Things That I Deal With

My house.

It's where all the cute, innocent baby bunnies of the world come to die. 

Like it's not enough that I've been relegated to teach 9th grade health class. Or that I single handedly provide a breeding ground for every pestilence known to man, or that I adopted a dog who claims the world record in more hair shed than retained in a 24 hour period... but must the bunnies all die here as well?

And it's not like I provide them with peaceful, humane exits from this world of suffering. No. Nope - Violent, horrific deaths full of terror and predatory nightmares.

The first three were tiny newborns that The Cat (Crookshanks) delivered to me in the kitchen: live, squealing trophies of his hunting prowess that I quickly confiscated and tried to resuscitate, to no avail. And then a few months later, The Cat brought me segments of what was probably one of the surviving siblings of the earlier victims of his serial murders. Segments. Cleanly separated, freshly dead, segments. Served to me somewhat reluctantly from Crookshank's favorite eating spot, under my bed. My own, serene, once unviolated bed. First it was the back half. Waking up to the smacking, tearing, pleased with himself growl of a contented feline, I groped under the bed until I found the carnage. The crime scene was relocated outside, only to be recreated later when The Cat returned with the front half of the dead rabbit. You know, all ears and cute little nose, with dead glassy eyes, perfectly chopped off just behind the front legs. Once again I did a gruesome recovery operation, and tossed the entire quivering package, cat and rabbit front end altogether, outside.

You'd think that was enough, you know? Like really? Aren't you over it now, Crookshanks? The rite of passage has been accomplished! Not really, I guess, since I woke up the next morning to just the decapitated head of the poor beast. In my living room. On the floor. Still dead.

For these reasons, the long-operating dog door was put out of commission and we began the new adventure of trying to potty train a stubborn dachshund who had always had open reign between house and yard. As if.

I guess after a few months Crookshanks got the hint that I wasn't impressed with his love offerings, and I guess he was unimpressed with the 140 lb bloodhound that moved in and loved nothing more than to chase him around the house. Anyway, The Cat quit brining dead things in, which I appreciate. To his credit, he also trained the bloodhound to quit chasing him by stopping dead in his run and turning to rub all over Frank's legs, which confounded the giant hound to no end. Frank had to go outside to run off some of his anxiety from being fondled by a cat.

A few days ago, a new baby bunny appeared, hopping around Nattie's rabbit barn, reaping all of the sloppy benefits of tame, show-quality bunnies arrogantly flipping the food out of their cages. I would assume that the new grey bunny was somehow related to the murdered litter from earlier this year, all offspring of the rabbits that our Beloved Neighbors across the way turned loose when they got tired of feeding them. But it was cute. And maybe even a survivable age - and more importantly, Crookshanks didn't seem too interested in working that hard for a few slices of fricassee. So the grey bunny frolicked merrily around the rabbit shed for several days, nibbling grass and taunting the dogs who were much too slow.

And then one night, through my open window, I heard the screams. All too familiar with rabbit screams, I got up three different times in the after-midnight darkness to try to find him, but no luck. I thought maybe Frank finally got stealthy enough, or Crookshanks got motivated for a minute... but something was going terribly wrong for the little grey bunny. I couldn't find him, or Frank, or Crookshanks. The screaming finally stopped and I fell asleep to dreams of gore-encrusted bloodhound lips and rabbit heads on my pillow. But the next morning there was no sign of foul play, and no sign of the rabbit.

Today I went out to fill up the water in the back yard and I found him. He had tried to squeeze through the wire fence and gotten stuck by his hips. He was intact, seemed unharmed. Probably died of fright. Just hung up in my stupid fence. There wasn't a scratch on him, just terror stricken, dead rabbit eyes. I had to tug him free and relocate him to a more appropriate decomposing place. Moving dead furry things ranks right up there with my least favorite activities ever, BTW. Isn't that what boys are for? Oh yeah, right.

So, here I am, in the rabbit house of horror. And it's not like I've ever gotten a good stew or a furry pair of slippers out of the deal. Makes me mad. There's just no justice in the world.

one of Nattie's (don't worry, no bunnies were harmed in the making of this photo)

Note: all of Nattie's baby bunnies are safe and snug in their hutches. Although she announced to me a couple days ago that she has two with "special needs". Good thing we have experience there... 

Things About Getting In Trouble

I got pulled over today.

Yes, I was speeding. Again.

Yes. I deserved a ticket.

Yes, it was the Washington State Patrol and none of my buddies from the county who could give me a scolding, tell me about the latest batch of chocolate peanut butter stout they're brewing at home and send me on my way.

No, he didn't write me a ticket.

I am not sure why. Maybe it was my winning smile. Maybe it was the genuine nature of my polite apology for blowing by him at 130% of the posted speed limit. Maybe it was that he had already filled his quota. I am not sure, but he let me off.

Given that the trooper made more than one reference to the stickers on the back of my car, I am suspicious that they had something to do with his leniency. Although I am not sure if it was the beer stickers, the Avett stickers, or the Humanizing the Badge #weseeyou on my bumper that did the trick.

As I handed the cop my license and registration, I also let him know that I have a concealed weapons permit and that I have a gun in the car. He remarked that he assumed as much based on my stickers. I puzzled over whether it was Rogue Brewing or the Cascades National Park decal that gave away my weapons propensity. Then he asked me for my proof of insurance and what I carry. I told him a Glock, a G42, as I frantically tore through All Of The Secret Compartments in my car and every wallet lying around looking for an insurance card. Either feeling bad for my obvious frenzy or keenly interested in avoiding writing a citation, the officer began helping me thumb through the cascade of useless receipts and papers from my glove box. "That's funny, I would have figured you'd have a Ruger, based on your stickers." he remarked casually, after suggesting I try to pull a digital version of the card up on my phone. "Oh yeah, no service here." he shook his head ruefully. I was muttering some lame excuse about giving all of my printed copies of the insurance cards to the teenagers on my policy, while wondering if being pegged for a Ruger person was a compliment or an insult. Knowing virtually NOTHING about most guns, I smiled politely and shook my head.

-SIDE NOTE- why is it ALWAYS later, driving away, or lying awake at night, hours later, that I think of the Funniest and Most Witty Things To Say, and never at the appropriate moment? Seriously. -END SIDE NOTE-

It's kind of a relief to hear from an objective source that the stickers on my car don't scream greenpeace or immediately label me as a Trustafarian Hipster. I mean it's NOT like it's a Subaru, after all. But it's also not like I have an NRA membership sticker and a rebel flag, so I am curious now about what my stickers really do say to the average tailgater.

After what seemed like 6 hours of searching, the dedicated trooper found my insurance card for me, filed carefully with the instruction manual for my 2006 Toyota Sequoia. I was relieved, both because the cop was a handsome fella that had me all flustered and because I was having visions of court dates to provide proof of insurance and explain why I was trying to beat sound waves to Colville. I also felt a little bit bad that he was about to offer to follow me into cell phone range to call my insurance company. He then commented on the giant crack running across the breadth of my windshield and how I should look into getting it fixed, and I realized he was letting me off. I was surprised enough that I am not sure I even said thank you.

I've gotten my share of speeding tickets. I've deserved them. The last time I got pulled over, on the same road, probably going the same speed, my bestie in the back seat was high on pain meds after surgery and offered to flash the officer if he would forgo a ticket. Turns out they don't always go for that and it didn't work. I could have gotten another one today, but I got lucky. I wouldn't have been mad at the officer if I got written up, but I will say I was a little disappointed in myself for taking his time when he probably could have been doing something more important... although maybe giving a humbling reminder to a careless driver like me is as much protecting and serving as a State Trooper can get to on a sunny Monday afternoon in the middle of nowhere.

