I emailed the park when we got back home, and they told me they would file a report with the Lost and Found office. I wasn’t very hopeful. It’s a really big park. But then I checked the mail today and this was there:

Hooray, I thought. My camera case has come home. But here’s where it gets kooky. My Lost and Found report included “a black camera case containing a yellow memory card adaptor and spare camera battery.” I opened the bag, and here’s what I found:

A black camera case, indeed

I rummage through this camera case, and guess what I find:

A yellow memory card adaptor

and

A spare camera battery, no doubt

Those folks in the Lost and Found department must have high fived and stamped that easy peasy case closed. However, THAT IS NOT MY CRAP. That is not my black camera case, that is not my yellow memory card adaptor, and that is not my spare camera battery. Somebody was running around out there in the Shenandoah Valley National Park snapping pictures where I was snapping pictures, admiring all the same overlooks that I was admiring, and basically living my life. Cuh-reepy. So I called up the L&F office and kindly asked them to stop archiving my file and reignite the search for the black camera case that belongs to me. Not my weekend-copying life thief.

I just can’t help but think how great a “how we met” love story this little tale would make. If I weren’t married. And if the other black camera case belonged to a dude. That was at least 5’10″. And wasn’t listening to country music while driving the Skyline. Or wearing tube socks.   

Ok, forget it. Just find my camera case.

Why religious freedom has to mean religious freedom.

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.

2. You spell things phonetically, not correctly.

3. You shrug absentmindedly when I quote Dumb and Dumber, instead of following up with the next line.

4. You don’t know what “unfortch” or “whatevs” mean.

5. You expect me to wear make up or pants, even if I’m not at work or church.

6. You won’t let me grip your wrist for the entire duration of a plane trip. Or you to attempt to have any sort of conversation during said flight.

7. You’ve only seen Jurassic Park 15 times or less. Or, God help your soul, you haven’t seen it.

8. You own a cat.

9. You correct my sarcasm.

10. You decide to learn a new song on your guitar during Shark Week. Cough. Cough.

In the past six months I haven’t once tried to pretend that I’ve settled in. A nameless but very distinct discomfort aches on my chest always. Behind the laughter and hospitality of new friends exists a quiet, infinite yearning for the old, the familiar. The missing never ends, and even with new journeys and new destinations, the desire to ease back into an effortless flow is intoxicating. It’s so very difficult to feel like, to act like “myself” among places and faces that have never been a part of me.

 But to run would be easy. And unfair to my husband, who has worked tirelessly to provide us with this adventure. So I am committed. Still sad sometimes, or lots of times. Still crafting the dream of returning to street names I’ve known since childhood. But for now, I’m staying. I’m trusting in the process. I’m looking for the beauty in the scary steps and hopeful for the picture they will soon create, one that rests on years of seeing around the corner and thrives on these times of necessary uncertainty.

***

And let’s be honest, there are exciting things about change. Like when you get to move out of your dorm of an apartment into a charming, three bedroom house with hardwood floors and a giant backyard. That’s kind of awesome. And buying your first real, grown up sofa. That’s fun, too. Especially when it’s red. It’s also a thrill to explore the river that surrounds your city. But only if you’re doing it on a jet ski.

The whole process is entertaining: the other patrons are thoroughly amusing (did you know postal workers stop by the tanning salon in the middle of their shifts to help even out that wicked farmer tan?!), the girls working there have morphed a little more from tan to really tan to a whole new ethnicity every time I see them, and the icing on the cake is standing completely naked for ten minutes in a private room waiting for the Mystic booth to pre-heat. With a full length mirror on the wall. What would you do with that time? I’ve  thought of several ways to pass the time, some that I learned from America’s Next Top Model. The room isn’t huge, but it makes for at least three steps on my imaginary catwalk. Miss J would be really, really proud. Or horrified. Like the good former personal trainer that I am, I also sneak some exercise into my day. There’s naked calf raises, naked oblique bends, naked push ups, and even naked standing crunches, which I totally made up and am almost positive are entirely pointless. It’s a great chance to try out different hairstyles and determine which look suits you best naked. Because that’s applicable to everyone’s real life, right?

If I don’t get too distracted by naked charades, I can be in and out in less than a half hour. Clayton’s a big fan, except for the first twenty-four hours when he won’t come within five feet of me because the mist spells like cat pee while it’s soaking in. Minor detail.

Whatever you do to kick off the season, I hope you’re as pleased as I am and maybe a little more clothed. Happy summer!

