Family of Five

Where I Spent Monday

Another crazy fucking week. On Sunday night, we headed in to the city to spend the night with our dear friend Michael at his new digs in San Anselmo. It looked like San Rafael to me, but he said San Anselmo, so San Anselmo I’ll call it. We had to pick up Mini on Monday morning at 9:00am, and then make a 10:30 appointment at the passport office for Marlee. I figured we’d swing by the airport, bop by the passport office for the appointment, then return to the office a couple hours later, pick up Marlee’s expedited passport, and be home by three or four. Not quite.

First of all, I had been missing my daughter like madness, and with Rod leaving in a couple days, I just wished for a night or two with all of us together. I don’t like being far from the ones I love; I like them close by, where I can keep an eye on them. Around 7:30 on Monday morning, my cell phone rang, and because I couldn’t get to it, Roddy picked it up and talked to my sister. They’d missed the plane. They’d missed the plane, and there wasn’t another flight that day. They’d try again Tuesday. I didn't cry, but I'm pretty sure I buried my face in my hands and maybe pulled out some of my hair.

Tuesday was not a good day for a trip to SFO. Tuesday was the day Rod was leaving for the UK for a meeting. Tuesday was the day before our house went on the market. A day I had booked a “staging” service, and had handymen, painters, a cleaning lady, and a babysitter all due at my house around 9 in the morning. Suffice to say it was not good news.

We still had our passport appointment to keep, so we arrived promptly at 10:30am and spent 2 full hours standing around, waiting to be seen for our “appointment.” We were finally called to window where the guy behind the glass checked our paperwork and told us to return after 3:30 and pick up the passport. At 3:30, when we returned, I expected to wait in line at the “will-call” window, but I did not expect that I WOULD NOT BE ABLE TO GET IN THE LOBBY OF THE BUILDING BECAUSE IT WAS PACKED WITH PEOPLE. Seriously. It was unbelievable. I waited an hour in the lobby, and then another hour in the line upstairs before finally picking up Marlee’s passport. Holy Fucking Grail, we  didn't get home until 9.

Say Goodbye

Zena  Originally uploaded by texasgurl.

Yesterday my husband delivered my dog, Zena, and my cat, Kitty Potter, to my sister in Texas. We want to take Zena with us to London, but we don’t yet know where we’ll be living, or what our lives will be like there, and so we decided that it would be best for her to stay with my sister until we can send for her. And there is, of course, the possibility that we can’t send for her for a long time.

During the days and weeks before he took her I found myself drawing away from her, trying not to look at her, trying not to think about what we were doing to her, trying not to imagine what it would be like for her to be lifted away and plopped down in a strange place without her family. And then last night Rod loaded her up in the car and she was gone.

Sister, the cat that we’re keeping here and sending for as soon as we can, was stalking around—in through the front door, out the back door, searching for her friends. She sat in the kitchen window where Kitty Potter goes in and out, inspected the linen closet where Kitty Potter likes to hide. I realized that I had—in essence—killed Sister’s animal family. They were gone. She might never see them again. I straightened up the kitchen and found a canister of dog biscuits I’d forgotten about, accusing me. I didn’t need those anymore. I never fed those biscuits to my good, good dog, who surely deserved them.

After the kids were asleep I kept getting up to check the doors and get a drink and turn out the living room light and each time I walked through the house I felt their absence. No Kitty Potter at the window, no Zena sighing in hallway, guarding the front door. I saw my reflection move in the backdoor glass, and for a moment, I needed to let Zena inside, and then I remembered she was gone from this house, and would never be back here with us again. And my heart squeezed.

It was so far, the most difficult day of this move.

The Offer Is In

Day 20/365 Just Hanging Out On the Piano In My Red Boots
Originally uploaded by texasgurl.

So, Rod’s offer came in Friday and we are in high-gear this weekend plotting, planning, researching. We renewed and applied for the kids’ passports on Friday and Saturday, we met with a moving consultant for an estimate Sunday, and I’m in the midst of a craigslist/e-bay project photographing and our largest and most cumbersome possessions and valuables for sale. We will have to store some things. There’s no getting around that. But ideally, I’d like to store only what we might send for later, or stuff that we’ll be really glad to see once we return home. I don’t want to pay $200 per month to fill a storage unit with crap that I’ll ultimately never need again.

Sigh. But what about the piano, for instance? I love it for no good reason--no one in the family plays, and I sure as hell won’t be shipping a piano to England. There’s really no reason to store it if I can get a decent price for it. But somehow, even though I don’t play, I just love the piano. I love the way it looks, and I love having it in the house, love it when the kids bang on it, love it when the house is quiet and the cat jumps up and traipses across the keys. I’m not sure I can part with it permanently.

But honestly, I know I don’t need all this stuff. And I would like to get by with less. Seems very Zen, very clean and liberating. I like Spartan environments; I’ve just never lived in one.

Are we moving?

Here’s what this is about: we’re moving to London. My husband and I have wanted to live outside the U.S. since before we got married nine years ago, but each time an international opportunity came up for us, it wasn’t quite right. Over the years, he’s courted international executives in his company, expressing interest, stopping by their offices, having coffee and dinner and lunch with them during annual meetings. It’s all amounted to little more than keeping the dream (barely) alive.

Then, a little less than two weeks ago, Rod got an email from someone way up his corporate ladder suggesting he apply for an opening in their London office. I paid only a little attention, thinking it would be something like it’s been before: a ray of hope, a bit of talk, and back to life as usual. But when he came into the kitchen after talking to his potential London supervisor for over an hour he said, “I think I could have this job if we want it.”

Things have been pretty hectic since then. We were all over the phone and email with London over the weekend, working out a timeline that would have us moving around the middle of June, and Rod traveling between California and the UK a couple of times between now and then. We’ve made lists of all the things we know we have to do, dispose of, store and sell before we could leave. We’ve laid out a three-year budget that would hopefully allow us to make the most of this experience. I’m not sleeping well at night.

Rod had his second interview yesterday, and we should hear something later this week or early next week. At this point it will be fairly surprising if he doesn’t get the offer. Then we’ll have to make a final decision, of course. If the offer comes in, I think we’re going to do it—and then I probably won’t be sleeping at all.