Princess

I’m not the kind of blogger to link to a lot of other miscellaneous things on my blog. I don’t post about a contest in order to get an extra entry. I don’t mention that you should go sign this petition or vote in that poll or read these ten blog posts.

But, on occasion, there are things worth sharing, things I would email to every one of you if I had all your email addresses, things I would send to my mom with a subject line like “This is so lovely.”

Raising a Princess Single-Handedly, written by Simon Van Booy for the New York Times, is one of those things.

It’s an article for the “Modern Love” column about raising his four-year-old daughter alone after the sudden death of his wife.

He talks about the night after his wife’s death, when his daughter asked to stay up late and watch “Sleeping Beauty.” I know all too well those feelings that come after the death of a family member, when life is both frighteningly normal and yet horrifyingly – and permanently – different. We have never again watched “The Tigger Movie” which Shepard watched the night he died. It still sits in the case in the video cabinet, partly played, never to be rewound from the spot it was last turned off, nearly nine years ago.

My father-in-law, Bart’s stepfather, lost his wife when his daughters were in elementary school and raised them alone until he married Bart’s mom. When Simon writes about learning to cook for his daughter, getting her ready for school, taking over all the kinds of things a mother would more likely be responsible for if she was present, I thought of my father-in-law and his two little girls, now adult women.

Sometimes an article hits a little too close to home. Sometimes it reminds you of things that are painful to remember, but that you want to be reminded of anyway.

Academy 7 by Anne Osterlund

7 of 10: Misleading cover notwithstanding, Academy 7 was a surprisingly enjoyable sci-fi book. If there was a sequel, I'd definitely read it.

I know what you think when you look at this book. You're thinking, "hello, teen romance." And you would have reason to think so; I mean, that cover photo screams romance and then right there on the front it says "an unexpected romance."Except it's not really. There is one kiss on the last page. That's pretty much the extent of the love story.

The real story is about Aerin and Dane. Aerin is rescued from a crashing space ship and the captain takes pity on her, allowing her to take the test to qualify to attend one of the Alliance's schools, even though she's not an Alliance citizen (in fact, she's never even heard of the Alliance, a group of planets trying for peace and stability in the galaxy). She tests really well and gets in to Academy 7, the most prestigious and competitive of the Alliance schools.

The other top student at Academy 7 is Dane and he comes from a very rich family. His dad is one of the top military leaders in the Alliance and his relationship with Dane is deeply strained at best.

He and Aerin are both kind of outcasts at the school, Aerin because she's trying to figure out how to navigate as a citizen without letting anyone know she isn't really a citizen and thus not eligible to be there, and Dane by choice because he doesn't want to be friends with anyone who is only trying to be associated with his rich and successful family.

The story is focused mainly on both of them trying to figure out their parents past. Why is Dane's dad so angry and determined to undermine Dane's success at school? And who was Aerin's dad, anyway, and why did he never talk about his past? Not to mention the fact that she has absolutely no idea who her mom was and her dad would never mention her at all.

It kind of had a Star Wars-y feel to it and it was the perfect book to read on the train in Boston. I just had to keep my hand over the rather embarrassing cover.

Jiggity Jog

You know I love to travel. I love buying a plane ticket, I count down the days until the departure, I think about what I’ll pack, and I love walking into a hotel room.

But the last month has been insane. I went to Las Vegas to stay with my brother while my parents were in Atlanta. Then I came home and, five days later, left for five days at Girls Camp. The day I got home, I showered, threw the contents of my suitcase straight into the washing machine, repacked, and caught a flight to Salt Lake City where we spent the weekend with my extended family for a reunion. I drove back to Las Vegas with my mom on Monday and spent five days with her and my dad. After coming home on Friday night, we packed up our house, closed, and moved in with some friends who are graciously letting us borrow the guestroom for a few weeks, I caught a plane on Wednesday morning to Boston where I spent five days visiting my new schools and principals, taking the licensing exam for the state of Massachusetts, and looking for apartments with my mom.

