Things That Flatter Me

Really this title is somewhat inappropriate, since I have only one "thing" to write about that can be in any way considered flattering. I have several unflattering things I would like to comment on, including intelligent husbands who are still as dense as rocks, sewing and menstruation. Let's begin with the flattery though.

 Back when I was a tiny young mother and still gleaning a sense of fashion, which by now is as well rounded as my seamstress skills, I bought very few items of clothing in which I would be caught dead today. This is partially due to the fact that I couldn't squeeze one calf into a size two now, and also because they are just not that cool. Maybe for 1997, but not 2012. I did buy one thing, back in the olden days, that I still have. One of the reasons I have kept it is because my little sister has hounded me for years to give it to her, which equals cool status regardless of current trends. This stand alone item is also still cool because Robin Wright wore it in Unbreakable with Bruce Willis, and as we all know, there is nothing in an M Knight Shyamalan movie, or that the Princess Bride would wear, that goes out of style. Ever. Anyway, this specific article of clothing is a tan leather jacket from the Gap, and just yesterday, I received this picture from my sister, of the identical jacket that she bought off of eBay. 

Buttercup, er, Robin Wright in my jacket

And I was flattered. Slightly deflated since I no longer have that One Thing that she wants, as I already gave her the smaller size (loathe) of my favorite belt, and she adopted her own collection of (also smaller, also loathe) Liv Jeans and we even have the same Frye boots (ok, these I copied from her, but I still feel like I should get credit for her over all sense of style). We could be twins on pretty much any given day, as these items are pretty much the only things we both wear constantly, except I would be the ginormous twin and she would be the little cute one that makes all my favorite clothes look good. (super loathe). How did I turn the ONE flattering thing into a non-flattery. The heck. Maybe the unflattering things will also reverse on me. Let's try:

About super-smart husbands that say really dumb things: I have an amazing husband. Like, bring me coffee at work, take the puppy potty in the middle of the night, rub one foot while we watch zombie shows, awesome husband that every girl should be jealous of. One of his rare flaws is his aptitude for saying EXACTLY the worst thing ever to a girl. Like this for instance: "Don't give that jacket to your sister. It will fit you again eventually." What the poor man doesn't understand is that the jacket still DOES fit me, and I can even squeeze a hoodie under it if I don't want to bend my arms at all. Which I frequently don't. Just because I can't button it doesn't mean it doesn't fit. It's a jacket after all. Meant to be left open all carelessly with a scarf and sleeveless shirt that allows at least some movement. Doesn't this man realize that I have lost 13 pounds this year? Collectively of course, over the last 12 months or so. And I may or may not have gained a few back, but that doesn't take away the loosing part. Really.

Another unflattering thing is sewing. At least for me. I can work with words. I kind of like to mess with them and bend them around to say something that at least somewhat resembles the abstract mess that is my head. But fabric? Especially dollar-a-yard, laugh-in-your-face, deny-your-dreams fabric. That's the thing about dollar-a-yard fabric that I found out. It's soul purpose in existing is to make an utter fool out of you when you try to translate some totally awesome thing in your head into a totally awesome thing out of your head. Today I was mocked repeatedly by some pretty vintagey fabric that worked well as table cloths for my wedding party, largely because my sister was the one handling it. But I put one finger to the stuff and it's like it wanted to punish me for thinking I could sew. So today, since my bean soup turned out ok and I am still feeling domesticish, I tackled this vision of a bed skirt I have had in my head for the last several nights as I lie awake missing my Tylenol PM. It only took me 6 hours to find out that I have not the slightest idea how to make a bed skirt, but by then I had resorted to using safety pins to FORCE the stupid cloth, in assorted pieces, to do what I wanted. I ended up with this:

It is still mocking me. But to make sure it didn't think it had won the battle, I also made a cover for an ugly couch pillow and patched a queen size fitted sheet. Which is no small feat, especially when the hole is dead center and you have to feed like 100,000 feet of flannel under the pressure foot on the sewing machine to find the spot. I won the battle, and if mom and dad complain about a ferocious amount of thick stitches that I used to attach the patch, I will  probably just pull the bed apart and point out the safety pins in the bed skirt. Sewing is definitely not my most flattering skill.

Perhaps all of these things are particularly unflattering today because it's That Time of The Month, and pretty much everything in the world is ungracious right now. Except sweatpants. It's that glorious moment in time when sweatpants become the Sexiest Thing Ever. And if you say they aren't, you know that you have taken a huge gamble with your life and will probably find yourself categorized with the smart but dumber-than-poop husband. Today was probably not the best day to decide to sew away all of my hopes and dreams. It was probably a terrible day to try on the new skinny slacks I bought at Old Navy yesterday. I found myself chuckling sardonically that I had actually been concerned that a 10 would be too big as I forced my enormous rear end into them. Refusing to admit defeat, I got them on. And since I had worked up a sweat to get into them I decided to wear them for awhile, until I lost feeling in both of my legs and nearly passed out trying to get them off. I'm thinking they run small. After I had escaped the skinny pants, I was so exhausted that I just put on the pair of jeans on top of the pile, which turned out to be another bad idea since they were the smaller size that fit me for like 5 minutes last week, before I re found some of that 13 pounds. I guess it was a really good time to sit down in my super hott sweatpants for a good cry. Another thing to NOT do at this time of the month is clean the kids bathroom, or even consider it, for that matter. All I did was think about it, and I got so irritated that I actually looked up reform schools on the internet.

The salvation of this unflattering day came in the unexpected form of a text from my little brother, asking for my fashion input on a pair of golf shorts. Obviously my first advice was just don't. Golf shorts are rarely a good idea, unless you're putting together a geek costume for Halloween, or you need a gift for an effeminate cousin that you hate. But if he MUST wear golf shorts, I helped him select between the lesser of two evil plaids. Gabe is lucky that he's cute enough to pull off golf shorts and a psycho-stalker mustache. If he stays in his room. But it was flattering that he reached out to ME for my opinion, unless he was inferring that I was the only one un-cool enough to speak golf short etiquette. That concerns me greatly.

Things That Are Warm

Ok, so, some days I am overwhelmed with this fantastical desire to be a grassroots domestic goddess, cooking everything from scratch and blowing my family's collective mind with my awesomeness. I have discovered that such mind blowing is usually better achieved with a Papa Murphy's Pizza and Root Beer. In spite of this well earned knowledge, sometimes I still endeavor to appease my down-home urges, and in the instance of this frosty morning, once I found out I was out of canned beans all together, I decided to make this awesome soup recipe with dry beans, which are cheaper, but ultimately, maybe just as unhealthy since they are not organic, blah blah blah. Anyway, I didn't soak the beans over night, and since I am still recovering from the two failed pots of pinto beans, I decided to try something new and actually read the directions on the package. Weird. Apparently there is a quick soak method that involves boiling the beans for a few minutes and letting them stand for an hour, after which I will crock pot the heck out of all of them until dinner time. I will let you know how it goes, and even if it tastes crappy, I will probably dress a bowl up and tell you how awesome it was because I have already experienced more than my share of humility this week. 

I am sharing this recipe with you, cut and paste from a Facebook Chat with my cousin (the one who likes low quality Thai Food), because it's much quicker than transcribing, and y'all know how I like to cut corners. I have made the recipe (as it follows) before and it is darn good. Especially with corn bread (because obviously, I am cool) on a frosty night when the leaves smell sweet and are crunchy under your feet. I am pretty excited about eating it tonight because I remembered that I bought a bag of Fritos in a weak moment the other day, which will be fabulous all crunched up in it. If the dry beans work out good, I will be pretty happy. If not, well, there's always Papa Murphy's. 

Taco Soup

This is totally Aunt Anna's recipe.

In a crock pot, combine:

1 lb ground beef, browned

1 sm onion, diced

2 cans Mexican Style stewed tomatoes

2 cans kidney beans

1 can black beans

1 can (8 oz) tomato sauce

1 can corn

1 can olives

1 packet taco seasoning

Simmer all day on low. Or, just cook in a pot if your crock-less.