It reminded me how thankful I am that we have these men and women out here, doing their thing - the Thin Blue Line between us and chaos - protecting and serving whether we deserve it or not because they believe in a greater good - a higher order of peace and safety. It made me thankful that they're human and give us breaks sometimes, and that they hold us accountable too. Would I be as grateful for this particular State Trooper if he had written me up a citation for 15 over the speed limit AND almost failure to produce insurance AND reckless driving with a busted windshield? I'd like to think I am mature and reflective enough to say yes, but I am also a human on a tight budget and (as evidenced by my driving) no time to spare, so maybe I would have grumbled a little, but grumbled thankfully.

But maybe he knew that I needed a little break. I needed a little #weseeyou back at me - that while I need to slow down, I'm not a terrible person and can be treated like I am important enough to help rifle though a glove box and get-out-of-jail-free, just this once, maybe. He made my day. Really. And that's saying something since I got to hang out in the sunshine and watch track meets and softball games and spend time with the people I love.

Oh yeah, and he was handsome.

To the Trooper that I was too nervous to even get the name of: Thanks. #weseeyou

Things About A Great Man

I met Pop Bob when I moved into Northport. I was leaving behind a lot of baggage, including a broken marriage and a lot of damaged relationships. Only 7 miles behind, but it was behind me. I was starting a new life in the tiny town, working at the hardware store and figuring out what life was all about, with a fresh-faced new boyfriend sporting a chew in his lip and a herd of tiny girls.

I remember Bob leaning on the counter at Northport Hardware and asking me questions. Not light, fluffy, nice grandpa questions, but hard questions, about where we were headed next, how we were gonna do it, and just life. Bob knew how to cut to the chase in a conversation but still make you feel like you were talking about the weather when the topics were actually life altering. The smile behind his eyes remained through the toughest conversations and the unspoken understanding that he offered. The best thing about Bob, though, was that in the end of every conversation, he had a way. A way to fix the worst problems. Not with tools and books and recommendations, but with a worldview. An outlook on life: nothing was too big to overcome, and there's always a way.

There isn't a kid who has grown up in Northport in the last 20 years that couldn't learn the value of a good rake, a working lawn mower, a happy dog, fishing or family from Bob Long. Cruising around town from the wee hours of the morning in his little blue pickup, Bob was an icon of community spirit and removing everybody's excuse for not being a decent human being.

Bob was born in Red Lodge Montana on November 8th, 1932. In 1951 he graduated from Red Lodge High School, and a year later married the love of his life Connie Babcock. They had five children while Bob worked as a rancher and in the oil industry for the next couple of decades. In 1970, they relocated to Washington State, where they lived in Colville, while he worked at Vaagen Brothers Lumber. Two years later moved his family to Northport and worked for a limestone company, before he returned to Montana to work  for Carbon County.

After a brief time back in Montana, Bob retired in 1995 and he and Connie moved back to Northport, where they have lived for over 20 years, surrounded by their children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. Beyond a pillar in the community, Bob was a dedicated member of his church wherever he went, and perhaps an even more devoted believer in the power of a good day fishing. After raising his own children, Bob continued to pour into the generations following, taking his grandchildren under his wing and mentoring many local young people in the pathway of community service and hard work that were Bob's mainstay.

Pop Bob and Herc

Delivering meals, maintaining yards and running errands for elderly shut-ins around town were only a handful of the mountains of work that Bob did to care-take his town. In the words of his pastor: "If anyone could earn their way into heaven by good works, it was Bob Long." When he wasn’t serving his neighbors, you could find Bob down by his beloved river with a fishing pole in his hand and his big golden retriever Hercules by his side.

On March 26th, Bob passed away unexpectedly surrounded by his large family and community. More than a father and grandfather, Bob was a friend to generations of people in both Montana and Washington, and they overwhelmed the high school gymnasium in Northport at his memorial on April 23rd in testimony to his great heart.

Men like Pop Bob are few and far between, with that gap ever widening as the generations that understand the importance of moral integrity, honesty and kindness seem to be fading. But Bob diligently passed along these values to the ones that would listen, that would take the time to go down to the river and fish, or drop off dinner for a lonely neighbor. If you had the time for Bob, he had the way for you. Often it was the things that Bob knew he didn't need to say that had the most effect.  A knowing look, with those smiling eyes and it was like Bob was highlighting the path that you already knew. Countless family members, neighbors, church friends have all told me that Bob was one of their closest friends, because that's how Bob lived: making the person he was with the most important one in the world. He could communicate worlds with the shake of his head and the twinkle in his eye.

When I met Bob Long, he reminded me that there are good people in the world. He taught me that being humble and kind were far better than being bitter and frozen. And that bad things are exactly what you make out of them - a chance to learn and grow and be a better person. Obstacles and struggles aren't the end of the world - you just have to find a way around them, and there's always a way.

Things That Aren't Even Things

Ok, so here I go waxing all political which I keep swearing I will not do again, and will certainly live to regret, but I have to get this off my chest: All of this transgender/gender neutral bathroom garbage is a non issue. It's an excuse to vent prejudices and propaganda from camps on both sides of the gender identity issue line, and it's nothing but a lot of hot air, distracting from all the Real Issues in this crazy mixed up world. So here I am, adding my voice to the clamoring din, trying to make it stop.

Let me tell you why this whole conversation is an exercise in vanity:

1) You won't know when a transgender person is sharing your bathroom, because DUH, they look like you. This is where a lot of ignorance comes to play in this issue, because apparently when people hear transgender they think drag queen and assume she-men will be sneaking into the stalls of innocent young girls. Wrong. There will be women in the women's room and men in the men's room, and unless some of y'all want to be the genital checking police (which STILL won't guarantee biologically assigned gender identification), you won't even know when you bump into each other going in and out the door. Unless you spend your entire life in Northport, Washington, I guarantee that you have peed next to a transgender person and not only did you survive, Y'ALL DIDNT EVEN KNOW.

2) In many places in All Over the Globe, bathrooms are shared/gender neutral. Human beings (boys and girls both) have been taking care of business in side by side, gender neutral fashion world wide since the first latrines were dug in the Garden of Eden. We do it all the time, 'Merica. Get real. Also: Why are you looking? EW. Really, the only place this seems to be a problem is at Target. Or Walmart, but I can think of far scarier people sharing my bathroom there.

3) Guarding gender specific bathroom rules like flipping nazis won't keep perverts and rapists out of ANYBODY'S stall any more than gun laws will keep guns out of criminal's hands. How can you possibly not see this argument that you are so keenly fond of? BAD GUYS DON'T FOLLOW RULES. Don't be dumb.

4) Do you really want a man, full on, bearded, muscular and swarthy, coming to pee next to your little girl, just because he was BORN A WOMAN? Think about what you're demanding. Furthermore do you want a woman in a micro mini skirt waltzing in to the men's room because she was once a boy? Is that somehow a solution? And again: HOW WILL YOU KNOW? GENITAL POLICE?!?!?!?!?

