I should have been able to tell that I was pre-menstrual 5 days ago when I tried to kick Josh out of the house again. It's a pretty sure sign that all is not well on the hormonal front when I start "helping" him pack his meager belongings while he is taping the freshly hung drywall. But for some reason, my period always takes me by surprise. Probably it's some freudian ploy of my mind to purposefully forget that it WILL happen sooner or later so that I can ruin another pair of jeans and buy new ones. Or so I have to go through the self-flagulation of changing my sheets for the third time this week after Emmy's little bout of bulimia. It depends on whether the hedonistic, self-indulgent hormonal side, or the depressed, self-loathing side of my hormonal psyche is winning the struggle for personality dominance. It's a crap shoot. Just ask Josh, after he finishes unpacking.
I was interrupted this morning for a brief trip to Colville to unlock the Yukon for Josh, which had gotten the keys locked inside mysteriously somehow, while he was standing in the parking lot holding very large bags of maxi pads. I felt like running the spare key 45 miles into town for him was the least I could do in light of the remodeling and the latest threat to his domestic stability. I offered to buy him lunch as well, but he said something about a headache and throwing his trailer (with a flat tire [the third this month]) into the air and punching himself in the face, so I decided to let him just go on his merry way, tire-buying and all of that. I did relieve him of the maxi pads and a dozen or so cheap picture frames he had picked up for my girl's night craft project. As I drove home I began to see the point he was making at the rummage sale on Saturday when he was holding the Vera Bradley bag I paid a dollar for, and a snowflake rug, and he began grumbling about the sad digression of males from hunting mammoths with spears and making fire, to carrying second hand purses. He might have a point.
He is a brave man. He puts up with a lot. And I love him for it. He's even gone and sat through two Volleyball games, which shouldn't be called games at all, but Volleyball Marathons. They are similar to middle school track meets, where parents are obliged to go and watch 5 hours of someone else's kids doing events we've never heard of, except the shorts are shorter and most of the moves have been the same since they invented volleyball in the early 70s when hot pants were in. (and not Zagorra HotPants, either.) Volleyball is one of those sports that I am not sure I get. It could just be that it's hard for me to go and be supportive of my 16 year old when she just gone done screaming at me about how I never even care and don't give her anything. I catch myself imagining my reaction if a spike was accidentally delivered right into her nose, and I am mildly alarmed that a cynical, serves-you-right snicker is the first response that springs to mind. But luckily, I am the adult in this relationship, and I can leave the teenage rant at home and even be excited when she makes good plays. I am mostly excited when she's making good plays because it distracts me from what Aspen is doing while we are at the Volleyball Marathon, which is something that looks suspiciously like a dropped-candy treasure hunt on her belly under the bleachers. You know it's bad when I call her out from between the seats to go ask her score-keeper father (not Josh) who is wolfing a hot dog, to buy her a soda. That father figured out that if he got there in time to be a scorekeeper, he didn't have to pay the entrance fee, which is the price of a small south african country. Josh caught on quickly, and wore one of his 37 EMT bags to the last marathon, telling the money taker as he walked in that we were there "for medical coverage" for which she thanked him. I walked in behind him, perhaps blushing slightly. It did save us enough to buy the extra jumbo pack of maxi pads today, so I can't really complain.
Tonight is girl's night at my house, which is only for girls aged 21-99, so no kids are allowed. I tried to point that out to some of the girls who maybe have one or two daughters that they like to bring EVERYWHERE with them, which makes conversations about developing tidal charts for period flows and effective husband modification techniques somewhat awkward. It's also confusing for the poor little kids who visit my house a lot when the regular snack free-for-all zone has been converted to a makeshift bar of 8 kinds of liquor and a bottle of seven up. I like girls nights. At least I think I do. It's been a long time since I hosted one, although I would like to believe that I invented the tradition back when Grey's Anatomy was a Thing and I finally had a big enough living room to fit three people in. Somebody else came along and added the whole craft notion to the deal, which isn't a bad idea, but I can't understand why a night of drinking wine and talking our heads off isn't productive enough. If I had a dime for every one of the Global Problems we solved at our girls nights, I could afford to go to the Volleyball Marathons as a parent instead of an EMT. Not that we would, because not paying is a matter of principle for Josh. He has a strong disbelief in paying for anything.
In preparation for the "party" tonight, as Josh keeps calling it, (he clearly has no understanding of the productivity we achieve), I have a very long list of things to get done, which I am accomplishing by simply eliminating them off of the list. For instance, since I made a batch of oatmeal chocolate chip raisin cookies last night, I can cross off the fancy peach tart I was thinking about making for dessert tonight. And since Emily gave me cucumbers I need to deal with, I had to cross off sorting through the yard sale box that is oozing junk all over my laundry room. Even thought I am not dealing with the cukes until tomorrow. And I have to cook the chicken I thawed yesterday for dinner, so that means I don't have time to dry any apples or clean my room. It's similar to the method I use to avoid getting out of bed until the Last Possible Second in the morning. Smell my hair, eliminate shower. "Pick out" my outfit while lying in bed with my eyes closed. Rule out breakfast and yell loudly for someone, ANYONE to make coffee. Decide against planning to be on time, since that generally never works out anyway. Check teeth to see if you brushed them last night and could get away with a few more hours if you skipped this morning - this is determined by the amount of fur you find with a tongue sweep. Accomplishing all of this is exhausting and requires an extra few minutes of sleep, which is also similar to preparing for a girls night, and now I am wondering if I can sneak a nap in by crossing off everything else on my list... I mean, there was that EMERGENCY run to Colville that I can use to justify anything undone.... It really jacked up my day. Plus I have cramps. That's an instant free pass for anything, isn't it?
Things About Semantics and Peppers
Some of the recent events in my life have given me reason to pause and consider my verbage more carefully. The instance the other night of "yakking" vs. "throwing up" is a good example, but also, I received a vegetable in my first Bountiful Basket that I was unfamiliar with, and had to google it. I wasn't sure how to start, but being, what I consider to be a fairly intelligent and somewhat knowledgeable person in the vegetable department, I thought I could figure it out. First I googled onion family, because the vegetable resembled a cross between a leek and a dill plant. No dice. Nothing close. Then I googled cabbage family and was even farther off. Finally, when I hoped no one was looking, I googled wispy leafed vegetable and found this:
It was fennel. I have cooked with fennel seed, know what it is. Like it even. But this plant was not in my repertoire of known vegetables. Needless to say I deleted my dumb-sounding google search and covered it with exotic fennel recipe searches. All of that to say, sometimes dumb words get the job done better than grasping, smart ones.
Yesterday Aspen and I went to town and got a million pounds of roasted Anaheim peppers from this really awesome couple outside of Kettle Falls who grow peppers of all varieties, just for fun. And to sell. For some reason, the market in NE Washington for peppers is limited to green bell peppers from Safeway, and my very dedicated friend Rebecca who cooks everything with green chilis because her husband is from New Mexico. Clive and Diane Price's gorgeous pepper garden is full of purple and green jalapeños, sweet gypsy peppers and robust Anaheims that are dropping like flies as the weather changes. If you want peppers and you live in the area, give them a call at 509.680.6989, and set up a time to go. They will pick your peppers, and roast them in their awesome propane torch roaster, and if you're lucky, they'll spill some on the ground and give you TONS of extra for free. And they might even throw in a rainbow. They are some of the nicest people I have met - but plan a few extra minutes (hours?) to chat with them about peppers. It's clearly a passion. They let Aspen crank the roaster for awhile, then Clive talked her into tasting one, and it was SPICY. She tried to fight the tears back by rubbing pepper juice in her eyes, and her constantly grinning bravery won her an ice cold coke from the Price's. If you live within a 300 mile radius, go visit them, you won't be disappointed. I came home with two HUGE pans of roasted peppers, and I only spilled one of them on the floor of the car when I locked up the brakes for a deer. Take containers to lay your hot roasted peppers flat in - any big pans will do. I stuck all of my peppers in the freezer as soon as I got home. I even included the carpet from the floor of the mini with some. Diane hooked me up with some recipes too, which I will share later if they turn out amazingly...
 |
| FENNEL |
It was fennel. I have cooked with fennel seed, know what it is. Like it even. But this plant was not in my repertoire of known vegetables. Needless to say I deleted my dumb-sounding google search and covered it with exotic fennel recipe searches. All of that to say, sometimes dumb words get the job done better than grasping, smart ones.
Josh is always chastising me about semantics. And how mild exaggerations are far from lies, more just questions of semantics and properly embellished statement. I would like to believe him, but his semantics have caused some trust issues.
Words are like peppers. There are strong ones, and hot ones, and mild ones, and sweet ones, and it's important to choose the Right Ones for the right recipe, time, place. Dumping them all out on the ground doesn't help anybody, but picking them and preparing them and placing them carefully and in the right amount makes them worth their weight in gold. I am mostly saying that to make an awkward segue to my next subject. And to try to sound deep and intellectual, which I really am not feeling at all today, especially when I had to google segue to figure out how to spell it because spell-check didn't even recognize my attempt.
Words are like peppers. There are strong ones, and hot ones, and mild ones, and sweet ones, and it's important to choose the Right Ones for the right recipe, time, place. Dumping them all out on the ground doesn't help anybody, but picking them and preparing them and placing them carefully and in the right amount makes them worth their weight in gold. I am mostly saying that to make an awkward segue to my next subject. And to try to sound deep and intellectual, which I really am not feeling at all today, especially when I had to google segue to figure out how to spell it because spell-check didn't even recognize my attempt.
