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 Independence

I've been a single mom for some time longer than I have had a man around to fix stuff. I've learned a lot over the years about the things I can, and CANNOT do for myself, but it seems like it's a perpetually evolving process that needs updating constantly.

There are some real benefits to being a single woman and Doing It All Yourself.

For instance, during a recent invasion of slugs, and then when a hoard of Giant Hobo Spiders moved into my bathtub, I had the opportunity to up my bravery game and take on the pestilence, head on, sans male protector. I salted the heck out of 6 inch slime monsters and watched them melt like the wicked witch of the west, feeling powerful and courageous. And on TWO different occasions, I battled four massive hobo spiders in my bathtub, with only scorching hot water on my side. The horrific arachnids were so big they wouldn't even fit down the drain, so I had to muster my bravery and scoop them out of the tub and transport them to the porcelain aqua-mausoleum. TWICE.

GIANT hobo spiders. in my tub. showering has just become optional.

And then there is the Rosie the Riveter "We Can Do It" attitude that has me all cavalier and heading off down the road with my Thule carrier fastened to the top of my car BY MYSELF. Except it was fastened entirely upside down and backwards. Miraculously, the thing didn't blow off before I realized that it was on completely wrong, pulled over and reattached it almost completely wrong again. I feel somewhat brilliant that the right way of attaching the thing slowly came to me as I made a 500 mile drive, one step at a time. It's like rocket science, but easier. The 16 year old son-that-isn't-mine shakes his head in disgust at me.

The learning opportunities, folks. They're phenomenal. If I had some doofy guy around doing everything for me, correctly, the first time, think of all of the things I wouldn't learn.

My next undertaking is learning how to shoot. Guns. Real ones. All of them. And I feel kind of awkward about borrowing other people's husbands for lessons, so I am just gonna go out and teach myself. If this isn't the best idea I've ever had, I am not sure what is. I just have to figure out how to load the guns that I have to shoot. It can't be that hard. I will just YouTube dome do-it-yourself videos: How to load and shoot an SKS... What's the worst thing that could happen?

I mean it worked with plumbing. At least until I had to borrow someone's husband to finish the job I was botching royally. The text conversation went something like this:

me: *photo of toilet in pieces
Friend With Useful Husband: oh that doesn't look good
me: I think that one doohickey is the broken part, so Ima just switch it out. But I can't figure out where the whoozit in the left corner goes.
FWAUH: Hold on.
me: *girl from Ipanema instrumental
FWAUH: He says stop. Don't touch anything else. He'll be over after work.
me: I am pretty sure I can do it
Useful Husband direct text: STOP NOW
me: ok

Or there was that time that the hot water heater died. Like 8 times in a row. And I tried to fix it myself.

me to friend's useful husband (notice how the middle woman has excused herself): so if nothing is coming out of the hose and it's making a weird screaming sound, is that normal? Do water heaters ever blow up?
Useful Husband: BRT. Stop touching things.

Of course this is the same Useful Husband that I asked to check the trailer that I hooked up and was hauling home by myself. Guess the thing wasn't even latched on or something. Who knew?

Hey man, I tried.

Someday I should write a book called Useful Husbands and The Friends I Lost By Borrowing Them.

When I lived in Bend and all of my Friends With Useful Husbands were hundreds of miles away, I tried to rewire my dryer and in addition to nearly burning my rental down, I doubt I would have survived the 220 volts I tried to play conductor for. I placed an ad on Craigslist that went like this:

I NEED A HUSBAND

I tried to switch the cord on my dryer from a 4 prong to a 3 prong and I nearly lost my life and burned down the house. I am cramming food for 5 people in my tiny freezer because I don't have the means to tear out a bench to make room for my chest freezer. My six year old is dehydrating herself on a strike against drinking water because we haven't hooked the ice maker/water dispenser on the refrigerator up since we moved in and she insists that the only good water to drink comes from the refrigerator. I need a man, or a woman, who can re-wire my dryer without orphaning my children, make two ridiculously small cuts with a skill saw to take out a bench, and run the water line for my refrigerator. I will pay, or I will trade you for cookies and/or beer, and let you pet my dog, who feels severely outnumbered in a house full of females. If you need a really ginormous and comfy love seat, you could have that too, but either way I am terrified to make another attempt at being an electrician, and I just don't have the tools and/or time to do the other stuff. The last love of my life took all of my tools when he left, bless his heart. Please let me know if you can do these things for me at some ridiculously inappropriate time, since I work 7/ 10 hour days a week. I have the dryer disassembled, the new cord ready to go, and I have no idea what I need for the ice maker. Maybe you do. If you are lucky my 10 year old will give you her impression of a jump-roping pig while you are here. Someone licensed and bonded would give me peace of mind, but I am open to someone with experience. 

Please email me and let me know how much you would charge, and if I should make you dinner. 

thank you,
Liv

Out of that ad, I ended up getting a guy who ran a company called Aspen Building somethingoranother, and by his correspondence seemed less expensive than the only other email I got, from some licensed and bonded dude who, several months later, would end up being my next ex husband (that's a whole different tale to tell). Aspen Building dude charged me plenty for doing about 25% of the work, and proceeded to ask me out. Maybe I really missed something there. Or maybe I should have just tried it again on my own.

All in all, the fact that both I and my children have survived my solo flight as a "functional" adult so far is nothing short of impressive. I continue to learn, sometimes at great expense, and burn out friendships. Because the only thing worse than being a third wheel is being a squeaky one that needs to borrow your grease all the time.

In all seriousness, I am eternally grateful to the Useful Husbands and the wives who have loaned them with no grudge, as well as the brother-in-laws, dads, uncles, neighbors and friends who have saved me from my own independent capabilities more than once. I CAN do it, but it's much easier with someone who knows how.

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 I Would Like to Ask

1. Why don't we drink wine out of pint glasses?

2. Is it a functional requirement to throw the empty dishwasher tablet wrappers back in the box?

3. When do dogs stop shedding?

4. Do they make a centralized vacuum that just continually sucks crap out of the air in one's house, and if so, is it expensive?

5. How do you train a wiener dog?

6. Are dirty dishes grounds for disownment of a child?

7. Is there a way to get a 12 year old to quit changing her clothes in the living room between school and practice?

Aspen's locker room.

8. When does the amount of Top Ramen/Macaroni and Cheese consumed by teenagers cross the line into abuse and neglect?

9. How do people have full time jobs?

10. Did someone swap out the presidential race for a reality TV show this year?

11. Does anyone want a dog? Or a teenage girl? Or both?

12. How much does it cost to hire a cook?

13. Why hasn't SIRI solved all of my problems yet?

14. How many is too many consecutive days with people under the age of 20?

15. Is running away ALWAYS the wrong answer?

Things I Can Give Up

It is the last day of 2015. It's monumental, I suppose, this 38th year of mine, a year full of change, turmoil and triumph, highs and lows, work and play... but it feels like a Monday. Like I have to get up and get stuff done as soon as possible. Maybe a night of heavy drinking will fix that.

