On Summer

This whole experience of moving has come with a seemingly endless well of firsts. And I’m talking in just the last three hours there has been a growing list. Like right now, it’s almost 1AM and I’m just now using the office in our “new” house specifically for writing. It’s intended purpose from the start. Feels pretty good. It might feel better if the sudden kick into the blogosphere wasn’t the result of “To Catch a Predator”-induced insomnia. Seriously, why is that show on television? To reduce overpopulation by changing the minds of potentially potential parents? To help socially uneasy twenty-somethings begin accusing every city workman or grocery clerk or emergency room doctor of sending IMs of their hoo-hoos to 13-year olds? Well, mission accomplished, Chris Hansen. Now get your cameras out of my neighbor’s kitchen.

Beyond that, life has been pretty good to us this summer. We moved into a three bedroom rental house that is old enough to be charming but updated enough to keep us hot, cold, and cleansed at all the right times. (Once we figured out that we had to turn the gas on for hot water, of course. Raise your hand if you grew up in Florida where heaters were installed just for the irony.) I’ve settled in quickly and (brace for it) happily. I absolutely adore this house and totally understand why people drain their savings and sit on naked floors for months to call something this personal their very own. There are too many perks to name, but the biggies are the safe, tree-filled streets, the huge backyard for Bryson (complete with full size picnic table and working grill left by the previous tenants), the guest bedroom we will guilt our friends and family to use in the next 10 months, and the third bedroom that I got to claim as my office. If picking paint colors and an area rug solely with the purpose of inspiring creativity won’t jump-start a career, then you should probably re-think your goals. This beautiful new-to-me space will not rot away collecting dog hair on my watch.

Which brings me to the fistful of writing projects I came home with after a meeting with my corporate contact last week. I’m too excited to jinx this new wave of work by talking about it. But it certainly forced us to whip this office into working order.

We were also lucky enough to spend two weeks in Florida this July. After a brain freezing circus of figuring out possible logistics, we ended up doing everything Clayton was opposed to: driving the entire way and bringing Bryson. Neither turned out to be disastrous, although we did end up at a vet’s office less than a week into the trip. First was Pace, where we met and smothered our first (and possibly the world’s cutest) nephew, Caden Noa. We babysat twice, and only once did I find myself in a panic that involved a volcanic explosion of murky poo up the back of baby Caden’s diaper and onto my forearm while he lay screaming on the too-small changing pad on the floor while my husband was out walking the dog. I think that scenario was avoided in the future thanks to my quick adaptable learning skills and the DeathCom Level 10 laser stare Clayton received when he came smiling back into the house from his little canine excursion. I’ve come to expect a certain atmosphere at my in-laws’, and the knowing has allowed me to develop an affection for all things I might encounter on a trip to Pace. I can honestly say it was nice to see my family.

We had a pit stop in Tallahassee for Clayton to perform Best Man duties at our good friend’s wedding. Tallahassee was quite a tornado of activity and meet-ups with as many people as we could squeeze in. I can’t describe the warmth of seeing friends after months of a friend drought. Like saying  screw it to the size four skinny jeans and letting it all out in those baggy boot-cut sixes. While popping a Valium.

We ended our trip in Tampa. A place that I fantasized about leaving and now miss like one of my dearest friends. The city I rolled my eyes at when my brother boasted of its perfection and pointed out its unassuming but noticeable skyline. Tampa. I didn’t love her until I left her. Ok, this is sounding way too Nicolas Sparks. So we parked it in Tampa. Clayton could only stay two days before having to fly back to Virginia and get back to work. I, however, am surprised I’m not still there, lounging around on a raft in my parents’ pool with Diet Peach Tea and Us Weekly. I can’t say I had my fill of chats with best friends or poolside afternoons or lazy evenings watching a lazy sunset melt into the Bay surrounded by my family. But I did get a fix that should hold me for awhile. A short while. Getting in the car to drive home was made easier because it was no longer the first of the goodbye hugs along this journey, and because I don’t have the capacity for emotion before 5AM. The long drive didn’t feel that long at all, and Bryson and I were back. Just like that. I still don’t really know if I left “home” to come back, or came back “home.” I think I’m still working that out. I guess we’ll see at Christmas.