Things About Traveling

1. Nine Year Olds and Continental Breakfasts

When putting carefully selected bagels, toast or other bread-type items on a rotating toaster, don't plan on getting the same items back on the other side when a 9 year old is present. All toasted items dropping into the bottom pan are fair game, as well as the cream cheese and plate you had waiting for your carefully selected bread-type items.

Sneeze guards on piles of already peeled hard boiled eggs work well except for when the nine year old sneezed directly into the opening on the sneeze guard over the pile of eggs. Just refrain from eating already peeled hardboiled eggs at a continental breakfast anyway.

Chances are good that every muffin, cheese cube and danish has been touch-tested for appropriate firmness, moisture content and density by nine year old, recently sneezed on, fingers.

If you can't figure out how to work the milk machine, just drink half and half out of the tiny baby cups by the coffee. Sometimes they are warm, but it's not too terrible.

2. Traveling With a Nine Year Old Physical Agility Requirements

Plan on carrying at least an extra thirty pounds of carry on luggage, not including the iPad packed solely for entertainment purposes, the 23 bags of various and assorted snacks, two large water bottles (one was originally in her bag, but made it too heavy) and a good supply of Benadryl and dramamine for sedation purposes. In addition to your own necessary items, including some herbal version of a poor substitute for Valium, several small flasks of whiskey and for last resort, sleeping pills, you will be asked to carry her Sudoku Jr book, her My little Pony word find notebook, and both the pencil with the lead and the one with the eraser (since pencils apparently don't come with both any more), three contraband calico critters that were NOT supposed to be on the trip at all, and of course, the sweatshirt that is TOO HEAVY to carry but will be desperately needed later when temperatures in Southern California drop to below freezing and she shivers better than an insecure baby wiener dog. Don't forget to allow space for the accumulation of souvenirs as the journey progresses - giant leaves collected off of the ground, stuffed Donald Ducks of every imaginable size, and about 40 packages of honey roasted airplane peanuts. 

I recommend the same training for this type of travel as I do for the wildland pack test - a 30-40 lb pack of evenly distributed dead weight over semi rough terrain for at least 3 miles a day, or in inclement weather, a good 45 minutes on an elliptical. Not that I did this training, but I feel like I must have, otherwise how did I survive 4 days of California with a nine year old. 

3. Sharing a Hotel Bed With a Nine Year Old

First of all I would just like to say: Don't.

If you must, spend the first night watching which side the nine year old spends the majority of the night facing, and orient yourself on the opposite side for all following nights. 

I recommend acquiring a pair of padded hip and thigh hockey or football pants for sleeping in, unless you are good at sleeping on your side with your knees pointed protectively toward offensively thrashing nine year old, sleeping feet. 

Cut off all food sources to the nine year old at least 24 hours before sharing a bed with them. This makes projectile vomiting onto your pillow less likely to occur. 

Do not fall comfortably asleep at any point of the night when sharing a bed with a 9 year old, as this seems to be the impetus for projectile vomiting onto your pillow. 

If the nine year old starts talking in her sleep, get out. Now. 

Regardless of how many times the restless nine year old trades you pillows in her sleep, YOUR pillow will still be the preferable target for all projectile vomiting. 

Feeding nine year olds at Disneyland, or anywhere within a hundred mile radius, is a bad idea. So is pepperoni, black olive and pineapple pizza. Especially when it is running in fluid form off of your pillow. Papa John's may be ruined forever for me, which is saying a lot. 

Lastly: 

4. Coming Home

The worst thing I can imagine coming home to would be something like my house being burned down, and all of my dogs dead, or the coffee cream completely curdled. 

Coming home to a house that smells like a petting zoo, three pairs of chewed flip flops, and sheets that have clearly been the rolling spot of choice for muddy Cocker Spaniels for a week, really isn't that bad. My Wonderful Boy was even smart enough to leave the filled-but-dirty dishwasher and clothes washer open so they didn't encapsulate wonderful smells for me to enjoy when I opened them upon my return. The sheer volume of destroyed property from a 10 month old dachshund and her cohorts who were left alone during the 4th of July holiday and all of it's anxiety causing noise was impressive. Even for Dagny. To cap off her welcome home celebration she got up sometime during the night while I was finally enjoying the unparanoid sleep that didn't involve a nine year old and ate one of my new Sanuk Flip Flops. How can she be so cute and so bad all at once? Kind of like the nine year old. 

PS - A few traveling tips for Disneyland victims : there is NO good coffee in Disneyland. There is also no alcohol. California Adventure has both, but it's a long walk. The Disneyland train will kick you off after a full circle. But you can ride the monorail forever. It also has tinted windows and makes you harder to spot for searching family members. Elbows, Stroller Wheels and Wheel Chairs are all permissible weapons in Disneyland. I recommend the acquisition and use of any or all. And corndogs. The corndogs make it all worthwhile.

Things That I Know

Because everything can't be PERFECT. There has to be just one little something all the time that is not ok. But it's so ridiculously silly to focus on the one little thing when everything else is Just Right. I have my boy home. He got in around one AM and that means he has now been in Northport for the longest consecutive timelapse since his introduction to the place. And Penny, who must have been sick, since she threw up on the porch yesterday and wouldn't eat her dinner, was doing the caddillac dance this morning and seems to be ok. And we had a fight about money that wasn't Very Big, with voices only slightly elevated and no severe name calling. I am not sure who won, but maybe we decided since this was our first day off in pretty much forever, it really wasn't worth it. Although I have the sneaking suspicion that he might be making spreadsheets on his lap top at this very moment that he plans to present to me as proof of his correctness. Which is ludicrous since everyone knows that I do not speak spreadsheet. I supposed one would assume this slight disagreement is the little something that is wrong with today, but in my mind, a Healthy Discussion with a loved one is never a bad thing. It means that you are dedicated to working on your relationship. Forcefully if necessary.

It is getting hot outside, and if I weren't on the couch in sweatpants, writhing in pain (the one small thing that IS wrong with today), I would probably be laying on a blanket out in the sun, baking myself. It would be much more pleasant if I had a cranberry-lemonade-vodka, which I am not sure anyone has ever invented but I just thought of, so must be brilliant, and big slices of watermelon to look at, since I don't really like the way it tastes. I need to make jam with some strawberries I procured, but standing upright just isn't in the picture today. But tomorrow. Maybe.

