Things About Bad Calls

Last weekend we had a bad one. There was an ATV wreck way, way, way up in the mountains. It took us almost two hours to get to our two patients, who were banged up pretty bad. It was the worst case scenario kind of an emergency call. The one that you hope never happens but you kind of fashion your drills around. The one with every WHAT IF included in it. Lucky for us, this scene didn't involve anyone dying - then it would truly have bee the absolute worst.

It felt like one of those calls where nothing goes right. Everything we tried to do was harder than usual. Even accessing the patients was Way Too Hard. On some scenes, everything flows smoothly, we work together, it's fluid and graceful and efficient. This was not that scene. This was all miscommunication and frustration and Not Doing Enough.

I have spent some time going over in my head and with the other first responders that were there what it was that went wrong, and other than EVERYTHING, we couldn't quite pin down the worst parts. All of us feel like we underperformed, we were not at our best, and I think the biggest reason for that is that we were dealing with an injured friend.

Sometimes as EMTs, we're able to compartmentalize the emergency that we roll on because we can separate ourselves from the injury - it isn't our emergency, we are just here to help. But when it's a friend - or family - there's a built in need to FIX, and wondering what we could have done to prevent or avoid or help. I know that for me, there was nothing I could have done that night that would have  felt like enough. And it made me angry. My friend was hurting and I couldn't fix it. All I could really do is hurt her more to get her where she needed to go. It's a terrible feeling to add to someone's pain, even if it's necessary. That's one of the reasons I am not IV qualified anymore. I know how important that stuff is, but I don't like being the cause of any pain. That's not a valid excuse and I am considering getting my advanced certification, because if my friend had been any worse off I would have been hating myself for not being able to give her an IV.

As parents, most of us have had to pry a kid's hand (or head) out of the back of a chair, or a railing somewhere when they got it stuck. Invariably they cry and it hurts, but as parents, we know what has to be done and we do it. It's the same deal on a bigger scale. If only we could keep our friends and family from sticking their damn heads in the railings. But life is chaos. It's messy and crazy and shit happens. All the time. To everyone. We are massively blessed that this kind of an accident doesn't happen every single weekend up here because the craziness always does. And it's craziness that could just as easily been me, or my kids or any one of us. Those of us that insist on enjoying life and getting the most out of it are sitting ducks for disaster at one point or another.

It violates my sense of control-freakishness that I can't prevent every accident from happening, or know what terrible choices my children, or siblings, or friends might make, or what insane accident they might wander into at any given moment. I can't make bad things not happen to the people I care about, no matter how much I will it. All I can do is be there and try to help. But when it's my people that are hurting, it never, ever feels like enough. It's an almost paralyzing sense of inadequacy. Like my skills are totally worthless. Why am I even here? I want to click my heels and get back to Kansas and not be the one that is Not Fixing It.

The patients from our wreck made it out ok, finally, after way too many hours, being manhandled by 37 people, three ambulances,  and two helicopters. The sense of relief from handing a patient over to someone who has more training than me is immeasurable. That's probably why I stay a basic - so I can pass the buck. But in the moments (or hours) that there's no one to pass to, it kills me to not have more tools in my backpack. Maybe that's the motivation I need for that advanced class. Maybe my friends should just stop getting hurt.

Things About Commitment

We lost part of our family today. Somebody that came into our lives almost by mistake. Somebody that almost wasn't one of us. Somebody that we chose, in spite of all of the very good reasons not to.

We lost a friend that was unconditional. One that was always thankful, always loving, always kind. She was optimistic in spite of every obstacle in her way. She was dedicated and up for anything. She was the one that you knew you could count on to back you up in any crappy spot - as long as you could help her get there. 

We spent the better part of 4 years with Penny after we found her eating herself to death with no hope of escape. She came to live with us, and learned to love rabbits (or at least barking at them), to love long walks (or at least all the naps she took along the way) and to share her food. Penny lost a few pounds while she was with us, but in spite of the physical limitations of a belly that hung lower than her legs, she kept up with us and became part of our silly family. 

She made us laugh every day with her constant cheerfulness, her heroic attempts to climb stairs and her respectful begging for more food. She made us appreciate the heart that's inside an imperfect body, and even when she lost her eye sight she seemed to have a better idea of what was going on than a lot of humans. She knew when somebody needed a chin on their knee for comfort. Or an excited Cadillac dance for no reason. She knew the power of a good snuggle and the value of a squishy bed. 

She was Dagny's scolding grandmother, Emmy's comrade, Nattie's confidant and Truck's lower bunk. Penny took nothing for granted but loved every minute of her life. Her little stubbed tail was always working in thankful circles. We loved that silly obese dog. She's in her next home now. Probably chasing chickens and flopping down for a quick rest in the tall grass. Wearing angel wings like a flying pig, some of us think. And it would only make sense. 

There were times after we adopted her that we wondered if we'd made the right choice to commit to a dog with so many struggles and imperfections. Really, we were the ones that needed rescuing. We needed Penny's blind, unconditional love of all people, and her steadfast faith in her family. Her willingness to ask for help and offer affection. We needed to be reminded that beauty is what we give to each other, not how we look. We needed Penny, and thank goodness she chose us. 

Things About The Toilet

I have a semi-famous toilet. You know, the one responsible for The Great Flood of 2014 and the 2nd Great Flood of 2014? Yeah, that one.

"clean" water tank

Yesterday the Celebrity Toilet decided to start spewing water all over the floor every time some one flushed. The beauty of this latest incident is that instead of poop-contaminated water, it was dripping "clean" water straight from the tank. I say "clean" because one look inside the tank leaves reason to doubt the validity of that claim. How can a tank that circulates fresh water look like a cesspool that four zombies drowned in? Anyway, upon closer inspection, which revealed that A)someone had recently thrown up in/on the toilet and B) we're clearly not doing a good enough job when we have bathroom cleaning duty, it appeared that the water was coming from somewhere in the dark recesses between the tank and bowl.



Being the strong, knowledgeable, independent and self sufficient woman that I am, I immediately texted three experienced plumbers that I am also privileged call friends and relations. Within a short time I had learned that most likely the gasket that goes in between the tank and the bowl was shot, but it was an "easy" DIY fix, and I even got a swell brother-in-law to grab me a new part at the hardware store since he happened to be in town. It was Saturday evening, and since the options of a leaking toilet all weekend or even worse, going without a toilet until I could get the parts were both less than appealing, it seemed like a relief to pin down a solution. As if.