Serve with corn chips, sour cream, and grated cheese. And corn bread, if you're cool.

My Very Industrious Morning, which consisted of pouring unmeasured amounts of various beans into a pot and adding water, is fueled by a very large, very awesome cup (newly acquired from my workplace) of coffee that I was forced to embellish with Irish Cream since I forgot to buy regular cream last night. There is something almost naughty about drinking this early in the morning, but since it was forced upon me, I guess I won't wallow in the guilt for too long. Besides, it was supposed to be my day off, but I talked my boss into working me in for a few hours so I can afford the Super Adorable snow globe we're selling at the store. At this point Josh keeps asking how many hours he needs to put in to pay for my job, which is kind of silly, since he really only has to work like a half a day to keep me in business there. I mean really, it's a small price to pay for all the cool stuff I am getting.

Tomorrow I am closing at work again, and since I came home to such rousing appreciation (read: no leftovers for mom) for the delicious enchiladas I made them last night for dinner, I will probably make something equally as sumptuous tomorrow. Or I might make my sister's Tortilla Soup, which is a recipe that everyone should have. I have had it several times, and lost it repeatedly, so this morning when I asked her for it again, she just texted me photos of the recipe card. She's getting smart. But now I have to look harder at the little pictures. Maybe I will do her soup next week. Is one soup night a week enough? Maybe tomorrow is a roast night. Or maybe it's a kids-eat-chicken-nuggets and I maneuver my way into another $9.95 prime rib dinner at Timbers, which, second to their happy hour finger steaks, might be the best deal in town. The last time I engineered that set up, Josh got creative and fed the kids one of the frozen "manicotti" that he bought at Costco, which they will only eat if we call it lasagna, since it in no way resembles "real" manicotti, which is a long held Stecker family tradition and I am sure I will share with you at some point. In the mean time, I need to go finish this Irish Cream and check my pot of beans. 

Things That Make Me Feel Old

This post is loaded with TMI. I am just letting you know up front. But I have to get it out. Now that it's been two weeks and the shame has subsided. I have to come clean.

I wet the bed. I did. The horror of it took several days to wear off, but when I finally admitted it to my sister, she reassured me that everybody does, so I came here, to find affirmation that I am not the only one. Tell me, please, even if you have to lie.

My sister also guessed the weird thing about this particular bed-wetting. "were you dreaming about peeing?" "um, actually, yes." "yeah, I've totally done that." "Thank God." Really, my dream was a bizarrely real visitation of my triumphant return to stage in a reprise of The Music Man, except this time I was playing the lead, and I really did dream that I was in that tiny ladies restroom in The Woodland Theater that we painted periwinkle blue in 1993. I told my sister that since the heinous event, I have decided to never take Tylenol PM again, which I had tried in lieu of a half of a hydrocodone to keep the pain at bay long enough to fall asleep. Turns out it also keeps bladder urges at bay, and then you go and dream about actually sitting on a toilet, and you wet the bed. Yes, I will forgo the sleep aids so that I can lie awake in paranoia of my newly acquired bed-wetting skill. In my own defense, I will tell you that I was so completely shocked, that I actually woke up mid stream and caught myself. I know, TMI, but I warned you! The trick was hiding the evidence from my husband, who of course woke up to me changing clothes (THE SHAME!!!) and wanted to cuddle. Gross. Who cuddles with bed wetters? Seriously. I had to endure at least 5 days of self-flagellation, which also involved investing in $50 in cranberry juice and capsules so I could blame an imaginary bladder infection on the incident if anyone (namely Josh) found out about it, even though I washed my wet pants First Thing the next morning. It seems like after being married for almost two years, a little bed wetting wouldn't be a big deal. Kind of like the time you threw up on his shoes, or when you had a really unfortunate case of diarrhea after a trip to Mexico (also a closely guarded secret)... just one of those things, right? The problem is, I married Mr. Clean. To my knowledge, in the two years since I have known Josh, he has never taken a crap. On the toilet or otherwise. God bless my Irritable Bowel Syndrome and Chronic Diarrhea, my pooping habits have become a mystery long discovered. I blew any fantasies he had of a crapless wife right out of the (toilet) water. I feel bad about this, but have to live with the shame. Having a husband who doesn't even break wind is a very far cry from the boyfriends of old who could win a county wide farting contest with a single bowl of chili. The last man I lived with taught my girls to compliment each other on the tone of their passing gas, and the push behind manly belches. Fast forward to the immaculate Mr. Weston, and nary a toilet seat is left up. In fact, Josh puts the lid down, on every toilet in the house, compulsively. This has become a marital issue between us (interesting switch up on the toilet seat debate, no?) due to an incident when I was about 7 years old and in a Very Big Hurry to use the toilet and somebody had put the lid down. All I remember is my Great Grandmother on her hands and knees mopping it up. There is a good chance my Great Grandmother had actually passed away long before that, and all I can assume is that her ghost returned to shame me from the grave. So toilet lids remain UP in my house. Now and For All of Time. Considering he doesn't even use toilets, I don't know why he has to go around closing them all for the rest of us.

While I am making confession, I would feel bereft to leave out the culmination of All Embarrassments (at least up until two weeks ago), when our family was staying at a Pastor's house and I got to sleep in the bedroom of the slightly older and reverently idolized daughter, just so I could wake up with a frantic need to pee in the wee hours and wet my pants all. over. the. floor. with my hand on the door knob of her room, standing parallel to her once slumbering head. She moaned and rolled over. I have hated her ever since. Interestingly enough, this same girl became my arch nemesis later on when I lived in the cult. But that's another story.

Now that I have gotten all of that off of my chest and on to your victimized mind, I almost feel better. I hope the rest of you get the chance to wet the bed and feel as human as I did. And as old. And as ashamed. I spent the entire next morning texting friends about bladder incontinence and whether I should rush to the ER or buy stock in Depends first. I even checked into reserving a grave plot, now that the inevitable is rushing up at me and I'd like to spare my kids that worry. Alas, now you know my deepest, darkest shame. If you keep reading, I hope to never trouble you with my bladder troubles again. (But you can bet if Josh ever cuts the cheese you're gonna hear about it!)

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 Make Me Thankful

Today I am not feeling very thankful. So in an exercise of self-discipline and mild reprimand, I feel the need to make a list of all of the things I have to be excited about in life right now. The overshadowing disappointment of yet another rejection for my Adorable Husband after making it THISCLOSE to being hired, seems to be consuming a day full of sunshine and hope and possibility. This can not be. Josh will get a job offer when the job is right, and until then, knowing he has done absolutely everything within his power is more than enough for me. I can not help but stand in admiration of his tenacity and perseverance in spite of the boot-in-the-gut-rejections he has received countless times. He is a strong man - even if he whines a little. I love him. 

So Josh tops my list of things to be Thankful for. That I found a man who can endure not only my insanity and that of my four hormone-laden daughters, but has jumped feet-first into selflessly supporting and directing our collective life, is immeasurable. For myself, personally, I think the man is truly crazy, but I am endlessly grateful for his brand of insanity. Finally, I am not alone. I am not unloved. I belong. I know, and I am known by someone of my own choosing that is a good man. I have my best friend by my side at all times, except when he leaves me for work, which I usually give him no end of trouble about. I am thankful that he takes my trouble, and at least pretends to love me anyway. 

I am also thankful for small, precious, warm and fuzzy things. Like the newest Weston, Dagny, who has already claimed her perch on the back of our couch as if she was there from the very first. Also she gives very good daschund kisses. In addition to the puppy, Punch Brother's rendition of O Come O Come Immanuel on Holidays Rule is another warm and fuzzy thing I am thankful for. 