Things That I Can Justify

When I said I didn't believe in eating dessert alone, I never considered the option of eating dessert for breakfast, therefore eliminating the danger of secret and self indulgent hedonism in the darkness of a quiet house. In the light of day, it seems quite alright.

I made this picture extra big so you could KNOW. 

You know that moment RIGHT before you start your period when anything within line of sight that you can't eat, you would just as soon kill, even coffee is not doing it's job, the wiener dog baby isn't cute anymore and everything is just UGLY and  STUPID, especially male things? Yes. It's amazing how many things become ok during that moment. Like changing outfits 8 times, leaving all of the clothes on the floor and putting sweatpants back on. This moment of time isn't one for making major life decisions, answering the phone call of an unsuspecting but somehow evil husband, or inviting Nice People over to your house. People in sweatpants who like to drink coffee and complain about evil husbands are fine. Or kids, so you have someone to yell at that you won't get a restraining order for.

Another thing I have been meaning to tell you, is why I have decided not to reinvent myself. Actually my Really Smart and Funny and Pretty Cousin decided for me, because she thought I was saying Northportician instead of North Porto Rican, just like my morbid sister, and also because she said this, which made me feel awesome: (quoted without her permission, but if somebody is talking about you, can't you use it anyway?)

"I don't think you have to reinvent yourself at all. I think of Bendablility like flexibility, which is exactly what you seem to exhibit on a daily basis. You are flexible, bendable to whatever life throws at you. Your blog (to me anyways) is about all the ways you bend and shape your life and yourself in order to keep moving, one foot in front of the other." -MSM

Then she proceeded to quote me, from an older blog, when I said this: (quoted WITH permission from myself)

"Once again I find myself bending the core of who I have become to embrace the new wave of change, perhaps the beginning of a new and different lifestyle, but then the bending starts to hurt, and I wonder if I have the flexibility to change or if the change will break me. Maybe I have become set in my ways and I can't be reformed to fit into someone else's mold. I am unsure."

I will say I am reticent to relinquish the double meaning of Bendability for a unilateral translation, but it means not having to remember how to get a domain name and do a bunch of relatively easy things that annoy me. Especially today. 

Today is probably not the best day to paint. There are children coming over for me to yell at, and wiener dogs with ears anxious for dipping. But I think I will, just so I have something to complain about later, along with the 5 pounds I gained from breakfast. 

ThingsThat I Have Decided

1) Never eat dessert alone. All of the deliciousness in the world is wasted calories if you can't share the bliss with someone. Which is why I have ice cream freezerburning, shortcake molding and raspberries rotting in my refrigerator. It's like drinking alone. It's just a bad idea. And pointless. Unless you are a really unhealthy person.

2) Sitting at home alone and losing myself in Pinterest is a good idea as long as it doesn't lead to eBay searches for "smokey bear vintage" or "toilet contour rug" because one ends in financial ruin, the other in ultimate disappointment in the human race. Or perhaps just in myself for not finding this before:

3) As much as I complain, I really like life better with my family around. Hands down.

4) Sometimes, Too Much of Nothing Can Make a Man Feel Ill At Ease

5) Mopping floors and then inviting seven thousand kids over to help you do stuff is really pointless.

7) Especially if that stuff involves any type of painting or paint - related materials. 

8) Paint-related materials are most easily removed from wiener dog ears by rubbing them on furniture. I am working on a Pinterest tutorial for this. 

9) Haviana's taste best when mom leaves you home alone with only three other dogs for the day and you are a 7 month old piranha/dachshund/pterodactyl cross. 

10) Having husbands that are not at home with you is really silly. 

11) I would trade life in a cardboard box WITH my people for all the mansions in heaven. 

12) The awesome relief of good friends and good people and being LIKED (mostly) can't be overstated. It's good to have people. Really good. Here, there and everywhere. 

13) Dog doors are VERY SCARY when they are new. It's safest to poop in the house. 

14) Make sure, if the washing machine is running late at night, that you bark at it. Incessantly and Loudly. For All of The World To Hear. 

15) Sometimes having no major obligations is terribly overwhelming. (see also: Idle hands are the devils playground)

16) Having a cop for a close friend is almost as scary as having a convicted felon for a neighbor. (no sir, I did not bring an open container in my car, to your house.)

17. Being a military wife is BA. Almost as BA as being military myself. But not really. 

Josh says I look stoic. I think I look HOT. Or maybe cold. I got drenched in a torrential downpour shortly before and was shivering. 

18.  Sometimes, you can't fight who you are. And you have to buy a vintage Smokey Bear sleeping bag for $50. Or paint cabinets badly, or give your big hound kisses even when he's misbehaving and smells terribly. Sometimes, you just shouldn't mop the floors at all. 

19. Clothing on hangers is extremely hard to visualize and access for daily wardrobing. The floor is much more convenient for these operations. 

20. Without the one who loves me here, I am uncriticized, uncorrected, undirected, but miserable. My vices are only fun when they're irking him. My quirks are only silly when he's here to notice. Without him, I am boring and flat, and no matter how many things I do, they seem meaningless. Hurry Home Josh Weston. I am not me without you. 

Things That Come to An End

It occurred to me a few days ago, while I was unpacking hydroflasks and silipints and Bend Elks hats and all of the other remnants of my former citizenship, that I am no longer Bendability. Like most things, including my birthday week, Emmy pooping in the exact same spot of carpet 80 times because she doesn't believe in the new dog door, and my precious baby puppy's new obsession with humping every stuffed animal she can get her mutant paws on, my time in Bend has come to an end, and I must reinvent myself. Like Madonna, or The Artist Formerly Known as Prince, Or like Dagny will in a new home if she doesn't stop. Seriously. Right now. So the question at hand is "who am I now?" I have started to ask some of the ones closest to me. My Darling Husband poo-pooed my idea of calling myself "the Northportorican" as sounding racist. He suggested that I was "like a phoenix, rising from the ashes of Bend's Volcanoes." Yes that is a direct quote. Much too self aggrandizing for me, I am thinking, plus I like the rag-tag refugee sound of the Northportorican. Is that racist? Oh dear.