5) This is an issue in our schools because of A) ignorance based fear fed by parents and B) kids who grow up together witness the TRANSformation from one gender to another, which can be understandably confusing and certainly uncomfortable. High school is a rough enough time for every kid coming into their own, and transgender kids have an extra shitty experience figuring out how and where they fit. Locker rooms and bathrooms at school represent the crux of that process for many kids, regardless of sexual orientation, gender identification, or any other part of Becoming A Person. Why are we, as adults, trying to make it harder? It's like the fearmongers are all romanticizing the locker room experience when it used to be so friendly and kind... I was homeschooled but I still don't buy it. Why would it be so difficult to create a safe space? Whether you agree, disagree, support, condemn or feel Appointed By God to Call Down a Hellstorm of Judgement on transgender people, I think most of us can be thankful that YOU don't get to decide anybody's life but your own. So bug off.

6) This entire argument is mostly between people who don't know the difference between gay/transgender/cross-dressing and the people who really despise the people who don't know the difference between gay/transgender/cross-dressing. All y'all got your silly little drums to beat. Go use the bathroom you want to use and shut up about it. Again, NON-ISSUE.

7) If you continue to make Rules About Bathrooms, you should probably consider making gay people use the bathroom of the opposite sex, to avoid all those lustful restroom interludes where somebody who might be attracted to you in IN THE SAME BATHROOM! *GASP* So, all you lesbians, regardless of your girly status, don't put me or my daughters at risk by sharing our bathroom. And all y'all gay guys, trip on over to the ladies room so you aren't molesting the straight boys at the urinal... NONSENSE

8) Or what if we all just got over ourselves and our shame and our opinions and just let everybody else pee in peace. #yoursmineours #bewhoyouare LOVE>HATE

NOTE: For a brief and candid look at the history of gender specific bathrooms, check out : This Blog Post

Things That Are Fascinating

This morning a 9th grader, who seemed possessed with the imperative need to be on his computer before school started, was relating to me his new plan to develop atom transforming technology that can genetically modify cows, lakes, and heck, whole planets. He apparently had to get online to start researching the project. And play a video game or two. It will never cease to amaze me how some kids have endless creativity to either avoid work or circumvent rules, but when asked to apply the blossoming mind to actual academic pursuits, they are devoid of any artful thought or even basic brain function. Far be it from me to judge, the Master of All Math Avoidance. Heck, I guessed my way through a math exam to test out of all of future required classes in college and I lucked out. So here's to putting that developing brain to work, even if it frustrates the hell out of me during every period of the school day.

Yesterday I was informed by a senior that finishing her FASFA online was far more important than doing yoga in my PE class. Generally I would agree, except that I distinctly remember my high school senior last year doing her FASFA at home on her own time (check that - I think I actually did it for her), and if by 'doing yoga' she means getting that required PE credit in alternative fitness in order to graduate, then.... Perhaps we should reevaluate the statement. But again, A+ for creativity in Yoga Avoidance (yes it's so hard) and also, disrespect. Kids these days. Once again I cannot complain or judge as I recall a certain 17 year old all but cussing me out in front of a math class last year - a 17 year old that I had raised.

There is a difference though, in this generation of egalitarian youth who truly believe they are untouchable thanks to an overprotective, attachment-parenting society. My own daughter got school and social officials involved down in Oregon when she told her teachers that I would not provide her with lunch. The REAL story is that she spent all of the lunch money on her school account on treats and gatorades at the school snack bar and when I realized her account was empty I told her she could pack peanut butter sandwiches from home. Instead, she told her friends and teachers that I refused to feed her and her boyfriend's mom started sending lunches for her. Then the school counselor called me. We were tottering on the brink of a full-scale social services investigation, and the child that clearly needed a spanking had tied my hands completely. Thankfully that kid turned out ok and I think she's even seen the folly of her ways back then... We're a few syllables short of a full blown apology, But that's ok.

How to raise a child is a book that has never, and will never, be truthfully written, because there is no way to encapsulate the behavior of all children into one formula. Parents and educators and psychologists alike continue to chase the pink elephant of a one-size fits all approach to kids, and until we get the science of human cloning down, they'll be out of luck. I raised four daughters with slight variations of the same parenting style, evolving over time. Although each one will tell you they got a rawer deal than the next one, I have been the same mother - over emotional too often, angry sometimes, not nearly as sympathetic or affectionate as I should be - to all four of them. Their personalities, behaviors, flaws and strengths could not be more diverse if they had been raised on seperate continents. But the same creative genius for getting their way flows straight from my genetic makeup through them...

And then there is the 11th grade redneck kid who comes into my classroom every day during my prep period to sharpen his pencil for art class, trying to sneak so I can't see him. Sometimes he is tiptoeing silently behind my back. Sometimes he is plastered to the wall like a chameleon lizard, snaking his way to the pencil sharpener. Today he was slithering on the floor under the tables. The clonking of his cowboy boots on metal and the bright red stripes of his Garth Brooksian western shirt gave him away before he had entirely breached the door frame. I don't have him in any of my classes this term, but he is still hell bent on entertaining me whenever possible, and quite imaginatively. There are a few good ones left.

There is no limit to the human imagination but what age and social dignity call for. Luckily, some of us never find our behavior dictated by these norms, but live in our Peter Pan world - continually seeking out new ways to avoid the things we hate and attain the things we love in unorthodox and often impractical ways - if my four girls are consistent in anything it is this. I have succesfully taught them to believe that boundaries are the places that we learn to grow, to think critically and invent the rest of our story. In return, they have taught me the same thing. All of the most Impossible Things are done because they must be, limits be damned. And for what it's worth, I would consider that a win.

Things That Aren't Funny

Teaching school has done wonders for my sense of humor - in that it's pretty much completely obliterated. Things that I used to be able to find the funny in have lost all of their comedy.

This includes but is not limited to 9th grade health students with VERY QUESTIONABLE personal hygiene habits giving me sneak attack wet willies from behind. The old Liv would have laughed it off and made a snide remark. But 'Ms. Stecker' quickly explained to said freshman the legal definitition of battery (thanks to a study session with a BLEA recruit).

Once upon a time I could find the humor in coming home to an epic dog accident spread wall to wall in my 6x10 foot bathroom. Or finding dog hair a foot deep between cushions of the couch EVERY SINGLE DAY when I vaccuum. Or that my daughter now considers herself a "plunger ninja" - a title of great accord and importance in our flood-prone home. It used to be funny to me, all the little things. Not so much lately.

Not Funny.

Also not funny is a renegade, 140 pound bloodhound hanging out with the state DOT road crew on the Columbia River Bridge. Or at the logging shop up the road. Or at the overprotective neighbors with three tiny children for hours on end. Or at the bar. Or at the school where I work. Or anywhere OTHER than the fence that I keep piling, twisting, pounding, digging and hiring teenagers to fix.

Riding with my 16 year old as she learns to drive, adventures in whiplash style, isn't funny to me. I haven't replaced the white knuckle fear for my life with hilarious anecdotes about will planning and why letting my teenagers learn to drive in different states AFTER they were out of the house is a much better idea.

Also Not Funny

Least funny of all is a 12 year old gagging over a bowl of delicious homemade pineapple curry which I felt represented a turning point in my 15 month hiatus from cooking anything interesting due to the aforementioned child's lack of culinary adventurism.

A few years ago, the antics of highschoolers in a classroom setting would have given me ample fuel for hilarious storytelling. Now I go home from alternative fitness without finding the humor in kids walking with their hoods up in 80 degree weather to hide the earbuds that have been clearly outlawed, or jumping in frigid river water on a $1 dare behind my back. Not funny you guys. Also not cool.

Ok. A little bit funny.

