Camper to Condo

They say everything is relative. I love Betsy. But Tory has two levels, full closets,  a full sofa, a large screen TV, and the capacity for more than 2 people.

I looked at several places today. Some of them were way more posh than Tory. They had pools, rooftop terraces, hardwood floors, swanky lobbies, access to hip areas, and cool professionals running the show. Tory's 'hood is full of kids, barbeque grills, dogs, horse country, and pizza. One of her guardians includes Claire, a woman who hugged me when I met her because, after only a few email exchanges, she just knew I belonged there.


How do you know when something is the right thing to do?

Because it's easy.

I liked the first apartment they showed me, but I didn't like the idea of having people above me. I was torn, but willing to compromise. Then, when I popped back into Claire's office, she told me that a townhouse had opened up. Same price, same availability, but no neighbors sharing roofs or floors. I'm 10 minutes from my horse, 10 minutes from work, 10 minutes from the metro station. There's a grocery store and restaurants a half block away, a Whole Foods down the road, and a neighborhood of beautiful houses all around me. Easy.

Shout out to my partner in crime, Sarah, for finding this place. It's perfect.

Life is simpler with two piles

How many of you have lived, or are living, without a washer and dryer at your beck and call? I'm guessing there aren't many. I'm at my friend Joelle's house in San Francisco and, as has become my habit, I showed up here (as I do whenever I visit friends these days) with a load of laundry. In this case, I have two. Most of the time, I do my laundry at Gina's. In any of these scenarios, I cannot describe how joyous it feels to me to have clean clothes. I have learned that three piles (darks, colors, and whites) are unnecessary. When you don't have a washer or dryer, you learn to consolidate. Really, whites do just fine alongside gray sweatshirts and orange towels (yes, orange. It's Betsy's (my camper) signature accent color. Don't judge).

My apartment in Virginia will have a washer and dryer. THAT'S luxury. Keep your damned BMWs. I'll take the clean clothes.

Quincy Dan's maladies

I've never had kids. I've had dogs, I even had a cat a couple times, and now I have a horse. Quincy Dan is my 5 year old golden child. Thanks to people who know way more about horses than I do (you know who you are), I know better than to actually TREAT him like a child (most of the time). Still. He had a trauma last Thanksgiving. I was at my mom's in Washington. Gina -- Quincy's and my current landlord and overall wise guardian to us both -- called me around 11 a.m. to tell me that Quincy's leg was stuck out behind him. Stuck. He was dragging it as he sort of walked on the other three legs. Imagine the patella in your knee slipping out and staying there. For the better part of 18 hours. That's what happened to Quincy. It's called "upper fixation of the patella" for anyone taking notes. Nobody could get his leg back into place, but not for lack of trying. I spent Thanksgiving hysterical, calling Gina every couple hours, in google research madness, and convinced that my horse would be lame forever. The vet had said that if the leg didn't pop back in, we were looking at emergency ligament-cutting surgery. My poor mother. I was inconsolable. I cut my trip short and paid the ridiculous change fee to fly back the next day on a 7 a.m. flight. By the grace of God, Quincy somehow put his own leg back into place sometime Thanksgiving night. So, when I got home around noon, he was walking, albeit stiffly. Goodbye bullet-proof horse. Hello rehab. With Gina's help, I began the process. It was going well. Good body work, exercises to build up the right muscles, good stuff. He was feeling good.

Then, I began to think about my very long, 10-day trip across country. The loading and unloading. I thought about Quincy's last trailer loading experience: 30 minutes at the beach where he was, um, "reluctant" to get in. So, I decide that we'll start practicing. Bottom line: we got in and out of the trailer about 10 times. It was at least two times too many. Too much for that hind end. Three days later, his leg got stuck again. Not as bad, and luckily we had a master cranio sacral teacher giving a workshop at the ranch, and she talked Gina through loosening him up enough to get his leg back where it should be. That same teacher gave Quincy a 2 1/2 hour cranio session the next day, which really helped him. That was three days ago.

Yesterday, I went out to turn him out, and his eyes were teary and swollen.

How the hell do you people with kids do it? Was it a virus? A reaction to cranio (which tends to loosen up sinuses)? Whatever. All I knew is that my horse was hurting and now seemed sick on top of it.

These days, I take most things in stride. I take things one at a time. But my horse? He gets hurt and I'm completely undone. He has the sniffles, and I'm convinced he's suffering some incurable disease.

And yet, even with the worry and the fretting, he's the one who makes me feel human. Sure, it's not a kid. But, for me, he may as well be. They say they're farm animals. Most of the time I get that. But when my beautiful boy is sick, I think it's tough to not anthropomorphize. I'll take that criticism.

Quincy is better today, btw. Let's all pray he's healthy and sound on departure day.

28 days until blast off.

One month until blast off

Tomorrow is February 20. Exactly one month before Quincy and I hit the road to Virginia. I’ve decided to record the nine-month journey – for myself and anyone else who apparently has nothing better to do :-)

It’s been a helluva year. I got tenure, separated from my love of 17 years, lost my house, bought a truck/horse trailer/camper, found Jesus (or he found me), felt the agony of having a lame (but-on-the-way-back-to-recovery) horse, and am about to move about as far across the country as I can get.  I’ve learned how to live in about 45 square feet, haul my house along with my horse, and actually fix things instead of calling the repair guy.  Today I drove my truck to “Tractor World,” bought Quincy’s feed and shavings for the road, and felt more at home in my own skin than I ever have.  Easy? No. Good? Yes.

Why am I going? When I’m melting (and dripping) in the DC swamp in July, I want to remember my answers.

I need some new scenery. The tenure process sucked me dry. Remember in “City Slickers” how Billy Crystal’s wife told him to “go find his smile”? I need to go find my professional smile again. I need to do some (differently) tangible work. I need to change a small part of the world with my greatest student-turned-colleague ever, Sarah.  I need new inspiration to publish articles I care about. I need to work for a leader I believe in. And I need separation from … well, my separation.

Because I can. I lost my house this year. I’m in good company with lots of people in the rest of the country. I could cry, mourn, lament. But I can also choose to be grateful that I have an opportunity to be free enough to do this. Once you get over the fear of the loss, and actually lose what you were afraid of letting go, there’s freedom. Loss has its benefits.

My government needs me. Laugh, scoff, salute. Whatever. It’s true. One of my greatest mentors, Dr. Doug Brook, left NPS for awhile a couple years ago to fill a vacancy based on a request from the Secretary of Defense. For the better part of two years, he served as The Assistant Secretary of the Navy for Financial Management, and then had a short stint as the Under Secretary of Defense, Comptroller.  He worked 12-14 hours a day, and he knew that’s what he was signing up for. That’s all interesting in itself, but what’s more interesting is what he said when people asked him why on earth he would leave his groovy academic position, in beautiful Monterey no less, to go back into the Pentagon craziness. I’ll never forget his answer.

“Because my government asked me to.”

That’s patriotism.

I wish I could say that I was as needed as he was. I’m not. But there’s a need that I can fill. So.