Things About Weekends Right Now

Hi guys. It's me. I am at work. One of them. Today I am substituting for the Special Ed teacher, which is kind of like my home away from home, and also my favorite place to substitute in the whole school, because, well, it's easy. The only reason it is easy is because I don't have to do the SPED teacher's actual paperwork. Otherwise I would probably kill myself, or run away screaming. Or both. I feel for you, Bethany. But anyway, my  schedule this weekend looks like this (it would be much more impactful on a spreadsheet, but we all know that my relationship with spreadsheets is a little tremulous):

Friday 

Substitute @ school: 8 AM- 3 PM

Interview in Colville, 37 minutes away: 2:30-3 PM

Waitress @ Mustang: 2:30 PM- 8:30 PM

Help on Ambulance @ Football Game: 6 - 9 PM

Saturday

Waitress @ Mustang: 7:15 AM - 11 AM

Aspen's out of town Basketball game: 12 PM- 4 PM ish

Waitress @ Mustang: 2:30 PM- 8:30 PM

Chaperone Overnight Bonfire Party 20 minutes out of town : 6 PM Sat - 11 AM Sunday

Sunday

Drive Kiz back to work: 7:15 AM

Go home and die (<------ this part is my favorite. I am already planning which sweatpants I will wear)

See how that works out? Yeah, not at all. So, working backwards, the process of elimination. First off the list: what doesn't pay? Oh, yeah, volunteering at the football game. It's fun, I really like it, and since I didn't get fired yesterday during our drill, I am still one of the only two people in town that can  (or will) do it. But that one has to go.

The interview, while it doesn't pay, per se, it has POTENTIAL for eventual payoff, so it has to stay, which means some artful negotiation with BOTH of my bosses to cover that 2/3 hours where I am supposed to be working two jobs. That done successfully, I have just enough time to dash into town, wow the interviewers, pick up two chubs of hamburger for meatloaf dinner Saturday, and make it back in time for the club meeting that is encroaching on our Prime Rib dinner at the Grill.

Then, Aspen's basketball game, obviously doesn't pay, other than the emotional pride-swelling that is customary when watching your 11 year old make her first lay up. Or lay in. Or lay over. Or whatever they do in basketball. Maybe a slam dunk? But either way, it has to go.

Next, the chaperoning. Now, even though I have Children That I Cannot Trust (you know who you are) and as a result don't wish the chaperoning of them on any other adult, again, this is a non-paying and somewhat non-rewarding job, so it will be eliminated except for the hours I am not working, which are the same hours when I should be sleeping. Perhaps this is where I will exert the tremendous influence I have over the high school kids as a substitute teacher and they will all follow me joyfully to an early bedtime. (If you can't hear the sarcasm dripping off of that entire sentence, then it's a good bet that my whole blog is lost on you.)

Pretty much any waitressing hours I can get have to stay, cause they're the money right now. And the teaching stuff too. The teaching stuff is nice because A) it pays a little more hourly, B) I can sit down, C) I can drink coffee slowly out of a big mug, and D) I have time to do this blog unless the principle catches me online. The waitressing stuff is fun because A) my Fitbit One (1) says I can have pie then, B) If I am nice I make more money (sometimes),  C) I can drink coffee out of a small cup quickly, and D) I can usually sneak in a killer bacon/blue cheese/pineapple hamburger patty sometime during my shift.

Really the priorities are fairly cut and dry. I am a little fuzzy on where I am going to fit in sleeping, showering, parenting and Feeling Sorry For Myself, but I am sure it will work out somehow. It always does. Next weekend is shaping up very  similarly, and I feel emotionally prepared. Because, kind of like fire season, you work when there's work. And at any given moment, there could be no work. And somebody has to pay the $25 a month cable bill. At least I don't have to wear Nomex.

Things About Rainy Days

It's pouring. Raining hard. The power was out for 45 minutes, which I slept through, but when it came back on, my iPod lept mysteriously to life and started a random playlist that may be the only bright spot in this day.

A quick phone call told me that the divorce is filed. Three months from now and it will all be over. As if it never happened. Except it did. But it's done. Divorce sucks. It just shouldn't be. It's unnatural, legally tearing yourself away from someone you loved. The rain seems appropriate.

