Darin and I have been seeing a lot of movies lately, which has surprised the both of us — generally we expect to have a lot of movies available in November and December, but this year it seemed like pickings were sparse. In January, however, things have picked up tremendously. So, in no particular order, some movies we’ve seen recently:

What can I say? I not only take ‘em where I can get ‘em, but I like to memorialize them for those times when I can’t remember anyone saying something like this.

Sophia’s class has a round-robin snack schedule, where every kid is supposed to bring in something for snack time (so that the kids aren’t bouncing off the walls by lunch, I guess). Fruit, cookies, whatever. For Sophia’s turn, I made two lemon loaves from Dorie Greenspan’s Baking: From My Home To Yours.

The teacher told Darin (who walks Sophia in to school in the mornings) that if I’m opening a tea shop or a bed-and-breakfast, she’ll invest. She loves the stuff I make.

Not that I’m planning on doing any such thing. For one thing, currently I use other people’s recipes, and wouldn’t it be kind of cheating to open a bakery using someone else’s stuff? Also, it’s a lot of work that starts around 3am, and I’m just not a 3am kinda gal.

Still: good feeling inside.

Before we had them, Darin opined that our kids’ main mode of communication would be “banter.” And lo:

Earlier this week, I left the kids with Darin so I could go to Playwriting class. I had left some stuff at home for him to make dinner, but rather than do that he took them out to dinner at a local restaurant. The next day, I asked Sophia how Daddy liked dinner.

“Oh, he had a blast,” she said. “By the way? That was sarcasm.”

Just like that.

(Apparently both kids acted up and were cranky and out of control rather than, you know, eating dinner. There is a reason that we don’t go out to dinner if we can’t be at a restaurant by 5:30.)

I am afeared.

I realized today that I have to do some serious work on forgiveness. I don’t forgive and forget. I might forget — as I keep telling everyone these days, I no longer have any short-, long-, or even medium-term memory — but I find it very, very difficult to forgive. I am probably not alone in this inability or unwillingness to forgive. That’s why most of the major religions, including psychiatry, point to it as one of the things you have to do in order to grow. And if it were easy, no one would have to tell you that you have to do it.

I followed a link from a favorite blog to an essay on another blog. That essay was well-written, it spoke to a lot of things on my mind, and since I am always happy to find new blogs I added it to my friends list over on LiveJournal. Then I looked at the name of the person who wrote the blog.

And my first thought was, Goddammit, I am not reading anything by her.

The blog is written by the person who was supposed to buy our house in LA. When I mentioned I was moving, she wrote me within minutes to ask about buying the house. We took care of everything ourselves, because, you know: friend. And with that, we packed up all of our stuff and moved back to the Bay Area. We got installed in the company-paid apartments and got ready to move into our new house.

Then the day we were supposed to close on the house in LA we discovered she had backed out of the deal. Did she call us? No. Did she have her lawyer (who was handling all the paperwork) call us? No. We found out when the title company called us and said, “Where would you like us to return these house keys?”

(My blood pressure is going up just writing about this.)

The purchase of our house here was contingent on the sale of the house down in LA, of course. And without a sold house, the deal up here almost fell through. Almost, because Darin luckily has very trusting (and very wealthy) friends who loaned us the money we needed on the spur of the moment in order to complete the transaction up here, and we managed to get the house in LA sold a few months later. But our move, already stressful enough, was made nearly unbearable. And if this house deal had fallen through, I don’t know what we would have done — housing prices in the rest of California might have leveled out, but they’re still increasing at 10-20% in this area.

But we didn’t have to do anything. Everything turned out all right. We got the house sold. We paid back Darin’s friend with interest. We’ve settled in, we’re happy, we’re in no way affected by what happened.

It’s been four years since we moved, and I’m still furious about what happened. I get angry when I hear her name. I don’t like to watch the TV show she works on because her name’s in the credits. (What the fuck does she do when something goes wrong on the TV show she works on? Does she wait for upper management to somehow find out? I doubt it. That level of incompetence or underhandedness or whatever she reserves for friends.) I heard a snippet of gossip about this person and felt a certain satisfaction that something had gone wrong for her. And I’m not the sort of person who generally feels schadenfreude, because frankly, life’s too damn short.

At least, I thought that was how I thought about things.

Darin puts this out of his mind. We trusted the wrong person, we don’t need to worry about that again, move on. She has her issues to deal with, we have ours, let it go.

I am trying. I want to find compassion and kindness to replace the anger — if for no other reason than to free up the psychic space. But wow: is that hard.

From Otto, we get What I Did Over Christmas Vacation. With gummi bears and tootsie pop rolls.