Miss Tricky Takes Over

Please join the party at www.misstricky.net

Thank you!

There it is, ladies and gentleman. Miss Tricky HQ is once again up and running. The new headquarters is both spacious and centrally located/wine-fridge adjacent. But most importantly it is rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrripe for a makeover! This new command center is functional but FAR from lovely, I know. Luckily, since its cost was budget-friendly (i.e. free from downstairs neighbor) all of my “must buy a desk” funds can be transferred into my new “Beautify the Control Tower” account. I’m thinking retro-eclectic. I’m also thinking I made up that term AND that somewhere Mr. President just blanched at the mention of it. Oh how he loathes my personal style… But I digress, moving on!

 misstricky.net will be up and running in the very near future and methinks redoing this desk will be my first public project.  Onward and upward, my friends!

There have been more than a few bratty-faced temper tantrums rocking my psyche this past week or so. They don’t always creep out into open air but they are present and they are energy-stealing, unproductive crashers at my “let’s remake our lives party” and I want them thrown out. You see, Miss Tricky HQ is undergoing an overhaul; some of it planned and some of it unexpected. We are changing our whole lifestyle and it has been a bit bumpy. Thriladelphia was all about good times, good restaurants, strong drinks and doing pretty much whatever we wanted whenever we wanted to. I drove a Land Rover (gag, I know), had a nanny, spent $250 bucks every 8 weeks on my hair, got pedicures when I felt like it, had dinner out at least twice a week…..your basic self-indulgent consumer orgy. It was an excessive response to the hardship that came before. For the first time since I had my son I felt powerful and free. Did I work crazy long hours? Hell yeah! But I never had to think about what I tossed in my shopping cart at Target or whether or not to pick up the next round and who cared that cigarettes were $7 a pack? I was working and spending and Mr. President was budgeting and saving and things were rocking along just swimmingly. After five or so years of feeling out of control and knowing what  poverty is, I felt like I did when I first started working and could use all that waitressing cash to tell everyone  to go suck it. Money equaled freedom to me. If you catch me in one of my more “princess-y” moments these days I will rhapsodize to you about how perfect and fun it all was and how I miss Philly so much I want to throw up and why can’t it all be just like it was there?!? But that’s not quite true…

Even with 10 years of living and hard lessons learned, I was just as foolish and reckless in Philly as I had been as a teen. I didn’t want to plan or talk about the future or consider anything that might mean I shouldn’t get whatever it was I wanted at that moment. I did not want to sacrifice or cut back or moderate anything- I felt like I had done nothing but sacrifice for years and I was. So. Fucking. Over. It. But there was something missing. I forget sometimes (when I am busy whining about Canada) how much I hated being away from The Spawn all the time. And then I remember how tired I always was, how much I wanted to tuck my son in at night and how far away from my family I felt. I couldn’t find a minute to write or cook or read a book or exercise, and all I ever talked about was being hungry and tired and missing my family. There was a reason I piped up at Christmas and told my beloved that we should pack it all up, give it all up and head home to find a better life. We were tired and unsatisfied no matter how much we consumed. We talked for hours about finding a better quality of life out west; slowing down, cutting back, living simpler and being well. That is why we decided to move here….so why am I having a fit?

On the surface I appear to be having a total princess pity party. I will not be able to work for much longer than we expected and what I thought was going to be a couple month hiatus is now looking like at least a year of single income living. Ooof. Since we are not interested in eating up all of our savings this means a pretty strict budget. In addition, El Presidente’s job (and yes! I know how rad it is that he found one so soon) location lead us to chose a residence in a much more suburban setting. I was hoping and believing we would be in a city. I like cities. I only just got my city legs and I had no interest in giving them up. But cities are pricey and with only one of us working it was time to make sacrifices.  This place is certainly not perfect but the price was right and it has space and a yard for a little boy to run in, and that is the point is it not? I wish I could tell you that I handled these two blows with grace and aplomb. I did not. All I could hear was “New plan! Tricky, you hang out at home out in the burbs with a non-existent entertainment budget!” I couldn’t see anything past my fear of isolation and, above all else, of being trapped. Something about this felt eerily familiar….

