Things That We Can't Control

I am not even sure where to start.

We got back from Hawaii at 4:30 AM on Sunday. At 7:45 on Saturday we had discovered that Emmy was missing, snuck out of the gate in the back yard in the dark just before Ethan got home from work. By the time we hit San Francisco for a layover, we had a call from the Emergency Animal Hospital to let us know she was there, in pieces. She'd been hit by a car and left on the road, where a highscool student scooped her up in a sleeping bag and called the cops who transported her to the hospital. Pretty much her entire back half had been avulsed (i.e. skinned) and her hip was badly displaced, with major damage to all of the tendons and ligaments but, miraculously, no broken bones. Needless to say, Josh was a wreck. This horrific event was the chaser to the news he received in Hawaii that he didn't get his last hope for a fire job in Eugene. Talk about a bad week. I don't know if being in Hawaii was a flagrant dose of salt in the wound of repeated rejection, or a semi-pleasant distraction from the horror of being Josh. Hawaii is his favorite place, so my hope is that the sunshine absorbed at least some of the kick-in-the-gut for him, but we are home in the gray now, and it isn't pretty. Sleepless nights with a whimpering dog in constant pain, trolling craigslist and every contractor he knows for work, and 3.5 teenagers who can't seem to see past their petty issues about being blocked off Facebook and why their chores are the hardest. Keep in mind these kids got to go to hawaii too. How have I raised such self-involved children? Oh yeah, they're children. This self-absorption is precisely why they have parents - to help them realize that life will never be fair, and rarely be about them.

So this is the Lesson Of The Week, or Month, or so far, Year for the Westons: Some things are beyond our control. Sneaky black dogs, Whiny teenagers, lulls in work, the temperature outside. The only thing we have any power to fix sometimes is how we respond to what we are given, or have created, or stumble into. For example...

Only one day while we were in Hawaii was rainy. It was a warm, balmy rain, and even though that day involved a lot of walking and pain for me, there were several moments that I can recollect stopping to taste the bathwater rain and revel in the complete saturation of ocean air with warm water. I loved it. I guess if the entire week had been rainy, which might have gotten old, but the one day was glorious. The alternative to basking in the rain was despising it for "ruining" our plans, which consisted of taking 9 children with 6 adults on a 2 mile walk in the rain to the Waikiki Aquarium, which was pretty cool but less exciting than the penguin/turtle habitat at the Hilton. The walk was hijacked by a cloudburst that one of the babies insisted would ruin her hair, even though she isn't old enough to talk. The majority of the group holed up in the posh lobby of the Waikiki Westin Resort (we keep telling them that they spelled our name wrong), but I had gotten seperated from the group when I "accidentally" turned into a Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf for an iced coffee, which incidentally was the second best coffee that I had all week. I kind of needed the break in pace anyway, since my uterus was complaining about every pounding step on the sidewalk and my sister in law was leading with a stroller at a speed walk, lest baby's hair get ruined. I did hurry to catch up, but somehow missed the memo that we were blessing the Westin with our rambunctious hoard and I walked right on past, about three blocks. Obviously, being in pain, when I realized everyone had stopped to get out of the downpour, I couldn't handle the thought of all those extra steps back to the Hotel so I just decided to wait in place, which was conveniently a little collection of surf stores like Billabong and RVCA and stuff. See? It's all about your response. When life hands you lemons (in the form of tropical rain) you go shopping! I will say that if I hadn't ended up in BillaBong I might never have found my really cool new hat, so it was all meant to be. My dad had "accidentally" turned into a Ukelele shop that offered free lessons, and was carefully constructing a schedule for us to make it to every free Ukelele lesson on the Island in one day, so he also got disconnected from the group. Sister Susanna bailed on the barbarian hoard to meet up with me at Billabong, and that left my Josh, who was trying to redeem his apparent uselessness to the world through a babysitting penance that would make the Martyrs proud, with my brother and his wife and all 9 kids. In the Westin. Dripping wet. Obviously my brother and sister in law were preoccupied with fixing baby's hair, and that left Josh with the other 8. I don't know if you have met my sisters kids, but you've probably met mine, and I will leave the rest to your imagination. Or not.

babyliviaspennennadoodahtoomanykids

Out of thriftiness or just plain inattention, I had failed to count the diapers we packed for Baby Ava, whom I call baby Livi since she is technically my namesake and I can do whatever I want. I don't know if being at the beach gave her motivation, but before we got half way to the aquarium she had literally peed the ocean into her diaper and I was forced to use the one clean one we had to save the world from drowning. I think I got a hernia just carrying the soggy diaper to the garbage can, which it probably broke. I should stop here and inform you that the reason we had all 8 kids is that my other sister and brother in law, along with my Super Adventurous Mom (I am actually totally proud of her) and Littlest Brother (who is 6'2" and not little) all went parasailing. This is a foolish undertaking in my opinion, since people die parasailing almost every day. Like those sisters in Florida. I would much rather skydive. At least then if you die you REALLY die. Hard. But back to us, the wandering jellyfish of uncontrollable juveniles. Once everybody (except baby with the aversion to precipitation) had decided that it was going to rain all day, they met up with me and Sanna at McDonalds, where we thought we could feed everybody off the dollar menu, which ended up being the $4 menu. So we all ate happy meals since they were $4.79 and came with a gymnast Sponge Bob toy. We made it to the Aquarium, soaking wet, laughing and only a little bit crabby by early afternoon, and saw everything there was to see within about 20 minutes, which is just as long as one can keep my youngest nephew from diving into the seal tank or eating a hermit crab. It was at this point we found out that Parasailing had been rescheduled for the next day, due to inclement weather, and we were ecstatic to host the barbarians once again, but with more diapers. My favorite at the aquarium was the Frog Fish, which has sea monkey hands and is really ugly, but was worth the $78 dollars we spent to get in. Or that's what I will maintain to avoid bitterness. By the time we were done, the sun was out, the rain had stopped, and the kids complained all the way home about being hot. I was in enough pain to justify letting the group (i.e. my josh and 8 kids) go on ahead while my dad and I waited for the rest of the grownups at our happy hour spot, which was conveniently located near 6 Ukelele shops. It's funny to me that this rainy day stands out as one of my favorites. This is probably partially due to the fact I got to shop a little and the fact that I made my Useful Husband ride herd on the kids, so I suffered the least collateral damage, other than the 2,000 lb diaper. But again, life is all about how we respond to things, and while the rain may have ruined Nenna's hair, I think it made the day memorable. And my hair SUPER curly.

I am off today, and get to take poor Emmy to the vet to have drain tubes removed from her incision. It is weird that I am an EMT and this stuff makes me queasy. I think I respond better to human's suffering than dogs. Unfortunately you can't look Emmy in the eye and say "see, this is why we don't play in streets at night when we are small and black" and have it mean anything. To her, this ordeal will always be a horrific, undeserved violation of the protection that we, as her humans, owe her. This is what Josh tortures himself with all day and through the night. But some things, we just can't control. We can only piece it together with as much grace and learning and hope as we can muster. One thing I have learned in my years of guilt driven living is that all of the self-loathing and flaggulation and remorse in the world can't change how things are. In some ways, all of that is an aspect of self-absorption that tries to make the bad situation all about "me" and how awful I am, rather than focusing on the real victim and trying to make it better. I grew up believing that any attention was good attention, even judgement and criticism and the more I drama up my failures the more pats on the head I got from those who were worthy to piously stand over me. I am past all of that now, and I still screw things up bad, but I am usually more interested in fixing them than getting attention for my failures. Usually. I have been working long days since we got back, which is good since my $.50/hr will really help toward the skyrocketing vet bills, but I feel so completely behind on EVERYTHING. Josh is getting the laundry caught up, god bless him, but I need to find an hour or two to unplug and decompress and tie up about a million loose ends, which my frazzled brain can't seem to weave together for anything right now. I think I will start with a shower and pretend that it's warm Hawaiian rain, making my hair curl and my skin clammy and making me stop and think about what is beautiful around me. Or maybe I will just put on my new hat.

me and dad. "resting" (i.e hiding from kids) at the aquarium.

Things That Boys Do...continued

Make their wives carry their bags.

Things About Flying

There's something so magical about the six year old on his first memorable flight. Without question, after carefully examining all of the contents of the seat back pouch in front of him, the most important thing to do is test out every mechanical capability of his seat. Head rest extends and folds in, check. Seat back tilts to 83 degrees exactly, check. Tray table folds down and extends 3.7 inches, check. Underseat compartment in front of him measures 18x20" on the nose. Perfect for his tactical camo backpack. Arm rests up and down, and both fan and overhead light in good working order. Triple check. Lets test the attendant call button just so we're absolutely prepared for any emergency occurring later. Ok. We're good.