While I am ecstatic about this new life we are beginning, and the odd rambling house that is screaming for a little bit of help in the fashion arena (something I luckily know a little about these days, thank you, Buckle), I am simultaneously frustrated. Mostly I think its the constant downpour of rain that greeted us when we got to Northport, and the fact that my Boy left exactly 24 hours after he arrived, and won't be back for a whole week more. And then he has fire season, which has already started to rear it's ugly but profitable head. And then Boot Camp. And then it will be Christmas, and I will still be sitting here on this couch trying to decide if Northportability is just too long. Dagny, stop. Seriously. Sometimes we just have to go without, dog. Don't act like I can't sympathize!! That being said, I have already enjoyed a little run of social exposure, including two girls nights and a couple of loungy, chatty visits from some of those closest to me. I have made good friends with the hardware lady and scored some of the best salsa ever from a local cook, which I have been living on since. Jaunitas and salsa cover all of the major food groups, in case you were wondering. And they're gluten free!

Since I am not working, and feeling a bit financially restrained without the promise of a paycheck, ever, I have stepped up my creative fundraising efforts with a barrage of items on the local Facebook classifieds page, which is also acting as an additional stimulus to my social life. I have already met three new people through little transactions. But I don't really remember their names. Does it still count? I'm counting it. I even listed some of my precious Frye boots and other Items of Great Importance on eBay, hoping to supplement my potentially negative bank account. I say potentially because the checks haven't come through yet. Sorry Honey.

Speaking of which, the most convenient way to deal with the frustration I am facing, I have found, is to take it out in really bad ways on Josh. For example, when he calls, I have used words like "greedy" and "uncaring" when the man is working 400 miles away from home to be able to pay rent and afford the remodeling we need to do. I have explained to him that him being with me here is more important to me than additions and bathroom remodels, so could he please just come back, and stop making me feel rejected. And by the way, the bathroom really needs help. This is the beauty of a rational woman. Wait.

To my own credit, I did clean out the bathtub drain myself, and am currently trying to switch the light socket on an antique lamp. Working on electric things always brings me back to the time I almost met Josh for the first time, when I nearly electrocuted myself and burned down a house trying to change my own dryer cord. Maybe I will save that one for him this time and go sell more stuff, while I am trying to think of the new me. Please submit all suggestions to me via this blog, Facebook, or a messenger pigeon.

Things I learned this weekend:

1. Moving still sucks. 

2. Josh is more awesome than I thought. 

3. I don't need to be concerned about Halle being addicted to prescription drugs since at 17, she still can't open a childproof pill bottle. I discovered this when I asked her to get one of the many pulls I have been taking for me since I was driving and texting and changing the music while drinking coffee. Clearly my hands were full. I was forced to give up the phone and the music to open the pill bottle myself, whereupon I found that she had reduced all of the pills to powder in her attempt. Luckily this particular drug absorbed faster as a dissolving powder and is easier to dose in this form than cracking apart stubby round tablets.

4. Grandma's really stink at laser tag, especially when the opposing team is comprised of cute and semi-innocent looking small children. In addition to her guilt aversion to shooting the little guerrillas, her perfectionist streak caused her to save ammunition for only the most clearly successful targets, which meant she only reloaded once and her score was indicative of the same anti-family-fun apathy that Kizzie was demonstrating when she realized the laser vests made her look fat. Not that Grandpa was much help either, since the mystery of how he scores NO points at all was solved after someone pointed out that he may have been holding his gun backwards the entire time. OK, not really, but he did die unreasonably often. 

5. I should probably be concerned that Kizzie was the only family member who knew what a "Charlie's Angels" pose was when we took family laser tag portraits. Clearly we need to watch more questionable TV. 

6. Mini Reese's peanut butter cups melt instantly in temperatures above 63 degrees Fahrenheit. 

7. Mini Reese's peanut butter cups ate possibly MORE delicious when eaten with a spoon. 

8. Eating extra pizza after you are full, pizza for four consecutive meals, or midnight snacks of pizza do not actually help with a digestive issue that has lasted a fortnight. Even veggie pizza doesn't fix it. Next time I am trying extra butter sauce. I feel certain that therein lies my cure. Thank goodness there is a Papa Murphy's on the way home. I think I'm having pizza withdrawals. Dangerously, I still love pizza. 

9. Taking the Lord's Name in Vain has a great many interpretations which can be discussed at great length on an hour long car ride to play mini golf since none of the mini golf courses less than an hour away has coupons. Coupons are vital for the appreciation of family activities. 

10. Saying a game was stupid, throwing a major tantrum, yelling at your sisters and hurting grandma's feelings by pouting about which games you didn't get to play, or get to win, or had to play.... None of these actually fall under the banner of "complaining", "ungratefulness" or just being plain old spoiled, according to teenage wisdom. 

11. Arcades are perfectly safe places for a nine year old to get lost. Especially when you drive a mini-cooper, because the trunk is much too small for kidnapping. Again. More questionable Television MIGHT be a good idea. 

12. Six and a half foot teenagers that are all legs, bad attitude and underdeveloped intellectualism do not make good copilot a in a Mini Cooper. 

13.  Knees actually can bump a shifter out of gear. 

14. Sometimes the people that you think you know the best, and truly want the best for, offer you a wake up slap that really frakkin stings. 

15. The people that talk the most about hating drama are sometimes the best propagators. Which is why I admit openly that my life is a swirling vortex of dramatic terror. This being said, if there's some that I can leave behind, I will gladly do so. That's why Kizzie is now living at a rest area outside of Ellensburg. 

16. Self-protection is the single most powerful human instinct. 

17. Being able to rise above our instincts is the only thing that separates us from other animals. 

18. Growing up is really hard. At every age. 

19. Even Avett Brothers are people who make mistakes. 

20. I have absolutely everything in the world to be grateful for. 

P.S. 21. Dogs eating out of compost piles before a prolonged road trip is a very very bad thing. 

