Things About This Week

The Important Things.

The first week of October used to be a good one. 15 years ago on October 3rd, I gave birth to my fourth and final kid, and for once, I was in a hospital with a real doctor. I even had drugs. Granted, I was afraid of being paralyzed by an epidural (nobody messes with my CSF!), so I opted for something else that I had never tried. The doc gave me Stadol when I got to The Best Part of Labor (clearly sarcastic), and while the painkiller never seemed to touch the pain, I was transported to this alternate reality wherein I was some ultra-hot and feisty Latina Gangster, bossing my minions around the birthing room in my flippant New-York-Hispanic accent.

Luckily my delusion didn't transfer over since the nurse later said I was just glaring at her really meanly the whole time, but I remember having very fancy fingernails while Montgomery Gentry's "Hell Yeah" blared from the little alarm clock radio, followed by Faith Hill's "Breathe," which I remember thinking was ironically appropriate, even though I could not express that to the people in my room because I was far too busy telling off my putas (don't look that up, mom) and making drug deals in my head.

But that was 15 years ago.

And then 8 years ago, the first week of October became something else. My sister and her (then) three kids were in a terrible accident, and we were about THISCLOSE to losing most of them. She was almost full term with her fourth child and her first daughter. The baby didn't survive the wreck.

I got a call from an EMT friend with a scanner who knew it was my family. I'll never forget that call. I lived in Bend at the time, and I remember rounding up my kids from their various and assorted schools and leaving town in a big hurry. Kizzie still had her Volleyball knee pads on when we left town. We drove like hell to get there, because the only thing I knew was that it was bad. We weren't even sure we'd get to say goodbye. My sister and one of my nephews had been flown by fixed-wing air to Spokane and the other two boys were in the hospital in Colville in various stages of being transported south for treatment of multi-system injuries.

I'm an EMT, right? I've been on some bad wrecks, I've dealt with the blood, the guts, the limbs postured in unnatural ways, even the dead bodies that I've had to work on, to try - just try, for families. But nothing could have prepared me for the sight of my own sister, an unnatural shade of greenish white, bruises all over her body only hours after the wreck, in that hospital bed. Before I could even say hi, I had to step back out of the room and put my head down by my knees. The whole hospital hallway was spinning out of control. It took me a couple minutes to be able to stay upright long enough to hold her hand and weep with her.

In the days and weeks and years leading up to that event, my large, very close and very opinionated family had seen turmoil. Division and hurt and events that give even the most loving families pause in their close-knit relationships. That moment erased all the petty differences that had created wedges between us. The reality of life's brevity and the tiny instant that can change everything suddenly make nothing as important as loving others and knowing you are loved by them. No points to prove, no issues to discuss, not even being right is important in a moment like that. We are all stripped to a level of equality that is based entirely on the humble experience of the fragility of life. None of us has got shit to defend. Period. There is nothing so important that it should break love - death does that soon enough.

A couple years later, a close friend was badly injured in a fall during the first week of October. The sole provider for his family, it sent all of us close to him back to the trenches, pulling together to get them through some of the scariest moments of that we've had to endure. These moments, when our human frailty is paramount to our goals and plans and dreams, are the moments when the truth of who we are as humans prevails.

Since then, the first week of October has brought us mass shootings in Roseburg, Oregon in 2016 at a community college, and last year the murder of 58 people in Las Vegas at the Route 91 Harvest Festival. If a random slaughter isn't enough to make you stop and think, then you're doing it wrong. For many people, the first week of October changed forever 25 years ago today, when one of the most intense 15-hour battles in U.S. military history took place in Mogadishu, Somalia. One hundred American Soldiers held a force ten times their size off in an attempt to rescue the crews of two downed Black Hawk helicopters. 17 Americans were killed, and the bodies of slain soldiers were dragged through the streets. The violence was captured on film and changed the landscape of our recent military memory forever. A new generation of heroes was born when those images infiltrated living rooms across America.

The first week of October has become, for me, a moment to remember what's really important. And maybe I am overly dramatic, but even that thought process triggers an avalanche of conflicted emotions for me. I'm about 36 hours home from 80 days on fire assignments this summer, a record for me, but even as the paycheck posts to my account I reflect on the summer and I wonder if I am doing it right. Should I be here more? What am I missing out on? How would I pay the bills otherwise?

I listened to Warren Buffet's 5/25 principle, the idea that if you don't focus all of your energy on the five most important things to you, all of your efforts and investments get watered down and diluted to the point of ineffectiveness. I sat kind of dumbly after listening.

What five things are the most important to me? Making sure my last kid gets turned loose into adulthood with a reasonable hope of success? Traveling? Not being in debt? I feel like the truest answers to the Five Important Things question are maybe the irresponsible ones. What if the most important thing to me is saving all the dogs? Can I put my kid up for adoption to facilitate that? Or what if my Number 1 priority is not being alone? Then I'd have people lined up to counsel me about the Joy of Loving Myself and offering to pay for therapy. I realize I am off on a total rabbit trail here, but it's been a Very Long Time since I wrote anything for myself, and there's a lot of words bound up in this head.

Anyway, today is my first and maybe only "day off" in awhile. Obligation free, other than some cupcakes that need making, a few articles I want to write, and a doctors appointment to see if they make a drug that helps one discern the Five Important Things. Is that Adderall? If it is, I want it.

But for today my five things include: Loving My People, Taking the Steps, Making the Birthday, Fixing the Broken and a lot of quality couch time with my one Tiny and Insecure Dog. What are your Five Things Today? I hope at least one of them includes some cuddling.

Things About Broken Hearts

Let's be honest: none of us get out this unscathed. We've all had our hearts broken. From the first time that our mothers swatted our hands away from a hot stove and we didn't understand how the nurturer became the bearer of violence against us, we've experienced the pain of betrayal.

We've had our hearts broken as small children when your friends don't let you join them at the potato stamp table in kindergarten (this is me sharing my most vulnerable moments with you), and again as middle schoolers when your BFF tells the cute boy about that one time you picked your nose and ruins you FOREVER.

Your heart is broken again and again in high school when your One True Love turns out not to be and dumps you for the girl who snuck out of the house in the ultraminiskirt. Every disappointment grows in importance as you sense an ever closer approach to Destiny...

And then your heart break again when the Forever that was supposed to be Destiny end in abysmal disaster. Or even if you find some version of Happily Ever After, there are always the ups and downs and mini heart breaks, and the major ones. The days when some hurts feel like they are unbearable.

The more people you love, the greater your odds are, statistically speaking, to face more heartache in your life. Even the happiest of families have their dark moments. We unintentionally inflict pain on the ones we love the most because it's in those spaces that we are the most real, and the most insensitive sometimes. There is no love without hurt. It's the hurting that love causes that gives us art and music and poetry and philosophy.

Even Tim and Faith, with their decades of shining perfection in marriage, have broken each other’s hearts, I guarantee it. With an unkind word, a poor karaoke choice, or that mid 90s turtleneck trend. Even the perfect ones among us inflict a little heartache on each other now and then.

If you're not a sociopath, the question isn't IF you'll get a broken heart, the question is when, and your investment into the lives around you will be rewarded in equal amounts of heartache when those lives inevitably face hardship. 

