Things About Running Away

I'd had enough. Enough of the caterwauling. Enough yelling. Squealing. Snapping. Judging. Girls. Enough. I got up at 6:03 AM to go to Spokane so the doctor could tell me that my shoulder wouldn't get better unless I have a surgery that I don't have insurance for. And the girls. So many girls. Extra girls. I only had two with me, including a spare I borrowed. But I came home to two more. And shrieking. And giggling. And it just. Wouldn't. Quit. 

So I ran away.

Not to girls night and wine  

Not to taco Tuesday.

Not to a drug induced stupor in my bed. 

I ran away to HOCKEY. 

I even took a boy. He wasn't mine. I had to borrow him. But he was willing enough. 

And on the way there was a car upside down in the ditch, lights still on. No body. No blood. No one to save. So onward we pushed. Into the icy, far northern reaches of southernmost Canada. 

We missed the entire first period. But it was worth it. Braving the icy roads, and Canadian Drivers. And American drivers who use being American as an excuse to drive badly in Canada. It was worth the $13 Canadian which used to only be like $10 in American but might be $20 now, I am not even sure. 

The boy and I talked. My borrowed boy. Pseudo-son. Aiden, whom I call Spock, for reasons quite obvious to anyone who knows him. And it isn't his pointed ears. We settled the issue once and finally that girls are dumb. That dating in high school is dumb. That movies are cool. And so is hockey, and hunting camp. And there is really no reason to squeal. Ever. 

And there was cold Canadian Beer. It was good. And a zamboni. And no Shinny Allowed. I don't even know what Shinny is but I am pretty sure I am glad there wasn't any, although at some point I will investigate it's origin. And $2 (Canadian) bags of gummy candies. And the Pseudo-son Spock wandered around and left me in peace with my beer. And the mascot, who is oddly a Panda bear, felt my need for silent camaraderie, and he stood by me. And when does a Panda Bear standing next to you not fix everything? 

The Smokeys lost, but it was a good game. And the first of many this winter. To make up for all of the ones I said I would go to last year and didn't. It was a good night. And a good running away. And when I came back, there were all the girls. With the squealing. And the noise. But I felt better.

Things About Having Coffee

Today I had coffee with my sister. For anyone who doesn't understand the depth of that concise sentence, let me explain: coffee with one's sister, assuming that the aforementioned sister is doing her God-ordained job, is the cost-free equivalent of a session with a psychologist, a lawyer and Hedda Hopper (yesterday's answer to Perez Hilton), all rolled into one. In a brief couple of hours, all of the world's crises concerning rebellious teenagers, belligerent grade schoolers, inscrutable husbands/ex-husbands & friends (as appropriate), unsuitable matches, compelling vices (coffee creamers, Rasperitas with OJ, running away, etc.), and rapidly degenerating bodies were answered. Probably not fixed, but answered.

Just the very act of "Having Coffee" lends a therapeutic and nostalgic flavor to the afternoon, as if we were our very own Mother and Mrs. Mannan, or someone, which brings with it the reminder that it isn't just sisters, that "Having Coffee" with will divulge all of these social remedies. It's any girl, or maybe boy, if you find the right (or maybe left) one, that GETS you. "Having Coffee" with your sister/soul sister/GBF (thanks, Jesse) gives you the opportunity to vent about the injustice of having to make your own pot of coffee since The Other Party didn't do it before he left for work. Or maybe you can casually get that one recipe again that she's given you 8 times because you never save it, since you know she'll send it to you. AGAIN. Or maybe the heart to heart moment when you both confess to each other the unknown, but shared, issue of adrenaline rushes at second hand stores that make you have to poop immediately. Since this discussion I have noticed the trend in my children, indicating a generational/congenital problem. With a sister, over coffee, you don't find yourself having to explain what it means to "Indian/Davy Crockett" wrestle over some cool wooden trucks she found on the classified. You don't even really have to spend time rehashing the fact that when you arrived the kids were vacuuming baked beans from a broken crockpot on the floor, which was really just the precursor to a house sized cloud of drywall dust from a broken vacuum cleaner bag. Because with sisters, those things just take a Knowing Look. Like, "did I tell you about my applesauce?" with no words. But you can both bask in the glory that is the new single serve cups from Dutch Bros, combined with heavy whipping cream and peppermint Torani, and a sprinkling of drywall dust. And really, that broken crockpot? Good riddance. Somehow it had been labelled with a last name, which is potluck cardinal sin #1, removing all anonymity from the selection and dictating wholehearted responsibility to the cook with the labeled crock pot, Pinterest Fail or not. You just DON'T put your name on a crockpot. Ever. All of this occurred to me as I was boiling chicken for the recipe that she has sent me at least 37 times, and skimming the "impurities" off of the churning chicken broth. My mom always called them impurities. One of those things I have never questioned, that I would never have to explain to my sister, but daughters stare at me incredulously when I say. You skim off the impurities. Always. As if the reckless chicken had lived a life of hedonistic pleasure and we were forced to rid our soup of the remnants. I shudder to think of the impurities that I would render, if boiled. I hope to never realize those fears. Boiling OR revealing my impurities.