I was researching the tradition of New Year resolutions for a story I am writing in the Silverado Express, and it was fascinating to see that the custom of using the beginning of the year to make changes, to repent and forgive, to purge and cleanse and start over, is almost universal, whether the new year celebration is on January first, on the Chinese lunar new year, or Rosh Hashanah. The underlying theme of new year resolutions is sacrifice - the giving up and letting go of anything that hinders us: grudges, bad habits, clutter... Even the sacrifice of pride that keeps us from owning our failures or forgiving the people who have hurt us, or giving up something we love for the greater good. This tradition is rooted in the Catholic tradition of Lent which requires church members to forego the eating of meat among other things for a period of time.

In the spirit of the season, I laid in bed for awhile pondering what sacrifices I would make this year (because it was a great excuse to lay in bed for awhile), at the beginning of 2016, to start the year off unencumbered and ready to get some shit done. So here is my list of things to give up. Things I don't need hanging off of me in 2016:

1. Ungratefulness - this is something that has come up for me again and again and again. I have so much to be thankful for, but I habitually resort to complaining about what I don't have. And it's ugly.

2. About 30 more pounds - which means leaving behind the bi-weekly habit of cheesy bread and beer. I am on the path... just a little more paring!

3. Anger at situations that I cannot change or control. I am pressing hard after a deep seated peace, knowing that I am exactly where I need to be to get me where I am going.

4. Worry about my growing-up kids that are no longer under "my protection." I need to trust them to the Arms of Someone more powerful than me.

5. Substituting things for people. I pacify loneliness by shopping, and all that results in is a whole lotta stuff and still nobody here to make me feel better. When the urge hits, I need to reach out to a friend or pick up a book. Hey - imaginary friends are better than credit card bills!

6. Fleas, lice, round worms, ringworm, and all other vermin. You are no longer welcome in this house. Find somewhere else to haunt.

7. Relationships that are false, shallow or lecherous. I don't need to be sucked dry anymore, and in the same token, I need to evaluate how I relate to others and always make sure that I am giving and honest.

8. Neediness: I have been given everything I need to be a whole person, without being dependent on someone else. I forget this every day.

9. Judgement - I have enough of my own failures to focus on without being distracted by the shortcomings of others.

10. Excuses: For the first time in years, I am virtually pain free. I am capable and I am willing. It's time to be the person that I want to be, without letting my laziness and apathy slow me down.

Things Unseen - Why to Believe, and Why to Push It

It isn't just that I've had a couple of gin & sodas. It isn't just that it's The Holidays. It isn't that my good friend who really couldn't afford it footed my bill at the bar, or that by some weird God-related coincidence some random weird guy at the bar knew that this entire day swirled around and came back to It's a Wonderful Life and referenced it to me. It isn't because I am a spoiled brat and throw a lot of fits. Even if all of those things are true, that's not what it is.

What it really is, is that It Matters. No matter how much I feel like in any given moment, that it doesn't matter what I do, what I say, who I see or talk to, it really does matter. Just like if George Bailey had never been there for Mr. Gower, you never know when just being there matters the most. And you never can tell how the one time you made cookies with somebody, or read them a book, or made them watch a ridiculous Christmas movie, could be something So Big in their lives that they never fully recover.

Tonight I was feeling sorry for myself after sending my kids off to their dad's house for a Christmas celebration, and then I got into an argument with kids that aren't mine about Santa Claus and Christmas and believing. Even my own kids chastised me this holiday season about being too relentless with the Christmas Movies and the Christmas Music and TRADITION. Other kids think I am just plain nuts in my Santa Claus dogma.

I don't know how to say all of the feelings in my heart. All of the frustration for the 8 year old who tells me Santa Claus is a lie, because his parents believe in the importance of  teaching him to thank them for the presents they paid for. Or because perhaps they are afraid that as he grows older he will think that his parents lied to him about a mythical being. Or the 17 year old who doesn't even the know the name of Santa's reindeer because no one ever bothered to tell him. I probably sound petty when I say that it seems horrific to meet someone who has never seen White Christmas or Holiday Inn, or who has never laid awake all night listening for reindeer hooves on the roof of their house.

What baffles me is how you can expect your child to believe in a God that you cannot see or hear but banish so completely the wonder and faith of believing in Santa Claus. If there is anything of value that we can give our kids, it has to be the richness of believing in what we cannot touch or see. It has to be the mystery of Christmas Eve and the wonder of Christmas morning.

Years ago, as I slogged through the mess of my own spirituality in the wreckage of my soul as I was living in a hell on earth, I wrote a poem for my mother. It was shortly after my Grandma had passed away, the Grandma who had told me stories of brownie kiss freckles, mermaids at Twin Rocks on the Oregon Coast, and stories of fairies dancing in the ferns around Multnomah Falls. She told me the legend of The Bridge of The Gods, the ancient Klickitat brothers who fought over a fair maiden and wreaked havoc on the villages and lands of their people, ultimately destroying the naturally formed bridge over the Columbia River. In Punishment, their father, the Great Chief, struck all three down and they became the mountains: Adams, Hood and St. Helens, standing as mournful sentinels of caution to the native people. My grandma, with all of these stories, taught me faith in ages that have gone by before me, belief in knowledge that can not possibly be proven, and she is the reason I will always love, and always believe in Santa Claus, and even more, God. Don't tell me that there is an unseen world but that you are the only one with accurate information about it, according to your badly translated book of stories.

Christianity is in such an all-fired hurry to shun traditions and legends that originate before the advent of Jesus, because of their "pagan" roots - which interestingly, are ALL of our roots. There is history before Christ, y'all. Deal with it. There were miracles and mystics, and if God is yesterday, today and always, then most likely he was hanging out with the pagans before Jesus wandered along. Our little box of religion that is a few thousand years old puts a lot of limits on an omnipotent God, who, incidentally created all of the cultures behind all of the legends and stories and mysteries.

Here is the poem I wrote, and the belief that I feel compelled to share with my children and any others that I come into contact with. Because this is faith. Because it probably matters. Because I think my grandma had it figured out.

I believe in things unseen

In brownie kisses and faerie rings

I believe in gnomes and elves

And pixies that disguise themselves

I believe in sprites and nymphs

Mermaids and mischievous imps

Little things we never see

That hide in toadstools, rocks and trees

I believe there is a world

Of unseen things as we’ve been told

With lots of different creatures there

Irksome ones, and some that care

Now I think I understand

Why Grandma told me faerieland

Was not something I had to see

But trust my heart and it could be

Although this world I cannot see

I know it is as real as me

This trust has grown throughout the years

Throughout the joy and all the tears

And things unseen have grown beyond

Faeries dancing on the lawn

To faith in God and heaven above

And giving unconditional love

for Grandma Schiffman, 1997

Things That Are Disgusting

I have decided that if there is anything gross in the world that it will happen to me. While I will spare you some of the more sordid details of my long past, I will bring you up to speed on the manifest disgust that I have had the pleasure of enduring recently.

