I have always relied on the kindness of strangers.

Holee CRAP!

Trying to breathe, here. It's been a crazy batshiat sort of day, running last minute errands, packing up, cleaning the house, leaving honey-do lists, fielding a zillion phone calls at the exact same moment as trying to negotiate the peace between feuding little peoples...

I had two fabulous babysitters (twins) and after having a little incredibly decadent me-time, came back somewhat refreshed and optimistic, and drove them home. Emma and Sarah are gorgeous gazelles of girls, and it was a tight squeeze in the Matrix. I'm aware I'm doing the nervous-talking-thing and would mandate at least a hypomanic label. Perhaps a poster child for the Monkey Mind, but get them home without incident.

Or so I thought.

Within two seconds of coming into the house, the phone is ringing. A woman tells me she is sitting outside my house, after just having found my wallet and contents strewn all over the road.

Yep, left it on the roof of the car while buckling X in, had a brief thought of "That's kinda dumb." It stayed on out of the driveway, down the hill, until I took a left onto the River Road. This beautiful woman, Carol, saw something flying, thought to herself "That's not right..." and pulled over, stopping traffic while picking up my vacation money, assorted receipts, ID, credit cards etc.

She is my personal Jesus. I tried to give her my emergency $50 bill but she declined repeatedly. She did, however, let me give her a hug and accepted my profound thanks. I cried.

As she was leaving, she let me know that there was also a message on my cell phone.

OH ... yeah. Huh? Not quite sinking in, until: YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!!!

It takes about a minute before the panic comes back, full force. The cell phone was on top of the wallet, on top of the car. I called it - no answer and it went to VM soon enough to make me think it was no longer operational. Good news/ bad news, right? I'm furiously searching up and down the block, asking passersby. I come back to the house, have a voice mail on the home phone. I'm doing the default Catholic chant of "Tony, Tony - look around. Something's lost that can't be found." as I'm going through my options for a cross country road trip without a cell phone... The voice mail is from my husband, no dice. So I call it again - and a woman answers. She was en route to our local neighborhood restaurant, found the phone in three pieces, and was just going through the phone book - determined to find me. She asks for my address, refuses my offer to buy her dinner, and will drop it off on her way home. My other Good Samaritan: Sarah.

Did I mention we're leaving on a road trip? Me and the kids? Half way cross the continent? In less than 12 hours?

The near-catastrophe has me laughing and crying simultaneously. On an adrenaline high that makes me think I could stroke out any minute. I may be losing it shortly... so I thought I would put this all down immediately as my last will and testament to the kindness of strangers.

God bless you, Carol and Sarah. Literally, you have been my personal saviors on a hellish journey of mommy-mind. I am truly humbled by the above-and-beyond, and heretofore promise to Pay It Forward.

Signs of the Times

Is it just in the Midwest where garage sales are everywhere? Definitely more so this year - I think people are trying to get cash and attracting lots of folks looking for bargains. More than a few of them are perhaps on the voluntary simplicity kick.

Driving back from the office yesterday, I was on the lookout for garage sales. (My rule: I can't go off of my route in search of a sale - it has to be advertised and visible from the usual commute. Extra points if I'm biking; you really have a whole new concept of necessary if you are trying to tote it home on the bicycle.) Scored a pair of adjustable roller blades for L, $5 brand new. Of course, the ER copay is going to be way more than that - we live on a hill. I'll worry about that one another day...

I was wishing I would have bought the 1910 solid oak round table with 2 leaves, 5 chairs for $250 that I saw at the estate sale that is now conveniently located each Saturday at my office building (as if the bakery and bar aren't enough temptation).

I was contemplating the pros and cons of asking permission vs. begging forgiveness - the age old dilemma of couples everywhere. I wanted that table not just because it was beautiful and a great fit in our 1917 bungalow - I wanted it because it was such a great deal it felt criminal to let it go at that price. I even thought about buying it and storing it until I found a good home... Madness, I know.