This afternoon we have an EMS drill, a fake car wreck at the highschool with a bunch of different agencies responding. We (Northport First Response) have to look our best and perform at our best. I am not feeling it. The rain. The divorce. All of it. I might be the crabby responder out there telling the fake patients to suck it up. I hope I don't get fired.

Anyway. It's a rainy day, inside and out. And tomorrow will be better. And the playlist helps. But some days are just rainy like that. We have to stand in the rain to appreciate the sunshine.

Things That Are Small

You know how they say "don't sweat the small stuff"? I was thinking about that today, and how it's true. And it's easy to get all wound up about things, that in the scheme of Real Life, are not really big issues. Like if the kids have head lice. Or whether the dogs have fleas. Or if the rug in the hallway is drenched because the toilet flooded again while I was gone and NOONE (this is my newest adopted child) wants to tell me. And it would be REALLY easy to FREAK the HECK out about any of these. Or all of them at once, since that's how they generally come, but really, no amount of freaking out has ever gotten rid of lice. Or anything at all. Other than annoying people. Freaking out at them enough usually does the trick. Not that I have tried. *innocent stare

But if we IGNORE the small stuff, it can get REALLY BIG. Like, you know, lice in the Whole Entire School. Or stuff like that. And also, if we aren't paying attention to the small stuff, we miss some of the best parts of life. Not head lice, or fleas, or toilet floods. But we miss things like how the bathroom air freshener at the Northside Costco smells EXACTLY like a brand new Strawberry Shortcake doll from 1984. Which smells EXACTLY like my birthday.

Or we might not notice that when we walk in to the house and Fun. is blaring on the stereo at 7,000 decibels that it probably means that an 11 year old is doing her Best Job Ever on the dishes. Like 15 minutes scrubbing and drying each Hydroflask lid. The small stuff. Nevermind the pile of crockpots full of applesauce we made with Lofty Intentions for canning last week and forgot about. And the stuck on mashed potato pot. Those lids are SPARKLING. The small things. And Fun. is loud. And it's good. Especially since Aspen probably has no idea what "getting higher than the empire state" in the bathroom really is.

If you weren't paying attention to the small stuff, you might forget that you finally got a flipping HEATED MATTRESS PAD at like 70% off, and that means that even if NOONE brought in pellets for the stove, once again, and your rotator cuff/laboral tear and bulging disk absolutely dictate to you that you sure as HECK ain't doing it, you will still sleep warm tonight. And you might forget that your sheets are tossing all warm and clean in a Brand New Dryer sitting by a Brand New Washer.

Or you might not have read that piece of junk mail that offered you DirectTV for $29.99 a month, and you might not have called and talked to Jared at CenturyLink, who would not only refund all of the overcharges/late charges that were NOT YOUR FAULT, but he'd hook you up with some sweet NFL Sunday Ticket action for $25 a month AND a $50 cash card AND could quite possibly be the love of your life. If only he wasn't married.

If the small stuff didn't matter, then you wouldn't care when a very tiny wiener dog confided in you that Nobody Can Replace You, and also: You Are The Best Mom in the Whole World.

It's because I was foolishly ignoring the small stuff that I left my Fitbit 1 (one) home this morning and now I don't know if I should really be drinking this one glass of wine. Or why in the heck my hip hurts so bad. Not that they need to be sweated, but at least remembered. So you can get credit, and have ice cream and stuff. And ignoring the small stuff led to me not paying attention when Kiz told me that her boyfriend had a high fever and sore throat for three days, and not COMMANDING her to not visit him, to prevent the spread of the plague into our house.

Even though there is some BIG STUFF this week that maybe needs to be sweated, like divorce papers, which are the printed equivalent of a big fat kick in the gut, and double shifts at work, followedimmediately (<---- see how I did that?) by all-nighter at a BOY'S house his birthday for all the older girls, which I will obviously be chaperoning, and figuring out how to deal with teenagers that probably think they got away with "borrowing" the car and driving it sans licenses... all that stuff can, and will be sweated about. Probably through my tear ducts and into my pillow, but there's still the small stuff. There's really loud Fun. when you would have probably played some terrible sad song over and over to go with the continuous rain. The small stuff that doesn't have to be sweated, when you realize that mayonnaise as a lice remedy is also a kick-a** hair conditioner, and all this pestilence equates a Really Clean House (someday), and life is actually really, really good. Because of the small stuff. Heated mattress pads. Wiener dogs. Fun.