Anyway, it was a kind of terrible Monday, with no excuse really, since I got a job offer, and The Wonderful Timothy Davis fixed Halle's car and wouldn't let me pay, and things were not generally wrong, but there was still the undertone of terrible. Like the Direct TV guy showing up and telling me in no uncertain terms that there is NO Line Of Sight at my house and I will NEVER have television. And the Love of My Life once again refusing to show his face. And raking wet leaves. And moving cold, wet, muddy lawn furniture and bikes into the shed. And bemoaning the wasted and "beautiful golden transparent" apples that still hang, unreachable in the tree, serene and picturesque. And full body aches that may or may not be related to being inexcusably out of shape and/or raking wet leaves But coffee with my sister made it all better, or at least laughable.

Things I Am Going to Whine About

You've been warned. Don't pretend like you wandered in here all blissfully ignorant. The Whining was foretold.

Every inch of my body hurts.

Aspen is trying to make macaroni and cheese and wants me to check and see if the water is  "bubbling aggressively" enough for her to add the noodles, and the mere thought of moving that far is Totally Overwhelming. I refuse to give any energy to the thought that the body aches that have been chasing me for the last week could be the flu bug that is going around, although calling in sick to life sound a little heavenly. But I will wait until my TV gets installed tomorrow.

Yesterday between shifts at work I was driving home and got through most of Northport before I realized that I was driving in the wrong lane. The scary part was that I couldn't remember which lane was the right one. I think my brain is running on fumes.

I made it through a really ridiculous weekend, including an all-nighter with the high school drama stars. Actually I don't know if any of them are in drama. But there is always drama. I was the designated, self-inflicted, chaperone of the girls. It was 1:30 AM before we successfully got all of the boys and girls drawn out of dark outdoor corners, separated and into sleeping bags, or parts of sleeping bags, since apparently only 5% of teenagers know how to pack for an all-nighter. I had my sleeping bag, a foam pad of questionable origin, and no sweatpants, because I had secretly hoped to weasel my way out of chaperoning all night. Fail. I watched the clock All Night (technically morning) long until 7:03 when I got up and drove MacKenzie to work and got into my own bed and slept for a couple of hours. In spite of all of the teenage crises transpiring, the height of intensity for me was when I checked my Fitbit. After working two restaurant shifts that day, a total of 14 hours, I was super excited to see how many miles I had run. And fantasize about the the desserts I could eat if only there were desserts to be had. Anyway, the stupid thing said I had walked a quarter mile. 0.26 of a mile. I was livid. Absolutely distraught. Until I realized that it was 12:15 and my Fitbit reset at midnight. So really, I had walked a quarter mile just in the first fifteen minutes of the new day. Yeah. I am awesome like that.

So today is the day I try to remember who lives in this house of chaos and destruction and deal with the separation anxiety issues of three needy dogs and four detached girls. It started out well when I walked face first into a giant spider web in my sliding door. An attractive orange and white popcorn spider met a swift demise by screen door guillotine, as pulled spider webs off of my face and hair.

I went and got a coffee from Kizzie at Your Way Latte, who made it PERFECTLY my way, which might be the first time that has happened there, and now I am eating Aspen's macaroni, since the water was bubbling aggressively enough.