Yeah. This guy was sitting in front of Josh for our flight to Hawaii. But instead of six, he was pushing 50. I was relieved that he wasn't in front of me after we reached elevation and he made sure his seat was FULLY reclined. I always get a little claustrophobic with a seat back in my face. But then I realized that Josh had the aisle seat and would be using the ergonomic situation to his advantage every time I needed to go to the bathroom, which is often enough these days even without Starbucks coffee and the anxiety of being cut off by a seatbelt light at any time. I like to use the lavatory every 20 minutes or so in flight to make sure I don't miss the window of availability. And because I like saying lavatory. And because the soap in those tiny bathrooms smells really good. Josh decided it was too difficult to stand up for me to get out every 20 minutes, so oddly enough, he ended up with either my chest or my rear end in his face to squeeze by the leaned back seat in front of him. I'd be annoyed but it might be the most positive attention he gives me all week since I'll soon be competing with an ocean and a million skinny, bikini clad blondes.

Mom packed little adventure bags for the girls for this flight, which is really awesome, or would be, if they were sitting 10 rows back with total strangers. Considering these bags were 80% sugar 15% surface damaging substances (I.e. silly putty and crayons) and 5% pepperoni stick that made the whole plane smell like a smokejumpers socks, I would gladly share the enjoyment of these little surprise bags with someone that I do not know. It is now perfectly clear why mom was so insistent that they open their bags only after departure. She knew that if we had seen the contents previously they might have mysteriously vanished. I will say that I am thankful I am not my sister today, since she the same bags, and three boys half the ages of my kids. At least most of mine have outgrown experimenting with the effects of silly putty on the toupee in the seat in front of them, or testing the permeability of plane windows with crayon wax. I wish you luck Em.

The drink cart is almost here and I heard something about complimentary Mai Tais, so I have my debit card ready.

Things That Boys Do

My Husband has a bag fixation. when we first met, it seemed like an innocent enough fascination with military grade gear bags to carry his, er, gear. Since I have known him, (which just passed the two year mark) he has purchased four of these bags in various sizes, "tactical" colors, and styles, not counting a messenger style one that he vicariously ordered through his last young Paduwan Learner and somehow decided he could live without. His current Youngling gave him justification to order bag #4 by buying bag #1 from him at about 70% of retail. This is a great tactic for rationalizing shopping sprees which I would like to take credit for, but realize Josh was doing via Craigslist long ago. So now, my Adorable Man has three tactical, molle covered gear bags which he uses for a variety of applications, like chasing terrorists (i.e. high school daughters) and saving lives (i.e. fixing blisters) and rigging complex engineering structures (i.e. remodeling bathrooms). Two of these bags somehow got broken straps after said Husband decided to load 50-75 lbs of random junk from around the house into them to go on "workout hikes" up Pilot Butte. I have learned now that whenever the dictionary or my bean bag heat pack go missing, exactly where to look. I explained this to my sister when she was concerned about finding someone to walk to the store in Waikiki for a fridge pack of Pepsi. Josh would be much happier if she requested two fridge packs, but with the family sized ketchup that he will need to survive the week and a few other necessities, his workout should be ok.  He also doubles his gear bags as weapons carriers and briefcases for formal business meetings. On our last visit to Washington, I caught Josh preaching the Gospel of 5.11 Bags to our brother in law, Phil, who listened with wide shining eyes and a hint of drool glistening on his lips. Apparently right away, since it's only been two weeks since then, Phil ordered his own tactical bag for battling bad guys. I guess Phil hasn't discovered that you can also order Velcro military patches online to stick on the outside of your tactical bag and rearrange at will, a pastime that will keep Josh entertained for hours. Lest anyone think I am judging my husband for his bag infatuation, I have tried to correlate Josh's passion for these bags to something in my own life or wardrobe that I have displayed the same conviction for. I would relate it most closely to my fervent belief in Big Star "Liv" Jeans. I have converted many skeptical followers to the glory that is a pair of Liv's , and still wear nothing but. Of course, our pockets don't hold all of the Useful Stuff, but our rears look good, and that's what really matters. And, on a price point, my jeans are generally cheaper than his bags, until you count how many pairs I have. What? I fluctuate in size a lot.


So we are getting ready for a beautiful, fun and family filled trip to Hawaii. 8 days of paradise and children, which sounds slightly terrifying, but I will take the good with the bad. Josh issued the ultimatum that we will NOT be ripped off by airlines charging for checked luggage, so everybody gets only carry ons for the trip. This, in and of itself, it a hardship I find hard to swallow. 8 days in Honolulu is a minimum of 16 outfits, as my friend Shonda pointed out, not to mention at least three different swimsuits, and enough shoes to match all the sundresses. How will all of THAT fit into one carry on??? Josh was fairly certain that by utilizing the attachability of his tactical bags to one another he could pass all three off as one carry on, but when he couldn't lift it, we realized that A) the dictionary needed to stay home and B) the three bag concoction resembling a snow man would probably not fit in that little wire basket that determines the fate of a carry on bag. So he unbuckled them, took out the unnecessary weights, and began repacking. I think it was at this point that it dawned on him that Trauma Shears and a Smith & Wesson were not airplane friendly, and he slowly and painfully removed all of his weapon-like items from all three bags. I am fairly certain I saw a tear of regret sparkling on his cheek as he lovingly stowed his handgun and 6 boxes of ammo away in my underwear drawer, where we keep everything valuable. (This way, in case of fire, the guns AND the Victoria's Secret Lingerie is saved in one frantic grab.) All said and done, Josh came to the sad conclusion that one of his prized bags would have to stay home, since the only thing he really needed to pack was a pair of swim trunks, and it made better sense to put half of my sundresses in his bag to avoid the reality of a piece of checked luggage. I did let him keep his patches on to play with during the flight. Except the pantless female scuba diver pin up girl patch that he INSISTED was thrown in as a bonus freebie from the patch people to one of their best customers. My favorite one is the California Flag Bear patch that Josh got for me but has been "keeping safe" since none of my bags have Velcro patch strips yet. YET.

If you want a really cool bag, go here: LA Police Gear, or here: 5.11 Tactical. I don't recommend the gear pants, because they look really dorky with dictionaries in the cargo pockets. But both companies have been great to work with and replaced the bags with strap issues and immediately looked into engineering issues on their bags for people like Josh. They also have tactical stockings with molle strips, which of course I got Josh for all of his Christmas weapons, er, presents from Santa.

Tonight we leave for Hawaii, which involves a three hour trip to Portland that will be completely consumed with conversation about plane crashes and at least three potty stops. If you don't hear from me for awhile, it's because I am either blissing out on the beach, rearranging patches, or saving my nephews from sharks, but I can imagine this trip will give me PLENTY to talk about.

Things That I Am Trying To Do

I can't write long because I have a HUGE list of projects I want to get done today. In reality, I will probably write for as long as I want and the list will disappear back into the nether where it belongs. There have been many hard, terrible things this weekend. Like when the Broncos lost to the Ravens and then the Seahawks followed suit. I will overcome my grief and extend my congratulations to 49er fans on their victory and wish them well. Also this weekend I had a fight with my husband. It must have gone well because he has suddenly become an all around angel and I just want to kiss his face. It was a good fight to have, over Necessary Things that have been put off. Contrary to what Josh thinks, I don't like to fight, but sometimes, being human, I get this idea that it's the only way to really communicate. Maybe I have my family to thank for that. I suppose that there are families out there who lovingly sort things out in Rational Tones. But I would guess that they lack passion and are kind of boring. Or that's what I will tell myself to justify my immature attitudes.

Really, overall, things are good here in the Weston House. I would love to say my pain is getting better because some moments I would swear it is, but then an hour later I am writhing on the couch and snapping at people. I also have the slightest suspicion that the pain is actually spreading to my right side now as well, but to stay consistent in my accusations, I will continue to assert my scientific opinion that it is Emmy's NEED to stand directly on my uterus on all possible occasions that is causing the radiating pain. I think she's attracted to the radioactive heat eminating from my lap area, and makes the most of it.

I have had a lot of thoughts lately at night. Really good, profound thoughts that were decorated with really pretty words and some Excellent Ideas, late at night, after the lights were out. Twice now, I resisted the urge to get out of bed and hammer them out quickly, thinking they were So Good that I would certainly remember them in the morning, but both times they were replaced with really weird dreams which were usually somewhat unpleasant if not completely nightmarish. I will keep trying to recall the Great Thoughts, but I am drawing a blank now.