(please note: the one minor reference to alcohol in the preceding blog is compensated for in this drink riddled but very happy video. Here's to the small things... Carry On!)

Things About Contentment

If you were to ask the Experts On My Life (i.e. my Mom, sisters, BFFs and Kids) what my deepest, darkest flaw is, other than impulse buying,  I can imagine with little to no hesitation that my standout weakness, and also probably The Only Thing Wrong With Me (ahem) that they would point out is my lack of contentment.

I have been examining this "issue" in my life more closely lately, as fate has given me ample opportunity to do some self examining in recent days. Living without a husband to examine yourself for you creates such windows of time for introspection. Oddly enough, lately I have been more content in my life, even going without certain things, like cable TV and kisses, than I have been at any memorable time in my life. I have been wondering why. And don't really have answers, but I do have some speculation...

The last few days/weeks/months have been a laughable cavalcade of ridiculously bad luck at my house. I am inclined to think that bad luck was one of the many things left behind when HE moved out. I am even more inclined to think that when I hear that maybe HE probably has a new girlfriend, and that HE is now a search and extraction heli-rappeller for the Air Force (do they have those?) and a Keynote Speaker at Events Of Regional Importance, and other almost unbelievable good-lucky things, so perhaps HE left all of HIS bad luck at our house. Which is why we have flesh eating bacterial diseases, fleas, and a myriad of other pestilent diseases, toilet floods, late charges on internet bills that we payed ahead, auto-payed and double payed because they sent our pay-ahead money to HIM as a refund when HE took HIS name off the bill, doubled phone bills because HIS iPhone contract is still sitting on my bill to the tune of $360, speeding tickets, disobedient teenagers, canine aural hematomas and much, much, much more going on. But then I remember that HE always had lucky-sounding things happening, or about to happen, even when HE was getting slammed with bad luck, like losing the Woman of HIS dreams and her four awesome kids and three awesome dogs, even with flesh eating bacteria and aural hematomas. So I feel like it's safe to say that HE probably took HIS luck with him, good or bad, and all of this is just a chance for me to learn contentedness in the middle of the storm.

And the craziest thing about it all: I am content. Maybe because even with the raging storm of crazy-bad luck, there is peace at home. In spite of the vicious teenagers and tottering-on-the-brink finances, there is peace. The flesh-eating bacteria healed. The fleas went away. The money comes and goes just like always, and a year from now I won't remember the stupid $500 that went to fixing all of the dumb-luck issues that popped up. We have food on the shelf of a house that is warm and we have each other. And if that is no good, we have other people too. Even in my loneliness I am content. Because I have tasted enough of uncomfortable and unhealthy relationship to know that peaceful loneliness is better sometimes.

November is the month of gratitude. Really, it should be one of twelve months of gratitude, but people like to talk about it more in November, so here I am, being all trendy.

I am grateful. For the money to pay the silly bills. For the medicine to cure the plagues. For the insurance to pay for the medicine so the money can pay the silly redundant bills. For the people that we love. The ones who take care of us. For the chilly fall weather and sweaters. For awesome healthy kids, even when they're incorrigible. For Halle NOT being the student randomly stabbed in her dorm (prayers to that family). For no pregnancies, no deaths, no shut off notices, no starving, no major losses, except to the Gosh Darn Patriots (I am NOT content about football right now). For dogs, even with their pestilences. For work, even when it sucks. I am grateful. And because I am grateful, I am content. Because gratitude leads to contentment. And ingratitude leads to discontent. And I am tired of both of those things.

Happy November. And happy gratitude. And happy contentment.

Things About Teenagers

Sometimes, when you get off a crazy long shift at work, it's fun to drive around in the dark and rain and look for teenage girls that aren't where they were supposed to be. Or where you think they were supposed to be. Even if neither they, nor you, really knew or had established where that location was. Hence the driving. Sometimes, on Halloween, it's fun to drive every block in town (which is luckily only ten blocks here), and accost every group of nearly adult sized humans you run across in the dark and the rain. It's also fun to interrogate these shady groups about the whereabouts of certain teenage girls. And even if they don't know anything about any girls, it's fun to make them feel weird about being accosted in the dark by a mom in a car.