I have turned into a fuddy-duddy. A stooge. A stick-in-the-mud. A geeze, as my mom and aunt would say in fond reference to the unamused old-man status of my dad and uncle. I don't laugh enough. I am not sure if I remember how. And while I blame the kids, I know that the problem rests with me. The funny is still there - the ridiculousness of every day life surrounded by adolescing idiots. I just forgot how to dig it up.

Things About Busting Out

Sometimes I can feel the four walls of the choices I have made closing in around me like the trash compactor in A New Hope (If you don't get that reference, I have nothing but sympathy and suggestions for recovering you childhood for you). I am fantastically busy - so much so that the idea of adding one more activity to the list borders on tear-jerking. The trouble is that I find myself drowning in everybody else's business. This is not the business of me. This is the business of the people that I owe money to, the friends in need, the children I am raising - the choices I have made - closing in, all around me.

I can find The Joy in the things every day that I Must Do, but secretly, in my heart, I long for The Joy to find me. To seek me out. To pursue me relentlessly like a puppy who needs my involvement Right This Second. I can make the best of things, see the cup half full, bloom where I am planted and all of that jazz - I am a pro - really, I am. But I ache to wake up, once again overcome by happiness, and the knowledge that I am known. I am doing my OWN business. It's about me. It hasn't been the season for that lately - there's just been too much outside of me that needed tending, so the weeds have taken over my internal garden in the same fashion that they would a real garden if I ever tried to have one.

But the sun is out, and my dormant soul is pushing back against the walls of obligation and duty. So much so that I just Googled airfare prices for next week to three different continents, then map-quested a semi-reasonable road trip that I could actually manage. I need to fly. I've been feeling it for a couple of weeks. Maybe longer, but it was quiet until recently and I could ignore it. Not any more. I am restless and frustrated, and I need the open road to remember me and all of our good times. I need to remind the springtime that I am more than the sum of my many children and jobs and commitments. More than a teacher, a waitress, a mother, a chauffeur - I am a Wildling trapped in an SUV and a rental agreement. I stare out the window of my classroom some moments and feel my breath come short and shallow, as if the air has been cut off completely by the finger-smudged glass.

Maybe I don't have somebody to ride shotgun for - maybe alone is better anyway. Maybe I am discontent - but if nobody was ever discontent, I feel like we'd still be grunting at each other over our gourdfuls of seeds and berries, and waxing philosophical about how the idea of a wheel isn't very practical really. All that traveling. A little bit of restless is what it takes to get over the mountains, and I am grateful that my restless isn't dead yet.

It's time to break this 100 mile radius that I have circled for months on end. It's time to cross state lines, bend the rules and make up my story as I go, choosing to tell only The Ones I please when I am done. It is time to expand my heart again, to take in more than this tiny little town and all of the hurts and aches and struggles that the winter has fed it. I know that out there The Joy is waiting. It's calling for me to come and play. The air smells different in Montana. In Oregon. In Idaho. Along the highway. Maybe I won't hit Mexico, but I can get started. Wait for me, Someplace, I am coming...

Chief Mountain, Glacier National Park

Things I Would Like to Ask

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

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

3. When do dogs stop shedding?

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

5. How do you train a wiener dog?

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

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

Aspen's locker room.

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

9. How do people have full time jobs?

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

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

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

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

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

15. Is running away ALWAYS the wrong answer?

Things That Are Worth The Risk

Being in love is a lot like being drunk. And it's a good enough feeling that we go back over and over and over again (some of us do) for more, even though we know that heartbreak, like a hangover, is gonna sting like a mother-frakker and we're gonna swear that we'll never do it again. I've vowed off of love (and beer) repeatedly, but somehow, I always end up tottering on the brink of Going There one more time.

Some hangovers are just worth it, that's all. Even the worst ones that you think you'll never recover from. Because you're never gonna forget that one time that you NAILED What's Going On at karaoke, or sinking your ATV seat-deep in the sand out by the river at night, or the new dance you invented with your BFFs in a moment of Absolute Clarity after a shotski of fireball, if you remember those things in the first place. But seriously, can you hang a price tag on those good times with friends, any more than you can name the value of the butterflies you get when he leans in for the first kiss?.. Just brace yourself for the morning after, cause it's probably gonna hurt.

I've made all of the mistakes in my life - enough for me and all of my friends who 'courted' and missed out on the tragedy and triumph that is dating. I guess for better or worse, I traded 'for better or worse' for 'trial and error' and a lot of good intention and poor execution. It's not that I didn't want to stay married, really. I would happily be somebody's wife right now, if somebody could have just got his shit together. Clearly I am perfect, in case you hadn't noticed.

And being perfect, I have had a long line of perfect relationships, wherein I was never too clingy, too selfish, too moody or too demanding. Ever. Through no fault of my own, they ended, and the poor bastards that lost out in the end really had no idea what they were missing out on. But that's ok, because I just haven't met anybody as perfect as me yet, that's all. But I must still believe he is out there, deep down, because something makes me run back into the bloody fray that is hope and stand, battered heart in hand, wondering where he's hanging out. I've been checking the brew pubs and dive bars, since I didn't find him in the church groups and intentional communities. But I don't think that perfect guys hang out at perfect places. I think they're more like me and they're all over the place. It's just that my timing that has been terribly, horribly wrong for 38 years.

If I could list every time that I went a little out of my way, or took a little time I shouldn't have to stop into a random brewery, just to make sure I didn't miss out on the Best Beer In The World, well - I'd have to write a book, because I can't think of a time that I wished I hadn't. And I have had some of the Best Beers In The World, and met some of the coolest people, because I just did it, never a regret. Dating should be the same way. You never know when you'll run across the Best Beer/Man Ever, because you went a little out of your way or took a little time you shouldn't have. It's worth the gamble. I hope.

Maybe it's just that the ache of a broken heart has a familiar comfort to it. A reminder that I am actually alive. For a couple years now I have alternated between nursing old wounds and deciding that I would never, ever risk that damage again. But then I watch my young, pretty girls and I think that I would hug them, give 'em a kick in the ass and then send them back out to find love. And whether it's the springtime or beer, or the country music, or road trip season sneaking up on me with nobody to ride shotgun beside, I dunno - either way, it seems like it's time to take a gamble on some butterflies and risk the next morning, shaking my fist at god and Bad Decisions.

definitely worth the risk.

Things That Are Alright

It never ceases to amaze me how the springtime sunshine can push it's way through a plethora of suck and make even the worst days better. I spent the first half of this week on the verge of tears for so many reasons that I can't even keep track, and here I am on Thursday, St. Patrick's Day, no less, feeling like maybe it will all be ok after all. Not that things aren't still a little upside down, or there aren't plenty of excuses to cry, but I am working real hard to find the silver lining in All Of The Bad Things right now, and it's coming out alright. I have a beer sitting next to me on a Very Dirty Porch in the Very Warm Sunshine, and even though the beer isn't green and my butt is getting muddy, it feels good.