My work hours are slowing down, which is OK as long as Josh's are picking up, so that there won't be a break in the steady flow of shopping I feel compelled to do. It gives me more time to sit at home and be contemplative (translate: watch Bones) and creative (translate: play iPhone games) and relax (translate: take naps). Actually it's a good time to crank up on eBay selling and try out some of the new recipes I've been drooling over on Pinterest. If they're any good, I will totally let you know.

The challenge I have posed to myself this week, since we're leaving for Hawaii on Saturday, includes several facets:

1.   don't buy any more groceries. I am experimenting with cooking ONLY what we have on hand. Tonight it's pumpkin beer pot roast, cause I had some flat pumpkin beer, and mashed sweet potatoes and green beans. It will be an adventure. I may have to cheat and buy a little thing of cream since I have only about 1 morning coffee's worth left. Of course I DO have Dutch Bros gift cards...
2.  lose 30 pounds. This might prove challenging, but I feel like I am off to a good start since I had some incredibly healthy (identified by the horrible taste and color) juice for lunch. (I skipped breakfast by sleeping until 10:30.)

1.  get a tan. Also challenging, but I may spring for some of that Jergens tanning lotion. If I get over the stripes it gave me last time I applied it incorrectly. 
2.  find more money. This is kind of fun, because I have to be REALLY creative. Josh has issues the ultimatum that the only money we're spending in Hawaii for 9 days is my paycheck, which this week will be a bountiful $319. Since I figure it will be somewhat difficult to even feed 6 people for 9 days in Hawaii on $319, I am scouring the house for things I can return in order to pad our wad for the trip. So far I have $37 to return at Costco $45 at the Gap and $32 at Target. This does not include a gift card to Old Navy for $18.98 for which I lost the receipt to get a cash return. I also have $16.00 on my Scentsy Debit card that I can cash out. That's an extra $130, plus the $100ish I'll be cashing out of eBay in the next day or two for selling a bunch of jeans and underwear. Weird how the Baltimore Ravens panties got super popular all of a sudden. Too bad I BURNED THEM ALL. Now we're loaded for bear! We can totally afford the dollar menu at the Waikiki McDonalds. Watch out McChicken, here we come!!
3.  Don't spend any more money. This is clearly the most difficult of all assignments to myself, because right now the clearance at Pendleton (which I just marked another 25% off) is an ADDITIONAL 35% off. Do you have any idea how cheap that stuff is after my employee 25% off of THAT? yeah. Dirt Cheap. D.I.R.T. I have a little pile of stuff that I totally need that equals about $96. To justify that, I went through my ENTIRE wardrobe last night and was ruthless. I now have an eBay pile that would make Sienna Miller wet her pants. I chose her because I like to imagine that we are the same style. Except for the jeans and hoodies. Ok, nevermind. But MacKenzie DID wet her pants when I let her pick some adorable stuff out. Interestingly enough she picked the stuff that probably would have made the most on eBay. And they say I am a bad mother. That is true parental sacrifice right there. I asked Halle if she wanted anything, but she was concerned with the amount of pink in the pile and a bit of lace that was peeking out. She respectfully declined. The unfortunate thing about all of this is that the clearance sale ends while I am in Hawaii and the eBay treasures won't be listed until after. This is where credit cards come in handy, and where it is also a REALLY good thing that I don't have any. Except that one...

On another eBay note, I bought a pair of AMAZING sorel boots, the ones I have been looking for, at the Columbia outlet the other day. They were $54 dollars. If that doesn't make you a little lightheaded, I am not sure if I should bother explaining. These boots are selling on Amazon for $219 right now. Do you see the profit margin here? As soon as I get some capital, my second - no third - job is going to be buying cheap stuff at Columbia and reselling. Why I haven't been doing that is a question related to my lack of capital and/or credit cards.  

OK. I am going to stop for now and go paint Josh's second dresser. It's been messing up my beach themed bathroom for far too long. But first I have to switch the laundry and put that poster in a frame and package eBay panties... I need a slave. Preferably someone fun that likes coffee and gossip and Bones.

Oh yeah! I got Blonde!! 

Things That Oink

It was Nattie's birthday on Saturday, and I decided, at the insistence of some friends and family, to actually make a real birthday cake this year. Or cupcakes as it turned out. I asked Nattie what her favorite was and she said "a surprise" which perfectly coincided with the gently whisperings in my ear from another adult entity about carrot cake. Who wants carrot cake for their birthday? I decided to go out on a limb and give it a whirl. And since Josh is convinced we are destitute after The Holidays, I further decided to make it all from scratch. The only thing we had to buy was red food coloring. I would like to hereby nominate myself for a Good Mom award for Outstanding Effort in the Area of Birthday Dessert Design. If I win this prize, I will give a nod of recognition to my artistic consultant, who also doubles as my boss, and Nattie's best friend for insisting on a pig cake.


You all know I don't like nuts. I did, however, plan to add walnuts like the recipe calls for into the second half of the cupcake batter. I forgot. Oops. Josh was crushed, but was consoled by the added raisins which made Kizzie gag, and in the end, it was all for the best since one of Nattie's friends is allergic to Walnuts. I'll go ahead and credit that little triumph to my stellar intuition. I googled "carrot cake recipe" and actually ended up using the one at the top of the list. I didn't even skip past the sponsored links like I usually do, looking for a "real person" link. I will post the recipe, but also the link to the site, which actually pretty cool. I liked this recipe because it comes from the 40s and anything from the 40s is cool. I have to say, the thought of carrot cake does not make my mouth water. I'd just as soon have an extra slice of garlic bread than a slab of carrot cake, which, as Josh (my carrot cake adoring husband) points out, is egregiously stupid since garlic bread has WAY more calories than Carrot Cake. He knows because he looked it up on his calorie counter app and manipulated the inputs to read that way. (yes, 1/4 ounce of carrot cake does have less than 1/2 loaf of garlic bread. good job, honey.) I made this very basic, traditional recipe with coconut oil, organic flour and sugar, raisins, and of course, no nuts. The website I stole this from is called Just A Pinch, and I will probably use it again.

Best Carrot Cake Ever

2 c	sugar
1 1/4 c	oil
4	large eggs
2 c	flour
2 tsp	baking soda
1 Tbsp	cinnamon
1 tsp	salt
3 c	grated carrots
1 c	chopped walnuts
FROSTING
12 oz	powdered sugar
2	3 oz. cream cheese room temp
1 tsp	vanilla extract
2 Tbsp	butter
2 Tbsp	milk

Directions

1

In large bowl, beat sugar and oil. Add eggs and beat well.

I warmed up the coconut oil for easier mixing - and you could maybe reduce it a tiny bit. 

2

 Sift together flour, soda, cinnamon, and salt into egg mixture; mix well; fold in carrots and nuts.

I added a pinch of nutmeg too. Mostly because I was excited to try my new nutmeg grater. 

3

 Place batter in greased 9x13 pan; bake for 45 minutes in a 350 oven. (Check once because of oven variances.)

I baked in cupcake tins for about 15 min? Give or take. You know how well I use timers. 

4

 FROSTING: Beat together powdered sugar, cream cheese, vanilla, butter and milk; (and add red food coloring to desired PINKNESS!) spread on cooled carrot cake.

obviously cream cheese frosting tastes better pink, right?

Things To Talk About

I have a lot of things I want to say. I feel like maybe I should make a list first so I don't forget them all while I am saying the first one. Except it's too late and I already have. I am not sure who I should blame for my short term memory loss but I do blame them, whoever they are that is responsible.

First: it was pointed out to me that I failed to commend Halle for her heroic effort at her very first timed Nordic Ski competition, in which she place 3rd overall. For anyone who doesn't know, my daughter Halle is a badass (sorry Mom, but it's appropriate). Most of you already know that since you watched me develop her from a sweet, soft, innocent little doll faced child into the analytical, eccentric, fixating tomboy that she is. Actually Halle came out grunting like a cute little baby monster, and when she started imitating the movements of a barn owl at age two, I knew she was special. Halle never played princesses or dolls or house or dress up. Ok, she played dress up, and here is the proof:

Halle is the one on the right. She was never without her purple hat and red cape.