Things That Move

So I sat down with my computer, intending to make lists of things that need to be done, to facilitate better efficiency than I have, to date, been accomplishing in this move. I feel like My Darling Husband has been so absolutely Over-Efficient, that I should compensate by being useless. But then guilt over uselessness sets in and I try to help a little but can't remember what needs to be done. So back to the lists. Or the other things on the computer that distract me. Like Facebook, or Netflix, or eBay, or finding some ridiculousness to blather about so I can continue the vicious cycle of inefficiency, guilt, forgetfulness, and irresponsibility. In my own defense, I did help load a table saw and swept half of the garage. I also spoke to children quite fiercely a time or two in order to extract usefulness from them. Is it just me or is usefulness out of teenage girls as elusive as a good deal on Frye boots? For as little help as I have been in this move, I have to say, they have actually been a huge hindrance. I think it's the discrepancy between what I would consider a room looks like when it's been "completely packed up" and what their view of the thing is. Apparently certain items cannot be boxed. Like dirty socks, and posters of movie characters which will remain unnamed. And collections of things, some unidentifiable, that apparently have too much emotional value to be tucked away even for a few days. I mean, my ENTIRE world is locked up in a swollen Uhaul truck, parked out on the street at this very moment. Every little piece of everything. I even packed all of my underwear, which posed an interesting dilemma this morning when I realized it. I will leave you to wonder about my solution.

My mother and I have had an ongoing discussion about the level of truthfulness in my writing. Apparently I have successfully conveyed to the entire world that my favorite pastime is sitting on the couch in sweatpants, with a giant mug of coffee in my hand and a total disregard for any responsibility to the universe. While this, is in fact, very true, as much as I love to do it, it happens much less often than I have perhaps alluded, and even when it does happen, it is usually followed by a rushed shower and me being late for work, or at least cooking dinner for the family. I guess I realized when I started having to respond to gentle confrontations that I should be contributing to the care and well being of my family, I decided I should look into painting a clearer picture of what I really do. So for the record, while self-deprecation is one of my strongest suits, and partially because I want someone to protest my amazingness (which my Adorable Husband has yet to consider doing), I have to say, most days, I work pretty hard. For a girl. For a girl who is broken. But I DO feel lazy, and pampered and spoiled. Compared to the work that I have been used to doing, cleaning CXT toilets in the forest, or hauling sacks of cement, whole plywood sheets, stacking cinder blocks, pushing 20+ shopping carts uphill in the snow both ways - right now, I have it pretty dang easy. It's almost embarrassing. I mean, I still bust it out when I work, and a seven hour shift at the Buckle may sound posh, but if I stop moving while I am there for one second, I am overcome with the recognition of pain in my left lower quadrant which at this point is perpetually tying my adjacent lower back muscles into knots that pull meanly on the compromised discs that feel as if any second they will just poof out of existence into the growling, burning abyss that is my body and the breathtaking pain that I only get jabs of right now will be eternal and consistent. This is one of the reasons I wasn't much help moving. I have finally grown up enough to admit that the pain is not worth it. I think the hardest thing for me is watching Josh do things that make me actually feel the pain for him - I can't imagine it NOT hurting intensely to lift a box, so it must hurt him too... and I am not helping. I get almost angry that he insists on doing it all when I imagine that we are both in the same amount of pain, but then I remember that except for some aching arms and a twinge of soreness here and there, he isn't. Is it weird that I think that everyone around me hurts as much as I do all the time? It makes me reticent to complain, when I see people who must be suffering just like me moving cheerfully through their days. Even my kids. They do things, move in ways that make me queasy with pain, and I admire them for being so tough. Except that it doesn't hurt them. This pain isn't normal. I hate being broken. I hate being weak. I hate being useless. We keep saying "after surgery...everything will be better, will be easier, will be different..." but what if it isn't, and who knows when and if that life-changing event will occur. At this point I don't have much hope invested into it... Especially when three of our dogs have had surgeries and I am still waiting. I even tried to bribe the vet into doing my hysterectomy. She said no.

Yesterday was my last day of work and I am sad. I will miss it. I am anxious to speed ahead to the point where I am ready for a fire dispatch, or to take on a new job, and at least feel like I am contributing SOMETHING. Other than dinner. In addition to my reasons for not working, Josh makes it much harder for me to force myself into productivity partly because he is worried about me and partly because I will do it wrong. Every time. Inevitably. He has been having night terrors since I told him last week that I wanted to paint the crappy cabinets in the new house - just until we can replace them. The thought of how I will do this and the corners I will cut have been keeping him awake at night. I can imagine that all of our paint supplies could "magically" disappear during the move and I will be once more rendered utterly useless. What I need to do is just write a book, and make a million dollars. Then I will be a contributor. And I can finally justify shopping again. But for now, I'd better go make my lists.

Things That Change

I guess I won't be Bendability for much longer. Northportability just doesn't have the same ring to it. Maybe it's appropriate since I am returning, like a boomerang, to the land from which I hailed, to become simply Predictability again. Less and less this predictable ness of mine is the reliable inconsistency that I have been known for. Now maybe I really am predictable. Maybe I go to the same place and do the same thing and respond the same way every time. In some ways it's sad to think that I have settled down into some form of regularity, as wanton as that form is. But maybe that's just part of growing up, something I said that I would never do. I am turning 36 soon. That is almost 40. It's old. Older than I have ever been, or really ever hoped to be. It's one of those ages that just SOUNDS old. Like 55. And 27. And 83. I guess there's no fighting it. I will be 36 whether I like it or not. I will be a grown up. And I will be predictable. Sad day. My one consolation is the steadfast belief that "old" is nothing more than a state of mind. An attitude. A choice. As is being "a grown up". I have turned the corner in my life where it has become more work to choose to remain young than it is to act like a grown up. I have to actually remind myself, and some times even coerce myself, into skipping to the bus stop with Aspen. It doesn't just happen spontaneously most days anymore. I have to actually put thought into an outfit that would make my mother cringe. It doesn't come naturally as I "mature". Ice cream doesn't sound good for breakfast these days. Sometimes I even crave vegetable juice. It's as though my body has resigned itself to imminent death and I am just preparing my corporal being for interment into the ground. Gaining weight has less to do with attracting wolf whistles and more to do with fitting into a casket that pallbearers can actually carry. Ok, now I am just getting morbid. Something tells me that I am LONG overdue for a night of line dancing or karaoke and dressing inappropriately for my age. Maybe even a ride on the mechanical bull. Wait - I just did that a couple of weeks ago! See, the memory loss that my age has inflicted upon me is waging war against my anti-maturity tactics!! I am gonna have to up my Peter Pan game as the years go by. My coasting days are over.