This is wrong. All of it. Especially that Noone has painted behind the toilet in at least four color changes.

Sunday afternoon is the perfect time to set aside for toilet repairs. I mean if stuff goes really bad, you only have to wait until Monday morning for a hardware store less than an hour away to open up.  Plus it's easier to farm kids off to their dads house or wherever they can use a bathroom, because inevitably and invariably, as soon as you get the toilet into various and assorted pieces all over the bathroom, everybody needs to use it. I know this because it happened to me, who was the only one home post-toilet deconstruction. Lucky for me it's baseball season and the school set up an über-convenient Blue Room right across the driveway by the dug-out. I have a lot of experience with Blue Rooms so I wasn't afraid.

So, all brave and fearless and pretty sure I could handle it ("THAT'S THE SPIRIT!" said the swell brother-in-law), I set out to take apart the vintage almond Kohler with a seashell seat. They don't make them like this anymore, and I was fairly concerned about being able to match pieces if the taupe porcelain were to break. I had watched four different YouTube videos that alternately gave me hope and panic attacks, including one guy with a great Brooklyn accent and another one who kept doing it wrong and starting over. YouTube is great for figuring out all of the things you should probably never try to do yourself.

I got half way into trying to remove the first corroded and rusted-on nut and was in tears. It was about 20 minutes of struggling to understand how Guys That Do This Crap make it look so easy, why toilets are crammed in tiny corners,  and whose idea it was to put the bolts underneath where you have to hang your head down and try to reach up with a bulky wrench thingy and get them loose. In addition to earning undying respect for professional plumbers, I learned that it's very important to have the right tools for a job like this. Turns out that none of these were them:

HEART OF DARKNESS

After an hour and a half of deciding I couldn't do it after all, crying, cussing a lot and trying again, I managed to get all three bolts off and remove the tank. It was one of my most triumphant personal moments to date, and I did actually yell "I am woman, hear me roar!" quite loudly upon completion. Unfortunately that was only the first step of the process, and depending on which experienced plumber you ask, also the easiest. Looking at the monster that I had just unleashed, I realized that I probably was dealing with more than just a gasket problem, since the plastic thingy in the middle of the gasket, but totally unrelated to it, was disintegrating to the touch. After a few texts to The People That Know, and a very in-depth but confusing conversation about ball-cocks, shaft-nuts and screwing flappers, I was given strict instructions to step away from the tank before things got any worse. Nothing in the world makes me as grateful to live here as the people that I know and love and that I can count on to jump in to the rescue, even when it means spending a super unfair amount of time in close personal contact with a semi-famous toilet. I am a lucky girl, and I only hope someday I can give something back to make up for all of the getting that I have got.

Finally got the right tool for the job. And once again, a working toilet.

Just kidding Jess, you're totally not a tool. Nice vintage ball-cock there, though.

Things About Where I Live

It's true. I watched the neighbors sawing a 6 foot fence post down to about 2.5" the other day, with a Sawzall, for the perpetual bonfire in their yard that they like to drink around. All day. Every day. They have the cleanest yard in town. They have raked it down to mineral soil. To keep their fire going. Safe to say they are the shining expample of a defensible space in our town. A safe space? Not so much, consider the less-than-advisable undertaking of sawzalling your fenceposts drunk. But still, quite tidy.

There was really no way to top off that reality-not-tv experience other than going to Taco Tuesday at Kuks. There I had a lengthy conversation with Jesus about the redeemability of my ex husband, and sat audience to an expert lecture on facial hair in romantic relationships. I am just going to leave that one right there and walk away.

I love where I live. People (ok, person) were standing in line to tell me how awesome my newspaper stories are while I discussed the bitterweet dilemma of doing absolutely nothing for spring break with half of my neighborhood.

I have friends who will faithfully jog/walk just ahead of me like a carrot on a stick so that I can make time on my practice runs for the pack test. I have people who feed me beer. And burgers. And Bananas. And ones who buy me tickets to super fun music shows and take me out to dinner and make me laugh and are just the coolest.

Everything in my life isn't perfect right now, but it's just right. Just the right amount of ache from working out. And tension from barely making it. It will be ok and it will be fun on the way there.

Things About Being Who You Are

A long time ago, when I had the coolest job in the world that involved cutting trail for ATVs on Forest Service land, and also cleaning bathrooms for all the riders that used the trails, I wore Carhartt pants every. single. day. They were the best protective equipment from chain saw exhaust, outhouse backsplash and juniper branches at 45 MPH.

Then I married a guy who hated Carhartts. He called me bad names when I wore them and told me only a certain type of girl would dress that way. I acquiesced to his taste and gave them up. Consequently I tore through about 5 pairs of jeans in the last few months of that job, once I quit wearing double-knee cotton duck. But I packed all of my trusty Carhartts away sadly, never to be worn again. They sat collecting dust in a basket until today.

See, yesterday I decided to rearrange and clean my room. Turns out that I haven't done this since I have been living alone, and I have found all sorts of amazing things in the process. Like those important EMT papers that we were looking EVERYWHERE for. I guess under the bed is as good a place as any to lose an entire box of manila folders. Stands to reason. Got those safely handed off to more responsible persons, and I came home and launched a mountain of about 51 pairs of Nomex pants and a full basket of Carhartts.

I think I forgot how much these pants had become a part of me until I pulled them out. I really had every intention of getting rid of them, and then all of a sudden I couldn't remember why. I put on my favorite pair. They are all customized. I started from stiff-starched brand new ones and washed them into buttery softness, perfectly worn in. I cut the waistband out so I can fold them over and they don't go up to my armpits. They're like the indestructible version of fold-over yoga pants. I used to roll them up and wear them with flip flops like the baddest-assest pair of capris ever. I can't remember why I quit wearing them. Something about a boy.

Putting them on was a flashback to a girl that I used to be. Someone tougher, cooler. Before the last husband, before the Buckle and blingy jeans. Before I decided I needed to try so hard to be something else for somebody else. So much in my life then changed who I was. Living in constant pain and trying to figure out a doomed relationship and raise wild teenagers while I was working full time - there wasn't even room for me in my own life any more. Now I have ample time to fit myself in and I stare and the mirror of introspection and can't figure out what's out of whack. But in my mind I think that surely something must be, or I wouldn't be alone. Maybe it's that I forgot the Carhartts. I forgot who I was. Who I am. And now that the pain is gone, the world has stabilized a little bit, and all of this alone time is just a chance to remember how I got here, and to find that girl in the Carhartts again.

just because they're work pants doesn't mean I have to work in them...