Yesterday Aspen and I went to town and got a million pounds of roasted Anaheim peppers from this really awesome couple outside of Kettle Falls who grow peppers of all varieties, just for fun. And to sell. For some reason, the market in NE Washington for peppers is limited to green bell peppers from Safeway, and my very dedicated friend Rebecca who cooks everything with green chilis because her husband is from New Mexico. Clive and Diane Price's gorgeous pepper garden is full of purple and green jalapeños, sweet gypsy peppers and robust Anaheims that are dropping like flies as the weather changes. If you want peppers and you live in the area, give them a call at 509.680.6989, and set up a time to go. They will pick your peppers, and roast them in their awesome propane torch roaster, and if you're lucky, they'll spill some on the ground and give you TONS of extra for free. And they might even throw in a rainbow. They are some of the nicest people I have met - but plan a few extra minutes (hours?) to chat with them about peppers. It's clearly a passion. They let Aspen crank the roaster for awhile, then Clive talked her into tasting one, and it was SPICY. She tried to fight the tears back by rubbing pepper juice in her eyes, and her constantly grinning bravery won her an ice cold coke from the Price's. If you live within a 300 mile radius, go visit them, you won't be disappointed. I came home with two HUGE pans of roasted peppers, and I only spilled one of them on the floor of the car when I locked up the brakes for a deer. Take containers to lay your hot roasted peppers flat in - any big pans will do. I stuck all of my peppers in the freezer as soon as I got home. I even included the carpet from the floor of the mini with some. Diane hooked me up with some recipes too, which I will share later if they turn out amazingly... |
| aspen, getting buff. |
 |
| bonus (double) rainbow! |
 |
| yes, that is beer. and yes, this is before the deer. |
Things About Dogs
Last night, for the second time in a week, I was awakened by a black cocker spaniel throwing up on my bed. If Aspen throwing up in my hair when we were at Disneyland was grounds for disowning, then this is definitely a good reason to have Emmy stuffed and mounted on the hood of Josh's car. Josh valiantly jumped out of bed and said he would take care of it, which apparently entailed dragging the tainted comforter into the laundry room and leaving it, then coming back to inform me that the slimy wet spot on the bed wasn't truly throw up, she just yakked. Oh. My bad. I will make sure I distinguish between the two next time at 2 AM so that I don't overreact. Several of the dogs have been throwing up around the house lately. As if it's canine junior high and bulimia has just now caught on. I know we have been after Penny about her weight, but this is getting ridiculous. We have been trying to figure out why, and Josh suggested his suspicion that one of our swarthier neighbors has been poisoning them by throwing undeniably tasty morsels over the fence. He's almost right, except the tasty morsels were OUTSIDE the fence, and I am the swarthy neighbor. I started a compost pile outside the fence on the back corner with all of my canning scraps, and Penny, dedicated scavenger that she is, figured out that she could nose the fence up a post in the corner and slither under. Oh, the perks of being legless. The other small dogs have been sharing in her indulgent forays, and the three of them come back home for a symphony of puking at inopportune hours and locations. It's special. One more cause to question my steadfast and life long love of dogs. Too many is just too many. And Penny is really more potbellied pig/mini hippopotamus than she is dog.
Lucky for Josh I have become so inundated with unthinkably gross things lately, like picking up poop in Aspen's room, and giant spiders on my arm and in my bed, and a wet spot on the couch that I haven't identified a source for and flat out REFUSE to smell, that I didn't insist that we get out of bed and clean Everything In A 50 Foot Radius, since usually throw up contaminates the Entire Room. I was half tempted to just tell him to put the "yakked" on side over by him, so I wouldn't lose my fluffy blanket. But I toss and turn too much, and couldn't stomach the risk. The offended coverlet is waiting for me now in the washing machine - threatening me with that "you let me sit here too long" smell. Does anyone want a mini hippopotamus?
Lucky for Josh I have become so inundated with unthinkably gross things lately, like picking up poop in Aspen's room, and giant spiders on my arm and in my bed, and a wet spot on the couch that I haven't identified a source for and flat out REFUSE to smell, that I didn't insist that we get out of bed and clean Everything In A 50 Foot Radius, since usually throw up contaminates the Entire Room. I was half tempted to just tell him to put the "yakked" on side over by him, so I wouldn't lose my fluffy blanket. But I toss and turn too much, and couldn't stomach the risk. The offended coverlet is waiting for me now in the washing machine - threatening me with that "you let me sit here too long" smell. Does anyone want a mini hippopotamus?
Things That I Have Learned
The last few days with my older kids have been kind of rough. We always go through a reintroduction period when they come home after the long summer of little responsibility and lots of fun. Chores are an imposition, rules are offensive, and we are terrible parents for a few weeks, regardless of how much money we are bleeding for volleyball gear and ASB cards and road trips and, and, and... But it's been rough this time. And hurtful. One of my long time parenting crutches was a decision I made a long time ago to work really hard to not take anything my kids would say to me, personally. They're kids. They say stupid things. Things they don't even understand. I am the parent. It is my job to let them learn how to express themselves without being disrespectful, and the only way to do that effectively is by not reacting emotionally to every emotional outburst they have. I have done pretty well, sometimes. But the last few days has driven home a new sense of rejection and failure as a mother. These feelings are fleeting and unfounded, and I have every faith that me and my girls will be fine, but I've had to step back and go, "ouch." Ok, regroup. And it makes me look at how we got here.
I am a selfish mother. I always have been, from the time that Halle was born just after my 19th birthday, and I couldn't wait to leave her with grandma for a few hours so I could go to town and feel like a 19 year old again, until recent years, when I spent money on tickets for some show I thought was more important than a phone bill. My phone got shut off ever so briefly, along with everyone else on the plan, which happened to be my sister and brother-in-law at the time, and it didn't go over well. I don't know if I actually had bought tickets to anything around then, but probably lattes and other irresponsible things that I didn't need, but somehow justify because I have already lived the Hard Part of my life. Somewhere along the line I decided I was done suffering. Done going without. And I would beg, borrow or steal to make sure I could live the life I wanted, not the life that I had earned. There is little justice in this world, and it doesn't matter if I worked full time or didn't, but minimum wage just doesn't justify lattes or concerts when you have four kids. I know this, but I couldn't stand the thought of going through life missing out any more than I already had. In short, I had issues. I still have issues. Luckily now I have a husband to curb my issues, and shame me for considering frivolous things when we can't afford them. And remind me of my shameful and irresponsible past. But it's true. The way my girls are treating me now springs from the very same ideal that I have fostered for years. The ridiculous notion that I detest in other people that says "I am a martyr and I have done all of the things right and I deserve to get what I want!" My kids haven't watched me go without, or give up things that I desperately love. There was that one time when I had to quit volunteering at a fire department because it was more selfish time, away from them, that I couldn't afford. But it nearly broke my heart. Because I am selfish. I am always trying to justify the things I get. By selling other things, or giving something else up. I will give up lattes for a month if I can go to the _____ show. I will sell these boots I don't wear if I can have those shoes. The problem is, I usually take a loss on some level, and all of those little losses add up, especially when you have four kids and an unstable income. But I have been so desperate to not miss out. And to not go without any more. To not drive cars that always break. To not wear anymore clothes that I hate. I have spoiled myself. And my kids too. I have taught them that we get what we want, no matter what. Shame on me. How can I wonder where their treatment of me comes from? Look in the mirror, girlfriend.
It is convicting when I realize that I have bred this monster of ingratitude and presumption. It is overwhelming to consider how to undo the damage and redefine our outlook on life. At one point I was proud of myself for raising tough and resilient kids, but now I see a house full of princesses with no gratefulness. Including myself. How can I be grateful to my husband for all of the hard work that he does for us when I know that I would have gone out and made it happen with or without him? Of course the rent is paid, the refrigerator is full, life is good. And it would be even if he wasn't here. But who is it that I would owe for it? The taxpayers? My parents? Credit Cards with no mercy? It didn't matter that I worked full time and didn't make enough to cover everything. I got food stamps which left me enough extra to go to a concert. Shame on me. I was THAT person. My kids are becoming THOSE people. I have gone seriously off course, and I am sorry. I have so many things, experiences, advantages, that I just don't deserve. And I have come to believe that I DO deserve them. It's like a terrible virus, ingratitude is. A soul-eating disease that is destroying our culture. I caught it, and I spread it. God help me reverse the effects.
Wow. That was a lot of heaviness and self-chastisement. I almost feel like I deserve a reward of some sort. But that's one of the symptoms. :) I should engage in some self flagulational cleaning. I have a lot of stuff to get done if I am going to start working every day. And not just couch time.
I am a selfish mother. I always have been, from the time that Halle was born just after my 19th birthday, and I couldn't wait to leave her with grandma for a few hours so I could go to town and feel like a 19 year old again, until recent years, when I spent money on tickets for some show I thought was more important than a phone bill. My phone got shut off ever so briefly, along with everyone else on the plan, which happened to be my sister and brother-in-law at the time, and it didn't go over well. I don't know if I actually had bought tickets to anything around then, but probably lattes and other irresponsible things that I didn't need, but somehow justify because I have already lived the Hard Part of my life. Somewhere along the line I decided I was done suffering. Done going without. And I would beg, borrow or steal to make sure I could live the life I wanted, not the life that I had earned. There is little justice in this world, and it doesn't matter if I worked full time or didn't, but minimum wage just doesn't justify lattes or concerts when you have four kids. I know this, but I couldn't stand the thought of going through life missing out any more than I already had. In short, I had issues. I still have issues. Luckily now I have a husband to curb my issues, and shame me for considering frivolous things when we can't afford them. And remind me of my shameful and irresponsible past. But it's true. The way my girls are treating me now springs from the very same ideal that I have fostered for years. The ridiculous notion that I detest in other people that says "I am a martyr and I have done all of the things right and I deserve to get what I want!" My kids haven't watched me go without, or give up things that I desperately love. There was that one time when I had to quit volunteering at a fire department because it was more selfish time, away from them, that I couldn't afford. But it nearly broke my heart. Because I am selfish. I am always trying to justify the things I get. By selling other things, or giving something else up. I will give up lattes for a month if I can go to the _____ show. I will sell these boots I don't wear if I can have those shoes. The problem is, I usually take a loss on some level, and all of those little losses add up, especially when you have four kids and an unstable income. But I have been so desperate to not miss out. And to not go without any more. To not drive cars that always break. To not wear anymore clothes that I hate. I have spoiled myself. And my kids too. I have taught them that we get what we want, no matter what. Shame on me. How can I wonder where their treatment of me comes from? Look in the mirror, girlfriend.