I am NOT thankful for the relatively immense amount of pain I have been in for the last few days, except that it gives me a much greater appreciation for this day that I have to spend puttering around the house, a few hours of not sucking it up and brave-facing at work or in public, when all I really want is what I have right now. Jammies and a couch with a fuzzy wiener dog. Oh yeah, and coffee. 

I am SO thankful for this big, slightly dated house that we live in. I have never been a fan of split level houses, because I believe in walking right into the beating heart of a living room, and not a tiny entry way that forces the immediate decision between up (social) or down (privacy) without granting a glimpse into either option first. Also, it is difficult to cram all six members of any given visiting family into the entry way, so they are shuffled, single file, up the stairs, like the greeting line at a stoic wedding. I don't love that. But I love the space we have. The big windows. The Emmy stained carpet. Ok, not the carpet. But I like that I have a hideaway cave downstairs that I have no qualms about banishing children from, and a big deck where one could smoke a lazy clove cigarette if one had the inclination. I love the orangy-golden leaves in the yard, and the silly rabbit calling out from his hutch to be set free to run and flip somersaults in the corners. 

I am thankful that this week, we didn't forget either dance class (Monday squeaked in just barely). I am thankful that I got to work almost 40 hours, which means I made almost enough to pay for a bag of Truck's food. I am thankful that the election is behind us, and trust that the result is whatever our great nation needed. I am thankful that we have work, even if we don't have "jobs", and we've never gone without. I am thankful for the peace in knowing that our worries are as trivial as health insurance and retirement, and which jeans to wear today, and not what we will eat, where we will live, or who we must fear. I am so thankful that we do not know suffering, in it's most real sense. I am thankful that my kids are spoiled, even though their behavior is sometimes kind of shameful, and that they have almost every opportunity imaginable. While I have no delusions about the years down the road when my parenting failures will be highlighted for me even more brightly than they are now, I know that I know that my kids have had it pretty damn good, in spite of me. I am thankful that the people I love are safe, are well. I am thankful that my sister is cleaning a house full of puke, and my kids are all successfully puke-bowl trained (don't worry, Em - just a few more years). I am thankful that it is The Holidays once again, and life is better than ever. 

Things That I Am Grateful For

It is November. That means Thanksgiving and all of the rituals thereof, including that gratitude thing that somehow falls by the wayside the other 11 months out of the year. In addition to being the month of Thanksgiving, November is also the month of elections, and in the case of 2012, the all-important Presidential Election. Last night Josh asked me several times for my predictions for the elections this year. My prediction for our president was simple and jaded. Kind of like me: "I predict that the bad guy will get elected." Josh immediately wanted to contend the issue of "bad", which was a heinous mistake on his part, since he would be hard pressed to prove to me that we have anything other than "Bad Guys" running for president this year. Wisely he moved on to the subject of the Parks and Recreation issue that would mean passing a bond, but which I am ok with since A) I don't own land and B) I wouldn't have to get out of the Deschutes River and carry my floaty to the other side of the Colorado Street Spillway anymore. I also kind of like the idea of foregoing the horror stories of Entire Families Lost In the Spillway that we are relegated to reciting every year, but I have a sneaking hunch those stories will remain and grow exponentially, long after the spillway is removed. It makes the float more of a rush anyway. For a minute. So I kind of hope that that one passes, but since I don't know that I should be allowed a vote, not being a homeowner, I really shouldn't gripe either way, right? 

It occurred to me though, as I drug myself out of bed this morning (which seemed cruel and unusual since it's my day off) that today is a Very Important Day for our country. I don't feel like it is so important WHOM gets elected, as much as the fact that SOMEBODY does, and that we, as Americans, can get past the idea that the other guys are idiots and realize that we all signed up for this way of operating. And I have to say, in spite of some hiccups and scraped knees along the way, we've got a pretty great place to live. I get very angry at the conservatives in my life who refer to the "moron" Democrats, and how one would have to be completely stupid to vote for Obama. I get equally irritated with my liberal friends who insist that only a mindless imbecile could see clearly to vote for Romney. To me it is an insult to my friends and family that any one person's political beliefs would somehow grant the right of the thinker to judge the ideals of another human being. I understand believing something strongly. For instance, I will never be able to relate to the preference of milk chocolate over dark chocolate, but who am I to decide that YOUR taste buds are somehow inferior to my own? In fact, who is to say that there is any objectivity to taste any more than there is to an economic plan or a moral high ground? I know that I really rub Christian Fur the wrong way on this one, but I cannot support the idea that the same God who made so many crazy different people and cultures really only recommends one way of doing things. It just doesn't jive. I have come to the point where I can actually appreciate a spirited debate between two opposing views when the debaters have the maturity to believe that a difference of opinion is not grounds for a break in relationship. Case in point, my brother and (nearly) sister in law, who not only ascribe to opposite political views, but they are actually employed by campaigns of opposing parties. And yet, they live together, and apparently, at least once or twice a year, they get along. I love this. I really, absolutely do. It makes me want to disagree with Josh just so we can say how mature our relationship is. Unfortunately we will have to pick that up when he starts speaking to me again. 

I guess the bottom line for me is that I love our differences. I love that I know and care about just as many democrats as I do republicans and libertarians and green partiers (which sounds way more fun for some reason). It is our differences, and the liberty we have to express them, to live them, to vote on them, that makes our country great and unique and amazing. I have been to other places in the world. Even other democratic places, but I will take this one. Yes, we are young and cocky and headstrong and definitely have some maturing to do on the international stage. But we are strong, and we learn from our mistakes. We push ahead and we pull together. We have the option to do these things. We are not told how to live. Nor should we ever be. I find it amusing that so many conservative Christians with their lists of rules and violations and scriptural policies are usually the ones who denounce big government and interference. The heart of their belief is self-government, and in this I believe 100%. The liberal side creates legislation for how to legislate, and offers governmental guidance and rules to help in their effort to maintain equal rights and liberties, in which I also believe. So both parties get confused, both live in their dichotomies - but ultimately, I believe that both seek the same Best Interest for our country, and so I am grateful. And I am absolutely unworried about the outcome of this election, because no matter which "bad guy" we elect, ultimately, he isn't the one calling the shots, we are. Josh thinks that I am naive and don't understand the political process. He couldn't be more correct. But I think that I understand humanity, and the idea that no matter how bad it gets screwed up every four years, there's another four years to fix it. Or make it worse. Either way, it's up to us to make the best of it and be the best American People yet. 

My recommendation to every American is to watch two movies. First, watch Idiocracy. This is what we can be. Make the choices to not. Then watch Mr. Smith Goes To Washington. This is ALSO what we can be. Make the choices to. I also recommend popcorn and Holiday Junior Mints with these movies. If you only want to watch one movie, then by all means, go with Jimmy Stewart. I don't even feel the need to explain that one. If you need to borrow it, I have it. If you can't find Holiday Junior Mints, you can always steal the leftover halloween candy from your kids. If you don't have kids, please steal it from mine. Or just steal my kids. One day I will discuss the horrors of children who hoard candy from Halloween to Easter to Halloween, Every. Single. Year. But for now, I have a day off to be thankful for. Or most of a day off, since my boss just called me in to work this afternoon. Apparently my efforts at inefficiency are not working, as they don't seem to be able to function without me. As long as I can wear sweatpants til 9:52, I won't complain. 

Things That I Waffle About

It's not that I am indecisive. Ok, maybe I am. I don't know. But voting seems to get more difficult every time I have to do it - and that doesn't include the times that I skipped because I didn't have a bunch of friends making me feel guilty for abandoning my civic duty. I would like to think that the whole voting thing works and we really have some say in the direction that our country goes, but then I look at the candidates and really wonder... But I did it. I voted. It was almost a violation of conscience to cast a vote that actually counted. But I did it. Now I can proceed with my life (relatively) guilt free. 