It would be easy to just tell you to imagine the grossest things you can and then take it on faith that those things are going on at my house.

Say for instance, you imagined something as horrific as the idea of roundworm larva that live on the microscopic backs of fleas. And say for instance, that you imagined a demon-possessed kitten with the face of a miniature tiger that came to live in a house that was equipped with a dog door, and you couldn't actually keep the kitten out, but it brought these back-packing little parasites with it and shared them with All of The Dogs.

Then say for instance that the dogs, after a few months of chewing the obnoxious fleas off of their itching spots, swallowed enough with the happy little round worm larvae on their backs, that the little worm-eggs hatched out and then the dogs (and probably cat) all had round worms. And then say that the worms started crawling randomly out of your dogs anus on to the living room floor as he slept angelically. I mean just imagine that. Wriggling little white round worms on your living room floor. All around the vicinity of your dog's precious rear end.

And just imagine if the same cat who basically ruined your ENTIRE life, along with 30% of your Christmas tree ornaments which he flung wantonly off of the Christmas tree and into the waiting maws of a vengeful dachshund who got left behind on the last trip to town, imagine that this cat was also a fierce and ferocious hunter, and his favorite activity was bringing half-alive and all-the-way dead, and best of all, ripped-in-half baby rabbits and birds into your bedroom to tear apart and devour. Ripped in half, folks. Little furry halfs of baby rabbits. With fuzzy little cotton tails and hind feet. Under your dresser.

The carnage of an ornament. But slightly less gross and more photographable than anything else in my house.

I mean, I am sure you've already heard the horror story of the people with the kittens who infected the Entire 12 Grade School with ringworm? And also the story about the poop floods at Christmas time.  Or even better the poop floods and head lice! Those things? They all happen here. All of them. And more.

All of these things are of course survivable, as is the bean soup that I fed the kids with the drowned fly in it. It's just that I thought that throwing a splash of "vintage cooking" wine (i.e. I opened it last summer and then left for fire season) in for flavor was a great idea. How was I to know there was a long-dead fly floating in the corked bottle? The internal moral debate that ensued was tumultuous. I could have thrown the whole pot out in a paranoid frenzy. Or I could calmly scoop the fly and surrounding soup out and let it boil for a very. long. time. Obviously I settled for the latter. Mostly I did it because one of my loving offspring announced to me recently that I am the only one in the house who likes soup anyway, and I have clearly been force-feeding this terrible slog to my children against their will. Who cares if it had a dead fly in it?

The good news is that nobody died from the fly-soup. The worms and the fleas have been routed (God willing!?!?!), and there hasn't been a trace of ringworm in well over a year. At least not here, which means things are getting less gross, right?

Things About Getting In Trouble

Of all of the things in my life that I am good at, Getting In Trouble is hands down my specialty.

It started when I was a nice little girl and all of the things that seemed like Really Good Ideas at the time ended up being exactly what my mother was not hoping for in a nice little girl. Like being mean to my even nicer little sister. Or cutting my bald-until-four-years-old cousin's hair off when she was five. Or sending fan mail to Christian Bale after I saw Newsies. Or running away on a black and hot pink ten speed bicycle to the payphone at Ronnie D's where I called my aunt and she sent me packing right back home on that hot mess of a bike.

It continued into my adult(ish) years in a religious community where my shirts were too tight, my house was too messy, my music was too sensual and I was an unsubmitted nightmare of a wife and mother and churchmember. It continued when I got the ambulance stuck in 2 feet of snow out meadow creek road, and when I qualified for a payment plan on a computer so I could start going to college against The Will Of The Lord. It went on when I got a divorce, then a boyfriend, then another divorce, and it hasn't showed any signs of slowing down.

Anyway, if somebody could make a living out of getting in trouble I feel like I could NAIL the interview for that job. Recently I have curbed my trouble-garnishing habits to less socially irresponsible things than boyfriends and bad credit. I have learned to invest my mischievous energy into Saying All Of the Wrong Things and probably soliciting certain death at the hand of either a terrorist, a republican, or my mother (they might have to leg wrestle for the privilege).

I recently wrote a blog post about Fear, and being the attention seeker that I have ALWAYS been, I used a bunch of tags like "terror, terrorist.." etc. The next day I had 900 hits on my blog from Israel. The country. I should be more concerned, especially after the  Boxcutter Incident, but knowing I have a brother who works for the NSA makes me feel reasonably safe that I would have a few mintues of warning if an attack was imminent, to make my way across the border into Canada and the polite safety of our Northern Neighbors.

As if beckoning international attention wasn't enough, with all of this political bruhaha smothering the food and beer posts right off of my Facebook feed, I might have inadvertently posted something not conservative enough, or much too conservative, which inevitably leads to a comment fight between my dad and my Most Liberal Friend, a smattering of  snarky comments from an assortment of cousins, and makes me want to delete my entire online life which would spell the end of my attempt at fame. You can take your pick of gun rights, #coplivesmatter, #idiocracy ala Donald Trump, Kim Davis, Syrian Refugees or Planned Parenthood, but there's a 102% chance that I will be on the exact wrong side of the fence from everyone. Not that I mind really, because it is a maddening world.

To top it all off, my friend Beth Woolsey, of Five Kids Is A Lot Of Kids fame, generously ran one of my old blog posts about Wetting The Bed, because if you're going to be exposed to a whole new audience of readers, it might as well be about one of the most shameful experiences of your life, right? Anyway, my poor Mom, God Love Her, can't understand why bed wetting needs to be mentioned ever at all. Here I go reverting back to doing All The Wrong Things Again. I have to say that she's come a long way in that she's able to love me unconditionally through my Poor Life Choices these days (really Mom, I appreciate your tolerance for reals). Plus I imagine she doesn't want to leg wrestle an Israeli or a Republican for the privilege of attacking me. (Now I will probably be in trouble for saying I was in trouble when I wasn't really in trouble at all. Story of my life.)

I would say that I am making a resolution to quit getting into trouble so often, but we would all know how grossly shallow that promise would be. And it's not like I ever run into mischief INTENTIONALLY. Well, not usually. But for the time being I will try to keep my misbehavior limited to using my cell phone in class, liking inappropriate memes on Facebook, and eating too much cheesy bread (don't tell my challenge group).

Things About Fear

Last week the world blew all to heck. Literally. I have heard reports from the towns south of me, I have seen the pictures on social media to support the claims. In the dark, cold hours of the night, I could heard the angry roar of the wind, like a bear unleashed from a long captivity, wreaking vengeance on his captors. I imagined the giant dying tree above my bedroom crashing down through the roof. I imagined what many people faced in reality that night.

I was afraid. I was afraid for the daughter who lives in Spokane, where she listened to perpetual sirens as the giant trees fell like blades of grass around the neighborhoods. I was afraid for my youngest daughter and the entire bus full of middle school basketball players trekking back from a match across a mountain pass in the violent storm. I was afraid for all of my friends and family who were at the mercy of the wrath of nature.