The thing about dark and rainy nights, when all kinds of shenanigans are happening in all kinds of dark alleyways, even if you've worked ten hours, you drive around and locate the girls. And then you invite all of the hooligans over to your house. Because, better there than Someplace That You Don't Know About. And then, when they get bored with the 6 cubit feet of popcorn that you made, and the scary movies, you drive them home so that nobody gets lost in the dark and rainy night or become prey to the various shenanigans.

And maybe, if you're lucky, sometime around midnight, on a dark and rainy halloween, when you know all of your girls, and probably a few others, are giggling safely upstairs, and the dark and the rain and the shenanigans are locked outside, and the traditional Tire Fire on the hill is contained and won't burn down the neighbors houses, and you know this for certain because you went and checked for them, and then went back to tell them for sure, and the dogs have had their fill of dropped M&Ms and popcorn, and you've picked up the house at least 12 times, maybe you can go to bed and get a few hours of sleep before you go to work again in the morning.

This is why Halloween is fun. And teenagers. And traditions.

Things About Halloween

This is the first Halloween in a long time that I don't have a costume planned out well in advance. I think I never really got over playing dress up, and I'll be danged if you're gonna take the one excuse I have every year (other than Christmas time when I can dress like a Who) to be someone other than myself. Or maybe to be Who I Really Am.

I don't know why I don't have a costume this year. I just haven't felt inspired. Or the peer pressure of Being A Grown Up has had it's way with me and I am afraid that people won't get the almost 40 year old dressed like an idiot. Those are really stupid reasons, if they are for real.

Rosie ain't got nuthin on me

Or maybe it's because I get to play dress up IRL (in real life) often enough. Bonus points if you can tell which ones are costumes...

I got super lucky this year and talked Aspen into a one piece pink Flamingo costume that we stumbled upon in town. That was like two weeks ago, and since the other kids are technically "too old" for me to worry about their costumes (you're on your own kids, sorry), all of the last minute jerry-rigging guilt of not having my crap together was eliminated. Maybe I just wrote off Halloween when I found the Flamingo. Or maybe since I knew I had to work I just gave up. Either way, I feel pretty boring. Which means I had better go and pull something together. Oh darn - here comes the jerry-rigging guilt...

That one year when I was the slutty Tin Woman - and Hannah's cleavage.

Halloween is like my 3rd favorite holiday. Tied with Valentines Day only because V-Day is so hit and miss, and oft disappointing. Obviously Christmas is first, then Thanksgiving (because I like food), and then Halloween/V-Day and then Easter. After that, St. Patties Day, Independence day, and Any Holiday That I Get Off of Work Or School. Pretty much I love all of the holidays. I would decorate my house for Secretaries Day if I had room to store all of the seasonal paraphernalia.

Too soon or Too real?

But here I am, avid holiday lover, Chief Fan Of Halloween, with no costume. It's a shame. And should probably be remedied quickly.

Ideas?

The Tennis Player, The Pioneer, The Chinaman(?), The Ewok, and of course, The PAN

Things About Kissing

It's been a very long time since I have been kissed. It's been even longer since I was kissed properly. Like, REALLY kissed. Good and Kissed. Kissed like He Meant It. I think all of this came up while I was watching season 3 of New Girl, and I started to get annoyed with Jess and Nick kissing all of the time. Almost like they meant it. Maybe not like Scarlett O'Hara and Rhett Butler. Or even like Maureen O'Hara and John Wayne. But still, they make kissing look fun. And I was annoyed. Mostly out of jealousy. And the very, very real FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) on this for another Very Long Time. Or maybe forever. And it's not fair. Even eating garlic knots to make believe that the only reason I am not enjoying some Very Good Kissing right now is because I have terrible breath isn't helping. I am lonely for kisses. It's a dreary feeling in a dreary rainy fall that could so easily be a cuddly warm fall with Amazing Kisses.