I guess maybe I just do better with somebody telling me what to do. I was raised to obey unquestioningly, and I am pretty good at the first part. I am also good at questioning. But I did let Josh more or less tell me who to vote for in the city council positions and stuff like that, since he knows pretty much Everything about them and I hadn't even heard their names. But I made sure he couldn't see who my presidential vote was for, just because I love keeping him in suspense. (authors note: don't think I don't know that he snuck open my envelope when he "dropped off our ballots" this morning:)) 

In spite of my resistance to voting and All Things Political, I really love watching the numbers come in on election day. I love the live news feeds. I think it's nostalgic for me and hearkens back to Lincoln Day Dinners with the young republicans of Steven's County, and taking pictures with Carolyn Sapp, who was obviously only Miss America for her GIANT hair and pro-football playing boyfriend (who impressed me WAY more than she did). I never did put any stock in that made for TV movie about him beating her up. He was way too nice. Plus he let me hold his helmet. At any rate, I might make Josh take me to a bar someplace to watch the election results. I wonder if any bars play that stuff. 

Unfortunately for all of you, I have to go to work again today, which means I don't have time to wax philosophical about the bain of sewing, or whether crock pot potato soup twice in one week is too much, or anything like that. But I will leave you with a stellar recipe, for crock pot potato soup, which I waffle back and forth between liking, and my old disdain for potato soup. But as far as cheap and easy goes, it's the bomb. It's also a great way to use up the last of that giant brick of cream cheese you got at Costco after the kids have eaten all of the bagels. 

I got this off of Pinterest via Mama Loves Food - she's got some other good stuff too. Check her out. Instead of stealing her awesome pictures though, I will add my own later. 

Slow Cooker Baked Potato Soup Ingredients:

• 5 pounds russet potatoes, washed but NOT peeled. Diced into 1/2 inch(ish) cubes
• 1 medium/large yellow onion, diced
• 10 cloves of garlic, minced (if you use jarred, it's a 5 teaspoon equivalent)
• 64 ounces (8 cups) chicken stock or broth
• 16 oz cream cheese, softened (I use low fat)
• 1 tablespoon seasoned salt 
• optional garnishes: crumbled bacon, shredded cheese, green onions

Slow Cooker Baked Potato Soup Directions:

1. Add potatoes, onion, garlic, seasoning, and chicken stock to slow cooker.
2. Cook on high for 6 hours or low for 10 hours.
3. Add the softened cream cheese and puree soup with an immersion blender until the cheese is incorporated and about half the soup is blended. (Alternately you could remove half the soup and the cream cheese to an upright blender, then re-incorporate).
4. Stir well, top with your choice of garnishes & enjoy!

Things To Make Up For That Last Thing

Things That Are Amazing

Just Saying

Things That Are Scary

Halloween, in general, is a terrifying day. Not because I am worried about ghosts or zombies or chainsaw massacres, but because it is the one day of 365 when dressing like a hooker is A-OK whether  you are 5 or 85, male or female, and everybody is supposed to say "oh, how cute". I know this because I have done it, and it wasn't super pretty. Although at the time I thought I was hot stuff. I have made a concerted effort to not let my girls follow in my scandalous footsteps, and for the most part, it hasn't been an issue. Ok, Kizzie's interpretation of Strawberry Shortcake last year was pushing the line a little, but since I vetoed the green and white striped thigh high stockings, she topped of her outfit with more wholesome tights and baldies (chuck taylors, for the uninformed) that made her less cute and more cute(!). This year, since Kizzie was grounded for Halloween, I didn't have to worry about much at all. Natalee chose the cerebral Amelia Earhart, Aspen was Minnie Mouse (the clean version) and Halle was - well, whatever Halle is when she goes to school most days, but collecting candy. Diana was thrown into the mix for good luck and pulled together something resembling a pig on LSD. Since Josh abandoned me for more interviews I was robbed of the opportunity to dress up, since nothing says "save me" to the man with the over-accelerated hero complex decked out as Captain America, like a single mom in costume with 7 kids in tow.

 I was granted the privilege of driving my kids to the church we have been attending (every once in awhile) so they could hand out popcorn at the Trunk or Treat that was happening, rain or shine. As it turned out, it was raining, so the kids were both confused and dismayed that there were only three trunks to treat out of since most of them had relocated to tables inside. After we were home the kids realized that all the free candy they had scored inside of the church was actually part of the trunking, they seemed to feel less ripped off. So I got to sit somewhat awkwardly by while the kids spilled popcorn all over the floor and ate far more than they handed out to a billion little kids dressed like street walkers. OK, there weren't THAT many hookers - and there was even one little gorilla that was really freaking funny. My awkwardness was rewarded with free coffee, and I promptly decorated my cup with the glo-bracelets that they were handing out at one of the non-trunks. I kind of wanted to leave, but the incentive of free hotdogs and not having to cook really out weighed my resistance to looking to involved in a church activity. I have to say I was kind of disappointed that Pastor Keith didn't even dress up.

I think one of the most disturbing things about last night was the young teenage boys who clearly have no parents and were using Halloween as an excuse to carry around fake machine guns, wearing nylons on their head. I wondered if they were auditioning for the next school shooting, but I realized that they were probably all homeschooled, so then I felt better. I am super proud of the fact that I rushed my kids through regular trick r treating around our neighborhood in about 35 minutes, since I had rented a crappy movie (Snow White and The Hunstman, anyone?) that I was impatient to meet up with on my couch. Josh doesn't leave me to my own tasteless devices very often so this mouse had some playing to do. I woke up this morning, hung over from my diet of 4 boxes of confiscated dots and a hot dog, but I was down another three pounds, so I am ok with it.

And now I have to go back to work and try to remember how to be inefficient. Laters.

Things That I Need To Get Out

I have several tangents to go on today. If I make it through one of them without forgetting the rest, I will be pretty impressed with myself, considering I can't seem to remember jack squat these days. For those of you who care (I am not sure who that would be other than Aspen and MacKenzie) I forgot dance class AGAIN on Monday night. Flat out, forgot. Just like Sunday, only worse, because Sunday should have been a lesson to me. But no, I forgot dance. It's just as well, really, as Josh pointed out, because Monday afternoon I came home from my first day of work (which was really only three hours, but that's another tangent) to Aspen and MacKenzie in a knock-down-drag-out war. This is the kind of sibling squall that ends up with the nine year old calling the 15 year old the B-word and the 15 year old pinning down the nine year old so she could bite her. What. The. Heck. As I made my way up the front steps, dropping mail and groceries and trash from the front seat of my car along the trek (authors note:large jack-o-lanterns make excellent trash repositories), I hear angry screams emanating from the "play room". The play room that is really more of a WWF ring, depending on occupation. My parents have a "pouting room" at their house, where one or more of their adult children can frequently be found during any given holiday nursing a wounded spirit when we vote against their movie of choice for holiday viewing, or their team loses at Trivial Pursuit because nobody would believe them that Ingrid Bergman was born in Portugal. Since we sport pouting in every room in our house, we have a fighting room instead, where siblings go to destroy each other, without the threat of breaking any of their own precious collectibles. This "Spare Oom", as I whimsically dubbed it, is pretty much as far from the fantastical escape that I had imagined as it could be. Josh and I went several rounds in there about whether a futon or a bed was more practical, since the Spare Oom doubles as a guest room, and as usual, I won. Josh was insistent the kids needed more room to play legos and dress up and rubber dolls and squinkies and every other imaginable thing that can penetrate through the tender point right under the ball of your foot with appropriate placement. I felt that they would be just as adept at constructing their multi-level-multi-family-multi-purpose toy worlds on and around the bed. And they are. If you come to stay here, I apologize in advance for the calico critters in your sheets. Apparently the other day all of Aspen's Calico Critters (which, for the savvy, is the modern name for Sylvanians) were forced to relocate from their amazon.com box homes into neon colored barbie cars and live transient because of "taxes". This is what election years do. One more plug in favor of the bed-over-futon argument: queen size beds are just about the right size for middle school boxing matches. Just saying. 