But aside from the occasional emotional meltdown, Halle has been the closest thing to a son that I will ever have. Except for Ethan, but that's a whole different story. Since Halle was a tiny baby she was the easiest thing to care for. Sleeping was her main occupation as an infant, and still is as a 16 year old. She could sleep 12 hours a day and still be functional. I think maybe it was because she was growing at about a rate of 6 feet a year and it was exhausting work, doing all that eating. We've called her Hollow Leg Hal because she always has room for seconds, and thirds, and puts any man I've ever known to shame with her ability to pack it away. The one thing you can say for Halle is that when she decides to do something, she is ALL in. Whether it is arranging rubber farm animals by species and genus on the running board of a bouncy horse, or designing the ultimate wizarding wand for an unsuspecting best friend, she will not be dissuaded from her task until it is accomplished to perfection. Halle never does anything halfway - Except her chores. Halle started cross country running last year and loved it. I think her long legs make the trek an easy lope for her, where I would be panting and scrambling just to survive a 5K job. Since Nordic Skiing started in November, it's pretty much been all she can talk about, think about, dream about. She found a niche, and she is in love. Maybe more so than we have ever seen her or will see her again. I guess we'd better learn to embrace her chosen mate. I tried cross country skiing once. I went with my uncle and cousin who were quite experienced. I was probably 15 and a lot like MacKenzie. I wore my aunt's boots which were at least 1.5 sizes too small and they took me on a seven mile loop at Mt. Spokane. Obviously I swore I would never be duped into such lunacy again. I am pretty sure I got gangrene in the blisters I wore into my ankles that day. Josh likes almost any kind of hard work in the snow, especially if he can wear a heavy medical pack and impress a bunch of people, so he's been happy to sign up as the resident medic/dad at local practices. I have yet to brave the cold to stand and cheer for Halle, but somehow it seemed like enough that we drove 18 hours in two days to pick her up from her dad's three days early so she could make her Nordic team sleepover, wax party, and first race last weekend. Josh did all of the driving so it was totally worth it, of course. I was able to sleep between bouts of complaining and latte stops. Nordic Skiing is the newest in a long line of driving intensive undertakings that we have joined in with our oldest child. Desperately concerned for her future success, she is taking the shotgun approach to high school, thinking if she does everything, she will be good enough at something to make it in the world. What Halle hasn't figured out yet is that she is good at EVERYTHING she does. Partly because she works hard and partly because she is a talented kid. And I haven't even started on her art and writing. Don't think I am not proud of my quirky, slightly nerdy kid. I programmed her to this weirdness half intentionally, replacing baby dolls with dinosaurs and pink frills with overalls. She is tough, smart, silly and beautiful. I have no fears for her future. Every turn will be bright. A third place ribbon is awesome, but we all know it's just her first run. 

Ok. Saying all of that took so long that I definitely can't remember the other things. I'll get back to you.

Things That AREN'T New

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things That Are New

For the life of me, I wasn't going to say anything today. Or anytime this week for that matter. It's not that there aren't things to say or it wouldn't be a good idea, but I've developed kind of a bad attitude, and was more or less throwing a fit. I think I had resolved that I needed to quit whining in front of the world, and until I have something new and fresh and positive to say, I should just shut my big self-centered yap. But sitting here, on New Years Day, January 1st, 2013, I was convicted by the typewritten words of my Grandma Stecker, who, in spite of pain and frustration and a million reasons to give up, somehow found the time a reason to pound into tightly squeezed lines, all of the little details of her life. Because those words reach beyond her earthly departure in 1987 and tell me what kind of a woman my Grandma was, I feel compelled to give words to my days. I suppose for some people this seems like a meaningless waste of time, but for me, I love to hear her sometimes pain-filled voice talk about me as a tiny girl, and understand that who I am is in some way because of who she was. This is powerful to me, and if my words even live past me for a few months, maybe somebody will hear something that resonates and gives them a laugh.

We are important to each other, us human beings, and for all of the crazy, negative, horrible wrecks of human beings out there, we pull together with the dearest ones to us and we make life worth living for each other. The last few weeks have been a little rough, since I am an enormous baby, and even though I make a conscious effort to not give my pain energy, there it is, consuming me anyway, and dictating not just my life but the lives of the people I love. This is insanely frustrating, especially for someone like me who would much rather be eating the glory of being the World's caretaker, entertaining and amusing and lighthearted and gay, and I have become the millstone 'round the World's neck, dragging everyone down to the depths of my own limitations. I don't want to, but they love me, some of these weirdos, and they hang in with me, in spite of extreme boredom, mild frustration and I am sure, some repressed impatience.

My husband, God Bless him, has picked up the slack for me, as I have worked every day just enough hours to render me incapacitated for accomplishing anything else. I have done less laundry and cooked less real food lately than I usually do in a summer when I am gone. He cooks for me, and cleans up after the trail of mess I leave lying throughout the hours, sometimes hardly able to get my boots off, and leaving my work clothes in a pile near the closest available sweatpants. He runs after won-ton soup in 8 degree weather, even after calculating the thousands of dollars I spent Christmas Shopping for myself. He rubs my feet with peppermint lotion and says he loves me, even though I give him absolutely no reason to. He caters to my dining whims, my shopping whims, my bizarrely irrational justifications for fiscal irresponsibility with a patient roll of his eyes and a careful watch on the bank account balance. And with a sigh, he trudges off to work he hates to make sure there's enough in there to cover my next trip to Victoria's Secret.com. He puts up with episodes of Bones and The Walking Dead and has even consented to video game dates with me in the near future. Forget his dreams of snowboarding next to his über cute little wife or a blond in golf skirts and visors... He is a good man.

Today is the first day of a new year. A year that I plan to make better than the last for the man I love, the kids I love and the life I love. I am resolved to give back to the friends, new and old, who have given to me, sympathy, compassion, understanding, flexibility, forgiveness... I am determined to know my girls better, love them harder and put effort into them that I quit offering years ago when I was overwhelmed and self absorbed. I am excited to get better. To MAKE myself better, by whatever means necessary, and become the strength for others that they have been for me. I want to become the wife that my husband deserves, that can bring him the happiness he brings me. These are my resolutions. And then on top of that, I have a slew of superficial plans for this Lucky 13 year. Like losing 20 pounds to start - I am hoping that my diseased uterus will account for at least a few of these when they finally drag it out of me - is that cheating?? I plan on getting myself, and in consequence, my family, healthier and happier in our lifestyle. I have struggled with finding a balance between overkill resolve and an unreasonable diet plan, and total abandon to my hedonist whims. I have settled on a comfortable plan of attack that is not legalistic, but pares away the unnecessary and un-beneficial frills in our diet and lifestyle. Deprivation always results in overindulgence for me, so I plan to avoid both.

More than anything, my resolve for 2013 is to make good choices, in my actions, attitudes and responses. To be love to my friends and family. To be honesty and integrity. To question the necessity, benefit and consequence of everything I say and do. To be the same person to every person, all of the time. To extend grace, give the benefit of the doubt, but operate in circumspect wisdom in all things. In short, maybe I am finally ready to grow up.

Nah.

But Tigger can reign in his blundering antics, and Peter Pan can put off some of his self absorption. That is all it takes. In my darkest times, Captain Hook's overhanging doom "old, alone and done for" echoes in my head as the ultimate failure in life. To avoid this, maybe I won't grow up, but I will balance the zeal and joy of with a listening ear and humility.

There is joy even in pain. And happiness even in struggle. There is no need to be consumed with sadness and wallow in the truth that hurt hurts. I am tired, but I am hopeful. I am loved, I am so richly blessed.  Even though we know that eventually our road will lead us to an end, the not knowing of that end is exciting in and of itself. Once I prayed for the peace of a dark rest after death. Now, the fear of death that drove me to salvation as a child is evolving into a mild and patient curiosity to see what is on the other side of this adventure. Not that 2013 holds any threat of an end to me, but being able to see EVERY end as a beginning and every death as a new start, I am thrilled to welcome a new year as the last one is laid to rest. Every good thing is only good because we know what bad is. Even with the waves, it's hard to imagine life getting better than 2012, but somehow, I know it will.

Happy New Year, y'all. Let's get after it!!