I've wrestled a lot lately with the whole idea of parenthood as something that is anything more than perpetual heartache. Since my kids were babies it feels like it's been a non-stop freight train speeding, out of control, of things that can (and often do) go wrong. It picks up speed and momentum the older they get. The momentary glimpses of triumph and joy get overshadowed by the hard things. By rejections and  breakups and failures and dashed hopes. Happiness and success come at the high cost of hard work and stress and heartache. 

I watch other parents and I wonder ,when they proclaim the joy of parenting, what it is I am doing wrong as I lie awake night after night and worry whether one kid's firefighting career will be ended by a knee injury and whether there is any earthly way to pay for another kid's college tuition, and just exactly how many sporting events have to be attended and how many phone bills have to be paid to ensure that I am doing my parently duty. As they become adults and make adults decisions, there is little comfort in the knowledge that I am not legally responsible for the grown-up choices they make, because it doesn't exempt me from feeling the pain of the consequences they bear. Raising kids is just an ongoing evolution of breaking hearts. 

But it's worth it. Just like falling in love, knowing the life expectancy of any relationship these days is pretty pathetic, is still worth it. And you step up to bat again and again because those momentary highs are worth it, and even more, the people that you love, that you believe in, are worth it, even when they hurt you. Sure, there are limits. There's a time to pull the plug and walk away. There's even a time to disconnect the phone line and draw boundaries, but in this era of disposable everything, there are still people worth taking the hits for. There are bigger stories than the trauma of a moment. 

What parenting, and love, and being related to other human beings has taught me, is that heartbreak is survivable. It can be endured again and again and again. The real tell of a human being is whether they will get back up and love again after each break. The character of a person lives in their willingness to walk headfirst into the next round of heartbreaks for the people that they love. 

Even in the last few months I have felt the weight of heartache that I didn't think I could bear, and while I struggled to walk the steps of each day in the darkest moments, I knew it would not be my last time in that valley. I knew that I would run back into the fray, I would open up my barely healed heart and I would do it again, because there is no life without love. 

I know each time that I feel like I can't carry another burden for one of my loved ones, somehow there's a second wind and we pick up the pieces and move on. History has taught me that I am resilient, and hopefully that resilience is something that the people I love can learn with me, as we break each others hearts again and again with the mistakes we make. 

The only thing I can promise them is that I will never, ever, EVER, be caught up in a turtleneck craze, and they're always welcome at my potato stamp table. 

Things About Chasing Tail(s)

I've figured out that life is a never ending game of tail chasing. Either you're chasing someone else's tail or you're chasing your own tail of self-identity. If you're lucky, the game of chasing tail that does not belong to you will be short lived and the victory will remain for ages. Or, if you're like me, it's an endless game of both. Many of us find ourselves in the confusing world of perpetual self-tail chasing along with the constantly frustrating and disillusioning chase of tail that isn't our own.

I've got no advice to offer on the subject of chasing the tails of others since I have little success from which to draw, but I am gradually learning a thing or two about chasing my own tail. 

Lately (loosely translated: all the time in my whole life), I find myself in the midst of an identity crisis. When I was 19.5 years old it was the teenager fresh from the bunkbeds of a shared room with a little sister to the bumperpad-to-bumperbad cribs of two small infants in a studio apartment with a husband I barely knew. When I was 26 it was the almost-certified wildland firefighter banished from the practice controlled burn because it was "unsafe" for me at 6 months pregnant with child number four. At 32 it was the untapped teenage angst in the body of a single mom with four kids, three jobs and a full credit load of online college classes and a penchant for microbrews. I've always been seeking "myself," but it isn't until I got to be 41 that I realized that my "self" might be just as enigmatic to me as it was when I was three years old and climbing to the top of my Dad's Oak etageres to see if I could fly. But my "self" is also as familiar to me as the pillow I keep tucked between my arms every night. I know who I am. Sometimes, I just can't see the forest for the trees. 

Mark Manson talks about the diversification of identity, and I guess that's what I've always struggled with. I know how many things I am, and I know that a lot of those things don't fit the prescribed mold, or at least, not in the moment. Three year olds don't generally fly, even from a six-foot etagere. 19 year olds aren't the best mothers, unless they're a saint, like my younger sister might have been, or maybe even my Second Daughter given the chance (but thank you for waiting). Pregnant ladies aren't the best suited for wildland firefighters and 32 year olds should just stay away from microbrews, I've learned. 

But through it all I keep pushing, keep seeking"myself." And now I am 41. I am older and wiser and doing 41-year-old things. Going to my kid's ball games and graduation ceremonies. Paying my bills and having a savings account and learning the correct pronunciation for Roth IRA, etc. I wear jeans without holes (occasionally)(unwillingly) and craft lofty and condescending justifications for my tattoos. Deep inside though, I am still chasing my own tail. Trying to figure out just who I am, and the difference between what I WANT and what I NEED and who I AM. Those lines get blurry. But the definitive moment is always just barely out of reach. Like my tail.  

I always imagined that grown ups had no question about who they "are." They are just THEM. Doctors, teachers, mothers, transportation planners, rocket scientists. It seemed so simple. I thought maybe if I decided What to Be, that I would suddenly find this serenity and zen about self-identity that would once-and-for-all end my need to climb etageres. (By the way, if you haven't Googled etagere yet, you can click on the link.) But I've decided at least 23 times what to be when I grow up and I am still not completely sure that I can't fly. Because what IF?

So the tail-chase has continued. Sometimes I thought that if I caught the tail of someone else that I was chasing, I would suddenly KNOW. The epiphany of why I exist would descend upon me in an opaque and irrefutable destiny and all of my seeking would come to an end in the person that I belonged to. I'll admit, it seems to work for a year or two, maybe even close to a decade, especially if you bury your soul in the fabric of another person and/or community who Clearly Know What's Best For You and Don't Mind Telling You. But at the end of the day, or the decade, it's really up to you, or, in this case, up to me, to know who and what I am, and what's best for me, and if I know ANYTHING, it's that nobody can tell me What's Best for Me but my very own self. (I have at least 6 for-real psychologists who will back me up on this in their less-than-helpful-self-help-techniques. For a fee. )

But anyway, here I am, 41 and still chasing tail. Still slightly insecure about what I know about myself, but knowing, deep-down and just-the-same that I KNOW who I am. I am Liv. Not Liv the mom, Liv the firefighter, Liv the Writer, Liv the EMT, Liv the girlfriend, Liv the NOT girlfriend, Liv the former wife, Liv the messy, Liv the teacher, Liv the Cashier's Assistant, Liv the student, Liv the Avett Fanatic, Liv the emotionally unstable, Liv the self-aware (The psychologists told me that. For a fee.), Liv the beer girl, Liv the wannabe... I mean, yes, I AM all of those things... but I am not just one, I am every one, all of the time. And if Liv the writer is feeling angsty at Liv the mom's basketball game, then Liv the self-aware can take the steps to do what she needs to do and get the words out. And if Liv the former wife (please review my stern disapproval of "ex" terminology") is making a mess of Liv the girlfriend, or even Liv the NOT girlfriend, then Liv the self-reliant can make the adjustments she needs to make because ALL of those things in me have given me the tools to adapt. 

Chasing tail makes the world go 'round, as it happens, both biologically and psychologically. It's the ones of us that keep seeking and keep asking questions, like "Why am I cooking french fries at 41 years old?" that make life bigger than a single wide mobile home and a 1992 Ford Escort. Not that there's any shame in starting there, Daughter with said vehicle. 