But let's leave the fighting room alone until the blood stains and tears on the carpet have dried, and follow up on another tangent: Work. So I started this job. I didn't really need to work, but some Great Friend of mine suggested I apply at a certain outlet store that was opening because wouldn't the employee discount be nice? So I did, and I got offered part time seasonal work, which is really more work than I wanted, but I guess they don't make less than that. As soon as I got the job offer I was overwhelmed by the thought of having any kind of a schedule, but I decided to suck it up for the sake of the greater good (i.e. employee discount) and do it. I started work on Monday, and although I have done retail hardware sales and of course, wholesale customer service stuff (did you need boxes today?), this is my first foray into the wild world of high-end clothing sales. I was hired low-man on the totem pole, as in, the only part time seasonal. Every one else on staff is AT LEAST permanent part time, but most are "lead sales" or "assistant manager" or "assistant to the assistant manager" or... whatever. It occurred to me, about 15 minutes into my first shift, that A) I was only getting paid $9.00 an hour, and B) my coworkers were clearly well-versed in retail employment. This is what I have learned so far: If you are making $9.00 an hour, you should always move VERY SLOWLY, and don't try to figure ANYTHING out by yourself. I worked for three hours, and I was exhausted from trying to keep up with the pre-school pace that the managers were clearly expecting. I have never been congratulated on my ability to assemble a rack so many times. On the second day of work, the managers, who carefully position every employee on very specific repetitive tasks so they don't have to constantly retrain, set me to work with Phyllis (that's not her real name, but she looks and sounds just like Phyllis from The Office, so that's what I call her) building metal 4-way clothing racks. Phyllis had worked with another guy for about 4 hours the day before and they got 4 of these racks assembled. In three hours, and after kindly demonstrating a few more efficient approaches to assembly, Phyllis and I had built 20 more. At the risk of sounding harsh and judgemental, I am fairly certain that my co-workers had found the absolutely most inefficient and difficult way to built a metal 4 way. "Hey - wouldn't it be way slower if we try to screw the casters on the bottom while the unsecured rack is balanced precariously over our heads?" "Yeah, that sounds really dumb! Let's do it THAT way!"  It's Just Not That Hard. I got a little bit of a positive-reinforcement reprimand from the managers when the other three employees were standing around and I taught them how to tag items like I was. Apparently I exceeded the training expectations and they quickly reassigned the other people to less complex tasks as soon as they got back from their hour long lunch. After my first shift I told Josh I might not survive. Which is OK since my old boss at the hardware store said he might be able to find me some hours since I was his Best Employee Ever. But after my second shift at the outlet, I started to see a glimmer of light: mainly that being the picture of me working there alone surrounded by really cool stuff that I could buy at a 40% discount. This glimmer was dimmed only by the realization, after I got off shift, that I had actually made five times as much money on eBay that day as I did at work. FIVE TIMES. 

Tangent #3: The Fire Job Process. I married a paramedic. I knew, when I signed on, that he would not rest until he had a job in the fire world. I knew also, what that entailed. I went through two (and a half) EMT classes, basic wildland and structure fire training, hazmat training, Firefighter Academy and a million other classes so that I could be a firefighter. Fast forward a few years and here I am with a notebook full of certifications and little to show for them except a tattoo, some great memories and an empty pang of regret. It's the one thing that I gave up that I really, really, really wished I hadn't. But it's ok. We all make trades and concessions and if a better lifestyle for my family precludes me volunteering my time to swagger into burning buildings (I say swagger when really I am waddling in all that gear), then I guess I am ok with that. If you can't be one, do one, right? Oh, sorry mom. But Josh has a shot at a job as a real live fireman. The kind that gets paid. The kind that I fantasized about for like 30 seconds until I realized that the amount of time and resources I would have to dedicate to make myself competitive against a bunch of ripped 19 year old guys was not something that I could afford. But Josh has a shot. He has the strength of two ripped 19 year old and the brains of two dozen, not to mention common sense and experience and the maturity of an extra decade that makes him that much more desirable (or potentially so) to a department. In the two years since I have known Josh he has persevered through more than a dozen tests, for which he drives up to three hours and pays sometimes hundreds of dollars to take (just the test!), so that he can make it onto a list where he can pass another test, a physically grueling combination of ladder climbs/hose hoists/dummy drags, etc, etc, etc, just so he can pass that and go on to a series of anywhere from 2-5 interviews with a variety of different collections of supervisors and peers, and if that works out, a psych test of over 500 questions, followed by a psych interview (depending on the department), at least a couple of EMS scenarios (one trauma, one medical), a chiefs interview, and finally, a job offer contingent on background checks. He's made it through over 12 of these processes, not counting the ones where he was dropped along with 300 other candidates because the pool was so large they only kept veterans and applicants with bachelors and masters degrees. One misstep along the way. One transposed number in the math test, one forgotten protocol on the medical scenario. One missed mission statement buzzword in an interview, and there are hundreds of other hungry firefighters waiting in the wings to trample you in the crowd. Josh spent three days memorizing the credo and all of the values listed in the mission of the last department he interviewed for. This morning he had a chiefs interview there. Friday we find out if he is one of six guys out of the ten remaining to get a job offer. This is the last dregs of a list of over 200 guys to start with. This could be his job, finally. I know Josh started this process before I even met him, and had already endured the frustration of being passed over, and the bitter disappointment of getting THISCLOSE and not being chosen. He has continued to chase after this big dream of his, in spite of the cost, in spite of the rejection, time after time after time, being told in as many words that all of his work and passion and experience just weren't good enough. Maybe this is finally his moment. He has earned it over and over again. I would have given up. I did give up, before I even tried. I don't even have to courage to send a manuscript to a publisher because I can't handle being told no. But Josh has taken every blow and turned it into more determination and better results on the next one. Josh will make an even better fireman than contractor, which is saying A LOT. It's his turn, right? If there is justice in the world and karma is real? I believe it is. If not, it might be time for some of these fire big-wigs to step into the Spare Oom with me. 

Tangent #4: about me. It goes without saying that men are really good at taking things literally, and less good at interpreting what a woman is actually communicating. My husband, for all of his perseverant amazingness, is no different. The realization that Josh has read my most recent blog usually comes in his affirmation of one of my (slight) exaggerations. Case in point: We were discussing how I would need some clothes for my new job that were a little more grown up and dressy. When I mentioned slacks (which are clearly one of my favorite subjects) he kindly pointed out that I should just get skirts since "right now you won't be comfortable in slacks, since none of your jeans even fit." The difference between Josh and some other men is really that he hasn't learned when to keep his literal interpretations to himself. I refrained from throwing my laptop at him when he made this innocently stupid comment, and instead pointed out that the comment on my blog was actually an exaggeration, and not only were my jeans fitting just fine, but I had actually been wearing (ok, not super comfortably, but FITTING!) my smaller sized ones. In fact, I had just repaired, by myself, on a sewing machine (see tangent 5) 4 pairs of my size-down jeans so I could wiggle into them and congratulate myself on the success of my coffee-only diet. He was clearly confused and pointed out that since I hadn't been active much he was just concerned about my comfort. SSSSTTTTEEEEEEEEERRRRIIIIKKEEE TWO! For such an intelligent guy, he can be super dumb. Since I am on Prozac, I was able to smile patiently and explain to him that a lot of the things I write on my blog are actually mild exaggerations, because for example Clare didn't REALLY burn off my face - only just the first 30 layers of skin. And It sounds much sillier when I can't squeeze into my jeans than if I am bragging about the 13 lbs I have lost. And I really don't wear sweat pants all day. I feel like I am explaining that a lot. He has since continued to stick his foot in his mouth regularly, but I think he is taking my blog a little less seriously. I guess I will find out tomorrow. "what do you mean, dumb?" 

Tanget #5: Sewing. I think I might save that one for tomorrow. 