My kids are getting so old that I can hardly even look to them for the ideals of perpetual youth. Except Aspen. She will never age. This morning, in a deep philosophical discussion about relationships that end because of things like money or being Jewish (had to set that one straight) or disagreements about life values, she was asking if she would get to visit Josh if ever we split up. For a kid like Aspen, I think that the idea of a forever mom and dad scenario is still a little beyond her imagination, which is sort of heartbreaking. Give us a few years, babe. She was concerned that she would not have visitation rights since Josh is technically a step-dad, and she only gets to visit her "real" dad, but not Lee, who was "like when you go to some stairs and almost step up, but don't, dad". So she was a little fuzzy on what happens when an already-step dad goes away, verses an almost-step dad. Boy I have done some damage. God help me if my kids can't forgive me. Halle and Kizzie have very adult perspectives on life by now. They make always-rational choices and have well-rounded and deeply rooted opinions about all life matters. They have concerns that are far reaching with implications of life and death. Don't all high schoolers? I don't remember being so serious at their age. I guess I remember FEELING serious at their age. Maybe the distinction between feeling and being is what defines maturity. In that case, I am not old at all. I have no idea what I AM but I am quite clear on how I FEEL. That's one thing that hasn't changed since high school. That and my toes. Every other particle of my body is different than it was 20 years ago - much to my husband's chagrin - but my toes are the same. not the toe joints - those are all messed up from irish dance and being stomped on in mosh pits, but the toes themselves look just like they did at 16. Sometimes when I am feeling particularly old, I look at my toes. Or I get a pedicure. It's like babying and protecting the one remnant of my youth to get a pedicure. Josh can't understand the importance - although if it was my 16 year old flat belly or firm thighs I was nurturing I am sure he would gladly pay $30 a week to pamper them. If only my youthful toes would make him so happy.

All this talk of aging makes me a little melancholy. I think I need to go find something slightly ridiculous for my age to wear today and eat crunchies for lunch. Then maybe I need to get a pedicure. Hey - it's my birthday month.

Things That Are Out Of Order

I definitely have a problem. It's been mentioned to me before, in shocked looks and over reactive arguments, so I never really gave it too much thought, assuming it was merely the vicious contrivance of an enemy mind set to undermine my sanity. But then it hit me square in the face. This morning. When I dropped Dagny off at the vet for her spay appointment and had to fight a mild panic attack, right before I left Aspen standing on a street corner in front of her school and several quasi-questionable vehicles parked in the shadows.

I worry more about my dogs than I do my kids.

Before you slam your computer in disgust and disappointment, or send me a congratulatory note for finally coming to my senses, let me clarify:

As human beings, it is built in to us to control our environments. We change positions or temperatures or colors or smells or really anything that we don't like to live with. We cultivate careers and hobbies and pastimes and families and communities around things that make us happy and captivate us. It's instinctive to draw little compartments around our lifestyle choices and create the most realistic sense of security and control that we can. It's what we do. In 2009, I remember lying awake in a humid bedroom in Uganda, staring at silver-dollar sized holes in the mosquito net above my bed, when the reality that I had four human lives for which I was solely responsible, innocently depending on me, thousands and thousands of miles away,  across oceans and continents and hours and days. They were there, I was here, surrounded by other children and people and families. And I realized, in that moment, if anything happened - whether an earthquake shook a roof in on top of my sleeping babies, or a horse trampled one of them, or some driver texting his mom swerved in the wrong second, anything could happen, and I would not be there to control, fix or prevent it. I had a few moments of absolute terror. Anxiety like I have never experienced. The sense of not-being-in-control was something I had never really thought about. Life is just something you coast through and everybody is ok, until they aren't. But there is this thing in the back of our minds, as human beings, that everybody is ok, and things are just fine, because we make it that way. Because we are doing it right. Because we've got it handled. And then one day, somehow, we realize that we don't. Some of us take longer to learn that than others. Some people never figure it out. For some of us, it takes the Most Terrible Thing We Can Imagine to happen to us before we understand that we never "had it handled" in the first place.

This is where we begin to wax all philosophical and talk about the Goodness of God, which I will not contend, or that Everything Happens For A Reason, which I truly believe, and sometimes we even indulge the Sowing and Reaping conversation in an attempt to place blame and reclaim our own control. This argument usually doesn't end well for anyone, unless a life of guilt and bitterness and shame appeal to you...  But the reality is that at some point, as human beings, we have to come to  terms with the fact that we Do Not Control Things. Some things, maybe. Small things. Things that Have Little Consequence. And this brings me back to my original point: I worry more about my dogs because the world of my dogs is small. It's petty, it's dependent entirely upon me, and it's something, that more or less, I can control. More so than the elementary school where I dropped Aspen off. Who's to say that Ensworth Elementary could never be a Sandy Hook? More so than the swirling emotions of a teenage girl that can't be grounded away. More so than the outcome of the potentially terrible and yet somehow necessary thought of handing over the care and upbringing of one of my children for several months to a family I barely know. More so than a walk down the street with any number of potentially lethal accidents, criminals and catastrophes hanging in the balance overhead.

I realized several years ago that I have little to no control over the lives of other human beings. Including my own children. Whether I am in Uganda or the next bedroom doesn't change whether MacKenzie's heart or Natalee's cello playing fingers will get broken. But my dogs. I tell them where to go. When to sit. When to eat. I subjected Dagny to the pain and suffering and confusing loneliness of a surgery this morning. I can't tell her, like I could tell Halle, Don't worry, this will be worth it, you'll get a prize at the end... Dogs depend on me to control their world. They trust me. My kids already understand the folly of looking to me for a reliable and well-scripted destiny. They have already undertaken the human operation of controlling their own worlds and environments, even the ones I have tried to craft safely for them, they have changed. They have plastered Harry Potter posters over the soft alfalfa-hay green walls that I provided them. They have added chocolate to the perfect cup of coffee that I built. Dagny knows nothing better than the piece of dry dog food from my hand. Simply because it's from my hand. It's easier. Worrying about dogs. It's friendlier to a power-hungry human.