For a couple of weeks my feelings on this subject vacillated greatly. There would be days I felt empowered- this is a challenge! I will kick housewifery’s ass if I am going to be forced into it! I will craft! I will cook! I will try my hardest to make at home therapy work for my child! I will nest! I will get skinny! I will take pictures! I am woman! Hear me mother-effing ROAR!!! And then there were more and more days that that all just seemed stupid. I want a pedicure and to get my hair done and I am willing to work to get it but I can’t and who really cares if dinner was great and the beds are all made? Who cares what I knitted up this week? Who gives a crap how many trivial things I can pack into my endless free hours spent inside this house? What good does any of this do me? If Mr. President (god forbid) died or left me where would I be? Helpless and dependent in a strange country is where and I highly doubt my collection of knitwear and recipes would help much. And that’s when I figured out what this was really all about…

The scared, dark underbelly of my brain was screaming at me that I was doing it all over again. I got married, I moved and placed mine and my son’s life in someone else’s hands. I had willingly (fuck, it was MY idea!) tied my hands behind my back and put my family’s well being in someone else’s control. Am I retarded? Did I not remember how well that worked out last time? The last time I had eagerly and excitedly attacked the home arts and traded my autonomy in for a family I got a bit burned. You could say, a little, I guess….ahem…This wasn’t about switching back to home hair color and do it yourself pedi’s. It wasn’t about buying less and making more; this was about being petrified of being made a fool of again.

I am sure I thought about these things before we got married and moved far away. I know that I quieted my fears and trusted my choice. This man I married is a good one. And if life happens and we end up broke and hungry I trust him to help fight back and to never give up. And, more importantly, this time I trust myself to keep going if it doesn’t work out. I have honed my “pick yourself up and dust yourself off” skills and will be fine in the face of whatever happens. I knew all these things when I said “I do” and jumped into our current adventure, but being in our new home and unpacking our stuff rattled me again. Mr. President has boxes and boxes of fine things he’s collected over years of living honorably and responsibly and wisely. He has furniture and photographs and clothing to show for all the places he’s been. He has those things because he lives thoughtfully and takes care of the things he treasures. I have hand-me-down Rubbermaid tubs of crap I managed to hang on to. I have cheap, replacement “I need it now, who cares if it won’t last” clothing. I have adolescent artwork and angsty journals and old battered scarves that have been used in lieu of curtains at about a billion apartments. I have mountains of value-less crap. I have whatever could be thrown into a garbage bag as I made my escape and that is all I have because I lived without honor or responsibility or wisdom for years. I live thoughtlessly and take care of nothing which is why I am surrounded by exactly that. How have I lived so many years with nothing to show for it? Am I really ready to build a home when I still haven’t learned the difference between freedom and spending money?

And so I have been nasty. I have bickered and panicked and spent my nights drowning in dreams about my ex. I have felt angry and cheated and embarrassed and small. I have been ridiculous and it is time to turn it around.

Let me preface this piece by telling you that I already hate myself for writing this blog post. I hate myself for even thinking about wanting to write this blog post, so don’t even get me started on how I feel about getting it written and then actually hitting “publish”. But since self-loathing seems to be the theme of life right now, I figured I just roll with in. In for a penny, in for a pound…blah…blah…

I am having more than a small-sized freak out about my appearance these days brought to a head today by all of my “wedding” pictures and a post my blog-idol wrote about bathing suits. I have long believed that I suffer from a touch of body-dysmorphic disorder- although now it seems to be so intense that I can’t tell which way it leans. After a four year bout (hello high school) of eating disorders I finally reached a point where I just stopped looking in mirrors. Intellectually I knew that it was impossible to gain 30 pounds in a night or that anything that fit in a size small could genuinely be 5 feet wide. Unfortunately all I have ever been able to see in a mirror is a huge, grotesque expanse of myself and it makes me feel depressed and terrible. Ergo, I stopped with the mirrors. Sadly, this had an disastrous effect on my wardrobe. Shopping and dressing rooms make me so miserable and panicked that I impulse buy unflattering items or nothing at all. Seriously, you should see my closet. It is bleak. I also stopped allowing my picture to be taken. Too many times beautiful and carefree memories from awesome nights out were forever ruined by seeing images of myself from those occasions on film. In the interest of my mental health I chose to adopt a strict “no photos” policy and a mantra for when mirrors couldn’t be avoided. It went a little something like this: “Deep breath, you do NOT actually look like what you are seeing. Check for wardrobe malfunctions and make-up smudges and stuff in your teeth and then go. Stop looking. Deep breath. You do NOT actually look like what you are seeing. Deep Breath.“ Looking back on my twenties I can sort of objectively identify periods of time when I was far from fat. I missed them. I missed them hiding from cameras and mirrors and believing deep down that I was ugly and huge.