There was an emotional appeal present in that gorgeous wood. Something about an old piece of furniture - especially a table - that makes me wonder about the lives that were lived, the family dinners, the deep and unknowable history. I was imagining gatherings with loved ones for years to come, creating our own traditions.

Then I saw another hastily scrawled sign, pointing up the alley. And I didn't even think of stopping. This one said "Foreclosure Sale". I struggle with feeling like a vulture at estate sales, picking at the bones of the dead. But a foreclosure? That's more like vivisection. I just didn't have the stomach for it.

The tools of the trades

This week was camp at our church. Not only were the kids thrilled to be immersed in activities, but I got 3 1/2 hours off each morning. It has been so long that it was almost disorienting - so many things I could do that I often squandered time just trying to decide. On Monday morning I tempted the fates and called my salon. I must have sounded desperate - they said they could take me right away.

Two hours I emerged with highlights and a haircut. Nothing too drastic; I asked for natural and low-maintenance. I tried to not choke as I signed the receipt ($120) but I felt good and it's been well over a year. And it's a local business in the neighborhood. Etc. etc. Add your favorite rationalization here. I walked out, feeling pampered and sassy. And waited for everyone to admire my new-found fabulousness. And... waited.

I have now ascertained that the placebo effect is at its most potent in the health and beauty industry. My proof: no one noticed my hair.

Okay, not quite no one. My extremely gifted massage therapist who I haven't seen in months complimented me - but that's mostly because my hair was notably longer since my last visit.

The other entity that took heed of my time at the salon: Mint.com.

In case you haven't heard the buzz (nice write-up in the NYTimes) Mint.com is a website that you enable to keep tabs on all sorts of financial happenings in your world - at no charge. You link it to your investments, banking, credit cards, mortgage debt etc. and it allows you to set budgets and track spending. The e-mail message I received said "You have exceeded your budget in personal care." Aw, thanks for noticing.

The e-mails sent out don't have too much detail, and refer you back to the secure website where you log in and check your accounts. Last week we got one that said "We noticed you had a service charge. We hate those. You might want to check it out."

It's a good, accessible way of doing some personal accounting that keeps it in the forefront of your mind (and in-box) and we find it a useful tool. it's a little weird to see your personal wealth arrayed all in one place. In general I'm not very concerned about security in the virtual world - but I do know that they are growing criminals much smarter these days.

So, you might want to check it out.

In full swing

... with all the fabulousness of summer in Minnesota. We do an awful lot of compensating for long harsh winters by living outside as much as possible during summer. And we're manic gardeners.

Last week was unseasonably cold, so the promised trip to the waterpark never did arrive. But we did several playdates, flew kites, took long bike rides, and generally ran ourselves ragged. The highlight of the week: our annual pilgrimmage to pick blueberries at Rush River Produce, in Maiden Rock, Wisconsin. We wouldn't miss it for the world; sometimes we even go twice.

A little backstory:

The best part about my job in hospice was meeting patients and families and being entrusted with their stories. People generally die as they lived, so for some it is a very gracious and social time - and relationships are uniquely intense and very honest, in the shadow of limited time together. This whole dynamic was thrown off by my pregnancy and impending maternity leave; patients would joke about outlasting me just so they'd find out if their predictions were right... There is something especially compelling about pregnancy - the beginning - in the face of hospice dynamics. Patients and caregivers alike welcomed the distraction. Boundaries be damned; my belly got patted an awful lot.

We don't have favorite patients - or at least we're not supposed to. But I do have a top 10.

Frances was always the hostess with the mostess - from working at Bridgeman's for 30+ years, raising two wonderful daughters and most of their friends, zipping around in her flashy convertible, and being the heart and soul of her South Minneapolis neighborhood, on Minnehaha Parkway. This was attested to by the constant stream of visitors who came to pay respects to this remarkable woman but always left with the impression that they'd received so much more comfort in return than they'd been able to offer. My daughter was born a month before Frances' birthday - which pleased her immensely. I was invited to her birthday party, and her home was packed with folks to celebrate her. She still took time out to gurgle and coo at the baby - at one point getting down on the floor to be on eye level with the baby carrier. Not bad for 90.