Frank the Bloodhound figured out how easy it was to step over the less-than-four-foot fence in the back yard and has taken to wandering around town. It was almost cute and endearing when he tracked us to Rivertown Grill the other night in the rain and had to sit in the car until we were done with dinner. It was even semi-adorable the first time he showed up at the school to find out what I could possibly be doing there that was more important than throwing his Breno horse for him. The second field trip to school was a little much, in addition to charging all 140lbs of hair-flinging dogflesh through a very unhappy English teacher's classroom, he made me late for class when I had to take him home, which is apparently a bad thing when you are the teacher.

he's definitely grounded

Because as it happens, I AM the teacher. At least for now. For the next three months, every single day. I am the teacher. Already I am getting a taste of the sacrifice that teaching is as I forgo St. Patty's Day shenanigans to ride with a bus full of drama students tonight to watch a play at Woodland Theater. I mean did it have to be tonight? I will miss the tinge of green food coloring in my beer as I watch The Addams Family Musical with a herd of reprobate high schoolers. And so my full-time teaching career begins, turning the usual financial nightmare of spring into something survivable, if I can make it to work every day, which we all know is a major challenge for me.

I get to sub for Mrs. Wilson as she ends her 37 year teaching career with a full knee replacement so that she  remain ambulatory during her retirement. This lady has earned it. Apparently the school advertised for a substitute that was highly qualified in the subjects of health, fitness and drama, and all of the certified people ran screaming the other way. I guess drama isn't everybody's cup of tea. Who knew? And I guess that I am passably qualified to teach it. I am not sure if this is based on the fact that I have raised four girls or my limited background in theater... But mostly it's probably my ability to pretend to know what I am talking about that really won me the work. #fakeittilyoumakeit

This is such a great opportunity because one of the classes I am teaching is "alternative fitness", which is geared towards students who really couldn't hack it in PE due to stressors like dressing down and exercise. Interestingly enough, my class is full of jocks and athletes who just needed an elective and figured it would be easy. And if you're into yoga and training for a pack test, it is, because that's what I am doing. It is sobering to realize that there are 18 year old guys who can't keep up with my old lady pace when we do our walks. And I am wearing a weight pack! I am looking forward to finding a way to compel these kids to leave me in the dust, which would take very little effort on their part, if effort can be found.

Anyway, suddenly I went from being bored out of my mind in early February, to so busy I can't see straight at the end of March. I just stare on my calendar and will some of the obligations to go away, but they don't. They just stare back at me and laugh in that sinister way that obligations do. So I drink a beer and decide to figure out how to Do It All tomorrow sometime.

I love that it's baseball season, and the fields are full of heckling kids and the clinking of balls on bats. I come home to find the random teenage boy rooting around for gatorade on my back porch and begin to wonder when the baseball-sized dents in my car appeared. The dogs can hardly get their unauthorized neighborhood patrols in as they are so busy supervising baseball practice and digging in the soft mud that was once a front yard. Dagny should be arriving in Australia any time now I think.

beer, booger, baseball season #gobendelks

Life is busy and inconvenient. It's filthy dirty and out of control, but it's good. It's going. It's life. Noone remembered to put corned beef and cabbage in the crock pot this morning so maybe I will help out the Grill with theirs. It just seems wrong to not observe the holiday somehow, and besides, I don't have any Jameson here.

Things About Being Real

The other day, my sister and I were having a conversation about "being real" as opposed to being pretentious or fake or trying to convince anybody on the outside that we are something we really are not. I feel like I have pretty well mastered the art of letting everybody who knows me, plus a few thousand who don't, how "real" I am. To a fault. I am pretty darn good at highlighting my failures, my trials and errors and mess-ups and mistakes and oopses, wannabes and nice-tries. In fact, I am so real, that I think certain people have wisely calculated a wide berth of avoidance to reduce the risk of my train-wreck life, with it's messy divorces, dog hair, toilet floods and worms, getting in their perfectly crafted martini. And that's ok, because I'll take dog hair over perfectly crafted martinis any day. I guess. That's not really true. But I will settle for a warm beer.

The funny thing about "being real" or living in "reality", is that a lot of times it's straight up unrealistic.

Like for instance, me raising four daughters to various stages of older childhood/adulthood and killing none of them. It's very really happening, but it's very nearly impossible.

I feel like 90% of my life - of all of our lives - is doing unreal things. Some times we do them really well, sometimes we do them really bad. I tend to err toward the side of awful, but I still get some pretty unreal things done.

Like passing the work capacity test for the forest service. Realistically, I could Just Say No. I Can't. The disc between my L5/S1 vertebrae has degenerated completely, similar to the moral standards of my late 20s. I am old. I have a torn shoulder, a sprained ankle and All Of The Things hurt. But I will do it, because it's worth it to me. And it's not pretty. I don't look like Mary Lou Retton dismounting the balance beam with rosy cheeks in a patriotic leotard. I look like a dying vagrant with COPD that someone just tried to beat to death after falling off of a train. But I will still do it. And that is both real and unrealistic.

In many ways, we're all pretending a little bit to be something we're not. I am pretending to be a young, athletically viable firefighter. My friend is pretending to be Just Fine as she sits in the hospital with a very sick husband and other family members in crisis. My other friend is pretending to be a softball coach. My cousin is pretending to know how to be the Best Stepmom Ever to some hurt kids... and she's killing it. One of my friends is pretending to enjoy police academy, surrounded by guys half his age, guys that don't have decimated hips and too many decades of abuse on their bodies like he does, and he is KICKING ASS. Because maybe it's unrealistic, but it's really happening. And they'll get it done. Those girls will get the crap coached out of them, and that husband will be Just Fined all the way home to his La-Z-Boy where he belongs. Those kids will be whole and happy. And that guy will be the best cop that ever copped. I pretend to be a teacher, and I am about to pretend to be a full time teacher for a full semester... it's ridiculously unrealistic, something that regular and accountable for me, but you watch, I'll really do it. For reals.

We go through life being Really Unrealistic. Doing things that we can't possibly. Like childbirth. Or homeschooling (NOT ME!). Or paying the bills. Pretenders are heroes, sometimes, and I think that all the time, heroes are pretenders. Pretending to be brave, pretending to know Exactly What To Do, pretending to like it. Sometimes, being who we really aren't is the thing that saves the day. Like coaching a softball team, or being the "strong one" in the family, or maybe even just being nice to someone when nice is certainly NOT what you really feel, but very certainly what somebody else needed you to be.

So the next time you get overwhelmed with the The Thing You Cannot Do, with all of the dog hair that won't stay vacuumed, or the kids that won't get potty trained, or the really, really REALLY hard mile and a half on that one day when a mile and a half is just too much - just know that I am here being unrealistic with you. We are doing this unrealistic life together - really doing it. Covered in dog hair and swilling our warm beer, but we're doing it. We're covering the miles and growing the kids and loving the people. Even when loving seems like the most unrealistic of all, we do it. We make the choices and take the steps to get life done, with all of the unreality included.

I am ok with being a messy. With being imperfect and slightly embarrassing to my people. It's ok, because I know that I have kicked reality right where it counts. I don't need to be real, and I don't need to be fake, I just need to be. Right Here, doing the Right Thing, Right Now that needs to be done, even if I can't.

My next plan for unreality is to get Eric Church to marry me, or something along those lines. For practice at accomplishing the impossible though, Ima salvage some freezer burned hamburger in homemade chili from scratch that I am trying unrealistically to remember from watching my best friend make it a few months ago. So far, so good. There I go, making miracles all over the place.

Things About Being Healthy

I went to the doctor yesterday. He said I get lightheaded and nearly pass out all the time because my blood pressure is too good. Apparently it's a thing. 

So my doctor asked me what I thought I could do to bring my blood pressure up:

"Gain more weight? I'm good at that."

"No."

"Eat more fat." 

"No."

"Add more stress to my life?" 

"Ahhh, no."

"Drink more alcohol? Also a skill I possess."

"Not quite."