Things About Jelly Beans

I have this thing for jelly beans. I really like them. I always have. The traditional spiced ones are my favorite, the minty, cinammony, licoricey ones. I like Jelly Bellies, but only to pick out the Strawbery Daiquiri and Buttered popcorn flavors. I don't mind the fruit ones, especially cherry - because cherry anything and everything is pretty much the best (more on this later).

Easter is obviously jelly bean season, since Jelly Bellies go on coupon at Costco, which is the determining factor of all seasonal designations. Several years ago, I bought a Costco  size vat of Jelly Bellies for my friend with a toddler. The toddler ate most of the jelly beans and attached forever an association between Jelly Beans and me. Last week I gave his mom a new vat of all cherry flavored jelly beans (more on this later) and the kid, a now 8 year old, proceeded to help her demolish those, telling all of his friends the story of Liv and the jelly beans. I am something of legend among 8 year olds in Northport.

Around Valentine's day this year, I fell in love. Wisely, this time, there was no man involved. Instead I gave my heart to a bag of various cherry flavored jelly beans. Cherry Lovers is a mix of nine different cherry flavored, heart shaped jelly beans. First of all, nine different variations of cherry is nothing but yum, and secondly, heart shaped? AWWWWWW. So much love. The mix includes wild cherry, cherry cola, chocolate cherry, cherry cheesecake, cherry vanilla, cherry daiquiri, bing cherry, black cherry, and a couple more that I can't remember because my mouth is watering. The best thing about these is that even though they're made by a gourmet candy company, you can get them at Safeway rebranded under their Select brand, for literally HALF the price. And in giant vats. Which, obviously, I needed. They live on the headboard of my bed, and together with a few Chicken 'n a Biscuit crackers and episodes of Criminal Minds, pretty much round out every night of my very single-womanish life. I caught one kid getting into my cherry jelly beans and I might have freaked a little. Feeling a little bit guilty, I went out and bought a few bags of traditional Jelly-Bird Eggs to fill up my candy jar. I still yell at the kids when I see or hear them getting in to it, but with as much as I am gone, they tend to disappear at a steady rate. It's the kid-in-the-candy-jar mischief that I "allow" to avoid other types of mischief. Such as kid-in-the-liquor-cabinet. I am sure it's working. Because who would sneak vodka when there are jelly beans to snitch?

Author's note: I would like to acknowledge in relationship to my last blog entry, that the consumption of Jelly Beans and Chicken n' Biscuit crackers might have some influence on the not-effect of "running" on my physique... but let's not go there. Denial is bliss.

Things About "Running"

I have been running.

That's pretty much a flat-out lie. Except that I did try. I ran. I ran like 100 steps. Granted, each of them was an individual stride, spaced in between with walking. But I still picked up both feet off the ground and tried to run. To make it sound cooler/more intentional, I told my brother/fitness coach that I was jogging. He said "don't jog. jogging is terrible. jogging does no good. you need to run." And I said back: "what you don't understand is that this IS my run." If I can clock a 13.5 minute mile, I am flying, baby.

None of it makes sense really. Last year I read the book Born To Run by Christopher McDougall, and it was life changing for three reasons: 1) it was the first time I downloaded a full book that I paid for onto my iPad and read it, in it's entirety, digitally ; 2) I actually voluntarily spent time reading about something I hate, namely running; and 3) I got done reading it and was absolutely convinced that with the right pair of shoes, I would fly like a gazelle through the woods endlessly as soon as I gave it a whirl.

I have been whirling quite a bit these days, and so far the closest thing to a gazelle on my runs are the towny deer giggling at me as I flop by. Because that's what it is. A flop. I "ran" so much yesterday that when I tried to do it today, I discovered I had given myself shin splints and even my jog was more like a clumsy imitation of a walk. Actually my shins hurt way less when I tried to "run" faster, but I wore my baggy sweatpants, because it's that kind of a week, and they kept falling off - not just down, but actually, off. Like those poor deers probably got an unintentional moon in exchange for their mockery. Serves them right.

All Of The People say that if you just keep on doing it, it will get better. I am inclined to believe this is true for knitting and possibly marinading steaks, but as far as running goes, I am reticent. In fact, after three straight days of "running", I am actually fatter, slower and now in more pain than I was three days ago. I understand one can't expect instant gratification - but come on - three days is a lifetime when you're talking about running.

In the back of my head all of this leads to the one driving purpose of my life: to pass the arduous pack test one more time before I die. I have found peace with the fact that that is probably not going to be this year, with the bone-on-bone situation in my lower back and a shoulder that spontaneously dislocated when I cross my arms, but the standard is still there, dangling in front of my face. It is the standard by which all exercizish things are measured in my world. A mile must be accomplished in less than 16 minutes. Easy. Check. Two miles should be finished in 30 minutes carrying 25 pounds... oooh, that's a stretch, but if I had to do it once, I could probably. Three miles, forty five minutes and forty five pounds - there's the golden standard of arrival. I got the three miles in time the other day, but the 45 pounds extra I was carrying are the ones around my midsection. I understand the concept that running will help me achieve my goal in developing my cardiovascular stamina, and building the muscles I need to support the weight. I get why. It's just the how that I have ethical problems with. Mostly because I still adhere to the idea that working full time and making dinner and doing the laundry and yelling at the kids and, and and... should be more than enough to prepare me for any other arduous endeavors. There is something just rude about the idea that I have to take what little "spare" time I have and use it to punish myself for being soft and lazy, when really I don't feel soft and lazy on the inside whatsoever.

That's what reading the book helped with. It made running seem like something almost, dare I say, fun?!?! And I know some people who say that they enjoy it, although I believe they are masochistic liars that clearly have no idea what fun actually is.  There has been the ever so slight and gradual shift in my thinking that maybe, with enough trying, I too could enjoy this form of torture. We're a long way from decided on that front, but I am not ruling it out.

And it's not like I can't run if I absolutely have to. If the fire gods are worried about me getting my ass off of the fireline in a hurry, they should see me beat four teenage girls to the shower in the evening. I'm so quick you don't even see me. Of course that's usually on the nights that I decide it's not worth the fight and skip it all together, in which case you really don't see me. Or that one time that my sister was beating me to all of the best stuff in the thrift store. You know I moved like greased lightening then. I had no choice. It was life or death. Think of how my performance would improve on these fronts if I actually practiced running more? It's almost terrifying. We'll see who's laughing then, Bambi.