It is convicting when I realize that I have bred this monster of ingratitude and presumption. It is overwhelming to consider how to undo the damage and redefine our outlook on life. At one point I was proud of myself for raising tough and resilient kids, but now I see a house full of princesses with no gratefulness. Including myself. How can I be grateful to my husband for all of the hard work that he does for us when I know that I would have gone out and made it happen with or without him? Of course the rent is paid, the refrigerator is full, life is good. And it would be even if he wasn't here. But who is it that I would owe for it? The taxpayers? My parents? Credit Cards with no mercy? It didn't matter that I worked full time and didn't make enough to cover everything. I got food stamps which left me enough extra to go to a concert. Shame on me. I was THAT person. My kids are becoming THOSE people. I have gone seriously off course, and I am sorry. I have so many things, experiences, advantages, that I just don't deserve. And I have come to believe that I DO deserve them. It's like a terrible virus, ingratitude is. A soul-eating disease that is destroying our culture. I caught it, and I spread it. God help me reverse the effects.
Wow. That was a lot of heaviness and self-chastisement. I almost feel like I deserve a reward of some sort. But that's one of the symptoms. :) I should engage in some self flagulational cleaning. I have a lot of stuff to get done if I am going to start working every day. And not just couch time.
Things About This Day
I got two of my new vintage aprons today. They're cool. They are a little bit too long, but have pockets. And they were made by a woman named Marge. That makes them extra cool. Now I can get busy for sure in the kitchen.
It is September 11th. I went to a commemorative assembly at the school this morning where I was scolded for not wearing my fire department shirt by some people, scolded for not sitting with the responders by others, and scolded by my daughter for being there at all. Apparently within the last 24 hours I have earned the rank of Worst Mother In The World, after I let Josh go up and help the four younger cousins & sister clean up her room, which had been the battlefield for a frenzied Lego war. He touched something wrong, I guess, and isn't supposed to be in her room at all, which is interesting, considering he PAYS FOR IT. She gave each of us a severe tongue lashing, and apparently I was grounded from being seen in public because I was severely reprimanded for showing up for the 9-11 assembly. That's why I didn't wear a uniform of any sort. I was there as a mother. To shame my daughter, as she delivered a 45 second speech about the responders that died in the twin towers. I was there to remind her that I am a mother first, and a responder, and maybe someday, a hero. Whether Josh moves her dirty clothes or not. I must have been forgiven and ungrounded by noon because I stopped by for lunch at the special ed room, where all of my favorite people hang out (why is that so weird?) and she came to see me there.
September 11th changed us as a nation, but there are moments that I wonder if all of the changes have been good. Or if we have adopted an even more arrogant philosophy that American's aren't allowed to suffer. That it's a crime against humanity to wound the American Pride, and we should be dealing with more important things than terrorist attacks, like stepdads invading bedrooms. MacKenzie was 4 when the towers fell. We lived in a tiny straw house, with dirt floors and some sort of improvised running water. MacKenzie was happy to have new shoes and hot dogs for dinner. When did life get so much more ridiculous? I take full responsibility for forgetting to teach my kids that good things must be earned. That nothing comes without hard work. That no earthly possession is worth as much as a relationship, a family. I know that they are teenagers, and one day this knowledge will come to them. I have faith in that. But I feel like I have not done a good job imparting it to them. And Josh agrees heartily. How do you teach your child gratitude and humility? To prefer other human beings above themselves, even sisters (ew)? I don't think it totally occurred to me until I had my heart chewed up and spit out and then I turned and did it to someone else, that nothing could be as important as loving others more than yourself. I love this country. And it shakes me to my core when our vulnerability to random acts of terror is showcased as it was on this day 12 years ago. I am ashamed that part of our response to this exposure was to puff up arrogantly, shake our collective fist, and spend thousands of lives to put those crazies in their place. I absolutely think we needed to respond, but I think we also should have done some cultural resetting, realizing that the superficial icons of our country didn't hold any weight compared to our family, our liberties, our beliefs. But it's easier to focus on the bad guys than to look inside and get into an argument about where we have gone wrong. We're so busy running the rest of the world that our own household is out of order. Story of my life.
But now I have aprons. Which means my household WILL BE in order. Which means I will make pints and pints of glorious salsa today. In addition to vintage aprons, I ordered a pair of Zaggora HotPants to wear when I exercise. Or mostly when I don't, which is often what I do. I ordered them because the model looked really good in them, which means they MUST WORK, right? I am a sucker for that kind of thing. And I want them to work. I want to burn extra calories when I am not-exercising, even if they make a weird swishy noise when I walk. I am going to wear them for a few weeks. Maybe every day. All Day. Without washing them (ok fine, I will wash them). And then I am going to let you know how Skinny I Have Become. Of course, letting you know how Skinny I Have Become is contingent upon me measuring myself to find out how Skinny I Am Not right now, and I am really adverse to doing that. I had to measure myself to figure out which size to order, and then I had to go throw up real quick. After I threw up I was able to go down a size, which was encouraging, but still. I hate measuring. And weighing. The battery on our scale has been dying for some time now. When you turn it on it just reads LO. I thought for a few days it was congratulating me on weight loss, and then I realized it was talking about the battery, and once I reset it it would actually weigh me. The results have been so offensive that I feel compelled to attribute it to the waning battery. Clearly the thing is WAY OFF. So I had Josh pick up a new battery today. Installing a new battery means I will not set foot on the darn thing until I have worn my new HotPants for a few weeks, for fear the appalling numbers were not really the fault of a dying battery. My ever-rational line of reason tells me that I am carrying so much water weight that the HotPants will just sweat the pounds right off of me while I am not-exercising. I can only hope. I have started juicing again, but my juice was so gross today that I actually cheated and threw away the last few tablespoons. I always forget that limes must be used sparingly in juice. Especially when I have a whole Costco bag of limes to use up. I will put some in my salsa today, instead of my juice. In addition to juicing I have been sampling that Spark drink from advocare, which has lots of vitamins and I think I might like. I will let you know. I have also finally decided to eat reasonable food, like lots of vegetables and fresh stuff. Over the weekend I was on something of a comfort food kick. Another good reason to avoid the cruel bathroom scale. But what do you think - HotPants and Apron? Yep, that's what I thought.
 |
| yes, I am wearing something under it. seriously, you guys. |
It is September 11th. I went to a commemorative assembly at the school this morning where I was scolded for not wearing my fire department shirt by some people, scolded for not sitting with the responders by others, and scolded by my daughter for being there at all. Apparently within the last 24 hours I have earned the rank of Worst Mother In The World, after I let Josh go up and help the four younger cousins & sister clean up her room, which had been the battlefield for a frenzied Lego war. He touched something wrong, I guess, and isn't supposed to be in her room at all, which is interesting, considering he PAYS FOR IT. She gave each of us a severe tongue lashing, and apparently I was grounded from being seen in public because I was severely reprimanded for showing up for the 9-11 assembly. That's why I didn't wear a uniform of any sort. I was there as a mother. To shame my daughter, as she delivered a 45 second speech about the responders that died in the twin towers. I was there to remind her that I am a mother first, and a responder, and maybe someday, a hero. Whether Josh moves her dirty clothes or not. I must have been forgiven and ungrounded by noon because I stopped by for lunch at the special ed room, where all of my favorite people hang out (why is that so weird?) and she came to see me there.
September 11th changed us as a nation, but there are moments that I wonder if all of the changes have been good. Or if we have adopted an even more arrogant philosophy that American's aren't allowed to suffer. That it's a crime against humanity to wound the American Pride, and we should be dealing with more important things than terrorist attacks, like stepdads invading bedrooms. MacKenzie was 4 when the towers fell. We lived in a tiny straw house, with dirt floors and some sort of improvised running water. MacKenzie was happy to have new shoes and hot dogs for dinner. When did life get so much more ridiculous? I take full responsibility for forgetting to teach my kids that good things must be earned. That nothing comes without hard work. That no earthly possession is worth as much as a relationship, a family. I know that they are teenagers, and one day this knowledge will come to them. I have faith in that. But I feel like I have not done a good job imparting it to them. And Josh agrees heartily. How do you teach your child gratitude and humility? To prefer other human beings above themselves, even sisters (ew)? I don't think it totally occurred to me until I had my heart chewed up and spit out and then I turned and did it to someone else, that nothing could be as important as loving others more than yourself. I love this country. And it shakes me to my core when our vulnerability to random acts of terror is showcased as it was on this day 12 years ago. I am ashamed that part of our response to this exposure was to puff up arrogantly, shake our collective fist, and spend thousands of lives to put those crazies in their place. I absolutely think we needed to respond, but I think we also should have done some cultural resetting, realizing that the superficial icons of our country didn't hold any weight compared to our family, our liberties, our beliefs. But it's easier to focus on the bad guys than to look inside and get into an argument about where we have gone wrong. We're so busy running the rest of the world that our own household is out of order. Story of my life.
 |
| this is totally what I will look like in these, right? |
Things About Adulthood
It has occurred to me, as I have moved back into neighborliness proximity of my younger sister, and we are now somewhat more "grown up" than we were when I lived here four or five years ago, that everyone defines adulthood by a different set of parameters. As I examine the standard by which my sister and I measure "being grown up", I begin to realize that these icons of age for us really have nothing to do with that, at all. I started to notice it in earnest when Em and I were canning peaches the other day. She donned one of her many adorable vintage aprons, very similar to the dozens that my mom owned when I was growing up, and offered me one as well. I have one apron in my house. My mom made it for me from a vintage pattern, and it's apparently Christmas themed, which I somehow didn't pick up on until my baby sister Susanna pointed it out once. When one has only one apron, one cannot be picky about seasonal indications. As I put on Em's extra-cute apron, I felt an immediate sense of arrival. Arrival into adulthood, like my mom. I used the crap out of that apron, wiping my hands and pretty much everything else that might have needed wiping on it. I couldn't help noticing, during the 6 hour canning ordeal that resulted in 20 some quarts of peaches, how enslaved (in a good way) Em and I both are by the traditions instilled in us growing up. I have canned with several other ladies over the years, and adopted, or at least put up with, other methods of food processing that they have introduced to me. But as I canned with my sister, there was an unquestionable method-flow of procedure that was rooted in a linoleum floored farm house kitchen outside of Colville, more than 20 years ago. Em commented on how nice it was that she didn't have to tell me what to do next. Or vise-verse. This is how it's done. I know that so-and-so doesn't boil the lids, and somebody else heats the jars in the oven first, and lots of people cut their peaches in quarters instead of 12ths, but Stecker girls do it THIS way. Because we are grown ups. With aprons.