Mark Manson, whom I clearly revere and tend to overcite, says that the idea of seeking your passion is bunk, because we're already putting our time into the things we're passionate about. For some of us, that's a 9-5 job that gets us where we need to be financially, a legitimate passion to pursue. For some of us, that's hours of journaling hopeless love letters that will be burned, unread at a later date. I know people in both camps - some more intimately than others, and I believe it's true that we put our money (read:time/energy) where our real passion lies. For me, when I get writer's cramp from journaling, it seems to be at the local brewery. I am not ashamed. I am me. And I've got some fine tail to keep chasing. Plus I MIGHT be able to fly. Who knows? 

Did I mention Liv the Whisky Drinker?

Things About Being Enough

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. I even tried getting back in bed again for a do-over, to see if it would help, but it didn't. Part of the problem was that I was online before 6AM googling things like "What is an IRA" and "What's the difference between a Roth IRA and an SEP IRA" and after a slightly entertaining rabbit trail about the history of the Irish Republican Army, I got back on track and became thoroughly confused, POST HASTE. 

See, after all these years doing things "my way", a la Frank Sinatra, a la seat-of-the-pants, a la rolling-ball-of-chaos, I find myself at 40 years old without a plan for when I am 59 1/2. I don't think I have ever even imagined being 59 1/2, which, as I was gently reminded by Someone Who Cares, is only 19 1/2 years away. Here I am, all proud of myself for the first time in my 40 years for having an actual savings account with actual money in it and it's almost like it's just a brightly shining reminder of all the other money I don't have. 

No retirement fund. No investments. No properties. Just an overabundance of shoes, an orange truck, two dogs and four relatively functional children to show for the last 40 years. It would be easy to wonder what I have been doing with my time, having nothing to show for it, except I keenly remember every hour of the billions that I have worked at hundreds of jobs over the last 3.5 decades. 

This is where the being enough comes in, because the thing is, I never am. There's never enough me to do all of the things. To cover all of the bases. Do all of the volunteering. Show up to all of the games. Ace all of the classes. Drive all of the kids. Chaperone all of the dances. Pay all of the bills. Feed all of the people. Give all of the presents. Work all of the jobs. Make all the people happy. 

Then a downward spiral of not-enough-me turns darkly into a I'm-not-enough tailspin. I am not good enough. I am not rich enough. I am not pretty enough. I am not thin enough. I am not kind enough. I am not smart enough. I am not tough enough. I am not selfless enough. I am not enough. It's in these dim moments that it becomes profoundly clear that the only thing I am good at is getting fat and growing giant pimples on my chin. Oh, and tearing various and assorted connective tissues. 

It's all epically timed since I just got Brene Brown's book Daring Greatly, in the mail and right after researching IRAs sent me into a mood nosedive I opened it up to the first chapter wherein she perkily delves into the realm of scarcity. If you haven't read it, I basically outlined it in the previous paragraph. It's almost like she was yelling at me. 

“When we spend our lives waiting until we’re perfect or bulletproof before we walk into the arena, we ultimately sacrifice relationships and opportunities that may not be recoverable, we squander our precious time, and we turn our backs on our gifts, those unique contributions that only we can make. Perfect and bulletproof are seductive, but they don’t exist in the human experience.” -Brene Brown

Needless to say I tossed the book across the couch in fit of mild disgust and went back to sulking about my imperfections and the impossibility of my situation. 

I am 40 years old. Well on my way to 59 1/2. If I haven't figured out how to be enough by now, then I probably won't ever. Which means I have to figure out a way to turn what I do have into enough for me and to make it start working. Because it really is about me. It's me that I am not enough for. It's not my kids or the critics I fantasize about outside of myself. It's me. Ok, and maybe a few select others. Regardless, the torture is more in my own head than any outside force operating on me. 

"There are more things likely to frighten us than there are to crush us"

-Seneca

In addition to avoiding Brene Brown's words of wisdom, I've been reading some stuff by an old Roman dude named Seneca. I feel like I'd like to go have beers with Seneca sometime, because he speaks not only to the uselessness of worry and self-doubt, but also he reminds me that maybe I do have something to show for the last 40 years, even if it's not in a Roth IRA, earning 3% interest (is that what they do? I don't even know). And yes, I am scared to death of savings accounts that can't be touched and working my ass off for money that disappears into one of those big sneaky bank things that have only ever done me wrong. But I have to start somewhere. 

"...the only contestant who can confidently enter the lists is the man who has seen his own blood, who has felt his teeth rattle beneath his opponent’s fist, who has been tripped and felt the full force of his adversary’s charge, who has been downed in body but not in spirit, one who, as often as he falls, rises again with greater defiance than ever." - also Seneca

Also, I still have time. Time to find out how to be enough for myself. Time to imagine what I want 59 1/2 to look like. Time to learn about IRAs and SEPs and Roth thingys. I might be behind the curve, but I am picking up speed and my drag is getting a little less every day. And that is enough. (PS, I am accepting free financial advice from anyone that has more money than me. Which is to say, everyone, including two of my daughters.)

Things That Aren't Funny

Teaching school has done wonders for my sense of humor - in that it's pretty much completely obliterated. Things that I used to be able to find the funny in have lost all of their comedy.

This includes but is not limited to 9th grade health students with VERY QUESTIONABLE personal hygiene habits giving me sneak attack wet willies from behind. The old Liv would have laughed it off and made a snide remark. But 'Ms. Stecker' quickly explained to said freshman the legal definitition of battery (thanks to a study session with a BLEA recruit).

Once upon a time I could find the humor in coming home to an epic dog accident spread wall to wall in my 6x10 foot bathroom. Or finding dog hair a foot deep between cushions of the couch EVERY SINGLE DAY when I vaccuum. Or that my daughter now considers herself a "plunger ninja" - a title of great accord and importance in our flood-prone home. It used to be funny to me, all the little things. Not so much lately.

Not Funny.

Also not funny is a renegade, 140 pound bloodhound hanging out with the state DOT road crew on the Columbia River Bridge. Or at the logging shop up the road. Or at the overprotective neighbors with three tiny children for hours on end. Or at the bar. Or at the school where I work. Or anywhere OTHER than the fence that I keep piling, twisting, pounding, digging and hiring teenagers to fix.

Riding with my 16 year old as she learns to drive, adventures in whiplash style, isn't funny to me. I haven't replaced the white knuckle fear for my life with hilarious anecdotes about will planning and why letting my teenagers learn to drive in different states AFTER they were out of the house is a much better idea.

Also Not Funny

Least funny of all is a 12 year old gagging over a bowl of delicious homemade pineapple curry which I felt represented a turning point in my 15 month hiatus from cooking anything interesting due to the aforementioned child's lack of culinary adventurism.

A few years ago, the antics of highschoolers in a classroom setting would have given me ample fuel for hilarious storytelling. Now I go home from alternative fitness without finding the humor in kids walking with their hoods up in 80 degree weather to hide the earbuds that have been clearly outlawed, or jumping in frigid river water on a $1 dare behind my back. Not funny you guys. Also not cool.

Ok. A little bit funny.

I have turned into a fuddy-duddy. A stooge. A stick-in-the-mud. A geeze, as my mom and aunt would say in fond reference to the unamused old-man status of my dad and uncle. I don't laugh enough. I am not sure if I remember how. And while I blame the kids, I know that the problem rests with me. The funny is still there - the ridiculousness of every day life surrounded by adolescing idiots. I just forgot how to dig it up.