Things Coming Up

I am inordinately excited about The Holidays this year. I have no idea why. But I am. I have been eyeing my Christmas Baldies (Chuck Taylors) for a couple of weeks now, anticipating their seasonal release. I have resisted the temptation to break out the Christmas music. Ok fine. I snuck one "winter" song into a playlist. It's supposed to be 18 degrees on Tuesday, so I feel totally justified.

In the spirit of all of the upcoming Holiday goodness, all of the people are selling all of the things. For instance, I am selling Scentsy. If you didn't know that, are pleasantly surprised and relieved since you have been looking for a consultant, or have a bunch of friends and want to have a party, mostly just to hang out with me, here is my website: Liv's Scentsy Website. Now is absolutely the best time to get stuff because they have winter/holiday scents like Goody Goody Gumdrop and Everything Nice, which make me want to eat the air in my house. Which is kind of gross if you've ever been in my house.

After that shameless pitch, somebody else, namely my friend Susan, is having a Jamberry Nails party.  (My friend Andrea also sells these I think, in case you know her or don't like Susan. But who doesn't like Susan, for Heaven's sake.) Someday I will write an entire blog about fingernails and why mine will always look like crap, but I accidentally/on purpose clicked on a link to these:

I have heard several people say that Jamberry is awesome. I haven't tried them because it's already been established that my nails will always look like crap. But reindeer? I mean come on. And especially when they are surrounded by little piles of poop. I can't resist. So I am taking the plunge. If my nails don't look like crap for a minute and have cute reindeers with poop on them because I have been successful, I will send you a picture. I am curious to get some Jamberry feedback from other users. But since my heart is somewhat set on the reindeers/poop, please hold your horror stories until after I experience my own to tell you. I am very disappointed that they don't have the "Gobble Me Up" turkey ones in grown up sizes, because, seriously? (As a disclaimer, I inherited my kitschy holiday-all-of-the-things ridiculousness from my Aunt Tracey.) 

So, I am off to order my  reindeer/poop nail sticker thingies, and believe in good success. And take on this holiday season, because I AM READY!

Things About Weekends Right Now

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

Friday 

Substitute @ school: 8 AM- 3 PM

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

Waitress @ Mustang: 2:30 PM- 8:30 PM

Help on Ambulance @ Football Game: 6 - 9 PM

Saturday

Waitress @ Mustang: 7:15 AM - 11 AM

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

Waitress @ Mustang: 2:30 PM- 8:30 PM

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

Sunday

Drive Kiz back to work: 7:15 AM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things About Rainy Days

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

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

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

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

Things That Are Small

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things About Ballots

It's voting day, everybody, and if you haven't mailed your ballot, or aren't on your way to wherever it is you vote, then clearly you didn't read my Voting Blog and should do so immediately. In the spirit of democracy and everybody having a say, I am reaching out to you, the voter/blog reader to help me choose some of my best blog entries for compiling a book-type thing.

All of you guys supporting me in my endeavors has totally gone to my head, and now I think that I am cool enough to write a book. But because I am insecure in spite of my recent ego-boosting campaign, I need feedback from y'all.

Because you are already in the groove, I am including a ballot for you to cast your vote. I had to do some research about ballots, after my mom misspelled ballot and made me question everything I have ever known. That little emotional upheaval led me to the Wikipedia about ballots, which was quite interesting, because they used to be little balls that you cast according to your preference. (It also explains Blackballing, a related term.)  But my ballot is a) not secret like it should be and b) does not involve balls or paper. It only has a few options, so really, all of your write in candidates can go in the comments below. Or text me. Or Facebook me, or whatever. But seriously, which ones are the best?

For your reference, my older blogs are all listed as links right over there, feel free to read them all again.  ---------->

Measure #77: To be considered for use in imminent publication

Things About Fire Camp

Things About Contentment

Things I Can Brag About

Things That Are Gross

Things That Moms Wear

Poll Maker

Things About Contentment

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy November. And happy gratitude. And happy contentment.

Things About Fitbit One (1)

So, in a long and convoluted exchange of designer clothing, Scentsy bars, and ground beef, somehow I got a brand new Fitbit One (1) out of my sister. For some reason it didn't work out for her. I'm not sure why, because my Fitbit 1 (one) is my new best friend. 