Me and My Mouse-Killing Hero on Memorial Day

I'm learning we'll do scary things if there's a trusted pair of arms waiting for us in the water.

Whatever reaction you’re imagining, I probably handled it much worse. The next half hour was spent drilling imaginary holes through the oven with my laser stare that I refused to remove from the exact spot where I last saw the mouse. I had the very logical reasoning that if I didn’t move, neither would little mouseketeer. At the same time, I tried to stuff my knees farther and farther into my esophagus to keep my toes as far as possible from the floor. Because mice will chew off your toenails. I’m pretty sure I read that somewhere.

My darling hero of a husband cleaned out the pot drawer underneath the stove and cleared out all the lower cabinets just to prove his theory that the mouse was no longer under the stove but had escaped back into the hidden mouse kingdom he’s been maintaining behind our walls. He appeared to be right, even though I HADN’T STOPPED LOOKING AT THE SPOT. Clayton put on a brave face, but I saw the way he stayed up on his toes, ready to hurdle the kitchen counter if necessary. No one likes a mouse. In their house.

So, we made a midnight trip to Wal-Mart and stocked up on several different kinds of mouse traps. For two people with a combined three and a half college degrees, that was one of the most confusing experiences of our lives. I don’t know if it’s a tribute to the endless supply of American consumerism or a scary indication of how sadistic we can be, but there were like 17 different options to kill a mouse. You can poison them, trap them on a sticky mat, capture them in a disc, or simply lure them with peanut butter and break their neck. We went with the peanut butter.

Our first stop the next morning was the front office of our apartment complex. As horrified as the office worker was, she said the earliest anyone could treat our apartment would be the following Friday. A week to live with a mouse in our house. We complained and called during the week, but the pest guy still didn’t show up until Friday. And my calves were looking better than they ever have from walking around for 7 straight days on my toes. The “professional” pest control technician put down traps with the sticky mat about three inches away from the traps we had already placed around the apartment. Good work, team. And then we learned another valuable lesson about catching mice: you can’t. You put out your peanut butter, and you wait. Every morning you have to peak with one eye into the cracks and corners where the traps are set, partly hoping the little bugger will be in there and also, as a general life rule,  not really wanting to see a dead rodent. So the traps had been out for a few days and we’d begun to live life normally again, almost walking flat-footed, albeit a bit more conscious of falling asleep with leftovers scattered around the kitchen.

And then Tuesday night I heard a very unsettling noise coming from the kitchen. Under the stove. Clayton had fallen asleep on the couch, and I was working on an assignment for class. I didn’t want to wake Clayton up for nothing, so I tiptoed to the kitchen counter, staying as far away from the stove as I possibly could while still being able to see around the corner. Nothing. About 45 minutes later, I heard the pots shift again, and then I heard the snap. It was muffled, and I wasn’t exactly sure, but deep down I think I knew what had just happened to Mr. Whiskerfritz. I peeked around the corner again, just to say I’d done it, but I didn’t come even close to touching anything in that kitchen. I hated to wake Clayton up, so I finished my assignment and waited to see if I would wake from this kooky, totally-foreign-to-a-Floridian dream. No such luck. I gave Clayton a little shake and tried to explain to his half-asleep mind what I thought had happened. And my husband came through yet again. And I didn’t question his sanity for doing it barefoot. Again. He went to the kitchen and looked in the traps next to the refrigerator, but they were clear. He pulled out the pot drawer for the second time, and our problem was solved. In a peanut butter trap. Furry butt up in the air. The next half hour became a sitcom-worthy scenario of trying to figure out how to dispose of little Fievel. Eventually he made it to the dumpster, along with one of our yellow latex cleaning gloves, and my feet made it back down to the floor after my hamstrings started to cramp from an hour of constant flexing.

At this point, I’m telling myself we had a mouse problem, not a mice problem, so that I can sleep at night. But just to be sure, that trap by the head of my bed is staying put.

1. You look pale. Put on some blush and lip gloss.

2. Don’t let people boss you around. Stand up for yourself, or I’ll do it for you.

3. You can be anything you could possible imagine being. If you don’t do incredible things, I will be disappointed because I know what you’re capable of. But I will love you with all my heart no matter what.

4. Wear your hair down.

5. You are blessed beyond measure. Smile more.

6. People need you to show that you love them. What may be out of your comfort zone could mean the world to someone else.

7. Take care of your teeth.

8. You don’t have to like everything your family does, but you must respect and cherish the irreplaceable bonds we share.

9. Clean up after yourself when you’re someone’s guest.

10. Above all else, being a mother defines your life.