"...although you need kissing badly. That's what's wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, by someone who knows how!" -RB (remembering credit to Em Creach)

There is something about a kiss. The kind you feel to the bottom of your toes. In my mind there is nothing quite so vulnerable and intimate as a Real Kiss. Good Kissing, Real Kissing, is like extra smooth dark chocolate. Or a Really Good Red Wine. It's warmth spreading all through your body and a chill up your spine. It's a head rush that displaces time and space. Nothing but a kiss has the power to melt your heart, change your mind (see: The Empire Strikes Back) and disgust little boys.

You can't really plan a Good Kiss. They sneak up on you and ambush you when you're least prepared. They make your knees all loose and rubbery. But when you are with the right person, you also can't avoid them. They come at you from all directions in many different forms. The Real Kiss doesn't have to be long and wet and sloppy. Or short and sweet and innocent. It defies category. It defies definition. It's really the Best Thing Ever.

Not that I would know, or at least remember. It's been a good long while for me. But as time goes on I remember with growing fondness, or maybe unreality, that beautiful sensation. And I hope for it again someday before I die. Maybe when I am 80. Lots of Good Kissing in my 80s seems like a worthy aspiration. Obviously this means being with My One, so it's a part-n-parcel deal of heavenly winning. In the meantime, while I wait, I guess I'll just be annoyed at Nick and Jess. And Rhett and Scarlett. And John and Maureen. And all the other Good Kissers out there. I hope you know how lucky you are. Don't take it for granted, and lay one on each other for me.

Things About Dogsitting

Top Ten Reasons That Dogsitting is Better Than Having Kids:

10) Dogs are cuter. They can't help it. Even with runny noses, weird coughs and strange skin conditions, dogs are cuter.

9) You don't have unrealistic expectations that dogs will clean up behind themselves or help around the house with chores like dishes, laundry, etc, therefore, you live with much less disappointment and frustration.

8) Dogs are excited for EVERY bedtime and EVERY meal. No complaining. No arguing. Just pure, unadulterated excitement.

7) They don't interrupt your show. Or your book, or your sleeping in - ok, maybe this happens sometimes, but rarely.

6) They don't make the toilet overflow. If anything, dogs keep that water level DOWN.

5) Dogs, even visiting ones, are much better at expressing unconditional love and adoration than any kid I have met. Total self esteem booster.

4) Dogs don't have unrealistic expectations on you to drive them to various events, cook gourmet meals for them to complain about or buy them expensive things.

3) If you tell them to get off the couch, they don't get all butt hurt and not speak to you for three days. Ok, some dogs do this, but they bounce back much quicker than kids who expect couch space.

2) Dogs are blissfully unaware of your shortcomings as a human. They will not point out how fat you are, how terrible your apparel choices are, or how embarrassing you might be to them.

1) If you do a good job (which essentially means keeping the dogs alive) the owners bring you boxes of wine and giant bottles of Fireball. No kid has EVER provided such a kickback.

Authors note: I currently have 3.5 teenage girls available for rescue and/or adoption. They are adept at throwing fits, clogging toilets and being mean.

I am keeping the non-resident 18 year old child who occasionally makes a selfless choice which remind me that someday, all of this might be worth it.

Things About Writing

I know I have a lot to learn. I know I am far from a great writer. In fact, I can make a list of the things that I need to work on:

1) Focus and organization. I mean, my blog is all over the place. One day it's about rebellious teenagers and the next day it's about macaroni and cheese. What the heck? Can't I pick a subject and stick with it? I know some readers have expressed surprise that my blog "didn't go the direction they had anticipated". Which is really interesting, since it never goes the way I anticipate. But it would be hard to do so since I have never really anticipated it going any real direction. This is one of my weaknesses. If I was more focused and organized, I could have a foodie blog. Or a beer blog. Or a mommy blog, since I think a lot of people would like to lump me into the "mommy blogger" category. I am reluctant to commit to this, due to the fact that I am more or less a terrible mommy (see this blog) and I would rather be lumped into some category like "cool blogger" or "totally rad blogger". But I am a mommy, and I am a blogger, so apparently....

2) Writing less about alcohol. Or mentioning it less. Or drinking it less. I am not sure which of those would really work out IRL. (that's cool talk for in real life, in case you weren't sure.)

