"That's what I miss ..."

Once the pleasantries were over, that's what they kept returning to.

My girl and I were sitting in the booth behind them at Panera for two hours. My daughter had her headphones in, her attention buried in homework. All I had to do was busywork, so I did what I suspect every novelist does: I eavesdropped.

I couldn't see her and only the back of his head, his white hair carefully oiled and combed.

They talked about what they liked to do (movies, yes, bars, no), their past careers (both looked to be past 65), their families. How loved ones had died.

That's why she chose him on the dating website, she said. Because he'd been married a long time, and his wife had died. She thought that made him safer, that he's understand what she'd been through.

This was her first online date.

They both referred to "my husband" and "my wife" without irony or awkwardness. The part that crushed me and lifted me up was when they would be in the middle of a story and laugh and say, "You know, that's what I miss, laughing with someone." And the other would agree, and then they'd go on.

They went on for two hours and I kept glancing at the back of his head and being so happy for both of them, especially in the end when she asked him to please contact her again. They stood, and I finally saw them: her, a cheery looking white woman with bright lipstick and him, a tall white man with a plaid button-down shirt and skin that spoke of outside work. They hugged.

What courage it takes at any age to put ourselves out there, to meet someone new. With my husband traveling for work every week, I find myself vacillating between not leaving the house and making unnecessary and awkward conversation with strangers in public places.

My daughter finished her homework and my laptop battery died shortly after the older couple left, but I couldn't help but feel witnessing their encounter was the most important part of my day.

To be reminded, that in the end, what you miss about people is just the comfort of their steady presence looking out for you.

We have had the hermit crab twins, Charlie and Sebastian, since the little angel turned two. Never in a million years did I think they would live so long. Guess what? If you take care of your hermit crabs properly, they can live up to 40 years in captivity, with an average lifespan of 15 years. Charlie and Sebastian are at least eight and a half. Lord help me, these crabs may live to see the little angel graduate from high school.

Unless the mites get them first.

I have noticed the mites before, but I didn't realize they are such a big deal. Apparently, left unchecked, they can kill the crabs. This week the little angel and I have noticed Charlie coming out and attempting to scale his way out of the tank when we are in her playroom doing homework. Charlie is not shy, but this is new behavior. I felt kind of bad for a while, like maybe he wanted to run free. I even had an entire inner monologue with him about how he was too far from a temperate zone and even if I released him into the lake he would be toast in a month. 

I know, I know.

I just went over to Beloved and made a plea for a vigourous scrubbing and hermit crab bathing session this evening. He rolled his eyes and said we need new substrate and I bought the wrong kind last time. This does not surprise me, because no matter what I buy on my own, from ripe avocados to hermit substrate to gym socks, I buy the wrong kind in his opinion. It is a running joke. It used to really stress me out, this buying of the wrong kind, then I realized, well, if he is really concerned, he will do his own damn shopping. It is not like his legs are broken. 

This is the key to a lasting marriage.

Anyway, I kept poking at him and whining about our duties as hermit crab guardians (something I take more seriously every year these crazy huge bastards hang on) and so he has promised to buy new hermit crab whatever so we can SAVE THE CRABS FROM THE MITE ARMY this very evening.

I only hope we're not too late.

In the past week or so I've written on BlogHer about Gwyneth Paltrow telling us it's harder to be a movie-star parent than an office-worker parent, things you'll miss while spring cleaning, why I really didn't like The Muppets Most Wanted, whether I'd save Beloved or the little angel if they were both hanging off a cliff, and what Fred Phelps saw when he died -- but by far the best comment I got this week was on a post I wrote about struggling with Beloved's travel.

The post was shared on BlogHer's Facebook page and the comment appeared there and got pulled over to BlogHer via Livefyre. When I went to read it, I realized the commenter probably didn't realize I've worked full-time for BlogHer since 2009. But still. Hilarious. Scroll down. 

The funeral is today. I don't know what to say, so I'm just going to quote my sister-in-law, Lynn.