Things That Are Good

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

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

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

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

Things About Daughters

Urgh.

Things About Making It Better

Some days, everything is wrong. Just everything.

I know all of the routines about putting on gratitude and The Power of Positive Thinking, but some days, everything is wrong.

I know it's just the shadow of hurt and disappointment casting it's heavy darkness over the unforgiving demand of life.

I know that in the morning, or whenever the sun comes out next, everything will seem better.

I know that all of the things that seem MASSIVE and UNFIXABLE right now will resolve themselves somehow. They always do.

I know that no matter how unloved, unlovely and unlovable I feel in this moment, that someone, somewhere loves me, and it matters.

I know that ALL THE THINGS that need to be done and just aren't right are not that big of a deal.

But knowing doesn't make it better. I am not sure what does. I had a bad week. I don't even know where to start pulling it all back together, when the little things seem colossal and the big things seem absolutely insurmountable. Physically, mentally, emotionally I feel like I am sitting underneath a 50,000 pound bag of rocks that were designed specifically to Take Me Out. The only thing I can think to do is to take the rocks out one by one and laugh at them, chuck them over the side of sanity and move on.

Rock #1: (starting small) Dog pee under the table. Again. And who gives two shits if my house smells like dog pee. It could be worse. Like cat pee. Or carpet. Or in my bed. The constantly ready (because I never remember to dump it) mop bucket of pine sol is a temporary fix to an eternal problem - the Untrainable Wiener Dog.

Rock #2: $9.69 in my bank account and the immediate knowledge that the bills are coming in and I lost an entire week of work being gone this week. I know that I have checks coming in to cover it, but then there's next month, and the next, and more bills, and more broken things, and no dog food, and no gas, and not enough work... I can't even breathe. It NEVER STOPS, and it's all up to me to figure out. Every penny. Every light bulb. Every night under a roof and mile in a car. Every nugget of dog food and bottle of pine sol. Just me.  But it always works out. Somehow it does. I haven't even had to cash in the quarters in the jar on my headboard yet. It won't ever stop, but it WILL be OK.

Rock #3: Kids I can't control. They don't go where I want, feel what I need or help with much of anything. They are selfish, disrespectful and immature - and that's what makes them kids. And me the parent, with no idea how to deal with them. The older they get the harder and more painful it is. And that's when it's time for me to step out of the way of the train and they learn about real consequences, not the Wrath of Mom or Demon Mom Voice. But real life, and how much it can suck. I have to let it go, and decide how much support I can give in every different situation. Parenting is the absolute worst job in the world. It's thankless, excruciating and it pays crap. In my next life I am choosing a different career.

Rock #4: An arm I can't use from a shoulder that I can't fix until the next round of doctors approve the next round of treatment through the next round of insurance. At least now I have insurance, and a doctor, and maybe someday, an arm I can use again. The nagging pain I have been in all week is an awesome reminder of how I used to live every day in pain for several years, and now, it's a rare event. So I am thankful. But still, let's fix this.

Rock #6: I am lonely. Someone once said that when you feel the loneliest, that's when you most need to be alone. That statement made me angry until I thought about it. It seems like a good hug from someone or having a shoulder to lean on every night would fix everything, when really, those shoulders and hugs bring their own set of problems. Having a good cry about having nobody isn't much different from having a good cry about having someone hurt you. Maybe I need to be alone until I can appreciate not being alone even more. Like pain all the time... to remind you how good it is to not hurt when it finally stops. I don't believe in being alone, but it definitely believes in me, so I might as well make the best of it and find a new TV show to watch.

There are still so many rocks left in the bag. And I am so tired from carrying it. And I can't tell if I am actually getting rid of them or just labeling them. But I don't know where else to start, but I am thankful for solutions. And I believe that it will get better - as soon as the sun comes out, the pine sol cleans and the paychecks post. Feel good is right around the corner...

Things About Wenatchee

Once upon a time a girl who really couldn't afford it but had all this faith in The Good Things To Come, traveled to a far away land for a class about things she thought she might be good at. So much speculation in that sentence. Story of my life. It's really all about speculation. Wondering if THIS STEP is the Best Good Decision she has ever made or the Worst Mistake of Her Life. Ever unpredictable, the coin lands as it will, with the dashing prince that turns out to be a dud and the lost cause that becomes a best friend. But as the snowboard full of beer sits before me, and with the full knowledge that I will be able to pay at least for this One Last Supper, all is well.

This week I am in Wenatchee. I am learning how to be a Public Information Officer for all-hazard incidents for the federal government, which is to say they are teaching me how to avoid saying anything of traceable importance or litigatable fact to the surging media that appears on any major fire, flood, earthquake, terrorist attack or Black Friday sale. So far the only definite thing that I have learned is that when I am shot on video for an interview, I look exactly like my dad in a really bad wig (no offense dad, but it's a good thing you aren't a woman) #notphotogenic. It's a good thing I am really good at Twitter, and Facebook, and Writing All The Things.

Being in the town of Wenatchee, which is not only geographically, but culturally dead center between Bend, Oregon and Kettle Falls, Washington, I am forced to do what any self respecting single-woman/beer-loving/unpaid-employee would: seek out the breweries and conduct an experiment in awkward drink-alone situations and creative bar-tab justification. It's working, y'all. I am winning. Not only have I succesfully ruled out the chance that I will EVER appear before a video camera again, I have determined that for the dedicated beer drinker, the only true micro-brewery in Wenatchee is Badger Mountain Brewing. While Badger Mountain doesn't offer a full menu, in the Happy-Hour I spent there with 6 of their noteably good beers, the brewer/cook came out and chatted with me, because he's cool. Well worth the visit. Don't even waste your time at Columbia Valley Brewing since apparently their brewing apparatus broke down months ago and they forgot to tell anybody. Their food also leaves something to be desired, namely flavor, and the place smelled like Pine Sol, which is totally cool if you're in a nursing home. Saddle Rock Brewing, on the other hand, while making the most mouth watering calzone I have ever experienced (it is a full-on experience), offers only one SRB beer on tap, calling into question their viability as a "brewery". Let's go with "Awesome taphouse with a brewing hobby" instead. That's better. To be fair, the one beer is decidely good, even for an IPA, which most of you know is not my favorite. But the WVC (Wenatchee Valley College) 4.0 IPA is an easy, not-too-hoppy drinker, so most IPA die-hards will be dismayed. Upon further "research" involving a 12 beer sample flight and a burly, tattooed, red-headed waiter, it appears that SRB releases one brew a month in addition to their 11 guest beers. Turns out their 45 gallon brewing system is truly a platform for brewing experimentation. Potential for better days (and brews) ahead. I don't hate it, especially when the guest taps are from Ninkasi, Deschutes (including Not The Stoic?!?!?) and 21st Amendment, a brewery I had been itching to try.