3) Following conventional writing rules. I have been told that my writing is missing dashes. A lot of dashes. And then sometimes, when I'm all "you-have-no-idea-how-frustrating-it-is-to-type-dashes" as such,  then I think you understand why. Sometimes the dashes just go without saying.

4) Going along with #1 and having more technical adherence to my writing style, as in, Mrs. Black's rubric for the five paragraph essay type stuff... I know that from paragraph A to paragraph P I tend to circumnavigate my creative theme, if I even have a theme.

5) Being less long winded. I have heard that my blogs are sometimes long and the reader might get bored and trail off. You'd think that my unpredictable writing direction would keep you interested. Jeeze.

6) Not having kids overflow the toilet every time I try to sit down to write. This really affects the focus and organization I don't have. Not to mention necessitating the frequent mention and/or use of alcohol.

(No, but really. That just happened. I just mopped up gallons of dirty toilet water with towels that just came out of the wash from the last catastrophic toilet event. Thankfully we hadn't gone to the trouble to fold them or put them away. Because then I would have cried. Clearly we need to discuss what does and DOES NOT go down the toilet. I think they're trying to flush the puppy sized spiders or dirty underwear or something. Or at least my washcloths that have all gone missing. Now my coffee is cold and I can't remember what I was saying. And I am pretty sure there is still toilet water on my feet. Which I am choosing to ignore. At least this time I had already ripped the carpet out of my bedroom so the flood just soaked into disgusting bare subfloor.) That was an extremely long parenthetical phrase.

Anyway, all of these grevious weaknesses lead me to one thing: I need help. In fact, I might need Way More Help very soon, and not just with my plumbing - I have an interview with a "newspaper" next week (ominous music in the background [Michael Jackson's Thriller is on]). But all of that question mark riddled suspense aside, I have an opportunity to go to a writer's retreat with a Way More Succesful than me mommy blogger who is intensely hilarious, and more importantly, she's bringing Smart Friends. Who know stuff about writing. The only catch is that the retreat costs some money, which should probably go to taking care of my power bill, etc. A friend of mine suggested that I ask for sponsorships. Which I feel like a schmuck doing. But maybe if someone rich and powerful, or several poor, powerless people, out there likes something I write,  but would like to see me write better, or maybe even someday get published, here is your opportunity to support me anonymously. (Don't worry, I won't tell.)

The retreat itself will cost $350. That covers my food, lodging, instruction and one solo session with a writing professor for Real Help. Gas to get there would be $266 more, since it's a five hundred mile drive (one way). It runs Thurs- Sun May14-17, 2015, but I have to pay now (I have an invoice waiting for me at PayPal). Here is the link so you can see how awesome this would be for me:

The Magic In The Mess

If something moves you, maybe pity, or desperation, or just the incentive to get me to go away for a few days and leave you in peace, you can send contributions to my account at GoFundMe,  just put in the comments or somewhere that it's for the writer's retreat, and not a new pair of Uggs or something, so I'll know. (I will take donations for the Uggs too. ) I will also accept cash, checks, Canadian Money, Monopoly Money, gas cards, bags of recyclable plastic bottles and postage stamps (these go for a lot on the black market).

I hope this posts contains enough grammatical errors to make you realize how badly I need this retreat. And not just for the wine and zumba, although they will help. I signed up for a top bunk suite, which means I will share a room with somebody at least as cool as me, but I have to remember how to get up on to a top bunk. I will start practicing now.

Thank you in advance for your support. I promise I will let you down less frequently in the future.

Things I Am Cooking

Call me obsessed. It's like I only leave the kitchen to sleep feverishly on the couch. After I kicked some serious peach and plum booty on Friday, I am back in the kitchen in a race against bees and the little deer who sneaks up on our porch to eat the apples that have been picked so far to use them up. No joke, at 1:45 AM, when I couldn't sleep because of jaw-clenching pain, and because Josh had just chased some punks out of the new announcers booth at the football field across our yard, I heard the suspicious snuffing and crunching and looked out the window over my bed to see our pet deer - one of many, really, but we'll call this one Mildred, eating the apples. Understand that only a fraction of the apples have been picked from the tree thus far, since I directed the kids to "pick all of the apples" and I wasn't at home to explain that the ladder there was actually for climbing up and picking the ones they can't reach from the ground. Mildred is fairly certain that the apples conveniently located in boxes on our front porch were selected for her midnight buffet - as is the local bee population who has eaten it's way into several apples and seems to be drunk on the loveliness. I redeemed many of the apples into my giant stock pot, which is now scorching on the bottom, and my crock pot, which holds half as much but doesn't seem to be burning. Oh the politics of food preservation!!!!