[For those of you not in the know, a Fitbit is a glorified pedometer that records activity, and apparently sleep patterns, and will sync with you computer or whatever. I haven't gotten that far. And also, I don't want anyone else to remind me how terrible my sleep patterns are. I am keenly aware of the tossing and turning and aches and pains throughout the restless night. (See future sleep pattern post)]

In addition to telling me how awesome I am by adding every step I take all day long into a grandiose total and compiling them all into building stories and miles covered, my Fitbit One (1) also tells me when I can have a slice of cheesecake or a piece of apple pie. With ice cream of course. It also forgives me for the hot Dr Pepper(s) I drank and the beer. 

We had one heated disagreement when I checked my steps after a long shift at work and the Fitbit 1 (one) said 1720. In addition to threatening to throw the tiny piece of Brilliant Technology for being a cruel and hateful liar, I maybe cried a little. Then my Fitbit One (1) explained that I was actually looking at the calories burned screen, and as I had walked 11,573 steps, I could actually have the cheesecake. 

The most amazing thing about my Fitbit 1 (One) is that even when my dog had fleas, my daughter Actually For Real Stole The Car and drove it around town, the Fitbit One (1) still told me that I was awesome and Good Job. 

I keep expecting my jeans and other items of clothing to start agreeing with my Fitbit 1 (one) and loosening up a bit. It's not like they can't appreciate the 11,573 steps too. And maybe the cheesecake. 

Really this is just the beginning. The honeymoon phase of a newly blossoming relationship. Many new and exciting things are ahead for us, my Fitbit One (1) and I. Like sleep patterns. We will keep you posted. 

And just think. If a Fitbit 1 (one) can do all this, what will the Fitbit Two (2) be able to accomplish?

Things About November

This pretty much sums up November 1 for me.

Things About Teenagers

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

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

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

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

Things About Halloween

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

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

Rosie ain't got nuthin on me

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

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

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

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

Too soon or Too real?

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

Ideas?

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

Things About Kissing

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

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

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

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

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

Things About Voting

I voted. I did. I read the voter's guide. I colored in the little boxes. I signed the envelope. And I mailed it.


Not because there was a candidate that I Really Believed In, other than who should NOT be our coroner. Not because I believe my vote can change the world. Really, the most it did was cancel out the vote of that crazy lady down the road. (Not my sister, guys, sheesh.) But I voted because, most of all, I CAN. Some places, you can't vote. You don't get the chance. It's easy to forget that voting isn't a right every where in the world. Just like Halloween isn't celebrated, or maybe even Christmas, God Forbid. There are places out there with no light. No joy. No Christmas. And no voting.


And whether the whole system is rigged and we really have a say or not, it is our responsibility to do our part. Keep up our end of the bargain. To not take for granted the opportunity that we have. Whether there are hanging chads or ballot recounts. We did our part.



To be honest, there wasn't a single name on the ballot that I would really defend with any energy. This is partly due to my own apathy and ignorance, although this year I did do a little research. I guess 37 seemed too old to be calling my Friends and Relations and ask them questions about stuff only to get really biased and extremely opposing views. I'd really like to see a ballot where I can vote for world peace, Christmas for everybody, and a global ban on lima beans. (sorry Ricker.) Now there's some politics I can get behind. Really if we had those things, none of the rest would matter. If there was self-control, love for others, and not to sound like a hippie, but "Social Consciousness" in the individual then we'd never have to vote on legislation about guns. Or marriages. Or any of that crap. Because we would all be good self-managers. Just like Aspen in the 3rd grade. (except she lost her self-manager bracelet. Ironic.)

There was a time in my life when I didn't vote. Mostly because I didn't believe it worked and I don't like any of the liars that lie arrogantly in front of the whole world. And because I was cynical. Ok, that was redundant. I still don't have confidence in the system or the politicians. But I have the conviction that it is my responsibility to seize the opportunity that I am presented with. Because changing the world has to start with one step. Tomorrow I will probably host a walk-a-thon for world peace and self-management through Northport. Afterward we will look for Aspen's bracelet. Don't worry, we'll be done in 20 minutes. Including sign making.

