Last night I gathered with a handful of my closest friends, in real life and on the blog. We ate, we laughed, and as hard as I tried to be joyful and jovial, beneath the deep fried shrimp I couldn’t help thinking about the fact that I won’t be doing this again for a very, very long time.

Holy crap we’re moving to Germany in less than a week and I’m leaving my best friend behind.

I’ve got sisters, but we haven’t lived by each other for years. And while I love to talk to them and my mama multiple times a day, they don’t live down the road. They don’t clean the bathrooms with me, or help me sort the seven piles of dirty laundry I like to keep on hand.

I’m leaving one of the best friends I’ve ever had and it’s freaking me out.

Finding a best friend takes time and careful consideration. It’s not something to jump into and once you’ve got one, losing her is like losing a limb. Seriously, Tricia and I see each other more often than the girls on Sister Wives. Costco, Walmart, Savers–I do all my shopping with an extra set of hands. I tried taking all my kids to Walmart yesterday by myself and I almost left June in the restroom for someone to find. Hey, she doesn’t have a microchip and we’re leaving the continent. Believe me, if you could have seen the tantrum she threw in aisle 4 you would have suggested it.

So here I sit, trying to think of something exciting to say. This is going to be the adventure of a life time and I know there are friends to be made and memories to be had. But frankly, with an eight hour time difference and an ocean between us, my friend is about to enter the twilight zone, where we try to call and visit now and then and hope that in five years we’ve managed to see each other at least once.

I’ve got to be honest, Germany is going to be awesome, but it would be even better if I could take my children’s other mother with me.

In case anyone else wants to ditch their real life and meet up, we’ll be gathering tomorrow at Chuck-A-Rama in Draper, 7:30, for one last hurrah before my move.

Speaking of my move, why did I think I could sail through this experience without feeling anything? I forgot that I might feel sad/frustrated/fat, I forgot that moving away means leaving my best friend and an entire continent of family members who mostly like us.

Right now we’re in the gray area; stuck in a hotel watching the clock tick until next Tuesday when we fly away. This is kind of like waiting for a lean cuisine to cook when you’ve had nothing but celery and herbal tea all day. Longest four minutes ever.

My computer is dead and I’m using the one in the hotel business center. June and her itsy swimsuit are about to converge on the roomful of men in a business conference next door. Since I’m running around in the same type of clothing, going to get her would be less desirable.

*Party with me Tuesday, July 12th at CHUCK-A-RAMA in Draper! Send me an email if you’re interested, regardingannie@gmail.com.

What’s good for the hair is not always good for the soul.

I am blond. Whether nature agrees with me or not, there is only one way I’m happy and that is glow in the dark platinum. Bring on the ruddy skin and split ends, I’ll act as lighthouse any day of the week.

Of all the things I’m going to miss next week when we move to Germany, my darling hair girl, Sierra, is right at the top of my list. She gets me and has managed to make getting a cut and color a delightful, fumigating experience. I always leave with a bounce in my step, feeling sassy and happy. No one fights the frump better than Sierra.

I was all set to have my last hair appointment with her a few days ago when disaster struck. Her adorable little girls came down with a virus and she had to reschedule. Unfortunately for both of us, the virus kept hanging on and I had no choice but to find a last minute replacement.

I found a salon where a girlfriend of mine works and swung by for an emergency appointment. The gal on duty looked to be about my age with super cute hair–two good signs. I took a breath and made the appointment.

Since I’m about to be hairgirl-less, I’ve decided that it’s time to take the platinum down a notch and go back to something more in the honey blond family. It’s darker and I hate that, but it will be manageable.

For those of us who don’t know the in’s and out’s of hair coloring, taking a platinum blond with darkish roots to a medium shade is tricky. This is why I go to someone with plenty of experience; they know how to handle stupid idiot women who get off on bleach fumes.

But when I explained to the new girl that I wanted to go all over with one color, she got confused. I couldn’t understand why she was having such a hard time understanding what I wanted and she finally said, “Look, you’re just really confusing me, I don’t know what you want.” Then she stomped off to the back of the salon and closed the door.

There is nothing worse than putting your most vulnerable feature in the hands of a virtual stranger (a stranger who, I found out later, has only been doing hair FOR TWO WEEKS) only to be told that they have no idea what you want. To make matters worse, she didn’t stick around to talk through it with me.