Canning anything is complicated in my kitchen since I only have two burners, and the former occupants installed a really cool grill into one whole half of the Jenn-Aire cooktop I have. I have used the grill once, to make some smoked chicken breast jerky for dinner. Otherwise it has sat there, collecting things. Like pots that the kids seem to have no idea how to put away. So I have one burner with some bizzarre platform, as if it was height-challenged and had self-esteem issues, so the former cook helped it out. That, coupled with a microwave that was installed directly above and about 6 inches too low, makes just enough room to fit a canner, or my big stock pot, on the front burner, with no lid. the back burner is almost useless, except I can fit the small pot to boil my canning lids back there. getting the small pan out around the big one is tricky, especially if the kids have stored all of the pots on the space offending grill. I have tried to talk Josh into getting a replacement two burner Jenn-Aire insert, but he is insistent that we are replacing the whole stove "very soon" and so I must make do. Which is also why the bathroom is still country blue and buttercup blossom. My friend mentioned the other day that I have control over that and could fix it, but that was about an hour before she met Josh and he explained that the room is "about" to be remodeled and there is no sense wasting money on paint. When he's right, he's right. Unfortunately "very soon" and "about" are somewhat subjective and the country blue is really eating away at my soul.

Anyway, it's now a race between my crock pot and the big stock pot to see who can output applesauce most efficiently. If I am judging, the stock pot is losing on the mere grounds of how much stirring it takes to avoid making smoked applesauce (something I have produced before - goes well with chicken breast jerky). Especially since I need those stirring muscles to give my stupid little vintage sieve another chance to redeem itself on four thousand pounds of apples. I was hoping the applesauce would be done in time to free up the burner to finish the bread and butter pickles I started, but it's not looking promising, and I am not sure when I would heat the canning water in that line up.

Josh is working on remodeling the stairs, which apparently needed to be done, but which makes Emmy attach herself to my ankle, usually leaving a trickle of pee everywhere we go. She hates power tools. I have tripped over her at least 8 times now, and if you have ever fallen down stairs the day after you have given birth to a baby then you can imagine the kind of pain that catching myself from a fall causes in my lower abdomen area.

I tried, unsuccesfully, to figure out how to live stream some NFL games here on my computer, but short of subscribing to Madden 25, which I think is a game or something, and costs a hundred dollars American, there is no way. There are a couple of radio stations out of Seattle that you can listen online to, but neither would play on this side of the state, or on a Mac. COME ON, PEOPLE! You are from Seatlle!! WTH. So I am stuck with my Frank Sinatra Spotify station on, wondering how all of those NFLers are doing out there. My sister in law is involved in some emotional eating, which must mean the Vikings are not doing well. She is an ardent fan, for whatever reason, to the extent that she wouldn't play Aaron Rogers on her Fantasy Football team, but has kept him benched, since he is a Packer and they are from the devil. This had rendered her absolutely scoreless, since she also traded the rest of her team for players with last names of three sylablles or more. I am keeping my head above water in our family league, but I would be dominating if I could figure out how to trade. My baby sister is at the head of the league with our ultra-competitive, death-before-losing middle brother (yes, middle child thing), but her wins were purely accidental, or maybe even karmic punishment to the rest of us for letting her call her team "Suessical". Freedom of expression be dashed, in this family, right Sanna? I would be more panicked about missing the games today except the Bronco's don't play til tomorrow, at which point I will throw a fit if Josh doesn't take me to the Whitebird. I am hoping for Andrea's sliders to show up as a menu special one of these football days, but it's almost like she doesn't care.

My applesauce is burning. And I have to go show the kids how to use a ladder. After I clean up after Emmy, and hold a tape measure for Josh.

GO SEAHAWKS!!!