Now, as I approach thirty, things are different. I have no idea what is true or what I really look like anymore. These are the things I KNOW to be true: One; my weight has fluctuated wildly over the past 10 years. Periods of downright skinny-ness seem to coincide with either heavy drug use or complete and total nervous breakdown. Two; when I moved to Pittsburgh after my marriage broke up I was pretty darn small. So small (and stressed and crazy and mid-mental collapse) that, (for the first time since they grew) my breasts were smaller than a DD cup and my menstrual cycle had been absent for over a year. I sure don’t want to be that crazy again but couldn’t I have that size back? Please? Three; a cocktail of meds, depression, the return of hormones and my appetite put me from a size 2/4 to a size 10/12 in a VERY short amount of time. Four; I arrived in Philadelphia as a size 10 or 12 and left a size 8 with an occasional venture into the six rack. Five; I am currently wearing a pair of size 8 Express jeans. Comfortably. All of my Target size medium boy short undies are too big and all of the shirts hanging in my closet range from small to medium in size. Six; I have never felt fatter or uglier in my life. What gives?

Seeing the pictures of me in my wedding dress was like getting slapped in the face with a chunk of my own muffin top. What the?!? When did I get that fat? I didn’t feel that fat that day- am I that fat? Am I just seeing things? Why didn’t anyone tell me I looked like a cow? My hair looks great. My face does too…Is that really what I look like from behind? Is that what I’m shaped like? Has my crazy brain gone in the opposite direction? Do I now see a thinner me than actually exists in the mirror? I didn’t want any pictures taken on our wedding day for exactly this reason. A beautiful day (and party thrown for us by my parents later in Pittsburgh) are now ruined in my crazy head . And the self-loathing spiral continues…

Then this morning (right after reviewing a whole bunch of wedding fete pics) I wandered over to Rebecca’s website and saw the bikini pictures. Ummmmmm…..wha? According to the facts laid out on our blogs, she and I wear the same size clothes. Well how in the fat girl pants can that be possible because, I can assure you, I do NOT look like that in a bikini. Don’t ask me why, but for some reason that sent me down an “I totally hate myself and don’t understand” spiral. I just don’t get it!

A year ago I was, like, TWO pants sizes bigger and never felt this icky. Even in Philly when I ate whatever crap I wanted because I was working 14 hours a day and dropping weight like crazy anyway I didn’t feel that gross. I’m not sure how much I put on between cutting back at work and actually leaving Philadelphia, but I have lost five pounds since April 1^st. Shouldn’t that be making me feel smaller? I mean, I knew I wasn’t perfect. I knew I was out-of-shape and bigger than I wanted to be. I knew that when a size 4 is your goal a size 8 is too big…..but I didn’t feel deformed. Is this stress? Depression about leaving home? PMS? PostMS? The other PMS? Can that really last this long? Have I just been deluded for a couple of years and I really AM Jabba? Too many questions and they are ALL making me feel like a pile of less-than-nothing. Does this happen to other people? Am I the only one locked in this awful death-battle with my body?

Gah! Arg!!! Feck!!!

Perhaps it’s time for the third round of pilates today and a cocktail….

Oooof, it is early! I am up before the sun today because it is moving day! Well, I guess it has sort of been moving day for the past 40 or so days…..but today is the day I actually move IN somewhere, so…..it’s MOVING DAY!! Hooray! I just dropped Mr. President and company off at the ferry and now I just have to sit and twiddle my thumbs until everybody wakes up and the day actually starts. The new nest has been painted, our belongings are being collected and by bedtime tonight everything we own will be in the same building (the one we live in!!) for the first time in well over a month. I’d say that makes for a good Monday…

It has been a long and incredible journey for this little family. 4,341 miles from door to door and each one was facilitated by the generosity and hospitality of friends and family. A wedding celebration in Pittsburgh led to baby parties and live shows in Chicago which turned into a late night with the Vaughns and then a weekend around Aspen. Vegas date nights and cactus gardens morphed into best friend reunions in Seattle and then a ferry ride to a new home and a new life. We had a great time and even managed to not kill each other in the process. I declare the relocation of Miss Tricky HQ an unmitigated success. Boo-ya!