After we got done with that, I went home and got on eBay to find myself some vintage aprons - clearly the missing element in my lonely canning experiences in my own kitchen. Em stopped by and asked me if I had felt convicted when I was wearing her apron. Convicted about how good it felt, and like maybe I had put it off a little too long. I said yes. Just yes. And I ordered some aprons. We went and visited Sister's Second Hand, which is the only one in Northport, and a garbage dump turned treasure trove that we like to loot and pillage periodically. I only find good stuff when I am there with Em, because we are racing to find the best vintage junk before the other sister does. Someday maybe we'll own our own Sister's Second Hand, and spend our time scouring the universe for cool stuff to sell other competitive find-hunter sisters. Sometimes we find something at the same time and have to try to be adult about who's house it will go better in. Or we just make up something ridiculous about seeing it first and don't care. Probably if I did that I would feel guilty and give it to Em for her birthday or something. But not if I found it first fair and square.
Being a grown up means cooking from scratch, and washing the dishes more than once a day. And vacuuming regularly. It means bargain shopping, coupon clipping and Extreme Thriftiness. And maybe even stockpiling. Josh has always accused me of stockpiling, which is absurd, since I don't have lentils OR millet, both crucial elements of stockpiling, and since I ran out of toilet paper completely today and had to ride my bike to the neighbors to borrow a roll. I can only imagine how cool I looked with a fluffy white roll of Kirkland Select TP in my bicycle basket, coming home. If I was a true stockpiler, THAT never would have happened. And I would have a legitimate use for several plastic Five Gallon Buckets of Things. Now that we live in the boondocks, I can buy GINORMOUS bags of sugar and flour and thousands of Ziploc bags at a time and tell Josh that he just doesn't get Country Living yet. Or adulthood. I feel like if I was more of an adult, I wouldn't feel so giddy when I finish a batch of jam. I probably wouldn't need to leave it sitting on the counter for a week, jars shining in the sunlight as if they are waiting for blue ribbons at the fair. I wouldn't expect everyone that walks in my front door to ooh and ahh over the pretty oranges and yellows and reds. If I was more of a grown up. I wore my Christmas Apron when I made peach jam yesterday. I was hoping nobody would stop by to catch me in my off-season attire, which they didn't, while hoping they would stop by to see the lovely jars, which they also didn't, but I am certain the apron is the whole reason that this batch of jam turned out thicker and better than the other ones. I also switched pectin, but that seems like a silly reason. Maybe I am not such an adult after all.
After we got done with that, I went home and got on eBay to find myself some vintage aprons - clearly the missing element in my lonely canning experiences in my own kitchen. Em stopped by and asked me if I had felt convicted when I was wearing her apron. Convicted about how good it felt, and like maybe I had put it off a little too long. I said yes. Just yes. And I ordered some aprons. We went and visited Sister's Second Hand, which is the only one in Northport, and a garbage dump turned treasure trove that we like to loot and pillage periodically. I only find good stuff when I am there with Em, because we are racing to find the best vintage junk before the other sister does. Someday maybe we'll own our own Sister's Second Hand, and spend our time scouring the universe for cool stuff to sell other competitive find-hunter sisters. Sometimes we find something at the same time and have to try to be adult about who's house it will go better in. Or we just make up something ridiculous about seeing it first and don't care. Probably if I did that I would feel guilty and give it to Em for her birthday or something. But not if I found it first fair and square.
Being a grown up means cooking from scratch, and washing the dishes more than once a day. And vacuuming regularly. It means bargain shopping, coupon clipping and Extreme Thriftiness. And maybe even stockpiling. Josh has always accused me of stockpiling, which is absurd, since I don't have lentils OR millet, both crucial elements of stockpiling, and since I ran out of toilet paper completely today and had to ride my bike to the neighbors to borrow a roll. I can only imagine how cool I looked with a fluffy white roll of Kirkland Select TP in my bicycle basket, coming home. If I was a true stockpiler, THAT never would have happened. And I would have a legitimate use for several plastic Five Gallon Buckets of Things. Now that we live in the boondocks, I can buy GINORMOUS bags of sugar and flour and thousands of Ziploc bags at a time and tell Josh that he just doesn't get Country Living yet. Or adulthood. I feel like if I was more of an adult, I wouldn't feel so giddy when I finish a batch of jam. I probably wouldn't need to leave it sitting on the counter for a week, jars shining in the sunlight as if they are waiting for blue ribbons at the fair. I wouldn't expect everyone that walks in my front door to ooh and ahh over the pretty oranges and yellows and reds. If I was more of a grown up. I wore my Christmas Apron when I made peach jam yesterday. I was hoping nobody would stop by to catch me in my off-season attire, which they didn't, while hoping they would stop by to see the lovely jars, which they also didn't, but I am certain the apron is the whole reason that this batch of jam turned out thicker and better than the other ones. I also switched pectin, but that seems like a silly reason. Maybe I am not such an adult after all.
Things To Avoid
I am writing words on a page right this very second as a last ditch effort to get out of cleaning my room. I hate cleaning my room. Mostly, I hate cleaning my room because someone went in there and basically threw up 17 tons of clothing all over the floor that I can't stand. It's all ugly clothes that make me look fat. Clothes that are stupid and uncomfortable and smell weird. And they're every where. Creeping out of drawers and sliding sneakily off of hangers to attack me when I try to find my cleanest dirty sweatpants. They're hateful clothes that snicker behind my back and whisper how much cuter they look on my 16 year old daughter when she was wearing them while I was out of town. And they're covering a disgusting brown carpet that Josh says he won't take out of my room until it's clean. A disgusting brown carpet that has ganged up with my old, hateful clothes to make me feel dirty and disgusting and like my Only Friends In The World are my sweatpants. I have to get in there and kick those nasty clothes in the bum so that I can get rid of the spiteful carpet that would make me hate my whole room if there wasn't a really comfortable bed in there. Actually sometimes I think I leave the horrible clothes on the floor, covering the foul carpet, just so I don't have to walk on it, I can just walk on the clothes I hate to get to the comfy bed. Or the sweatpants. But I can't avoid it forever, the carpet, and the clothes. I have to overcome it, so that Josh will tear out the gross floor covering and expose the asbestos linoleum from the 60s that he says will kill us if we breath the air emanating from it. I keep explaining that it can't be worse than the contaminated carpet, and I would rather die than wear any of the clothes anyway. Horrifically, I have to go in there and sit ON THE VILE CARPET to PUT AWAY THE HURTFUL CLOTHES to get anywhere in this life. Even to die from the asbestos. It's all up to me. My life is hard. And that is why I am typing.
When I opened up my eyes this morning, the first thing that crossed my mind is that someplace, there is someone waking up in worse pain than me. I congratulated myself on the habit that I have cultivated of comparison-gratitude, whereby I now instinctively turn my complaints into a pseudo-thankfulness. Psychologically, I am not sure that I am winning. Mostly because my second thought was that whoever out there woke up in more pain than me was probably suffering for some good reason, and nobly so, and I just have a stupid uterus. So then I thought that I should be thankful for even waking up, since some people didn't even get to do that this morning, and my shallow, selfish psyche instantly threw the pain and the mean clothes on the floor and the disgusting carpet in my face and made some snarky comment about how not waking up sounded somewhat pleasant, and at least those poor souls weren't in more pain than me anymore. Human beings are terrible people. Really we are. Here I am, whining about some moderate-to-severe chronic pain, and too many expensive clothes that don't fit on my too well fed body in my too-warm, if dirty and smelly house, and I can't really stop my own mind on a plateau of actual gratitude. Shame on me. I deserve to clean a disgusting room.
After all of that psychological, guilt-based warfare on myself, I decided to just stay in bed and play with Dagny for awhile. That seemed to help my general demeanor, as well as a bowl of slippery ripe peaches with heavy cream and some darn good coffee. I do have to pretend that this brown carpet isn't in my house when I eat and drink, or watch movies, or anything, otherwise it grosses me out and I want to just rip it out right now and die of asbestos poisoning. Can somebody tell Josh that nobody every died right-this-second from asbestos flooring? I am sure that is true but I lack the evidence to back it up. He is mostly concerned with the asbestos accelerating the acute case of high blood pressure and heart disease we both got when we sat in a car for a month on the last fire and gained ten pounds apiece. He doesn't believe me when I tell him that the carpet is contributing to my depression and nasty carpet has been linked to a high percentage of unexpected suicides. Much more dangerous than asbestos flooring. Plus the asbestos has cute yellow flowers that make me feel happy. At least I will feel happy when I die of heart disease and asbestos poisoning.
I really think that it's all of this BROWN that is getting me down. Seriously. I like brown, certain shades in certain contexts. But to be fair, everyone knows that we got rid of a certain Suburban once because the brown overwhelmed me and made me heartsick (which is like emotional carsickness). Now the whole house is brown. Brown carpet, brown walls, brown windowsills and couches and pillows and dogs and floors and paneling and tables and chairs and brown-brown-brown-brown-brown. I feel like I am drowning in dirty brown that smells like 4 dogs and teenage girls. It's too much. I am heartsick. No wonder I won't leave the house and I feel depressed. I feel brown when I walk outside and go to town. Everything is brown. I am brown. Even the deer in my front yard right now is brown. The layer of dust and mud on both cars is brown, and Josh doesn't support car washes that cost more than the loose change in the cupholder that you give to the youth group in the Safeway parking lot. It's because of people like Josh that youth groups don't do car washes any more. At 47 cents a car, it just doesn't add up. So our cars are brown too. And our porch. And even my coffee. And all of our furniture. The reason I like my bed so much is because it's red and green and yellow. And soft. Not scratchy and dry like brown is. I keep threatening to take a giant bucket of any color paint that isn't brown to all of these paneling walls, just to keep from going brown-crazy, and Josh tells me to just wait, he is sheet rocking them any second. If I would quit spending the sheet rock money on shoes. BUT THE SHOES AREN'T BROWN. Which is probably the biggest reason I got them. I just need less brown in my life. So I take a lot of naps. But maybe, if I go clean my brown room, Josh will let me asbestos-poison myself. Just maybe.