In short, I am here to remind you to vote, because I did. And if I can, then anybody can. And because we CAN, we MUST. That's how it works.

Things About Giving

It hasn't been the best day. Or week. Or month. Or six months for that matter. But sometimes, all it takes is one good evening to fix it all.

A few days ago, a friend suggested that I ask for help getting to a writers retreat. If you know me at all, you know that me asking for help is almost as ridiculous as me running a marathon in high heels. Unless you are my brother in law or the husband of my best friend. Then you're screwed, because you'll probably get to install appliances and stop sewage floods and pack my substantial household repeatedly for a half a dozen moves. But generally speaking, I am not one to beg.

One of the most valuable lessons I learned in my most recent failed marriage (to speak categorically), is that money is NOT bottomless, and things don't always just work themselves out. For all of the money fights that we had, somewhere along the line I learned the benefit of planning ahead and Making Good Choices, financially speaking. Gone are the days of dashing off willy-nilly to regionally located concerts, or binge shopping for blankets or jeans or shoes and assuming they will work themselves off somehow. I have learned, to some degree, priorities. Or at least that I should have some, and allocate my limited funds accordingly.

Unfortunately, this awakening came shortly before the opportunity to go to a Really Neat and Fairly Affordable little writer's retreat on the Oregon Coast. I hemmed and hawed and thought about cleaning out my bank account to make it happen. Or just wait for the magic windfall check to show up in the mail (which HAS happened, you cynics!), or some other unrealistic approach to getting what I want. This time, I stopped. And I knew that I couldn't throw down two car payments. Or one mortgage payment, or 4.5 tons of pellets, to go to a writers retreat. So when Christy suggested fundraising, and Em suggested I set up a GoFundMe account, I was kind of embarrassed and slightly apprehensive and mostly hoping that no one would notice, but I wrote about it in THIS BLOG POST.

Nothing could have prepared me for the outcome.

It wasn't just that people gave money. Although they did. And with overwhelming generosity. But it was THE PEOPLE WHO gave. The ones who shouldn't. The ones who really can't. The ones I hardly know. My own daughter in college (shame on you, Halle - it's very irresponsible). On a night when I have been fighting with the stupid phone company and the internet company and the insurance people and pretty much everyone in the world, out of the most unexpected and amazing places, $603 surfaces. Each dollar screaming in my face: "HA! DO IT NOW. YOU HAVE NO EXCUSES!" 603 reasons to succeed. To try harder. To do more. To be better. Not just at writing. But at being a person. Because even if AT&T and Century Link and My Ex Husband(s) hate me, I AM LOVED. I AM SUPPORTED. I AM IMPORTANT. And that isn't something that I spend a lot of time considering.

And then, on top of it all, somebody shows up on my porch with leftover garlic knots. It's like God just wanted to kick me while I am laying here in a sniveling pile of sweatpants and say : "take your self pity and shove it! Oh, and have some garlic knots too."

I am humbled. I am beyond grateful. I can't ever, ever thank you guys enough. But I will try. I will do my best. I will work harder. And be better. And you will all get signed copies of my first publication. Unless I write something about you under a pseudonym to avoid relational conflict, in which case you will get a signed copy of my second publication.

In the meantime, I am going to take my garlic knots and wine-from-a-box, and blubber a little bit about how great I've got it. You guys are the best.

Thank you.

Liv's GoFundMe page

Things About Dogsitting

Top Ten Reasons That Dogsitting is Better Than Having Kids:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things About Writing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Magic In The Mess

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

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

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

Things About Sweatpants: A really bad research paper done in one hour

How Soon Is Too Soon For Sweatpants?

by: Livia Stecker

Popular culture is overrun with references to the socially acceptable hour to begin consuming alcohol. Jimmy Buffet lends Country Legend Alan Jackson some aid in the quickly established mantra of alcoholics across the world in his ode to early drinking: It's Five O'clock Somewhere. Whether five in the evening, or the broadly established noon hour should be considered the norm for drinking commencement, it strikes me as particularly neglectful on behalf of society that we have yet to examine the equally critical issue of what time of day is appropriate for donning sweat pants. To examine this oft-ignored social question, we must first break it down into the three separate issues it creates. First: is the dilemma arising because the sweatpants in question are actually still on from the night before? Second: Are the sweatpants in question stylish/sexy and or passable for public activities? And third, but most critical, what events precipitate the necessity for early accouterment of aforementioned sweatpants?