I am ONE LUCKY GIRL to have had the best father-in-law in the world. This evening, Leon's dad Bob passed away peacefully after a long, brave battle against COPD. Bob never missed a chance to give his advice or share his outlook on life, make us laugh with his awesomely smart ass comments and fatten us up with his homemade chili, caramels and shakes. He was a great husband, dad and grandpa. I am so fortunate to have known him.

Bob leaves behind eight kids and sixteen grandkids, as well as a faithful and amazing wife. We'll miss the old man. 

Beloved and I got gift cards for Christmas from my parents. I dragged Beloved and the little angel into Old Navy at the mall last weekend to see if I could get a pair of skinny jeans that didn't make me look like sausage links (found some, thank you sweetheart cut). Beloved was shocked I would even try to put something from Old Navy on my body because y'all, we are old. Then Beloved insisted we go mall-walking, because the only time we go in the mall is to take the little angel to blow all her Hoggin Craft money on her burgeoning Build-a-Bear collection. 

Around the mall we went, peering in store windows. Finally, we walked out through Sears. We always park by Sears. Nobody is ever in Sears.

"What is with all this slim-fit men's clothing?" Beloved finally said. "Straight pants, slim-fit shirts? What the hell?"

I stopped walking and looked at him. He was totally serious. He was PUT OUT by the slim-fit.

I started laughing. 

BECAUSE NOW HE KNOWS WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE A WOMAN IN ANY STORE, EVER.

First, there was rain. From my bed, it sounded nice and dreamy, the kind of rain that makes you want to record it for posterity and secure your mosquito nets as you drift back off to sleep on a peaceful Carribean island. Near a waterfall. And interesting birds. 

Since we've been in Chateau Travolta for six years and haven't had water in the basement since that fateful first week, it didn't occur to me to check the basement for water until the little angel and I had donned our swimsuits to avoid the torrential rain at the local rec center pool. Beloved, unfortunately, caught us before we escaped with the news that Hoggin Craft had flooded and Tiny was a casualty. 

We crashed down the stairs to find two inches of water in the Hoggin Craft headquarters. Tiny was indeed soaked in a way only a giant stuffed gorilla can be soaked, and that is a way in which soaked is soaked and don't even think about keeping him because BLACK MOLD IS REAL. I asked Beloved if we could stick Tiny in the basement shower to drain while we cleaned up the mess. No, we could not, he said, because Tiny is too damn big to fit in a shower for humans.

Farewell, Tiny. I can only imagine your trip to the landfill.

We mopped up the muck and threw the rest of the stuffed animals that were stored in Hoggin Craft (in case of a tornado, extra stuffed animals are required to live in Hoggin Craft full-time by the little angel) were in the washer. Only two hours remained before the indoor pool closed, so Beloved excused the little angel and me, but our joy was short-lived, because an hour or so later, I got a text from Beloved: 

Borrowed ladder. Will need you to hold it when you get home so I can blow out the gutters.

Oh, yay! Can we please spend the rest of our day off from work cleaning out gutters after vacuuming up four bathtubs' worth of water?

Our roof is quite tall. I really hate seeing anyone on very tall ladders, least of all someone to whom I'm related by blood or marriage. But no, we had to do it, and I knew we had to do it, but I very much did not want to do it, anyway. Alas.

Minutes later, there I found myself, holding a ladder, while my husband used a leafblower tied to an extension pole to blow water, dead leaves and helicopters out of the gutter and on to ... me. It was like some unique form of Nickoledean-sponsored torture to close my eyes and grimace as I was spattered with rotting, muddy tree matter as neighbors frolicked about in the sunshine, enjoying their Memorial Days and pretending like they weren't listening to me squawk as I was pelted with feculent foliage.

After the little angel went to bed, we had this conversation.

Beloved: "We're going to have to do that every spring if we don't want more water in the basement, you know."

Me: "I know. I hate ladders."

Beloved: "Maybe we should get those gutter covers."

Me: "That sounds like the least fun way to spend thousands of dollars I can think of. Except maybe mudjacking."