I am about as vulnerable right now as a souffle in a cold kitchen. My life is in limbo, my kids are all on the verge of panic attacks 24 hours of every day, I’m trying to hold everything together and all I want is a good hair job so I can move to Germany feeling semi-attractive.

I decided that perhaps she wasn’t a good fit and gathered my things to leave. When she finally came back out I told her that I really wasn’t feeling comfortable, but thanked her for her time. She turned around and stomped back into the store room without a word.

I was flustered, frustrated and frightened. But with family pictures looming I felt desperate so I turned to my girlfriend who was working on another client. “Don’t worry,” she said, “If you want to stay I will help her and we’ll get it right, I promise.” I sat back down, and when the girl returned I quickly apologized for my anxiety and asked her if we could start again.

Then she told me off, made me feel like a complete jerk, and grudgingly agreed to do my hair. I, of course, burst into tears and spent the next two hours apologizing and trying to make her feel better about the situation. When she was done, I looked in the mirror and put on the biggest, fakest smile I could muster. My. Hair. Is. Ruined.

Every time I look in the mirror I want to cry. Not only did she get the shade darker (which I tried to tell her before she started), but my hair has streaks of colorless gray running all through it. You know it’s bad when your 8 year old looks at you really seriously and says, “You know, Mom, I saw this stuff on TV that would probably help your hair. Would you like me to go to the store and get it with you?”

The whole experience was draining and upsetting and in hind site, I didn’t have to stay there just to prove that I’m a nice person. And lucky for me the owner is absolutely wonderful and amazing and tomorrow morning I’m going in for a re-do since I can’t live another minute looking this way. I was going to have her whack my hair off but by the time she had unveiled the color, I just wanted to get out of there as fast as possible.

She didn’t take any of my friend’s advice, and she didn’t know what she was doing. Sadly, I found out this morning that this wasn’t the first problem they’ve had with her in the past two weeks and this morning they let her go (for the record, I did not say anything to the owner about this, the other employees did). I sincerely hope she has better luck with her next employer.

Fingers crossed I feel more like myself after tomorrow.

This weekend we made our way back to Utah via Moscow, ID.

For the record, Moscow might be the best small town America has to offer. Good people, amazing scenery, and fantastic eating. With two major universities planted right there in the wheat fields–eight miles and one state line between them–the town is packed with diversity.

Of all the coincidences, Jason’s little brother and his wife got a job transfer up there a few months ago. They recently had their first little baby and we couldn’t resist the extra ten hour drive/two day trip to kill two birds with one stone–kiss the nephew and haunt our past all at the same time.

The past is a funny thing. We look back on our years there with intense feelings of fondness and pain. It was in Moscow that we tried so desperately to get pregnant. Those two years seemed to be the longest I’ve ever experienced, and the resulting baby brought more satisfaction and contentment than anything I can think of. We wanted to see it again from this angle.

We were prepared to be a little sad and nostalgic. The reality is simple; life will never plant us in that fertile soil again and we loved it there. Moscow offers a perfect mix of liberal and conservative lifestyles (hippies and farmers), the perfect weather conditions (so picturesque that the farm land requires no irrigation), and a town filled with mostly happy people. Who wouldn’t want to stake a claim there?

The day we spent driving our kids around to our old dives and places of employment was interesting. Yes, we were happy to visit. Yes, things were mostly as we remembered. But both my husband and I felt like a couple of ghosts, dropping into the Co-Op, spending a few hours at the town pool–everywhere we went looked great, but it was missing that old magic. We felt like interlopers.

It was like the city had gone limp on us. No pulse, no thrill, just a place filled with memories that only he and I share. All our old grad school friends have moved on, and apparently so have we.

Driving by our old duplex was the biggest shock of all. We bought the duplex as an investment; live in one side and rent out the other to help pay the mortgage.

When we bought it the place was thrashed. Jason and I spent hours sweating and slaving and painting and flipping until finally it screamed, “HOME!” Coming from a small studio appartment, the 1000 square feet was positively palatial.

We drove up to the duplex and parked the car in front. I looked around at the knee high grass and crooked house numbers. The house was as vacant as the day we’d pulled out of town in our moving van eight years ago. I slowly stepped out of the car and walked to the front door, cupping my hands to peer in that old, cheerful front window.

Oh my gosh, it was so stinking tiny.

My husband and I just stood there, staring with our mouths hanging open. The front room wasn’t even as big as our basement TV room.