When I opened up my eyes this morning, the first thing that crossed my mind is that someplace, there is someone waking up in worse pain than me. I congratulated myself on the habit that I have cultivated of comparison-gratitude, whereby I now instinctively turn my complaints into a pseudo-thankfulness. Psychologically, I am not sure that I am winning. Mostly because my second thought was that whoever out there woke up in more pain than me was probably suffering for some good reason, and nobly so, and I just have a stupid uterus. So then I thought that I should be thankful for even waking up, since some people didn't even get to do that this morning, and my shallow, selfish psyche instantly threw the pain and the mean clothes on the floor and the disgusting carpet in my face and made some snarky comment about how not waking up sounded somewhat pleasant, and at least those poor souls weren't in more pain than me anymore. Human beings are terrible people. Really we are. Here I am, whining about some moderate-to-severe chronic pain, and too many expensive clothes that don't fit on my too well fed body in my too-warm, if dirty and smelly house, and I can't really stop my own mind on a plateau of actual gratitude. Shame on me. I deserve to clean a disgusting room.
After all of that psychological, guilt-based warfare on myself, I decided to just stay in bed and play with Dagny for awhile. That seemed to help my general demeanor, as well as a bowl of slippery ripe peaches with heavy cream and some darn good coffee. I do have to pretend that this brown carpet isn't in my house when I eat and drink, or watch movies, or anything, otherwise it grosses me out and I want to just rip it out right now and die of asbestos poisoning. Can somebody tell Josh that nobody every died right-this-second from asbestos flooring? I am sure that is true but I lack the evidence to back it up. He is mostly concerned with the asbestos accelerating the acute case of high blood pressure and heart disease we both got when we sat in a car for a month on the last fire and gained ten pounds apiece. He doesn't believe me when I tell him that the carpet is contributing to my depression and nasty carpet has been linked to a high percentage of unexpected suicides. Much more dangerous than asbestos flooring. Plus the asbestos has cute yellow flowers that make me feel happy. At least I will feel happy when I die of heart disease and asbestos poisoning.
I really think that it's all of this BROWN that is getting me down. Seriously. I like brown, certain shades in certain contexts. But to be fair, everyone knows that we got rid of a certain Suburban once because the brown overwhelmed me and made me heartsick (which is like emotional carsickness). Now the whole house is brown. Brown carpet, brown walls, brown windowsills and couches and pillows and dogs and floors and paneling and tables and chairs and brown-brown-brown-brown-brown. I feel like I am drowning in dirty brown that smells like 4 dogs and teenage girls. It's too much. I am heartsick. No wonder I won't leave the house and I feel depressed. I feel brown when I walk outside and go to town. Everything is brown. I am brown. Even the deer in my front yard right now is brown. The layer of dust and mud on both cars is brown, and Josh doesn't support car washes that cost more than the loose change in the cupholder that you give to the youth group in the Safeway parking lot. It's because of people like Josh that youth groups don't do car washes any more. At 47 cents a car, it just doesn't add up. So our cars are brown too. And our porch. And even my coffee. And all of our furniture. The reason I like my bed so much is because it's red and green and yellow. And soft. Not scratchy and dry like brown is. I keep threatening to take a giant bucket of any color paint that isn't brown to all of these paneling walls, just to keep from going brown-crazy, and Josh tells me to just wait, he is sheet rocking them any second. If I would quit spending the sheet rock money on shoes. BUT THE SHOES AREN'T BROWN. Which is probably the biggest reason I got them. I just need less brown in my life. So I take a lot of naps. But maybe, if I go clean my brown room, Josh will let me asbestos-poison myself. Just maybe.
Things About Rain
It is pouring outside. Water is running in rivers down my windows and my driveway. I should be wearing my fire turnouts right now, sitting in a big fire engine, waiting for law enforcement to tell us we can go put out the fireball that was once a house way up Onion Creek Road somewhere. That's where Josh is. But it's raining, and my turnouts had a lot of spiders on them the other day when I was at the fire station. And there are plenty of boys on those trucks who aren't being attacked by their vicious uteruses (uteri?) or beckoned by their soft and fresh-out-of-the-dryer sweatpants to a couch full of Very Insecure Dogs. So I am not. I already spent the morning driving kids back and forth between school and sports physicals and I got very wet doing so. It seemed reasonable to me to warm up my coffee and the last piece of Peach Upside Down Cake for breakfast, which I made last night in psychic preparation for a rainy morning, and take care of the canines. Especially since Emmy was upstairs in whichever bedroom she felt like was the safest, howling pitifully and alone at the thunder and fire siren when I walked in the door. The poor dog has an emotional meltdown every time the pager goes off. Or one of the military jets fly over. You should have seen the puddle of pee yesterday when Josh was shooting nails into the concrete floor of our "new" living room. In some ways I envy her. If I could pull of such a totally pathetic and believable routine of psychiatric issues, I would probably earn myself a mandatory spot on the couch eating bon-bons and watching crap TV. Pretending to be stable only results in people expecting me to do stuff, like take kids to sports physicals and respond to fully involved house fires. (Ok, now that I am not there and I realize the guys are all geared up, I am a little jealous... but the sweatpants....). I am just going to sit here and talk about how productive I was last night, when I made this:
I actually went to town this week. Oddly enough, I couldn't wait to get home, and I promptly cancelled the family shopping trip to Portland this weekend. I think the big mistake was going into WalMart, and realizing that there wasn't anything that we could possibly need badly enough to justify ever going there, or anywhere else in public, again. Some days I feel like I am embarrassed to be a human. Not that being a smelly, gaseous, snorey dog would be any better, but people are dirty, and gross, and obnoxious. And we are just silly. The things we "need" or want or do are just silly. I can say this because I am among the most exacerbated representations of all that is shallow and human. I love to shop. I love junk. I love kitsch, and the stuff that nobody would have ever thought they needed to own. Like spoon holders to get dirty instead of your stove top, or corn-on-the-cob holders, or paper plate holders. Or holders of almost any kind. I am a total sucker for cute things. Like that little ceramic animal that serves absolutely no earthly purpose other than taking up space and collecting dust. BUT IT'S SO CUTE! Again, people are silly.
Spending all of this time at home has made me look around, and I see so much stuff that is unnecessary and almost embarrassing. Why do I have a thousand magnets on my refrigerator? Because they're cool. Why are they cool? I don't know, they just are. And they hide the orange juice and strawberry jam that is dripping down the door. I remember being a newlywed, the first time, and having all of this furniture that people gave us, most of which was hideous and we hated. And when I moved away from that life, I swore I would only have furniture in my house that I loved. Or at least Really Liked. Having a husband with somewhat different taste than mine has compromised my avowed standard a little bit, but I have realized that A)even the stuff I love gets dirty and gross and embarrassing and B)the stuff I love changes and some of the things I loathed before, I'd be fine with now. I don't really have furniture that I can't stand these days, but I can't stand the way that the furniture I have, looks. It's dirty. I vacuumed one couch three times last week and truck is sleeping on it now (thunderstorms exhaust him). SOMEBODY got green gum in the carpet, and I am still lacking the hardware to affix that One Last Knob to the shabby chic dresser in my living room. I feel absolutely content with the stuff we have now, and maybe in a dramatic but gradual change of heart, I can't wait to offload a lot of the junk as we go. Including magnets.
It is Friday, I guess. That's what a lot of people are saying. All of my days run together. I suppose that means that Josh is leaving soon for drill in Portland, and I will have three girls to contend with all weekend alone. With all of the horrible things going on in the world, I really shouldn't feel so overwhelmed with this. It's not like my house is a Syrian Civil War, Or a battle of moral parenting skillz on the Interwebs between a cadre of blog artists, or even a fully engulfed ball of fire. It's just a lot of hormones and emotions and dogs. And gum on the carpet. I could go to karaoke tonight. Or get some pizza for dinner. I could take the girls to "town" tomorrow to get "stuff". Or I could take a lot of naps and watch a lot of crap TV. If I had a TV commentary blog maybe I could get away with it. I mean, who doesn't want to read about Kim Kardashian's baby weight or what's happening with Breaking Bad? All of this is made imminently difficult by the fact that I only have Netflix for TV so my entire commentary would be over a year behind. Maybe a television commentary blog for financially destitute and rurally secluded housewives who are avoiding laundry and a box of peaches that need to be canned? I am sure I could blog at their speed. Maybe I will try that. I think I am so totally energyless because the proposition of a "full time" job at the school has cropped up. It exhausts me to even think about working FIVE DAYS A WEEK. FOREVER. Because I am spoiled. 6.5 hour days with benefits and summers off. I mean, what's to even think about? It's a no brainer. Doesn't really matter if my job is scrubbing toilets in the kindergarten room (which, BTW is the grossest thing I can think of, next to middle school boys bathrooms), it's the IDEAL job for me. Even if it's a job. And it happens EVERY DAY...... I CAN DO IT. And I will. Happily. More happily if it means I need to shop for new "work clothes", because like I just pointed out, we don't have enough stuff. What this says to me is "go take a nap right now before you run out of time and have to go to work every day." Maybe what it should be saying is "hurry up and get your laundry done and can your peaches before you don't have time." Maybe I don't speak conscience any more. I think the nap conversation is winning, hard. It is raining, after all, and the dogs are needy...
 |
| This is Peach Upside Down Cake. I meant to take a picture of the whole thing, but it was gone too fast... |
PEACH UPSIDE DOWN CAKE
(from about.com's Southern Food site. If a recipe that involves "southern" or "south" pops up in a google search, it's almost a given that I will head there...)
Cook Time: 30 minutes
Total Time: 30 minutes
Ingredients:
- 1/4 cup butter
- 1/2 cup light brown sugar, packed
- 2 cups sliced drained peaches
- 2 eggs
- 1 cup granulated sugar
- 1 cup sifted all-purpose flour
- 1 teaspoon baking powder
- 1/4 teaspoon salt
- 1/2 cup hot water
Preparation:
Melt butter in a 9-inch square baking pan. Sprinkle brown sugar over the butter. Spoon fruit over the brown sugar.