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 Excite Me

I cannot begin to describe the fits of giddiness that I was thrown into this morning when The Punch Brothers posted THIS on Facebook.

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If there's two things I love it's Holiday Music and All of These Bands. Which is more than two things, but who is counting? ME! But mostly just the days until this thing is released. And yes, I already preordered on Amazon. Go check out Holidays Rule and be cool like me. I can't freaking wait. I should pre-apologize to Josh right away for already boring him this holiday season. What is it with these people and their need for more variety than one multi-artist album can provide? I mean really. 

In other, less exciting news, I got the job at the Pendleton Outlet. Now I have to learn how to dress like a grown up and conduct myself in a manner befitting a retail clothing salesperson. Tips, anyone? I hope they play good holiday music there. Really, it's a part time seasonal position, and already the 15 hours a week is making me claustrophobic. But then there is that dangling, shiny carrot of an employee discount. Visions of throw pillows dance in my head. 

I went for my first in a series of facials with Clare at Luna Healing Studios yesterday. Really it was my second facial with her since she did a test drive Jessner Peel on me a couple weeks ago, but we decided to start a whole thingy to try to fix my face for real. After she got done giving me a "microderm abrasion" I asked her what it was. Turns out, it's pretty much what it sounds like - she sandblasted my face with tiny little crystals and a really sucky vacuum thing. All I kept thinking of as she ran it over my cheeks again and again was Will Ferrel in the mail room in Elf sticking his face to the mail tube. Again, you can tell it's getting close to holiday season when I have the uncontrollable urge to watch Elf. I will wait until after Halloween. I will. I will. Obviously Halloween calls for scary movies like Gaslight with Charles Boyer, or Charade, one of Audrey Hepburn's all time greats - or the ultimate murder mystery - Laura with Gene Tierney and Dana Andrews (*swoon). Or, in the case of this Halloween, Snow White and The Huntsman, since Josh is leaving overnight and he refuses to watch anything with Kristen Stewart in it. I really don't blame him, but I have this morbid curiosity to watch her not-act in the movie that was her demise. Or at least a great launch into celebrity villiany. But back to my facial: After Clare got done sandblasting my face, she decided to do another Jessner on me. Ok, I thought. The last one wasn't too bad. It only stung a little and my face didn't totally Frankenstein out like I expected. In fact, I was pretty happy with the results. Turns out, if you sandblast the first 12 layers or so of your facial skin off BEFORE you put the Jessner acids on it, it burns like a sonofablender. I cried like a little girl, but kept telling Clare that I just had something in my eyes which she furiously tried to dab out. I am hoping next time she just takes a blowtorch to my face to save time. My face is still a little burny today, but I am hoping we timed it just right for it to blister over and peel off for Halloween. Mask Schmask. I just slough off my own skin for my zombie costume. That's real commitment. No, in all seriousness though, I am pretty excited to see the results and trust Clare almost implicity. Almost. She really is great at what she does. I am a little curious if she has a facial that's a little more cuddly for the next round. Not that I am a wimp or anything....

Speaking of cuddly - even though I know you all have the impression that I live in my sweatpants under my Smokey Bear Pendleton Blanket (soon to be accessorized by new throw pillows), I generally am up and going at least by lunch time, and since I have to be at High School Cross Country Districts this afternoon, and provide the weekend commute for the cello, and try to vacuum at least a quarter of the Truck hair off the couch before we have a big "end of summer" (what? so we're slow!) BBQ tomorrow with like 4 whole friends, I should probably go take a shower. Plus I am hoping the water will quell the burning of my face for a minute. But first I am gonna listen to all the demos for Holidays Rule again. At least three times. 

Things That I Do Not Do

The Sluggard

by Isaac Watts

Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain,

"You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again."

As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed,

Turns his sides and his shoulders and his heavy head.

"A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;"

Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number,

And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands,

Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.

I pass'd by his garden, and saw the wild brier,

The thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher;

The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags;

And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs.

I made him a visit, still hoping to find

That he took better care for improving his mind:

He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking;

But scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.

Said I then to my heart, "Here's a lesson for me,"

This man's but a picture of what I might be:

But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding,

Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.

I was raised to believe that boredom is a sin. My years in the cult taught me that it was actually one of the Seven Deadly Sins - namely sloth. Doing absolutely nothing with ones time (wait, does this include Facebook?) is a dangerous pastime, as they like to say - an idle mind is the Devil's playground. I know for me, days of nothingness, with no business to occupy my brain, my mind wanders to all kinds of places it shouldn't, and before long, my Adoring Husband is having sordid affairs with the local bakery, my children have taken on demonic characteristics, and my house has transformed into a shrine to despair and hopelessness. My sister says I should do more dishes, but since I only have my coffee cup to wash, that seems kind of short lived and silly. I could put away the ironing board and iron that I stare at resentfully as it reminds me of the bitter task of hemming MacKenzie's Cadet Corp pants that I accomplished last night. I could go out into the biting chill and plant the bulbs that I have been watching lay by the door for a week. I could go down and switch the laundry to wash that last fateful load of bleachable whites and any unfortunate colored items that didn't squeeze into the last non-bleach load. But I can also do all of those things tomorrow. And if I do them today, what on earth will I do tomorrow?

I have already accomplished so much today. If one considers driving for 15 minutes each way and giving rosy answers to bulk manufactured interview questions in  a process that was strangely reminiscent of pushing cattle through a branding iron line an accomplishment. I also started that last colored load, made myself coffee and emptied the garbage cans that Halle forgot. I have two more appointments today, one of which is less than 30 minutes away, which precludes me from planting bulbs but would still allow me to put away the ironing board. I will consider it.

I know that some of my self deprecating blogs leave y'all with the image of me in sweatpants, lounging on my couch with Bones playing incessantly in the background and a perpetual cup of coffee with heavy cream in my hand, but really that's my fantasy life. My real life is about the frustration of jeans that don't fit and the intense mental debate about whether to try to carry all six bags of groceries from Safeway to the car, or push the cart all the way, and if there's any way to justify buying a latte at Dutch Brothers when all I have had to eat this morning is coffee. I mean, as far as calories go, I can certainly write off at least an Americano with cream as long as I don't get lunch after my facial with Clare. But money wise, since I am pretty sure I will turn down any job I get offered as a result of these interviews that I did mediocrely well at, it's just not fiscally responsible to go cavorting through the Dutch Bros drive thru. Although I do have a free one on my punch card...

I am guilty of NOT staying busy. I am. I am goal oriented and like to organize my tasks in order to meet deadlines. I need something to work toward. (all of these were great lines to throw out in my interviews too, so I have lots of practice saying them.) I planned a barbeque for Saturday JUST so I'd have a compelling reason to clean the house really well tomorrow. Now that more people are backing out than coming to it, I am seeing a Friday full of sweatpants and maybe baking cookies. I did buy that flour just because Grandma Lee's Gingersnap recipe has been whispering to me from my cupboard. (check back for THE BEST gingersnap recipe EVER.) So this is my work out: get up. Pick up that stupid magazine that's been cluttering the coffee table for two weeks. Fold up the ironing board. Put away the laundry. Get BUSY. Ok fine. Right after my facial. 

And Just to drive that one home:

Against Idleness And Mischief

Isaac Watts

HOW doth the little busy bee

Improve each shining hour,

And gather honey all the day

From every opening flower!

How skillfully she builds her cell!

How neat she spreads the wax!

And labours hard to store it well

With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labour or of skill,

I would be busy too;

For Satan finds some mischief still

For idle hands to do.

In books, or work, or healthful play,

Let my first years be passed,

That I may give for every day

Some good account at last.

*both Isaac Watts poems are from "Divine Songs For Children" - and both poems I was compelled to write  and re-write multiple times as a child. excellent disciplinary tactic. feel free to use it. 