Her decline started quickly after that, and one of my coworkers let me know that Frances had been sent to residential hospice because her time was near. I went to go see her, to say goodbye. She was a bit confused, and it felt like she had already started her journey away from us. She died a few days later.

In her sunny, welcoming kitchen there was a large picture of her daughter Terry in a glorious flower garden on her farm. Frances beamed when she talked about helping them during berry season, and her pride and joy in her grandsons. I worked pretty closely with Frances and her family; the whole team did. The first July after Frances' death, the chaplain Kath and nurse Lisa and I made our first pilgrimmage to the farm, with a 5 month old squalling Lily.

We drove along lovely Lake Pepin and up into the hills, where Rush River Produce sits at the end of the road. A lovely farmhouse, unbelievable gardens, and rolling hills of blueberries, currants, and raspberries made it a heaven on earth. Walking up to the fruit stand, daughter Terry sees us and comes running - hugs and tears all around. The connection with Frances' spirit was palpable through this vivacious, fabulous couple and their own bountiful Eden. And it remains so to this day, seven glorious summers later.

Do check them out at www.rushriverproduce.com; it's about an hour and a half drive from the Twin Cities. It takes a couple of hours to pick (and eat) so bring a picnic and bask in the gardens and the hospitality of the Cuddys. It's a family tradition.

Bag Ladies, unite!

I must admit that any actual optimism I still contain is often diluted with equal parts delusion.

Even though I've been hyper-aware of .... well... hype as it relates to imagined needs and manufactured wants, I still fall for it. Marketing is brilliant in its strategic appeals - and there's plenty of psychology behind their strategy. Adding your own neuroses is encouraged but not mandatory.

The implicit promise of a coveted object is that by having one of your own, your life will be improved in some way. Perhaps others will covet that same object, and your social capital will rise. Maybe having the newest version of the hottest brand will help to broadcast your hipness and serve as a natural deterrent to the decidedly unhip. Or even this whopper: buying this possession will improve my relationship with things I already have.

My number one vice falls squarely in this third category: purses, handbags, satchels, clutches, shoulder bags etc. It being 2 am and I don't want to wake the household, but I am sorely tempted to trot out the whole sordid collection, photograph it in its shameful entirety, and give a detailed explanation of exactly what I was thinking would change in my world if I used this container to organize the detritus of my daily life.

There's the Healthy Back Bag, which I bought 10 years ago prior to our honeymoon as a carry-on and all-purpose adventure bag for wandering from Rome to Istanbul. It promised ergonomic design, adjustability, and a clever array of pockets arranged to make your load lighter. So of course I order the biggest one, overstuff it, and never quite love rooting around in the bottom of it, where all things eventually migrate and hide. Gravity occurs, even in the highly engineered land o' luggage.

While in Istanbul I purchased a number of purses and satchels, ostensibly for gifts. Also, because in the Grand Bazaar these darling merchants stalk you as you're looking at their wares, readily flicking their lighters to the various straps and such, to prove they are "real leather". This lost its appeal as I got lost and couldn't find Bob and was cornered by many enthusiastic shopkeepers and started buying purses in self-defense. The kilim bag I bought for my mom was fabulous, a great find for her, and I really wanted one for myself although it seemed like too much of a splurge. But instead, I bought several cheap knockoffs that together added up to nearly the amount of the One I Really Wanted, which has now assumed mythic proportions. The bags for gifts didn't look good enough to give, by the time I got them home. Not all of them are, in fact, leather. And I can't tell you the last time I used one. They sit in the corner of my closet, silently mocking me.