Beloved: (.)

Me: "I am so bored by this conversation I can't even believe I'm continuing to talk."

Adulthood, huzzah!

We're doing some stuff to the kitchen in Chateau Travolta. I know, we've been doing stuff to it for the past five years, but this time, it's personal. As such, I have over half of the stuff that was in our cupboards sitting in tubs in my office, where I work. This is a little like working in the back storage area of Goodwill. As someone who gets anxious with too much clutter, I've found it's important to not look backwards, much as a mountain climber should not look down.

As I was taking the stuff out of the drawers and cupboards, I was tempted to donate more than half of it. We've been working from about one-fourth of our normal stash of tableware, and except that it's not the cute stuff, I've barely noticed. Beloved and I are of different minds about kitchenware.

I'm a slash-and-burn minimalist about pretty much everything but books. He's a yes-we-do-need-to-keep-eight-Pyrex-bowls type. If I let him have his way, he'd have at least twenty more one-use kitchen appliances than we have. I question the need for even a waffle iron. We have a waffle iron, and also a milkshake maker. (!)

Today I was reading Tanis Miller's ode to Tupperware, and I thought how funny our relationships to our food preparation and storage accouterments are. I fear many of my cupboards, because things have a tendency of falling on my head -- PARTICULARLY TUPPERWARE. And also, occasionally, chocolate chips, because all the baking stuff is stuffed into one tiny upper cupboard. I live in fear of the day the open baking soda box will submit to gravity.

Does one need eight Pyrex bowls? Am I alone in my disdain for 32 drinking glasses?

My parents and sister were down last weekend. Right before they left, my mom looked at me and said, "You seem happy." And she's right -- I am happy fairly consistently right now.

I would say I'm in a good place, only I no longer believe in good places and bad places, only places. One might think I'm happy because my novel just came out, but in actuality, I got totally anxious and angsty when I signed my contract, so good things happening for me professionally don't necessarily translate into good things happening to my mental health. I'm sure that seems ridiculous, but it happens all the time. Look at how many people -- particularly creative people -- fall apart a little right after they get a break. I think change is hard no matter what type of change it is, because it's fucking scary. Putting out a novel means I have to up my game next time, and people will read it and maybe hate it and talk about it -- so many things for my anxiety to grab onto.

I'm actually shocked I'm happy right now. Even though that sounds ridiculous.

Last Saturday I woke up snarly and snarled at Beloved and the little angel before I took her to ballet. As I was sitting there waiting for ballet to be done, I realized how familiar that snarl had felt, how I used to an extremely frequent snarler, and how I had committed to myself and my husband a few years ago to really stop snarling and try to look at the world more optimistically. I'm by nature melancholy, and it's a real effort for me to instantly see the good instead of the bad. However, I've noticed the more I work at it, the easier it is. When I snarled, he responded with, "Why are you yelling at me?" and I didn't know the answer to that question. I think I surprised him because I have not snarled quite like that in so long.

I sat there worrying I'd introduced a new tone into our house that was going to creep back into our lives. I texted him, called him, made sure he knew I didn't mean it and wanted to start the day again. And then we did, and my family showed up, and my mother's takeaway is that I seem happy.

I've learned to work toward happy. I still have mood swings, sometimes very bad ones, but I try not to show my irritability or randomly thrash those around me when my heart beats fast and the hair on the back of my neck stands up for absolutely no reason but my body chemistry. I pray with my daughter, and we talk about the best part of the trip instead of what went wrong, and I pet the cats and wish for the thousandth time I could invent a purring, warm neck wrap to wear around when they aren't available. I try to take advantage of sunny corners the minute I see them, even if it's just for a few minutes. I try to do one thing at a time and give that one thing my full attention.

And even then, sometimes it still doesn't work. Sometimes I find myself deep breathing and staring at the wall without knowing why, and in those times I've learned to ask myself what human need could be met right in that moment that would make me feel better. Am I cold? Am I stiff? Am I thirsty? Am I tired? Would I like some music, less music? Are my clothes itchy?