When examining the first question raised by mid-day sweatpants wearing, we have to consider the demographic breakdown of our audience. Assuming that we are discussing neither morbidly obese redneck men, or young athletic professional men, or any men at all, other than Marky Mark or Colin 

graphic 1.0hhhhhh

Farrell (see graphic 1.0), it is safe to say that we are targeting women of all ages with a variety of issues to deal with on a given day. This brings rise to the discussion of whether or not the sweatpants that we are considering have been on since last night, or sometime in the previous week. If this is the case, we have to refer to the fourth paragraph of this essay to establish crises criterion with which to establish a baseline of long-term sweatpants wearing acceptability. Say for instance, your dog died last week. Obviously you haven't recovered from the trauma enough to have been able to change your clothes at any point. But this will be examined further in a later paragraph. Assuming no Major Catastrophe has befallen you, if the sweatpants in question have been worn since the previous evening or earlier, the move to change and/or upgrade to denim is based entirely upon the time of day that one enters into this decision making process. For example, if the question of changing clothes comes up sometime before noon or one o'clock PM, it's safe to say you may have a few successful denim wearing hours in the day. If this thought is not broached until after one in the afternoon, then dressing up is a foolhardy exercise in extra laundry inefficiency. The social justification for early-to-late sweatpants transition is far reaching and easily understood by everyone that matters, which is to say, all of the cool kids. (Echosmith, 2014)

Secondly, most of this debate is quelled with the answer to one simple inquiry: What Kind Of Sweatpants? Thanks to Jessica Simpson, circa 2004, when she was almost cool for a minute, if you had cable (In Review, 2004) (this is before the catastrophic Chicken of the Sea comment...), any sweatpants made by Victoria's Secret double successfully as sexy day wear. Just ask Mariah Carey, Jennifer Lopez, Meg Ryan, and all of your other high-fashion icons - slap a PINK! on it, and you're good to go. Hard Tail knits, Juicy Couture's remix of high-end velour track suits, and more recently (as in 5 years ago), Vanessa Hudgens sporting the Gypsy 05 sweats, are also emerging fixtures in the crossover world of lounge to party. Flo Rida and T-Pain give a nod to the "baggy sweat pants" in the '07 hit, Low (FloRida, 2007), giving instant justification to millions of stay at home booty shakers. That these events transpired more than five years ago is no reason to question the viability of acceptable daytime sweats everywhere, given the right label. More recent evolutions of the yoga pant to include demon-like 5 pocket styles and narrow bootcuts like a dressy pair of slacks, are a welcome edition to the  repertoire of almost-pajamas that qualify as day wear. Emergent brands like Athleta and LuLuLemon are fabulous examples of this trend. Yoga pants and the theme they present really belong to a separate classification which should be examined in a later essay.

The third and arguably most poignant question which keeps the answer to this puzzle shrouded in cloudy mystery, is that of motivation. Why are the sweatpants to be worn? What is the compelling factor in the acquirement of sweatpants early in the day? As we mentioned before, an emotional trauma such as the death of a dog, the loss of a job, the toilet overflowing, or the mechanical failure of a washing machine are all reasonable justifications for long term sweatpants wearing. But finding the appropriate rationale for day to day early sweatpants wearing can be somewhat more tricky, especially if one is expected to work or perform on a semiprofessional level at any point before traditional bed times and/or workouts. There are a few exclusionary situations that qualify for rapid sweatpant admission without question. These include but are not limited to: being on one's menstrual period, PreMS, or PostMS, recent unplanned weight gain and/or having a child any time within the last ten years. Other unforeseen factors, such as relationship ebbs and flows, misbehaving children, and general bad moods can easily be translated into solid justification with little to no argument, depending on the value one's spouse/parent/living partner puts on his/her own life. 