The word afraid means "to be filled with fear or apprehension." I believe that fear itself is a gift, but to be filled with it is death.

Fear is an unavoidable human reality. It is easy to demonize fear and make it the enemy, but fear is often the one thing that keeps us safe. Fear is the only reason we don't leap unprotected from skyscrapers or dive unguided into the darkest depths. Fear keeps us alive, but it can also keep us from living. Fear, left to spiral out of control, can dominate our existence and paralyze us from movement. When fear fills us up, and we are afraid, it can monopolize our time with useless worry and wasted days of what-ifs and but-maybes. It can be the still small voice that tells us which side of the street to walk on, or it can be the screaming howl of senseless paranoia. Fear is a gift, but like any gift without moderation, can cause death.

My two oldest daughters are heading off in a couple of weeks to a country in a different hemisphere from me. They will be "alone". Traveling teenagers with no supervision during The Holidays in South America, away from me, out of reach of any futile protection I imagine I can offer them. It brings me back to the place I was in 2009, when I lay on a bed under a mosquito net full of holes and I realized that from my location in Northern Uganda, it would take me no less than two days to reach my kids back home if something went wrong. In that moment I began to panic, to regret my decision to travel, to hate myself for abandoning my post as sworn protector. But in that moment I also had to find peace, and the only way I could do that was by reminding myself that they are in The Hands of Someone who has loved them much more and much longer than I have. That even sitting next to me at the dinner table, they are no more under "my protection" than they are 10,000 miles away. They do not belong to me, they belong to themselves and they world they were created for. They have a reason to be here, and their purpose as human beings is certainly not to sit "safely" by my side.

I have to remember this when Halle is working all night on an uncontrolled fireline. I have to remember this when MacKenzie rides the bus alone in Spokane. I have to remember it when Aspen is at the top of Sherman Pass with her classmates in a windstorm, and when Natalee doesn't come home from a sleepover on time. I have to remember this when there are kids being murdered on college campuses almost daily, our Protectors in Blue are being killed on the streets, and there are terrorist threats close to home.

My delusion of control and protection over the ones I love I owe entirely to the safety that they have been granted thus far by a Power far greater than me. I have not kept them safe. I have not prevented their harm. The One who made them has sheltered them, and will continue to do so until their purpose is served. There is no other way to live life with healthy fear and respect for the dangers of this world, than to believe that Someone Bigger is in charge. All I can offer is wisdom and prayer.

In this ugly world of terror, surrounded by human beings intent on destruction, our wisdom has to be grounded in healthy fear and our fear has to be driven by wisdom. I carry a gun not because I am afraid of the bad people, but because I know they exist and I am not afraid to counter them if I must. I wear a seatbelt not because I plan to be in a wreck, but because I know that no accident is planned and I have seen the consequences of not using that protection.

One of my best friends is a police officer - I do not fear the real danger he faces every day but I do pray for his protection every shift. One of my best friends is facing health challenges that could be terrifying, but I trust in her strength to overcome anything. The things that we fear the most: death, pain, suffering... are the things that none of us can avoid. Bad things happen every day, to good people. Our only choice is to embrace the purpose behind the things we suffer, before the things that kill us and make every step count along the way.

Which is why I am not harping (very much) on the girls' trip to Brazil. I am trying very hard to remind them to be wise, but to not nag them to quit living. This world is so vastly different from the one I knew as a teenager. More connected, more open, in some ways better, in other ways, immensely more dangerous. But again, they fly under the Wing of a Bigger Bird than me, and I am thankful.

I am not afraid anymore. I am not filled with fear. There are fearful things, to be sure, but they do not own me. Like that night in Uganda, there are moments when I have to make the conscious decision to put aside my fear for my faith. I have done it a thousand times before, facing the suffering and the struggle to find the joy on the other side of fear. I did it when I  left a destructive marriage and a damaging community, I did it when I pushed through the nightmare of getting a college education, of single motherhood, of starting over in a new town. I do it every time the pager goes off in the middle of the night or I see the burning forest ahead of me. Fear is always there, but I am not afraid, and because I am not afraid, I have oodles of stories to tell. I can only hope the same joy for the ones I love.

READ: The Gift of Fear by Gavin de Becker, and Deep Survival by Laurence Gonzales. Both of these books have been game changers for me.

Things About Being Somebody Else

It's almost a lost cause. Seriously.

I have come to the long-elusive conclusion that self-esteem is probably a myth. As a child, I remember hearing about self-esteem and picturing it like some golden badge that one wears around and shows off. Like: "Look at my shining self image. I love myself!" I keep waiting for the badge to show up in the mail after I work out, or deprive myself of ice cream, or after some random dude says I am cute. But alas, no badge. And just the very second I start to feel that rosy rush of I-AM-PRETTY-COOL, I go and pull some stunt that sets me right back on my realistically normal rear end. Like, for instance, trying to dress up for Halloween.

I have always loved to dress up. Since I was a 15 10 year old playing house with my sister in the field in front of our house, I have jumped at any opportunity to be somebody other than plain old Liv. Theater was really nothing more for me than an excuse to play dress up...And then there is Halloween. For years, in a religious community, the opportunities for costume play were relegated to our cowboy skits and the thinly veiled "Harvest Festival" substitutions for Halloween, which I fought for year after year, just so I could be somebody other than me. After leaving the community, I immediately jumped back onto the Halloween bandwagon with my kids, forgetting momentarily that I was too old to be a socially acceptable trick-r-treater.

And then I discovered the adult costume party - you know, the one at the bar, where you dress like a fairy-tale-themed hooker and whoever has the best cleavage wins the $50 cash prize? Yeah. Never scored on that one. But year after year I have waited for the opportunity to play my heroes. Peter Pan, Rosie the Riveter, Annie Oakley, The Heartless Tin Woman - and I have to admit, some of the years have been less than successful, especially after I Do The Right Thing and take the kids trick-r-treating in the freezing rain and can't muster up enthusiasm for the rest of the partying.

But this year I was ready. I had my costume all worked up in advance, with of course, a few obstacles. I had shopped around for some invitations to some crazy fun parties and had my pick of places to go. It was happening.

I have been a Lara Croft fan for years. I mean, first of all she's a quasi-archaeologist who is a bada$$ with some big guns. Secondly, she's Angelina Jolie, or more correctly, Angelina Jolie is her. What isn't to idolize, right? Anyway, this was the year that I decided I was brave enough to rock the skin tight shorts and a thigh holster (even after my younger and hotter cousin did it first and better) and make my way to a grown up costume party, cleavage or not.  I had some issues finding big, bada$$ guns and had to settle for a mixed consortium of blue and neon nerf guns and a storm trooper blaster which I stole from my nephews. It wasn't right, but I thought it would get the message across. I was also hoping the freebie NREMT backpack that I stole from Aspen's Massive Pile of Junk would help to distract from the gun issues. Maybe the costume was terrible, or maybe it wasn't, I will never really know. I'd hate to read too much into the less-than-blown-away reaction of my 15 year old, but it might have been a decent indicator. If nothing else I gained a real appreciation for what those volleyball players go through at every game in the cellophane shorts they wear (who's the pervert that dreamed up the volleyball uniform anyway?).