We spent a moment of awkward, accountability filled silence when we were both thinking that in addition to being an EMT, I'm also a mildly-intelligent person capable of logical thought. But my blood pressure was really low so it was hard to think of the right answers. 

"How about more fluids." My doctor offered benevolently. 

"Like beer? It's mostly water."

At this point he cradled his head in his hands and either laughed or sobbed quietly. I'm not sure which. Then he suggested doing more cardio vascular exercises to increase my cardio muscle reaction time. He suggested running, biking, or whatever I liked to do. 

I said I liked to sit on the couch and eat. Preferably cheesy garlic bread. 

I think he gave up then, giving me a "you know better" look behind his tears of mirth. 

This particular doctor has taken care of my family since before my youngest sister was born, so it wouldn't shock me to find out that my mom got a concerned phone call - or perhaps one congratulating her on her wild success in rearing a world class comedienne. 

The doctor also wanted to know, out of all of my plethora of activities, which I was enjoying. I stared at him blankly for a moment as the realization that I could be having FUN doing some things dawned on me. Then I blurted out "snowboarding". Because in my 14 hour days, the two times I went snowboarding (to be more accurate we should call it snowfalling) this winter stand out as FUN. 

Nevermind the whiplash. Nevermind the mildly sprained ankle which may have been throbbing when the good doctor asked. Nevermind the mortally wounded pride from the disastrous yardsale that was every. Single. chairlift dismount in front of lift operators who were recruited straight from Australia's Hunks Of 2015 Calendar. Snowboarding was FUN. The best. My favorite. 

If he hadn't put me on the spot so suddenly, asking all those hard questions I would have probably answered that the thing I enjoy the most is drinking beer and eating cheesy bread with my friends while we solve all the world's problems. #expertlevel

Anyway it's nice to be passing out because I'm so healthy. I'm gonna go ahead and credit that to all of the healthy beer I am so famous for drinking. And the weight that clearly doesn't want to be lost. 

Things About Taking Responsibility

I made a mistake. First off, I posted something political on Facebook.

I know, do I even need to go on???? There’s enough mistake right there to last me for ages. It was a rambling piece that I largely agreed with, mostly (I thought) about taking personal responsibility to educate oneself before voting or airing opinions on weighty matters. But I realized, with the help of a few good friends, that just in copy-pasting the post, I was doing exactly what the author cautioned about.

I was jumping on someone else's bandwagon. I was not using my own mind, my own words, my own capable voice to say what I think. Because I DO think. And I don't need someone else to say it for me. I have opinions on nearly everything that matters, except maybe how overdue Leo was in getting that Oscar. #couldntcareless

#idiocracy

So in recompense for posting the propaganda of One More Faceless Mouth With An Opinion, I am going to share mine. Feel free to share if you are lazy like me and would rather have someone else say MOSTLY the right things for you. (Although we all know that I am dead on.)

Regardless of who gets elected, this election race has moved beyond the simpler times of "voting for the lesser evil" or even the idealistic "vote your conscience". The first is an impossible choice. The second is a wasted vote, and nearly treasonous when you consider the consequences. I would like to say that if we all truly "voted our conscience" that the political machine couldn't possibly win, but I have seen the "consciences" of many people in action and I cannot vouch for that surety. So we are left with the gut wrenching choice of voting for the candidate we hate the least, any one of whom will be an embarrassment to this great country. Because the USA is great, and it never stopped being so, just because some windbag pronounced it thus.

In fact, our country continues to grow greater. 100 years ago, women weren't allowed to vote. It wasn't until 1920 that voting rights were granted to women. It was only 51 years ago that President Lyndon B. Johnson signed into effect the Voting Rights Act after tear gas was used to stop African Americans on a march to protect their constitutional right to vote which was granted in 1870. The 15th amendment prevented states from prohibiting any male citizen to vote, regardless of "race, color or previous condition of servitude." We've come a long way in half a century. It doesn't mean that racism is dead in the United States, or equality is across the board and real. We still have work to do, and a lot of it. But I hope becoming "great again" doesn't mean I don't get to vote anymore.



With our flaws and our struggles and our trials to overcome, we remain one of the greatest nations in the world. We voice our ridiculous opinions freely, and whether our elections are all a giant rigged charade or not, I feel safe to say that we get what we deserve in our legislatures and our courtrooms. We have most likely begun the cool and casual decent into Idiocracy (if you have not seen this film, there has never been a better time), the proverbial frog in the pot, boiling slowly to death without our knowledge. It could be happening. But the ONLY way to reverse this trend is by every individual taking each possible step to make sure the people we want in office get there. Not by holding federal buildings hostage or killing law enforcement officers. Not by shooting up abortion clinics or destroying our own neighborhoods in riots. There is a way to make our voices heard. It's happening in November.

For me, I'd just be happy to find a candidate who believed in the same things that I did. Things like dogs not ever getting old and cops never dying in the line of duty. Things like taking care of our planet one person at a time by being responsible, not wasteful, and understanding the impact of every purchase, every throw-away, every package and every trip to town. I'd like a candidate who believes in my inalienable right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. One who doesn't need to legislate who I marry, what I grow, how I care for my body, or what I own. I'd like a candidate who believes in the ability of each human being, however unrealistic it seems these days, to make the best choices for their community, family and self, without passing down laws to assure this. I would like a candidate who sees me work four jobs, raise four children, and doesn't penalize me for every penny I earn, or reward me for working less.

The problem with my Ideal Candidate (see what I did there? #propaganda) is that he requires an Ideal Citizen - and those, my friends, are few and far between, evidenced by the Americans who think that shooting a cop, or breaking out the windows of a local business, or laying siege to a wildlife refuge are any sort of solution to the very real problems we face. Generations of deeply rooted racism do not go away with a riot - violence by a race only perpetuates the need to control them. Overreaching governments are not thwarted by militant attacks on federal employees - they are merely justified. And killing the sheepdogs who patrol our streets and keep us sleeping safely in our beds at night only undoes the security we enjoy as a nation.

Our problem, in this Great Nation, isn't with the candidates we have running for office, it's with the people. People who have grown fat and lazy and are eating up the lies about How Things Should Be. Fairy tales about things coming free and easy without the blood sweat and tears that their grandparents shed to provide them the liberty which they squander on bloodletting and greed. We have fallen so far from the strength of The Greatest Generation, men who would give their lives for the security of an entire country and women who would give up their men, their stability and their accustomed roles to become the workforce that carried the nation. We are now a generation of men and women without a driving cause greater than free college and/or reality television. We have abandoned personal accountability as a shameful scourge of the past. We have blamed everyone else for the weaknesses in our communities. Our children are shooting each other in school cafeterias because life is cheap - everything is cheap. Of course our mental health as a nation is suffering. We don't understand the value of liberty any more.

IF 

by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you 

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, 

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too; 

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; 

If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim; 

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same; 

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone, 

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, 

Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, 

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, 

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Things About Frank

We got another dog. I am not sure why we (we being mostly I with a moderate amount of enablement from the remaining girls at home) got another dog, but we did. It wasn't as if there was a shortage of dog hair on the couches, poop in the house or scratches on the floors. It wasn't as if every flea in Stevens County hadn't already found a comfortable place to live in this house. But we got another dog.

In some ways the new dog is more like a horse, if we're going by sheer size, volume of food consumption and general maneuverability around the house. At this point he outweighs everyone else that lives here. In fact, he makes Truck look like ein kleine hund. The new dog is a purebred Bloodhound, the kind I have wanted pretty much my whole life. The kind with big droopy lips and eyes who howls at the garbage truck and bays like he's on the trail of an escaped criminal when someone doesn't give him a snack at the dinner table.