Beat eggs until light and lemon colored; gradually beat in granulated sugar. Sift together the flour, baking powder and salt, and add to the egg mixture, alternating with the hot water. Pour batter over peaches. Bake at 375° for about 30 minutes. Cool in pan for 10 minutes, then turn upside-down onto a serving plate.
http://southernfood.about.com/od/peachcake1/r/bl50727c.htm
I actually went to town this week. Oddly enough, I couldn't wait to get home, and I promptly cancelled the family shopping trip to Portland this weekend. I think the big mistake was going into WalMart, and realizing that there wasn't anything that we could possibly need badly enough to justify ever going there, or anywhere else in public, again. Some days I feel like I am embarrassed to be a human. Not that being a smelly, gaseous, snorey dog would be any better, but people are dirty, and gross, and obnoxious. And we are just silly. The things we "need" or want or do are just silly. I can say this because I am among the most exacerbated representations of all that is shallow and human. I love to shop. I love junk. I love kitsch, and the stuff that nobody would have ever thought they needed to own. Like spoon holders to get dirty instead of your stove top, or corn-on-the-cob holders, or paper plate holders. Or holders of almost any kind. I am a total sucker for cute things. Like that little ceramic animal that serves absolutely no earthly purpose other than taking up space and collecting dust. BUT IT'S SO CUTE! Again, people are silly.
Spending all of this time at home has made me look around, and I see so much stuff that is unnecessary and almost embarrassing. Why do I have a thousand magnets on my refrigerator? Because they're cool. Why are they cool? I don't know, they just are. And they hide the orange juice and strawberry jam that is dripping down the door. I remember being a newlywed, the first time, and having all of this furniture that people gave us, most of which was hideous and we hated. And when I moved away from that life, I swore I would only have furniture in my house that I loved. Or at least Really Liked. Having a husband with somewhat different taste than mine has compromised my avowed standard a little bit, but I have realized that A)even the stuff I love gets dirty and gross and embarrassing and B)the stuff I love changes and some of the things I loathed before, I'd be fine with now. I don't really have furniture that I can't stand these days, but I can't stand the way that the furniture I have, looks. It's dirty. I vacuumed one couch three times last week and truck is sleeping on it now (thunderstorms exhaust him). SOMEBODY got green gum in the carpet, and I am still lacking the hardware to affix that One Last Knob to the shabby chic dresser in my living room. I feel absolutely content with the stuff we have now, and maybe in a dramatic but gradual change of heart, I can't wait to offload a lot of the junk as we go. Including magnets.
It is Friday, I guess. That's what a lot of people are saying. All of my days run together. I suppose that means that Josh is leaving soon for drill in Portland, and I will have three girls to contend with all weekend alone. With all of the horrible things going on in the world, I really shouldn't feel so overwhelmed with this. It's not like my house is a Syrian Civil War, Or a battle of moral parenting skillz on the Interwebs between a cadre of blog artists, or even a fully engulfed ball of fire. It's just a lot of hormones and emotions and dogs. And gum on the carpet. I could go to karaoke tonight. Or get some pizza for dinner. I could take the girls to "town" tomorrow to get "stuff". Or I could take a lot of naps and watch a lot of crap TV. If I had a TV commentary blog maybe I could get away with it. I mean, who doesn't want to read about Kim Kardashian's baby weight or what's happening with Breaking Bad? All of this is made imminently difficult by the fact that I only have Netflix for TV so my entire commentary would be over a year behind. Maybe a television commentary blog for financially destitute and rurally secluded housewives who are avoiding laundry and a box of peaches that need to be canned? I am sure I could blog at their speed. Maybe I will try that. I think I am so totally energyless because the proposition of a "full time" job at the school has cropped up. It exhausts me to even think about working FIVE DAYS A WEEK. FOREVER. Because I am spoiled. 6.5 hour days with benefits and summers off. I mean, what's to even think about? It's a no brainer. Doesn't really matter if my job is scrubbing toilets in the kindergarten room (which, BTW is the grossest thing I can think of, next to middle school boys bathrooms), it's the IDEAL job for me. Even if it's a job. And it happens EVERY DAY...... I CAN DO IT. And I will. Happily. More happily if it means I need to shop for new "work clothes", because like I just pointed out, we don't have enough stuff. What this says to me is "go take a nap right now before you run out of time and have to go to work every day." Maybe what it should be saying is "hurry up and get your laundry done and can your peaches before you don't have time." Maybe I don't speak conscience any more. I think the nap conversation is winning, hard. It is raining, after all, and the dogs are needy...
Things That Are Funny
Ok I feel like I misled you. I hope you read that word as mis -led, like I led you astray, and not meyesled, like a certain former father-in-law I had did. He never put that together, and he was a doctor. People were always meyeseling him. I think that I misled you into believing that there is nothing funny or good in my life right now, which totally isn't true. I just feel overwhelmed with all of the little things that seem WRONG these days. Like the smell of the carpet in my new/old house, and the fact that my face is broken out like a 9th grade boy before homecoming, and I gained like 100 pounds last month. And no matter how many times I vacuum, I don't like to walk through my own house without shoes on. And even though I just worked for a month, there still isn't enough money to do It All, and I am already feeling claustrophobic with the amount of work and planning and cleaning and etc. etc. etc. we have to do to get this house to where it's not grossing me out to drink water out of my own sink. Or maybe I just still feel fire camp contamination. And I have made orange marmalade and canned peaches and scrubbed toilets and pulled weeds and I just feel like I can't ever do enough to have it count for anything. Life is rude, for making me feel like I am an underachiever. And really, if I just lost a pound or two every day, like reimbursement for my usefulness, I would feel better. So really it's about the fat. And how much I don't like to not eat. And how tired I am from being at war with a body that seems determined to undermine my self-confidence at all cost. But there are lots of good things right now. And funny things. Lots of funny things.
For example, I helped Aspen clean her room the other day. If that isn't funny enough, then picture me scrounging up scraps of garbage and junk to throw away, and grabbing a chunk of what I assumed was old playdough, only to discover it was dried poop of some variety. What kind of poop it was, or more importantly, who has been pooping in Aspen's room, seemed less important to me than the fact that I had just picked up a piece of it like it was the shoe for a rubber doll, or a puzzle piece. I don't do poop. Even dried poop. The saddest thing about this is that I was too tired or too lazy or just too complacent to go wash my hands downstairs until after I got done cleaning the room. No wonder I feel dirty all of the time.
Then there is Josh singing along with the radio, and anytime he is crooning along with a love song, because he has issues with intimacy, he substitutes the word "shoes" for you. For example "I will always love shoes...." ala Whitney Houston. Today he messed up the words in a Jason Mraz song and sang that he won't give up on "shoes" which clearly should have been "us" and his traditional non-intimate substitute for "us" is usually something like "mud" or "fuzz". #mockeryfail
And then we have Kizzie, who has started volleyball practice this week, and hasn't changed out of her spandex shorties yet. This, in and of itself, is pretty funny, but Aspen's undeniable need to smack that lycra-clad bootie every time she walks by, or from across the room, or sneaking down stairs, is kind of hilarious. Especially when MacKenzie rages out and puts her in a headlock. I keep telling Kiz that if she doesn't want extra booty attention, she should shed the booty shorts. Ain't happenin'. It's her tough luck that the attention happens to come from a 9 year old sister. But that bum IS just begging for a smack. Or a pinch. Or a shroud.
Another cool thing we have going on, as we prepare for the beginning of school, is the one-bathroom factor. We knew that this would be an issue, but I have to admit, I was more concerned about hair and tooth brushing than what we are running into now.Turns out, it's really a simple matter of math and physics that becomes the problem. 5 people, one toilet. If 5 people poop once a day, and bathroom air quality remains compromised for a minimum of 15 minutes after each transaction, we are facing at least 1.5 hours of bad bathroom time, and inevitably, with the standards of human digestion, most of the participants in this race against biology are subjected to a smelly bathroom at some point during the day. This is aggravated by the fact that certain family members close the door to contain air contamination, thereby delaying dissipation and prolonging exposure time. This situation is further compounded by a stomach virus that swept our ranks this week and some toilet paper that was purchased at home depot as a means of avoiding one. more. stop. in Spokane. Did you know that they made toilet paper out of walnut shells that only holds four sheets on a roll? They do, and we found it. Costco TP, I miss the heck out of you. I have begged Josh to dig a pit for an outhouse in the back yard, which he staunchly refuses to do, partially due to city codes and partially because I think he suspects that he will be the only one sequestered to it's use. I mean, he IS the boy.
It is the night before school starts, and Aspen's hair is up in the traditional twirlies that result in a terrible curl-type arrangement that every one of my girls (not counting Halle, obv.) insisted on wearing for the first day of school until they entered 6th grade and realized what a Really Bad idea these non-curls are. Crazy hair day during spirit week, sure, but first day of school, not so much. The school supplies are a resounding upgrade from last year, when Josh decided we needed to cut corners by insisting that we sort through and dole out every broken crayon, half used color pencil and mostly dry marker to the girls and thereby avoid spending money on school supplies. Since back-to-school was always a favorite time of year for me, and maybe especially since I was a homeschooler and never got to even show off my precious, carefully selected Lisa Frank pencils and Human Bean pee-chees, or my fresh, white, cable knit knee-socks and plaid dresses, it was a keen disappointment for me to send my kids off to school with crappy second hand school supplies. It was like I got ripped off. I don't think Aspen even noticed, except that I was so bitter, and I reminded her several times of the grave injustice. Poor, teflon coated, made of rubber Aspen. She is such a good sport. She has yet to go to the same school for more than one year in a row. Except that she went to two years of pre-school at Northport. She is the picture of resilience, of easy-goingness, and exactly the lovable person I want to be. And she can wear a handout backpack from NAEMT that Josh got for this year's subscription like a boss. And an outfit from a friend that I shudder to let her out of the house in. And those "curls". But Aspen, she's cool enough to pull it off. If I could be represented by another human being, she'd be it. Not that all my kids aren't totally rad, they are, but she's just That Cool. She has figured out that being nice and being easy gets you a whole lot farther than being difficult and moody. She is so completely opposite from me on so many levels, and so much what I wish I was. She is the innocence of childhood that we should all learn from.