I learned something this weekend. I learned that life is made up of more than streets and houses. It wasn’t just Moscow that we loved, it was living in Moscow as newlyweds, surrounded by friends stranded in our same little life boat, with no one but each other to hang on to. Take out the life lessons and the pain and the laughter and all we had to drive through was a nice piece of scenery.

We’re moving again this week, this time to Germany. As I write this, the packing company is upstairs boxing up my world with brown paper and labeling it with magic markers. Kitchen, Bathroom, Books. My children are sad to leave “the brick house,” afraid they’ll miss their rooms and their hide outs.

But this time I am not afraid. I’m not leaving my life behind here, it’s coming with me. Even if our piddly posessions sink to the bottom of the sea, we’ll all be just fine.

I’m taking my world, all five pieces of it. My husband, myself and our four little babies are all I really need to be content. And like it says on the wall in my kitchen, “Together is our favorite place to be.”

I am so hungry I could eat one of my children.

We all know that moves are stressful. During the past eight years we’ve moved twice. With our last move the government gave us an 11,000 pound household limit; by the time the boxes arrived and my family was settled our weight limit was at 11,024 because Mama couldn’t stay out of the Starburst.

We are approximately 13 days out from making the leap to Germany and I have been in moving limbo for four weeks now (no thanks to vacation and the lack of household items which are currently floating around in the Atlantic somewhere). Two weeks and seven pounds into this nightmare, something had to give.

Enter my irritatingly skinny sisters.

The only thing worse than getting fat is having to do it while hanging around family members who are losing weight faster than popsicles in August. Hey, there is serious magic in calorie counting.

And so, amid all the upheaval, before coming back to Utah I hauled myself and my extra seven pounds onto the wagon, intending to thwart the chubby moving god’s and uncover the skinniest version that I could starve myself into . (When I say starve, I mean deprive myself of sugar and cream sauce and sandwich bread. I am eating like a rabbit.).

Those last 10 (or 17) pounds of baby weight will melt off, right?

It has been two weeks and my children should probably keep their toes away from my mouth. I live for my crumb calorie scrap meals and suck down herbal tea like a wannabe Brit. I’m chomping on veggies and lean meat like a cave man’s wife…

And the scale has not moved since Friday.

Heaven help the pork chop that gets on my bad side, if it wasn’t for the fact that at least I haven’t gained in the last four days I would be snarfing down Oreo cookies right about now.

Well thank goodness the Lord isn’t finished with me yet.

I had something happen this week that really upset me. Considering the fact that this came right smack in the middle of our move to Germany, I was ripe for the Devil’s picking.

For starters, it took a major chunk of brain to organize all 12 bags into something that would make sense for this move. Without organization we would be living out of suitcases double time–twice as much ruffling and messing and dirty undies getting shoved into forgotten pockets.

When I’ve got something on my mind there’s nothing worse than a silent project to act as a big kettle for stewage. The first day of the move, I sat on the floor and folded and rolled…and thought. I thought about the situation, how I felt wronged and bothered and disrespected and–let’s just say it was not a good stimulant where my blood pressure is concerned.

The packing process took three days. For three days I rolled this around in my mind, knowing there wasn’t a real solution within my power. I was like some sort of pressure cooker. Every single time I sat down or stopped visiting with Dan the moving man, this thistle would creep back into my conscious and I’d feel the scowl settle in. My angry wrinkles were getting way too much exercise.

The third night, after the movers had finally boxed their last box and loaded their last crate (it took 14), I found myself alone in the shell of my home. I had a few hours to spare before my girlfriends arrived with buckets and mops, so I went to work repainting.

And then my head began to monologue.

I knew just what I was going to do, what I would say, and exactly how I’d say it. Three days into this and let me tell you, I was a boiling furnace ready to blow a gasket. It was time, I decided, and I was going to say what was on my mind. And when I was through…

And that’s when I heard it. That little voice, in the silence of my home, that quietly whispered, “Or not. Or you could just be happy and grateful and forgive this small error. Who said it was such a big deal, anyway? You have other options, good options. You can be loving, Annie.”

For the record, I don’t usually think in the third person, so when I hear my name used I kind of know it’s a nudge from someone who’s got a better view of things.

My knees were instantly humble and bendy, and it didn’t take long for me to come right around to the Lord’s way of thinking. Such a small thing, and I was so willing to inflate into something else.