I tell people I spend as much time managing my anxiety as some people do managing diabetes or asthma. I no longer look at these little breaks as wasting time, because that makes me more anxious, and the faster I can get things under control, the more productive the day will actually be, the more creativity I will be able to bring to my work. If I am not anxious, I won't foist that tone on my household.

And so when my mother told me I seemed happy, I actually took it as a compliment more than an observation. I haven't always been a happy person, but I'm working toward that. I want to be a happy old person one of these days.

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• The Obvious Game review and giveaway on What If No One's Watching?
• The Obvious Game excerpt and giveaway on A Dream Within a Dream
• The Obvious Game excerpt on Book Maven's Picks
• Interview on I Like These Books
• Review on author Kelly Hashway's blog

Today my interview with my publisher is up on their website, InkSpell Publishing.

My favorite part of the interview is the reveal of THE OBVIOUS GAME playlist. The chapter titles are actually all album titles from the late eighties and early nineties for no reason other than it's my book and I wanted to and the novel is set in 1990 and nobody ever either a) figured out they were album titles or b) told me that was hokey and ridiculous and I had to take it out. I haven't actually pulled this playlist together on iTunes yet, but dammit, I should do that.

The Obvious Game Playlist

Chapter 1: Pride by White Lion (1987) – When the Children Cry

Chapter 2: Appetite for Destruction by Guns N’ Roses (1987) – Welcome to the Jungle

Chapter 3: Scarecrow by John Mellencamp (1985) – Small Town

Chapter 4: True Colors by Cyndi Lauper (1986) – True Colors

Chapter 5: Can’t Hold Back by Eddie Money (1986) – Take Me Home Tonight

Chapter 6: Hysteria by Def Leppard (1987) – Hysteria

Chapter 7: Nothing’s Shocking by Jane’s Addiction (1988) – Jane Says

Chapter 8: Just Like the First Time by Freddie Jackson (1986) – Have You Ever Loved Somebody

Chapter 9: Use Your Illusion by Guns N’Roses (1991) – November Rain

Chapter 10: Bat Out of Hell by Meatloaf (1977) – Bat Out of Hell

Chapter 11: Head Games by Foreigner (1979) – Dirty White Boy

Chapter 12: Faith by George Michael (1987) – Monkey

Chapter 13: Cuts Like a Knife by Bryan Adams (1983) – Straight From the Heart

Chapter 14: Double Vision by Foreigner (1978) – Hot Blooded

Chapter 15: Disintegration by The Cure (1989) – Fascination Street

Chapter 16: Poison by Bell Biv DeVoe (1990) – Poison

Chapter 17: Achtung Baby by U2 (1991) -- Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses?

Chapter 18: Nevermind by Nirvana (1991) – Smells Like Teen Spirit

Chapter 19: Listen Without Prejudice by George Michael (1990) – Something to Save

Chapter 20: Out of Time by R.E.M. (1991) – Losing My Religion

Chapter 21: The Way It Is by Bruce Hornsby (1986) –  Mandolin Rain

Chapter 22: Infected by The The (1986) – Out of the Blue (Into the Fire)

Chapter 23: Strange Fire by Indigo Girls (1989) – Strange Fire

Chapter 24: Little Earthquakes by Tori Amos (1992) -- China

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I put a three-book giveaway on Goodreads. If you use Goodreads, go enter! And if you don't use Goodreads, consider using Goodreads, because it's such a great way to discover new authors. And friend me there so I can see what you like. I think my username is Rita Arens.

Goodreads Book Giveaway

The Obvious Game

by Rita Arens

Giveaway ends February 05, 2013.

See the giveaway detailsat Goodreads.

Enter to win

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And, I've been writing a ton on BlogHer and forgetting to tell you about it. I bet you won't spot the theme!

• Marriage and Relationships During Unemployment
• Is Your House Above Average?
• I'm Doing the 52-Week Money Challenge
• Tips for Living on One Income During Unemployment