Things About Being Real

The other day, my sister and I were having a conversation about "being real" as opposed to being pretentious or fake or trying to convince anybody on the outside that we are something we really are not. I feel like I have pretty well mastered the art of letting everybody who knows me, plus a few thousand who don't, how "real" I am. To a fault. I am pretty darn good at highlighting my failures, my trials and errors and mess-ups and mistakes and oopses, wannabes and nice-tries. In fact, I am so real, that I think certain people have wisely calculated a wide berth of avoidance to reduce the risk of my train-wreck life, with it's messy divorces, dog hair, toilet floods and worms, getting in their perfectly crafted martini. And that's ok, because I'll take dog hair over perfectly crafted martinis any day. I guess. That's not really true. But I will settle for a warm beer.

The funny thing about "being real" or living in "reality", is that a lot of times it's straight up unrealistic.

Like for instance, me raising four daughters to various stages of older childhood/adulthood and killing none of them. It's very really happening, but it's very nearly impossible.

I feel like 90% of my life - of all of our lives - is doing unreal things. Some times we do them really well, sometimes we do them really bad. I tend to err toward the side of awful, but I still get some pretty unreal things done.

Like passing the work capacity test for the forest service. Realistically, I could Just Say No. I Can't. The disc between my L5/S1 vertebrae has degenerated completely, similar to the moral standards of my late 20s. I am old. I have a torn shoulder, a sprained ankle and All Of The Things hurt. But I will do it, because it's worth it to me. And it's not pretty. I don't look like Mary Lou Retton dismounting the balance beam with rosy cheeks in a patriotic leotard. I look like a dying vagrant with COPD that someone just tried to beat to death after falling off of a train. But I will still do it. And that is both real and unrealistic.

In many ways, we're all pretending a little bit to be something we're not. I am pretending to be a young, athletically viable firefighter. My friend is pretending to be Just Fine as she sits in the hospital with a very sick husband and other family members in crisis. My other friend is pretending to be a softball coach. My cousin is pretending to know how to be the Best Stepmom Ever to some hurt kids... and she's killing it. One of my friends is pretending to enjoy police academy, surrounded by guys half his age, guys that don't have decimated hips and too many decades of abuse on their bodies like he does, and he is KICKING ASS. Because maybe it's unrealistic, but it's really happening. And they'll get it done. Those girls will get the crap coached out of them, and that husband will be Just Fined all the way home to his La-Z-Boy where he belongs. Those kids will be whole and happy. And that guy will be the best cop that ever copped. I pretend to be a teacher, and I am about to pretend to be a full time teacher for a full semester... it's ridiculously unrealistic, something that regular and accountable for me, but you watch, I'll really do it. For reals.

We go through life being Really Unrealistic. Doing things that we can't possibly. Like childbirth. Or homeschooling (NOT ME!). Or paying the bills. Pretenders are heroes, sometimes, and I think that all the time, heroes are pretenders. Pretending to be brave, pretending to know Exactly What To Do, pretending to like it. Sometimes, being who we really aren't is the thing that saves the day. Like coaching a softball team, or being the "strong one" in the family, or maybe even just being nice to someone when nice is certainly NOT what you really feel, but very certainly what somebody else needed you to be.

So the next time you get overwhelmed with the The Thing You Cannot Do, with all of the dog hair that won't stay vacuumed, or the kids that won't get potty trained, or the really, really REALLY hard mile and a half on that one day when a mile and a half is just too much - just know that I am here being unrealistic with you. We are doing this unrealistic life together - really doing it. Covered in dog hair and swilling our warm beer, but we're doing it. We're covering the miles and growing the kids and loving the people. Even when loving seems like the most unrealistic of all, we do it. We make the choices and take the steps to get life done, with all of the unreality included.

I am ok with being a messy. With being imperfect and slightly embarrassing to my people. It's ok, because I know that I have kicked reality right where it counts. I don't need to be real, and I don't need to be fake, I just need to be. Right Here, doing the Right Thing, Right Now that needs to be done, even if I can't.

My next plan for unreality is to get Eric Church to marry me, or something along those lines. For practice at accomplishing the impossible though, Ima salvage some freezer burned hamburger in homemade chili from scratch that I am trying unrealistically to remember from watching my best friend make it a few months ago. So far, so good. There I go, making miracles all over the place.

Things About This Christmas

This is a weird Christmas. It's weird for a lot of reasons, and maybe some that I can't even really explain, but mostly it's weird because it's like three days away and I am not entirely sure what I am doing.

The kids have this Christmas with their dad. It's his turn, and although I am relinquishing them to him, I am doing it grudgingly. Even though on my Christmases with them I whisk them away to the coast and their dad doesn't get to see them at all, I still kind of expect to have them for at least PART of the holiday when they are rightfully his. Because, after all, I am the MOM. But this year, with raised eyebrows and pointed statements, he did insist on his right to keep them the whole time. So I am relatively kidless, which is strange. Christmas without kids is something that I have never experienced. Ever. When I got married, my baby sister was 5, so there have ALWAYS been kids. And now my sister has kids that I can borrow, or show up and crash their Christmas, which I am sure I will do, but as much as I complain about my kids, Christmas without them just plain blows. In fact, most things without them pretty much suck.

Sometimes I am so busy just surviving life with four+ kids that I forget that it is LIFE. And without them it is not. Not that the quiet times when they go away for a few hours isn't a divine intervention into my unraveling sanity, but when they're really gone, it's just... weird.

I realize - no, wait. I have had it pointed out to me, by one of my very astute and possibly bitter children, that I complain about them a lot. "write horrible things about us" was the exact phrase she used. And it made me sad, because really, I never meant to. The "horrible" things are also quite often the funny things to me, and the best way to keep it from being a festering wound that ends unattractively for all of us, I tend to vent in my blog. But I have to remember to vent about the good things. Like Aspen spontaneously scrubbing out the dog water dish when she discovered green algae floating in it. Or Natalee decorating the dogs for the holidays. Or Halle driving to pick up Natalee's friend in what is quite possibly the first errand that one of my children has run for me. HALLELUJAH! Here are the perks of semi-grown children! Driver's licenses! Other good things are when MacKenzie overcomes her will of iron and her pride (both gifts that I bequeathed to her) and tells me she's sorry. And then works on things. And when When quits blaming Aspen for messing things up and voluntarily cleans up Dagny's most recent "accident". These are the good things. Singing the wrong lyrics to pop songs together and playing out soap opera scenarios with the vintage Christmas Candle Angels. Drinking cream soda out of my wine glasses and actually being into old musicals and black and white movies. All these things are good. They are wins. They mean that not only are my children alive so far, they are even COOL. My kids know who Bono is and can categorize Frank Sinatra's musical catalog according to his singing age. They will gladly watch football, hockey, Jimmy Stewart and Peter Paul and Mary. They are quick witted and hilarious. They are independent and curious. They are brave and intelligent. All of them. Even When and my other daughter Amanda. Almost all of them will eat almost anything with minimal complaining, and will try new things. They do their own laundry, and 75% of them even put it away, which is more than I can say.