Things That Make Me Cold

When I married Josh, I conceded bed space to a ridiculous little black dog since I still wasn't entirely convinced that he wasn't just kidding about having married me. After a few months, I either stopped wondering, or didn't care, and vetoed the ménage a trois in favor of less contortionist sleeping positions. Enter Dagny, and my confounded guilt issues. It didn't seem fair to let the baby wiener dog cuddle in between Josh and I when the poodle had been so cruelly evicted. I rescinded my former mandate and Emmy relocated her position of Bliss between Josh and I at about knee level. By no coincidence about this same time I started finding myself wide awake at ungodly hours, like 5 AM, for no perceptible reason. At first I blamed the pain that was always there, waiting to greet me like a mean 2 year old wanting breakfast. But then, through chattering teeth, in my early morning dysfunctional state, I realized that I was in a constant struggle to keep the edge of the king sized comforter wrapped around 80% of my body. Let me add that by this time in Dagny's youthful evolution she has decided that sleeping with mom and dad is hot and claustrophobic and she'd much rather be pooping under the table and eating Christmas presents. Emmy was hoping we wouldn't notice that she was the only canine remaining nestled in the blankets, but my chronic hyperthermia has revealed her secret. Emmy has a special tactic of rolling and twisting and wriggling so that the covers all spin up underneath and around her in the middle and there is about a foot remaining on either side for Josh and I to contend with. Josh has craftily adopted a whole different blanket which he keeps stealthily on hand on his side of the bed, offering the excuse that our big blanket is too hot for him. Uh huh. How did it take me so long to uncover this sneaky plot between them to freeze me to death? At any rate, I've been awake since five, pulling covers from underneath a 12 lb. poodle an inch at a time and plotting her near-future eviction to the dog bed lying unattended on the floor next to us. How 12 pounds can be so difficult to move is beyond me.

Things That We Are Good At

We have done a really good job potty training Dagny. She is very smart, and has already learned that right after she pees on the carpet she needs to go outside for a second or she will get yelled at. She dashes right out the dog door as soon as she is done pottying now, whether there is anyone yelling or not. It's a pretty cool set up. We have also succeeded in teaching the girls how to keep their wads of long hair out of the shower drain, by sticking said wads to the shower walls and then throwing them away after. Somehow the throwing away part got lost in translation, so now our upstairs shower is decorated with multicolored wads of hair. It's pretty awesome, I am not gonna lie. Another great success story for me is the personal record I hold for most unfinished cups of coffee in random spots around the house. I have just barely edged out February of 2010 and I would like to credit the over sized wonderfulness of my new Pendleton mugs for this triumph. In my own defense, I will say that I actually found a half finished cup the other day and reheated it. Twice. And still never finished it. It reminds me of Grandma Schiffman and the perpetual cup of coffee in the microwave.

In other news, and in the interest of honesty, I would like to issue a revision to the facts set forth in my Holiday Poem: three out of four girls are rocking straight A's, and I will leave it to you to wonder who could be the slacker. Obviously this information wouldn't fit the smooth-flowing format of my poem, so I took a little creative license. And was guilt racked for two days. But now I have made my confession.

If my ramblings seem disjointed and incongruent lately, or even unedited, I would like to cast sole responsibility on a very small hairball who is constantly either eating Christmas Presents or running outside to celebrate her most recent urination, and the fact that I am forced to claw my way out of my Pendletony nest on the couch to save gifts and rugs. I might as well give up because I am mostly succeeding in forgetting about my coffee and I think the carpet is past saving. This would be cause for distress except I know that there is beautiful hardwood underneath that we are intending to convince the landlords to let us uncover as soon as Dagny is potty trained, but since the world may come to an end before then, I am not holding my breath. And no, that is not a reference to December 21.


Today is my day off. Yesterday I thought I didn't work until 12, but luckily I called in to double check, and found out that I actually worked at 10, which was precisely 20 minutes from the time that I called. Somehow I still got almost everything done that I had wanted to, except showering, but I just threw some jingle bells in my dirty hair and called it good. I have another long list today, at the top of which is finishing my coffee, and then beginning to pack the smallish things that need to go North with us for Christmas. -- Stand by, Dagny is eating the area rug.--  Anyway, I have been losing sleep over the thought that I will forget things like Mom's turkey roaster rack, or Emmet Otter's Jugband Christmas (an absolute holiday requisite viewing, in case you haven't yet), or the stuff for Josh's tactical stocking that I have hidden in such an obscure place that I am not sure even I can find it. And by the way, yes, Josh has a tactical stocking, complete with molle strips and carabiner hooks. Obviously it will be filled with tactical tools. Like shot glasses. I have already conferred with Santa about this.

I also need to spend some time working on my eBay junk, shipping, measuring, messaging. One last push before Christmas, and every penny in the Paypal account means non-accountable spending for me! Or not. But I am doing quite well selling Victoria's Secret panties that I buy on clearance and sell for slightly over retail because somehow people who have figured out how to navigate eBay and set up a Paypal account haven't stumbled across the Victoria's Secret website. Hmmm. I am not complaining. --- Dagny is now UNDER the area rug. Trying to decide if it's worth unnesting to save her. Probably not. She can just chew her way out. ---

One major non-success in our life right now is that I taught Natalee and Aspen how to sew. How cute, you say. How mother-of-the-yearish of you and all that. It would be, but for the random misplaced needles I am finding on the rug, hanging off the coffee table, sticking out of the couch cushion just millimeters from Truck's elbow. I mean come on! Who leaves a needle on Truck's side of the couch! That's just mean! Apparently Josh lived as a child in a rental that had previously been inhabited by seamstresses of some nature who had a habit of dropping needles in the carpet. Several of these were relocated by various members of the Weston Family who would then have to remove them from metatarsal bones with pliers. This will not happen in my house. --- Dagny has weaseled her way on to the couch and is now chewing on the corner of my MacBook. --- So tonight we are going to have a needle safety debriefing, wherein I will pull gruesome pictures off of the internet of needle related accidents and strike a fear so deep in the girls that they will have to be sedated for Tetanus shots.

Well, I think it's time for me to go unpack the dog's stocking and dole out all of the chew toys we got for Dagny before she eats my technology. We are currently accepting donations of anything that you would like chewed up. And if you'd like a cold cup of coffee - stop on by!!

Things That Are In The Mail

I asked Josh for help on the holiday poem. His started off something like this:

“Jingle bells ringing while puppy dogs itch,

Kizzie is in the back room being a witch…”

Anyway, needless to say, I took over. The Holidays are a

magical time in the Weston house, so many cheerful voices

and happy puppies – at least that’s what I am going to read

into the shouting and jingle bells.

Hope you enjoy the censored version of our Holiday story,

and feel free to drop by anytime. The rum is always buttered

and the cookies haven’t gotten stale yet!

Much love,

Josh, Liv, Halle, Kiz, Nat and Aspen (and Truck, Emmy, Dagny and Rascal)

PS: Be warned, it's terrible. 

My Favorite Every-Things

(you know the tune)

Football on TV and soup in the crockpot

Dogs dressed like reindeer and

Movies with weak plots

Blubbery teenagers locked in their rooms

These are the things that cause parental swoons

3^rd grader homework and 12 year old cello

Tuba sounds echo from attic to cellar

Backpacks with contraband high heeled shoes

This is why mom and dad feel abused

We have four girls

And three weird dogs One ridiculous bunny

Who thought that this was a brilliant idea?

It’s nothing short of funny

Girls all get moody and puppies like chewing

Rabbits don’t potty train

Carpets gets ruined

Nine year olds seldom take showers at will

Kizzie is lucky if she don’t get killed

Halle’s skiing

Aspen’s dancing

Josh is hiding downstairs

Truck he just sleeps all the day long and night

And Emmy is losing her hair

Kizzie takes pictures

Aspen takes long walks

Natalee plays with the rabbit and dogs

Even with trouble the kids get straight A’s

This means that somehow their parents are great?

Josh and Liv take turns working and whining

The bills are all paid

So there’s really no pining

Natalee plans to make all of us rich

Being a track star and concert cellist

Liv is shopping

Josh is cursing

All the girls do their chores (mostly)

If we survive through at least one more month

We’ll party on Waikiki shores!