I sat there after my prayer and looked around the empty bedroom. The furniture, clothing, toys, pictures of Jesus–all gone. But as quiet as my house was, I wasn’t alone. How very thankful I am that the Spirit didn’t get boxed up with the movers. I have the feeling I’ll be leaning on him heavily in the next few weeks.

Here is the much delayed response to how we got out of town three weeks ago with our new car. It’s this week’s column.

We bought a new family car.

For the past four years I’ve been coasting around in a luxurious Toyota Sequoia, complete with eight seat belts, a power universe, and a kitchen (almost).

But now that we’re jumping the pond to Germany, it’s time to down grade. Last month we sold our beautiful gas hog and have been on the lookout for a Mazda 5. It’s small, easy on the budget, and manages to seat six with seven square inches to spare. Perfect for all those little cobble stone streets.

We found our car on Tuesday. It was supposed to be here Friday so we could pack it up and leave for vacation at 6:00 am Sunday morning.

It took nearly two anxiety-filled days to finally get our car. Gone went Friday, poof went Saturday, then finally at 4:30 on Sunday morning, less than two hours from our scheduled departure, the car rolled into town.

Goodbye schedule, hello crazy town.

You would think that Mr. Prompt and I (usually right on time for almost everything) would be kicking and screaming at the situation we found ourselves in. But instead of tearing each other’s hair out because the schedule went bananas, we both remained impressively cool and collected amid the onslaught of morning punches.

But the fool who drove the car from LA took his wife with him. They casually decided to “stop in Vegas” for the day instead of bringing our bought and paid for car home so we could get packed for our vacation. That same fool put oil in the car, then drove away and left the oil cap in California, crossing four states with oil sloshing all over the engine.

I don’t know this guy, he’s probably nice and probably needed to escape his kids, and maybe the stop in Vegas saved his marriage, but really? Really. Jesus and I can only take so much.

So we picked up our smoking car and tried to start it. The battery was completely dead.

Seven hours and eleven misfit oil caps later we finally found one that fit, replaced the battery, loaded up our luggage topper, strapped in the kids, then drove .8 miles down the road to stop for lunch.

But the best part of this scenario? Despite the all the travel bugs, neither of us yelled, stomped, or lashed out with our feet. We handled the morning like ice skaters–smooth and cool about the whole thing.

(Although the hour it took Jason to install the battery was a little touch and go; we kept a 12 foot cushion between us and him the whole time. Also no one spoke.)

Twelve hours and 37 public restrooms later, here we are basking in the cold June weather of lovely Sun River, Oregon. Our kids are at the movies with their grandparents, Jason is snoring away on the couch next to me (looking cute as all get out–I just might have to disturb him when I’m done here), and I’ve got a bowl of peanut butter M&M’s and a book and you to keep me company.

Life doesn’t get much better than this.

I am really really moving. The packers are here as we speak, boxing up my rooms faster than I can sort through my old video box. This is happening way too fast.

So. Since I am leaving Utah and since this is where I first started blogging, I’m thinking it would be nice to have a little gathering. What I want to know is this: Are there any bloggers out there, those I have met or haven’t met, that might want to hit a Chuck-a-Rama with me in two weeks for a little goodbye get together?

If it’s just going to be me and Kristina, that’s fine, but I would really love to meet some of the women I’ve come to admire and respect on the web, as well as those who don’t blog but think we’d be fast friends in person.

What think you? Want to come feed your face with me? I know a place with a big banquet room…

I love the new Mazda 5.

Honestly, it’s like driving a toy minivan around. It gets good gas mileage, my children think the new Zoom Zoom car is fast and cool, and I feel like I’m driving a metro with a secret compartment for kids, it’s so easy to maneuver.

However, nothing is perfect and there are three things I do not love about this vehicle. The first two I’m stuck with. I really wanted Blue Tooth, and there isn’t much storage space in the back.

I’ve been psyching myself up for the storage space bit, giving myself internal lectures on simplicity and less-crap-living in general. Nothing like a small car to eliminate extra baggage, right?

For the record, most states don’t actually consider children baggage, so I’m out there. Enter complexity and crap.

But the third thing I hated about the car was the lack of tinted windows. Any woman who’s ever driven down the road with a tired baby in the backseat sitting in full sun knows just how miserable it can be.

Also, I would like to be able to run into the post office without anyone snooping in my windows at all the underage cargo strapped in the backseats.*

“Honey,” I said to Jason after the first week with our car, “I have to have tinted windows. Now.”

“As you wish,” he wisely replied.