But back to Christmas. And how weird it is. Because Christmas is Family. And Family is Kids. And Kids are gone. So it's weird. And my sister and her family have Christmas stuff with their other side, and I will probably end up with my adopted kids at the Middlesworths, and it will probably be fine. And fun. But still, weird.

Things About Adulthood

It has occurred to me, as I have moved back into neighborliness proximity of my younger sister, and we are now somewhat more "grown up" than we were when I lived here four or five years ago, that everyone defines adulthood by a different set of parameters. As I examine the standard by which my sister and I measure "being grown up", I begin to realize that these icons of age for us really have nothing to do with that, at all. I started to notice it in earnest when Em and I were canning peaches the other day. She donned one of her many adorable vintage aprons, very similar to the dozens that my mom owned when I was growing up, and offered me one as well. I have one apron in my house. My mom made it for me from a vintage pattern, and it's apparently Christmas themed, which I somehow didn't pick up on until my baby sister Susanna pointed it out once. When one has only one apron, one cannot be picky about seasonal indications. As I put on Em's extra-cute apron, I felt an immediate sense of arrival. Arrival into adulthood, like my mom. I used the crap out of that apron, wiping my hands and pretty much everything else that might have needed wiping on it. I couldn't help noticing, during the 6 hour canning ordeal that resulted in 20 some quarts of peaches, how enslaved (in a good way) Em and I both are by the traditions instilled in us growing up. I have canned with several other ladies over the years, and adopted, or at least put up with, other methods of food processing that they have introduced to me. But as I canned with my sister, there was an unquestionable method-flow of procedure that was rooted in a linoleum floored farm house kitchen outside of Colville, more than 20 years ago. Em commented on how nice it was that she didn't have to tell me what to do next. Or vise-verse. This is how it's done. I know that so-and-so doesn't boil the lids, and somebody else heats the jars in the oven first, and lots of people cut their peaches in quarters instead of 12ths, but Stecker girls do it THIS way. Because we are grown ups. With aprons.

After we got done with that, I went home and got on eBay to find myself some vintage aprons - clearly the missing element in my lonely canning experiences in my own kitchen. Em stopped by and asked me if I had felt convicted when I was wearing her apron. Convicted about how good it felt, and like maybe I had put it off a little too long. I said yes. Just yes. And I ordered some aprons. We went and visited Sister's Second Hand, which is the only one in Northport, and a garbage dump turned treasure trove that we like to loot and pillage periodically. I only find good stuff when I am there with Em, because we are racing to find the best vintage junk before the other sister does. Someday maybe we'll own our own Sister's Second Hand, and spend our time scouring the universe for cool stuff to sell other competitive find-hunter sisters. Sometimes we find something at the same time and have to try to be adult about who's house it will go better in. Or we just make up something ridiculous about seeing it first and don't care. Probably if I did that I would feel guilty and give it to Em for her birthday or something. But not if I found it first fair and square.

Being a grown up means cooking from scratch, and washing the dishes more than once a day. And vacuuming regularly. It means bargain shopping, coupon clipping and Extreme Thriftiness. And maybe even stockpiling. Josh has always accused me of stockpiling, which is absurd, since I don't have lentils OR millet, both crucial elements of stockpiling, and since I ran out of toilet paper completely today and had to ride my bike to the neighbors to borrow a roll. I can only imagine how cool I looked with a fluffy white roll of Kirkland Select TP in my bicycle basket, coming home. If I was a true stockpiler, THAT never would have happened. And I would have a legitimate use for several plastic Five Gallon Buckets of Things. Now that we live in the boondocks, I can buy GINORMOUS bags of sugar and flour and thousands of Ziploc bags at a time and tell Josh that he just doesn't get Country Living yet. Or adulthood. I feel like if I was more of an adult, I wouldn't feel so giddy when I finish a batch of jam. I probably wouldn't need to leave it sitting on the counter for a week, jars shining in the sunlight as if they are waiting for blue ribbons at the fair. I wouldn't expect everyone that walks in my front door to ooh and ahh over the pretty oranges and yellows and reds. If I was more of a grown up. I wore my Christmas Apron when I made peach jam yesterday. I was hoping nobody would stop by to catch me in my off-season attire, which they didn't, while hoping they would stop by to see the lovely jars, which they also didn't, but I am certain the apron is the whole reason that this batch of jam turned out thicker and better than the other ones. I also switched pectin, but that seems like a silly reason. Maybe I am not such an adult after all.

Things I learned this weekend:

1. Moving still sucks. 

2. Josh is more awesome than I thought. 

3. I don't need to be concerned about Halle being addicted to prescription drugs since at 17, she still can't open a childproof pill bottle. I discovered this when I asked her to get one of the many pulls I have been taking for me since I was driving and texting and changing the music while drinking coffee. Clearly my hands were full. I was forced to give up the phone and the music to open the pill bottle myself, whereupon I found that she had reduced all of the pills to powder in her attempt. Luckily this particular drug absorbed faster as a dissolving powder and is easier to dose in this form than cracking apart stubby round tablets.

4. Grandma's really stink at laser tag, especially when the opposing team is comprised of cute and semi-innocent looking small children. In addition to her guilt aversion to shooting the little guerrillas, her perfectionist streak caused her to save ammunition for only the most clearly successful targets, which meant she only reloaded once and her score was indicative of the same anti-family-fun apathy that Kizzie was demonstrating when she realized the laser vests made her look fat. Not that Grandpa was much help either, since the mystery of how he scores NO points at all was solved after someone pointed out that he may have been holding his gun backwards the entire time. OK, not really, but he did die unreasonably often. 

5. I should probably be concerned that Kizzie was the only family member who knew what a "Charlie's Angels" pose was when we took family laser tag portraits. Clearly we need to watch more questionable TV. 

6. Mini Reese's peanut butter cups melt instantly in temperatures above 63 degrees Fahrenheit. 

7. Mini Reese's peanut butter cups ate possibly MORE delicious when eaten with a spoon. 

8. Eating extra pizza after you are full, pizza for four consecutive meals, or midnight snacks of pizza do not actually help with a digestive issue that has lasted a fortnight. Even veggie pizza doesn't fix it. Next time I am trying extra butter sauce. I feel certain that therein lies my cure. Thank goodness there is a Papa Murphy's on the way home. I think I'm having pizza withdrawals. Dangerously, I still love pizza. 

9. Taking the Lord's Name in Vain has a great many interpretations which can be discussed at great length on an hour long car ride to play mini golf since none of the mini golf courses less than an hour away has coupons. Coupons are vital for the appreciation of family activities. 

10. Saying a game was stupid, throwing a major tantrum, yelling at your sisters and hurting grandma's feelings by pouting about which games you didn't get to play, or get to win, or had to play.... None of these actually fall under the banner of "complaining", "ungratefulness" or just being plain old spoiled, according to teenage wisdom. 

11. Arcades are perfectly safe places for a nine year old to get lost. Especially when you drive a mini-cooper, because the trunk is much too small for kidnapping. Again. More questionable Television MIGHT be a good idea. 

12. Six and a half foot teenagers that are all legs, bad attitude and underdeveloped intellectualism do not make good copilot a in a Mini Cooper. 

13.  Knees actually can bump a shifter out of gear. 

14. Sometimes the people that you think you know the best, and truly want the best for, offer you a wake up slap that really frakkin stings. 