Even so,  my excitement was evidenced in the fact that I had my costume on by 3:00 in the afternoon, knowing full well that I wouldn't even be able to take my kids trick-r-treating until nearly 7, after which I would end up showing up late to the party I was headed to. But I was excited to be Lara Croft. Or the nearly 40 year old version of Lara, after a few too many Krispy Kremes. I sat on my couch and counted the minutes until my kids got home from their basketball games, talking myself alternately into the bravery of wearing my less-than-fully-clothed costume out on the streets with the kids or wisely putting my street clothes back on for my parental duties. My passion for cos-play won out and I courageously, at long last, stomped my mayonaise-white legs out the door along with a flamenco dancer, Minnie Mouse,  a bumblebee, a cat lady, Ke$ha, and some version of a SWAT police officer in camo pants and hockey sweatshirt. That one was a little confusing for me, but hey, who am I to judge when most of the people I passed on the street confused me with either a geriatric Katniss Everdeen or Ma Kettle missing her skirt (turns out a thigh holster can look like a utilitarian garter belt in the drizzly dark).

As fate would have it, after a much longer than anticipated round of freezing rain trick-r-treat, and just about as I was headed off to most likely win whatever costume prizes were out there, I got called off for a medical emergency with a friend. So I never made it to the party, which means I can rock my costume next year, since the four middle schoolers who saw it this year really don't count, right?

I think as far as my self-esteem goes, having the balls to wear spandex shorts even for a couple hours around a lot of judgmental teenagers was probably good for me. The biggest part of a healthy self-image is the ability to laugh at yourself, to not take yourself SO SERIOUSLY that you can't appreciate the humor in the muffin top hanging over your gun belt. The whole point of dressing up is the idea of living out a fantasy for a little while, stepping outside of the safe and normal and treading gingerly into the scary and unrealistic. I didn't feel like Angelina Jolie out there, but I DID feel like Lara Croft, and that's pretty ok with me.

Nailed it, right?

Things About The Perfect Girl

Someone recently asked me if I was, in fact, The Perfect Girl. I quickly answered yes, if one is into moody, unpredictable people who drink too much. But if you ask any of the men that I have been with in the past, they would tell you otherwise.

The last year has been a winding trail of Dealing With All The Shit that I have semi-successfully buried for many years deep inside of my soul. I have been rooting out the lies and replacing them with truths, and every day it seems like there is a new one. Sometimes it's easy to get discouraged or bogged down in the endless, hopeless struggle, but sometimes I can look back on the progress I have made and I feel pretty damn good. Ten years ago, I would have agreed wholeheartedly with the string of lies that I have been fed. Ten years ago, I would have done anything to be whatever THEY wanted. But it's not ten years ago, and I don't believe the lies anymore. Not even the ones like these that have been spoken to me by people in my life:

"You're an underachiever. You could be so much more."

Wrong. I am fierce about chasing down what I want. Wrestling it to the ground. I have made concessions, yes. I could make more money, have a stable future, retirement, benefits, blah blah blah... But it's been a conscious trade off for the tangible liberty I have to do what I love and be with my kids and owe no one my soul. I am a mother. I am a daughter, a sister, a friend, a teacher, an EMT, a writer, a hard worker, a partier, a pusher. And every day I go farther.

"You were irresistible when you were thin."

Wrong. I am irresistible now, you are just too shallow and insecure to be happy with anyone. When I lose "the weight", as you call it, as if it were a set of keys to be misplaced, I will be too good for you and your pettiness anyway. And the idea that you have that you got ripped off by having to endure fat Liv - it's garbage. Like you are.

"You're failing as a parent."

Wrong. I have made more mistakes than I care to recount. And one of my kids is barely speaking to me at this moment. But all four of my girls are brilliant and strong and capable and will be forces for the world to reckon with. I will not always be a best buddy to my kids, but I will always be the best thing that I can be for them. And all four of my girls love me. This is a confidence I never expected to feel. I draw strength from their love. That, my friend, is not failure.

"You're selfish and irresponsible."

Wrong. Ok, maybe irresponsible, a little, sometimes, but really, come on. I have been raising girls more or less on my own for over a decade on a shoestring budget. We've never gone hungry or cold or really without much of anything, and we have been blessed beyond measure to do crazy awesome things. I don't have much in my savings, but I can tell a pretty cool story, and so can my kids.

"You're a spoiled brat." 

Wrong. I can throw a mean tantrum, to be sure, but there is no question in my mind that things only go my way with a heck of a lot of persistence, determination and hard work. Yes, I like to have things my way, but I sure don't expect it to be handed to me.

"You destroy relationships."

Wrong. Meet my friends. My family, 89% of whom are speaking to me at any given moment. I am surrounded by people that I am committed to. Not people I agree with at every turn. Not clones of me with identical lives and tastes and experiences. I am rich with relationships that are non-negotiable in my life. That require work and flexibility and patience and tolerance in both directions.

"You're a lazy piece of shit."

Wrong. I am not even gonna dignify that with a reply. And get off my couch.

"You are crazy."

Wrong. Unless you mean crazy like, in a good, spontaneously fun and life-of-the-party way. I do not need lithium. I do not need a psychiatrist. I do not need you in my life telling me that my insanity is the cause of all of your issues.


I mean, when it comes right down to it, I guess I am The Perfect Girl. Not because I am flawless, but because I see my flaws, and everybody else's, as the choppy water that rubs the river rocks into smooth and graceful pieces of art. I have my share of weak areas and blind spots, but I am also hella fun. I like beer and football and trees and guns and wine and couches and sweatpants and long hair. I like food and music and traveling and learning and listening. I like doing, not planning. I like going, not wishing. I like to stay up late and sleep in later. I will never grow up. I like to kiss. I like to hold hands. I like sex. I like dogs. I like pretty much every animal I ever met, except a few humans. I like God - the real one in the rocks and trees and rivers, not the one in the Pink Churches. I like to dance. I like to sing, however badly. I like to make it up as I go, and while sometimes my life gets a little haphazard, it's made me a great problem solver. I am interesting and fun and often silly. What's not perfect about all of that?

There you have it, folks. Pure perfection.

Things That I (Don't) Understand

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. When my oldest daughter called me for dating advice, I never imagined it would be on these terms. If I was talking to a son who was taking a girl out for the first time, I would say many things: Be sensitive. Be kind. Be a gentleman. Be curious about her: listen, learn. Have fun - without the pressure of expectation. But what should I say when it's my daughter that is taking out the girl? Maybe that advice doesn't change...

Even though the signs were there from day one in the curious, indomitable tomboy who would never wear pink. While her friends were being princesses, she had an imaginary cowboy named Jarrup for a best friend. It was there when she challenged the dress standard norms for gender suitability in early middle school. When she watched the other girls with peculiar fascination, as though they were alien creatures. 