Then there are the purses ethnic and/or artsy. Mostly admired for their lovely and unusual design. Never intended to be everyday objects of usefulness, they get trotted out once a year or so - for some reason I have a 1950's vestigal sense of fashion that compels me to attempt to match my handbag when I'm "all dressed up." Which occurs slightly more often than the JCPenney White Sale, but not by much. I have used a few of the bags as catch-alls, but they rapidly get scuffed/unraveled/de-strapped, at which point they migrate towards my moldering pile of Stuff That Needs a Quick Sewing Repair.

The Vera Bradley phase was next, and represents a period I'm not particularly proud of... Her fabrics are lovely and the designs well done, but the durability just isn't there. Although there are a zillion equally non-lasting matching accessories which make the purse more valuable than any of the stuff secreted in all that quilted goodness. Other major turn off: sporting your hip new seasonal bag and seeing the same one on the arm of octagenarians en route to the Early Bird at Denny's. (In marketing lingo, it appeals "across demographics.")

My recent acquisitions are Tumi (is there a plural I should be using here?) One is a lovely, sturdy, reasonably-sized messenger bag, with all sorts of neat nooks and crannies for everything. Too many choices! I could never consistently put things in the correctly proportioned pockets for maximum utility and security. Generally this resulted in my leaving the grocery store with my credit card in full view, a gaping maw of cash I didn't have time to store, keys too securely fastened to get to in a reasonable time frame while standing in the rain with grocery bags melting, and several pairs of lost sunglasses. The other Tumi is a tote bag with similar features, but also the mandatory water bottle holder and the slightly less useful audio port for the IPod Shuffle that I can't find because I stuffed too much crap in the bag, all those necessities getting heavy enough that I began to have the alarming habit of putting it down and just walking away - dizzy with the sudden weightlessness.

Then there are the purses bought a vacation souvenirs (my own and others') that I just can't seem to part with, even though they haven't been vaguely useful or in style for some time.

Right now I have no less than 3 purses and a briefcase in circulation, and am constantly switching back and forth because the one that's ready to go is somehow unequal to the present task. No wonder I can't find my keys.

This rant serves to get me fired up to clean out the collection and give a pile of useless bags away. Really! If it's not beautiful or useful...

Although, I might find one of those cleverly constructed purse organization inserts quite handy...

Into the belly of the Beast

We're back from a visit to the Temple of Consumption, a.k.a. Mall of America. I usually just call it the Sprawl of America, as it is only fitting. It is beyond huge.

It was a rainy, cool day and the plans to visit the waterpark got cancelled. Lily has been asking daily to go to the mall and I'm not really sure why. And lately, she puts on her most piteous expression and recounts the cumulative "no's" for the last week or so, like an indictment of the Mother of all Wet Blankets. I've got a lot on my mind and am an easier mark than usual. Kids are pack animals; they can smell fear. So I gave up and gave in.

The best time to get to the MOA is early - as in AARP/Mallwalkers early. It's enjoyable to window shop (which is still an allowable though tempting offense) without the crowds. I used an 80 point pass for the amusement park I had purchased in March 2008 - before the rates went up from high to astronomical. ($3 for a carousel ride? Seriously?) So we felt well-provisioned and the kids got to do lots of rides, but the actual money was spent so long ago it no longer stung. After that, we wandered up to the food court for McD's. It's an increasingly rare indulgence - and I haven't been correcting them when they refer to fast food restaurants as "fat food."

And then - we left. Without incident or whining, or purchasing anything besides lunch. In the hallowed halls of the MOA, this is sacrilege. I was a bit tempted - most stores had huge sales of 50% off, and I do love a bargain. There were several shops going out of business, with lots of grumpy-looking people shopping thru half-empty stores reminded me of scavengers, which is just another form of consumption, when you think of it...

But walking around with two kids is a shopping deterrent in and of itself. Maybe I'll rent them out as part of aversion therapy. Or perhaps they can help increase the aerobic activity of the mallwalkers.