15. The people that talk the most about hating drama are sometimes the best propagators. Which is why I admit openly that my life is a swirling vortex of dramatic terror. This being said, if there's some that I can leave behind, I will gladly do so. That's why Kizzie is now living at a rest area outside of Ellensburg. 

16. Self-protection is the single most powerful human instinct. 

17. Being able to rise above our instincts is the only thing that separates us from other animals. 

18. Growing up is really hard. At every age. 

19. Even Avett Brothers are people who make mistakes. 

20. I have absolutely everything in the world to be grateful for. 

P.S. 21. Dogs eating out of compost piles before a prolonged road trip is a very very bad thing. 

Things That AREN'T New

It started off as a good day. I had won almost limitless Good Mom points for the surprise 13th birthday party I threw yesterday for Natalee that was a raging success, and even the mountain of Bad Mom strikes I got for the guilt trips about never throwing an Awesome Party for my other kids couldn't cancel out the radness of a cross town, retail scavenger hunt, complete with mochas and holiday socks and mini shopping spree at Claire's. Today, even as I tripped over sleeping bags and unidentifiable teenage bodies, and I rushed through apparently twice as much french toast as a herd of 13 year old girls would eat (did I miss an eating disorder memo here?), and didn't get to wash my hair before work because Halle had to get dropped off for ski practice, I was still humming merrily though my nearly debilitating pain about What a Good Job we had done surprising her and how maybe I could win my parenting merit badge someday after all.

It seems like whenever I leave for work, all hell breaks loose. Suddenly there is an influx of woeful texts about crabby children and minor household catastrophes and how Aspen won't get off Pottermoore so Halle can do her homework, which apparently consists of three hours of Facebook and an intense round of some role playing game I have never heard of. I would like to interject here, that on the day in question, which is today, incidentally, that the girls were not parentless. Josh was home pretty much all day, doing countless loads of laundry that involved racing the girls to the washing machine between loads, and cooking pinto beans according to my recipe WITHOUT burning them. He's pretty much a stud.

I think the Bad Things that were happening at home today were magnified by many things, such as two weeks spent at DAD's house, which is nothing more than a sugar fueled, sleepless duration of as much awkward and random socialization as can be forced on 4 kids in a Christmas Break. Send four girls to spend time with a) disconnected and troubled biological father, b) super-enabling and guilt driven grandmother and c) a mini cultish place full of weirdos and a few innocent bystanders, and you get four confused, exhausted and basically snotty kids with misdirected sympathies and misplaced moral standards.

The aura of peace and tranquil positivity was also dampened by a series of flu bugs that would put Kevin Bacon to shame with their interconnectivity. Who needs seven degrees when I can trace this (the second) virus (without insinuating origin) from Bend, to Marble, to Olympia, to Spokane, and by now to Nashville, Washington DC and Pennsylvania. It's one thing to share friendly holiday germs with family. You kind of come to expect that when somebody ALWAYS has a snot nosed kid or husband running around. But the holiday cheer of passing the flu onto random passerbyers and realizing that YOU helped start the epidemic that is ravaging Maryland is somehow deeply satisfying. I have made an impact CONTINENTALLY! I have boosted the economy in sales of Kleenex and NyQuil, and connected millions of strangers to each other WAY more efficiently and intimately, biologically even, than Kevin bacon ever did!

Another exacerbating factor to consider for the entropy we were facing at home is the fact that it is January. With the exception of January 1st, the entire month of January is bleak, cold and desolate. We are broke from Holiday Overdoing-it, the bills are three times their normal amount because "Halle" left the space heater on the whole time we were gone, and work is slim. After the glorious rush of New Years optimism and joyfulness, we are faced with the hard truth that another year has begun and we have to do it all.over.again. Like right now. Turns out, you still have to take the garbage out on Thursdays in 2013 or you'll have overflowing cans for another week. Turns out that the puppy poop on the back porch and the mountain of laundry didn't suddenly vanish at midnight 12/31/12. Oh yeah, and the car is still running rough, and somebody STILL needs to go to the dentist, and you guessed it, I am still in pain. HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

I just wanted to come home from my grueling (4 hour) work day and curl up in sweatpants. All of the elements were right. Josh made amazing fajitas. I found a (mostly) clean pair of sweatpants. I almost made it to the couch. But WHAM!!! chore time hit with a fury unlike anything that a scorned woman has ever seen. I am not even sure what happened, but by the time the dust settled, Kizzie was doing Halle's chore, Halle was doing Aspen's chore, and Aspen was innocently MIA with her unfinished plate of onions. Josh started helping do Aspen's chore then disappeared downstairs to pout over a basket of laundry, and Nattie somehow squeaked by, messing around on the computer the entire time, until Halle finished cleaning the kitchen halfway and tried to remove her physically from Facebook, which, as we all know, is a scientific impossibility. All of this transpired with quite a bit of yelling, huffing and puffing, whining, stomping, a few tears and ultimately, me losing all my glorious good mom points when I unplugged the girls computer from everything and carried off the hard drive. Josh got mad at me for getting mad at him for getting mad at the kids for getting mad at him and after I got mad at him for getting mad at me for all of that I got mad at the kids, just for the heck of it and he started acting much nicer because I was REALLY mad. He even offered me wine. But I am not drinking. For a minute.

Now I am in my sweatpants on the couch, waiting for some wine, Kizzie is playing nicely with the dogs, which should give you some indication of how serious the situation was, since Kizzie won't play with dogs unless her life depends on it. Josh is wearing his itchy Pendleton shirt just to make me happy and Halle went to bed with a headache. Aspen and Natalee are still trying to figure out how to make the computer work without a hard drive.

I am going to watch a movie. I am on the fence between a gangster flick with fedoras and a lot of shooting or a mushy tear jerker. Hmmm. PMS much?

Things That I Miss

It's The Holidays. There's pretty much nothing about The Holidays that I don't love, unless you count little squabbles with a "somewhat petty" husband about the cost of Christmas Gifts and Holiday Feasts, or not having enough leftover stuffing to really feel quenched. But overall, I just adore this time of year. This year is nice, because for whatever variety of unjustified reasons, and a healthy dose of prozac, I am overall, as happy as I can remember being. Maybe it's the ridiculous puppy that wakes me up in the morning chewing on my arm - or was that my husband doing a zombie impression? Or maybe it's the smell of Peppermint Dreams, which may be my newest Scentsy favorite (call me shallow). Or maybe it's sorting out 17 boxes of glorious Pendleton Blankets and being able to tell the story behind each one because I am totally geeking out and reading the blanket books in lieu of Wisdom Searches every day. Sorry Dad, but Proverbs got worn out. Anyway, I am content, but not in a things-are-ok way, more content in a things-are-warm-and-fuzzy-and-even-if-you-are-a-little-bit-of-a-jerk-it's-nothing-a-gingersnap-latte-won't-fix kind of way. The one pang of sadness I have is for the friends, and the family that I haven't or won't see this season. I miss my besties from back home, even though back home is really here, now, I miss lunch (and breakfast) at the Mustang Grill, Karaoke and crispy chicken salad at the Whitebird. I miss sledding with 20 people and hot chocolate and snowplowing down sheep creek road in a pickup. I miss dark nights on friends couches with cheesy movies and doing dishes in hot sudsy water with my best friend. I miss BBQed turkey and Backwoods Cigars. I miss hockey practices, hockey games, expensive Canadian Lattes that have some magical ingredient I still haven't found anywhere else. I miss my kids still thinking everything was cool, instead of nothing is cool. I miss making chai lattes every morning to be picked up en route to work by only the most privileged of friends, who probably didn't even like chai but liked the excuse to stop by. I miss so many things, but look forward to recreating some memories with new friends, like smashing together Gingerbread Hovels and stacks of hundreds of puffy sugar cookies in indeterminate shapes. I can't wait to cruise Bend looking for the BEST Christmas Lights and fight with my teenagers over who gets to wear the cool snow pants. I am excited to go snow shoeing at night, in the dark, seeking out a bonfire with the aid of a warm thermos full of hot cocoa and schnapps. And I am excited to go home and visit at least some of my old friends. Some places you can never really go back to, and that's ok, I've still got the smells and sounds and warm fuzzies in my head. But dropping in at Christmas for a hug and a frantic download of community gossip is enough for now. I can say that my Auld Acquaintances haven't been forgot - but I'll still raise a cup of kindness for Auld Lang Syne.