My kids probably feel like they play second (or fifth?) fiddle to a herd of dogs, not knowing that I have channelled my urge to control the outcome of their choices and life events into their canine counterparts. Emmy, with all of her anxiety issues and strange behaviors, is someone that I can effectively mold and shape, whereas the more pressure I put on MacKenzie to conform, or relax into a mold, the more she struggles and fights and makes her own shape. I guess I am just lazy. Or scared to take responsibility for the outcome of my kids. Not that I can avoid it. Whether I shape them passively or aggressively, I get to take some of the credit for how they turn out. But what life delivers to them - I can't control that. I can't put them on leashes and build a fence and tell the doctors exactly what to do them. Remove their ability to reproduce (although this isn't a terrible idea), microchip them so they can never wander without being brought back, trim their toenails so they can't dig in and defend themselves... In some ways the energy seems much more well spent on a pack of dogs. I guess that is what separates people from animals. That sense that we each have our own path and at some point, we have to wander it ourselves. If I let Emmy wander her own path she'd be right back out in the middle of the midnight street, narrowly missingthe bumper of every passing car. I don't have to test her to find out. But Halle - where will she go? If her last adventure didn't work out so well, she'll re adapt, look for a new way. I can be here to offer suggestions and reminders and ideas, and she can take them. Or not. Either way she will learn and grow and experience, for better or worse, all of the things that she needs to. To be her. Which is not me.

So my task is to practice investing my care into my kids, even while knowing I can't predict the outcome, at least as much as I do into my dogs, where I can determine what happens. Human life, relationships, they're all about control. Relinquishing it, maintaining it - this has been my way of clinging to control. I need to learn how to stay involved even when I can't have the last word. This is probably the hardest and most worst thing for any parent. I'd rather wash my hands and walk away then share the burden of one of my kids Big Mistakes. But that's not why we're here. If my parents walked away from all of my Big Mistakes I would be hopelessly adrift. I was for awhile. It sucked. It's a terribly hard transition. To stay invested but not in charge. I don't like hard. I like easy. I like dogs on leashes in sunshine better than kids and tough decisions and letting go. But I've got both. And I need to own both, and love both, and be both. Rarr.

Things That Are Real

This morning, I had a nightmare that I was awakened at an ungodly hour by a nine year old wearing a quasi-realistic mountain lion screen printed t-shirt, with frizzy unkempt hair, telling me that she needed a thin white pillowcase for school. It wasn't until this afternoon, when I encountered this: 

That I realized that my nightmare was, in fact, reality. 

I think I  am not as well recovered from my ailment as I believed myself to be, since I have chased this day around in a half-drunk stupor, trying to discern between delusion and reality. Yes, we have almost completed the purchase of a bright yellow Mini Cooper. No, the ever-efficient Natalee did not load her cello into the car this morning as per her Wednesday ritual. And whether by design or accident, the safe harbor of the ladies restroom at Costco provided me enough reprieve from constant confusion to actually clear my head and think. There were no wiener dogs pushing the door open with their noses. No empty toilet paper tubes on the roller, under the sink, on the back of the toilet, with the nearest usable roll in an upstairs closet. No kids crying for their turn in the shower or which color tampon they can "borrow". Peaceful personal time, at its finest. You never know what you'll find at Costco.

There is nothing so serene as time wasted on a brand new set of patio furniture with the smell of bicycle tires wafting over my shoulder and the soothing whir of a vita-mix demo just down the aisle. No place to be for at least 17 minutes. No errands to run, money to spend, calls to answer. Just me and the listless wandering bulk-grocery shoppers, solving all of the world's problems. And then my prescription buzzer goes off and I trundle reluctantly toward the pharmacy line with 47 post-geriatrics and a few identifiable care-givers. Unfortunately my stolen 17 minutes resulted in a late pick up for a certain cello lesson and the cringe of guilt I felt wearing a beer hat as I went in search of a budding musician in a Presbyterian church that seemed to have disapproval painted on to the walls. 

Somehow each one of these crazy days full of children deliveries and minuscule tasks and tiny crises ticks by without catastrophic failure and before I know it, a month is gone, and then a year, and suddenly I've been married for two years to a man that I just met, and finding myself chasing my tail (and his) back to the starting line for a fresh take on how we want to let these days go by. A little less run and a little more soak. Not minding a wait here and there because it's in the sunshine, and there's somebody interesting to talk to, or maybe just a clumsy beetle to watch as we don't hurry anywhere. Maybe it's a pipe dream and we go from one level of panic to the next, but for the life of me, I don't know why. I mean, heck. I made sloppy joes from scratch tonight. No Manwhich or MacCormacks seasoning packets even. Just a little sprinkling, stirring, dumping, tasting, adding... I mean if we don't have to rely on a Safeway within 5 minutes to make sloppy joes, I'd say we're pretty well set for life in the slow lane. Or maybe I'm still a little delirious. 

Things That Are Out Of Control

I was sick for two days and the whole world fell apart. Or at least that's what it feels like. I don't remember parts of it, but as I pushed my way through a shower this morning, feeling half way human again, the consequences of my vacation in zombieland began to surface. The memories start to come back in flashes as a I pick up an old fabric softener sheet off the stairs that Aspen had been wearing for a hat. Oh yes. We did laundry yesterday. That explains the multiple pair of underwear in unidentifiable stages of cleanliness strung from the downstairs bathroom to the linen closet, where all unclaimed underwear go. It also justifies the stack of kitchen towels I was standing on at my bathroom sink this morning, confusing them in my post-sick-early-morning-blur for a bathmat. I'll wager that the laundry undertaking yesterday will ultimately result in MacKenzie coming home from school in my favorite Free People top since "someone" put it in her pile. Oh wait, Kizzie is home sick. I'd better go in and go through "her" clean clothes before she wakes up.