Things That I Should Say

It's The Holidays, right? So now is the perfect time to bellow out long refrains about peace on earth and goodwill toward man, blah blah blah. I know. With so much happening in this crazy world, dozens of children slaughtered senselessly, random crazies shooting up malls - I can't even imagine where to start spewing my Noels and Night Divines. How my heart breaks for the parents who waited outside of that school. Waited, and waited, watching children pour through the doors - but not their child. How do you ever get past that? What can you ever do to recover. Aspen is 9 years old. She is almost an angelic child. She is smart, adorable, funny - all the promise of an amazing adult. I can only pray that she gets there. What kind of a world do we live in where this is even a thought? Just a century ago parents lived in the constant knowledge that a simple virus could be the undoing of their young child. The only virus that we have no defense against now are the unfathomable selfishness of a generation raised to be served. Every time I hear my teenagers yell at me that is is not their fault, I realize I am guilty of raising them with the same presumption and expectancy for a fair world and an equalized treatment. My 15 year old would like to tell me that she is "a good person" and she shouldn't be disrespected by me or Josh. When did discipline and parental directive become disrespect? My god. How far we have come. How much I have failed. The ultimate extreme of this victimized, self-absorbed mentality, is the kid who shoots up an elementary school because his mommy wasn't nice to him. I cannot fathom it. If there is anything I thank my parents for, it is raising me with the understanding that life isn't fair. It is about sowing and reaping, action and consequence, and developing the knowledge that everyone around me is at least as important as I am myself, if not more. Apparently Adam Lanza never got that memo. I understand mental illness can be a real thing, but so is a spoiled child - Real, and deathly. God forgive my laxity, and my willingness to spare my children from the natural consequences of their actions. I would rather lose all four of my kids to a random flu bug, or scarlet fever, than to have them wind up on either side of an unaccountable gun. I won't even bother with the gun control issue - as if someone crazy enough to kill a 9 year old would really let gun laws get in his way. For god's sake. Get real.

I am so thankful that there is still time, that I can still try to instill in my kids the understanding that only they will be accountable for their actions. That no amount of whining can remove the blood from the hands of a killer. I don't understand what has happened to our culture that makes these massacres so common that we expect them. Somewhere, somehow, some punk kid started a rumor about a shooting at Mt View high school on the 21st. While the cops are chasing down the smart ass who thought this would be a cool prank, we are taking a snow day that day. Is it really important enough to be at school that we will send the message that we don't care? I don't believe there will be any shots fired at Mt. View, but I also don't believe in ignoring even the most stupid warning signs. So my kids will get an extra day of Christmas break. Besides, we still have cookies to make.

My holiday rush has de-volved to the point of almost melancholy. It doesn't help that I've been in a lot more pain lately. I need to re-orient myself and get happy again. There is so much to be thankful for. I love the snow that we finally got, and the cold days, and the Christmas songs and wrapping paper. I love that Dagny the Puppy has unwrapped almost every present I have wrapped and chewed the corners off of every gift box. I am happy that I somehow pulled off all of my holiday shopping and Josh hasn't filed for divorce yet. I am excited for a road trip back to good old Northport and sledding and MIMOSAS!!! with my buddies. I am stoked to break in the new snowboard boots that we got a killer deal on yesterday, even though the experience promises loads of pain. Sometimes, it's just worth it. I am thrilled that I am finally getting some Christmas cards sent, even though the poem is AWFUL this year. Even Josh said so. There are so many reasons to be happy, to be thankful, to make it better. And I will. I am gonna take off my sweatpants, chase my delicious breakfast beet juice cocktail with a sugar cookie and don one of my merry holiday outfits so I can go sell amazing Pendleton presents to excited Christmas Shoppers. How could I not be happy with this ridiculously cute puppy around?

Things That I Hate

You know, I was having a kind of crappy week already. But then my period started. I'd like to revoke all of my previous complaints and start over: being a girl SUCKS. Being a girl with adenomyosis is even more awesomely horrible. Thank god I don't have something really serious or terrible. Turns out I'm a great big baby.

Things That Hurt

My  head. I woke up with a pounding headache that I blame entirely on a horrible dream wherein I was married to my ex-husband once again and we were moving into a giant weird house full of spiders. I was trying to run away with the kids but nobody could understand why I was so upset. I hate dreams like that. I wonder what causes them? I refuse to blame the peppermint candy ice cream I ate before bed. It has enough guilt to bear for the stomach ache that I fell asleep to.

I haven't had much to say lately, partly because I have been somewhat busy, making picturesquely imperfect (leave me my fantasies) gingerbread houses and homemade dinners, and starting loads of laundry which my Adorable Husband ends up following through to the fold an put away stage. And then when I sit down with my computer and contemplate something deep and profound to say, websites like Urban Outfitters and Victoria's Secret and Amazon all scream out to me with their amazing Holiday deals and I have difficulty focusing on anything except boots and things like that. And then there is the issue of the Very Cute, but Very Bad puppy who at this moment is shaking an unwrapped Christmas Present like a dead kitten in her little needle teeth. If I catch her chewing on something I can possibly live without, like an empty cardboard box or the car microfiber duster I paid $1 for, I let her be, since it's going to be that or something else. This morning she brought me first one, and when that was confiscated, the other red velvet shoe from my closet. At least she has good taste. And I will say the jingle bell collar was a wise investment since she is easily located now, wherever she is tearing up something that she should not be.

Right now The Avett Brothers are playing on 101.7, and sometimes I forget how much I love them. But the first strains of I & Love & You reverberate along with a chill down my spine and the warm fuzzy feeling of KNOWING not only them, but their songs, and their people, and the ideals that they champion in their music. Christmas Music is a nice little break from routine for us, other than Josh, who is already sick of everything except the California Raisins' version of We Three Kings, but I am secretly excited for January and making up for all this lost time with my boys.

This last few days, or week, or maybe even half of a month has been a little tough for me, on several levels. I've already done enough whining about the physical stuff, so I think I will delve into some internal stew that has been simmering since my Loving Husband, ever so tenderly, called me out on my bad attitude. Just when I was feeling all smug for my positivity and happy spirit, and self righteously condemning the pharisees who couldn't just catch the contagious joy that probably had something to do with an unbridled Holiday Shopping binge and endless espressos and parties and an excuse for a Whole New Wardrobe, I run face to face with the ugly truth of my selfishness. Why Josh couldn't just "get happy" was beyond my grasp, since the world is perfect and I have new skirt. When he finally got tired enough of tolerating me, he was able to articulate quite well, my self absorbed approach to life. The unfortunate thing about being married to Josh is that he is almost always right. He is graciously learning to allow me to be wrong from time to time without needing to crusade against my erroneous views, but in this instance, he was dead on and I was out of excuses. I was being shallow and judgemental and all of the things that I professed to loathed. So, in true contrition, I begged him for the grace to allow my little binge of selfish misbehavior continue until after Christmas, at which time I would become absolvent and depressed in response to the dire conditions we face in this life. No, but seriously, I needed a kick in the butt and I am thankful for a guy who can do it, even if clumsily, at least faithfully to me.

So I am still working through some of this inner process, which loosely translates to a mild slow-down in spending and more cautious approach to spousal reprimands and arbitrary judgements.

On another note - I just got called for an interview as an Emergency Room tech at the hospital. This is something that I will have to carefully consider. A grown up job with grown up side effects - like giving up fire season? But something that I would enjoy and would keep my mind and body active, and helping people... Pondering.

Things That I Concede

I have earned $2.86 so far from this blog. That makes me a professional writer, no? It is also the harbinger of wild financial successes in the future when somebody that has a lot of friends stumbles upon my incomparable writing skills and I become semi-famous. Because of this future success, it's ok for me to spend more money, right? Perhaps even money that I can write off as an "investment" in my writing? A certain loving husband chastised me when I used some perfectly edible food to stage some pictures that I took for a certain blog. The idea that perfectly edible food wasn't going to be perfectly eaten was more than he could handle, and he ended up picking the food off of the display to eat himself, lest it be wasted. Totally normal behavior for a husband, you say? Yes, unless that husband has a self-professed disdain for food in general and believes it is a "waste of time". Better to waste the time than the cheese garnish, I guess.

In addition to my impressive literary earnings, I accidentally picked up two hours of work yesterday when I showed up at the store on a day for which I wasn't scheduled at all. My wonderful boss let me stay and do some markdowns, which is one of my favorite things, since I can see all the amazing deals that I need to get, with the additional $4.00 that I was earning accidentally. Since Josh doesn't have any "big" or "steady" jobs right now, which means he half fills his days with hanging Christmas Lights everywhere except OUR house, and repairing 100 year old rocking chairs, I asked my marvelous boss if she could dish out some more hours to me. This was slightly puzzling to Josh since he knew even the part time work on my feet was making my pain worse, and cutting into my cooking time, but it all sounded very noble so he let it fly. Really the extra hours are my way of justifying my financial support of the store by purchasing pretty much every cool thing that is a good deal that we carry. I think Josh is getting wise to my ploy and I believe it is only a matter of time before he starts bribing said employer to write me out of the schedule. What he doesn't know is that I will probably just start hanging out there on my days off.