When we pulled up to the auto body shop the next afternoon, Jason started to head inside.

“I want it as dark as it can possibly be,” I said. “You know, to keep the car cool and stuff.” Stuff like running into the cleaners.

Five minutes later he came out. “They said they could do the windows at a level five.”

“A five? Is that dark enough?” I asked. “Five doesn’t sound very high to me, I want a ten.”

“Sorry babe, he said five was as dark as they could go.”

I sighed and decided to be content. Anything was better than zero.

The next afternoon we picked up the car for the last time. We drove in and immediately got a look at our new pimped out vehicle.

I say pimped out because I was quite sure a gangster was going to open fire on me any second.

It looked like they had taken a can of black spray paint and fogged out all the windows. I approached it slowly and once I got close, put my hands around my eyes and tried to peer in.

I couldn’t see a darn thing.

All I can say is Hello Harrison! Welcome to the wonderful world of vehicular babysitting!

We drove that little baby up to the port in Tacoma that afternoon, said goodbye, and watched the first little piece of our life ship off to Germany.

Holy reality check we’re really moving.

*In the real, non-blog world, mother’s should never, ever leave small children unattended in the car while they run errands, go to the spa, or participate in illicit affairs. In the blog world we sometimes joke about things good mothers would never really do.

A few weeks back my husband sauntered into the kitchen.

“Hey honey,” he said, “Would you mind if I went shooting with my Dad and brothers on Saturday? It’s the last chance I’ll have before moving.”

“No problem,” I said with a smile. “You’re a wonderful father, a darling husband, and you deserve to do whatever you want, whenever you want it.” Okay, that last sentence might not have been said out loud, but we all know it was right there in the “yes you can”.

“And hey,” he said, “Next week for date night I’m going to take you to the range so you can finally learn to handle a gun.”

The week before Saturday was brutal for me. Preschool was out so I was once again plunged into full-time parenting of my three and five-year-olds. They’re usually happy and busy, but major scheduling shifts bring out the very worst behavior in both of them.

By the time Saturday morning arrived I was half packed to run away to Mexico. Mr. Sharp Shooter was up and ready by eight. “Well babe,” he said, “I’ll take Harrison with me to get him out of your hair.”

“Take him where?” I asked.

“Shooting, remember?”

Oh. Right. Shooting on Saturday. And he was going to take the good child with him. Splendid.

“Is that today?” I asked.

“Yeah, you said it was okay–”

“Of course. What time will you be back?”

“Oh,” he said vaguely, “We’ll leave here in a few minutes, probably grab a little lunch after…you know.”

Being the naive wife, I silently assumed that “after lunch” meant “home by one o’clock.”

By four-thirty I was going insane. I had spent my Saturday feeding, ignoring, and being forced to discipline my two middle children, not to mention the teething baby who thought my hip was the only answer to life’s most stressful situations.

When my husband finally rolled in the door around five, I was ready to bolt. I had my purse and keys and wanted nothing more than a moment away from the insanity.

“Here,” I said, handing him the baby.”I’ve got to run down and print something out, then I’m going to hit my errands.” I raced downstairs to finish gathering my things. Within two minutes the baby was screaming.

She cried for ten minutes.

I finally made it back upstairs, my fuse smoking, and found my tuckered out mate sound asleep on the couch.

“Really?” I said, waking him up, “You can’t hear the baby screaming her head off?”

This casual observation led to a slightly heated discussion about schedules and preschoolers and husbands who don’t feel appreciated. As uncharacteristic as it might sound, I remained mostly calm and aloof. I didn’t yell back, I didn’t curse or kick or mimic, I simply let him blow off steam as I gathered up my errands.

He finally slumped down in front of the computer with one last invitation for me to leave (and possibly never return). I decided the best thing to do would be remain cordial, refuse to fight, and quietly escape to the comforts of the mall, followed by the movie theater.

But as I turned to go, I spied his large glass of ice water sitting on the counter in the kitchen. As if in slow motion, I watched my steady hand pick up the ice water, walk behind him, and gently dump the entire contents right. Over. His. Head.

Then I ran like hell to the car and didn’t come home until midnight.

The next morning (after we’d finished with the I’m-sorry-I-love-you speeches) he pulled me in for a hug. “You know,” he said with total sincerity, “I’ve decided it wouldn’t be a good idea for you to learn to shoot after all. I might not survive it.”

Frankly, the man has a point.