The next couple of days will find me in a frenzy of unpacking and I plan to make one big giant pile of everything I own and then roll around in it while squealing with delight. The handles of the suitcase that I have been living out of since April 1 committed suicide last night and I am going to be delirious with joy when I throw it away this evening. Thanks for all the memories pal, but now that I have a closet again-good riddance! I may also dispose of my road trip clothing….if I never see these 6 shirts again it will be too soon. I’m hoping all my packed clothing will feel brand new again now that I haven’t seen it for so long, and tomorrow’s coffee will be extra delicious when I sip it from my beloved Perry Como mug. Ah…stuff! Lovely, wonderful, blessed stuff!

I’m going to go pace now until it’s time to leave…see you in Victoria!

This is Tudie (tooooo-deeeee). She’s my new car. Well, by “new” I mean the ‘94 Volkswagen Golf that was just sitting around that I got for free. It has been about a billion years since I have had a fun, quirk filled car to drive and I am genuinely enjoying figuring out her little ticks. She’s kind of stinky and she has a hole in one of her seats but those cosmetic issues are easily fixed. Plus, she’s all mine and free so I can decorate her with stickers and patches and dash-décor as much as I want to! Isn’t she cute? Also, she totally has a sunroof- which makes her way cooler than the Volkswagen we brought with us. Speaking of which…I think it’s a rule that if you live in British Columbia you have to drive a Volkswagen. They are EVERYWHERE. We fit right in over here. In fact, we have two. We win.

But the really important reason for this post about Tudie is that I need your help. Friends and loved ones, I need mix tapes!! Not mix cd’s……actual tapes. That’s correct, Tudie has a tape deck. So if any of you have old boom boxes with tape decks that you can actually make a mix tape with, you should get to it immediately!! In the mean time I’ll be scouring truck stop $2 bins for classics…

Last week was NOT a good week. We were facing more than a couple of issues here at Miss Tricky HQ and (as so often happens in life) most of those issues were all versions of the same thing. For the past several years, at many different web addresses, I have written openly about everything I experience. I suspect that I was born without a privacy chip. I genuinely do not believe that anything was ever made easier by not talking about it. I believe that it is better to yell out loud about the things that embarrass you and find a crowd of empathetic people, than to keep quiet for fear of being judged. Up until a few months ago I felt free-no, entitled!- to write unflinchingly about all of my experiences because they were just that. MINE. It was my life, my child, my relationships, my struggles, my, My, MY everything. Things started to change when I met Mr. President. He does have a privacy chip, and despite my constant self-censorship efforts I have more than once talked about something he wishes I wouldn’t have. The past year I have spent trying to work out a solution. For part of that year I was pretty pissy about the whole thing. Being full of things to say and sitting down to write only to realize that everything I wanted to write about was off limits made me grumpy, and in large part, made it impossible to write. Posting was scant because I was pouting. Why write anything at all if you can’t write about what’s important in your life? I wanted to discuss what was happening NOW in my world freely and without reservation and more than once I (very quietly and without him noticing) got angry with El Presidente. Turns out that it wasn’t really Mr. President who was to blame for my writer’s drought, it was that pesky growing-up thing. The blog you all have grown to know and tolerate over the years has been a rather childish and self-absorbed missive. I wrote about everything as it mattered to me because I was the solo star of the show. Even my first marriage and divorce and The Spawn’s babyhood felt like things I was doing alone- they were just a part of my experience. But somewhere along the way that little baby of mine grew into a big boy and seemed so much more like a separate entity than like an extension of myself. While that was happening, a certain relationship I was having turned into a partnership and then a marriage and therefore a phenomenon outside of myself that I only own part of. Basically I grew the hell up and had to start accepting that it isn’t all about just me all the time.

How incredibly annoying.

And wonderful and healthy and right. I have outgrown my old format. I couldn’t post anything regularly because I was sick to death of just rambling about me. I was desperate for a new focus and it was waaaaaay easier and more comfortable to blame Mr. President for censorship than to own up to the fact that I was just tired of hearing myself talk. (Sorry honey. I love you.) Are there events from last week that I think are important and would like to talk about? Sure, but I am starting to think that one of the differences between being a blogger and being a writer is learning to leave some things in your non-digital diary. I have a family now and they get a say in how their life is displayed. Besides, I am a talented writer and will find new and better things to talk about! (Or I will retract this whole post and go back to whining about things by next week. Whichevs.)