I guess if I was working less I could pay more attention to the ornaments disappearing gradually from the lower half of the Christmas tree that somehow magically wind up in tiny pieces on the dog bed. I could also spend more time on the couch, watching daytime TV since we got a set of rabbit ears, and maybe even vacuuming once in awhile, even though I swore I wouldn't vacuum since Josh won the battle and purchased an upright instead of a canister this time. I told him I wouldn't be caught dead using an upright, so he agreed to make the kids do all of the vacuuming. I guess that's a win for everyone, except the kids. I have to admit that the little vacuum we got seems to be pretty handy - down the road I will give you more feedback, once it has survived the Christmas Tree season and is still holding it's own. Other than the fact that is is navy blue and has a boring same like: Sanitaire System_Pro, I could almost like it. The handle folds down to make it highly portable and easier to park on the lower bunk bed of a 15 year old as a gentle reminder that she forgot her chore. After years of cleaning houses and using every upright vacuum that WalMart sells, I have a root of bitterness toward the gross smelling, ineffective machines. As if the broken down old Kenmore Canister with the electrical shorts and smoking powerhead was so much better, but for the first five years it was a good little beast. And at least IT was red. Really the question comes down to which machine disperses the smell of pine needles after vacuuming under the Christmas Tree the most efficiently. Someday when I am a wealthy author, I will have one of those gorgeous little Miele canisters that come in lovely colors with names like Nautilus and Olympus and almost make you think that vacuuming is sexy. But for now, Josh can win. I really have to choose my battles wisely, and I'd rather have a boring vacuum than one less Pendleton Blanket. I mean really.

Things That Trouble Me

So here's the thing. I got my self in trouble with that last little gem I wrote, and have decided henceforth and forevermore that I will only write about myself. Ok, myself and my boy. And maybe my kids. Especially my kids, since they will always be mad at me no matter what, and my boy, since if he is mad at me the only person that really cares is not even a person, but the puppy Dagny, who will be distressed that she can not reach both of us at night when he is sleeping on the couch. Any way, I need to limit myself to poking fun only at people within my immediate circle since theirs are the only responses I can reverse manipulate and control.

So about myself. This is actually an excellent time to say something about myself, and that is this: I am in a TREMENDOUS amount of pain these days. Like, take the pain I was at last year around this time, twist it, bend it in half and stomp on it and you'd almost be there. Sometimes I think I must be faking how much pain I am in to myself, since I still manage to muddle through work, but then I realize that I haven't made my family a decent meal in Many Days and I know it must be for real. I try not to whine, but this usually results in me glaring angrily at people who have no idea what they did to piss me off. I have discovered, in this last 14 months of almost constant pain, that being crabby and snappy doesn't solicit me much sympathy, but people are much more likely to do nice things for me, like heat up my rice pack, or get me an ice water or a shot of whiskey, if I am very sweet in spite of my pain. Especially Josh seems to respond ever so much more gently when I whisper sweetly that I love him but I am hurting like a son of a chukar. Another indicator that my pain is not pretend is the impulse I have had in the last several days to actually post a prayer request on Facebook. I mean, who does that, other than... oh wait, only talking about me. Luckily I have enough pride and dignity to not admit my need for intercession and so I just go on suffering. Mostly I was concerned about religiously discriminating against my wildly varied list of friends, since I don't have any idea how to ask a Buddhist to intercede, or a Hindu to Hind or A Zenist to Zen, and I was concerned that the responses on any such status would cause the next religious crusade and it would be all my fault. I have enough guilt to deal with, like for never cooking decent food for my family anymore. I just don't need that additional burden.

Another thing that would, at any other time in my life be kind of a big deal, but since I am in pretty much a steady 8/10 on the pain scale is somewhat muted in importance, is the fact that I married the Grinch. This is huge cause for concern when one realizes that the entire point of living for 365 days a year is that 20some of these days in December are jam-packed with warm fuzzies and ginger bread and wrapping paper and all kinds of wonderful, superficial things that remind me that I AM LOVED. I understand the crisis of commercialism in our culture, and the perversion of the true meaning of Christmas, which was actually some fertility ritual... but for me, every bit of the Christmas that we celebrate here in the good old, spoiled rotten USofA, represents the people that I love and that Love me. Family, Friends, Present, Past, even Future. I cannot get enough of the feeling that every silly Christmas carol and Jingle Bell connects us all to a common theme of WANTING happiness for each other. I do go a little overboard on presents, because I FINALLY have an excuse to give Everyone In the Whole World something that I just know that they will love. And I know that every time they see it, even if it is to put it in a yard sale box, they will think of me (hopefully with some guilt in the yard sale scenario). Josh is insistent that none of this is the true meaning of Christmas and that we should be ashamed of our superficiality. Technically, he is correct, as usual. But I can't help but thinking I am somehow failing in communicating the depth of my desire to just love on every body this time of year. In a nasty turn of events, it happens that my love language is gift giving, and somebody gave me an excuse. This is quite unfortunate for my honorary Jew of a husband (he has been legitimately dubbed this by our close Jewish friend) who prefers to make layaway payments on our monthly groceries so we don't have to spend over $50 at one time, regardless of what we have in the bank. I appreciate his budgety sense of propriety, and the balance he brings to me, most of the year, but come Christmas, I have run into the ironic coincidence that he has more or less run out of work, and every present I buy becomes the incarnation of a power bill or a tank of gas. It's a perpetual conflict for me as I look longingly at my online shopping carts and frantically search retailmenot.com for coupons for my favorite websites to somehow justify the piles of boxes on our porch. We tend to find ourselves at odds every so often these days, and if he could only be human for a moment and figure out how much fun The Holidays are, presents and all, we would get along ever so much better. :) It doesn't help that both of our older kids are on an ungratefulness campaign to become Snottiest Offspring of the Year, and he is desperately tired of being argued with and chastised by two know-it-alls in Converse and Bobby Pins. I get that. I really do. They really deserve coal and switches these days, but I am fairly certain that at 15 and 16, I didn't deserve much more, and it was about that time that I was surprised with a green leather coat that was the answer to all of my childish prayers. Obviously since my Wonderful Husband was the picture of a perfect youth, he not only was never mouthy and insolent, but he also never got a Christmas Present after he was 10, which resulted in his pragmatic approach to a giftless holiday. Maybe I will get him counseling sessions disguised as golf lessons for Christmas. That might be the greatest idea I've ever had. Other than rolling the gingersnaps in sugar AND cinnamon before baking (this turned out to be delicious).

So, back to myself, my earnest goal is to have a real dinner in the crockpot before I leave for a long day of work, and to spend all 8 hours brainstorming a way to pay for more and more Christmas presents that will have no ramifications on our heating bill. Obviously I need a raise. Or to take up knitting. I had great intentions to make most of my holiday gifts this year, but all of my creative fantasies were dashed with the onset of a nearly full time job and the allure of a couch that has been sitting lonely without me all day long. Oh yeah, and finally finishing Battlestar Gallactica. Fantasizing myself as Starbuck is a nice switch up from Angelina Jolie, and also makes me feel less guilty for drinking and acting insanely.

I would like to add, lest I frighten off even more friends than my last spew did, that in spite of my pain, I am still quite happy, and intend to stay that way, in spite of my status as Mrs. Grinch and the stress of hiding online purchases. I love this time of year, and not even snotty teenagers or fiscally responsible husbands can steal away the giddiness of waking up to a glowing christmas tree, the smell of pine needles in the vacuum, and a puppy chewing on ornaments that date back to the late 1970s. I love my family, my friends, my puppies, my job, my whole life. If I have to hurt a little to pay the bill for having this good then I guess that's ok. This is heaven. All we're missing is snow. And some home cooked food. And more presents.

Things That I Miss

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

Things That Make The Holidays

At the risk of offending my family and some of my very best friends, I have to tell you about my Thanksgiving. I hope that by offering an early disclaimer, in which I protest that I have nothing but the best of intentions in entertainment and humor, it is my deepest desire that the caricatures I paint with my words will be taken as lightly as possible, and with the understanding that I enjoyed this holiday immensely, and EVERYONE that came to my house. I have hurt very dear friends with my careless words before, and sincerely try to not repeat that offense, having learned my lesson, but understand that not everyone enjoys being lampooned. I, conversely, will take attention in any form. Anyway, in an effort to avoid offense, I think I will just avoid naming names in my story. Y'all know who you are anyway.