In my delirium I distinctly remember making an extra large pot of coffee for myself, thinking, completely irrationally, how I could heat up the leftovers this morning when I might be feeling a little better, thereby saving myself the extra work of making fresh coffee since I was sick the day before. When I am sick, things that make sense just don't really, at all. Sadly, the Extra Large Pot of coffee was completely gone. Like somebody had even sloshed some lukewarm water in the bottom to get the last dregs of coffee flavor out of it, gone. This compelled me to make fresh coffee, for better or worse, and question my sanity in remembering the giant pot I made and wondering where it went. And then I remembered Halle drinking something that resembled a mug full of chunks of hershey bar with a little splash of luke warm coffee-flavored water over it while we watched Murder She Wrote. Angela Lansbury ain't the only one solving mysteries here, y'all.

Being sick has also caused my jeans to not fit well. Maybe it's just that I don't feel that great yet, but I distinctly DO NOT remember eating much at all, especially when My Darling Husband sweetly offered to make dinner and it was an odd mix of chili dogs, top ramen and week and a half old stir fry. And yet this morning, my jeans were extremely difficult to put on, and unless I stand Very Still in One Position, they look terrible. All of them. Maybe I am swollen from being sick. Like my whole body is in a febrile swell that is causing nothing to fit and everything to tick me off. How one could possibly gain weight while lying around eating nothing more than chocolate cake and saltine crackers with butter is beyond me.

You know those days when every time you pass a mirror you just get sad because there is just no fixing what is going on in there? It's one of those days. It's just too much work to hold my arms up long enough to even put a bun in my hair, let alone makeup, or curls or anything that might give me the appearance of still being alive. Thankfully, Kizzie just surfaced from her sickbed and I have to say, I feel much better. It could be worse.

There are two more (visible) baskets of laundry to fold out here in the living room, which means I may be able to salvage part of my wardrobe once I reclaim my underwear from Aspen's drawers. I am WAY behind on avoiding all of my eBay responsibilities, a dereliction that I feel I earned by posted 1.5 years worth of feedback the other day. Feedback is not my primary concern when I am messing around on eBay. Unless it's reading my own. I do like attention. But now that my feedback is caught up, I really should take care of the auctions that I have been ignoring and questions like "is the inside seam of this item stitched with blue thread, or purple? and is the stitch a 1/4 inch or 5/16?". I don't know, and I don't care. And for the $5.16 that you will pay for this shirt, including shipping, neither should you.

Apparently at some point over the weekend, I painted my fingernails sparkly black. Not sure why. But I did. I even did a decent enough job I might not pin it on Aspen this time. So I guess being sick didn't turn out all bad. Maybe I will stay sick awhile longer. Then I don't have to wear my jeans just yet.

Things I Do

I tell people Aspen painted my fingernails because they look so bad.

Apparently all of those years of not painting my fingernails paid off in a severe lack of skill that I have yet to overcome. I suppose that if I keep doing it, I will get better, but I think I ultimately lack the patience to ever be a passable nail stylist. Or even keep the paint confined to my nail beds. I hate using red or any shade thereof because I inevitably end up looking like I just got done with a record breaking finger jello eating contest.

I also collect shoes.

Aspen was helping me pack my bedroom and I gave her a Very Large Box to put shoes in. Her first comment: "Are you SURE we will only need one?" No. No Aspen, I am not sure. Actually I am fairly certain we will need three. But just pile them on there for now. Except those. I want to wear those. Oh, and those! I forgot I had those! And that one pair there. I haven't even worn those yet. They can go in the next box. You know what, nevermind. Just pack these towels.

Another thing that I do is change my clothes at least three times every morning.

This habit of mine makes storing my clothes on the floor in front of my dresser a more sensible habit. Then all of my options are on display, waiting for me to try repeatedly and then cast aside. Like that one shirt with the lace in the back that is So Cute, but every time I put it on I feel fat. Instead of realizing that the chocolate cake I have eaten Every Night This Week is sitting right there on those shelves of fat above the top of my jeans (I won't call them muffin tops because I haven't indulged in a muffin in ages), I blame the shirt. But it goes back into the array of choices strewn out around the core of three or four pairs of jeans settled in the middle of the floor. I like to work from the base outward, like a color wheel of texture and style fanning out from the denim that I have to work with. I punctuate my fantasm of fashion with little dots of sundress piles and hoody wraps. It's all right there. Easy access. Calling to me to try it on.

I am a terrible packer.

I am such a bad packer, that I have intentionally decided to wait until my mom comes next weekend to pack Granny's china, even though I have all these specialized zipper pouches with foam and stuff that my grandma got for it and it should be simple. I will find a way to shortcut, and will, unquestionably, break something. I just packed the entire closet, which includes everything that Josh hasn't worn in the last six months, into two boxes complete with hangers, dust bunnies, and rolled into nice little multi-garment wads that will definitely need to be ironed someday, if anyone in this house knew how. I packed a (one, singular) box up in the kitchen, and I wrapped some things in newspaper, and stacked other, mostly unbreakable (ha!) items precariously throughout the rest of the box. It now sits in the garage "ready to go" like a yard sale treasure trove of kitchen wonders. I just hope that the people loading the truck (i.e. Josh) are intuitive enough to nestle that little gem of a box in a safe spot near the top of the load...

I bought my 13 year old daughter a push-up bra.

Accidentally. Hey, it was a Victoria's Secret Pink bra at a thrift store for like a buck. So the 4cm thick padding escaped my attention. Lucky for me she put it on and was mortified so I quickly tucked it away before Kizzie found it. I am sure I can sell it on eBay. To some other unwitting mother trying to prostitot their daughter out like I am. Sometimes I really question my own judgement as a mother. Although when Kizzie came home from school in a skirt that just grazed the bottom of her cheeks the other day (and not the ones on her face), we had a conversation about length appropriate attire. And why bike shorts were invented. So they don't all sneak by me. Just some.