Things That Don't Get Enough Attention

Recently, through the grapevine, I heard the jealous murmur of a child who was bemoaning the lack of mention in her mother's blog. While I am sure that Natalee was elated to have her anger issues showcased on a public forum, and Aspen never gets tired of having her cuteness promoted, and Halle is just weird enough to be mentioned at least monthly, poor MacKenzie, the upper middle child, is all but lost and forgotten. So Kizzie, this is for you:

Dear MacKenzie:

I was 15 once. When I was 15, I was aware of two things: boys, and how painfully unfashionable I was. At 15, I began an evolution of personality. Before I discovered the important things in life like The Avett Brothers and Frye Boots, I decided that I liked daisies and sunflowers and hippies that didn't smoke pot (because I didn't really know what pot was then). I liked poems, Shakespeare, beautiful language. I loved the stage, mostly because for a few brief minutes, the whole world was looking at me (including boys), and I was beautiful (or at least OK). I liked iced mochas with lots of whipped cream and rope licorice. I liked shopping at Goodwill for brand names I gleaned from my stylish cousin (BTW, Katey - I don't think The Limited was ever cool for 15 year olds). I liked my one brand new pair of Gap Jeans that Grandma Schiffman bought me for my birthday. I liked my big dog Frankie who looked like a black and tan Truck and was my best friend. I liked Jessa and Aimee and Muriel and Andy and Misti and Melissa, and pretty much every boy I knew. When I was 15, I thought I was fat. What I would give to be that fat now. When I was 15, my parents didn't understand the first thing about being 15, being in love, or being cool. How can a sophisticated 15 year old ever listen to parents who clearly had no clue, and no interest in getting a clue. At 15, I was grounded pretty much every other week. I was grounded for bad attitudes, for being unkind (hateful, mom always said) to my sister. I was grounded for writing notes to boys, for wearing clothes that were outside of the rules my parents had set (and for the record, their rules were IMMEASURABLY more strict that mine are for you, ask them). I was grounded for not taking care of my chores at home (which again, where IMMEASURABLY more than yours, but don't ask my parents about that one.), and for mouthing off, sort of like a certain 15 year old I know now does to her parents. When I was 15, I was in love with at least 4 different boys. There was Jake, there was Peter, there was Jim Miller, and oh my gosh - Forrest Greenough. All of these passionate love affairs occurred after I had experienced the wisening of love gone wrong with Jason Dotson, and Nate, and probably a few others that I can't remember now. None of these passionate love affairs included kissing. My first kiss was a few days after I turned 17. Lack of opportunity? I guess so. I guess I didn't have the opportunistic setting of an unsupervised school hallway, and truthfully, I am very thankful for that. I wish I could tell you that if I had the same opportunities that you have, I would have made only the best and wisest choices, but to be perfectly honest, I am not sure what I would have done in some of those settings. 

I know what I wanted. I remember fantasies of being swept off my feet and having my heart stolen by a dark haired class clown... I wanted to be the girl that every boy wanted but only one boy had. In many ways, I still do. Doesn't every girl want to be wanted like that? I guess what I am trying to tell you is that I understand. I  know you think I don't, that I am just a frumpy mom who doesn't Even Know How It Feels, but I do. I remember wishing with EVERY OUNCE OF WISH in me that a certain boy would happen to be downtown when I rode my bike there. We didn't have cell phones and Facebook then; just wishful telepathy and parents who liked to hang out at Goodwill. I know it feels hard to deal with sisters and parents and all of the pressures at school - I can only imagine the school part, except that I remember how it feels to be so very different and wish desperately to be The Same. Now I value being different. Being different is the only thing that makes me the girl that every boy wants (they totally do) but only Josh has. Being different is what makes it possible for me to say I have never been fired from a job and every boss I have had would still love to take me back. Being different means that I can CHOOSE what I do with my life, whom I share it with, and how I want it to look. Being different means that I can listen to The Avett Brothers and Eminem and Frank Sinatra all on the same playlist and Halle's friends think I am cool (ok, that's a little risky). I know right now the most important thing for you seems to be survival, but what survival means to you now will be vastly different from survival when you are 22, or 32, and beyond that, I can only imagine (since I am not that old yet). It wasn't until after Natalee was born that I truly gained an appreciation for my parents, and the fact that they did their absolute best to raise me the right way. There are no perfect parents, but I will give mine an A for effort, even if I choose to do some things differently. I trust, and hope, and pray that someday you will look at me with the same eyes. If you feel about me someday the way that I feel about my mom and dad, then I will feel like I did ok. I don't expect you to like me now. I don't expect to be your buddy, even when you steal my clothes and make me cookies. I expect to be your mom, imperfectly, and often very badly. I am an awkward mom. I don't hug well. If you need a hug, you might have to steal it from me. If you need a pat on the back, you might have to remind me. But if you need a kick in the butt bottom, I will probably remind you. It's ok if you hate me now. It's ok if you keep throwing fits for a few more years, or decades. I have faith that you will be just fine. You are beautiful, and talented and intelligent. You are different, and it will serve you well. I hope you will learn to place a high value on your heart and your love, because there are many unworthy people out there, and Josh and I can't stand to see you wasted, so you can plan on a fight until YOU see your worth. I remember 15, Kizzie. Like it was yesterday. I remember the clothes and the smells, the music and the hair and the boys. I remember looking for my space, my self, my soul. I remember how strong the feelings are, how intense the problems seem, and how alone you can feel. But there is another side to 15, and I know that you will arrive there beautiful and ready for 16. Because you are my girl. 

I love you.

Mom

Things That Are Delicious

When I was a little girl, my Grandma Schiffman lived in a mauve retirement center. One of her best friends in this pastel paradise of my juvenile fantasies was a lady named Lee Ruckdashel. Lee fell in love with my captivating beauty and magical charm, or at least thought I was cute,  and adopted me as one of her own grandchildren. I spent several afternoons baking cookies with Grandma Lee, the foremost of which stand out in my memory are the famous Gingersnaps that have yet to be matched in absolute yumminess. Grandma Lee passed away when I was still very young, but left to me a Christmas Tree Pin covered in rhinestones along with her immortal recipe, which today, I share with you. Pretty Darn Lucky. 

Grandma Lee's Gingersnaps

1 1/2 cups shortening - she used (yellow) crisco 

(I made these with coconut oil and they positively MELT in your mouth. And cost about 50 cents apiece.)