Somebody, several weeks back, had the great idea that since there was a possibility of work conflicts, we should stay home and invite the Entire Universe to our house for Thanksgiving dinner. Honestly it started out more innocently than that, when the hope was that an incredibly awesome job offer would compel a certain fire fighter to start academy the day after thanksgiving, precluding us from leaving town, but what really went down was that a somewhat underpaid retail employee had to work all Thanksgiving night and into Black Friday morning, even against her ethical opposition to the shopping frenzy. And initially it wasn't the Entire World that was invited, but a few very dear friends and a limited assortment of family. Of course some of these invitations were issued in the confidence that some of the friends and relations would not travel so far to visit Bend and our messy little house, but what happened was they did, and they brought their cousins and uncles and sisters and definitely their dogs. It was a happy little group that we projected, and even as it gradually evolved to somewhere around 27 people, 5 canines and a rabbit that somehow kept sneaking back into the house to fool the puppy and the three year olds into thinking his turds were coco puffs, it was still going to be fun. How can a group NOT be fun when you are mixing four generations of Jews, Evangelicals, Nazarenes (or whatever it is my parents are), Heathens and Cult Members (sorry Em), in a 12x24 room? Oh yeah, and the unaffiliated that showed up from Mexico at the last second. I will leave it to you to assign religious preferences to the remaining groups.

As people started trickling in, it was all crazy and fun and chaotic. The number 10 can of olives was barely enough, even though 4 of my siblings were unaccounted for, I guess between my dad and my own offspring they compensated. Long before dinner was served we were all stuffed from the beef stick and potato chip potluck that perfectly complemented the perpetual football game that was provided by a Brand New set of Rabbit Ears. Turns out that inviting the Single and Lonely dude from Ace Hardware to your Thanksgiving has it's perks. God bless employee discounts. I even got to watch some of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, which makes the holiday more or less complete for me, even if Justin Beiber didn't show this year. I really can't give enough credit to a certain set of parents who basically did everything, including buying most of the groceries at Costco, stuffing the turkey, peeling the apples, tasting the stuffing and expertly sprinkling the Apple Salad with red and green sparkles which mark the official kick off of the Christmas Season. Taking one's parents shopping at Costco is ever so much more fun than taking one's husband, especially when he likes to argue about how many pieces of bread and bowls of cereal each visiting cousin would be allowed to have, and whether Tangerines should be split between children or each really needed his own Cutie. Seriously. We were somewhat lucky to have a big enough turkey when aforementioned husband was nigh unto insistent that 11 lbs was more than enough for 27 people since one of them was a vegan. Again I think part of the ultimate break down here, other than this husband fiercely clinging to his honorary Jew status, is his basic disdain for gravy and the misconception that Everyone Else in the World can also live without seconds.

By the time we all circled up to say grace, we had more food laid out than we had room for, and as an interesting side note, I would like to point out that a certain Jewish family is the one that brought the ham. Irony, anyone? I was a bit curious as to how the traditional Christian grace would come off in such mixed company, but was pleasantly surprised that everyone joined in heartily except for the vegan (I think that is his religion as well as his dietary preference) who refused to hold hands. The heathens (that were not me) were especially moved by a certain patriarch who issued his obligatory thankfulness speech, and even the non-messianic Jews chimed into the Amen that was in the name of a Jesus they don't particularly care for. It was remarkable for me to see the tolerance, even fascination of several sets of people for the other religion, without the ugliness of judgement, except for when one mother mentioned that Christmas was originally a pagan holiday and not a biblical celebration and another mother took offense that Baby Jesus was being mocked... But I think the gist of it all was that The Holidays are all about family and friends, and like a certain dad said, if family is the foundation of life, and friends are the siding and roofing and all that jazz, and if you follow the analogy out, I think he's pretty darn right, considering a house wouldn't be much good without one or the other, and even if one of the walls is a little crooked, or you have a crumbly spot in your foundation, it's way easier to fix it than to start all over. Somebody get that vegan some cement patch! What was so beautiful to me was watching people make choices all day to respond with grace to things that would normally make them uncomfortable, like a certain mom not staring at giant ear gauges, and a certain husband eating gravy in spite of himself. Not that there weren't moments of shock and horror, like the atrocity of cold mashed potatoes when dinner got bumped back, reactions and overreactions and little unspoken trifles that maybe went home and bloomed into full blown family discord, but for the sake of the holiday, we all pulled it together. It was crazy. It was crowded. It was beyond chaotic, but for this one year, I wouldn't do it differently. I might not do it the same ever again either, but that's only because I am ready for the next Holiday Adventure. Hopefully by then we will have a bigger house.

Also, I have to mention: The girls killed the boys in a neck-and-neck game of Trivial Pursuit.

Things That Make Us Different

Because I am a woman full of good ideas and intentions that rarely come to fruition since I generally forget my ideas before I get out of bed in the morning, I posed my family a semi-challenge to come up with something each day this month that they were thankful for. Really it wasn't my good idea at all but something I stole from someone much more awesome than me on Facebook, and it was only a semi challenge because I forgot to interrogate my offspring daily to find out what thing had truly blessed them that day. Probably my forgetting was somewhat intentional, since I didn't want to hear Kizzie say how she would be thankful if she was allowed to see her friends, or have Aspen give me an I-don't-know-what-you-are-asking-me-can-I-have-a-snack look, or have Halle use the opportunity of my undivided attention to describe the plot of a movie that she is thankful that she really really wants to see in graphic detail. To be fair, Halle did post thankful things on her Facebook, and once even mentioned her sisters, which I have a sneaking suspicion was a hack job by her younger sibling.

In spite of losing track of this project on the family side, I have been trying to keep up with daily mentions of things I am thankful for, and generally speaking, they are frivolous and superficial, like peppermint lattes and Dagny's whiskers. When I really consider what I am thankful for, it seems so general and overarching to dwell on four healthy children, all the bills paid, and a warm house to sleep in, although I am overwhelmingly grateful for those things. I guess I have been trying to focus on the small, specific things from day to day that make me happy. Puppy cheeks and festive coffees definitely do this for me, as much as the peace of mind that being taken care of does. While I haven't kept up with the kids about their thankfulness, I have brought this issue up repeatedly in discussions with Josh, when it seems valid to point out my newly acquired grateful perfection that he clearly isn't equaling. These discussions have opened my eyes to a couple of things: namely, that I might be a kind of frivolous and superficial person, and also, that different things make different people happy. When I ask Josh what (and throw in a meaningful "if anything" jab) he is thankful for, his responses are precisely the ones that I feel go without saying. A healthy family, no major financial concerns, blah blah blah. When I accuse him of being vague and non-specific, he points out that his gratefulness is quite specific in that he is thankful for OUR healthy kids and not the general population of healthy kids, and it's definitely more meaningful than a peppermint latte. Touche. While my basic instinct (which of course I follow up on) is to berate him for "not valuing the little things" and letting life pass him by, which is CLEARLY happening, it begins to dawn on me that for a caretaker personality like Josh, nothing makes him happier than the security of being able to provide for his family and know that we are all ok, even if that means providing puppy kiss experiences and peppermint lattes. As I realize this about him, it also occurs to me that the recent defeat of job rejections for him is a showcase of his potential failure to provide, even though we have no worries for financial survival and he always finds a way to take care of us. For me, I am happy, I am grateful. I am not worried because I know that Josh is not capable of failing us, whether he gets his dream job or not. But for him, it is a dark and looming possibility. The amazing thing about this is that I realize, suddenly, that I have faith in him, and THAT makes me happy. If you had asked me two years ago to have faith in anything, or anyone, I would have scoffed at you. But here I am, trusting, happy, believing. If you had asked Josh two years ago if he wanted a family of 5 girls, 3 dogs and a rabbit to be responsible for, he would have probably scoffed at you and then beat you up. But here he is, struggling, stressing, surviving. How easy it is for me to sit on my couch-like throne and cast judgement on him for not appreciating the "simple joys" of hot coffee and sweatpants and sunshine in the windows, while he is out in the not-so-warm sunshine shoveling thousands of pounds of rocks to make sure the phone bill is paid, the cars aren't repossessed, and I can have my darn lattes. Shame on me. That Josh, in spite of all he has gone through with his quest for a job, and the disrespect of snotty teenagers that he supports with no credit given, and the opposition of 5 women to his sense of manly organization and functionality, is still thankful for our health and security and survival, is somewhat remarkable. It isn't that Josh doesn't have things to be thankful for, it's that his view of life right now is so different than mine that we are made happy by very different things, and while we both have valid points, I am somewhat ashamed for demanding his thankfulness for the silly things that make me happy. In short, I guess I have come to the realization that his thankfulness is something to be thankful for, and him in general, beyond his strong arms and even stronger opinions, the man behind my happiness is pretty amazing. But don't tell him I said that.