For example, I helped Aspen clean her room the other day. If that isn't funny enough, then picture me scrounging up scraps of garbage and junk to throw away, and grabbing a chunk of what I assumed was old playdough, only to discover it was dried poop of some variety. What kind of poop it was, or more importantly, who has been pooping in Aspen's room, seemed less important to me than the fact that I had just picked up a piece of it like it was the shoe for a rubber doll, or a puzzle piece. I don't do poop. Even dried poop. The saddest thing about this is that I was too tired or too lazy or just too complacent to go wash my hands downstairs until after I got done cleaning the room. No wonder I feel dirty all of the time.
Then there is Josh singing along with the radio, and anytime he is crooning along with a love song, because he has issues with intimacy, he substitutes the word "shoes" for you. For example "I will always love shoes...." ala Whitney Houston. Today he messed up the words in a Jason Mraz song and sang that he won't give up on "shoes" which clearly should have been "us" and his traditional non-intimate substitute for "us" is usually something like "mud" or "fuzz". #mockeryfail
And then we have Kizzie, who has started volleyball practice this week, and hasn't changed out of her spandex shorties yet. This, in and of itself, is pretty funny, but Aspen's undeniable need to smack that lycra-clad bootie every time she walks by, or from across the room, or sneaking down stairs, is kind of hilarious. Especially when MacKenzie rages out and puts her in a headlock. I keep telling Kiz that if she doesn't want extra booty attention, she should shed the booty shorts. Ain't happenin'. It's her tough luck that the attention happens to come from a 9 year old sister. But that bum IS just begging for a smack. Or a pinch. Or a shroud.
Another cool thing we have going on, as we prepare for the beginning of school, is the one-bathroom factor. We knew that this would be an issue, but I have to admit, I was more concerned about hair and tooth brushing than what we are running into now.Turns out, it's really a simple matter of math and physics that becomes the problem. 5 people, one toilet. If 5 people poop once a day, and bathroom air quality remains compromised for a minimum of 15 minutes after each transaction, we are facing at least 1.5 hours of bad bathroom time, and inevitably, with the standards of human digestion, most of the participants in this race against biology are subjected to a smelly bathroom at some point during the day. This is aggravated by the fact that certain family members close the door to contain air contamination, thereby delaying dissipation and prolonging exposure time. This situation is further compounded by a stomach virus that swept our ranks this week and some toilet paper that was purchased at home depot as a means of avoiding one. more. stop. in Spokane. Did you know that they made toilet paper out of walnut shells that only holds four sheets on a roll? They do, and we found it. Costco TP, I miss the heck out of you. I have begged Josh to dig a pit for an outhouse in the back yard, which he staunchly refuses to do, partially due to city codes and partially because I think he suspects that he will be the only one sequestered to it's use. I mean, he IS the boy.
It is the night before school starts, and Aspen's hair is up in the traditional twirlies that result in a terrible curl-type arrangement that every one of my girls (not counting Halle, obv.) insisted on wearing for the first day of school until they entered 6th grade and realized what a Really Bad idea these non-curls are. Crazy hair day during spirit week, sure, but first day of school, not so much. The school supplies are a resounding upgrade from last year, when Josh decided we needed to cut corners by insisting that we sort through and dole out every broken crayon, half used color pencil and mostly dry marker to the girls and thereby avoid spending money on school supplies. Since back-to-school was always a favorite time of year for me, and maybe especially since I was a homeschooler and never got to even show off my precious, carefully selected Lisa Frank pencils and Human Bean pee-chees, or my fresh, white, cable knit knee-socks and plaid dresses, it was a keen disappointment for me to send my kids off to school with crappy second hand school supplies. It was like I got ripped off. I don't think Aspen even noticed, except that I was so bitter, and I reminded her several times of the grave injustice. Poor, teflon coated, made of rubber Aspen. She is such a good sport. She has yet to go to the same school for more than one year in a row. Except that she went to two years of pre-school at Northport. She is the picture of resilience, of easy-goingness, and exactly the lovable person I want to be. And she can wear a handout backpack from NAEMT that Josh got for this year's subscription like a boss. And an outfit from a friend that I shudder to let her out of the house in. And those "curls". But Aspen, she's cool enough to pull it off. If I could be represented by another human being, she'd be it. Not that all my kids aren't totally rad, they are, but she's just That Cool. She has figured out that being nice and being easy gets you a whole lot farther than being difficult and moody. She is so completely opposite from me on so many levels, and so much what I wish I was. She is the innocence of childhood that we should all learn from.
 |
| I had so much trouble finding ANYTHING "Human Bean" online, I wondered for a minute if I had totally dreamt them up. But I had a folder with this guy on it. And I loved it. |
Things About Today
I am not readjusting well, y'all. Today I used the excuse that I was off of my thyroid medicine for four days and it will take me awhile to rebuild my energy, which Josh bought, but I am not sure what I will use tomorrow. I go through these phases, a couple times a year. I wander through my house and stare at things. I could fold all of that laundry. I could vacuum my floors (again). I should wash my windows. But I do nothing. I wander from room to room and do nothing. At least today I got dressed and drove to the post office. It felt like nothing since there was one boring letter from the IRS and nothing exciting. I visited a friend and gossiped until my back hurt from standing, and then I came back and did more of nothing. I guess I did a couple loads of laundry. And helped Aspen go through her clothes and clean her room a little. That was overwhelming and I was forced to take a nap afterward. I looked at a recipe for orange marmalade, thinking I would use this pile of questionable looking oranges I brought home from the fires. But I didn't make it. I feel so uninspired. I have sat down with my computer three times to think of something poignant to say, so that I can feel like at least I waxed eloquent today, if I have done nothing else, but I ended up wandering through Monica and Serge Bielanko's blog and was much happier. I feel caught - in between something and something else, but I can't identify either one. Fire season and school? Cleaning and remodeling? Summer and Fall? My sweatpants are too hot and my shorts are too cold and everything else makes me feel REALLY FAT. Therefore, bed is the best place to be. Or in the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards over and over, looking for something that isn't there. I have been waiting impatiently from meal to meal today, anticipating something to eat that will appear out of nowhere. Apparently the fire caterers didn't follow me home. I tried to make tuna for lunch, but we had no tuna. So then egg salad, but no eggs. Finally I found some canned chicken to make chicken salad, we had no mayonnaise. No bread, no vegetables. Nothing. I made chicken salad with creamy italian dressing. It was weird but the kids ate it. Or Josh did. He ate dinner left overs for brunch, which was slightly disorienting when I shuffled out of bed at 9:30 am and he had a plate of BBQ chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans. It was like I had accidentally slept through the day. But he did make me coffee and it was really good coffee.
I just feel... OFF. How do I get back on? It doesn't help that I still have a lingering cough, and maybe a teeny bladder infection, among my usual afflictions, but I can't seem to find a reason to get motivated. I am un-animated. Maybe I need some socialization. Or a drink. I haven't had a good solid drink yet. Maybe it really is my thyroid. Maybe it's depression because I gained ten pounds and my face is all broken out. Maybe I am not getting enough caffeine. Or enough naps. I definitely need to get my heart rate up, get moving, but I can't think of a good reason to. Maybe I just needed a couple days off and tomorrow I will wake up ready to kick the day in the bum. Maybe.
I just feel... OFF. How do I get back on? It doesn't help that I still have a lingering cough, and maybe a teeny bladder infection, among my usual afflictions, but I can't seem to find a reason to get motivated. I am un-animated. Maybe I need some socialization. Or a drink. I haven't had a good solid drink yet. Maybe it really is my thyroid. Maybe it's depression because I gained ten pounds and my face is all broken out. Maybe I am not getting enough caffeine. Or enough naps. I definitely need to get my heart rate up, get moving, but I can't think of a good reason to. Maybe I just needed a couple days off and tomorrow I will wake up ready to kick the day in the bum. Maybe.
Things That I Am Recovering From
Every year I go through this ritual: being gone too long working on fires and coming home to total household collapse. It's like my house is not my own, and I don't even know where to begin the restoration process. This year I swore I wouldn't put my family through the traditional freak-out demon-mom session, since it really isn't fair to them, so I have spent the last 17 hours employing all types of breathing exercises and chanting little mantras to myself. One step at a time. It's only dirt. It's all fixable. It will be better soon. One load of laundry. Clean the toilet. Wash the dishes. Look in the refrigerator. Walk away, save that for when you are drunk later. Of course it doesn't help that I came home feeling like the worst kind of crap you can imagine. The kind of crap that I can't even tell anybody about because you'd look at me forever like the girl that feels like that kind of crap. Damaging crap. Damaging to my body and mind and soul. My body had the kind of break down while I was away that bodies just shouldn't have. Even old people bodies. The kind with stuff happening that you can't really pay people enough money to deal with because it's that uncool. Like, "kids, when I get old, if I ever start to ______, then just shoot me, ok?" Except I am 36, which granted is old, but not old enough for this stuff. I just want to crawl into my bed and hide. Or die. Or both. But I can't, because then people, like my husband, are like, why are you hiding in bed? And I am like, because I don't want to talk about it. And he is like, what did I do now? And I am like, it's not about you. But go away. And he is like, but we need to unpack the car. And the household has collapsed. Someone needs to re-erect it. And I am like, crap. One more load of laundry. A shower. Put on a bra that has been worn less than 5 days in a row. Vacuum. Cut hair out of power head. Vacuum. Do more dishes. Imagine cooking dinner. Do not cry. Imagine going to store to buy dinner. Do not hyperventilate. You used to know how to cook. Vacuum some more. Hide in bed. Succumb to guilt. Clean the bathroom sink. How does it get so gross in a month with less than one person using it? Consider folding laundry. Save that for the drunken later. Put on cleanest pair of sweatpants. Curse broken body. Take a nap.
This is what the day after a month of fire looks like. I just want someone that is dressed like a fairy godmother and who smells really clean to come over here and pat me on my head and say, there there, I know how much your ______ hurts right now, you just relax with these Very Strong Narcotics and some cheap wine while I tear out all of your disgusting carpets and paint your walls and make you Chicken Divan for dinner. That's all. Just that.
