILL lives in my hometown and owns a restaurant in that same downtown district.  We have breathed the SAME AIR.

I went to the same college as Kathleen Turner of Romancing the Stone fame.  Really!  I did!  Also, John Goodman (Roseanne) went to my college.  Sure they attended DECADES *ahem* earlier than myself, but just the fact that we attended the very same school counts for something I say.

Have you heard of that auto parts store, O’Reilly’s, the one with all the catchy radio ads?  It started in MY hometown and my best friend in elementary school, her sister used to ride horses with the daughter of the owner of O’Reilly’s.  (O, O, O, O’Reillyyyyyyyyyyyyy’s.  Auto Parts.)

When I was in L.A. for spring break years ago, I saw Noah from Beverly Hills 90210 in a bar, Jack Nicholson driving around in a Jeep Grand Cherokee, and Chad Lowe in a Ford Taurus.

Impressive, no?

My bestestest claim to fame has to be from last Thursday night when I got to actually meet (and fall in LOVE with) Bossy when she and her Saturn stopped in Indiana during her road trip.   Also, I now know (and LOVE) her, her, her, and her.  I already knew (and LOVED) her and her. 

I. Am.  FAMOUS.  (For reals.)

What is your claim to fame?

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

Although that good for nothing Mother Nature didn’t bless us with the promised nice weather this past weekend, she has attempted to make up for it with the most perfect weather imaginable these past three days.  With this good weather, our family and most of my neighbors have taken every opportunity to get outside.  We wave at one another as we go for walks, or pedal by on a bicycles, or are outside watering the newly planted flowers.

We are a jovial bunch, me and the peeps in mah ‘hood.

I mention all of this because of ONE woman who lives in an adjoining neighborhood who has also been riding her bike in our neighborhood.  I certainly don’t mind if she rides in our neighborhood, it’s not as if we are a gated community trying to keep people out.  In fact there are lots of folks who meander into our neighborhood, waving and smiling as they walk past.

Except for that ONE woman.  I have said “hello” to her every evening, waved, and made eye contact.  Her response?

Nothing.

She just keeps pedaling away, without so much as a head nod to acknowledge my greeting.

The first time I thought that perhaps she didn’t hear me, possibly due to some sort of hearing impairment and NOT some sort of asshattery.  The second time, when I’m certain we were looking at one another, and she ignorned me yet again, I considered the possibility that she was blind and hearing impaired.  Seeing as how she was riding a bike and avoiding all the construction debris in the road, I feel confident that she is not blind.  I suppose it’s still a possibility that she’s hearing impaired, but my suspicion is that she’s social niceties impaired.  Or in other words some sort of asshattery is indeed at play here.

The next time she smugly pedals past my house, I’m tempted to yell at her, “Didn’t your mother teach you manners?!”  or “What’s your PROBLEM, HUH!?” or “HEEEELLLLOOOO!!!!!”  Of course, all of these sentences would be preceded by the always attention getting “Hey LAAAADDDY!”

But that would make me as obnoxious as her.

My goal is to get her to reciprocate a greeting.  I’d be happy with a nod, happier with a slight wave of the hand, and downright gleeful if she spoke back.  It’s a lofty goal, I know.  But, I won’t give up.  I’ll wave and say hello every. single. time. I see her until I get that coveted response.

Stick around for updates!  I’ll go make a pitcher of lemonade while you wait to show off my really awesome neighborly skills.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

Luckily for me it was JUST an earthquake. 

First I heard a very odd noise coming from the baby monitor, a noise that certainly wasn’t my children, but an eerie low frequency NON-HUMAN sounding something.  Obviously when I put all the facts together moments after the rumbling that fully awakened me, I positively KNEW that I was living with a ghost (or ghosts plural.)

I immediately turned on every light, running frantically away from my bedroom and the ghost or ghosts plural.  Finding my cell phone, I fumbled to find Tate’s number and call him.  He’s a man!  He could help beat the ghosts!  Or something.

When I finally got ahold of Tate seconds later, I explained the situation and my fear of our unwelcome guests ghost(s). 

“There was this rumbling that started at the bottom of the bed!  And!  I could hear it over the baby monitor!  And!!!  I could feel an energy in the room.  We have an infestation of ghosts!  I know we do, I just know it.  I’m not crazy, Tate.”

After repeating the above sentences about ten times to REALLY!  GET!  MY!  POINT!  ACROSS!, Tate asked if I had considered that it might be an earthquake.

I, obviously, thought that the possibility of an earthquake was downright WACKO.  A ghost or ghosts plural was a much more viable possibility.

But apparently, as it turns out, it was indeed an earthquake–an earthquake I BARELY survived. 

I also narrowly escaped death once before when I was woken up by an earthquake in Knoxville.  Now I can say I’ve survived TWO earthquakes and that makes me, like, really cool. 

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.