All that said, I do need something to write about. Fear not, I have an idea! This move to Canada came with a bonus gift. Namely, anywhere from 6-12 months of nothing to do before I can legally work in this country. I’m looking at it like Clinique free gift time. I mean, would I ever actually purchase the color palette of cosmetics they’ve tucked in that little travel bag? No………………but I’ll be damned if I’m going to throw away some free shit! Would I have chosen this moment to go back to housewifery? Probably not, but here it is and I am determined to make the best out of it. Miss Tricky has a new focus, a new challenge and a new way to fill web space….I have decided to master domesticity. If I’m going to be stuck at home playing house then I am going to be AWESOME at it. What that means to you is a new website launch and a little fumbling around in the beginning as I find my new footing. (What else is new?) Since I still need to find someone I can pay to set up my new digs (blog/web designers please email trickytakesover@gmail.com if you are interested in helping me!!) I will start the new journey here at my beloved PQ Nation. And I will probably still do some whining and blathering. Yay for you. For those of you still reading, thanks for hanging in there this past year. I guess sometimes taking over is a slow and stumbling process….

We are officially homesick. Well, The Spawn is routine-sick and I am autonomy-sick…….but that’s pretty much the same thing, right? The holding pattern we’re hanging out in is starting to wear on the boy and I for sure.  There are about eleventy-billion things I would like to have settled RIGHT NOW!!! Why is it so hard to think of this as a vacation? The Spawn is super clingy and wants to be wrapped around me all day everyday. Normally that would be annoying but I have to admit that I am rather enjoying it. I feel a little lost too, baby boy; let’s hug it out until we feel better?

Change is hard. New countries are hard. I know that everyone jokes about Canada being exactly the same and in a lot of ways it is, but every once in a while you get reminded that it is a whole other country after all. It is subtle but there is a different energy here. The constant sense of urgency, the quest for immediate gratification that is sort of omnipresent from birth in the states is markedly absent here. I have a new self-consciousness here in Canada. I bring with me on every outing a fear that my pushy, right now, move it along American-ness is obvious to everyone and that I am going to be shunned for it. I know that is crazy. Sort of. I suppose I should just accept the fact that sooner or later I am going to be outed as an obnoxious Yankee and find some way to own aspects of that identity. I am impatient; I am in a hurry…..Sigh. I mean LE sigh….

So much of this move feels like the worst parts of my lonelier past. Some mornings feel like bedbound with a newborn in Milwaukee. I get flashbacks of feeling trapped in a house watching everything happen just outside my door. Other mornings feel more like the isolated routine I had in Pittsburgh. It was a little sad, a little cozy but it always felt like I was on an endless loop. I want to wake up in the morning here and have it feel like those first weeks in Philly. I want to feel that free and hopeful and brave again. I miss the me that wasn’t scared and sad. Maybe I am just me-sick?

At the very least this is a beautiful place to be homesick in. Long walks through the neighborhood take us through woods, over streams and end up at beaches. The air is sharp and clean and the sunshine, though rare, is radiant. The Spawn is covered in bruises and scrapes from long days spent outside just like little boys should be, and there is sand in our shoes and shells in my purse.  I’ll get used to it here and it will be home, I’ll get used to it here and it will be home…

I totally forgot to mention in my last post that I am now a non-smoker. See what I did there with the wording? I am not quitting, I am not trying to quit, I am just done smoking. Much like when we moved to Philadelphia it was decided that The Spawn would no longer pull-ups, when we left home and headed out west I declared that I would no longer smoke cigarettes. After one last final booze and smoke blow out with my dear Nerdy Bird I have entered Canada as a non-smoker and only a once in a while drinker. I am reformed, it is decreed, the queen has spoken, blah, blah, blah…. Anyway it’s only been two weeks but I can honestly say I haven’t really thought about it at all and I refuse to acknowledge any nay-saying about it. I. Do. Not. Smoke. The end.