Things That I Pull Off

My cousin called me brave. I'd like to think I am  - except it was so easy. Of course so is falling out of an airplane, which is definitely brave. So I guess I will accept her accolade. A few weeks ago she (my cousin again) fed me her leftover Pineapple Curry, which was so good, I needed to have more. I think it was extra good because I happened to be working on the Wenatchee Complex Fire when she fed it to me and I was really over the camp food. Anyway, I found a place here in Bend that makes it pretty dang close to the original, which isn't really probably the original but since it was my first exposure to Pineapple Curry, we'll just call it the original. For expediency. (if you're curious, try it at Angel Thai in Bend)

So last night, feeling all homebound after lolling around sickly on my couch for two days, I decided to get a little creative with dinner. Let me tell you, I did this with some fear and trepidation, since my cooking efforts lately have not been coming off in Rachel Ray fashion like they usually do for me. It all started with the carmel that I made last weekend. Every year I swear I will boil it longer. I'll wait for that candy thermometer to bump over the soft ball mark. I will be patient. But every year, and especially this year, for some reason, I get impatient and start dipping my apples Too Soon. So I wound up with a 9x13 pan of caramel sauce instead of caramel candies. It's delicious, for sure, and my buddy and I have found a plethera of uses for it. For example: candy corn dipped in caramel is amazing, as are chips ahoy/caramel sandwiches. It also dissolves nicely in hot apple juice - which we use instead of cider because I am either too lazy or too cheap to seek out the Real Thing. I even smothered my last apple crisp (under the crisp part) with caramel sauce and it was amazing. Even though Josh never even noticed. Sometimes I think that his taste buds are all wired wrong and the only thing that tastes good to him is ketchup and chemicals. The man literally lives on Crystal Lite and Ketchup. Gross. Anyway, After the caramel fiasco, which was still redeemable, I got in this great I'm-cooking-from-scratch-for-fall kick, and successfully destroyed two entire pots of beans. How one can actually destroy beans, and more than one batch in a row, is pretty interesting, but lets just say it had something to do with first not cooking long enough, and then reheating too soon, and then overcooking altogether when I got bored paying attention to them. Good thing beans are cheap. And pots. Um.... But really, after spending three days and about $40 in scentsy trying to eradicate the smell of burnt beans (which is something akin to burnt hair) from the kitchen, I am definitely cooking gun-shy. That's what I get for trying to be healthy. And cheap.

Back to last night: I googled myself up a curry recipe or two and decided to make my own Pineapple Curry. I didn't have any chicken on hand but I had this shrimp in the freezer that I had been saving for some unknown occasion when freezerburn would be appropriate. So I made Pineapple Shrimp Curry. And It was good. I threw a little hot chili paste in so it was about 2 stars spicy (I am clarifying what the stars indicate to avoid the confusion I had when my cousin said her Pineapple curry was only two stars and I assumed it was poor quality), but even Aspen liked it. Mostly because she thinks she's awesome when she eats shrimp. I don't know why. Something about they have poop in them and she doesn't care? True to form, I didn't follow any of the recipes I found, but kinda jerry rigged one up myself. And it worked! Eat your heart out, Rachel Ray.

Pineapple Shrimp Curry

2 TBSP coconut oil

1 can pineapple chunks

1 lb shrimp (or however much you think you want?)

2 green peppers, chopped

garlic

fresh ginger

1 can coconut milk

fish sauce (a TBSP or so)

1.5 TBSP green curry paste (or red - but I had green)

soy sauce

I stir fried the shrimp, garlic, ginger, peppers and pineapple in the coconut oil with a splash of soy sauce, then whisked all the sauce ingredients together and poured over the stir fry in the wok and let it all simmer a little while. You can thicken the sauce with corn starch if you want but I just served it over rice. You can also add a little of the pineapple juice for more flavor. I added about a 1/4 cup. 

Things That Worry Me

I have an interview today. And for all of my fashion expertise (hahahahahahahahahahaah. ahhhh. hahahahahahahhaha) I am really bad at dressing myself in anything other than jeans and hoodies. As my good old bff will attest, nothing grants as much mid-section grace as a hoodie. Sure, you might look pregnant, but those dang kangaroo pocket obscure things just enough that most people think twice about asking. Except that bimbo in the checkout line. Why is it ALWAYS my cashier that loves to stick her foot in her mouth?

"Ohmygosh! When are you due? Are you SO excited? Boy or Girl? Is it your first?" all comes out before I manage to snap : "Not pregnant. Just fat. Thanks" That shuts her up. Every time. It always seems to happen just after I drop three pounds and I start to feel like I Am Awesome. Pride goeth...

Anyway, back to dressing for an interview, and doing it badly. The worst part about today is that I am interviewing for a classy clothing/housewares store (I know, right? What is that, IKEA/Coldwater Creek? Close!) - the new Pendleton Wool Outlet that's opening here in bend. Josh says I should wear a dress because slacks scream lesbian. I am not sure what makes him say that, other than he is worried about someone of ANY gender hitting on me and I look so dang good in slacks. Especially the kind with pleats. My personal sense is that I should go looking like something that my grandmother would approve of, and I don't have any of those kinds of dresses. So slacks it is. Pendleton Wool always reminds me of my grandma, maybe because she kept a little Pendleton blanket in the back seat of her Volkswagon Rabbit that was really itchy and smelled like her cigarettes, which is somehow really comforting sounding right now. All I really know is that my interview is at noon and if I start dressing now I might have settled on something that I only hate a little by the time I absolutely have to leave. Moments like this I really wish I could have my fashion forward cousin body double for me, or my I-do-professional-every-day sister in law. I don't suppose Pendleton makes hoodies?

I have an interview tomorrow as well. Tomorrow's interview is much more my style. It's a warehouse job that sounds a little bit sucky except people bring their dogs to work, and they said if I dress up at all for the interview they would probably make fun of me behind my back. No really, he said that. Guess who's rocking a hoodie to an interview? The only thing I don't like about this job prospect is that the warehouse is unheated. And I hate being cold. Only slightly less than I hate being hungry or bored, but it still ranks near the top of my Least Favorite Things. Also, this job is potentially full time, and as I discussed with Josh last night, I am really not looking for full time work. I would really be best suited to an on call job - where I can work when I call them and tell them I want to. Which would probably be from like 10 am - 10 pm one day a week. Or like noon to midnight 4 days a week so I don't have to make dinner or help with homework. But only once a month. I am an excellent candidate.

Why exactly, you ask, with such lofty employment aspirations, am I even applying for jobs? Truth be told it's mostly to appease the guilt I have for my impulsive spending habits, and for the employee discount. Can you imagine a whole house of Pendleton awesomeness? I have one Pendleton Blanket. The limited edition Smokey Bear Throw. Of course. It's one of my favorite possessions, obviously, and nothing makes me mad like picking Truck hair off of this gem. That's the trouble with wool. By now my blanket has softened up nicely and it shakes out pretty well, but Truck is well enough trained that if the Smokey blanket is out on the couch he takes one sniff and steers a wide berth around it. Emmy needs some more training in this, apparently.


Anyway, I'll let you know how the interviews go, but if I were you, I'd be rooting for epic fails, because they're way funnier to talk about. Like that time I interviewed for the Buckle. That was awesome. There's nothing like a homely, too-skinny girl with Tammy Faye makeup, patronizing you for your million kids and "crazy busy" job history. Apparently they were looking for focused career types at the Buckle. Someone to really grab jean sales by the horns and look towards retirement. And also someone with more hairspray. Maybe I should have worn a hoodie to that one.

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!!!

Things That I Would Sell

My vote. Ok, technically, I wouldn't probably sell it - but it might be available to the person who pitches me the best and most believable idea that as a candidate, they are actually a human being and not some robot generated from two opposing sides of a political monster factory.