2 cups sugar

1/2 cup light molasses (I usually use blackstrap - get your USRDA of iron in a cookie!!)

2 eggs

4 cups flour

2 tsp cinnamon

2 tsp ground cloves

2 tsp ground ginger

1/2 tsp salt

4 tsp soda (I used three and they were fine)

Cream shortening, sugar, eggs and molasses. Add flour, salt, soda and spices and mix well. Roll in to about 1.5 inch balls and dip in sugar. Place about 2 inches apart on a cookie sheet and bake @ 350º for 12-15 minutes, or just a couple minutes after they crinkle. I like them soft so I take them out shortly after the crinkling starts. Makes about 3 dozen.

Grandma Lee's original typed recipe, complete with annotations and cooking stains. from 9-1-84

Josh and I have a fundamental disagreement about whether gingersnaps are a strictly Christmas Holiday Tradition. I maintain that they are year-round appropriate but definitely more appealing in the fall when spices like clove and ginger and cinnamon take on epic proportions in their gallant attempts to transform a variety of squashes into something edible. Apparently Josh associates them with The Holiday, based on a Christmas Party experience and buying bags of the cheap crunchy ones to take to potlucks. First of all, these Gingersnaps don't even fall into the same food group as those, and secondly, if he wants to insist that they are a Christmas tradition, that is fine, but we are starting our celebration early. Break out the Bing Crosby, y'all.

We had a BBQ last night because it was 45 degrees and nasty outside and it seemed appropriate. I made a batch of these cookies and I think everybody sat around the kitchen table and just ate Gingersnaps and discussed politics (much to my chagrin) and living in cults. We also imbibed hot apple cider with cinnamon whisky, and that made the discussions even better. I strongly recommend this drink. Afterwards most of the adults decided it would be a good idea to go over to Mavericks and do some dancing. Apparently we had a really good time because my legs hurt today and I COMPLETELY FORGOT to take the girls to their Irish Dance class. Curses. And here I was all proud of myself for getting up and making biscuits and gravy and stuff. The Heck.  I make a terrible adult. In some ways I am relieved, since my face is sloughing off at an extraordinary rate and while I could pass for a zombie cowgirl last night at the costume-approriate bar, sitting with perfectly manicured dance moms is slightly less cool when you're shedding giant chunks of skin. But I could have made Josh take them. If I had remembered. Someone should take away my grown up pass. I think I will have another gingersnap to console myself.

Things That Are Expensive

I have a fetish. Maybe fetish is too sexual. It's really more of a naughty addiction, and only naughty in the sense that it costs money and makes my darling husband mad at me. I LOVE Living Social. Not in the "oh man, I love Bon Jovi!" sense, or "don't you just love Flavor Blasted Goldfish crackers when you are hung over?" but more like "Scott Avett could easily be the LOVE of my life. If he weren't married. And I wasn't, too. Obviously." Kind of way. It's that kind of LOVE. It's the love that compelled me to sign up Right Away for Living Social Plus, where you pay $20 and you get $25 in deal bucks which have to be used within that month on a Living Social deal, or you just pay $20 for nothing. I figured, having this fetish, that I would be spending the $20 anyway, and might as well snag that extra $5 for free. The only trouble is, I have impulsively, or (fair argument) COMpulsivley, bought enough deals on Living Social that they are now stacked up in my Voucher In Box, dangling over my head with the threat of expiration. For instance: We talked all summer about trying that Stand Up Paddle Board thing that is so trendy here. Weeks of the early summer drifted lazily by like the shirtless guys with ripped abs and the bikini clad supermodels on their easily guided 8 ft paddle boards, tempting me into a weakened state when Living Social offered an all day rental for like $20. I jumped on it. And then I left for a fire. And another, and another, until the allure of my all day rental of a clunky 12 foot board in the 40 degree water of the Deschutes River with frost on the ground and my pasty, white hasn't-seen-the-light-of-day knee-to-shoulder body region has become less than enticing. In fact, no thank you. Luckily, I am spared the agony of wasted dollars, letting the expiration of this adventure-in-the-waiting slip by, because I am so GOOD at Living Socially, that apparently at least three of my friends bought the same deal and I got mine for free. No harm, no foul, right honey? (*innocent grin)

In addition to the never-to-be-used paddle board voucher, I also have two different pre-paid, come-and-get-it opportunities to gorge on pizza. I love pizza. My all-time-weight-high does not. But I love pizza. One of our vouchers is for the bowling alley and includes bowling for 6 people. At $25, that was a steal, provided we use it before it expires next week. Plus the bowling will be almost like working off the pizza, right? I refuse to input bowling into my calorie counter app to find out how many calories bowling actually doesn't burn. The other pizza voucher is much more fun, because it includes two beers and doesn't provide the cultural stipulation that you really should Do This with your children, like bowling does. It's actually at one of my favorite pizza places in town, Little Pizza Paradise, which is why I jumped on the offer - that and the two beers. I'd like to fantasize about Thursday night football with my Darling Husband there, except the fantasy is overrun by his protestations that pizza gives him heartburn and he doesn't like beer. Dangit. Thursday Night Girls Football Night? Desi? Anyone? I will NOT let this voucher go unused! Or unappreciated. Little Pizza Paradise has great pizza, but more importantly, they make this Grinder Sandwich that I literally have dreams about. I think that is because I ate it one day at work when I was counting calories and was Extremely Famished since my yogurt had worn off at about 8:15 AM - That Sandwich not only blew my calorie allotment for the day clear out of the water, it was heavenly.

Another Living Social offer that I am suffering a mild bout of guilt for is the second $40 gift certificate to Angelina's Organic Skin Care. The first $40 (which only cost $20!!!) was justifiable, since I was planning to try her Coconut Bliss Masque anyway, but a tinge of peer pressure moved me right over the edge to the second one and now I will have $80 worth of locally made, organic skin products which are totally awesome and equally as hard to explain to my Sweet Husband. This MIGHT be because I was also bewitched by my buddy to spend slightly more on a regime of facials and face products than we just blew on a registered daschund puppy. I, personally, could never have imagined spending two car payments on my face, but somehow, in the heat of the moment, it just seemed right. As if that justification has EVER worked for anything. Except marrying Josh. It was kind of the same rational. So maybe I shouldn't judge it too harshly. Let's just hope that 6 months from now, when my new puppy is potty trained and we've finally been able to have the power turned back on, I will have a whole new face.

I am pretty excited though, looking at my voucher collection on Living Social, to realize that I also got my year long subscription to Cosmo for free (see, I have other smutty friends!) AND a customized phone case that I was feeling pretty guilty about throwing down $20 for. I am gonna keep pushing this Living Social Junk. It works!! (If you love me, buy my Living Social deals.) Maybe If I get enough free crap,  Josh will forgive my newly perfect face. I mean, we only had to sell SOME of his golf clubs to pay the phone bill. And he's got lots.

I'm not gonna lie. Living Social Might be a bad habit for me. But I will also say I have discovered some great local businesses and met some cool people through it. It's so much cleaner and easier than Do Local Deals and I think I will stick exclusively with LS for now. Especially since I messed up my username at DLD and can't ever log in. And I have that $25 in deal bucks to spend! Ooh, that expires soon, huh?

https://www.livingsocial.com go here. Check it out. Or at least definitely click on the offers that I buy so I can get more free stuff!!!