Instead, I will load up my long dormant Scentsy warmers that seem to mock me with their futile and fictitious clean smells. I will stare at the family pack of chicken thighs and contemplate how to cook them. I will change my clothes three times, thinking some outfit will make me feel better and like I didn't gain 10 pounds sitting in a very uncomfortable car for 30 days. I will just breathe. And maybe I will start drinking. And as that sets in, I will start to imagine how great our house will be with the new, clean, fresh-wood smelling floors that the fires have bought us. And the new, clean, smooth tiles in the not-disgusting-anymore bathroom after it gets fixed up in a couple of weeks. And all of the other amazing changes that a month of getting-through it has earned. It is so good to be home. Even if the household has collapsed. Every dish needs to be re-washed, every towel folded, every surface decontaminated, de-haired and dusted. By the time my head cold and these other too-bad-to-talk-about maladies have subsided, the house will be clean enough that I won't feel like I need toilet seat covers in my own bathroom and nitrile gloves to touch my own dishes. It's just the combination of a new-old house that still has remnants of someone else's dirt and the haunting aura of a smell that isn't ours, with a month of feral dogs and kids and Nobody That Really Cares, and being out of control. It really all boils down to control. I am out of control of my body, my house, my kids, my life. I put it on hold for too long and lost control. And it isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's a chance to figure out what I can, and should control in my life, and re-evaluate where my priorities are. Clearly in this case it was a clean toilet, since that's the first thing I did last night and then just to be safe, repeated the procedure this morning. I have also had no fewer than three pairs of sweatpants on since nine o clock last night, as if I have been gone from them for so long that they all needed a turn on my body when I got home. Sweatpants are another item of Major Importance in my life, apparently. And I haven't yelled at either of the two kids that have been around, which means that they must be pretty important too. I think I have gotten enough small things done to warrant a nap. Just a small one. And then I will start again.
This is what the day after a month of fire looks like. I just want someone that is dressed like a fairy godmother and who smells really clean to come over here and pat me on my head and say, there there, I know how much your ______ hurts right now, you just relax with these Very Strong Narcotics and some cheap wine while I tear out all of your disgusting carpets and paint your walls and make you Chicken Divan for dinner. That's all. Just that.
Instead, I will load up my long dormant Scentsy warmers that seem to mock me with their futile and fictitious clean smells. I will stare at the family pack of chicken thighs and contemplate how to cook them. I will change my clothes three times, thinking some outfit will make me feel better and like I didn't gain 10 pounds sitting in a very uncomfortable car for 30 days. I will just breathe. And maybe I will start drinking. And as that sets in, I will start to imagine how great our house will be with the new, clean, fresh-wood smelling floors that the fires have bought us. And the new, clean, smooth tiles in the not-disgusting-anymore bathroom after it gets fixed up in a couple of weeks. And all of the other amazing changes that a month of getting-through it has earned. It is so good to be home. Even if the household has collapsed. Every dish needs to be re-washed, every towel folded, every surface decontaminated, de-haired and dusted. By the time my head cold and these other too-bad-to-talk-about maladies have subsided, the house will be clean enough that I won't feel like I need toilet seat covers in my own bathroom and nitrile gloves to touch my own dishes. It's just the combination of a new-old house that still has remnants of someone else's dirt and the haunting aura of a smell that isn't ours, with a month of feral dogs and kids and Nobody That Really Cares, and being out of control. It really all boils down to control. I am out of control of my body, my house, my kids, my life. I put it on hold for too long and lost control. And it isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's a chance to figure out what I can, and should control in my life, and re-evaluate where my priorities are. Clearly in this case it was a clean toilet, since that's the first thing I did last night and then just to be safe, repeated the procedure this morning. I have also had no fewer than three pairs of sweatpants on since nine o clock last night, as if I have been gone from them for so long that they all needed a turn on my body when I got home. Sweatpants are another item of Major Importance in my life, apparently. And I haven't yelled at either of the two kids that have been around, which means that they must be pretty important too. I think I have gotten enough small things done to warrant a nap. Just a small one. And then I will start again.
Things About Feminine Hygiene (rated NSM [not suitable for mother])
John told me you were toying with the idea of getting a pee-valve for your dry suit. I thought I would share with you some of the finer nuances of hair removal and outdoorsiness as it relates to your crotch. This being my tenth season in wildland fire, I don't think it differs terribly from scuba diving, in the sense that I am completely immersed in a sea of grungy males, usually devoid of space to pee without an audience. I have often bemoaned the lack of the apparatus for discreet relief that doesn't force me to wander several miles from working crews. Listening to his description of a pee-valve, I am curious about the prospect of retrofitting such a device for hiking/ camping adventures. I know that these exist already in some form, but obviously I am much too prudish and/or embarrassed to go into REI and inquire about such. After ten years I have adopted the mindset that whatever the fire grunts happen to see when nature calls is really enough consequence for their sin of looking, but I can't help but think there must be an easier way. Like being male, or something. In discussing the dry suit contraption, aside from the worry of the occasional trailer floor spill incident (eww) I would share your concern for allergic sensitivities to glues and plastics Down There. I am also of a somewhat delicate makeup in this area.
You'll have to let me know how the female pee-valve works out for you, and which drug combination you use to cure the burning reaction to the glue. In discussing hair removal, I can't recommend the Brazilian wax highly enough. The momentary pain, something akin to getting a tattoo, but less permanently gratifying, really is worth avoiding weeks of razor burn, ingrown hairs and missing those hard to reach places that make up most of the crotchal region. In terms of outdoor hygiene, this fire season has been a severe reminder for me that nothing beats the Brazillian for long term comfort and cleanliness. Except maybe laser removal, for which I have recently seen Living Social two-fer deals lately and would be totally down for a girls outing one of these days... But if you decide to go the wax route, I cannot stress enough that the do it yourself kits at home are a TERRIBLE IDEA. I tried one once, and probably lacking the resolution to pull firmly or quickly enough, I was left with a bloody, hickey looking type wound, and most of my hair intact. Pay the money for professional help. I would also recommend researching Yelp or some other source to find a good waxer, because the bad ones are, well. Bad. I could share some experiences with you, but I have happily blotted them from my memory. A good waxer should be personable, but not invasive. For example, it's kind of disconcerting to have a deep conversation about father figure relationships when you are getting a Brazilian. My favorite topic of conversation when in this very vulnerable and compromised position is the the waxer's experience level, which can also be nerve-wracking if the experience is revealed to be less than two weeks in evolution, but if you've done your Yelp homework, you should be safe. Always ask the waxer is she does male brazilians. This question serves two purposes: 1. It provides a distraction for both parties that alleviates insecurities about body image (if she's waxed guys, any girl looks "normal") , and 2. It gives you insight into the skill of your waxer. Clearly males would be more difficult, and require more skill. Plus the question usually cues some fascinating, if not hilarious stories.
If you're too discreet to go and get waxed, then spare no expense shaving. I have long been an advocate of Venus razors, the ones with the built in shaving cream, as well as some good shaving gel (I like Aveeno's sensitive skin one, it serves double duty with Josh's baby face), and only go "down there" when the razor is new-ish. I am sure there are cheaper razors that would work, but I haven't found them. I just stock up at Costco on the best ones. Unless I forget to. I did that enroute to this last fire, as well as frugally skipping the wax, and had to send Josh into town for a razor for me. I used an old disposable one of his once, and paid for that for days and days. He was really excited that he scored a deal on the Venus Spa razors at the local grocery store, proudly boasting that he got them for way less than I do at Costco, 5 blades for $12, til I pointed out that all five blades he had purchased were on one razor head. He was quite perturbed, and rightly so.
In recovering from the desperate use of Josh's dull disposable razor in the nether regions, I used a balm that I don't think I will ever be caught without again. It's called Herbal Savvy ($5.40 on Amazon!), and I originally got it to help with scars and acne on my face. It really heals and soothes, and it's not super expensive. I slather it on after every shaving now.
I know that preceding generations couldn't (and don't) understand hair removal in these regions. I think that there is a scandalized mindset that brazilians are the new Nair, justifying short shorts and high-cut bathing suits and feeding into a sex oriented vanity that should never have become an issue for civilized humans. For me, I will admit that my first Brazilian was about impressing a guy, but now, it is 100% comfort and hygiene driven. And so I never have to worry about the stray hairs sneaking out of even the most modest swimsuit. Which is a heinous and nearly unforgivable social violation.
Good luck with your pee valve. Please let me know how it works. And your hair removal, however you choose to accomplish it. And don't forget, I'm totally up for that laser two-fer....
Yours in feminine hygiene,
L
Things I Think About
There is a task force leader here named Rattan. Is he named after porch furniture?
I had josh go to the store and get me celery and blue cheese dressing to eat here, because fruit is plentiful and vegetables are found only in the salad bar at dinner. I have been dutifully eating the fruit, at the expense of my stomach, to the point that it tastes like poison to me. The celery is awesome. Especially since Josh delivered it with a bouquet of bright flowers. AND blue cheese. He is, as always, my hero. But chewing through giant crispy stalks of celery, even with the not-fat-free dressing, leaves me feeling like maybe I just did an aerobics routine.
When one ear is burning, does that mean that people are sort of talking about me? Like peripherally?
Yesterday as we were driving off the fire line, josh decided, perhaps prematurely, to take off his yellow Nomex shirt. Technically we were still inside the fire, and yellows are supposed to be on in ANY proximity to the fire, but Josh was having shirt difficulties. Apparently he decided that it's too hot to wear a t shirt under his Nomex, but the Nomex on skin is kind of itchy and uncomfortable unless you have stolen some of the old school shirts, which he hasn't. So he's always in a hurry to get out of his yellow. Josh made several mistakes here. 1. Wearing Nomex without a t-shirt underneath. 2. Deciding to remove Nomex while still inside the fire 3. While driving 4. Without knowing where his t shirt was 5. Or knowing it was inside out 6. Or realizing the entire night division (12 or so vehicles) was coming around the corner of the Very Narrow Road. 7. Getting his wrist stuck in one yellow sleeve 8. Trying to hide his nakedness behind a narrow seatbelt 9. Looking extremely guilty when the safety officer drove by 10. Not just waiting til we were stopped outside of the fire to switch shirts. I feel like I probably looked like a deer in the headlights, riding through smoke and flames next to a naked man. The seatbelt really didn't hide much. I hope josh learned his lesson. It's just lucky we didn't have to stop and get out since I was already out of my fire boots. ;)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)