In conclusion, it is my personal experience that there are very few, if any, hours in the day that are exclusive of acceptable sweatpants wearing. Social settings, emotional events and demographic information notwithstanding, there is a reasonable argument for the propriety of sweatpants in most situations. How long a pair of sweatpants is worn acceptably is based entirely upon the surrounding circumstances and appropriateness of intimate support and/or antagonism from those closest to the wearer. The style, brand and appearance of sweatpants, with the advent of fashion forward lounge wear, becomes less of an issue than the Hanes Her Way quandary of the late 90s (I'm Sorry, 1995), when sweatpants in a nightclub would have been social suicide. And at the bottom of it all, the directing motivation for the wearing of sweatpants at questionable hours of the day is really the deciding factor in whether it is "OK" or if denim should actually be considered. Sweatpants have come a long way from the draw string gym pants of the 1950s (Steve McQueen, 19RAD )that some brilliant housewife thought to steal from her jock husband. The evolution socially, fashionably, and functionally of sweatpants cannot be understated for the frustrated woman who can only get her jeans zipped on six days of an average month. There is a time, and a place, for sweatpants, and the for daughters of this millennium, that time is all the time, and that place is everywhere. 

Things About Mothering

I have been in this game for more than 18 years. In any other profession, I would be on the downhill slide towards retirement, and considered by most to be a relative expert in my field. But this is mothering, folks, and just when you think you've got it all figured out, those darn kids slip you a curve ball and you're caught with your pants down. Or off completely.

Last week I was starting to get a little bit too comfortable with my "success" as a mother. My oldest daughter who is now at college texts me for advice, which means I still hold some sway in her opinion, and my other three were mostly speaking to me. All of this winning was just a few blissfully unaware hours before I lost control of the G6 seventeen-year-old rocking the current exchange students, and infectious disease began running rampant in my house along with a  river of poop. Real poop. Believe it or not, none of these three are connected. Just separate ongoing episodes of terror. All unrelated, but all intent on reducing me to a quivering mass of useless parenthood.

In addition to being completely unable to correctly diagnose, treat or make disappear the weird rash on Aspen's forehead, I lost MacKenzie to an outbreak of Total Insolence and Blatant Disobedience this weekend, garnished by the unabated overflow of a toilet that nobody admits to pooping in. I am pretty sure the guilty depositor is also the mysterious nobody who leaves their feminine hygiene garbage lying around the bathroom to welcome me awake in the morning. I think this is what they mean when they say boys are easier than girls to raise. Well, this and the screaming, crying, cursing fights and monologues that happen daily here.

In the wake of all of this catastrophe, when Halle texted me last night for more social advice, which apparently I am an expert in, being so successful in my own social life, I ignored her. In my defense, it was the middle of the night, which for college students is about 3 AM but for me has been surfacing around 10:30. To make amends for my neglectfulness, as well as the recent uncovering that I have deprived my children of the unknown Joys Of Cuddling for the last 18 years, I am putting together a care package for Halle consisting of Candy Corn and Hi-Chew. Which is clearly the way to a college freshman's heart.

My solution to the adamant rebellion of MacKenzie is to first enlist the help of her father, which results in her convincing him that I am being irrational by requiring her to provide information about her whereabouts and proof of adult supervision, so then my secondary recourse is to just quit speaking to her and shoot eye daggers at frequent intervals. Because that's totally gonna fix it. In case you haven't noticed, punishing a teenager is much more difficult than one would think. If I take away sports, she doesn't graduate, and I am faced with another school year of rebellion. If I take away her phone, she uses someone else's. If I take away her job, there's a good chance she will never move out. Really every conceivable consequence is actually more punishment for me in the long run. And she knows it. That's the worst part.

My only hope is that Natalee and Aspen and Uyen (who is known and loved by all as Wynn, these days) catch the crossfire of the eye daggers and learn from the many and grevious mistakes of their older reprobate sister.

All of this has convicted me of my own insufficiencies as a parent and as an adult, a point never contended by me, but a sad fact for the casualties of my efforts.

In conclusion, Aspen's forehead rash is running amok, Halle is probably facing social demise, and MacKenzie is going to turn up with face tattoos and her own liquor cabinet soon, as a tribute to my Mad Mothering Skillz. It's all in a day's work, my friends. Or two decades. Whichever.