Gay wasn't a thing in my family. In fact, it was an abomination. While my own beliefs had bent and swayed as my understanding of God and The Whole World evolved, GAY was still something that I hadn't made eye contact with. Avoid the awkward conversation, and dealing with rigid, archaic religion that still surrounded me. It was a conversation that we didn't need to have, that I didn't need to have with myself.

Halle came home for Christmas from college and there we were, sitting in my messy bedroom. In an awkward talk full of medium smiles, stifled tears and uncomfortable silences, she was telling me that she didn't know about sex, or about love, but that she was pretty sure that men weren't in her future. She cried about a girl that she adored - one who had pushed her away, and used her, and hurt her. She had been devoutly committed to the girl. All of her words painted the picture of the loyal hound dog that would do ANYTHING for his friend and master. To keep the one she cared about free from pain and anxiety and stress were paramount motivators in Halle's life.

I knew this story. I had lived these feelings. The emotions she described and the dedication she expressed were a mirror image of thelove that I once felt for a man. As she cried, I flashed back to the physical pain I experienced when the one I loved was hurting - Halle was expressing total empathy. I UNDERSTOOD, but somehow, it was different. It made no sense to me, feeling the draw of intimacy, of discovery, to another woman. I had moved beyond the absolute belief system that would give me cause to reject my daughter for her lifestyle, but there was still some flimsy cardboard wall inside, keeping me from embracing the Whole Halle. I couldn't fathom her absolute desire to please another person who wasn't a man. I have very close girl friends, but what Halle described were feelings that I had only known for the love of my life, who was very much male.

I couldn't translate it. Or figure out how to take it away from that conversation and into the real world. How to say to Everyone Else: "yes. I understand her heart. and I support her love. for whomever she chooses." But that is truly as simple as it needed to be. Even so, I couldn't speak that language to her. I tried, in a clumsy and brutish way, to express my unconditional love for her, but the words that came out sounded more like tolerance and avoidance than support and compassion. I was doing it wrong, but I wasn't sure what right looked like.

It took me a few weeks and some less-than-gentle moments of introspection, but it finally occurred to me that the dating advice that I would give my daughter, as well as the things I would say to the Whole World were no different than they would be for a straight kid. Be sensitive, be kind. Whomever it is that you love, love unconditionally, the way that I have taught you.

More than being gay, she is my daughter. The fears that I have for her and the mistakes that she could make are universal. The risks are the same for all of us, gay or straight, every race and creed, down to the last imperfect person on the planet. Fear is born from ignorance, and while I might not understand her attraction, I understand my daughter, and I understand the love that she experiences. I know her, and as time goes on I will know her better. None of this can change my love for my girl - but my curiosity to know her has grown.

This wasn't the way I planned it, and yet here we are. Without knowing how, it's my job to include my daughter as she is, who she is, into the greater world of our extended family, the church, the judging masses. It's my job as her mother to speak love and acceptance to her, and bridge her way through self-discovery. Halle has an opportunity to live her life as an answer to how she was created by the same God that the rest of us will negotiate our own expressions of life with. It isn't necessary for me to understand, it is only necessary for me to love.

Always My Hallelujah.

Things That Are Good

Some days it can be hard to remember why we do the things we do. Why we didn't give up our children for adoption or file for disability 12 years ago. Some days it seems like all of the trying and the working and the struggling to Do The Right Thing only ends in one more disaster and another bad day. Some days there is no amount of positive thinking or gratitude to compensate for the mascara that you finally decided to wear and then promptly bawled all over your face. Some days just suck. 

The beauty of sucky days is that we would have no idea how Truly Awful they were if we didn't have the good days in between. The days when those kids we aren't sure we want anymore reached out and reminded us of the loveliness that is buried 10 issues deep inside of them. The good days when you can feel the gorgeousness that is You pouring out from deep within, even when you haven't showered and you realized the sweatpants you're wearing doubled as the dog bed last night. Our crappiest moments stand out because they are in stark contrast to that time when the kid you weren't sure would ever read got the high honor roll. Or the dog that can't be potty trained went for two whole days without pooping anywhere visible to surprise guests. We have days and days of bills paid on time and dinners cooked (however poorly received by ingrate teenagers) and not running out of gas on the way to work. We have those days and it makes the ones when Everything In the World Goes Wrong seem like utter hell. 

It isn't so much about having a half-empty or half-full glass. It's about having a glass. Something to put stuff into that can hold it all, whatever you've got for the time being, whether it's wine or Pepto-Bismol. You've got a container for all of the good, and the bad. And the "impurtities" that you'll skim off the top.  You've got a place to keep it all - a way to know whether it is good or bad for short term or long term or how the hell it fits in at all. You've got a glass called life. And sometimes it's all scuzzed over with dishwasher grime and unidentifiable substances and you can't stand to look at it, but sometimes it's crystal-sparkling clear and you can't remember ever wanting to slam that beautiful thing on the ground and shatter it into a million pieces, even though it was just yesterday. Or an hour ago. Lucky for us the glass changes. The shit filling it changes and the level fluctuates. But as long as there's a glass, we've got something, and if we didn't, where in the world would we put the beer?

I think tomorrow my glass will hold a Bacon Bloody Mary. It's only right.

Things About Sickness

I think I have cabin fever. Maybe I have kid fever. Maybe I just have a fever. Either way I am sick. Definitely sick of my "cabin". And several other things that make up the majority of my life. Like small children who stick their fingers in their underpants and then smell them and announce their displeasure therewith. WHY? My friends at work (school, that is) and I debate about which is the lesser of the 3 evils: Elementary, Middle or High School. Give me high school EVERY DAY. At least by then when the kids are (we won't debate if) sticking their hands in their pants they have arrived at the understanding that is socially unacceptable to demonstrate, smell and denounce publicly. Usually. I won't say we don't have some exceptions...

Relying on work as a substitute at the school comes with the knowledge that I am not at liberty to turn down shifts that are offered to me. A) there might not be any other work that month and B) the office might decide you're not reliable, never call you again, and you end up homeless on the street. With as disgusted as I am with my house right now, the second problem seems slightly less disconcerting than usual, except that we got snow up on the mountain yesterday. The mountain right outside my window.  So when they call, I go. Even when there is the distinct possibility that I might have the same stomach virus that kept Aspen puking the day before yesterday, and/or the same one that induced vomiting during the prom on Saturday night by a student on my bus, of course. He wasn't smelling his own puke at least. But he did take half of the high school boys outside to see it, because who doesn't want to test out newly acquired forensic skills by taking bets on what this kid's last meal was. Technicolor yawns never get old, y'all. Lucky for me, or not, I never vomit. Hardly ever. In fact, the only times I remember (<----key word) puking in recent history were emotionally induced. Like that one time that my husband left for reals. Or certain revelations about the activities of teenage daughters. But I win the fight with most viruses and rarely succumb to an intimate encounter with the porcelain throne. Which is good, since that sucker hasn't been cleaned in at least three eons (until today). No puking, so clearly I am fine to work. Even if my back feels like Chuck Norris tap danced across my lower lumbar and reduced all of my vertebrae to crumbs. I am fine to work. Of course. I would love to watch children rediscover the scent of their own butt crack all day. It's my favorite.