So even if I don't make a very good camera-ready PIO, I know that I can Tweet the rest of them to shame, and if all else fails: BEER.

Things About Teaching

I have been subbing this whole week, which is good, since that means that I might be able to pay my bills next month, maybe. The cool thing about being a substitute teacher is that there is a  7/12 chance that I will be in one of my kid's or one of my not-kid's classrooms. This is met with any imaginable level of enthusiasm, ranging from "oh noooo (groan)" to high-fives in the doorway. Lucky for my self-esteem it's usually a happy mix of the two. Yesterday I told one of my (not) kids that I would take their test for them if they gave me one of their green chocolate chip cookies. I lied. But I got a cookie, so all-in-all, the breach in trust was worth it. I also recruited them to help write some stories for me, but since it was a English/Language Arts class, it seemed TOTALLY justifiable.

Today I got to teach a weightlifting class, which involved a couple of the "experienced" lifters from the senior class demonstrating their impressive muscles to the newbies. And I did 3 incline sit ups, which means I don't have to work out again, forever. Then in a history class that isn't really history but Current World Problems, we got to research conspiracy theories. The class was evenly divided between I-don't-give-a-crappers and Oh-my-gosh-did-you-know-Obama-is-actually-a-lizardman-alienners. I definitely lean more toward the lizard man side so I chose to ignore the crappers and read all about how Madonna and John Cusack are actually vampires. I am good at teaching this stuff. Also: did you know that Russia made their own Men In Black, but it's a documentary and therefore TOTALLY VERIFIABLE FACT?!?!?!? Aliens are real, y'all, and they are here.

Tomorrow I am back in SPED, and while I am dreading the poop fingers, I am relieved to be escaping the incline sit ups. I am not a fan of teaching any grade level of math, which is suddenly the only thing we do in SPED, apparently. So I am lobbying hard for a reassignment to Middle School, where the cookies are accessible and source-able (this is critical to avoid lethal exposure to all fecally communicated diseases).

The coolest thing about teaching at this school is that I live next door. This makes going home for lunch, a.k.a a nap, or a coke, or a handful of ibuprofen, super doable. It also means that I can look out almost any given window and see my house, and the bad dogs running around in the driveway, or the Mormon Missionaries that are knocking forlornly on my non-responsive door. The latter is unfortunate, since I have some serious raking projects in my yard that I could use some help with... they're always asking if there's anything they can do. I feel bad for never having anything, and then when I do, I am not even there to offer them reprieve from their boredom.

In spite of the obvious perks (?), all of this subbing has really cramped the escapist plans that I have been making since I got off of the prom bus Sunday at 3:27 AM. I was able to rush to town for a meeting last night, with grandiose plans after for green beers and shots of Jameson, but found myself home in bed by 9:30 like a good, responsible teacher. Working has also cut into my writing time, which means that the 37 stories I have to write this month will all be hammered out in about 1.5 days. To my editor (if I had one): I apologize preemptively. To the rest of you, if you want to hang out and drink wine and help me write 37 articles, not necessarily about Jesus or dinosaurs, hit me up. I will be awake all night.

Things About Sickness

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

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

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

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

I am kind of sick of it.

Things About Harrison Ford

If you are a girl my age and you're not in love with Harrison Ford, there is something wrong with you. If you are a girl of any age and you don't know who Harrison Ford is - you poor thing. Here, let me help you:

Since the passing of the Man's Man, The Duke, The Quiet Man: John Wayne, there has not been another hero of the big screen that could exude heroic manliness with a side of rogue quite like Harrison Ford. Somewhere in the midst of all that, Sean Connery was working deftly behind the scenes to add his name to the list, immortalizing James Bond and definitively making a scottish accent HOT, and of course Christian Bale is a sweet boy, but Harrison Ford is without question, the Reigning Quintessential Male of my life. It's the crooked smile - that spark of mischief in his eye, the swagger of a man who knows how to work with his hands but prefers to work with his sharp wit and rampant charm to make stuff happen. It's the deadly combination of kick-your-ass and cuddle-on-the-couch. The keen intellectual crossed with the caveman protector instinct. Hero and Scoundrel, Testosterone and tenderness. It's everything a woman could possibly need.

Princess Leia didn't stand a chance, for all of her protests and feminist rhetoric, she was putty in the hands of the Scruffy Looking Nerfherder. Just enough trouble to activate the unavoidable tractor beam of a bad-boy, Han Solo was the epitome of "I'm gonna kiss you and you're gonna like it," as his predecessor the Duke was, leaving a trail of breathless, swooning girls behind him.

Semi-intellectual college girls everywhere were weak in the knees when Indiana Jones introduced the world to a messy-geek-heartthrob and dictated the outcome of my whole life. I was less than 12 years old when I resolved to find the Arc of The Covenant, which we all know was a clever guise for my pursuit of the dashing Doctor Jones. I don't remember when I accidentally saw The Raiders Of The Lost Ark for the first time, but it was with my not-homeschooled cousins in Walla Walla in my granparent's upstairs and my mom and dad would NOT have been happy. All that face-melting business was a bit traumatic for my G rated movie experience level, but the swashbuckling and brilliant Harrison Ford defined forever what a man should be for me.

Maybe Harrison Ford is the reason that I am single today. Still searching for my Han Solo/Indiana Jones/Jack Ryan superhero with genius intellect and a heart of gold. Maybe nothing else will do. And why should it? If there are Harrison Fords out there flying vintage WWII airplanes into the ground at 72, why would I settle for anything less?