I’m tired just typing that list out – I can’t believe I actually survived all that travel.

Since June 10, I have spent only 9 full days at home.

I have never been so glad to be back in Austin with no trips in the foreseeable future (the three day drive to Boston in a moving truck is not to be counted). I am in no hurry to log my next Southwest flight, I can tell you that.

Bad Dates

At my family reunion a few weeks ago, a number of the cousins sat around swapping dating stories, which quickly dissolved into “tell us about the worst date you’ve ever had.” It was awesome. When my cousin Emily told us about her 6+ foot, 250 pound date who leaped around the living room, over the couches, and under the piano on his hands and feet (NOT hands and knees) imitating Gollum, we were all in absolute stitches.

I haven’t had a lot of bad dates, fortunately. But I do have one crowd pleaser story, which I pull out on occasion.

During my freshman year at BYU, I went on a few dates with this guy who was also from Las Vegas. We’d had a good time together, and I suspected he was at least marginally interested in me and I was definitely somewhat interested in him (despite having a sort-of boyfriend, but, you know, I was 18 and I didn’t care).

One week, after several dates, he called me up and asked if I wanted to go shooting with him on Saturday morning. I said yes, despite never having shot a gun in my life (that I can remember).

Saturday morning came and he came to pick me at my building. I was waiting in the lobby; he came in and then we walked out to his truck together.

Imagine my surprise when I got into the truck and he said, “This is Jenny, this is Lauren, this is Becca and this is Sidney.”

Yes, there were four other girls in the car. Four!

On our way out to the middle of nowhere, where we could shoot in safety, he stopped to fill up with gas. While he was out of the car, one of the girls said, “So, did any of you know that you weren’t going to be the only one here?” And what do you know; every one of us thought we were going to be lone date.

I can’t remember if we ever went out again, but I will never forget the guts of this guy to ask out five girls and never mention to any of them that they’d be only one of five.

Moving

Last weekend, flying back to Austin from Las Vegas, and knowing we would be closing on our house a few days later, I wrote this, planning to post it yesterday:

Today we sold our house. Our darling brick house. The house that we bought one day before my 21st birthday. The house we imagined we might bring our first child home to (clearly that did not happen). The house we stayed up late painting in the first year we lived there. The house I opened my acceptance letter to UT in. It breaks my heart to say goodbye to this house.

Over the weekend, we’ve finished packing up the house, watching it slowly become more like the bare house we first saw three years ago. The bookshelves emptied out, and then the pictures came off the wall, and then room by room, there was nothing left by walls and wood floors.

We’ve been lucky. I know that. In this terrible market, our house only sat on the market for four days. For the most part, the last four and a half weeks have been pretty smooth to get ready for closing. I had no desire to hang on to the house, to deal with renters, or sudden repairs. The woman who bought it has family in the area, and it makes me happy to know her grandchildren will come to the house and play in the yard or the finished garage. She didn’t make us repaint the dark brown/purple bedroom we’ve loved so much. I’m grateful the house issue, which I’ve worried about for nearly a year, is taken care of and no longer a worry.

But, oh, I want to weep when I think about walking out of that house for the last time. I’ve been so very happy in our house. And now it’s not ours anymore.

It’s all very melodramatic and obviously written by someone who had not yet packed up a three bedroom house into a moving truck and then into a storage unit. It definitely wasn’t written by someone who, at 10:30 p.m. on a weeknight, was scrubbing out the fridge or retouching the paint in the living room or cleaning out the toilet.

Moving has a way of helping you forget how much you loved a place – after all the boxing and sorting and labeling and hauling and cleaning, I was more than ready to walk out and not have to worry about it anymore. Lock that door up for the last time and let’s drive away.

As we walked out of the title company office after closing yesterday, (small) check in hand, Bart said to me, with a huge grin, “We’re no longer home owners!” and I laughed right back. We high-fived in the hallway.

Goodbye, darling brick house. Have a nice life.