So I am sick. The only medicine that seems to be helping is a steady stream of 80s rock alternated with marathons of Criminal Minds. Because watching serial killers murder children makes poop fingers seem bearable - almost. My sanity revolves around the knowledge that I can and will escape the cabin and the poop fingers at some point this week to surface momentarily in the quasi-adult world of meetings, interviews, writing, and most importantly, beer. Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day, which means I don't have to come home until all of the green beer is gone. From everywhere.

Hopefully that will make up for the toilet that I just was forced to clean. My favorite child, Noone, presumably with an upset stomach, decimated it. I had just finished reading a great story about a plane that had just taken off from London and was forced to turn around and re-land due to a "liquid fecal excrement" event in the lavatory that was apparently overtaking the entire flight. I feel your pain, airplane people. I want desperately to get off of my poop-laden flight, but there are no maintenance people to call in, and no free hotel nights while they take care of business. I am captain, concierge and liquid fecal excrement scrubber of this voyage to insanity. And supervisory poop finger washer. I wear many hats, y'all.

I am kind of sick of it.

Things About Having A Cold

I kept telling people that I was sick. Everybody else was, and it seemed silly that I wouldn't be coming down with it, especially when Aiden was dying of the plague and drank out of my cherry pepsi at the movie - or when Andrea pulled that one giant booger out of Calvin's nose and we aren't sure where it ended up. There is no way to avoid exposure, and hence, succumbing to the various and assorted community diseases going around. But for all of the times I have said: "yep, this is it. I am finally going down!" so far this year I haven't fallen prey to anything.

Yesterday I started to really feel it. I woke up with that thick stuff in the back of my throat and the sense of impending doom. But, having cried wolf often enough this year I decided to keep it to myself. Plus I had consumed enough beer the night before and danced for A Very Long Time, and it was hard to tell where those aches and pains stopped and the viral ones began. But this morning the telltale drip onto my pillow of an unstoppable nose sealed the deal. This time for reals, I am going down. It's almost a relief. Like giving into an inevitable death that has just taken it's sweet frakking time.

The thing about a good old fashioned head cold is that it makes you notice All of The Bad Things In Your Life that you didn't notice before. Suddenly the daily suffering you do is highlighted by an accompanying misery. Like the entirely long walk from my bed to the couch. It's insufferable. I thought I would never get here. And how cold the tap water is. It's like the water nymphs of Northport are trying to kill me with brain freeze. Or how flipping heavy a bag of pellets is. Brutal. Life is especially hard when you have a cold. The tap-tap-tapping of my keyboard keys and the snoring of an old hound dog are like machine gun fire raining down from a 747 about ten feet over my head. Why are you all so loud? And since when? My legs muscles and butt muscles and those little tiny muscles just above my hips that I had no idea existed are screaming at me about the folly of a dance marathon on the night before Viral Invasion.

Soon, Aspen will be home from school to practice her violin. My eyes and ears are already bleeding in anticipation. And thank goodness there are two weeks worth of leftovers for dinner because cooking would be unthinkable. I was able to get the rest of my stories written with only a few tears this morning, but I did quit an entire job because it just seemed like WAY TOO MUCH now that I have a cold. (Don't worry, it wasn't lucrative) Even my sweatpants are offensive today. They either squeeze my ankles or they aren't soft enough. I managed to put a bra on to go to the post office and remember why life in the outside world just isn't worth living. One more push today to deliver a check next door and then I am out. It's all about top ramen and Criminal Minds and probably some saltines if they aren't too crunchy - and since those are pretty much my favorite things in the whole world, it turns out that I don't actually mind having a cold after all. :)

if you need me I'll be right here, with Truck.

Things That Are (Not) Sacred

We've had this talk before. The one where I remind the children that the fancy, expensive shampoo is mine, and that they are to use the bulk stuff I buy specifically for them. If they want fancy, expensive shampoo then it is up to them to buy their own. We have had the same talk about razors. About bath towels. About makeup. Over and Over and Over again. Which is why it was no surprise to me that when I took a shower yesterday, after cleaning three Persian cat's worth of hair out of the drain, that I was fighting to squeeze the very.last.drops of my fancy, expensive shampoo out of a bottle that had been half full only two days ago. I have few remaining vanities. I get that I am old. And I don't have a  whole lot going for me anymore. But my hair. Which of course is ONLY successful based on the procurement of fancy, expensive shampoo. And when it is gone, along with the money, which was swallowed alive in a comedy of errors we will call Accidental Miscalculation, I am relegated to using the cheap, bulk shampoo, which happens to be Dove right now. I HATE the smell of Dove shampoo. Shampoo is all about the smell, as much as Megan Trainor is about the Bass, shampoo is about the smell. I can't stand Dove. The kids don't mind it, so I get it FOR THEM. But even then, I only get it when I am wandering Walmart (God Forbid) in a feverish state, and I can't smell from the head cold that will certainly kill me before the day is out, so I get the Biggest, Cheapest Bottle of whatever isn't Suave. But next time I am getting Suave. Because since it is readily apparent that I cannot have fancy, expensive shampoo of my own to use, and I refuse to use Dove, and even if I can't smell the flavors, Suave has to be better than what we've got now.

Don't even let me start on the razors.

And the makeup.

and All of The Things.

All of these frustrations are really just opportunities for me to grow, and learn, and become a better person. By not killing any of my children. And discovering new talents.

Yesterday we had our third monthly toilet flooding. This one was the best so far. With swirling poop water standing two inches deep all the way to the back corner of my bedroom, where I was carefully squirreling away the Christmas Presents. By the time I responded to an expletive laced text from Nattie who unwittingly started the flood while I was over at the neighbors, the damage was irreversible. I didn't cry. Well, not til later. Curiously, we had just rolled up our sleeves and embarked on a sugar cookie decorating adventure over at the neighbor's, when I got the text. Two months ago it was pumpkin carving. Apparently even attempts at Holiday Traditions are not sacred to the fates. I think I might ban the use of the toilet for a 24 hour period around such undertakings. Gingerbread houses are on Tuesday. DECORATORS BE WARNED! Maybe I will dig an outhouse before then. Or, as suggested by the many witnesses of this repeat catastrophe, put a drain in the hallway. So I guess I will be hanging out on ehow.com for awhile this morning, educating myself on the nuances of floor drain installation. See! Learning and growing!

In the meantime, between load of poop-infested laundry today, I will be salvaging the few Christmas presents that I was able to get together this year, and write apologetic notes for the poop streaks that may or may not be included in the packaging. Because I care. Happy Holidays. (don't worry DC, your care package escaped unscathed...)