Things About Clothes, Part II

I finally managed to get some laundry detergent and after minimal procrastinating, got all of my laundry caught up. And by caught up I mean washed, mostly dried and piled so high in the one empty basket in the laundry room that I couldn't successfully relocate it without making 18 trips. "Catching up" laundry has absolutely nothing to do with folding it, I realized about 16 years ago when I had two small children and finding something that had been washed was nothing short of a miracle: folding and putting away be damned. Since the kids were almost as excited as I was to have detergent, their "caught up" laundry started to encroach upon mine, so I was forced to move the mountain to the next most logical place: my bed. Dirty clothes go on the floor, clean on the bed. This is a well established ritual in the life of Single Girl Liv. I like to sleep next to the pile and imagine it's a large man cuddling with me. A large, cold and unaffectionate man made up of jeans and t-shirts and socks. Someone once suggested that I put my clothes away where they "actually" go, and after a few moments of confusion when I finally figured out that they weren't talking about the floor, I told them how lonely my bed would be without my clean laundry on it. And if I didn't keep my dirty clothes on the floor, there would be nowhere for the wiener dogs to build a fort to sleep in. This is how I adult.

But after the other day and a ruthless conversation with my closet,  I have this pile of clothes that I want to get rid of. In the past I have done quite well selling my old clothes on eBay or the classifieds or wherever, but lately I have spent so much time judging the crappy clothes that other people sell in such a manner, that I am terrified to list my junk for the same public ridicule. And I am so busy hating all of my clothes that I am fairly certain everyone else will too. So the pile stares at me from a corner of my room and lures the wiener dogs into it's depths. And the longer it sits, the greater the chance that I will remember that one sweater that I put in there, and dig it out for an outfit. First world problems, you guys. I need to just swallow my materialistic pride and get rid of this crap, yo.

More importantly, and speaking of materialistic - my new boots showed up. This means the beginning of a whole new Liv, the cultivation of the Bohemian Tomboy, the end of black hoodies and Uggs - or at least the occasional reprieve. Right off the bat my daughter and a couple friends were jealous, so I will take that as a win for Liv's Fashion Sensibility. I wore them around the house for awhile and they definitely made me feel cooler. Which is saying a lot since cool has not been my middle name lately. But who doesn't feel awesome wearing Frye Boots and making chicken enchiladas for dinner? Best of all - they are SUPER comfortable - I can't wait to try them out for an entire day and see how my back does. I am sure these are the cure all I have been looking for. Now that I have clean clothes to wear them with I am golden.

Things About Having A Cold

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

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

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

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

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

Things About Clothes

I haven't got a thing to wear.

No seriously. In my wardrobe that consists of a minimum of 1374 items, I hate it all.

Maybe it's PMS. Maybe it's springtime and the dark plaids of Pendleton are mocking me. Maybe I am tired of black hoodies and Ugg boots. I am not sure, but either way, I need new clothes. I generally find myself needing an entirely new wardrobe right about the time of year that I can least afford it... crawling my way feebly out of the winter doldrums, shedding winter pounds in my head and imagining all of the size 6s that I will fit back into next week. That's part of the problem right there, half of my 1347 piece wardrobe are throwbacks to another time that I am absolutely refuse to give up on completely. I still have some Levis from when I got married - the FIRST time. I am adamant that they will fit again. Along with the bohemian sundress from Valentines day 2003, and the black velvet Audrey Hepburn shift dress with the boning in the size 4 bodice. I'll get back into it someday - and maybe then I will have an excuse to wear it.

Either way, right now, in my size 10 reality, the stuff that does fit involves black hoodies and Ugg boots. Enough is enough.

I told my sister last night about the emergent need I had for new boots. New boots are the starting point for building a new wardrobe and hence, a new style. She obviously agreed with me, because who doesn't need new boots RIGHTTHISSECOND? But I am torn about what kind of boots. Spring is coming. So tall boots with cozy socks and layers of sweaters might be a little much in the very near future. And let's be realistic: while I like to dabble with the idea of skinny jeans and patterned leggings, probably the only person that wants to see me in those is my good friend Noone. I might never escape the clutches of the low-rise bootcut jean that took me prisoner in 2001. Granted the "bootcut" has waxed and waned over the years, but the fit, other than going up several sizes, hasn't varied much for me. So any boots I get have to be bootcut friendly, which is redundant, since aren't all bootcut jeans cut to go with any boots? But NO! I protest. I think we can all easily imagine some footwear styles that just should not be rocked with any jeans, especially bootcut. If not, here's this:

exhibit A: Just don't.

Additionally, with my back being like, the worst it's ever been for the last month or so, I am desperate to find shoes that don't make it worse (if that is even possible) This means no heel height and hopefully a little bit of squish. But I've also realized that a good, solid pair of shoes that aren't Baldies, Uggs or flip flops, might actually help a little bit. Not to mention the fact that if I ever felt like dressing like a civilized adult I would be totally screwed. 

Case in point: I went to do an interview with a semi-famous soul singer the other day (I only say semi-famous because nobody around here knows who he is. Real people do.) and I nearly panicked about what to wear -you, know, that didn't say: "I have four kids in school and I had to drop them off before I came to meet you and they used all of the hot water so I didn't get a shower and also I am out of laundry soap and there is dog hair on everything I am wearing. You're welcome." I talked myself out of a total freak out, because it wasn't like I was interviewing Bono or something, in which case I would have probably booked a ticket to New York, hired a stylist and sold my two youngest children for one outfit and a pair of grown up shoes. Instead I made do with my traditional bootcut jeans and a frumpy t-shirt. What famous musician doesn't love a frumpy t-shirt? I mean seriously. 

I started out this blog in 2012 with a post about Things That Moms Wear, wherein I decided to start dressing like an adult. Sort of. It didn't work out very well and I think I have the exact same wardrobe now that I had then, plus a few Pendletons. I was supposed to write a follow up blog about accessories but I have been in a long term argument with necklaces since then and haven't been able to reconcile. Looking back, and, to be honest, forward, there are a few non negotiables in the fashion (or lack thereof) world of Liv. One, I like holes in my jeans. I pretty much have since the day that Kurt Cobain died. I have, unlike some kids in the highschool, established certain limits about these holes. For instance, this will never fly:

exhibit B: why wear pants?

But tasteful holes, which I have paid extra for, are just something I can't get away from. I've tried. It's like beer and saltines with butter. It's just my thing. 