I may have a touch of sancti-mommy, but it's all for the greater good.

Bump a dee dah, bump a dee dah...

Yes, the wagon has wi-fi.

Mandragora has a tour this week: Madison, Milwaukee, Chicago. So we tacked a mini-vacation on to the endeavor. We're at Smokey Hollow, in Lodi, Wisconsin. It was about 3 1/2 hours from the Twin Cities and we arrived last night. For $45 we got bunks in a Conestoga wagon. Finally, I can explain to the kids what "riding shotgun" actually means...

Today the band joins us, so we moved into a spacious yurt, right on the sandy shores of the swimming pond - which is crowded with all sorts of trampolines, slides, floats, and hamster wheels for kids to play in the water.

This is kid-central - and they are loving it. We've been incredibly active - climbing, paddling, pedalling, jumping - just trying to keep up. For the most part, we're having fun too. I'm getting a kick out of the smug and sure knowledge that this is something neither us would have done on family vacations growing up. It's too... hokey, artificial; like a playdate on steroids. But, this is a few days off and doesn't involve airfare or rental cars. And even though they nickle and dime you a bit here and there - in order to use the rental equipment you need a wristband for an additional fee, along with parking an extra car & / or person at the yurt - it's a pretty good value.

The band is out at their gig, the kids have made friends with the neighbors, and I am blogging in my yurt whilst enjoying a cold beer, locally brewed. Not a bad vacation so far.

Happy Trails indeed.

Post Post-Mortem

Well, I had my interview bright and early at the UMMC for a social work position on their Bone Marrow Transplant service. Couldn't sleep last nite but kept the coffee to a minimum this morning, fearing that nervous fluttery talking thing I do...

It was with 2 social workers and a manager (of...?) who seemed quite nice. They are pretty hard core about the interview process - allowing lots of time, 20 multi-part questions about background/ clinical challenges/ strengths/ resources etc., and just when you think that part is over, you take a deep breath, and then they hand you a sheet full of clinical vignettes and ask where you would start and why. Brutal. That's just the first interview. It was an hour and twenty minutes and I had a couple of word-finding difficulty moments, and then a few things I said probably sounded a bit too flippant or glib. These are the soundbytes that I replay over and over, with more intense facial reactions each time, and I wince. I try to remind myself that only about 15% of spoken conversation gets in & encoded, and a few less than elegant turns of phrase over a 80 minute time period, perhaps they didn't even take it in... Plus I talk fast and it was an 8 am mtg. And yes, I'm grasping at straws here. I just need to be okay with the way it was played. I was honest, pretty sincere, warts/worries & all.

They will still be doing more initial interviews next week. And then they start doing second interviews. This might take a while... And meanwhile, I'm left hanging. Yes, I'd be good at the job and my skillset and experience are a pretty good match. And it seems interesting and intense enough I'd like to be able to see myself happily in the same setting for 10 years. Now that I've talked myself into seriously wanting the job, I'm afraid I won't. And if I do get the job, there's another whole host of problems lurking nearby... last-minute childcare worries, after school care, dear God when will I fit the rest of my life in, nothing that working mom's don't do battle with on a daily basis. It's all too much for me to contemplate, much less accomplish.

It's official - I need a stay at home wife.

If I could talk Bob into a polygamy situation, it'd be a win-win. Childcare taken care of, housekeeping and all that fun stuff shared. Oh, and no need to be fashionable or bother with makeup or clothes that aren't made from flour sacks.

These musings are probably only coherent to me, as it's 3 am and I haven't slept in a couple of nights. But, I'm trying to balance my usual crappy point of view with some cognitive restructuring.

Time will tell. My time tells me it's 3 am and the obsessing-over-everything is long past and better spent elsewhere. Like in bed.

The power of Eco-Branding (tm) compels you!!!

I am unsure as to which is the shortest these days: my patience or attention span. Motivation and energy are also in short supply. And inspiration for writing? Nope. Nada. Nil.