This morning is one of the coldest ones we have had lately, which meant it was absolutely the perfect time for the pellet stove to throw a hissy fit and quit working. Motivated by numb hands, I quickly tore the beast apart and jerry-rigged a solution, so now the stove is reluctantly cranking it out. I wonder how in the world single moms survived before the advent of google, and do-it-yourself videos about ignitor replacement, and without really helpful brother-in-laws. I was able to convince the pellet stove it could get by just fine with what looks like the scarred remnants of a amputated finger for an ignitor remaining. Clearly this is an issue that will need to be addressed more thoroughly in the near future. Probably when the temperatures are at least sub-zero. I am looking forward to that little do-it-myself lesson.

The good news in all of this is that the head cold that seemed determined to take me out has finally subsided, and I can move ahead with fixing All Of the Broken Things without feeling like I just want to crawl under a rock and die. Being mentally functional is somewhat important today as I have PILES of writing that Must Be Done in addition to the poop laundry and masking of Christmas Gift Poop.

So if you need me, I will be over here, on my computer with the rubber gloves on, googling ignitor replacement and drain installation while I am folding towels and writing about the Grand Army of the Republic and locally crafted beer. And I am really sorry if my hair smells like Dove.

 MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

Things I Declare

In the spirit of National Fail At Life Week, I totally bombed on my NaBloMo commitment to post every single day in the month of November. (Sorry, Amaia.) Arguably, this can be overcompensated for by multiple daily blog posts between now and the end of the month, but in the words of that immortal philosopher, Thumper, "if you can't say something nice..." And I just haven't had many nice words.

Until today.

Maybe it was the triumph of finally, if ineffectively, grounding an insolent 17 year old. Or letting go of sleep depriving nightmares about things that ultimately, are out of my control, no matter which option I take. Maybe it was stepping up to the plate of responsibility and turning down something that I wanted in order to save something that I needed. Perhaps it's the acknowledgement that NO AMOUNT of worrying, freaking out, or denying will make certain things so. Maybe it's the undying affection of a blind, obese wiener dog, who would give anything for one good snuggle, or to sleep in the arm of a hoodie for the night. Or it might be that every single fail, all of the obstacles, and each pitfall that I have encountered lately all say the same thing to me, over and over: "you're hilarious". They giggle at my foolish attempts to control the evil universe around me, they mock my feeble swings at Looking Perfectly Together. And they remind me, over and over again, that I am, in the words of my gentle ex-husband : "more broken than anyone I know." And I am. Gladly. Because it's brokenness that brings healing. And growth. Even with the pain. The only people who aren't broken are the ones who aren't living.

All of that being said, I have some Declarations About Life that I feel compelled to make:

First, and Of The Greatest Importance:

It's The Holidays

So get with the program! It is now officially time for egg nog, snow, mittens, decorations, sledding, eating Too Much and Too Well, hot buttered rum and mulled wine. Gone are the doldrums of fall and the mediocrity of seasonless apathy. Now is the time to celebrate family and love and All of The Reasons that WE ARE. 

My next declaration to you, the Whole Universe, is that I am sorry. I cannot fix it all. And for the time being, I am going to quit trying. Also, I cannot control it all. Or even any of it. So don't look at me like that. All I can do is take the next step in the Best Way I can imagine, and if you see a better way, feel free to point it out kindly. But don't think I didn't try. 

Thirdly, in the order of global announcements, I believe in Kindness. But at some point, tough is better than kind. And after many moons of "falling on my sword" and "dealing with myself", etc, etc, etc, I think I need a cosmic minute to bust a cap in the A** of destiny. Because, dude, really? Enough is enough. Take your stupid somewhere else. It's certainly not ALL my fault, and until you stop dealing from the bottom of the deck, I'd rather not play. 

In my declarations I am in no way condoning the use of Christmas Music before-after Thanksgiving, or December 1st, or Easter, or whichever your family standard is. And I am not recommending busting Ye Olde Holly and Ivy out of turn with the Cornucopia. To each his own Holiday Observations. But as for ME and MY Irreverent, Ridiculous, Totally Overrun With Hormonal Emotions House, GAME ON. 

We're watching Elf tonight. Because It's The Holidays. 

Things To Prepare For

Yesterday I was the kindergarten teacher. Most of you are probably cooing in your heads about those cute little cherubs and singing songs and playing games. But if you know me, you know that I have great difficulty getting past the boogers smeared on each and every surface in the K-1 room, and really don't have much of an affinity for anything under 13 years old that isn't a puppy.

But today was good. It was much less germy than all of my worst nightmares, and  the kids were all remarkably well behaved. After surviving my first full day in the K-1 classroom, there are a few things that I wasn't entirely prepared for, emotionally mostly. So, out of the goodness of my heart, I thought I would share those things with you. Either to prepare you for your own K-1 experience, or just life in general, because everything you need to know, you can learn from a Kindergartner. Or that's what they say.

1) Just because they raise their hands, doesn't mean they have something to say. Be careful who you listen to.

2) The lead in a colored pencil is infinitely softer than the surrounding wood, and creates many tear-filled adventures around the pencil sharpener. Sometimes a gentler approach gets the job done more successfully. Or just use effing crayons.

3) Picking you nose and eating it never killed anybody. YET.

4) Growing bodies cannot be still for more than 15 seconds. Attempting longer term stillness could result in spontaneous combustion, violent seizure activity and/or vocal implosion. This is an ironic contrast to older people, who grow larger in proportion to their maintained stillness. One of life's many inverted relationships.

5) Stickers fix everything. (Tell me this isn't still true. I dare you! Dutch Bros has this one dialed in.)

6) If you put anything to music, you will never be able to get it out of your head. EVER.

7) Making kids stay in from recess for misbehavior is probably going to be more punishment for you than it is for them. This is practice for the teenage years, when anything you do to them inflicts cruel and unjust inconveniences on you, whether the kids learn anything or not. (I found a way around this as a substitute High School teacher the other day when I wrote my own dear daughter a yellow slip for her insolence [HA! TAKE THAT, SMART ONE! I CAN'T GROUND YOU BUT I CAN PUT YOU INTO DETENTION!!!!] Total win on my part. Sorry to the solutions lady at school...)

8) When all else fails, color. And don't be that one kid that will only use black. Because I mean, seriously.

9) Maybe the kinders can't read yet. But if you think about the fact that last year, the first graders couldn't read, and now they can actually tell the difference between the number 7 and a capital R, dude, they're working miracles in there. Be patient.

10) Every dirty little kid is a product of the people around him, for better or worse. Be the better.


It is my firm belief that every early elementary teacher should be nominated for sainthood or an insanity plea. The ones that work tirelessly for an entire career span are my personal heroes. Give me the blood and guts of EMS and the drama and intrigue High School or even unemployment and professional questionability, because I couldn't do it. But they do. Gracefully, endlessly. Day after day they shape our littles into the next workforce. The next generation. Our future. God bless 'em.

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 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!)