Frank adequately compensates for all of the teenagers that have moved out of my house in his moody flailing about. He is the master of dramatic sigh-filled flops onto the couch, following by a series of long high pitched moans that are eerily reminiscent of MacKenzie doing math homework. He helped himself to a plate of waffles on the back burner of the stove one day, thereby filling the rather large appetite gap left behind when Halle moved out. And his knack for watching you silently with knowing eyes from across the room has replaced the hole that When left when she decided she'd had enough of Northport and moved away. Most of all he is chief accomplice of the legendary Noone, helping to spill, break, tear and cover in mud and/or slobber every single item in the house and then disavow all knowledge. Natalee says that his drool dries all sparkly like unicorn blood and she seems to enjoy the sheen of glitter cast liberally around the house.

He's a big baby, really. A two year old softy who doesn't understand that his 6 inch dinner-plate paws come down with the force of a baby elephant everywhere he goes. He tries to play with Dagny, who just gets mostly offended and insulted that he can't seem to control the perpetual flopping. But he is a nice boy. He's gentle and listens MOST of the time, when he feels like it. He and Truck are NOT best friends, because the thing about hounds is that food is their favorite, and sharing is not.

Frank's real best friend is Ava, the neighbor's pretty German Shepherd, who shares his affinity for smelly river water and running away whenever possible. Luckily Frank has taken to running away to Ava's house when an unwitting child leaves the gate open, and the Middlesworths bring the reprobate hound back sadly sans-girlfriend. I am not unconvinced that Truck hasn't been unlatching the gate just to tempt the giant puppy away from his house, but I have no visual evidence of this sabotage.

When we got him, they called him Hank, but since we already have a Hank dog in the family, we morphed his name to Frank, which has become interesting when we get him and Truck confused and start calling out weird amalgams of both names. My sister insists that it's not her fault if she accidentally calls Frank something more obscene. Luckily he also responds to "poophead" and "dufus" so we have a  lot of fall back options.

Since Frank joined the ranks of The Doghouse, I will admit that my vacuuming skills have improved exponentially. I will never understand how short-haired hounds lose so much hair during the winter, like a punishment for not banishing them to the frigid out-of-doors. Another perk to having a horse sized dog in the house is that the cat is less than impressed, so Crookshanks has more or less taken up residence out side, which is fine with me.

We love Frank. Less when he is yelling at Truck for hurting his feelings by walking through the kitchen, and more when his lips fan out like mink blankets across the couch. At this moment he is hiding outside in the rain where he RAN when I tried to put some tea tree oil drops on his neck to discourage his flea comrades. I think witnessing Dagny being washed in the kitchen sink aided his fear response, and he probably thought he was the next creature to be crammed into the metal square that is smaller than his head. Poor Frank. Life is scary. Don't tell him he has a vet appointment for a rabies shot on Saturday, he would probably cry about it all night.

Things To Make You Swoon...

Things About Low Speed Crashes

People who are unrealistic about their age and ability level should probably not go snowboarding. Probably, people like that shouldn't even be let out of the house because there is a lot of liability involved. I mean, it doesn't help when people like that go out for drinks the night before and their "best friends" tell them that one more Salted Nut Roll won't hurt. (Ok, Maybe it was actually me saying that, but still.) Bad ideas, all the way around.

I am unrealistic about my age. I am CERTAINLY unrealistic about my ability level in that I actually think I might have one at all. I am very unrealistic about how many Salted Nut Rolls, glasses of wine or Shock Tops are a good idea on any given night. The most unrealistic thing of all, however, is imagining that it's a good idea to go careening down a hill on a flat, waxed board, with enough of a hangover to wish things around you would quit rushing and sparkling in the sunshine.

The craziest thing about snowboarding with absolutely no skill level whatsoever, is that even if you never exceed speeds of 3 MPH, when you crash it still feels like dying. It's not like I have worked up any velocity! I mean, the mass is far greater than the speed, and even so, I think that I snapped my neck and broke both wrists at least three times apiece. I even knocked the wind out of myself in a slow motion yard sale in deep slush. Today I can't move my head. My neck can't even hold my skull upright. I have been in a weird semi-reclined leaning position all day, basically with the muscles in my neck that are tightly spasmed holding my head at an awkward angle slightly off of the pillow.

I started to get excited halfway through the day up at Red Mountain yesterday when I finally got around to using my toe edge and figuring out how to drive my board with my back foot, which kept changing because I am not sure if I prefer left or right forward. I watched my sister with a broken ankle swooshing down the hill as though it was the easiest thing ever, and I felt envy in my heart, possibly with some malice. She's not THAT much younger than me. Where did she get a skill level? It's hurtful.

I did get my crashing skills finely honed, with a little help from Aspen, who has mastered the art of the faceplant. I even held a perfect record of not ONCE disembarking the chair lift without tripping the three young kids that I was "chaperoning". I'm sorry you guys, I thought I had a skill level. This is probably due to the wild success I experienced last year on the ski hill.

traditional ski-lft selfie with AP

Luckily I had exactly nothing that I HAD to do today, other than lean weirdly on my couch and complain a lot to anyone who would listen, and perform some deep self-evaluation about unrealistic expectations and Peter Pan complexes. I was planning on taking Frank the Bloodhound for a brisk three mile walk, but that idea went right out the first time I tried to stand up.

Anyway, I will just be here on my couch for the next 8-10 days until the muscles in my neck rescind their mutiny. Send wine, or Salted Nut Rolls.

Things About The Dead of Winter

Maybe "they" were thinking of the dormant trees and dead plants and how everything has the blue-gray sheen of a corpse when they coined the phrase "dead of winter", but I think maybe "they" were in touch with the spirit of the season, which is something along the lines of: BLAAAHHHHHHHHHHH.

Don't get me wrong, I like winter. I like snow. I like crisp, cold air and rosy cheeks and staying inside where it's warm. I like the idea of cuddling (I can't remember if I really enjoy it that much or not, because it's been a long time). I like sledding and Christmas and jingle bells and the smell of fresh cut spruce in my house. But once The Holidays come to a screeching halt on January 2nd, and we go back to school and work as if there was never any fun in the world at all, it's easy to forget the happy parts of winter.

Because winter really is about death. It is the dead zone of the natural year. It is the end of one life cycle and the rest before a new one begins. It is being "dead tired" from all of the holiday traditions and SO MUCH FAMILY.  It is the time of "bored to death" cabin fever, "dead broke" after The Holidays and the "death warmed over" look that we're all sporting after we recover from our "deathbed" of seasonal colds and flus. While we're all busy "freezing to death" we are simultaneously commenting on how the weather is "dead wrong" and we're moving to somewhere green and warm and ALIVE. Was it really only a week ago that I was jogging through town in glorious, glistening snowy sunshine, feeling like the world couldn't be more beautiful?

There is very little, in the dead of winter, to remind us that we are alive. Except driving on roadways covered in three inches of freezing rain. Or pellet stoves that decide to quit working in the middle of the night during the coldest week of the season. Or broken pipes, cantankerous hot water heaters, and shoveling snow. Lots and lots and lots of shoveling.