Buying second-hand items for a year - who knows? maybe indefinitely? - has been surprisingly easy for me. We live in a metro area where there are many alternatives to the big-box homogenous super-sized life. I have enjoyed the challenge. The true test for me has been continuing my writing about it. I used to think I'd be posting daily and now I'm lucky if I get in a weekly entry that is moderately well-thought out. If I have writer's block, does that mean I'm a writer now? Always wanted to be one...

I have been pleasantly surprised when folks comment about the blog, especially if it's people besides my 10 "followers" which sounds a tad sinister, in a stalker kind of way. And now even Bob admits to reading this... I need to have him install the Google stats thingy. Maybe I'll have more motivation to write; or stage-fright. Either way, I am committed. Or should be.

There is no substitute for conversation to get me going! I'm thankful to all the friends and acquaintances who have been willing to talk about their relationship to stuff and the idea that less is more.

The other evening I got to catch up with my friend Shelley - it's been too long! - and we had one of those far-ranging chats that touched on just about anything and reminded me that the most valuable part of my life is my depth and breadth of friendships. Everyone has a story, a unique perspective, inspiration to share; richness beyond measure. And ... material!!!

(Wander over to YouTube, look up the South Park episode about hybrids. It's hilarious, and we really need to keep things in perspective. Go on, get! This blog isn't going anywhere. Obviously...)

The sustaining part of this project has actually come from the conversations it has started. And being community-minded helps to remind me that the consumption decisions I make impact more than just my family and wallet. In a way, I am harnessing the power of social pressure to support less consumption, instead of more. Conspicuous non-consumption? At least in our part of Minneapolis, it can be a status symbol to drive a lovely hybrid, shop at the co-op, organically garden, belong to a CSA, have your own solar panels, offset your carbon footprint, and find the best things at the thrift stores. ("Like it? Two dollars!!!") For the most part, living with those sensibilities requires more money and time. Imagine doing all your shopping at Whole Foods and you understand why we call it Whole Paycheck.

Instead of nouveau riche, we now have nouveau eco. Yes, we may lack the credibility of folks who have had composting toilets and rainbarrels since the 70's, but we're catching up with a vengeance. And using our resources of time and money to consume less natural resources, even if it doesn't always give a sufficient return on the investment. Think of the Slow Food movement, buying local foods in season, learning to knit - this increased interest in simplicity not because it makes financial sense, but because it raises the quality of daily life. And if we have the relative luxury to spend more time and money living as nouveau eco, don't we have the mandate to do so? i.e. there's no way a family struggling to meet their mortgage is going to be able to pay more for electricity from wind power, so isn't it incumbent upon those who can afford it to do so - as a way of subsidizing the technology so eventually it is more fiscally advantageous? There is always an increased cost to the "early adopters" of any new technology; the next best thing requires a subsidy of sorts, long after the R&D budget is tapped out.

Case in point:

At Macalester College they have a recently installed wind turbine - not a huge one, maybe 30ft. across - that Xcel Energy donated. The plaque says it cost $35,ooo in materials and another $16,000 to install, plus yearly maintenance. I sincerely doubt it will pay for itself, but it's a whirring reminder of the abundant renewable energy that can be harnessed, rather than the coal-fired electricity plants we presently use. The true savings aren't economic, and it's a long-term investment we'll never see pay off.

So if I win the lottery, I'm going to get solar panels installed. And a geo-thermal heat exchange system. Neither of which will ever "pay for itself" in energy savings - why should it? It's not like the luxury SUV's ever gave a good return on investment, over a more economical and efficient car. Folks wanted to drive bigger and better and damn the costs. Why do we invoke the criteria of fiscal soundness only when it's conveniently in line with what we want? Isn't it the American brand of true decadence to indulge in things that don't make financial sense? How can we harness the unbelievable power of the status symbol for good, not evil?

But the status symbol of the tiny carbon footprint; that's priceless. Less smog; more smug.