Also, I hate collars. I hate anything around my neck. Probably why necklaces and I aren't on speaking terms. Turtlenecks are right out. I even cut the necklines of some of my best hoodies because I can't breathe in them. I love Pendleton enough to tolerate an occasional button down collar, but otherwise, just no. This rules out cowl necks, mandarin collars, and even a lot of vintage crews that choke me. It is somewhat limiting, I will admit. And given our family fixation with Dickeys, it's somewhat frustrating that I just can't make it happen. 

So basically I am operating out of a wardrobe that consists of holey bootcut jeans, deconstructed hoodies, scoop neck t-shirts, flip flops, baldies and Uggs. It's time for some help. But not too much help. We've established the unreality of heels, collars, skinny jeans and necklaces, but I know that there is more out there... I guess that will be my quest this spring - reinventing the bohemian tomboy redneck. But not too much. 

But first.. new boots. 

Things About My Life

There is no question, when I am spending the better part of a weekend with 30-something-year-old Lost Boys that my life is far from perfect. If I had a perfect life I would probably spend most weekends on white sandy beaches, sipping ice cold beer with lime and getting bi-daily massages by a cute cabana boy in flannel with a beard. But since my life is not perfect, I spend my days chasing down fourteen different occupations with an odd assortment of companions and miscreants.

I complain a lot, I know that. I complain about my bad (terrible, awful) back pain, my weight, my filthy disgusting house that is 1000% INFESTED with dog hair right now. I whine about my bills and the General Impossibility Of Success in my life. I moan and groan about being lonely and having no one to cuddle with that isn't comprised of 47% fur, 12% slobber and a lot of toenails (actually, minus the toenails, it doesn't sound half bad). I am the quintessential first-world whiner. I own it. I could write a book on the finer nuances of Appropriate Whining and how to be most successful at perpetual complaint. It would probably be a best seller. But every once in awhile, all of the good in my life implodes like a collapsing white dwarf - which is probably a terrible analogy since white dwarfs are probably stars that are forming and not collapsing, but I am not the family astronomer, so we'll go with it - and converges on me in an overwhelming wave of knowing just how lucky I am.

In spite of the dog hair. And the 11 year old who won't quit wearing the boot cast that When finally got to take off. In spite of the fact that I ran out of laundry detergent several days ago and am tottering  precariously on the brink of underwear recycling after the four-way fire camp fashion. I am lucky even spite of the giant wad of blond, red, and black hair, and what is undeniably dachshund fur, that just fell out of my sacred and well hidden hairbrush. My fortune is not reversed by the indisputable smell of dog pee on a corner of the living room rug when I do my one yoga move a week. I am not rendered unlucky by the fact that we have gone through no less than 47 rolls of toilet paper in the last 12 days. My luck is fixed. It is unconditional and unchanging, because my good fortune is the people that I have in my life.

At this very minute, as I watch a dust bunny the size of a football blow serenely into the bathroom, I have one brother booking me a flight to visit my other two brothers and a sister-in-law that I am pretty sure aren't pretending to want me to come visit. My other sister in law is redesigning the blog layout that I gave up on weeks ago, because she "wants the experience." My close-to-home sister is making plans (I just know she is) to come visit and repair my broken sewing machine, hem the new jeans that I got for Natalee two months ago for her birthday, and help me design a bedroom remodel. My brother-in-law has become my personal gun-shopper, and my baby sister is getting ready to drive her brand new car over for a visit. I am loved. All the way around. I am known, and I am loved. My friend came for coffee yesterday and stayed for 8 hours. My other friend built me a shadow box to hold all of the precious ticket stubs I have saved diligently over the years of reckless concert going. My kids mostly did their chores tonight without very much complaint, and Taylor Swift was BLARING over the amp while banana bread that they made from scratch was cooling on the counter.

I got two stories done today, three yesterday, and still have three whole days to crank out the last few details. I limped my way to a parent meeting for softball that starts in less than a week, tomorrow it's a track meeting for my all-star hurdler, and Thursday we meet about our graduating seniors. I subbed in SPED today, had lunch with one of my besties and got almost all of the paperwork done that I needed to for another new job.

My life is full. It's rich. It's glorious. I have friends from shore to shore and curb to curb and couch to couch. I have family coming out my ears that I actually LIKE. I have dogs that I could honestly sit and just watch sleep, because they're that wrinkly and cute. I have a house that I love, in spite of the dog hair, and the destroyed couch, and the ruined rug, and in spite of the fact that I may not get to stay here forever like I planned, I am comfortable. I am safe. I am home. Every wall speaks my name and the names of my children and tells our story. Every scratch on every cupboard is another part of living that makes it real.

I love this place. My place. My people. It's not perfect, but it's mine, and it's good. I am thankful.

Things About Being In Between

It was an odd weekend for me. The home school prude that still reigns stealthily under my swaggering, brash exterior was given a run for her money.

I am in my late 30s. I am the mother of four teenagers. I am an EMT. I like television. And the Internet. At this point in my life, it would seem safe to assume that I have seen and/or done it all. And it wouldn't be far from wrong. But being home schooled like I was, and married early, and all college-educated online, there are a lot of crucial life experiences that I missed out on - most of these are thoroughly documented in a plethora of crass movies starring people like James Franco, Zac Galifianakis and Seth Rogen. I have seen some of the movies - or at least the parts that I could manage without total embarrassment (enter the prude), and the parts I haven't seen have been mostly explained to me or re-enacted by the middle school boys I know. This weekend was kind of a mini immersion into para-maturity and quasi-responsibility.

It started with a stop at a wedding expo so I could write about it for the paper. I tried to get my "colleague" to pose as my fiancee and do a mystery shopper routine through the show, but he declined once he saw a bevy of younger, more attractive girls to network with.

After the expo I had an interview for the paper. A local musician who was wearing what I can only safely call a dress, which is fine, unless you are a 27 year old male singer/songwriter. If you are a 27 year old singer/songwriter coming from a tiny town in Stevens County Washington and you have made it to the relative Big Time, selling out international shows and dating an Australian Yoga Instructor, I guess you can wear whatever you want, including a dress. It really only feels a little awkward when you are scratching your balls. But I get it, you just came from yoga class. In your skirt. It was a fun interview.- my first semi-celebrity one. My "colleague" insists I was all fan-girl fluttered out, but I protest. After the interview, I drug the "colleague" down to Spokane then on a mission to do some investigative journalism for work, and meet with my "real journalist" cousin. She has a college degree that gives her legitimacy, plus she's fun. She gave us some good pointers and shared a pitcher of beer with us and we went on our merry way.