Other than mini-crisis management though, there is nothing in my life during the dead of winter that I can't do later. Some other time, Some other day. When people ask how I am doing, a normally honest response would be "BUSY! SO BUSY!" but right now, I have absolutely no where to be, and absolutely nothing I have to do. The laundry will be there tomorrow, staring at me all. day. long. So will the dirty bathroom. And a myriad of other little projects that I could take on. But I can do it tomorrow. Or the next day. Or next week. Heck, I don't have any plans until March.

With all of this time on my hands, I have been cooking. I have cooked all of the things. A Full Turkey Dinner with All of the Trimmings. Bulk quantities of shredded southwest chicken breast, black beans, chicken tortilla soup and all of the ingredients for cobb salads, and rice bowls. Exactly 83% of this food will go to waste, even though I took a quart of soup to Neighbor Joe and sent Turkey Dinner to my rehabilitating bestie and her family. There are not enough of us to eat the food that I make in my boredom. I had 5 overripe bananas today that I put in the freezer instead of making into banana bread because I knew it would sit on the counter and mold, like the three oranges, one apple and two onions I just threw away.

So many good intentions swirling around, but kind of like with my intentions to exercise and stuff, I am struggling to find the WHY. Why do I cook? Why do I work out? I am making no difference. Nobody eats the food. Nobody will really care if I lose ten more pounds, or thirty. I am doing just as much good watching 13 episodes straight of Orphan Black, and letting the girls have the macaroni they've been begging for. Why am I fighting it? Seriously. It's the Dead of Winter. The only thing that makes it better is comfort food like BLTs and Macaroni and Cheese and BEER.

There's the trouble right there. I don't have enough beer in my life. Since I started counting calories and all that crap, I have cut way back on my beer consumption, along with other things (like macaroni and cheese) that make life worth living. Is it any wonder that my existence has lost meaning? :) I think that some re-ordering of my priorities might be in order.

Maybe tomorrow I will wake up and it will all make sense - I will feel motivation and purpose again. Maybe I will remember why I want to be in shape, and eat healthy. Maybe I will put on my work out pants and they won't just be an accessory for maximum couch enjoyment. Maybe I will have a beer. Maybe I will remember that it's not just me, it's the Dead of Winter.

Things About Girls

It's not all sweetness and light.

It's not all sugar and spice and everything nice.

It's not all sparkling golden laughter and twinkling eyes and caring, warm hearts.

It's rodent sized hairballs in your shower drain every six months or so, because when you have girls, girls have hair. And they also have friends, and their friends have friends, and also cousins, lots of girl cousins. And all of the girls and their friends and their friends friends and girl cousins all somehow find a reason to use your shower, and put their long, glorious hair in your shower drain, until pretty much you have DNA samples from every female in Stevens County. Possibly Washington State. And probably much, much, much more scientific data than anyone in an Average American Household ever wanted to collect out of their drain.

It's also slamming doors and theatrical sighs and eye-rolling that just. won't. quit. It's year after year after year of "whatever"s and "seriously?"s and "ohmygosh"s, in addition to the everything in the world being "annoying", "not my fault" and "not fair".

It's glitter craft projects adorning every carpet and finger nail polish accents on every piece of furniture.

It's a fist sized hole that mysteriously appears in a wall, and the occasional plate glass window shattered by an imaginary javelin.

It's a thousand articles of clothing whom No One owns, and nothing to wear, ever. At all.

It's going to All Of The Games and All Of The Practices and buy All Of The Gear of All Of The Sports and All Of The Hobbies until you find the exact one that is "the favorite", and then it's doubling it up, because this is surely their destiny: to be professional tuba players/basketball stars/volleyball champions/irish dance professionals.

It's pony tail holders on the floor in every room, bobbi pins on every surface, and a hair brush and random intervals throughout the living spaces.

It's moody singer-songwriter tunes, angry rap and the inescapable Disney Artists from every generation, including the most unfortunate and most recent ones.

It's pictures of puppies, romantic poems and angry hate-notes of vengeance and tattle-taleing.

It's three thousand pairs of shoes that are totally inappropriate for any given event, and probably don't fit right anymore.

It's purple and pink and orange and CAMOUFLAGE and a rainbow of changing moods and favorites.

It's marathons of Glee and The Flash and Mario Cart, and crushes on Every. Single. Boy.

It's day after day, year after year, watching a herd of little women turn into fierce individuals with places to go and people to be.

It's a girl thing. 

Things About Roller Skating

Natalee is turning 16 tomorrow. Sixteen. Sweet 16. A top-end teenager. Which means I only have one young kid left. The rest are all old.

For her 16th birthday party, we went roller skating. We took a good percentage of her class from school, along with some relatives and friends from other grades, for a sum total of 19 people, to the roller rink in Spokane, where we skated our collective buns off.

That's right, WE skated. WE including (but not limited to) me, myself and I. I skated THE WHOLE TIME. All three hours I skated. I swooped and circled, I chicken danced and limboed and even tried to do the cupid shuffle on roller skates, which is a terrible idea if I ever heard one. Especially when he says "freeze!" and all you can do is fall on your face on top of several small children who were in front of you and apparently know how to stop instantly on 8 rolling wheels of plastic. I was just happy during one sequence when I got a "hop" and a "right stomp" in appropriately. My left stomps always turned into a weird rolling recovery sequence of waving my arms foolishly in the air for several minutes. Turns out I am NOT an ambi-stomper on roller skates.

My ankles hurt within about 45 seconds of roller skating, which is important to note since my sister with the perpetually broken ankle and detached tendons, etc, etc, etc, skated THE WHOLE TIME too. She probably isn't speaking to me or anyone this morning, if she is still alive. I almost wasn't alive. If hips were capable of murder, mine would have killed me in my sleep. Instead, they collaborated with my lower back to exact harsh punishment on me today.

I am not sure which was more fun, watching the adults (i.e. me) flailing around like wanton scarecrows, or getting to witness my three nephews on roller skates for the first time ever in their whole lives. It was pretty much a perpetual dogpile with wheels on top. Roller skating is a sport where no one can actually take themselves seriously, which might make it my most favorite sport ever. Check your ego at the door, y'all. Even you - that middle aged couple doing constant couples skate routines - I see your potential for imminent disaster behind those clever hand movement that mask your instability, you don't fool me. Admittedly, I thought I was pretty cool at 11 years old when I won an Amy Grant record doing the Hokey Pokey at homeschool skate night. Far cooler than my sister who won Sandy Patti doing the limbo. Even homeschoolers don't like Sandi Pattie. For heavens sake. Did they think it was grandmother skate night?

The best part about it was that my Fitbit app says that three hours of roller skating burns approximately 1288 calories. One thousand two hundred and eighty eight calories. Twelve hundred and 88 calories. That's so many. I could have had two pieces of cake if I wanted. Why does running, which feels like torture, burn like 5 calories an hour, but roller skating burns over 400? Roller skating is FUN you guys! If it wasn't, I would have quit like 37 minutes in. But it's super fun! I would go every day if I could, and after awhile, I would beat Em at the limbo, win the races AND probably defeat my ex husband in a professional couples skate dancing competition (more on this, contact Josh Weston). Not to mention ROLLER DERBY!!!!

I drove home alternately whimpering in pain and plotting how to get a grant to build a roller rink in Northport. I am sure that somebody is dying to give away a couple hundred thousand to get kids and housewives off of the streets and onto 8 wheels.

Addendum: A friend of mine posted this on Facebook about the same time I posted this blog, it seems appropriate...

"That thing you want to do that makes no sense on paper that everyone says is ridiculous? Go ahead. Because I tap danced while wearing roller skates. So there." - Gene Kelly

Things I Can Give Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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