Things That Are Of Little Consequence

Last night when I climbed in bed, half way through a non-committal fight with my husband about something petty and ridiculous, I felt as though someone had stuffed cotton balls into my ears, up my nose and packed my sinuses tightly with the dense fuzz. It was convenient that I was mad at Josh because then I could blame him for me getting sick. Somehow in my phlegm addled brain it made sense. This morning I woke up with Josh curled up behind me, cuddling me with a handful of wadded up tissue, prepared to catch either the snot or the drool escaping from one of my facial orifices. Not that he was at all in the right last night, but he can sure be sweet - even when I am not. He left for work and I immediately returned to a coma like state, mouth breathing because it's the only passage for air into my lungs at present, until 11 o'clock this morning. I thought I felt better after I started drinking coffee, and chased the rotten melted cheese taste of mouth breathing away, but then I took a shower and was immediately overwhelmed with everything that I needed to do and the pounding of kettle drums in my ears. Luckily, being sick means I have an excuse to sit down with my coffee and my computer and ramble on about making lists and planning an attack on this house that for all of the world looks like it could have been in the path of the Oklahoma Tornado. And then I realized that the difference between here and there is that all of my stuff in still in one place, and for the most part, whole. What a nightmare for them to endure. To lose everything. But watching the videos and seeing the photos of the mess, the overwhelming theme of many survivors is gratitude for their lives, and the ideal that the most important things in life are not things. Watch this video, by the way:

This Made Josh Cry. Therefore it is AWESOME

As I avoid packing my house for the impending move, the arguments between Josh and I about my hoarding tendencies echo in my ears, along with the throbbing pressure of snot infested sinuses, and I wonder if I should have less stuff. For me, stuff represents people. The china that belonged to a great grandmother that I barely knew, but somehow found myself following many of the same pursuits in life, means the world to me. Josh can't understand having dishes we never use. The vintage yellow high chair that stands at attention awaiting the visits of nieces and nephews and someday, grandbabies that I can't even fathom having, represents the ever-ready hospitality I want to offer my friends and family, along with the porta-crib and the the stroller (which we did sell at the yard sale. Some concessions must be made). The row of empty cheerwine bottles which I plan to transform magically into a swaying outdoor light fixture remind me of a wedding party that I picked everything for as a representation of the old fashioned, small town, unselfish, soda pop and front porch love that I share with My Boy and our whole family, not a token of my affection for The Avett Brothers, as Josh insists. The collection of band t-shirts that Aunt Tracey brilliantly suggested would make a great concert going quilt... All of these things are petty and impractical in and of themselves, but carry meaning and purpose to me. Maybe because of  how I was raised and the importance of family traditions to me, the stuff has become too important. Or maybe because Josh has yet to develop these deep roots of family affection, he doesn't get it, but I have faith that he will. That someday Granny's china will be as important to him as his fire department badges and medals, because just like those represent who he is and has worked to become, so my family heirlooms speak of how I came to be who I am. I wouldn't die without these possessions, they are just things. But they are beautiful things that remind me of the beautiful life that we are given. I like to be tied to life by relationships and things. Not that being a wandering gypsy with only the guitar on his back wouldn't be fun for a moment, but relationships are the things separate living from being ALIVE.

I guess the question of values is one of the driving forces behind everything we do. The things that motivate us to get things done and accept consequences, good and bad, of actions. For example, I am not starting laundry right now because it is more important to me to not move my head than whether Josh has clean boxers in the morning. This value will probably shift as soon as I take some cold medicine and I rethink the effect of no clean boxers. Or chocolate cake. Is it a coincidence that my face broke out like a premenstrual 14 year old shortly after Josh brought me home one of those fantastic All-American Chocolate cakes from Costco and I embarked on a sometimes twice-daily adventure of 7 layered chocolate? But are the zits worth the bliss of squishy chocolate cake and a cold glass of milk? I should say so. At least for this week. Whether vintage high chairs or clean laundry have any intrinsic value of their own is completely subjective, based upon the beliefs of any given person. For My Loving Husband, he would be overjoyed to trade baby furniture with or without historic value for clean underwear. Lucky for me this is not a logical trade, but I will do the laundry to avoid him tripping over the space offensive high chair on his way to find his boxers in the pile. The beautiful thing about the differences in our values is the balance that it provides for us. Without Josh, I would be a messy hoarder in dirty underwear. Without me, he would be, well, other than WAY less cool, he would have only his fire badges to remind him that he is connected to the universe in some way. And Emmy. Those dogs are the ultimate reminders of how lucky we are to have relationships, and what unconditional love really looks like. Even if they vengeance pee every once in awhile.

And that brings me to tattoos, and the reasons that I want to paint a picture of the mixed up crazy person I am, full of passions and full of life, on my body for everyone to see. Since I was a small person I have been desperate to be known as an individual, someone set apart, different, unusual. There is no worse fear for me than going unrecognized in my hoodies and jeans and soccer mom car as just another somebody. I shop at Costco, I watch TV, I live life. But I also KNOW things. Like Russian words and latin words and hebrew words, and I have a big and complex family. I am a firewoman (there you go, Josh) and an EMT. I started out as a little butterfly, testing my wings. I have accomplished the feat of not killing four children, so far. There are so many more things I want to say about myself, in full color, to the whole world. So they know. I probably need counseling for this, but I'd prefer to spend the money on tattoos. Sorry mom. :( I know that YOU know who I am , but what if I go unnoticed? That would be worse than driving a mini van. Nothing makes me happier than telling someone about my AWESOME little brother that scripted the motivating words on my arm in Russian. Or the baby niece that came, ever so briefly, to remind us as a family of how important we are to each other, and what we are capable of. Or the proud heritage of the men in my family that have served for our country. Really it's just overblown self focus. I like to talk about myself and these pictures give me a foot in the door. Someday maybe when I tell my story and it's a worldwide best seller I won't feel so compelled to broadcast my awesomeness in ink on my body. But maybe I will. I can never get enough attention.

I am frantically sorting through my aching brain to think of more words to say so I don't have to go do laundry, which will inevitably lead to cleaning at least SOME sort of path to the washing machine, which will in turn lead to packing junk in the garage, spilling over into the eBay room and then my bedroom, and rendering my entire day of lazy sickness totally wasted. But clean boxers. THEY are important.