Anydoodles. We hit a few speed bumps today in our moving adventure. There were all anticipated hiccups, but they have left a bad taste in our mouths regardless. First up, the question of cell phones…Canada and U.S. credit reports do not have anything to do with each other. This means that since Mr. President has been gone from the country for a billion years he no longer has credit and that means lame restrictions, deposits and no multiple lines on an account. Since I insist on not being Canadian, that means absolutely nothing other than a pre-paid voice only phone for me until I become a resident and can whore myself to a Virgin mobile rep that he might ignore my complete lack of Canadian credit. Boooooooooooooooooooooooo. And speaking of becoming a resident here….

I think we’re just going to suck it up and hire an immigration lawyer. I am getting the impression that immigrating is a lot like getting divorced. Technically you can do it on your own but it is such a pain in the bootie and there are so many ways in which you could bungle the whole process with a tiny paperwork or phrasing error that everyone just sucks it up and pays for a lawyer to do it right the first time. (Phew! Were those even sentences?) So, since things are complicated with second marriages and mixed families and time is of the essence, hiring a professional is probably our best bet.

Now for the good news! Mr. President’s work-with went well yesterday and we hope to hear about his official interview very soon. It would be awesome to start generating income-in the city we were hoping to live in- so soon and that would mean moving into our own place super soon. My condo/apartment searching looks promising as well. There seem to be several really nice condos for rent right in Victoria in our price range. Thank god for overbuilt downtown properties, no? My god I cannot wait to start moving forward!

Lastly, I have decided to pick up knitting again. Mostly because my friend Kate Bentley makes it look so awesome and easy but also because I have a lot of free time suddenly and need to keep my hands busy. Maybe I’ll work on my little photography habit too. There is an abundance of landscape material up here.

I was going to wait at least a week before writing this first “living in Canada” piece, maybe even longer. I thought it would be better to let some things happen and do some settling in before I started blathering on about my new surroundings. I was totally right. It would be way better if I waited but I am bored stiff and a little lonesome so I’m just going to go ahead and blather. Nah.

We are currently staying in Nanaimo (I think) because Mr. President’s father and stepmom have been kind enough to let us take over their home while we try to find the jobs that will decide for us where exactly we are going to live. By “we” I obviously mean “Mr. President” since my only job as of now is sitting around and waiting. Yes, as a fresh new little immigrant I have to twiddle my thumbs while paperwork is processed before I can even start thinking about working. I have been filling the minutes with apartment searching and trying to find the cheapest iPhone service up here (you don’t even want to know about the data transfer rates in this country) and…well….really I’ve just been playing a lot of Facebook games. It’s not laziness I swear!! The hard truth of this move is that I basically can’t do anything until the husband gets a job. Once he gets a job we will know where to get an apartment. Once we get an apartment we can move all our stuff. Hopefully while all that is happening I will get my permanent resident status so I can apply for The Spawn to get his and then I can start tackling schools and autism services and everything else. Then I will hopefully be able to get a job. Sigh. That’s an awful lot of helpless waiting for me to do. Happily, El Presidente is going to be out all day tomorrow on a work-with/interview thingy for a position in Victoria that he is pretty excited about. Let’s all cross our little fingers that it is super rad and awesome, mmmkay? The sooner things get moving the better people!!!

In other news, we made trips to all of the local grocery stores yesterday on a quest for Spawn friendly gluten/casein-free foods and actually did pretty well. I am strangely delighted by all the French going on up here. Every label is half English and half French so I am having a good time quizzing myself on all that high school French I forgot a lot of bong hits ago. Also awesome? They have Five Alive juice EVERYWHERE! And in multiple flavors!! And the rumors are true, folks. These crazy Canadians call mac and cheese “Kraft Dinner”. Well they don’t just call it that; that is what it says on the box. Naturally I snatched one up and will report on whether or not it tastes different in a few days. Now if only I can get over the prices up here everything will be fine. Canada is not cheap, my friends. If you live in the states I never want to hear you complain about gas prices again. It’s like a 1.06 a litre up here which I have been told is really expensive and I just have to trust that since I have no idea how much a “litre” actually is or how many of them fit into a gallon.

The Spawn is well. He handled the trip brilliantly and has spent the past couple of days outside getting bruised and scraped like little boys should. His new Grandpa is his new favorite toy and he’s been following him around from dawn until dusk and has thoroughly taken over as usual.  Mr. President is off hitting golf balls with his dad right now and seems to be enjoying every minute of being back home.

I’m doing pretty well too. I have met and now adore my in-laws and am trying to settle in and think of this as a vacation and not spaz about having nothing to do. I wonder when I’ll start to get homesick…