I dropped my "colleague" off at a buddy's house and I did what any full-grown 37-year-old adult would do with a night off in the city all by herself. I checked into a cheap hotel, took a long hot bath, and watched Law and Order SVU all night. To be fair, and with every good intent, I kept my iPad open in front of me with a blank document staring me in the face all night, so I could get some "writing done". I was able to stave off the need to order in delivery pizza, only because none of the delivery places reached my hotel. The few people who know me well know that the secret to my eternal happiness lies in a hotel bed and delivery pizza. Nothing feels more decadent, luxurious, and PRETEND-GROWN-UP. After rationalizing the $50 the room would cost me compared to A) a bar tab at a brew pub, B) a fitful night on a couch and/or C) staying up way later than I really felt like, it seemed like the appropriate course of action. So, spurning all of the judgement from friends and family with couches, beds and Good Financial Decisions, I took a night for myself. Ironically I laid awake half the night thinking of the stories I could make up about where I stayed so people wouldn't make fun of me for staying at a hotel alone. In the end I decided one-night-stand alibis were probably not the best course of action, so here I am, truthing it out. Luckily most of the friends and family won't ever read this so I have nothing to fear.

In the morning, I went to pick up my "colleague". Enter the James Franco narrative. I've been in college apartments before. I've slept on air mattresses and used jerry-rigged faucets and cooked on hot plates. Ain't no thing. But this morning, I got to settle in on a futon-type set up on the floor of a studio apartment between two guys that were mostly my age and watch really ridiculous Australian TV shows all morning. What else do kids in their late 30s do on a Sunday morning? I couldn't think of a single thing. When that got old we went downtown and watched Hot Tub Time Machine 2 at the theater, because apparently that movie needed a sequel. The best part was listening to the two boys giggle like 12-year-olds at every penis joke. I suppose this goes back to my not having boundaries, getting pushed into ridiculous things like this, but then again, why not? Maybe I can never get those hours back - but if I had been home I probably would have wasted them scrubbing toilets or doing laundry.

I have a lot of "responsible adult" friends. Ones with mortgages and retirement plans and life insurance. I have a lot of young friends who don't even know what those things are. But I find myself more closely related to the friends of mine that aren't young any more, but they certainly aren't "responsible adults". We shouldn't be going to movies at 10:30 on a Sunday morning. We should be paying bills, or going to church, or raking lawns. We shouldn't be sleeping in hotels when there are couches and beds and Real Expenses to worry about. We shouldn't think about going to Iceland when we might not be able to make the car payment. We should be concerned about mortgages and life insurance and retirement plans. It's a hard balance to find. Living life or letting life run you over. Being responsible but still making life worth being around for. A responsible adult would probably be watching the Oscars right now, not Animaniacs, which I am absolutely DELIGHTED that Aspen seems to have discovered in my absence. Here I go making poor adult choices again, and never quite regretting it. I wonder if I started to make Good Choices if I would regret those? I should try it and see...

Things About Boundaries

I has come to my attention lately that one of the Great Problems in my life has to do with my lack of boundaries. It turns out, after 37 years, I am just now realizing that I get pushed around by things that I allow to get too close to me and my family to control. So I have been looking into this issue, fully intent upon resolving it.

In an effort to analyze exactly where I am lacking boundaries, I decided to start by looking at problems that might be arising from this root, so I started with, of course, the kids.

Do my kids talk back out of disrespect to me because I lack the boundary that would not allow it? How have I raised them with no fear of repercussion for their insolent tone? I look at my own childhood, and that of most adults I know. We didn't talk back because we knew that the retribution would be swift, painful, and humilating. So, out of fear for the slap across the face, or whatever form of corporal punishment a disrespectful tone warranted, we wouldn't dare. Clearly, my kids do not have this fear. Have I failed to establish this boundary by not slapping my girls? Have I modeled disrespect toward other people, of any age? Is there a way that I could have firmly established this boundary without inflicting the insult and injury that I remember from my own childhood, but even moreso from the moment that I DID unleash that punishment on one of my girls? Would it be worth it?

Do I not establish a firm enough boundary of who comes to my house when I allow most of the high school to visit for a party, including teenage boys who will be tempted to break the Cardinal Rule of The Doghouse: NO BOYS UPSTAIRS? Is there a line in the sand I am missing that would have avoided the awkwardness and frustration of chasing him and my drop dead gorgeous 17 year old out of an upstairs bedroom? Are these teenagers running all over me because I am an amoeba without standards (this I have been told repeatedly)?

How about the boundary I lack in my willingness to spend time with, unsupervised, single guys my age? Knowing full well and being informed of the absolute certainty of gossip and judgement springing from such folly, I am still lured into the trap of thinking that I am an adult (even a single one) and can have friendships with people of the opposite gender without EVERYONE deciding that we are "hooking up". Clearly I need to be more firm in my absolute refusal of quality time with anyone male, single, within 20 years of my own age, and never, ever alone.

In both of my marriages and nearly every "serious" relationship that I have had, my lack of boundaries have produced toxic relationships that I am rendered powerless to escape or avoid. Well, not exactly, but if I had had more boundaries, would my relationships all have been healthy and preserved?

Where am I missing boundaries?

Is it when I won't confront a teenager filling their pockets from my snack box, because I know what their life at home is like?

Is it when I help my daughter get a dress for her senior prom, even after she's been completely rude and impossible to me, because I know deep down, that her impossibility is the tough-guy show of her fear for the imminent and unknown future of Growing Up?

Is it when I override the guilt of condemnation and gossip to sit down with a scandal and begin to create something that I think could really be a part of my life in the next few years?

Is it when I eat the moutains of debt from a terrible marriage just to get a signature on a divorce decree without anymore heartache?

Is it when I consider letting my kids see the man they considered their stepfather for three years, even when he's toxic for me? They are so hungry for affection from any man... Am I bullied by my own longing for that kind of affirmation?

Boundaries are walls. Walls are hard, unforgiving. They don't change. I have yet to experience anything in this life that doesn't change over time.

Maybe I am looking at the wrong kind of boundaries. The only things that I really want to wall out of my life are the guilt and judgement that keep me from breathing, the anger and bitterness of responding incorrectly to life's disappointment that make my ears ring, and the aged coldness of not trusting, not believing in anyone that makes my heart ache. These are the boundaries I want to set - the rest is all learning. Sometimes from mistakes. But where there is a life with no mistakes, there is no life.