My Precious Husband is, at this very moment, leafing through the voters guide. He started putting big black EXES through all of the candidates and measures he doesn't support until I asked him, demurely and respectfully, as always (ahem), if he would not do that so I can read about them too. He then amended his marks to smaller notations in the corner. My question at this point is: Can I actually go through this marked up voters guide and not be influenced by the profanities and exclamation points he has laced throughout? And if not, how much of my vote will be determined by the VERY STRONG and VERY CLEAR (and very well marked) opinions that my guy has. We don't agree on several topics in the political arena. There are just as many topics that we do agree on, and then several that I straddle the fence on just because I love how much it gets him worked up; for example, the President.



For Josh, there is simply no question about whom to vote for. For me, I have simply no interest in either candidate. It really isn't even a matter of the lesser of two evils. I can't say that either candidate is as evil as we, as a society, honestly deserve. But thank God - if you so choose - that life is not fair and we don't get what we deserve. What we need, however, is a whole different candidate than we can hope to see in this political environment. We need a Jefferson Smith. We need someone who doesn't have the first clue who his allies should be when he blunders his way into Washington. We need someone with courage, with sincerity, and humility. While I can't ascribe to Obama the sinister intentions that my Dad and My Boy would project, I see him as the impotent mouthpiece of a soft, ineffective left wing. And maybe Romney isn't as idiotic as some of his republican predecessors, but I struggle to stomach the talking head of the right wing, fueled by a religious subscription that turns my stomach. Can I allow my own personal religious beliefs steer my vote? If not then what does? Can I, in good conscience, vote for anyone that is looking forward to an afterlife of chauvenist bliss?  Truth be told, I think that we are all basking in our mess and asking for a heap more of it instead of opening our eyes to make the necessary changes to support the kind of candidate that I could respect. I am the chiefest of sinners. I have coasted on the fatness of the land, refusing to consider the years of famine. I have chosen comfort over longevity, and pleasure over legacy. Maybe we can pick our way slowly and carefully back from the edge of the abyss we are staring into, but as we are now we blindly wallow our way closer to the precipice and expect some politician to build us a bridge before we fall. Not likely. Josh says I am pessimistic about the future of our country, that my outlook is bleak and hopeless. But coming from someone who knows, there is a beautiful, clean side to a fresh start, after all the struggle has stripped away the hardened exterior and newness gives us a chance to redefine who we are as a people. We've seen it from time to time - We've seen the heroes rise like the Phoenix from the Ashes to redeem us. We saw it after the depression when only the best and strongest men kept going, and during the World War when we fought for a cause that was real, was about humanity and something greater than human greed.

Wow. That was a ramble. Not sure where it came from.

Things That Are Worth Doing Well

In addition to my children, a series of failed relationships, my happy marriage and my dog's potty training, there are enough smallish things that I have done incorrectly to make me step back and evaluate how I operate. Thank god most of the mistakes that I make on a daily basis are, for the most part, fixable.

It dawned on me, a couple of days ago, as I was merrily painting my way through some furniture and frou-frou stuff that I have been putting off since we moved into this house (and possibly Much Longer) that I am a master short-cutter. I am a champion at taking the easy way to - well, pretty much everything. A poignant example of corner cutting stems back to when I was a 14 year old in a sewing 4-H club, where the leaders taught us to weight the sewing pattern on the fabric before cutting with a variety of household products (i.e. soup cans, irons, over sized brass jacks) rather than pinning the periphery before a cut. My grandmother, who was an expert seamstress, was livid that we were being taught such shortcuts. And rightly so. Yes, dealing with 15 thousand straightpins around the edge of a stretchy knit 4 tiered flounce skirt is unfathomably annoying. But so is that same stretchy fleece bouncing back under your scissors as it escapes the grip of someones collection of glass insulators. I should have heeded the irate warning of my grandmother then, and taken it to heart, but instead I went on to seek out new ways to avoid anything that annoyed me, including early phonetics with preschool children, anything involving a rolling pin, and yielding any arguable points in a conversation. I taught myself ways to manipulate situations until they were in a spot that I felt I could manage. As far as sewing goes, to this day that spot remains on my sister's sewing table, were I relegate all of my seamstress issues. I avoided uncomfortable child rearing situations by running away to make lattes and sell shoes - all more interesting than "SH two letter SH used at the beginning of a word, the end of a syllable, but not at the beginning of a syllable after the first one except for the ending SHIP". I am not even sure if that's how that one goes.

As far as relationships go, cutting corners is easy. With teenage kids, you just pull out the old "I am NOT even going to deal with this until you change your attitude." And then feign the belief they never change their attitude, thereby removing any obligation to deal with issues. Ever. With the Man In My Life, I have found the fast track to avoiding responsibility for my actions comes in the recurring argument that circles carefully around to a triggered response wherein he refers to my irrationality and I can just be mad that he thinks I am crazy. What more is there to deal with?

I guess what I am figuring out is that taking shortcuts isn't always as healthy as it is expedient. I know that my Loving Husband is getting pretty tired of arguing about whether or not he thinks I am insane. I know that I miss pie crust that isn't "pat in pan" and would like to make a pie with a top crust eventually, rolling pin at all. Some days I miss sewing, but the thought of unlearning my habits of hurrying through the "boring parts" is still overwhelming to me. I am trying harder when I paint or make random things to not settle for "oh it's fine. No one will notice that _____ (any variety of fairly obvious flaws)". I have even considered trying to redeem my perfect 5th grade handwriting that was eaten alive by a teenager focused more on Unique than Technique. I do believe that I don't have to be a Master Of Everything: That I can let my sister be the seamstress, my daughter be the baker and I can be the comic relief. One thing that I will always go the extra mile for is a laugh. At some point around the age of 26 I realized I had to up my personality ante when I could no longer skate by just on my Extreme Natural Cuteness. I aged out of forgivable, adorable imperfection and had to actually start working to be someone that people actually liked to be around. I think I go through seasons where I am more diligent about this than at other times - like perhaps last winter when my Darling Irish Boy called me the "Queen Of Frump". Somewhere in mid February I had forgotten that there were pants that were not sweats, and basically quit brushing my hair altogether. This is the dangerous tar pit of unemployment. I have noticed that I feel better when I try harder - when I actually clean my room periodically and wash the windows more than once a year. I like myself better when I make something that I can display from all sides, instead of hiding all my short-cut mistakes against a wall. I know my husband likes me better when I am not covering my flaws with the veil of false insult, but I am transparent about my shortcomings. But some times, well, let's just say it's easier said than done.

Life takes work. It takes attention to detail and it takes caring. Some days it's easier to care than other days. I know my challenge is choosing more carefully where a short cut won't really matter to our quality of life, and when I am short cutting not only myself but the people around me. So maybe tomorrow I will get up and be a little more thorough. And potty train my dog.

Things I Am Pushing

Just a quick note: Yesterday I went with my buddy Clare, a local esthetician, to use my super awesome Living Social coupon at Angelina Skin Care, a local skin care boutique with products that are all natural, organic and YUMMY! Clare has been working with me at Luna - her studio, to come up with a fix for my perpetually troubling skin problems. Stay tuned for more details about this, as well as a review of the recent Jessner Peel that she gave me. If you live in Bend - check out both Luna Studios and Angelina's stuff.

Also - my new bed is awesome. We went shopping and pretty much bought the first one we laid on - maybe because I feel asleep and felt guilty, or maybe because we're just suckers for anything more comfortable than the mattress we've been sleeping on upside-down because it has a giant wallow in the middle. And by sleeping on upside-down, I mean that both the mattress is pillow-top down on the boxspring, exposing the firmer un-pillow-top side, AND we have been sleeping with our heads at the foot of the bed because we realized the wallow gave us new back and hip pain that was a reprieve from the old back and hip pain, and thereby somehow better. Anyway, the new bed is the "cheap" version of Temperpedic - the "Simplicity Soft" and after one night, I am pretty excited. Excited enough that I might defer a trip to Olympia until I get bored with sleeping on it. I will let you know if my enthusiasm about this un-researched, un-recommended wears off. However it does have a bunch of warranties and stuff so hopefully...